THE LIBRARY OF THE UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LOS ANGELES ~"1 ?? -, IN WHITE AND BLACK A STORY BY W. W. PINSON " In all the crowded universe, There is but one stupendous word ; And huge and rough or trimmed and terse, Its fragments build and undergird The songs and stories we rehearse.' 1 '' HOLLAKD. Press of The J. W. Burke Company Macon, Georgia COPYRIGHT, 1900, BY W. W. PINSON. GO IN WHITE AND BLACK. CHAPTER I. THE EAVESDROPPERS. "I 'clar to gracious, Mammie, ef you ain't gittin' as onsufferable keer- less as us young- nig-gers." The heap of dozing- complacency in the kitchen corner straightened into life with the tart reply: "G'long wid yo' black kyarcus, I wa'nt 'sleep." "Nobody sed you wuz; you's kickin' fo' you's spurred. But ef you wa'nt sleepin' you shore 'have lack you wuz. You 'mind me o' ole Unc' Zeke fishin' fer perch when they bitin' rig-ht good. 'Sides you done let de water bile oher an' mos' put de fire clean out" "You thinkin' you's monstous peart a-sassin' yo' own Mammie what dun brung you up an' nuss you when you i 1661432 2 In White and Black. can't do nothin' fur yo'self. I spec' you done an' forgot all dat. Buck niggers lack you mos' ingin'ly do furgit. I spar'd too many dem hick'ries fur you to be 'spec'ful. 'Sides, hunny, I ain't bleeg'd to hurry, case de white folks gwine be late 'count er bein' kep' up by de party las' night." "Den whut I's spilin' to know is whut mek you hustle me up so soon to mek de fire in de big house, den when I come here I fin' you snoozin' in de corner, jes same as a oberseer uv a rainy day. I's pow'ful feerd you's gittin' triflin' sence you got sot free." "Git out wid yo' long tongue- I done an' tole you dat tongue gwine git you in trouble. Yo' mouf's de biggest part o' you, 'ceptin' it's yo' foot, an' when it ain't full o' vittles it's allus full o' nonsensiful gabble." This conversation between Ben and his mother, whom we shall come to know as Aunt Lylie, as she was uni versally called by the white folks, was in the best of humor. The fact is, she never felt prouder of her strap- The Eavesdroppers. 3 ping- boy, now standing- on the verge of manhood, than when he was try ing to hold his own with her in some such battle of words; nor was she ever quite so much to his liking as when she was pouring forth a torrent of mock abuse on him, for then it was he knew her heart was warm toward him. At this point Ben dropped his voice to a confidential tone, and said : "Mammie, I's gwine to tell you whut I seed las' night when I wuz comin' roun' by de big po'ch arter I dun carr'd de dishes fur de tables Jes as I come roun'de corner Miss Dora she come down the steps, and Mars Law- ranee he come up de walk, an' dey met right onderde big beech, dat 'pear to hole up its han's to shiel' um fum de light, an'" "G'long wid you, an' doan come makin' up no tales," broke in Aunt Lylie. "Sho's ole Sookey Brown's a witch, I's tellin' you de Lawd's truf, Mam mie; but den I spec' you's gittin' too old to keer 'bout sich nonsense as co'tin'." Here Ben began to whistle 4 In White and Black. and turned as if to go out. All the time he knew full well he could not get out of that room without telling his story to the end. Aunt Lylie con trived to get between him and the door. "Who's gittin' ole? 'Sides, what's dat you been dreamin'? I spec' you eat too much er dat cake, you cyar'd roun' so gran' wid yo' head rar'd back same as a devil hoss when he's mad. Some folks sees mo' wid dey eyes shet den dey do wid um open. Now, you jes up an' tell me whut's in dat head o' you'n. I allus tole you yo' head's lack a sasser o' 'lasses in fly- time." Then Ben obediently detailed to her what he had seen and heard, how he had by accident witnessed the meet ing of his young mistress with "Mars Lawrance," and heard him declare his love for her, and how she had lis tened with no signs of disapproval. All of which was told with many em bellishments and liberal if not alto gether apt comparisons. Aunt Lylie listened with very ill-concealed inter- The Eavesdroppers. 5 est, and the while she was evidently busy with her own thoughts. When Ben had finished she was silent for a minute and then said, with feigned indifference: "Is dat whut you takin' on so 'bout? You 'ten' lack hit sumpin sho'nuff You know 'bout as much 'bout white folks' perceedin's as a hog knows 'bout hebb'n. When you done an' lib in de house wid um day an' night till de chillun you played wid done an' got growed up chillun ob dey own, den you can talk." This boast of superior advantages in the way of familiarity with the ways of the white people was a favorite weapon of Aunt Lylie's. With Ben it was usually an effective one, but this time he was ready with, "Ef I ain't been libbin wid white folks a hunderd years fo' de war, I spec' dese eyes an' years wan't made fur nuthin, an' when I sees a flower bloomin' an a bee comes hummin' 'roun', 1 knows what he's arter." "Dat'sasign you mus' make yo'se'f, sca'ce, else you gwine git yo'se'f stun. 6 In White and Black Now, Ben, hunny, lemme tell you, you's gittin pow'ful flighty in yo' mine eber sence you tuck tolikin'dat yaller gal at de Lucases. You doan no mo'n know a han'-gourd fum a watermillion, an' how you spec' to know 'bout dis bizness you talkin' 'bout? Now, doan you go to puttin' no highfalutin ob structions on dat, an' 1 want you to promus yo' ole Mammie you won't open yo' head to nobody 'bout it, kase 'tain't no use to be gittin' yo'se'f in trouble. Here's dat sillibub I done an' sabe fur you. Now you done an' promus me, ain't you, hunny?" "Why, Mammie/' said Ben, "co'se I ain't gwine to be publicatin' fambly secrets, an' ef yo' min's so sot on it, I jes up an' furgit it myse'f, but what I seed I seed." The sillibub soon disappeared, and so did Ben, only half aware of the commotion he had set up in Aunt Lylie's mind. As she went about her work she might have been heard talk ing the matter over with herself. This was one of her habits, indulged in most in her very serious moods. The Eavesdroppers. 7 When she had a knotty problem to solve she needed to talk it over with herself. Thus she wrought at the new prob lem but now thrown on her motherly heart, while with busy hands she pre pared the morning meal: "Dat's a oncommon brat fur shore. He's most as hard to fool as a mink, an' I 'clar he's as obsarvin' as a rabbit. An' so dey's two on urn. It's who shall an' who shan't Mars Lawrance or Mars Roswell. Laws, I know de men's gwine be worry'n dat chile. When I was settin' by de gyardin palin' las' night a thinkin' 'bout de day when Ole Mistiss tole me she want me stay wid Dodie, I ain't 'spicion I gwine hear whut I did. When i hear Mars Roswell 'gin dat saf talk, I doan know whut Dodie gwine do. But she doan need nobody to tell 'er. When she spoke up so proud an' cyar'd 'erse'f so high, I say, Thank de Lawd, the sperrit o' de mudder's in de chile.' An' jes to think she's gro'd up, an' come to be a woman, an' nobody to look arter 'er' cep' her poor ole black 8 In White and Black. Mammie. But" (after a thoughtful pause) "de Lawd knows I gwine do my bes' an' ." Here the door-bell to the big" house abruptly broke off the soliloquy. Let the reader who takes offense at being; ushered into this story by way of the kitchen take leave of us now, for we warn that respectable indi vidual that the offense is likely to be repeated many times before we are through with this glance at life as it was but is no longer. But before we part let me whisper that this kitchen belonged to a period when the kitchen of the South was a highly respectable place a very different thing from what it has become under the new regime and that personages were not infrequently found reigning there well worthy to be numbered among one's acquaintances. If my reader should chance to belong to the older genera tion, that sentence will meet with ap proval and compel a sigh for the good old days; that is, if this same reader chances also to be a dweller in the sunny regions round about Vandalia, The Eavesdroppers. 9 the town sometimes by courtesy called city into which we have made our entrance by this humble route. This town is typically Southern and also ante-bellum. It had grown up in that golden age of the South when the land was fertile, the fields wide, the negro strong and not idle, and cotton was king. Everything about it was on a broad and liberal scale, as if the chivalry, generosity and pro verbial hospitality of its people had written themselves large in these ma terial forms, that all the world might read. The streets were broad, lawns extensive and houses massive, with great pillared porches, with no gew gaws, but simple elegance the funda mental architectural law. There were trees everywhere. They lined the walks and avenues, kept lordly watch in the squares, and shaded with their interlacing branches the spacious and grass-covered lawns of the more pre tentious homes. There was that about its appearance which provoked the deep breath of content and inspired the upward look. io In White and Black. On the west side of the town, sweep ing northward, was a range of wooded hills. Through these hills Clear Creek glided, with many a fall and rapid, with much year-round spray and dash and gurgle; then circled like a band of polished silver the southern limits of the town. One railroad like a sin gle artery bound this town to the rest of the world's great life. Thus, with vast fields, meadows, pasture-lands around it, stretching away beneath the ravished eye of the beholder, was Vandalia, before the guns of Fort Sumter woke the thunders of war. Somewhat different now, as well it might be, after having lain in the center of that four-years' whirlwind and fire. Still it was Vandalia, with charred fences, neglected fields, felled forests, ditched and grave - scarred landscapes, empty sleeves, crutches, crushed hopes, but withal much that fire could not burn nor grape and bomb destroy proud traditions, for titude, faith in God and courage to begin over. Her sons and daughters did as do trees in a storm the weak The Eavesdroppers. // went down, the less weak only bent before it, the strong and they were many faced it, grappled it, and stood for that better time that has since come, crowned with the nobler con quest on whose escutcheon there is no blood, and in whose track of widen ing glory there are no tears. Into this town came Lawrance Ken- yon, hunting an outlet into the world. He found it in the large store of Mel ton & Ford, whose service he entered as bookkeeper on the first of January, 1868. He began at the same time the study of law, which he pursued as his work in the store permitted. This gave him no time for society, but he cared not for that. His only capital was a healthy brain and a stout heart, and he must make the most of these. He soon began to win his way. The stranger, who had been taken by the community on trial, if not on suspicion, was beginning to be trusted. He was slowly clearing a space about him in which to live his life. Thus must every soul, as a settler in a new con tinent thick with virgin forests and i2 In White and Black. pathless, clear for himself space and blaze his own path, or sit forever en tangled in the wilderness of indolence. All that Lawrance had inherited from the past was within him health, cour age, and a will to try. In truth, what else could he ? What else is worth inheriting? The world lies at the feet of him who has these. To him who has them not, other things, titles, names, escutcheons, wealth, come in vain. The world, all worlds, will deny to him all that it is worth while to crave. The things men inherit are mostly weights; they must grow their own wings. We inherit mostly the names, the empty husks of things; the things themselves we must win. When the things themselves are won, we sometimes find they have other names and wear other outer forms names and forms the world will not recognize, for wisdom alone "is justi fied of her children." Nobleman was two words till made into one by those who were willing to pay high for showy titles, and then it lost its mean ing. Wealth no longer has any kin- The Eavesdroppers. 13 ship to "weal;" it has to do only with dollars. Our hero was not hampered by any of these dead-weights, for he was fortunate enough to be born poor, and his parents were simply honest, unknown people. When he turned from the grave of his mother, he was alone in the world, and he set out with high ideals and higher hopes to try what he might do. A good presence, a warm heart, a quick imagination, he was a man you would like at once and love later on. CHAPTER II. A NOVEL INTRODUCTION. Dora Melton had but lately returned from Boston, where she had been at school since the death of her mother. Thither she had gone because an aunt on her mother's side lived there. Less than three years had changed her from girl to woman. When she returned she had already crossed the line that divides between the flowerland of girlhood and the soberer, yet sunny, land of womanhood. But she had carried over more of what was truest and best than most people do. To the strength and maturity of the woman she added the charm and sim plicity of the child. She seemed to have absorbed the very sunshine of her native skies and the wayward, playful breezes that chased each other over her native hills. She was artless, caring to be only herself, which was 14 A Novel Introduction. 75 enough. Such, with sunny hair and blue eyes, round, large and lustrous a face all animation, with more spirit than color, yet fair to behold with that nameless charm about her that pleases more than beauty, form graceful, with movement rather quick and energetic, was Dora Melton. Add to this that she was the only daughter and only living child of Mr. George Melton, senior member of the firm of Melton & Ford, and one of the oldest, most honored and wealthiest citizens of Vandalia. The first Sunday after her home coming she went to church with her father. Lawrance Kenyon sat oppo site Mr. Melton's pew. She entered, and he said, "She's proud." She turned her look his way, and he said, "She's interesting; what eyes! what hair!" She gave devout attention, and he said, "She's pious." He saw her smile at a child that nodded on the seat in front of her, and he said, "She's frivolous." He saw her eyes fill with tears at some pathetic passages in the sermon, and he said, "She's 1 6 In White and Black. sentimental." The fact is, we are afraid he did not hear nor see much else, he was so busy with his inven tory of this young- life. He found his conclusions unsatisfying and contra dictory, as any inventory of that vast, fathomless something we call human nature is apt to be. The most myste rious thing of all was why he had taken any interest in this young lady at all. To this he could give no answer satisfactory to himself. He also was an unsolved problem, an un- analyzable quantity, with ever new and unfamiliar elements coming into view. Here was one element of a new sort, this unaccountable interest in Dora Melton, not only difficult to comprehend, but also hard to control. That afternoon Lawrance had a chance to study his problem at closer range. It came about in quite an un expected way. He was taking a stroll just as twilight began to shake the gold of sunset from its meshes. His way led him down beside the laughing and limpid waters of Clear Creek to ward a spot where the current ran A Novel Introduction. 77 close into the bluff, whose rocky ram part gave it a check and a sharp turn. It rippled over wide and sandy shal lows above this, but here the obstruc tion had fretted its channel to a much greater depth. A large bowlder, that by some upheaval or downheaval somewhere in the dim past had been torn from the bluff, lifted its age- rounded head in mid-stream. What was Lawrance's astonishment when he came in full view of this miniature island to discover that it was inhab ited! There, perched on the summit of that rock, was none other than Dora Melton. His first impulse was to turn back, for he felt that he ought not to intrude on her privacy. This impulse was checked by the discovery that there was no earthly way for her to have got there without wading or swimming, as the rock was at least ten feet from the bank and with no visible connection with it. Besides, she lifted up a face in whose expres sion mirth and confusion were so strangely blended that one would wish to know what it meant that is, Law- i8 In White and Black. ranee did. It was like an unfinished story. The expression was as charm ing- as it was curious. When her eyes met his she broke into a laugh that was all the more musical for the tears that it concealed. Now Lawrance was not only embarrassed, he was offended. He did not at all relish being- laughed at by a strange young lady in that fashion. He doubtless showed it, and was about to turn away, when she said in a manner as natural and un affected as that of a child: "Please don't run away. I am en tirely harmless, and I did not mean to be rude." Lawrance lifted his hat and bowed in token of surrender, and we suspect that he smiled. She continued: "I am sorry to have to trouble you, but I fear I shall have to ask you to help me out of this." Then he was at his ease, as men always are when they have a recog nized advantage. He drew nearer. "Pardon me," he said, "but how on earth did you come to be there?" A Novel Introduction. ig "The question that interests me now is how I am to get away. Please help me to solve that first. You will find a plank down there," and she pointed down the stream to where a plank lay against the bank. Lawrance soon had the plank in place and, though a narrow bridge, it was sufficient, and with a little steady ing Dora was soon on shore. Then she extended her hand with a frank, unstudied cordiality, saying: "I arn Dora Melton, and I believe you are Mr. Kenyon. Allow me to thank you, but I am sorry I made you soil your clothes." "My only regret is, Miss Melton, that you did not set me a harder task, that I might have had some claim to your gratitude. I would gladly have brought you two planks, so you see I am still in debt to you." "Don't be afraid that I shall press my claim, if it is to cost me another experience like that," she said. "Then allow me to increase the debt by claiming the privilege of seeing you home, since it is growing late." 20 In White and Black. As they walked along amid the deepening shadows, she relieved his curiosity as to how she came to be on the rock. "You see," she said, "I came down here, as I often do, for ;\ breath of air and a glimpse of nature. It is so close to the house that I feel entirely safe, and I enjoy the quiet and seclusion. This afternoon 1 brought a book for an hour's reading. When I saw that rock, with the plank extending out to it, I thought how delightful it would be to sit out there and read awhile. Walking the plank was a little risky, but I like risks, and so I ventured. I was careless and, in turning, caught my skirt on the end of the plank and threw it into the water. I felt very helpless as I saw it drift away, leaving me a prisoner. I was a little too far from the house to make myself heard, and I did not relish the idea of waiting there till some one came in search of me. I never before wanted to be a mermaid and never was more certain that I was entirely human. My situation was A Novel Introduction. 21 really becoming" serious when you ar rived on the scene." Lawrance felt himself at liberty to laugh, as he had been strongly tempted to do when he first realized the situation. "I am afraid I was not altogether courteous at first, but my apology is that I had never seen anybody in just that plight before. I shall know how to act next time." "I am resolved there shall be no next time so far as I am concerned, and I must exact a promise of you not to tell of this, for it is really too ridiculous, and I should never hear the last of it." Would he promise ? Who ever heard of a man who would not prom ise anything under such circum stances? He only wished there were a thousand secrets to be kept for her instead of one, or something desperate and heroic to be done. He would at that moment have taken an oath not to speak at all for a month if she had so much as remotely hinted that such 22 In While and Black. a thing 1 was desirable, though he would have broken it in an hour. They had reached the little path leading up the steep slope to the rear g-arden gate of the Melton mansion. Here Lawrance said good evening amid thanks, and they parted. He had thought of many fine things that might be said, but usually the fine things that might be said are never said. They are either afterthoughts or only forethoughts. Most people can testify that not only the things that might have been are sad, but also the things that might have been said. Lawrance had thought of Andromeda chained to the rock, but she had her Perseus, and that spoilt it for his use on this occasion. Then he thought of the youth who saw the reflection of his own face in the water and be came enamored of its beauty yes, it was Narcissus but he couldn't make it fit. He thought of Crusoe and of a couplet that he had somewhere read about a "sea-girt rock," but the whole opportunity slipped by without his once displaying his erudition. He had A Novel Introduction. 23 talked plain prose ; it seemed to him about the prosiest prose that he had ever been guilty of using. He saw Dora bound up the path with tread quick and light, such as belongs to all innocent and happy beings'; he saw her lithe, graceful form outlined against the darkening sky and heard her musical voice still sounding in his ears. Lawrance, a knotty problem con fronts you. Toil at it in the deepen ing twilight, but think not to solve it till innumerable twilights and no lights but unillumined midnights have passed you by. You arc in love. Deny it as you may, pshaw! at it, as you no doubt are doing at this mo ment there on the edge of the night, you can never be as you were. The fatal arrow has struck home and quiv ers deep-buried in your heart so deep that when it is drawn the torn heart will come with it. That sweetest, bit terest chapter in life's volume has been begun and must be written out to the last syllable, whatever the end may be. It is the chapter, though 24 In White and Black. blotted with tears, that gives all co herence to the story of life, without which it were an enigma, all meaning less and undecipherable. After the episode of the rescue, Dora and Lawrance met occasionally on the footing of acquaintances. The memory of the accident that brought them face to face was sufficiently amusing to cause a smile when they met, and the consciousness of a secret, small and insignificant as it was, served to put them on good terms. It was not long till he had an oppor tunity of seeing her in her own home. It was a theory of Mr. Melton's that a young man fit for his employ was also fit for his companionship, and that the hospitality one shows to his friends as a pleasure to himself ought to be extended to his employees as a duty to them. He lived up to his theory and occasionally invited his clerks and bookkeepers to take tea with him, and so threw over their lives the genial influence of that far- famed Southern hospitality. He in vited Lawrance with one or two others. A Novel Introduction. 25 Here he saw Dora in her best element, at home, and in her most agreeable mood. Naturally quick-witted and sunny, she was always agreeable; but here, in the atmosphere of the home, all her graces blossomed to perfection. On this particular evening she was unusually interesting. She liked Law- ranee; he pleased her. Further than that she had not so much as thought, that is if people understand what they think. Let us frankly acknowledge ourselves incapable of fathoming the commonest things. The swift and subtle influences that make for destiny we may not trace nor explain. The merest accident may turn the tide of a life for good or ill. While we eat and drink and chaffer and trade, the swift shuttles are flying through the woof of life. We only know it when it is done. To describe the nimble hours of delight passed, all too quickly, at that home on that memorable even ing would be to describe a thousand of the same kind as they appear on the surface. That would be prosy, but the reality was anything else but 26 In White and Black. prosy, and the result will take time to tell. That night Lawrance returned to his room in a delightful state of ex citement. He frankly acknowledged himself in love. He even went so far as to persuade himself that he was loved in return. Such is the beautiful confidence of love in its infancy; but alas! it soon outgrows that. The lit tle sleep that fell on his eyelids that night was filled with dreams of Dora. When he awoke his mood had changed. He saw things in a soberer light if second thoughts are always soberer, which we gravely doubt, for thinking itself sometimes intoxicates and the judgment is blurred. The soul often soars on the wings of a sudden inspiration to heights of truth that it can never reach by slow plod ding. At any rate, Lawrance got back to a state of doubt and misery, and we call that sober perhaps because it is stupid. What a fool he had been, he thought, to fancy that petted daugh ter of a rich, aristocratic father fairly throwing herself into the arms of a A Novel Introduction. 27 poor dog" with neither wealth, wit nor pedigree to commend him, and on short acquaintance at that! A romp ing, good-natured girl had treated him kindly probably only because she was good-natured and straightway he had built a fairy palace such as Grimm never dreamed of . He did what most of us have done laughed at himself, bantered himself, called him self names and strove to whip himself into what he considered a sensible frame of mind. In reality he suc ceeded in bringing himself down to the level of ordinary stupidity. This ox-like nature of ours refuses to be driven at a breakneck speed, but must pause and browse amid the brambles of the prosaic now and then. By breakfast time Lawrance fancied himself tolerably rational. He had resolved, as thousands before had done, not to make a fool of himself a resolution as vain for him as it had been for all the other thousands. Dur ing the day he had made no less than a dozen false entries. He could not add the simplest column of figures. jo In White and Black. to her the charm of picturesqueness. She was brought up with Dora's moth er, and Dora had been largely brought up by her. She knew little of freedom 1 and cared less. She held strenuously by the old traditions and had a hearty contempt for the new regime. She was house-girl to Mrs. Melton from the time of her marriage and became nurse and "black Mammie" to Dora, which office was a prouder one to her than that of empress would have been. Happiness consists, according to Mr. Carlyle, not so much in increasing the numerator of the human fraction as in decreasing the denominator. Think you deserve to be hanged and you will count it a luxury to be shot. Aunt Lylie's office filled the measure of her ambition. To serve in it to the end was her sole purpose. Larger ques tions did not trouble her mind. To her there were no larger questions. That one home was her world, and Dora was its sovereign. When Mr. Melton came to Dora's room immediately after news of the Emancipation Proclamation reached A Darkey of The Old School. 31 him, he found Aunt Lylie assisting his daughter to ma!:e her morning- toilet, in spite of .the protest of that spirited girl. Through the open door from the hall he could see her kneeling to tie Dora's shoes, and he stopped to listen to Aunt Lylie : "What fur you gittin dese new fanglesome notions in yo' liT haid, dat you gwine do fo' yo'se'f? Doan you know dem liT white han's wa'n't made fur wuk no how? Yo' ole black Mammie ain't gwine 'low you to do no drubbery while dese ole han's kin do fur you. I heahs mighty cu'ious things bout nig- gahs gwine be free, and dey gittin so no' count dese days I 'spec' heap o' white folks got to be up an' doin', but you ain't, long as ole black Mammie's stren't' hoi' out." Such was her devotion to an insti tution that seemed so eminently prop er to her simple mind. While she was speaking, Mr. Melton was thinking whether it was wise, even humane, to thrust on these people freedom with its accompanying problem of self-sup port. The scene before him brought 32 In While and Black. up the tender, beautiful past, and set him to thinking" of the future with its changed relations and its unsolved problems. His people had conquered the wild forests of the Southland and built a civilization of which he was justly proud. It was not perfect, this he acknowledged ; perhaps slavery was not the least of its imperfections, but as he looked upon Aunt Lylie that morning, he felt in his heart that her condition was not to be bettered by this change. He and his people must now begin anew, and work out a hard er problem than has yet faced any people. There was many a Southern home that morning in which the scene was duplicated. Something else was smitten besides the shackles of slavery, something else felt the thunderblow of the Procla mation besides the foundations of a much-hated institution. Many a tie, only a little less tender than those of blood, snapped under the penstrokeof Abraham Lincoln, and many a faith ful heart quivered with anguish. If it A Darkey of The Old School. 33 was the birth-hour of a race it was not without travail. Mr. Melton tried to speak cheer fully. "Well, Lylie, I have good news for you? The jubilee that I have heard the darkies sing- about has come. You are free now, all the negroes are free. Abraham Lincoln yesterday signed the Proclamation which gives freedom to all the slaves in the country. Yes terday you belonged to me, to-day you can go where you will, do as you choose." She had listened with mouth and eyes opening wider and wider till he finished, then she broke out: "What MarsLinkum got to do widus? 'Spec' he better 'ten' to his own niggahs. Sides, I doan' know him, nebber seed 'im; but I knows you, Mars George, an' I knows my li'l lam, 'ere, an I ain' axin nobody to cum pryin' 'roun' udder folk's bisness what doan consarnum." He explained to her as best he could how it all came about, and how all the darkies in the neighborhood were re joicing, and leaving their old masters 34 In White and Black. and mistresses to enjoy their new free dom. She replied in a tone of lofty con tempt: "I bin hear niggahs talk 'bout what gwine happen, and how dem yankees gwine sot us free. But I 'low'd ef dey talkin' 'bout dat blue-coat trash what bin prowlin' 'roun' de ken- try, killin' de chickens, ca'yin' off de bosses, an' bu'nin' houses, an' libin' of'n de hard arnins of dem what wuk fur it, lain' 'spectin' muchfum um, an' I ain' nudder. Ef niggahs ain' got no mo' sense en ter take arter ev'y jack-o-molantern what comes 'long twel hit leads um in a swamp, dey kin go. Ole Lylie ain' tekin' up wid no sich. Heah I is, an' heahlgwinestay 'cepin' you dribe me off, ain' I, honey?" Here she looked appealingly into the face of Dora who all this time had been sitting silent, astonishment, pain and indignation mingling in her face. She threw her arms around the old negro's neck for answer and the tears fell while the black hands stroked her sunny hair, and as her master turned away he heard Aunt Lylie murmur: A Darkey of The Old School. 35 "Ole black Mammie won' leab you, honey, case she dun tole yo mudder she won't." From that day it was settled. Her ear was not bored through with an awl, there was no new bill of sale, but only the heart gave its seal to the most real as well as the noblest bondage, and she was still a slave. An empire could not have tempted her away. Proclamations may change institu tions, wars may break the course of empires, but the mysterious kingdom of the human heart, be it of Puritan or Cavalier, of white or black, defies alike presidents and potentates, congresses and armies. Mrs. Melton on her death-bed had committed her daughter to the care of her faithful servant. Aunt Lylie had assumed the charge with the double ardor born of her devotion to her de parted mistress and her tender love for Dora. She lingered by the bed side of her dying mistress to the last, watchful of every opportunity to smooth the way for the feet she loved. It was she who composed the lifeless 36 In White and Black. form, straightened the pillows, tucked the cover as she had done a thousand times before for the living-, with won derful composure, and, stroking- the white forehead, said tenderly, "Dar now, honey," then turned and almost fled from the room. When she reached her own room a shriek broke from her like the wail of a lost spirit, and throwing herself across the bed she poured out her soul in a grief as gen uine as ever broke a human heart. She followed the body to the grave, kept careful watch that no speck of dust was on the coffin, and groaned when the pall-bearers made a false step, as if they had trod on her heart. As the procession passed out of the house she slipped aside and pulled a bunch of lilacs. When the grave was filled, and the mourners filed away, she lingered with bowed head till the last had departed. Then approaching the grave she knelt and deposited her bunch of lilacs near the head, saying between her sobs: "I brung um fur you, honey, kase you loved um so, an' I members you tole me de name ob A Darkey of The Old School. 37 urn mos' same as mine. I knowed you'd love to have one liT flower on yo' grabe from the han' o' yo' po' Lylie. I doan know how 'tis, but ef you kin he'p a body fum wha' you is, he'p me to stan' by de po' li'l lam', kase I gwine do my best fur 'er, and bofe un us gwine come on arter 'while." That night she tucked the mother less girl away in bed and sat by her side tillshe fancied her asleep, saying- to her all the comforting things she could command, telling her beautiful things about her mother and assuring her that "de same eyes what wep' at de grabe o' Laz'rus lookin' at us an' countin' our tears sameas a boy counts 'is marbles, an' he ain't gwine leab us tell he put us 'longside o' yo' mud- der, whar dey doan weep no mo'." When she thought Dora was asleep, she knelt by the bed before going to her own pallet in the same room, and in a low voice began to pray: "O Lawd, sometimes hit seem lack you fur away lack de stars, an' you doan hear us when de heart's hebby 38 In While and Black. an' sad, but now hit pear lack you's mighty close to me an' Dodie, an' you makin' her furgit her sorrer in sleep an' comfortin' me in de darkness. We heard tell how you cums close in time o' trubble, an' it's true, an' you kin he'p a po' body lack me, an' put yo' arms 'roun' dis mudderless chile, same as ef we's wise an' great. Lawd, we's mighty feeble an' de light ob our eyes dun put out wid weepin', an' we so lonesone 'dout mistiss. We doan know whar she is, but we know she whar you is, fur she was good an' she tole us she gwine be wid you. Lawd, could you jes tell 'er fur po' ole Lylie dat I right here by her chile tryin' to shie!' 'er fum de trubble an' dat I prayin' fur 'er while she sleepin'. De worl'.so big and wide an' de way so rough fur de feet ob dem what ain't got no mudder to lead um, please be good to dis po' chile. Ef you do haf to sen' trubble, sen' it on me; when de bow's bent let de arrer strike dis bres', but keep dis chile fum de pain. Lawd, he'p me, so Ole Mistiss '11 be satisfied. Doan lemme make no blunders, and A Darkey of The Old School. 39 when my eyes can't see de way take me byde ban' an' lead me, an' I'll lead de lam' wid de udder ban'. Bless Ole Marster, fur his heart's dun bruk, an' doan le'm furgit de promus dat he gwine meet Ole Mistiss at las'. Ef you kin, let 'er come sometime an' kine o' tech 'im wid 'er wing an' some how say sof lack, Tm here'. "An Lawd, fix a place fur us, fur we all cummin by'm-by. When de HT lam' git settled and fixed, an' de way git clar fo' 'er feet, an' she doan need me no' mo', den lemme come to Mis tiss an' he'p git ev'ything ready fur Dodie, fur I want to have a han' in m a k i n' things tidy fur 'er fo she comes." Then she gave a few additional touches to the cover and stole to her pallet and lay down. Peaceful and prayerful center this, where, in the beauty of confidence and fidelity, these two lie sleeping, while war and strife resound without. CHAPTER IV. WHAT CAME OF A LAWN PARTY. When Lawrance Kenyon received an invitation to a lawn party to be given by Miss Dora Melton on the evening of the first of May, he was not philosopher enough to take it calmly. He had tried to persuade himself to think no more of Dora and had, he vainly imagined, succeeded to a tolerable degree. He had worked, or tried to work, more industriously and study more constantly. But those who have tried it will not be hard on him if it is openly confessed that he found it difficult to supplant the sweet image of Dora with figures in a ledger or to exchange the radiant dreams of love for the deep things of legal lore. That period has come, or if it has not, come it will to us all, when the interests and energies of life gather about one object, when the soul's 40 What Came of a Lawn Party. 41 whole empire falls under one scepter, and the will is powerless to break the soothing" sway or expel the pleasing tyrant. Once the heart is caught in the meshes of that silken but powerful net, struggle is not only vain and use less but it tightens the fatal web more and more about its victim. Lawrance Kenyon was weary with his fruitless struggles. He had not yet consented to surrender, nor had he yielded to the thought that Dora was absolutely es sential to his happiness. When, how ever, he received the invitation and decided to go, all his bulwarks gave way and his wise maxims went down like reeds before a flood. When he was dressed and ready to go he hesi tated. His heart beat violently, his hand trembled, and he was angry with himself for his unusual agitation. For the fortieth time he looked in the glass and adjusted his tie, not that he saw any need of it, or, for that matter, knew what he did, but because there was nothing else to occupy his time. Sev eral times he resolved not to go, but he ought to have known beforehand 42 In White and Black* that such resolutions were vain and futile. When he reached the front gate he beheld before him a brilliant and beau tiful scene. Along the line of maples on either side of the gravel walk were festoons of bunting, and many-colored Chinese lanterns hung beneath the boughs. On the spacious lawn to the left merry young people were flitting to and fro like so many birds. The moon was just rising, and its full tide of mellow light fell on the east-looking porch, whose tall white Corinthian columns gleamed through the fresh young foliage. Lawrance paused to take in the scene. It seemed to him a fitting scene as a background for Dora, but only a background, for to him all he saw of things and people had no meaning except as they were con nected with her. It was in perfect keeping with his conception of her that she should receive her friends under nature's starry blue and with nature's dewy green beneath their feet. As his eyes sought through the lawn for the central figure of the picture, he saw What Came of a Lawn Party. 43 her enter the house alone. Quickly he entered the gate and hastened up the walk. What his intentions were he scarcely knew, but somehow there was a wild, intense wish in his heart to meet Dora alone. He did not mean to say anything more than the most common-place things, such things as would be said to her by a score of people that evening, but to speak to her alone, with no other ear to hear, would be a great happiness to him. Close to the porch stood a beech whose boughs reached to the roof and formed a sort of nature's porte cochere. As he approached this tree Lawrance paused to calm his excited nerves and to decide whether to enter the house or to wait for Dora's return, which he was sure would not be long. Before he had time to collect himself she came across the porch, and hurrying forward as she came down the steps humming a tune, he met her just in the shadow of the big beech. When he saw her come out on the porch his whole being thrilled with admiration, and as she drew nearer, his emotion approached 44 I H White and Black. closely to adoration. She was simply dressed, but in exquisite taste. There was a single rose in her hair and an other at her throat. Those were her only ornaments. She had just thrown loosely around her shoulders a light wrap which she had not yet adjusted, and she looked like a bird with plumage ruffled from excess of joy. Lawrance had never seen even her look half so beautiful. Had he been seeking for a picture of perfect loveliness he could have wished no more. He simply did what was inevitable, what he must do, surrender himself a complete captive to her charms. What else he did or said he scarcely knew. He only knew that this was Dora and that they were face to face alone. He stepped forward, extended his hand, which she took with an exclamation of pleasure and in the half-light Lawrance detected the blush that mantled her cheeks. Powder wants only a spark to ex plode, love wants only an oppor tunity to speak. They were unob served by the guests who were gath ered in a distant part of the lawn, and What Came of a Lawn Party. 45 his entrance had not been noticed. Under the lace-like leaves of the beech, in the moonlight, the awkward, eloquent story, old as the race yet ever new as the untrod continent of human experience, was told. He seized her hand, but that was the only greeting. The anticipated commonplaces his lips refused. The only speech to which they would lend themselves was to voice the secret that was burning- in his heart: "Dora, forgive me, but I love you. Since I first saw you your image has been in my heart, your name on my lips. Thoughts of you have filled my mind waking or sleeping. When I have thought of living with out you my heart has ached with un speakable agony. When I have thought of the possibility of calling you my own, I have had a taste of Paradise. I ask no more than the privilege of saying I love you. Were the barriers between us ten thousand times what they are, it would still be a sweet solace to me to speak. I have nothing to offer you but a heart that would find its highest happiness in 46 In White and Black. shedding its blood for you, no merit to plead but a love as intense and pure as ever dwelt in human bosom. If my love is wicked it is only because it is idolatry, and God will forgive me that, for I can not help it. I am poor, I am unknown, I am nothing-, and till this moment I have laughed at the thought of telling you my secret. Now it seems to me if you would trust me, if you would let me toil and strive for your sake, I could conquer worlds. Any task you would smile on would be easy. Without you my life is blank. It has no other charm. With you it would be enough to live, to toil, so that you were near. O Dora, it is mad ness to speak thus to you, but if it be so it is the madness of love. I did not mean to say one word of this to you, but when I saw you I could not help it. If you do not, can not, return my love, I shall not blame you. Why should you care for me? I have asked myself this question a thousand times. Nevertheless, I shall love you forever. Henceforth, as permanent as memory or hope, love for you is part of my What Came of a Lawn Party. 47 being 1 . And whatever fate decrees for you and me, remember that one man will adore you forever. Do not speak yet. I am afraid your words would blast my hopes, and I would cherish yet a little the glimpse of Paradise be fore I plunge into outer darkness. O Dora, you can not know how I love you." He had spoken rapidly, passion ately, all the time holding her hand and bending his face close to hers. His voice was low, but his words came like arrows from the string of a taut bow. His soul was in every syllable, and that alone is eloquence. Dora seemed to be listening to the beating of his heart rather than to words. There was that light in her eyes while he spoke that no lover can mistake, and her quick breath, heaving bosom and cheek that grew a deeper and deeper crimson, told all too plainly that the story had fallen on willing 1 ears. All this Lawrance recalled many a time in the lone agony of other days, and then he could feel in his closed palm the twitching of her fingers as 48 In White and Black. distinctly as on that night. Had she known what was to follow, how freely she would have spoken out of her own heart! But she did not know; alas, we never know. There was a moment of silence, a whippoorwill from far across the woodland shot its shrill staccato into the night, and the chirp of crickets kept time to the beating of their hearts. Dora raised her eyes full to his and then Lawrance saw distinctly a tear trembling on each lid, and for him there was heaven in those tears. When she spoke her voice was calm and her speech more deliberate than his had been, but it was tender and tremulous: "Mr. Kenyon, I should be insincere if I should say this is a surprise. I thought it would be so. It would be more than insincere for me to pretend to be indifferent to what you have said. More I may not say now. Wait till to-morrow." "Say I may hope and I will wait a thousand years, if I must," said Law rance. What Came of a Lawn Party. 49 "You may hope; and now I must BO." "May I call to-morrow evening-?" "Yes." Then she left him to meet some of her young friends that were seeking her. Lawrance was not the only suitor at the lawn party that evening-. Later in the evening- when refreshments had been served and the g-uests were prom enading- about the lawn, or gathered in twos, or in small groups for conver sation, Roswell Grantley sought Dora for a promenade. He was one of the wealthy young men of the town. His father was for a long time a private banker. The relation between him and Dora's father had been of the closest, both socially and commer cially. When the father died a few years before, Roswell succeeded to the wealth and the business of the father. He had paid some attention to Dora since her return from school, which she had received from courtesy but had not encouraged especially. Still, she was glad now of an opportunity to 50 In White and Black. speak with him. There was something in her mind she wished to say to him. This was her opportunity, a better op portunity than she anticipated. They passed across the lawn towards the garden almost in silence. When they were alone, he said: "Dora, do you know why I am here to-night, why I have sought to speak to you? I came herewith one purpose. Since I came that purpose has grown stronger. I could not let another hour pass without carrying it out. It is to offer you my life; to ask you to be my wife. The happiness of my future depends on your decision. I have thought of you in that light ever since you were a wayward, romping girl. Since your return from school it has become the dominant desire of my life to have you for my own, and I have accustomed myself to the thought that you would consent." He paused for reply. There was silence for a minute. When she spoke it was in measured tones, as if every word were being What Came of a Lawn Parly. 51 weighed and tested. They were like so many dagger-strokes. "Mr. Grantley," she said, "I must be candid. I have no motive to be other wise. What you profess to desire can never be. If there were ever a time when such a thing were even re motely possible, that time is past. Yon der with the crowd is a woman who was my playmate ,in childhood. To gether we have sat for hours beneath these branches in the summer after noons watching the butterflies among the flowers. They call woman's friend ship fickle and brief. It is not of such material ours was formed. Hers is a pure and guileless nature, a heart that has no room for falsehood. When I heard that her father had lost all and she, brave, noble girl, had thrown herself into the struggle, even taking a position as governess to sup port the broken old man, I honored her, I loved her yet the more." "Dora, why will you ?" He spoke in a half-terrified way, but with an im perious gesture she stopped him. 52 In White and Black. "Do not interrupt me please, I am giv ing you my answer. When I learned through her letters, always confiding, that you had wooed and won that noble heart, if it threw a shadow over some girlish fancies of my own, what of it? Let that pass. You won that heart com pletely for what ? To crush it wantonly as you crush those rose- petals between your fingers now, to fling it away, to condemn it to life long disappointment or speedy death." "For God's sake, Dora!" he almost gasped, but she went on not heeding his appeal. "When I saw her pale cheek, when I heard her story, when I pillowed her head on my bosom and felt the surg ing of her sorrow, do you count it a sin that my resentment awoke? I said then, I say now, you are false. Were I to marry you, the voice of my moth er who taught me what truth and hon or are would accuse me from behind yonder stars and cry in my ears, 'Shame! shame!' Moreover, the pale sweet face of that girl yonder would haunt me to my grave, and my own What Came of a Lawn Party. 53 conscience would condemn me for marrying" a man whom I can not even respect." She ceased speaking- and a sob she could not longer restrain gave empha sis to what she had said. The laugh ter of the guests fell on their ears. "Dora, will you hear me? Do you not know that the wayward fancies of the heart often play us traitors and lead whither the judgment can not fol low? Do not most people have some such follies to regret? And who knows whether to pity or to blame!" "I am familiar," said Dora, "with the code that governs in the world of show, I also know something of the eternal principles of truth, and that there are hearts that are not wayward nor fickle, and at this moment there is one in a woman's bosom dying for a man who is not worthy the slightest pin-scratch on her little finger. I know also one manly heart that would suffer roasting on live coals before it would beat false to a woman's trust, but it beats in another bosom than yours." 54 In White and Black. "Dora, Dora!" came from the crowd, and she turned away. The reader has already seen in this chapter the grounds of the conversa tion bet we en Ben and Aunt Lylie given in the first chapter. By chance Ben was a witness to the first scene, and his mother saw and heard the sec* ond courtship with an interest that we are afraid would have prompted her to seek by stealth what accident threw in her way. CHAPTER V. WISE COUNSEL FROM A GOOD SOURCE. It was long after Mr. Melton had taken his breakfast alone and gone away to his business, when Dora came out from her room. The events of the day before had broken in on the even tenor of her life with a sudden ness that upset her nerves not a little, and it was very late before she slept, and it was far into the morning' when she awoke. When she came out into the yard, a scene of peace and beauty greeted her eyes. The sun hung- high up in the cloudless sky. The canary, whose cage hung in the hall, was sing ing as if the world depended on it. From the topmost twig of the big beech a mocking-bird was pouring forth his morning hymn in a perfect river of melody, composed of rivulets from all the mountain heights of song- land. High on the wind-swayed 56 In White and Black. branch of a sugar-maple a Baltimore oriole seemed struggling 1 to turn the brilliant colors of his body into tink ling snatches of song. The sun was pouring a flood of glory on the green of the pasture-lands that sloped away to the westward, and sifting through the tender leaves it wrought a patch work of gold on the green grass be- neat-h, studded still with dew that glinted and flashed like a million dia monds. Dora walked out and stood beneath the same boughs that had sheltered her and her lover the night before, the sunshine on her hair, and health and happiness stamped on her fresh young face. With that happi ness was a nameless something, a touch of womanly seriousness, that had only come there in the last few hours, but had come to stay, and constituted a' new charm. As she stood there drinking in with exquisite relish the balm and beauty and melody of na ture, a honey-bee, on the hunt for sweets, lighted on her hair, and when he attempted to fly away he had be come entangled in the golden meshes, Wise Counsel from a Good Source. 57 and so was held buzzing" there in a most exciting and warlike fashion. Thanks to abundant hair Dora was not stung, and thanks to strong nerves she did not scream. Aunt Lylie had come to the kitchen door and was looking" at Dora, who had not ob served her. These two, combining the beautiful and the picturesque, were the only two persons about the place. "Honey, whut you standin' dar fur stid o' comin' fur yo' brekfus' ?" was her greeting". "Come quick and g"et this bee out of my hair or I shall be stung," said Dora, holding" her charming head to one side. Aunt Lylie hurried to meet her and with a dexterous whisk of her apron released the captive bee and stood ' looking at Dora with a curious air. " Why are you gazing" at me in that fashion ?" said Dora, affecting impa tience. "Why don't you go and get me some breakfast? I am hungry." 'Ts jes'a-thinkin' you'sas putty as a hollyhawk, an' dat bee not de only pusson dat gwine to git tangled up in 5g the track of tortured nerves. One who would faint at merest sight of blood may be so filled with the spirit of min istry as to move over a battle-field with out quailing. Aunt Lylie was too in tent on making sure of the man's iden tity to be deeply affected by thoughts of the dreadful fate to which he was exposed. When the crash came she turned away, and a beholder would have marveled at the look of satis faction on her face. Just as she stepped on the ground her master touched her arm and said: "Where is Dora?" When she saw he was weak and exhausted, she an swered: "She sont me arter you kase she's oneasy 'bout you, she wan' you ter come home." Without another word he turned and led the way home. CHAPTER XI. VANDALIA'S MYSTERY. Two absorbing" questions disturbed the current of Vandalia's thought next morning after the fire, questions likely to remain unanswered for many days hence. "How did the fire occur? and who was the unfortunate man who perished in the flames?" They were on everybody's lips. Every other subject was overshadowed by this one. Even the weather was not thought of and the health of the com munity was given a holiday. The morning- paper was unread and un quoted, though it contained sufficient sensations to set all the nerves of Vandalia tingling and all her tongues wagging 1 . As to these two questions almost every man had his own theory for which he was ready to contend, and we may as well add that as usual in such cases they were all equally false. 100 no In White and Black. As early as possible Mr. Melton and his partner got their employees to gether and consulted with them as to the cause of the fire. Kenyon was f not present. A runner was sent to his boarding-house, but he was not there and had not been during the night. Neither had he been to supper or breakfast. All of his belongings were in his room. No one could be found who had seen him since he left the store the day before. It was custom ary for one of the clerks to sleep in the store every night, as a protection against the lawlessness that prevailed at that time. Lawrance always slept there at the first of each month, as it was neces sary in posting up the accounts of the month for him to work late at night. All of which seemed almost con clusive that it was he who had perished. He was the only one who was missing, and that some one perished in the flames there were well-nigh a thous and eye-witnesses to testify. Who else could it have been? This very natural conclusion soon took posses- Vandalirfs Mystery. in sion of the multitude, and there was much sorrow at the tragic end of a life in which everyone could now find so many excellencies. Many who had never even by a kind look shed one ray of approbation on the path of Law- ranee Kenyon living" were ready to lavish extravagant praise on Law- ranee Kenyon dead. It came with a heavy blow to the proprietors, es pecially so to Mr. Melton and for reasons with which the reader is fa miliar. His steadiness, competency, faithfulness and courtesy had won for Lawrance a warm place in the hearts of his employers and their regret was deepened by the belief that his life had been sacrificed in trying in some way to save the store. To all it was a terrible tragedy, and cast a deep gloom over the community. Soon another view began to be dis cussed, set afloat by no one knew whom, but gradually spreading, as such things will, until it was in many mouths. It was that Lawrance had burned the store, or procured accom plices to do it, and that he had fled ii2 In White and Black. from the consequences of his crime. That it was the work of an incendiary seemed certain, as there was no fire about the building" at that season of the year. It was whispered that there was a motive in a recent affair of the heart in which Mr. Melton had inter fered. Suspicious characters had been seen in the neighborhood at a late hour the night of the fire. Lawrance's strange behavior in leaving the store and failing to appear at supper were urged against him. It was doubtless one of his confederates who had been caught by the flames in a greedy effort at plunder. Lawrance knew the store too well to have allowed himself im prisoned in that way. He could have used the elevator, and the way of es cape by the front door was open. The victim was one who was ignorant of the surroundings. In a still lower whisper it was said there were those who knew things in his past if they cared to tell. Thus there are tongues that would rob even the ashes of a martyr of their sacred- ness, from whose venom there is no Vandalids Mystery. 113 escape even in the grave. No one seemed to know where this opinion originated; we can only guess where the motive lay to rob the memory of Lawrance dead of its purity, or despoil the name of Lawrance living of its honor. It is not so remarkable that such a conjecture could be set afloat, but that there could be found so many who would adopt it. The opinions soon became about equally divided. When Aunt Lylie returned from the scene of the fire she hastened up to Dora's room and whispered some thing in her ear that made her start and turn pale, then it seemed to give her an assurance that comforted. She did not know all that had occurred at the fire. Aunt Lylie's hurried mes sage had evidently contained some hint of the sickening horror. When her father entered he studiously avoided any allusion to that feature of the catastrophe. He was much de pressed and shaken, and, though he strove hard to hide it for the sake of Dora, he could not quite succeed in blinding her loving eyes to the H4 In White and Black. fact that something more than finan cial loss weighed on his mind. He did not know that Aunt Lylie had seen the face at the window, and con sequently had not cautioned her as he would have otherwise done against mentioning that matter to Dora. Of course the whole affair could not be long concealed from her, but he was moved by a father's desire to shield her as long as possible, and by the vague hope that morning might re solve his fears, though all efforts to find Lawrance that night were un availing. This is what Aunt Lylie whispered to Dora: "It wa'n't Mars Lawrance whut got bu'nt, fur I seed 'im wid my own eyes." After Mr. Melton retired to his room Dora eagerly asked for an explana tion. This was Aunt Lylie's answer: During the brief space in which the man at the window had appeared to her she had taken in all the details. She could have sworn to the follow ing description of the man: He was broad shouldered and muscular. His yandalias Mystery % 115 face wore a mask of grizzly beard. His hair was long and bushy, and over it he wore an old fur cap. His shirt was not by any means white, and he wore only a part of a coat, one half of a ragged sleeve dangling about his & right arm. That she saw so much while others saw only a startled face is no great marvel. She occupied a favorable position, at an angle also where the light favored clearness of vision. She was alert with a reason for making sure. She was seeing for Dora. She knew that Lawrance was likely to be there at the first of the month. She felt she must make sure. There are emergencies when the soul concen trates its powers in eye or ear, and ap parent miracles of perception are wrought. Besides, the habit of min ute observation belongs most to peo ple of rude cultivation. Begging Aunt Lylie's pardon for the compari- t son, the lower animals have the power of sense perception far beyond man. It seems to be a sort of compensation in nature that where culture is denied 116 In White and Black. instinct is quickened, and keenness is proportioned to lack of breadth. Aunt Lylie would never have discov ered the law of gravitation from a falling- apple, but she would have known exactly the kind, size, and color of the apple. She would not have written the "Principia," but no more would she have cut two holes under the door, a large one for the old cat and a smaller one for the kitten. Her mind was not busied with a great va riety of subjects, but it acted with lightning-like rapidity and almost me chanical accuracy on the facts that came within its narrow range. Though Lawrance himself had not been seen, Dora was reassured by Aunt Lylie's recital, and, while the identity of the unfortunate man was a mystery on which she could not form a reasonable conjecture, she trusted the day would bring light for the solu tion of it all. She had not even thought of the possibility of Lawrance being accused of burning the store. She was spared that pain for the present. What was her astonishment and Vandalias Mystery. terror to learn next day that Kenyon had disappeared and no trace of him was to be found. This was some thing she had not thought of. If Aunt Lylie was right in her observa tions she had no doubt he would be at hand next day to answer for himself. But to learn that he was nowhere to be found filled her with the most unspeakable terror. After all, she thought, for once Aunt Lylie must have been wrong, else what had be come of him? The fearful contem plation sent the iron deep into her soul. She tried hard to be brave, she tried hard to hope, but who could be brave, who could hope, in the face of such a condition? She was almost beside herself when this revelation was brought to her by Ben during the morning. Aunt Lylie led her into the house and sat down and talked to her: "Now, honey, lemmetell you, Mars Lawrance ain' got bun't in dat sto'. Am' I dun an' seed de man wid dese eyes, an' I tell you 'twan 'no mo' lack Mars Lawrance dan I'se lack yo' own sef, an' de Lawd knows dat's In White and Black. sayin' a heap. 'Sides what mek 'im wan' git bun't when he knows ev'y crook an' turn in de house? Ef he cotch up stairs, how cum 'e can' cum down on de elevator f o' de fire reached it, or ef 'e can' do dat, 'e can go to de front an' motion to um, an' dey'd put up a ladder an' tuck 'im down. De man what got bun't wan' in dat sto' for no good, and he was a wantin' ter git out 'dout nobody seein' 'im, an' 'e look zackly lack dat sort o' cattle, as well as ac' lack it. Dat's de reason he doan go to de front whar dey a in' no fire an' holler fur he'p. Mek your min' res' easy 'bout dat,fur I done tole you an' I tell you agin hit warn' Mars Lawrance no mo' dan hit was you. As to whar 'e is I can't zackly mek dat out, but we gwine fin' out. We mus' be patient. De Lawd gwine straiten it out in 'is own time." With wonderful skill Aunt Lylie had touched every hopeful chord in Dora's bosom. There was a force in her words and a contagious confi dence in her manner, that were almost irresistible and Dora found herself Vandalias Mystery. ilg reassured. But it was a forbidding situation that faced her. The contrast between to-day and yesterday was great indeed. Then God seemed to caress her, now He was smiting. Yes terday her heart was delirious with joy, to-day it was wild with pain. While she indignantly rejected the idea of crime, and while she could not believe it was Lawrance who met death in the flames, there still re mained the fact of his absence. Where had he gone and why had he disappeared in that mysterious way? This question grew more and more perplexing to her as the days wore on and no trace or hint was found to throw any light on the mystery. It was only little less a grief to her to believe he would leave her without a word after what had passed between them than to believe he had died with tender thoughts of her, and with that splendid fidelity to the heart that trusted him, which she had fancied he possessed. Her position was a trying one. She could not even inquire about him. His relation to her was izo In White and Black. not known and had it been, the fact that he had thus deserted her without an explanation would have forced her to be silent. As she pondered these things the darkness seemed to thicken, and her heart ached none the less that she must hide its soreness. Through all she clung to the hope, even the be lief, that her lover was true to her. She had a vague, half-formed thought that some one was in some way re sponsible for his disappearance; how, she hardly dared to even conjecture. She was like children who sit at evening and watch the shifting clouds, and build with their imaginations a thousand forms, never quite clear, al ways imperfect, but pleasing in their resemblance to well-known objects. Thus day by day the clouds of un certainty lay heavy on the horizon of her thought, taking the changing shapes her fancy gave them. Noth ing is so trying as perplexity, as a vague suspense, not to know the cause or nature of your trouble. To fold your hands and wait without even knowing how to set about resisting, Vandalids Mystery. 121 like one beset in the dark by foes whose weapons we can not even see, is a frightful position. Such was Dora's case. The nature of her trouble she did not understand, and she was forbidden by all the circum stances to attempt to either fathom or to remedy it. Did she know where Lawrance was she could not utter a syllable to call him back, or let him hear one sigh of regret. CHAPTER XII. ANOTHER VICTIM. The days wore on, and still there was no light on the dark mystery. Everything had settled down to its old routine. Politics, health, and busi ness had resumed their usual sway over the Vandalian mind. The affairs of life are entirely too urgent, its strug gle entirely too intense, for the pass ing out of one man to long break the current. The breaking of one or more hearts in a community is not a matter on which men bestow more than a brief sigh or two. One of the most pathetic things in all life's trag edy is the fact that each must live his life alone; that each heart must bear its own burden, and scarcely an ear be found with time and patience to hear the story; and when at last the burden is laid down, those to whom we have been closest will chaffer and 133 Another Victim. 123 trade and toil in life's common-place treadmill in very sight of the fresh mound above our silent breasts. We only see the surface of each other's ; lives, and just now and then the depths even of our own. But sin and sorrow never rest. Two weeks after the fire, Ben drove his team down to the creek at noon and found Roswell Grantley standing at the same spot as before. "Well, Ben," he said, after exchang ing pleasant greetings, "how are things getting on at the big house?" "Mighty bad, Mars Roswell." "Why, what is the matter now?" "Well, you see, Ole Marster, he been pow'ful trouble 'bout de fire, an' Miss Dory ain' lack 'ersef no mo'n ef she ain' de same pusson, an' Mammie all de time worried 'bout um, an' hit doan' seem lack de ole place no mo'." "What do you think has become of Mr. Kenyon?" "I doan' know, sah," shaking his head. "Hit mighty cu'ious. I done an' stop thinkin'." 124 In White and Black. "Do you suppose he got burnt in the fire?" "No,sah; I can't 'zackly make it out dat way, 'case Mammie seed de man what got bu'nt an' she say she know tain't him. 'Sides dey wa'n't no sign 'o him in de ashes, fur we sarched um keerfuL Seem lack 'is watch or sumpin 'ud been dar ef 'e's bu'nt. "Perhaps Miss Dora refused him and that made him leave the town, and perhaps burn the store, too." This was spoken with the inflexion of an interrogatory rather than a surmise of his own. In fact this was the the ory Roswell was anxious to confirm. It was a palliative to his own con science for the part he had played, to believe Lawrance capable of such a crime. The devil is a great sophist. Ben shook his head again. He knew more than he dared tell. He only replied : "What fur she pinin' so den, ef she done an 'fused 'im?" This conversation revealed to Ros well what he wished to gather, name ly, the state of Dora's mind, and what the opinion was at the Melton home- Another Victim. 125 stead as to Kenyon's absence. Also it was news to him that Aunt Lylie had testified that Kenyon was not burned. He walked homeward pon dering these things. He had by no means given up his hope of winning Dora, but was busy with plans for compassing that hope. Kenyon out of the way, if he could erase the noble picture from her mind or blur it with suspicion, time and skill would do the rest. He was patient as he was reso lute, and as unscrupulous as patient. Ben had promised his mother he would tell her whatever he heard about Kenyon. She had a vague be lief that Roswell somehow had to do with his disappearance. She had caught at Ben's new partiality for Roswell as a possible means of reach ing some clue. So when Ben came to dinner he told her what had passed between him and Roswell, dwelling especially on the suggestion that perhaps the disappearance and the fire were to be accounted for by the fact that Dora had refused Lawrance. Ben would i26 In White and Black. have been startled had he seen at that moment the expression on his Mam- mie's face. After a minute's silence she asked in a tone that made him Uook quickly up: "How cum he know dat Mars Law- ranee cou't Dodie?" This was unexpected. He had not thought but that it was an open se cret. Time had thrown him off his guard. The weight of his guilty im prudence fell upon him with crushing force, and he blurted out the whole story of how he had before told the secret. Aunt Lylie did not wait for him to stammer his apology or ask forgiveness as he began to do, but stood over him, her eyes flashing and her whole form quivering with rage. Her strong hands clutched his shoul ders with a force that almost sent her fingers into the flesh, and her hot breath almost burnt his face, as she poured a perfect flood of invectives on \ his devoted head. "Ain' I dun an' tole you you musn't go tellin' what you seed dat night? Ain' you done an' promus' me you Another Victim. 127 won' tell? Den you tole it, an' sides you tole me a lie 'bout it. You de cause o' all dis trouble, an' you de chile what I brung up an' what I lub'd nex' to de lam' yander in de big house. Is it fur dis I done an' nuss you day an' night, an' bfung you up to tromple on folks's hearts in dis way? Hit hu'ts me to see you. I can't never trus' you no mo'. Leab de house dis minnit, an' doan' you nebber set yo' foot in it no mo'." Pushing him from her, she pointed to the door. Ben's face was ashen. He tried to speak but could only stammer. He could not see why his revelation was such a crime. And, the truth is, it played a very small part in the final result, but in Aunt Lylie's mind there was one subject dwelling, and it was but natural she should exaggerate everything connected with it, and that her feelings on that subject should be intense. Ben stood outside the door dumbfounded, stunned, and at a loss what he should do. He heard his mother say in a voice that he imagined was a little more subdued, "Wait." 128 In White and Black. Then she went in her own room, and soon came back with a bundle in one hand and a small package in the other. He did not see her for he was look ing at the ground. She threw both bundle and package at his feet, then shut the door and burst into sobs which he did not hear. The bundle was his clothes, the package the wages she had been saving for him. Ben's heart sank like lead now, for he knew that her decision was final, and if it had not been, he was too wounded to sue for peace, so he slowly took him self off, not knowing whither. He loved everything and everybody about the place. There was not a tree in the neighborhood under which he had not played with his young master who was killed in the battle of Ma- nassas. As he put his hand on the latch of the back gate he thought he heard his mother's voice. Perhaps she was calling him back. No; it was only the whine of the old dog, that crept out as if to sympathize. Ben hesitated. Perhaps if he should go back now his mother would relent, he Another Victim. 129 thought, and perhaps she would have done so, who knows? but he blindly felt he had been wronged. He knew she would suffer, and he was wicked enough to be willing she should, and so he raised the latch and went out. He chose his way across the horse- lot. He must bid adieu to Lincoln and Davis. At that moment Davis was devouring a bundle of oats in great mouthfuls in his clean stall, and Lin coln had walked out in the sun and was rubbing his nose against the gate. He greeted Ben with a low whinny and put out his head for a caress. Ben did not speak his greeting as was his custom, but drawing the faithful head to him he looked silently into the great kindly eyes. The horse seemed to realize something was wrong, as he gently rubbed his head against Ben's shoulder. As for Ben, the big tears were chasing each other down his cheeks. He could only murmur, "Poor ole Lincum, who's gwine to keer fur you now?" He went into the stable where Davis was eating his oats, and I jo In White and Black. laying his arm around the great, glossy neck, he found his voice. "Well, Davis, I bleegedterleab you. You dun some clean, squar pullin' fur me many a time. I dun an' druv you all your natyal life. I 'members when I fus' brek you an' I ain' let nobody 'buse you. Don't you 'member when I whup Tom Lucas case he hit you wid er rock? I'd do it agin', old boy, but I can't be wid you no mo'. Ben's gwine fur away, an' he hates to leab you" here his voice broke, and press ing his cheek to the shining neck of the noble horse, once more he picked up his bundle and started. Both horses followed him as far as they could and, as far as he could see them, stood watching him. "The ways of man are as inscrutable to a horse as the ways of God are to men." Long afterwards Ben remembered with sad pleasure the parting look of these two friends of his youth. Aunt Lylie sat down and pondered. This was her hardest blow. Do we call it an unnatural [deed? Let us re member this poor, passionate negro Another Victim. 131 had another love, and that, untaught though she was, she had a conscience. What it cost her to exile her boy we may not know, let us not try to guess. Conscience is a costly thing. She had simply laid her love for Ben on the altar of her duty to Dora. Had she failed in this proof of her devotion she could no more have held up her head. The deed was done, the shadows deep ened on her path, but she did not waver. CHAPTER XIII. THE PRICE OF A MAN. The Melton and Ford fire had been adjusted between the firm and the Insurance Company, in which building and stock were insured. In this Roswell Grantley had figured conspicuously, because he held the policies as collateral for loans already past due, and had made it pretty plain that he would not allow further ex tension. Very soon after the fire a lawyer representing the aforesaid company called on Roswell to settle these poli cies, according to an arrangement made between the firm and the com pany. After the business had been transacted, Roswell made sure that no one was listening, and introduced the interesting theme of the origin of the fire. "Would you mind telling me what m The Price of a Man. 133 you think of this fire?" he said, turn ing- from his desk and facing" the lawyer. The lawyer was silent for a mo ment, either from professional habit or from a natural desire to speak cautiously and not hastily, then re plied, "That there was no fraud we have all agreed. If there was ever any doubt on that score, it exists no longer. Then we are shut up to one of two theories, incendiarism or acci dent. I am inclined to the latter, Mr. Grantley. The facts point that way." Roswell received this reply with that expression which means, "I know more than you can tell me," and when he answered it was as one who is confident of his facts. "When you know the facts, you will reverse your opinion. If you will not divulge the source of your infor mation, I will outline these facts to you and put you on the right scent. May I have your promise, Mr. Logan?" "Certainly, what passes between us shall be a professional secret, and I shall thank you for your trouble." 134 ? n White and Black. "Oh, it is no trouble to talk of what interests one. This case interests me, and I fancy I have gone further into it than any other man." Roswell paused with eyes fixed steadily on Mr. Logan's face to see that he had his mind fully. The lawyer was inter ested. "May I take down the facts you propose to give me?" asked Mr. Logan. "I have no objection, if you think they will be useful to you. Besides, I will save you the trouble of asking a question by answering it now: the facts I shall outline can all be proven." "Let us admit there is no direct proof of arson. We must look to the circumstances. These are: The fire began late at night, when there was least likelihood of its being discovered and extinguished; it began in the part most combustible and on the interior, pointing to someone who knew the building and had access to it . If done by an incendiary it must have been for cause. Men do not do such things without a motive." The Price of a Man. 135 "Slowly, please; I wish to be accu rate," said Mr. Logan. Roswell continued more deliber ately: 'There is a man who fulfills all these requirements. This man has not been heard of nor accounted for since the fire. He was seen with some suspicious characters in a low dive the day before the fire occurred. None of these have been about town since the fire. One man was supposed to have perished in the flames. If any one suffered that fate, it was not the man under suspicion, for he left the city that night on foot. Did he have a motive? Several: first, a love af fair, and the sting of rejection; second, he had been discharged from the em ploy of the firm and received notice of it that afternoon; third, he was an adventurer who came into the com munity without character or ante cedents, and there were funds to be had, and valuables to which he had ac cess. You know to whom I refer." There was a pause. The lawyer was deeply impressed. Roswell was In White and Black. waiting- for a reply. It came in the form of a question, "But why did this man fly? Did he not know that would be the means of fixing suspicion on him?" 'The flight was an afterthought/' saidRoswell. "Guilt is panicky. One's shrewdness breaks down under it and 'conscience doth make cowards of us all.' In the event of arrest, I am con fident proof will be forthcoming which would convince a jury of his guilt." "Why have you not interested the firm in this?" asked Mr. Logan. "For the simple reason that I did not wish to be mixed up with it, and then besides there are reasons of a delicate nature why it could not be done. My suggestion would be that your company offer a reward for ar rest sufficient to attract attention, and put men on the lookout all over the land. Such a measure would prove a good investment in deterring men from like crimes. To come at once to the gist of the matter, such is my interest in the case I am willing to The Price of a Man. 137 assist by paying one-half the reward, if it is made large enough." "What would you consider large enough to reach the case?" "No less than one thousand dol lars." "And you will authorize me to say you offer to furnish one -half that amount, if the company I represent will offer the remaining five hundred dollars?" "I do. Only I am not to be known in it to any one but yourself. Do you understand?" "Mr. Grantley,'you have astonished me, both by your detail of facts, and by your unusually liberal offer, and I shall certainly recommend that course to my people." "It is with you and them now, and if they do not choose to meet my offer, I shall give myself no further trouble about the matter." When they parted, Roswell was sure he had carried his point. He had won the aid of a great corporation in crushing his rival. For if Lawrance was never arrested, the price on his 138 In White and Black. head would ruin his reputation. If he were arrested, and not convicted, the very fact of a criminal trial would brand him with infamy enough. CHAPTER XIV. A WAIF AND HIS STORY. Dora was one day called upon by a boy the fashion of whose clothing", the quality of whose manners and the flavor of whose dialect bespoke his citizenship in the great outer world of the homeless. They presented a cu rious contrast, those two, as they stood in the door, he speaking earn estly, she listening; intently. His er rand was one of mercy. In brief, there was a sick boy in a hovel not far away without food or friends or physic. . He had tossed and raved the whole nig~ht about his mother, who was dead. This boy alone had watched by him and done what he could, and had come for her because he could do no more. Would she come with him? There was the accent of sincere pity in the voice and genuine pleading" in the eyes of this child of nature as he plead the ISO 140 In IVhite and Black. cause of his "pal" in quaint speech, that was eloquent to the ears of Dora, because her ears were eloquent with sympathy. Would she go? The reader has already answered for her. She had become accustomed to the noisome air of the alleys, and scenes of wretchedness were familiar to her eyes, for her heart had been schooled to pity, and her feet had learned to follow the feet of the Lowly One. Soon she found herself in a rude shanty, dirty, and destitute of the bar est comforts, the way to which she had found paved with broken bottles, ash- heaps, tin cans, with now and then a still less aesthetic object. In a corner on a scant pallet lay a boy of some thing like a dozen years, burning with fever, and striving to make out with his wild delirious eyes what it all meant, as she knelt by his side. It awoke all the pity of her heart to see him strug gle with the tangled thoughts and con fused images of his fevered brain, un certain whether Dora was his mother come back to him, or a witch blowing hotter the fires in his blood, or an an- A IV aif and His Story. 141 gel come to carry him to his mother. There is that in a gentle woman's touch that is more than medicine, and as Dora's caresses fell soothingly upon his aching brow, and as her voice fell like a caress upon his ear, the rebel lious, distressed nerves began to grow calm and intelligence began to rally. In a short time, by the aid of a simple stimulant, and a little nourishment that Dora had thoughtfully provided, the sufferer was calm and able to talk. By the aid of the other boy, a story was told that is the story of thousands, but none the less pathetic because so often repeated. A drunken father, a patient mother, a helpless child, the grind of a relentless poverty. At length death kindly relieves the mother, but leaves the helpless boy and the brutal father. Then follow hunger, cold, cruelty and life on the streets, with its scramble for bread. Then desertion by the father, which is the first blessing that shows God has not entirely forgotten, then after awhile sickness, which promises death, and that is the second sign that God is in 142 In White and Black. his world; and a third token that he is counted with the sparrows still is the coming 1 of Dora. It was a pitiful story, told in broken, I hesitating- speech, with such pathos in j the big, fever-bright eyes and such ! pleading in the childish tones, that it won from Dora a shower of sympa thetic tears. When the poor boy spoke of his sickness, he said: "I guess I'd been dead ef it hadn't been fur Ned," looking toward the boy who had piloted Dora. "He's give me most all he's arnt fur a week, an' " Here Ned broke in with. "Oh, shet up, Chris, 'tain't nothin'. You'd a'done it fur me," and he walked to the door to hide his tears. 'Tain't ev'ry boy what 'ud give a good-fur-nothin' like me his last crust an' bring him water an' " "What d'ye take me fur," was Ned's impatient interruption, "a rhinoceros ; or a hotmetot? Ain't you g~ot no ' gumption? Anybody 'ud do it, 'an ef you don' stop that gab, I'll quit you an' you can gx> to Ginny." These words were spoken with emphasis, and A Waif and His Story. 143 a quiver of pride amounting almost to indignation, which was only Ned's way of saying in his untaught fashion that he did not wish his good deeds paraded. Here amid squalor and wretchedness, amid ignorance and coarse speech, were the fine, beautiful things of human nature. On one side a sense of gratitude, deep and genuine; on the other, a spirit that could empty itself in noble deeds and then resent open praise with as firm a self-abne gation as ever graced a saint. Rare sweet flowers sometimes bloom in un expected places. Dora saw, with a woman's intuition, that the impress of a good mother had been left upon the sick boy. All the beauty of his soul flamed into view, as he spoke of that one who had watched and protected and shielded and soothed him, till the storm had beat out her life. When he elosed his story, he looked at Dora with grateful eyes, and said, "I wish she could see you kneelin' down here by me." In no other way could so much gratitude be expressed in so few 144 I H White and Black. words; in no other form could so great a reward have been given for this ministry. Who knows what "eyes do behold us, out of eternity's stillness," and what mother benedictions fall on the heads of those who minister to their offspring? Dora left that cabin with a sense of joy in her heart, of a sort she had never before known. For counsel she went to Amelia Bramwell. These two were as twin spirits. They had formed kinship in mutual sorrow and the friendship of earlier days was sub limated and sanctified by suffering. Amelia belongs to nature's true no bility. She was a member of that noble army of heroines who helped to make the annals of her time and sec tion illustrious. The story of their heroism will not be written, who out of the lap of luxury leaped to the side of their conquered brothers of the Southland and joined them in that new struggle in which they were des tined to win such splendid triumphs. We of the South have here and there erected a monument to the memory A Waif and His Story. 145 of those who went to the front and gfave their lives for a cause to them none the less sacred that it was lost; but to her whose devotion and faith sustained them in the field, and whose courage and patience were the impregnable bulwarks of the home while the war-cloud hovered over the land, and who, when peace came to her desolated country, refused to re pine, but whose voice whispered hope and cheer as she put her arm about the bronzed neck of the returned sol dier and turned her smiling face to the future to her we build no monument. It is well. Earth grows no material that can adequately symbolize her heroism, and praise, the most eloquent, is as sounding brass. The lasting achievements of a generation proclaim her worth, and the triumphant chorus of progress is her praise, who cheer fully exchanged her silks for home spun and the drawing-room for the kitchen, but kept still untarnished the crown of queenliest womanhood, and by her sway over the hearts of her In White and Black. chivalrous subjects led them on to wards the new day. Amelia Bramwell was brought up in luxury. At the close of the war she found herself face to face with pov erty. Suddenly the new and unstud ied problem of self-support confronted her with its grim question, "What will you do with me?" She did not hesi tate. Though the problem was com plicated by the needs of a father old and broken in health, she did not waver. By her own exertions she eased the steps of her father to the grave. Then there came into her life another love, then a bitter loss, a dis appointment to which we have al ready been introduced. She could not live for herself, her nature was too fine, her faith too high for that. For bidden to love one, she loved all; robbed of the love of one, she won the gratitude of all. When the even cur rent of a life is turned from the smooth channel it has chosen for itself, it is often that it may deliver its force upon the wheels of progress, or make the desert wastes to burst into bloom. A Waif and His Story. 147 It was so with her of whom we write. The sweetness of her bruised life was set free, and the desolate were made glad by it. Thus the lives of these two had been united in good deeds. They to gether became the friends of the friendless. Through storms of ridi cule they had together marched to the rescue of the waifs of the street. They had gathered them into a night school and were brightening their dark lives with the radiance of wom anly pity. They soon began to dis cover among these outcasts the stuff of which men are made. Kicked and cuffed by society, clubbed and arrested by the police, cursed and beaten by drunken fathers, driven on the streets by poverty to earn a penny where they might, or starve, or steal, they could hardly be expected to grow up beau tiful or wise. There was no beauty in their world until it came to their aston- c. ished vision through the lives of these two; no wisdom spoke to their hearts until it spoke in the mellow, pitying tones of these messengers of Heaven. 148 In White and Black. Robbed of all the tender and affec tionate influences of home, touched only by the hard and forbidding side of society, lured to vice by every voice to which their ears are familiar, and no one to call them back, or speak kindly to them, it is as likely they would grow up to virtuous citizenship as that pineapples should grow and ripen in the regions of perpetual ice. But when the voice of maidenly pity fell on their ears, and the light of a pure Christian character threw its splendor over their lives, something awoke in them that had not been awake before. It was as when Spring with its warmth and song breaks upon the barren earth; the beauty be gan to bloom in their lives. What those two did can be done again. If Christian people saw this world with the eyes of Him of Nazareth, if they touched it with His helpful hands, how beautiful it would grow; but, alas, if while we write our names on the cross, we live in the banquet-hall, if, while we subscribe to the Sermon on A Waif and His Story. 149 the Mount, we live only by the ledger, the world will perish before our eyes and we with it. It is our shame that we can chaffer and trade and dance and drink with indifference while the face of the pitying Christ looks out of His Heaven nay, looks at closer range, on vast multitudes who have never had a fair view of His unveiled beauty. Ned, to whom we have been intro duced, was one of those who had fal len under the influence of Dora and Amelia. It was this that led him to call on Dora for help when he could do no more for his friend. The result of it all was that Chris, the sick boy, was comfortably removed to the house of an old lady who lived alone, and who, for small pay or no pay, was al ways ready to do a turn for her kind. She was a motherly, gentle soul who kept on her own way and lived by quilt ing, sewing, nursing and the like, al ways coming up from her obscurity when there was need for her services. She was known far and wide as "Old 150 In White and Black. Mother Gray." She readily and cheer fully took the poor boy to her humble home and great mother heart to nurse and care for him. CHAPTER XV THE WAIF HAS A SECRET. There was a knock at the door. It was a timid knock, and the door was heavy, but the quick ear of Dora caught the sound and she answered it herself. To her surprise it was Chris. He was pale and perhaps his hesita tion was caused by weakness partly, but more by timidity. Dora's cordial ity reassured him, for she was de lighted that he should come to see her at home. He had recovered rapidly. Mother Gray had yielded her heart to him, and with it a very efficient hand, and Dora had seen that nothing was lacking to promote his recovery. He had entered a new world, a fairy sort of world not that he knew anything of fairies but it was a world so ut terly different from anything he knew that he scarcely recognized himself. While Dora was hiding her blight and 152 In White and Black. sorrow underneath her service to him, she was also overlaying the blight and waste of his life with hope and courage. What further she was doing when she preserved his life she had yet to learn, but her heart was glad with the great gladness of a noble deed, when she looked down into the face of this boy with life creeping back into it, and a new light dawning in the sad eyes washed so bright with tears. He sat on the edge of a chair, his ill- fitting, unpolished shoes pointing their toes at each other in very riot of awk wardness, twirling his worn and soiled cap on his hand. Every tone of Dora's voice was like a caress, and his courage grew in her presence. He managed at length to get his story told; brief, but telling volumes to Dora. "You see, Ned, he tol' me you knowed Mr. Kenyon, whut wintavrpy. The way he found out wuz, he wuz a- fishin' under the bridge one day after the store got burnt and he heerd Mr. Grantley, whut runs the bank, an' the nigger Ben a-talkin' about you an' him an' the fire. Ned told me sence The Waif Has a Secret. 153 I been sick, an' you wuz so good I come to tell you." Dora could hardly wait for him to stammer through his message. He was transformed. He was rapidly be coming a hero. She drew her chair nearer and asked eagerly. "Did you know Mr. Kenyon? What else can you tell me about him?" He went on, quickening his speech under the contagion of her eagerness: "Yes, I knowed 'im. He wuz good to my mother. He kept my pa from hurtin' her one time, and got us help and medicine, an' I liked 'im. The day 'fore the store got burnt I wuz at the bank, cos I had been an errand for one of the young min. I heerd some min talkin'. They called Mr. Kenyon's name and I listened close then. I didn't 'zackly understand, but it seemed like there wuz sumpin' wrong, an' Mr. Kenyon wuz ter be sent away fum the store. When the man cum out I see it was Mr. Ford an' the other was Mr. Grantley. I 'lowed to myse'f I would tell Mr. Kenyon 'bout it, but I never seed 'im 154 In White and Black. to speak to 'im no more. That night when I was goin' by the house where 'e boards, I seed 'im come out an' go down the street. He was changed an' had on ol' clo's an' all that, but I knowed 'im an' I follered 'im, thinkin' I might speak to 'im ef 'e stopped. But 'e nuver stopped 'cep' whin 'e come to this house, then 'e only stopped a minute, an' wint on out o' town. That wus long 'fore the fire, an' 'e ain' nuver been seed in Vandalia sence that. I thought you mought like ter know." Dora enjoined secrecy on him, and testified her gratitude by a caress and a kiss on the pale forehead. He never forgot that hour or that kiss. Mem ory came back to them in many a dreary aftertime as to a fountain of strength and encouragement. Twi light had fallen when he went out. He left Dora with conflicting emo tions in her heart, emotions that grew more turbulent the more she thought on what she had heard. It was news of a coveted sort from a wholly unex pected source. It brought gladness, The Waif Has a Secret. 155 that Lawrance was alive and that there was proof that he left before the fire. It brought sadness, that he was wandering- somewhere, the victim of a plot she could not yet comprehend. It made her indignant almost beyond control that he should be thus imposed on, and what pained almost as much was the fact that he had yielded and had not turned to her. With these emotions, she sought Aunt Lylie. When that faithful old darky entered her room, she found her young mis tress lying on the bed convulsed in a fit of weeping. That did not happen often, but often enough to occasion no alarm to Aunt Lylie, who qui etly sat down and stroked her hair and hands, asking no questions and offering no protests. The fit of weep ing gave place to a troubled sleep, and Aunt Lylie watched through the rest less night of tossing and moans that were ominous of fever. In the morn ing a doctor was called, and pro nounced her case one of serious ner vous derangement. He insisted on absolute quiet and, as soon as possible, 156 In U^hite and Black. change of scene. It was the final re sult of a long" nervous strain, to which was added this new revelation, and she had given way under it- The doctor charged it to her good works, and declared she must give up the Utopian idea that she was called to make all bad boys into good ones, not knowing it was that very thing that had so long sustained her and en abled her to fight off the inevitable. It was two weeks before she could sit up, even in bed, and she had not yet mentioned the subject next her heart, even to Aunt Lylie. Among those who came to inquire, none were more solicitous than the boys who had felt the uplifting touch of Dora and Amelia. There was one in particular who never missed a day with his anx ious face and faltering voice. When he had luck and could afford it, he now and then brought a bunch of flowers. Once he said timidly, as if he were not sure he ought to say it, and yet must say it, "Tell 'er I ai'nt said nothin' an' I ain't a-goin' ter." Faithful Chris, with thy hard life The Waif Has a Secret. 757 and thy rough speech, thine is as knightly a heart as ever beat. When Dora heard that message, she knew whence it came, and a tear trembled in her eye. The new hope in her heart hastened Dora's recovery, even as its sudden coming had caused her sickness. On one Sunday morning .she was sitting in her bed, looking almost as white as the snowy linen that sur rounded her. She was brighter, al most cheerful now. Aunt Lylie had done her best to put everything at its tidiest, and when Aunt Lylie did her best, there was not much margin left, The curtains hung with the right curve, the shutters let in just enough of the summer sun, which fell in two diagonal lines of gold across the car pet. The canary had been brought in and was singing softly from his posi tion in the bay window. A bunch of flowers, this time the combined pur chase of the pennies of "the boys," rested on the marble-topped center- table in a vase supported by a bevy of Cupids in a patch of silver daisies. /5<$* In White and Black. It had been sent up by the hand of Chris, who began to be acknowledged as the rightful agent of all their little attentions. Boys who were counted f among the incorrigibles a few weeks : before, and whose names were still ' fresh on the dishonorable roll of the police court, had clamored for repre sentation in this floral tribute to good ness of 'heart. They were crowning their deliverer, laying their sponta neous offering at the feet of this queen of noble deeds. It was gratifying to Dora, but to Aunt Lylie it was more. It made her radiantly happy to wit ness the evidence of the power her young mistress exercised over the hearts of these young savages. It was to her a new proof of the high qualities she almost idolized herself. Her face was like the morning, when she said to herself, over and over, "I allus knowed dat chile wus er bawn queen.'' This Sunday morning, Dora told ! Aunt Lylie all of what Chris had told her, which she remembered word for word, though everything else in con- The Waif Has a Secret. 759 nection with that evening was vague and shadowy. The old negro listened with breathless attention, only inter rupting now and then to exclaim, "Dat's whut I dun tole yer, honey," and, "Jes' whut I 'spected." In truth, the discovery only confirmed what she had suspected all along. The next keenest pleasure to being able to say, "I did it," is to be able to say "I told you so." Aunt Lylie fell back on the latter. The only drawback to her pleasure in having her opinions con firmed was the fact that another had the honor of finding out and reveal ing the facts. She had some of that pride in her achievements so common to our kind, and was just a little irri tated at being for the once forestalled. Fortunately, she had none of that meanness that made her either dis credit another's service or cherish jealousy of a rival. What was to be done? That was the question of all questions now. If Lawrance could be found, if things could be explained, all might yet be well. But how? Where was he? 160 In White and Black. Aunt Lylie was at her wits' end, but her faith did not forsake her. "I dun tole yer we gwine fin' 'im, an' I ain't gib in. We gittin' more light. De Lawd's leadin' us thoo' de wilderness, an' he gwine keep on leadin' us, twell we reach de promus land. Sumpin in here" (laying her hand on her breast) "keep tellin' me I gwine see yer bofe happy wid dese eyes, den I gwine shet 'um and go long whar Ole Mistiss is." There was something so simple and positive in Aunt Lylie's faith that it had a soothing effect on Dora. To day she entered into it more than usual, and was strengthened. CHAPTER XVI. "LET THE STRICKEN DEER GO WEEP." When Lawrance parted from Dora under the beech on the night of the lawn party, he took his way across the grove, scarcely knowing whither he went. The moon was climbing the eastern heavens and pouring her silver light on the path as he walked. The grove was almost a forest of maples and box-elders and beeches. Moon light in May, a lover among the trees, even alone, is not an inharmonious combination. Since Dora knew his mind all the rest of mankind was a contemptible audience, and the heart of nature alone a fit depository for the delicious secret of his love. Never be fore had he realized such an affinity between the soul and its surroundings; never had nature shown herself so glorious. He felt a strange uplift of soul. The future lay luminous before 1 62 In White and Black. his eyes. Dreams of high things be gan to awake the latent ambition of his heart. There are powers in all men that some voice will awaken, and when that voice speaks they do their best. Woe to him who does not re spond with his might when that which is best in him springs into being. There was only one voice that could arouse the whole noblest manhood that in Lawrance Kenyon had hither to lain dormant, and that was the voice of love. Having heard that voice he was as one who wakes from a dream. What flashes are these that unveil the angel within us, and redeem us, if only for a moment, from the mean and sordid domination of the flesh! Alas, that they can not endure! The brief space spent with Dora on that night had been the birth-hour of Lawrance's nobler self. He had gone to the party with no definite intention except to see Dora, to look upon her beauty, to be near her, as moths get near a candle, perhaps to surfer like them. When he met her under the "Let the Stricken Deer Go Weep" 163 beech, his secret would out. He spoke by instinct, as one cries out when struck. His words were hardly more than heart-throbs. By just so much they were eloquent and also few. Trust a woman to recognize the depths from which language comes. It is this depth which gives more meaning to broken phrases than was ever packed into the fine sentences of the rhetori cian. Dora had said almost nothing, but she had listened with that unmis takable sympathy that can not be simulated, and that says plainly, "I am glad you spoke so." The spoken word is not the highest form of ex pression. There is a language which words can not compass, beside which halting syllables are contemptible. Lawrance had heard that unspoken language and was content. He had not intended leaving the party so abruptly, but had withdrawn to enjoy his exquisite secret alone. Almost unconscious of any purpose, he held on his way into the street. He soon found himself on the bridge, leaning on the railing, looking down 164 In White and Black. at the reflection of the stars in the clear water, listening to its low murmur, and meditating on the excess of happiness that seemed within his grasp. At that moment, Roswell was making his declaration to Dora, and she was speaking those brave words, and keep ing the thought of La wrance in sacred contrast to the man before her. The next day found Lawrance full of the one thought, and with a less steady hope than the night before. The day seemed long and tedious till the hour arrived when he was to see Dora. He was standing at his desk when a letter was put into his hands. It was late in the afternoon. As the reader suspects, he had already re ceived his discharge, and was rankling under the sting of injustice and trying to conjure up some possible excuse for it, for no satisfactory reason had been given him. But this discharge was none the less positive and final. He was in no mood for this second blow about to fall with cruel force. The letter he held in his hand was the "Let the Stricken Deer Go Weefi." 165 curt refusal of Dora to receive a visit from Roswell Grantley. Since the note contained no name, it lent itself readily to fraud. Roswell had mailed it to Lawrance. One could wish as he holds it in his hands that the dumb lines could speak and tell their secret, but alas, that ink should lend itself as readily to falsehood as to truth. He broke the seal, and the first sight of its contents sent the blood from his cheeks and staggered him as a phys ical blow would have done. His bosom heaved like the bosom of one in his death-throes. With his hands he hid his eyes from those terrible lines as one might shut out the sight of his own grave if it yawned before him. Then, steadying himself, he read it through deliberately, every cruel word piercing his heart like a dagger. Then, mechanically closing his ledger, he left the store and went to his room. In such moments one wants to meet the gaze of no human eye. He must be alone, he must think, he must some how choke down this agony. A great 1 66 In White and Black. wall of darkness rose before him. He could see no way through it. He entered his room, laid his arms across each other on the table, and dropped his head on them and grappled with despair. There as the twilight gath ered about him, as if in pity to shroud him with its shadows, was fought one of those Titanic struggles waged on the lone and voiceless stretches of the human soul, in which destinies are made or marred. For this man there seemed nothing for which to fight. All for which he had learned to hope or live had gone from him. He saw no point at which to begin. Dora's note was final, cruelly final. The dis charge he now understood. It was part of the plan to prevent his mar riage with Dora, and the very dregs of the bitter cup were put in by her own hand. It was growing dark when, he arose, and one look at his face would have told he had lost the battle. He was in that frame when men do desperate things. The moral forces were in abeyance. Had he known, had the phantoms taken "Let the Stricken Deer Go Weep" 167 human shape, he would have shown himself cruel and men would have called his cruelty courage. But who could stand against fate, against the universe of darkness? He proceeded to disguise himself by means of his razor and some old clothes he had at hand. The disguise completed to his satisfaction, he sat down again. He must write Dora a farewell letter. His heart was stabbed to the very core. His pride was wounded by the curt tone of her note. He could not understand it. If she must reject him, what need was there she should do it cruelly? It was a contradiction of all he had known or dreamed of Dora's character. He read and re-read the note. There it was, in cold, cruel characters before him, and though his soul bled at the smiting of every word, he could not change it, nor find in it that which was not there. He wrote. Page after page was flung rapidly from his trem bling hand. His very soul seemed to run out in molten thought from his pen. This gave him relief. What 1 68 In White and Black. did he write? No matter. He read it, then tore it, and thrust it into the blazing fire, and the message that would have kindled a flame of light in the heart of Dora shriv eled and hissed and fell into ashes. As Lawrance watched it, he seemed to see a symbol of his hopes, and the fire of his disappointment turn ing them to ashes. After the paper had ceased to burn, and the white ashes broke and fell or flew away, be hold, one word stood out clear and vivid still, as if refusing to yield to the destroyer, and he beheld in the glow ing embers, as defiant as the passion that survived the wreck in his heart, the word "Love." He went out, and went worldward. He paused once, and took one long look at the beech under which his first and only eloquent words had been spoken, then took his weary way southward. How rapidly this all had come to pass! How much the human heart can enjoy or endure in a short time. The soul has no calendar; heart history is not measured by clocks. It "Let the Stricken Deer Go Weefi" 169 seemed to Lawrance an age since this tragedy began. When he turned away from that gate, and bent his steps towards the great world, the most careless observer, had he met him, might have said ever after, "Once I saw the face of despair." His purpose, if he could be said to have one, was to quit Vandalia for ever, to lose himself and his identity, and sever his past as far as might be from his future. As to the practical question of what use there was in such a course, he was not in a mood for asking or answering questions of any sort. For him there was no longer any good to be sought after, only evil to be fled from. Perhaps if his mind could have been sounded there would have been found a vague idea that he could somehow get away from his past by this course he had taken. He had not reflected on the solemn fact that there is no road leading away from self, and that memory defies all distance. He did not know where he should go, only away, anywhere, so it was far. He was as a wounded deer 1 70 In White and Black. trying to flee from the pain and carry ing the pain always with it. He thought of all the ties that bound him to the past, except one, and there was not a spark of regret. When he thought of Dora the only pang of which he was capable shot through his heart. All friendships, all attach ments, all passions, were swallowed up in his love for the fair, sweet girl he had so lately felt was his own. He tried to find consolation for himself in anger. He summoned his pride, his resentment, to stand be tween him and his pain, but one swift vision of the radiant face of Dora, and his defenses gave way before his pitiless grief. Then came the thought of God, and his soul rose up in bitter rebellion. He recalled having struck a boy once, because he held a poor fly struggling on the point of a pin for his amuse ment. Was it possible that the Great God would impale one of His creat ures on a cruel disappointment and watch him writhe in his agony? He had not been wicked nor cruel. He "Let the Stricken Deer Go Weep!' 1 7 / had many a time released a poor struggling moth from the chimney of his lamp. He would always step over a worm in his path rather than crush it. He had often readjusted the nest of the field-mice when dis turbed by his plow. He had broken the sassafras-bushes in the fence- corner to cover the hatching brood of a mother quail when the reapers had wrecked her golden roof. He would not inflict on the vilest wretch, though he were his bitterest enemy, the pain he was now enduring. These were the thoughts that filled his mind as he trudged along through the night. For the first time the horror of doubt laid its chill touch on his spirit. Thus on through the night, the som bre night, the curtain of whose dark ness hides so much sin; the silent, lonely night, whose starry canopy covers so much of unwritten tragedy, this wanderer tramped alone with his pain. He did not keep to the high way, but tramped across fields and woods, always keeping his course southward. 1 12 In White and Black. Daylight found him in a dense wood, seated on a log, weary with his night's long tramp. He had not slept for two nights. The winds had piled the leaves into a friendly heap on the north side of the log on which he sat. He threw himself upon this bed of nature's making, smiling as he thought of occupying so delightful a resting- place without even so much as taking off his boots or saying, "by your leave." His sleep was long and deep. The sun was high in the heavens when he awoke. The woods were full of melody. The breath of grape and alder blooms filled the air. The scene was one of peace. A mischievous squirrel eyed him suspiciously, from the trunk of a large chestnut-tree where he hung, head downwards, bark ing with an energy that communi cated itself by rhythmic movements to the proud tail that lay gracefully along his back. Drumming on a dead stump near by, was a wood pecker, whose fiery head flashed to and fro with amazing rapidity as he "Let the Stricken Deer Go Weep industriously drilled his way into the yielding wood. Far away, the liquid notes of a brown thrush came, mellow, clear, far-floating, and with that oily softness that belongs to no other earthly sound. As Lawrance list ened, the notes seemed to come from farther and farther, as if out of the bosom of a limitless forest, and the singer seemed to gather up and ex press the message of all the silent waste of woods, as if every leaf and flower and gurgling stream spoke through one throat, and every bird had whispered its loves and griefs into that one song. Rousing himself from his revery, Lawrance determined to follow the song and find its author, and struck boldly out for a long walk. He had not gone twenty paces, when the song suddenly broke off, and at the next step, the startled musician flut tered out from the thick foliage, al most in reach of his arm. While laughing at himself for allowing this wizard of the forest to play such a prank with his sense of distance, he 174 In White and Black. heard another sound and, looking down, saw at his feet a sparkling; spring-, breaking- forth from the rocks and laug-hing- itself into mimic cata- racts and rapids, as it began its long; , journey to the sea. Then it dawned { on him that he was thirsty, very thirsty, and throwing himself on his face, he drank from Nature's full tankard. When he arose he be thought himself he was hungry, and taking from his pocket some cheese and crackers which he had provided, ate and was refreshed, and there came to him a temporary sense of peace. He who fled from the companionship of men found diversion in the fellow ship of the happy creatures of the woods. He now began to ask himself what he should do. The world is wide. One must choose on what part of its broad surface he will dwell. He soon made up his mind to push on to the South, : maintaining his disguise. There was ' some diversion in the thought of tramping, and he determined to ad- "Let the Stricken Deer Go Weep!' 775 here to that mode of travel for the present. Having settled this point, he struck off at a gait that by the code of trampdom was altogether non- professional. CHAPTER XVIL A PEEP AT TRAMPDOM. The modern tramp is a curious prod uct. The further civilization pro gresses, the faster his tribe multiplies, and the more distinct his kind be comes. He is a sort of cast-off chip from the great workshop of progress. The higher the civilization, the fiercer the competition, and the more careful the selection. It requires an increas ing number of good qualities to meet the demands of modern times, and to maintain a place in its ranks. In a savage state, animal strength wins the crown. Reach of spear and blow of bludgeon make one chief. Later the result hinges on the mind, when keenness of intellect wins over strength of muscle. Then comes the stage where character is dominant, and the noble attributes of the moral nature are the kingly qualities. Then sue- in A Peep at Trampdom. 777 cess is dependent not alone on what one can do or on what one knows, but also on what he is. This stage, in perfection, is the "Kingdom of Heaven," in which he that is least is greater by the new standard than are they that were greatest by the old. Into it we have not fully en tered, but are entering, and the va grant is here. He is not so much the product as the refuse of this stage. He is the waste timber thrown aside for lack of fitness. He has lost step with the procession, either for lack of will or lack of conscience; maybe, now and then, for lack of pride. He is not so much a criminal as a failure. He is the barbarian of civilized life. He follows the line of least resistance, choosing to drift rather than row. His existence is not only curious, but pathetic. He lives in a distinct world, the world of trampdom. His way lies apart from the busy, bustling world of thrift and enterprise, in a world without homes, without loves, without marriage, without history, without hope. Without homes, for 1 7 8 In White and Black. the tramp's home is everywhere and nowhere; without laws, for he acknowl edges no king, pays no taxes, votes only by fraud, and is patriotic for bread; it is a world without marriage, for women do not tramp, and the very smile and prattle of childhood would render the life impossible; without history, for it achieves nothing, leaves no monuments along its journey, the only sign of its passing being a track on the highway, some charred frag ments in the fence-corners, and now and then a chalk-mark on a wall; without hope, for always to-morrow must be as to-day, only the novelty of change without progress. There are no fortunes to improve, no plans to pursue, no budding purposes to burst into bloom. The theory of the tramp is that the world owes him a living. It does not enter into his calculations that he owes the world as much as the world owes him; that on his theory, the whole business would go bankrupt for lack of somebody to pay. It is not part of his reckoning that one must A Peep at Tramfidom. eat bread by the sweat of his own brow, or by the sweat of some other man's brow by toil or robbery. Was not the quaint old Russian right when he laid it down as Heaven's first law that every man should be a producer? Not necessarily of corn or cabbage or shoes, but of a poem or a hoe-handle, a steam-engine or a cotton-bale, a constitution or a corn-cake. Failing in this, he is cast overboard as a cum bersome weight, eliminated by society. He is incompetent. Whether he wears jeans or broadcloth is all one. Whether voluntarily or involuntarily incompetent is another matter. For the latter, society has her asylums and hospitals; for the former the high way. The tramp is something of an artist. It is a marvel of the mind that it will not rest; thought will play about every thing it touches. A tramp learns how to ply his calling. These knights of the highway have a standard of artis tic excellence among their cult. A tramp has been known to win the ad miration of his fellows because he se- iSo In White and Black. cured a smoking breakfast and a chap ter of good advice, where half a dozen others had been compelled to beat an ignominious retreat. Lawrance had not adopted the tramp life, except for concealment. He would as soon have thought of suicide as of being a vagrant, and his nature was too healthy for either. He had some money. He always paid where it was allowed, and his pride made it hard to refuse his cash. He saw the good and bad side of human character. He met kindness in unex pected quarters, and heartlessness where he expected generosity. Lilies often grow in marshes, ragweeds in flower-gardens. He soon began to realize how large a part of the beautiful and good in the world strikes its roots in sorrow. He began to see how the plowshare of dis appointment turns the noble soil of the human heart and smothers the growth of weeds. He found himself being drawn into fellowship with those who suffer. He began to feel a deepening sense of brotherhood towards all the A Peep at Tramfidom. 181 unfortunate. He was no longer a being apart whose own sufferings were everything, but he was a fraction of the broad brotherhood "that groan- eth and travaileth in pain." This was a sign of a healthy reaction. He be gan to think, and thinking is a whole some process. His interest in life be gan to come back to him. Did his lost faith return? No, he was not con scious of any religious emotion. But who shall say where the germ of faith begins to awake? Who will tell us by what far-off thoughts the Mighty One begins his approach to the heart, and by what circuits he marches his silent cordons? Rather, what is there in thought or feeling that may not be a gateway for the Spirit? Lawrance began to feel again some thing of the strange sense of power that dawned on him on that moonlit, love-lit first of May. That sudden birth of his better self was no tempo rary emotion. There are heights from which we never descend except it be to utter ruin. As the sun's ray paints on the sensitized glass the image that 182 In White and Black. may be overlaid or remain long 1 unde veloped, so on the sensitive spirit a swift vision smites in some sudden light, and the years may overlay the impress with their rubbish, but it will come forth in its beauty in other days. The dreams of youth may slumber long, and the dead leaves of struggle and disappointment may hide them from view, but if the soul be true, they will come to life in the years when the will is strong to make them splendidly real. That process of self-revelation, begun in the high light of a sudden joy, was being perfected in the fires of trial. Lawrance had found himself on that fateful night, and while now he lacked the thrill of hope that then gave emphasis to the discovery, he began to realize it was no tantalizing 1 vision, but the discovery of a perma nent power. He was lying by the roadside, listen ing to the many-voiced psalm of nature. He thought of Dora with pain that knew no abatement; of his own weak and unmanly action with shame and humiliation; of his brief experi- A Peep at Trampdom. 183 ence in this new life of a tramp with astonishment at himself and at the life; he thought of his mother, and a long, sweet train of memories rushed upon him, while he wondered what she would sayof him now ; he thought of his future and began to ask himself what it should be. This was the first time he had thought seriously of the future since the crushing blow fell. Now that fairyland of hope loomed up be fore him and the strength of his youth began to stir within him. Slowly the man in him arose and climbed the rubbish heap of weakness and disap pointment under which it had been buried, caught a glimpse of the sky, breathed the healthful atmosphere, felt once more the touch of an invisi ble hand, then it was that the poten tial "7wz7/"was uttered, and he faced toward victory. He sat up, looked about him with a new light in his eye, then, feeling the impulse of movement, rose to his feet and hurried onwards. Had he for gotten, was his heart weaned from Dora? No, no. Dora, the dead joy, 184 In White and Black. the tragedy of his life, was there buried in his heart, but nature was beginning- to heal and hide the scar. Is it nature? Is that the name of that mysterious power that guides our thoughts through the mazes of stumbling indecision till we stand in the highway of purpose? Lawrance put that thought from him. He felt a desire for companionship. This was new to him. Since his exile, he had preferred to be alone; now he felt that he should like to commune with his kind. It was the reviving sense of the kinship that binds the race to gether. A mile from this point he passed a farm-house. As he passed, a man came out at the gate. A single glance told Lawrance he was a tramp. An hour before he would have shunned him, but now he was glad to see him. He could not share the spirit of comradeship with which the man greeted him, for there was still that barrier that consciously sep arates the man of purpose and pride from those who have lost both. It A Peep at Trampdom. 185 was the true caste sign, the sign of a moral distinction. There can be per fect congeniality between the ignorant and the learned, between the rich and the poor, between the high-born and the low-born, for the lines of separa-. tion here are more or less superficial, and altogether artificial, but the dis tinction that exists in character is real, God-implanted. But there are no barriers that shut out sympathy and helpfulness. Lawrance entered into fellowship with this man on that score, and soon gathered his history as they journeyed together, so like in outward seeming, so different in reality. It in terested him. He found more in com mon between himself and this ruined man than he expected. There were many traces of what might have been a noble nature. Lawrance was as one who walks on the silent streets of an exhumed city. It is ruined, dead, but on every hand the eye sees the re mains of what was once human life, with all its fulness and beauty. So in this man, who had surrendered hope, 186 In White and Black. and allowed his manhood to perish, there were the lingering remains of what might have been noble. When night came, and hunger and weariness with it, these two pedes trians were fortunate enough to secure a supper, and later a bed in the sweet- smelling clover hay that lay heaped in the open field. Lawrance lay look ing at the stars and communing with the vast silence till he almost enjoyed peace once more. Under that peace ful blue, decorated with those lamps of the night, it seemed to him any man ought to be happy. The very cattle lay asleep about him, and the pungent scent of the clover was in his nostrils. Now and then the voice of a night-bird broke the stillness, and the bats with restless wings circled above him. These all seemed to him syllables in a great hymn of praise that even night could not altogether silence. It was as if night, like a giant bird, had spread her wings and shut in her brood of living things and hushed their voices into silence only one here and there broke away A Peep at Trampdom. 187 in very excess of gladness. The stream that a hundred feet away rip pled its sheen of silver, and crooned its song between undulant stretches of clover, spoke the message of peace and courage it had once spoken to those who lay in the family grave yard not far away, where the modest, white tombstones spoke truth in the starlight, whatever they might speak in the day, for they were saying, "It must all end here." At last he slept, and sleep conquered the bitterness of his heart and made him the equal of a prince and his cloyer-rick a couch of down. He woke to the rattle of a bell, a cow-bell, whose wearer had felt the dawn in her blood and had arisen to meet the on coming hosts of the busy day. The east began to blush, and the bare edge of the sapphire crown of morn ing showed above the hills. Lawrance rose, went to the branch and bathed his face and drank of the limpid water. He returned to meet the stern reproof of his fellow traveler, who solemnly declared that a morn- 188 In W T hite and Black. ing bath brought bad luck all day, and that they might as well prepare to go hungry that day. They began their journey at once, for in this tramp life it is the rolling stone that gathers moss. They must at least find some thing to eat, and not where they found supper, for a tramp's welcome is easily worn out. It was not long till they spied a farm-house showing white through the trees by which it was surrounded, and wearing, as they neared it, that indescribable air of welcome that is characterized by a smiling exterior, where the spirit of neighborliness has come outdoors and robed itself in a beauty for any eye that is hungry for it. The smoke was curling from the chimney of the kitchen, and the shrill treble of the negro cook drifted out to them: "I's altnos' home, I's almos' home, I's almos' home, Fur ter ring-a dem cha'min' bells." The sun was already up now and all nature was astir. A gentleman came out on the front piazza as our travelers entered the yard. Lawrance, A Peep at Trampdom. 189 being new at the business and, fur thermore, desirous of studying the methods of the tribe, waited for his companion to make the advances. This he did in the most approved fashion. They had, he stated, had the misfortune to lose their jobs, had both been sick, and were making their way further South where their people were, and would he be so kind as to give them so much as a crust. The host surveyed the speaker with more interest than sympathy, and when he had finished speaking, laid a hand on his shoulder, and turned him almost about face, then after a moment's scrutiny, laid the other hand on the other shoulder, and lifting his foot, as he stood above the tramp, sent him sprawling on hands and knees in the grass. This was done a great deal more quickly than it takes to tell it, and almost before Lawrance had time to wonder at it; then as the much-sur prised tramp gathered himself up, the irate host exclaimed, "Rube Lacey, take yourself out of my yard, or I will give my bull-dog a taste of your I go In White and Black. worthless carcass, and don't you dare show your face here again. Begone!" This was spoken in a tone that clearly meant no trifling. Rube was off with- ? out parley, and Lawrance was turning ; to follow, wondering what it all meant, when the stranger laid a hand on his shoulder with a friendly touch, and in his ear an altered voice said, "Stay a short while and you shall have your breakfast." A man so situated does not need two invitations, nor much time tO N decide, and Lawrance was soon seated on the piazza and having his curiosity gratified as to the mean ing of what he had just witnessed. "You were surprised at my treat ment of that pesky fellow. That ar gues you do not know him. I do. I commanded a company of Ohio vol unteers during the war. That man was in it. He is a vagabond by nature. He is an arrant cowaixL He could not be induced to fight. The only '. wound he ever got was in the back of his neck. That was at Chickamauga. My men fought like tigers. Rube was found on the field wounded, bat he A Peefi at Trampdom. was wounded in the back. I will not feed a man who was shot in the back. The brave men of the South who faced us, and helped us put into his tory a record of courage such as the world never saw, can get a piece of the last crust I possess, but one who wore the blue and dishonored it as that man did may starve, for my part. He did not know me, and is no doubt wondering now why I treated him so roughly. But when I heard his voice, by that strange law of association which is so mysterious a power in our make-up, that whole battle came up before me, and amid the smoke and the roar, the faces of the brave boys who followed me into that fight, but never followed me out, even to the hospital (for I went there desperately wounded), looked out of that terrible past. I could not quite think who he could be, but it dawned on me at length, and when I turned him so I could see his dirty neck, the mark of his infamy told the story. I do not wonder he is a tramp. A man who will shirk duty and earn disgrace 192 In White and Black. as a soldier will fly in the face of life's difficulties. A man who tramps is a cowardly deserter. He has simply met some difficulty in life and lacked the daring to face it out, and having- once begun to run has found himself incapable of rallying. From your manner I judge you have not run very far, and my advice is that you make a stand now." At this point breakfast was an nounced, and Lawrance was thought ful while he ate. When he started on his journey, he did not leave the influence of that chance meeting be hind him. Over and over it kept re curring to him that perhaps he was the coward that fled rather than fight or endure. There came back to him those lines of Lord Lytton's that over and over kept time to his tramping and seemed a sort of comment on the re mark of the captain, "A man who tramps is a cowardly deserter." He was no tramp but he felt now the shame and infamy of a deserter, and kept repeating: A Peep at Tramfidom. 193 "Let any man once show the world that he feels Afraid of its bark, and 'twill fly at his heels; Let him fearlessly face it, 'twill leave him alone; But 'twill fawn at his feet if he fling it a bone." His new resolve now began to take shape, and before the day closed it had become a definite purpose. Next to the confidence and conscience for achievement is the intelligent ques tion, "What?" Lawrance had taken the first step as he lay resting by the roadside; he now took the second, and the light widened before his eyes. He would make a study of life among the vagrant and outcast on its own ground and from the vantage of its own ranks. This came to him like an inspiration. From that moment it became a con suming enthusiasm. He was no longer a defeated, aimless man, but a student, a man with a purpose. From that day, with open eyes, mind alert, and sympathies keenly alive, he moved in the great curious, pathetic under world, where men struggle without sympathy and sin without light. He became fascinated by the study, and as he drew closer to the heart of hu- I H White and Black. manity, he began to hear more clearly the unsyllabled wail of the disap pointed and defeated, and conceived a passionate longing to voice it to the world. CHAPTER XVIIL A HOME-THRUST. Dora had well-nigh become accus tomed to surprises, but she had not exhausted the catalogue. A new one came one afternoon, some weeks after she had heard the truth from Chris, in the shape of a note from Roswell Grantley. It read as follows: "Miss MELTON: If you will allow me to see you this evening 1 , I have something to say that may interest you. Should you grant this favor, you will win my gratitude, and you may have reason to be glad for your own sake. Should you refuse, I fear we shall both regret it "With lasting regards, "ROSWELL GRANTLEY." It was business-like, she thought, and just his way to make it appear no more important to him than to her. But it must be allowed that it was adroit. Who could guess what he 193 ig6 In White and Black. might have to communicate? Per haps she might learn something that lay near her heart. Besides this, she would have an opportunity to say some things to him she wanted to say. She choked down the indigna tion she felt at his effrontery and an swered in the affirmative. Roswell was both patient and per sistent. He had bided his time. He had made no approaches since Dora so firmly refused to entertain his suit. Now he hoped his opportunity had come. Her hope of Lawrance Ken- yon's return was doubtless feeble, and she must now be thoroughly convinced of his unworthiness. Melton and Ford had not been able to resume business after the fire. They had done a large credit busi ness. Farmers and planters had to begin under hard conditions after the war. They were without fences, for these had been burned. They were without stock, for these had been car ried off by one side or the other. The negroes were free, and with freedom came idleness and vice. Many a sol- A Home-Thrust. 797 dier donned the gray and went to the front, leaving a farm in a high state of cultivation, and returned to find everything in ashes and his fields overgrown with weeds. These vet erans exchanged the soldier's gray for the citizen's homespun, and faced the future with a heavy heart and an empty purse. That battle with unac customed poverty required more cour age than to face the guns at Bull Run or lead an assault at Fredericks- burg. This battle was often to be fought with a broken constitution, an armless sleeve, and taxes instead of a pension. There was not much help, save here and there a faithful servant who had stood by "ole mistiss" through the dark days and kept the wolf at bay while master fought at the front, thus making a record of noble fidelity adequately kept only on high. Yes, there was one other who prayed and waited beneath the shadow of the war-cloud and, when the sun of peace shone again, welcomed the new strug gle of toil and self-denial with a cour age as dauntless as that exhibited by ig8 In White and Black. the soldiers of either side of the late struggle the wife and mother of the Confederacy. There was yet another helper the merchant who lent credit that these men might begin. It was here that Melton and Ford took their places in this fierce conflict with the new conditions and fought with their money and financial skill. Many a hearthstone was lit with cheer, and many a plantation took on life and hope, because they trusted landlord and soil. Their accounts could not be paid the first year, only in part, nor yet the second, and they were now in the third, which bid fair to make things easy, and they were straining their resources to the last degree to carry their customers till crops were made, when the fire came. In order to carry out this purpose and have an opportunity for collecting arrearages, they must reopen their business. But how? They must borrow. They did business with the Grantley bank. They were bound up with that. It was the only chance. When Ros- well was applied to, he coolly shook his A Home-Thrust. 199 head. The times were too uncertain, the risk was too great. In vain Mr. Melton plead the needs of the plant ers and the difficulty they would have in making- new contracts for supplies. In vain did he offer almost unlimited collateral. All the past friendships and favors counted for nothing. Ros- well only remembered his reception when urging his suit for Dora's hand, and now he was avenged for that. He even gave a hint, as delicate as such a hint could be, that if things had gone differently in that affair and the heart of the righteous old man burned, not more with indignation than with disappointment, that the son of his dead friend could so de grade the name. Promptly at the appointed time Roswell entered the Melton mansion, ushered in by Aunt Lylie, who made an effort to be civil, but only succeeded in being stiff. Dora appeared, calm and collected, her eyes rather brighter, as they were certainly larger, than before her sick ness. There was a chastened expres- 200 In White and Black. sion that gave to the formerly bright, girlish face a new dignity. The loss of flesh and color was more than com pensated by the new light of womanly grace that shone out, and a beholder might almost imagine that the soul had become impatient of the flesh and had made the veil thin that the inner light might the more easily shine through. Roswell started a little when he saw this new Dora. He was already agitated and a trifle uncertain how to proceed. He had hoped to see in Dora some sign that she was hum bled, but the haughty air with which she received him was anything but re assuring. He had come to assume the role of condescension, but instead he found himself looked down upon and a suppliant for the grace of a word from those queenly lips. Her manner piqued him and that was a relief. Even anger is a cure for awkwardness, if it does not go too far. He arose when she entered and would have ex tended his hand, but she bowed, and said simply, "Pray be seated." A Home-Thrust. 201 He said after a. moment's silence, a very brief moment, but it seemed long because it was awkward: "I am happy to find you looking so well after your severe illness. I trust you are yourself again." "I suppose," she said, "I ought to say I am grateful for the interest you take in my welfare." He saw that conciliation was neces sary. The frigidity of her manner chilled him. "Miss Dora, it was my earnest hope that in this, our first meeting for a long time, and perhaps our last for all time, you would exchange your prejudice against me for a more judicial temper. You will believe me when I say that I did not hope for much, but I foresee that the little I did hope for is to be lost to both of us by the attitude you have assumed." She replied with calm dignity : ''That I have assumed any attitude is pure presumption. As to the perma nent and fixed attitude of my mind, I am incapable of laying that aside for 202 In White and Black. an occasion. I dare not act a part, even for the price of your favor for an hour. I believe that it is not my worst fault that I have failed to learn that art by which one makes protean transformations to suit the fancy of the hour." "Excuse me if I say I admire your candor more than your sense of jus tice. Granted you are the judge on the bench, and I the accused at the bar, does it follow that all testimony is to be shut off and sentence pro nounced because, forsooth, the judge thinks it likely the prisoner is guilty? What I meant by my remark was simply that by your manner of resent ment you would render unprofitable, if not impossible, the communications I came to make." "Oh," said she, "if it is my manner of which you speak, I own to having given very little attention to that. Nature is always sincere. I am afraid stud ied manners are often the guise of hypocrisy, and I hate that. As to the legal allusion, I know littk of A Home-Thrust. 203 such things but I can not conceive the propriety of reopening" a case at every request of the criminal." "It grieves me much to find you dis posed to trifle. I am not in a mood for such things. I am afraid my visit is to prove in vain." She replied in a tone firmer than she had yet employed: "When I permitted you to call, I made up my mind to hear you to the end, and that you asked the privilege was to me proof that you were willing to take the consequences. I do not wish to be harsh, but candor compels me to confess it is impossible for me to meet you on the plane of simple confidence." After a moment's silence, he said in a subdued voice: "This is unkind, but perhaps I have deserved it. If I were as guilty as you think me, even the penalty of your scorn would be too slight. If to be self-deceived be an unpardonable crime, then I have no pleas to offer. And what is past pardon is also past remedy." 204 I n White and Black. "The remedy is easy marry the woman you have so wronged," said Dora; then after a pause, and in a changed tone, "But you are right, it is past remedy for you both." "To marry where the heart does not consent is a blunder still more fatal and equally beyond remedy. And if we discovered our mistake be fore it was too late and agreed to drop the affair, was not that the wiser course?" "To be sure, you dropped the heart of which you had made a toy while it pleased you, and she accepted the situation, as any self-respecting wo man would have done. She has not sued for breach of promise, nor pub lished her grief from the housetop, and so you think people ought to be satisfied. You have doubtless heard of the quarrel between the wolf and the lamb. It was mostly on one side, but nevertheless the unoffending lamb was eaten, and I have never heard that it gained much sympathy by complaining, or that the wolf died of a broken heart." A Home-Thrust. 205 M I see," he replied, "that I must leave to time and soberer judgment the righting of your mind on that score. I trust you will at least credit me when I assure you of my lasting regard for you and of my earnest desire to be a friend to you. If I might claim that, if I could be trusted and thought of as I used to be, it is in my power to render a service to you and yours that lies very near to your heart and still nearer to the heart of your father." Dora was surprised, she was indig nant. The effort at self-control made her voice tremble like a cord when it is strained almost to breaking, as she said, "You ought to have learned by this time that my noble father does not stoop to dishonor, and that I will neither barter my love nor my friend ship." "You persist in misinterpreting my words," he said, hastily. "I only meant to say if things had been as of old it would have been a pleasure to me to " He could not see his way to go forward; in fact, he felt he had 206 In White and Black. gone too far already, and heartily wished he could retreat; but alas, while steps may be retraced, words once out are out forever. "Mr. Grantley," she replied, taking- , advantage of his pause, "I must inform \ you once for all that such hints are for the market-place, and not for the more sacred affairs of life. There are some things my father and I hold dearer than gold." Cut to the heart, convinced beyond all doubt that further words were use less, and feeling that he would be more comfortable out of this situation, he said with an air of wounded dig nity: "Miss Melton, it is clear we can not understand each other. I regret ex ceedingly that I have so long diverted your thoughts from the knight-errant whose image you no doubt cherish tenderly in his absence, and who will ; doubtless return to you at his good \ pleasure." There was no mistaking the cold irony, the cruel sarcasm, of these last words. Into them he threw all the sardonic bitterness of disap- A Home-Thrust. 20? pointment, all the accumulated resent ment of jealousy and wounded pride, that were rankling 1 in his heart. There was no need any longer for seeming, no hope in diplomacy. He arose to retire. With a quiet, but commanding voice, Dora said, "Do not be in a hurry to be gone. That my company is not the most agreeable to you, I can easily imagine, but before you go, allow me to direct the conversation for a few minutes." He settled him self to listen, saying simply, "As you will." "I wish to tell you of a very charm ing story I have been reading," she proceeded. "There are two suitors, or one lover and a suitor. The lover is true, generous, and passionate in nature. The suitor is a man with more shrewdness than conscience, selfish and heartless. The lover is poor and humble, the suitor proud and rich. The suitor is refused. Then, in order to baffle his rival, he perpetrates an infamous fraud and contrives to send the disappointed lover an exile 208 In White and Black. into the world, and leaves a blighted life behind him. Then the deceiver busies himself to blight the good name and even destroy the liberty of the absent lover, and dares to seek the confidence of the woman's heart that he has crushed by his perfidy." Her voice grew in force and fulness as she proceeded, and when she closed it was with a passionate climax through which the tragedy of her heart poured its agony. She was gaz ing straight at Roswell with a look that not only saw but burnt. There are times when the eye is a lash of scorpions. Dora's eyes not only ac cused, they pleaded, they questioned, they probed the conscience. She had spoken more than she knew, but less than the whole truth. He dared not deny. Roswell could not conceal his dis comfiture. He sat as one spellbound. The color faded from cheek and lip. He clutched his hands till his nails pierced the palms. He would gladly have hid his eyes and stopped his ears, but instead he gazed straight at A Home-Thrust. 209 Dora and listened to every syllable. When she ceased speaking-, his breath ing could be heard. He sat in her presence as a felon sits in the presence of the judge who condemns him. In husky, hesitating tones he at last spoke: "Pardon me if I can not compre hend your meaning." "Pardon me," said she, "if I still be lieve you can not fail to comprehend; guilt is not so forgetful." "My God, Dora, spare me! Who told you? or, rather, what but, you know, then?" He had risen as if to flee, but dropped heavily into his seat. "Mr. Grantley, you have tried to think me hard and unreasonable, even wanting in courtesy to a visitor. Now you understand. When I saw before me the man who had destroyed my own happiness and filled the life of one of God's noblemen with bitter ness, do you wonder that my heart did not warm to him and that I could not exchange with him pleasant speeches and accept smilingly his gracious advances? Listen to me, 2i o In White and Black. Roswell Grantley," and her voice grew tender and lost all trace of harshness, "we have both suffered, or, at least, I have, and you will, for 'the way of the transgressor is hard.' To add to your suffering would in no sense assuage mine. I have no desire for revenge. I have learned a better way. I shall not reveal this except for the protec tion of those I love. There was one who said, 'Do good to them that de- spitefully use you.' He is my judge that from my heart I pity you, for the sufferings of your victims are not to be compared to the agony of a guilty conscience and the curse of God. These are your heritage. If I have given you pain, it was intended to bring you to see your guilt, the depth of which I did not believe you realized. And now that we understand each other, adieu. No; do not ask my par don you are forgiven only ask par don at the Cross." These words, spoken in a low, tender, solemn voice, full of pity and pleading, were to Ros well like the voice of the Eternal, and he was awed into silence. D ora turned A Home-Thrust. 211 from him, and as she turned he caught sight of a tear on her cheek. He went out with a new feeling 1 in his heart There are influences that re veal us to ourselves as by a flash of that "light that never was on sea or land," and we are nevermore the same as we were. CHAPTER XIX. AS REVEALED BY TYPE AND TONGUE. A group of men are gathered around a slight blaze under the bank of the "Father of Waters." Above them is a starlit sky. The subdued mur mur of the great river bears ac companiment to their speech and laughter. At their backs is the hum and bustle of the city of New Orleans, not yet asleep. Reflected in the danc ing waters are the lights from boats along the shore. These men are seated on chunks of driftwood, broken casks picked up on the wharf and greasy packs they have been carrying. Two or three lie prone upon the ground, as if tired from their day's travel, for these men do not work, they only tramp. One sits a little apart, gazing out across the river with a thoughtful, preoccupied expression. He does not Seem to hear what is going on, but a aia Revealed by Type and Tongue. 213 more careful observation shows us he is giving the closest attention. As he sits there in the starlight, clad as the rest, and with that weary look on his face like the rest, a casual observer would see no difference, but there is something about this man's face, some thing in that meditative air, that seems to betray a mind divided be tween the thoughts of the present and the memories of the past. He holds in his hand a notebook, in which now and then he furtively makes an entry. Not so furtively, however, but that he is observed by the keen eyes of one of his companions, who breaks in on the hilarities with: "Hello, pards, what sort of a rooster is this? Is he a spy on the hunt for game, or a star-gazer, or a poet writin' sonnets to his Mary Ann?" "Say, my honey," said another, speaking to Lawrance (for it was none other), "we don't 'low no books nor none o' that sort o' truck in this 'ere club-room. It's ag'in the regerla- tions." There was much more of sim ilar sort, in which the terms "tender- 2i 4 In IV kite and Black. foot," "infant," "mamma's darling-," "greeny," and the like, were used as a tribute to the bookish man. A rather pale, spare young man, who sometimes coughed, said something 1 in a low tone, which Lawrance did not hear, and the raillery ceased. Let any half dozen men come to gether for only a few hours, and one of them will develop into a leader whose leadership will soon come to be acknowledged. What is that strange something in one man which others respect and follow? A mob will find its head, even as a repub lic selects its leader. This feeble young man, who rarely spoke, evidently en joyed the distinction of leadership in this strange group. His word was law. Did they quarrel, he pacified them. Were they boisterous, he quelled them. There is that in some personalities, which, whether they will or not, commands men. To detail the conversation of that eventful evening would be to start some of the most profound questions to which men have ever addressed Revealed by Type and Tongue. 215 themselves. It would introduce us to social questions from an entirely new standpoint, and, it maybe, a wiser one, for we devote our time too much to considering- what ought to be and not enough to considering what is. The first entry in Lawrance's note book was, "These are men." Surely a fine starting'-point and, shall we not say, a rather novel one. They are viewed habitually as tramps, "the un employed," "the submerged tenth," or the "criminal class" not as men, the only true starting'-point. Sitting 1 there with the fitful firelight on their grim, forbidding 1 faces, smoking, swearing, jesting coarsely at most sacred things, in seeming league with darkness and chaos, one is tempted to think of these men as belonging to a race by them selves. Yet they had mothers and a home, or what was called one; they cherished the dreams of childhood; they have had their loves and their hatreds; their joys, mostly behind them, and their sorrows, which they wear easily. There are sentences on which their voices falter with pathos si6 In White and Black. and thoughts that make their speech quiver with indignation. All is not dead in them; they are men. At length, a broad-shouldered man of forbidding face, who called himself "Shocky," a name evidently sug gested by the abundance of grizzly, reddish hair that hung or rather spread out around his shoulders, took from his pocket a worn newspaper and began to unfold it carefully. This drew attention his way. He said, re ferring to the book episode: "Ef you don't want any books around, maybe you fellers could stomach a hair-liftin' story from raal life. You've been a spoutin' yer yarns here, and I made up my mind yer in yer A B C's in the business. You've been in some tight places, but not a blamed galoot among you ever got cremated and then read yer own 'bit- uary in the papers. But here's one what has;" and he handed the paper to the slim young man, saying, "Jist you read that, pard." The young man took the paper and read aloud an ac- Revealed by Type and Tongue. 217 count of the fire that destroyed Mel ton and Ford's store, and of the man supposed to have been burned. When he read the name of the paper, The Vandalia Herald, May 3, 1868, Lawrance visibly started, and as the reading proceeded, his face was piti ful to behold. He struggled to appear indifferent, but how could he? It was the first time he had heard of the fire. He had avoided newspapers, and so knew nothing till now. And it had occurred on the very night he left Vandalia! A fearful dread began to settle upon him. His agitation es caped the notice of all save one, and that was the reader. At the conclusion of the reading, Shocky exclaimed, "Pardners of mis ery, I'm the chap that stole that ride on 'Lija's chariot. I'm the poor un fortunate that got cremated an' no funeral charges. Can you beat that?" This remark was greeted with various and sundry ejaculations, untranslata ble into plain English, supposed to contain wit entirely adequate to the 218 In White and Black. situation, and adapted to the case of a man who, so to speak, attended his own funeral. Then drawing another paper from his pocket, he handed that with an air of triumph to the same one. It was dated May 4th, and contained the following: "MORE ABOUT THE FIRE. "The burning of Melton and Ford's store on the night of the second has been the subject of much comment. This comment has been spiced with speculation, both as to how the fire occurred and the identity of the man who lost his life in the flames. It is believed by many that the building was set on fire. There had been no fire about the building during the day or night, nor in any place near the building. It must have been the work of an incendiary, and suspicion points to an employee, who has never before been suspected of any wrong. Rumor has it that an affair of the heart, which for the sake of all concerned we will not mention in detail, incited him to Revealed by Type and Tongue. the deed, and that it was done purely for revenge. There were no indica tions of burglary, or other assignable reason than the one hinted at above why he should have committed the deed. Weight is given to this theory by the fact that this young man dis appeared the night of the fire and has not been heard of since, and no one knows anything whatever of his whereabouts. "No clue has yet been found as to who the man was who perished in the flames. No one has been missed but the young man above mentioned, and there are many who believe he was the unfortunate one. Yet the most diligent search has revealed no sign of his identity among the ashes, in the way of watch, keys, jewelry, or any thing of the sort. There are many questions that arise. Did he in a fit of despondency or insanity fire the building with the intention of making it his funeral pile, then aroused at last make a frantic but futile effort to es cape the doom he had planned? 220 In White and Black. "Many who plainly saw the man at the window of the burning" building de clare that he bore no sort of resem blance to the young man in question. That being- the case, it was perhaps some man who rushed in to assist in saving the store, and retreat was cut off by the flames. It must be ad mitted that Vandalia has a mystery that is likely to remain one for some time to come." Lawrance was struck dumb by this revelation. If the first account had startled him, the second, in which he saw himself held up as maniac or criminal, overwhelmed him. But this was not the end. The hero of this lit tle drama answered the chorus of ex clamations and questions with: "Ef you confounded curmudgeons '11 hold yer infernal clappers, I'll tell you a dandy that'll make that myst'ry as cler as the bead on a glass o' ole' rye. You see, I was comin' that er way, ez any hones' knight o' the ties mout er bin. After I'd got my supper at a pious ole whipper-snapper's that giv' me cold chuck, and sassed it with Revealed by Type and Tongue. 221 warnin's from the good book, I wuz comin' th'oo the town, an' I met a measly-lookin chap wearin' the rig uv the fraternity. I says to him, 'Hello, pard, what hotel you stoppin' at?' He said ther wa'n't none in that measly town tony 'nough fer his sort, an' he'd made up his mind ter cut ther whole caboodle. 'Come with me,' says I, 'to the only fust-class outfit in the town.' 'Fore dark I had seed some straw an' boxes at the hin' eend uv a big store. So we slipped in there an' laid down. The other chap quiled up like a tired dog on the straw, an' soon he wuz snorin' like a sawmill. I lit my pipe an' had giv' it a few pulls, when my peepers fell onto a door in a sort er shed-room at the eend o' the big store. Yer see, I'm none er yer one-hoss sideshows, but er reg'lar combination outfit. I know ther ropes er the trade, an' can change climate fast 'nough ter keep cumf'table, an' then I can merniperlate the tools jes' fur pastime. It puts pepper in the soup an' makes life interestin'. Some things is ter be had fur ther askin', an' 222 In White and Black. some is ter be had fur the takin', an' one's ez cheap as t'other. A door's a temptation, I argy, that oughtn't ter be set before the virtuous youth uv 'the land. It's more then the weak- r ness uv the flesh kin stand. I went 5 across ter this door, an' tried her with my pets thet I allus' carry, an' it opened like er charm. When I got inside, I struck a match, an' it wuz full er barrels an' cans an' things. The sight uv er barrel teches my nerves same ez the sight uv the mother's breast does a baby, so I went up ter one by the light uv my match, an' the smell uv it showed it wan't nuthin' but this 'ere kerryseen. But I seed a kag in the corner that had er devil uv er suspicious look. I went over ter that, an' the smell uv it carried me back twenty year. I felt my mouth waterin' like er wet-weather spring. Ther wuz er quart-cup er settin' on top uv it, an' ; I snatched it up an' turned the fawcet \ into it I could hear it laugh an' sing ' ez it run, an' the very soun' seemed to make me furgit my troubles. Talk 'bout yer music an' yer sweet soun's, Revealed by Type and Tongue. 223 but erbout the sweetes' soun' these ears of mine have ever hearn, sence my mammie sung me ter sleep, wuz the guggle uvthat licker in that quart- cup. When I couldn't stand to hear it no longer fur the cravin' fur er taste, I tuk a big gulp uv it. Gee-whilikins! Thunder an' blazes! It wuz strong ez aky-fortis, an' hot ez liquid perdition. It 'peared ter cook the hide clean down ter my heels. Fur er minnit, I wuz ez blind ez er bat, an' couldn't git er breath. I tried ter holler fur help, butyer cain't holler 'thout breath. The tears run down same ez when my daddy used ter thrash me. Thunder and blazes! but I thought I wuz piz- ened shore. But 'dreckly, I got my breath back agin, an' begun ter feel easier. Soon ez I could, I struck er match an' saw er paper on the head uv the kag marked, 'Alkerhaul,' an' then I knowed it wan't pizen. Feelin' strong ernough ter go on with my in- vestergations, I went up er pair er stairs side er the brick. There wuz another door at the head uv the stairs. It wuz unlocked, so I invited myself 224 I H White and Black. in. I hadn't much more'n got inside, when my head begin ter whirl like windin -blades; I begin ter feel ez heavy ez ef I weighed er ton; my knees begin ter trimble, an' I couldn't move er peg. That all-fired stuff had flew ter my head, an' I wuz dead drunk. I jes' fell in er heap like er wool sack, an' in er minnit didn't know no more'n er dead man. I don't know how long I laid in that shape, but when I waked up, I thought shore I had gone ter kingdom come. There wuz smoke, smoke, ever'wher', an' the sparks an' cinders wuz fallin' . roun' me like rain. I heerd the folks screamin' an' rushin' erbout outside. I jumped up an' turned to'ards the door that I come in at, an', by jucks, the blaze wuz rushin' an' howlin' through it like the devil beatin' tan- bark. In er minnit I wuz ez sober ez er judge. I felt my way the best I could ter the side winder, an' quick ez lightnin' broke the sash. Then there wuz big bars on the outside like them on er jail. I laid holt an' done my level best ter break 'em, but they Revealed by Type and Tongue. 225 wuz too tough fur me. I could see the faces uv the people as they looked up at me. Then I felt the floor give 'way, an' I went down with er crash. I give it up, I thought I wuz er gone fawn-skin an' no mistake. All at onct I felt er mighty jolt an' when I come ter myself, I wuz lyin' in er cool place, erbout ez dark ez Egypt. When I raised up, my head come nearly oppo site ter er hole that showed the light on the outside. Reachin' up, I found it wuz er place wher' air comes into er cellar. There wuz bars outside o' this too, an' in huntin' 'round fur some- thin' ter break 'em with, my hand fell on er big rope an' then on the edge uv er platform I wuz standin' on, an* lookin' up, I seed er square hole in the upper floor, an' then I knowed 'twuz the elevator. The ropes hed burnt in two, an' I wuz standin' on it when it fell. I got a good grip on one er them bars an' swung myself up. I found they wuz busted loose at one end, so I wrenched 'em off an' crowded out. Then I wuz 'twixt two walls not more'n a yard apart, an' it wuz a reg'- 226 In White and Black. lar Vissuvius, only the fire wuz comin' down instead er goin' up. I had ter do somethin' mighty quick. I felt 'long the wall er the other house ter a win der. This I pried open in a jiffy, an* climbed in, feelin' my way to the rear, fur I didn't want ter go out at the front. I found the door open. Some people wuz there all excited. I grabbed er box an' run right through the crowd, an' nobody noticed me. That wuz what I wanted. I w'an't hankerin' after public rekernition then, fur if they'd er caught me, I'd er thought it hard luck that I'd got out er the fire into the fryin'-pan. When I got out, you'd better bet yer bottom dollar I made tracks. So yer see, ez fur ez that hullabaloo about that man that got roasted's concerned, it's all foam an' no beer, fur he's here soun' an' out er jail an' able ter eat his 'low- ance. But, pards, what I allus wanted ter know wuz whut become uv that spider-legged paddy I left sleepin' in the straw." This recital was received with much enthusiasm and applauded as "the Revealed by Type and Tongue. 227 best thing in the show." Exciting as it was, Lawrance was unable to follow it. The thoughts that filled his own mind were more exciting still. Dora what did she think of him now? Did she believe him capable of such a crime? Perhaps now he was to her but a criminal, who was willing to stoop to injure her and her father because she had refused him. His heart was still sore. He felt that she had not been even kind in her re fusal, but still he could not bear to be held a criminal in her eyes. Did he know she believed him dead, he would not care, he would even re joice, but as he thought of her mind being poisoned with a vile suspicion, an indescribable pang shot through his heart. He would cross oceans and continents, he would even die, to remove that suspicion. What others might think he did not care, but she must know that his honor was un- - stained. She might not care for him, she evidently did not, but she should not despise him as a base criminal. If she could only know this man's 228 In White and Black. story. If he could in some way secure the proof of what he had just heard. This would be his only opportunity. To-morrow these men would be up and away, he knew not where, and the lips of the only man who knew the most important secret on earth to him would be closed to the utterance that might save his name in the eyes of the only one for whose good opinion he cared. He did not sleep, but lay on the bare earth, gazing- at the distant stars and thinking of these things the remain der of the night. When the first faint streaks of gray began to adorn the east, he arose and moved cautiously among the prostrate forms locked in the healthful slumber of men tired with travel and breath ing the pure oxygen day and night. He was making his way to where the burly "Shocky" lay with a chunk of driftwood under his head, when the young man who had been reader for them rose, and, motioning to Law- ranee to follow, stole away to a safe distance. Full of wonder at what it meant, Lawrance followed. When Revealed by Type and Tongue. 229 out of earshot of the others, the young man turned and said: "I think I understand you. You are not one of that sort. Neither am I. You do not know me, but I know you. Your name is Kenyon. I knew you the moment I saw you. How? I saw you the afternoon before the store in which you were bookkeeper was burned. Look at that by the light of this match," and he handed Lawrance a photograph. What was his astonish ment to look on a picture of himself. For the moment he could utter no word which was fitting, and the young man made a gesture for silence and proceeded: "Do you wonder that I knew you? Listen. I am a detective, not by pro fession for I am a lawyer but be cause it interests me and because I hope to build up my health in this way. And you are here because well, that does not matter now. You want the proof of what you heard from Shocky last night. You were about to do a very foolish thing. That man is des perate, dangerous. You have money. 230 In White and Black. Had you told him so, he would not have hesitated to feed your body to the fish, if he got a chance. There is not another man there who would harm a hair of your head, or take your purse if you left it lying in sight. But Shocky, I saw him watching you. He is suspicious. Had you offered to bribe him, it would have been not only use less but dangerous. I was with him the night of the fire. I was not asleep when he entered the door. Men are not always asleep when they snore. But being weary, I fell asleep, and was wakened by the fire-bells just in time to escape. I was on his track, and that was the first time I had met him. I have seen him several times since, but he has not recognized me. He is one of three men who robbed a train of the railroad last winter. The others are about San Antonio, Texas, where he is going to meet them. I shall keep track of him until I can seize all three. "How did I come by your picture? It was sent to me here. It appears Revealed by Type and Tongue. 231 that the insurance companies are on your track. They have somehow been led to believe you burnt the store. They have somehow discovered or guessed that you are wandering 1 in this guise, and have set me on the trail. You may keep the picture. I am at your service." Here he extended his hand, which Lawrance grasped, while his eyes swam in tears. He had listened to this man's rapid tale with deepening wonder and in rapt silence. He felt a swelling of unutterable gratitude to this man who assumed to his mind the mission of a benefactor to him in his extremity, but instead of uttering his thanks, or expressing his surprise, he returned to the one thing that con cerned him most. "The proof, can 1 get that?" he asked. "Yes, I can do so, if you will trust me." "Trust you? Nothing is easier." "Then leave it to me; and now we must part, for they are stirring al ready." 232 In White and Black. A few more hurried words, and these two understood each other. Hence forth they were friends, and Lawrance felt he could rest his interests in such hands without hesitation. Thus they parted and went their ways. CHAPTER XX. WESTWARD AND WORKWARD. We parted with Lawrance in New Orleans. When he bade farewell to the tramp detective, he turned his face towards Texas. It was growing hot, and counting cross-ties is not a choice pastime under a Southern sky in June. Consequently, Lawrance preferred to travel on the trains, only acting in his character as tramp when it was possible to study that interesting spe cies. A few days later found him in San Antonio, whither he had bent his steps from New Orleans. He felt the throb of a restless energy. He was anxious to work, He meant to write a book on "tramp life." For this he had been accumulating mate rials. It was to be fiction founded on the facts he had gathered and was gathering. He felt that sense of power to do, that burning eagerness 233 234 I H White and Black. to beg-in, and saw the outline grow into shape before his mind with that delicious vividness, which together constitute the signs of avocation. He was moved by no mercenary motive, nor by mere ambition, but by an al most overmastering desire to express what was seething in his mind. He was in that mood out of which all great achievements are born. No man says his best word till he speaks as a prophet on whom the breath of the unseen has fallen, and through whom a strange new voice, before unheard, is struggling for expression. To secure a room, to clothe himself decently, to procure materials, and to begin, required a very brief time. It was amazing to him how thoughts crowded upon him. He had never before found such pleasure in work. Reading over late at night the pages he had written during the day was more intensely interesting than that of any romance he had ever read. These pages were a surprise to him. He had never dreamed of being ca pable of such work but once. Westward and Workward. 235 He was making 1 great headway in his work, when he suddenly remem bered more than three months had passed and he had not yet seen nor heard from the detective. He had the pledge of this man that the coveted confession of Shocky should be put in his hands, either by mail or in per son, at the earliest possible moment. His impatience had been allayed by the interest in his work, and if it had not, what could he have done? He could not guess where his detective was wandering, yet he had unbounded confidence in his integrity and also in his capacity to do what he had prom ised. Still, as the days wore on, he be came more restless and waiting be came harder. This day the burden became too great for work, and he pushed his papers aside and went out for a walk. He soon found himself in the Alamo, for his room was not far from this shrine of liberty. He walked back and forth in the old building with its dirt floor, the same floor once dyed with patriot blood; gazed upon the walls, the same 236 In White and Black. walls once stormed by shot and shell, and felt the thrill of the memories which that handful of men on that fa tal day had bequeathed to these dead rocks, and listened to the trumpet- tongued voice of freedom, with which they had animated this historic pile. He thought how much nobler was man than all his works, how he can give to dull matter a value and a meaning 1 that shall thrill generations yet to be. There is no beauty of form, nor grandeur of proportion, nor charm of color that can match the magnifi cence of noble deeds. The Pass of Thermopylae needs no chisel or brush or architect. It has been made for ever sacred ground, set apart from all other spots, by the chrism of heroic blood. The Alamo, although a hum ble building 1 , has been lifted infinitely above the architectural splendors of the world's great buildings. It was lit with a glory no painter's brush could furnish, a glory that still dazzles the tear-dimmed eyes of all patriot pilgrims from the ends of the earth, by the cruel offering there made on the Westward and Workward. 237 altar of freedom. It is not always what men accomplish, but sometimes what they dare attempt, that is great; and apparent failure is sometimes real success. The men who died at the Alamo lived multiplied a hundred times at San Jacinto. The hands that let fall the broken swords in death, but not defeat, rocked the cra dle in which the giant Liberty was nurtured. Such thoughts filled the mind of Lawrance, and made him for a time oblivious to all else. At last when he shook off the spell and turned his thoughts to the present and his eyes to the door, he saw a man gazing at him in a fashion and with an eye he did not fancy, and they belonged to an altogether unprepossessing person ality. Somehow he felt a little squeam ish, but he put the incident from his mind and returned to his room and to his work, and, as he thought of the de tective's delay, consoled himself with the thought that there were many in terruptions likely to occur in the travel of one pursuing a tramp. The de- In White and Black. tective had probably been led far out of the way and would require time. He trusted implicitly in the faith of T this new friend, so strangely discov ered, j It was his habit now and then to don his tramp outfit and go out and make a detour of the city and suburbs, al ways keeping his note-book handy, and keeping his eyes open for "Shocky," or any familiar face. He thus found opportunities for his peculiar study, and at the same time refreshed his mind and body with change, and re turned to his task reinvigorated. All he had to do was to clothe himself properly, walk out, lock his door, turn round to the right, pass through a hedge of fig-trees, clamber down the river-bank at the rear of the house, come out at whatever street suited his fancy, either above or below, then go on his way. When ready to return, he simply retraced his steps, and no i one was the wiser. The despised tramp of yesterday was the polite, at tractive gentleman of the breakfast- table. No one knew who or what he Westward and Workward. 239 was. He was the masked boarder, the subject of much gossip in guesses. We could enliven these pages with the grotesque suspicions and wild sur mises exchanged by his fellow board ers, all of which anyone could safely vouch for who is familiar with human nature of the boarding-house variety. We must, however, leave something to the imagination of the reader or to his experience. The imagination of Lawrance was much aided by certain mysterious glances exchanged at the table, certain questions asked with a poorly feigned indifference. He was not a little amused at the curiosity of two single ladies of uncertain age, which was obtrusive enough to have been exasperating if it had not been so amusing. By purest chance he learned that he was reputed to have five living wives, when the poor fel low could not get himself one; that he was engaged in vast mining specula tions in Mexico and was worth mil lions, when if "Tramp Life" failed to prove a remunerative venture, he should soon be in a position to try 240 In White and Black. that life in earnest; that he was a de tective, and was liable any day to cre ate a sensation by seizing- some noted criminal, when he was far more likely to be seized himself. From this he could guess at the unsettled state of the boarding-house mind in regard to its mysterious boarder. Had he for gotten Dora? Rather, let us ask, was she ever absent from his mind? Did the pain of her loss ever leave him? Fight as he would against it, the sense of his utter loneliness and desolate- ness would come over him again and again, like a huge wave, and Dora's image would steal in between his eye _and the blank page and he would drop his pen and think, and think al ways of the night under the beech and the few hours of delirious joy he had known. When he wrote a page that was particularly pleasing to him, he found himself wondering if it would ever fall under Dora's eye, and if she would praise it; and then he bent to his work with a new zest More than he knew, though in sor row and bitterness of heart, he was Westward and Workward. 241 still working under the inspiration of his pure first love. Love for Dora had discovered to him his power, and the thought of her held that power to its task. There was slight hope that what he did would be rewarded by her smile, but, nevertheless, back through the weary, checkered months ran the unbroken thread of his sweetest mem ory to the scene under the beech, and along with it, as an electric current, thrilled an undying inspiration. Why, he could not tell. The best and most beautiful things in human experience defy analysis. CHAPTER XXL TRAIL AND COUNTER-TRAIL. Lawrance was returning to his lodg ing's late one night in his customary disguise. He had just crossed a foot bridge and was making his way across a lonely bit of common, the very ap pearance of which was suggestive of ugly deeds. It was dark with over hanging boughs, and the foot-path was lined with rank weeds and bushes. Suddenly, in the darkness he heard footsteps coming on in an opposite direction, a sudden blaze of light fell full upon him, and lingered for a moment, then it was dark again. It was not an experience one would court for the pleasure of it. In a mo ment, before he had time to think twice, he heard the steps move aside in the gloom, as if inviting him to pass. This invitation he was not slow to accept. The light, he felt sure, came 242 Trail and Counter-Trail. 243 from a dark-lantern in the hands of some man who had studied him for a moment by its light and, probably judging from his garb that he was not a tempting prize for robbery, had let him pass. He congratulated himself that he was well out of it when he had entered the open street, a hundred yards away. He was breathing freely and walking with quick steps towards his room, when there came over him that strange impression of being fol lowed which without any testimony of the senses sometimes steals upon one, something like the impression made upon the nerves by the air of a damp, cold cellar. Looking back, he saw a man slouching in the shadows on the opposite side of the street. A little observation proved that this man was keeping even pace with him. When he turned the corner and passed on a few paces, he looked again and the pursuer was still on his trail. He naturally connected this man with the encounter in the common, and could but wonder why he should follow him, 244 In White and Black. seeing there was no effort made to overtake him. There is a natural dis position to elude one who pursues you, a desire to escape prying eyes. Lawrance began an effort to elude this man. He did not go direct to his room, but by a circuitous route reached the river a block below, and managed to throw himself over the railing of the bridge that spans the river there and clamber down the bank into the shadow before his pursuer came in sight. He heard footsteps cross the bridge and felt that he had thrown his man off the trail. Lawrance came out from his hiding-place, made his way along the margin of the river, climbed the bank and was soon in his room, where he thought much over the strange incident. Perhaps he would have thought more had he seen the man who watched him by the feeble street-lamp from behind a pillar of the bridge until he passed behind the fig-trees in the yard. There was a stranger at the break fast-table next morning. He wore a face that made you ask questions, a Trail and Counter-Trail. 245 face that seemed to have something behind it that its owner would not care to tell. Lawrance was not fav orably impressed by him. He was sensible of an uncomfortable feeling in this stranger's presence. Who has not felt so? Lawrance saw him no more till supper. After supper, it was not a mere accident that led Lawrance to follow the stranger as he went out. He could not say just why he took the same street and, keeping well in the shadows and at an unsuspicious dis tance, watched this man who had some how interested him. A few blocks away there was a broken fragment of wall that once enclosed a part of the court of the Alamo. Near this two men emerged from the shadows and joined the other. Together they stole into the cover of this wall and sat down. By a slight circuit Lawrance could come up on the opposite side and easily hear their conversation. It was an astonishing conversation to him. 246 In White and Black. "We must make sure of our man," and Lawrance recognized the voice of the new boarder. "A mistake would make mischief. Nobody seems to know anything" of him at the boarding- house. The time he has been there is all right, but we must be sure." "Sure! Don't I know that curmud geon? Didn't I see him las' night in the same gyarb he wore at New Or leans? Didn't I see 'im go up the bank like er beaver goin' to his hole, an' ain't that the only boardin'-house on that street? Didn't I see him this mornin' in his other rig, an' I tuck 'im in at a glance? Pards, it's the same galoot. Changin' cloze don't change the man. The game's treed shore, or my name ain't Shocky. He's waitin' here fur them papers that sickly chap got fixed up fur 'im. I'm a-thinkin' it's likely that hobo's passed in 'is chips, and them papers went up the spout with him. He promised me er slice er the puddin' he wuz bakin', but it's no use waitin' fur that. If we kin git our clinchers on this rooster, we'll pull a pile er feathers out er him, or Trail and Counter-Trail. 247 else git the reward thet's offered fur 'im." Lawrance listened to their plot to seize him and secure a handsome sum either as reward or, preferably, force him to pay them a round price for lib erty. His blood leaped as he listened. He saw all too clearly the peril to which he was exposed. He knew something of the infamy and cruelty of these men. He had tried to realize a sort of kinship between himself and all the world's wanderers, and had schooled himself to look with a degree of allowance on that in the lives of such men which was intolerable in other men. He now saw a gulf yawn between him and these men as wide as eternity. His sense of brotherhood received a great strain. He saw his own case was desperate indeed. Brutal and criminal as these men were, their standing was equal to his, and might be a vast deal better if they were not mistaken in their supposition concern ing his present position before the law. He gave way to a momentary feel ing of dread. Then came a swift reac- 248 In White and Black. tion. The fear which he had at first felt of these men gave way at once to a sense of power and security. Before he had taken time for thought, he had leaped over the wall and stood before the wretches, his form straightened to its full height, his arms crossed on his breast, and his eyes fixed fiercely on them. They were taken completely by surprise. They rose to their feet and stood as if uncertain what to do. Each right hand sought instinctively the deadly revolver, the inseparable accompaniment of a criminal life. Here they paused as if some strange power held them in its grasp. Stand ing thus in the half-light, they formed an interesting group. Lawrance broke the silence. He spoke slowly and in a low tone, but his words vi brated and throbbed with passion: "Villains, here is your victim," he said. "He is only one, you are three. He is unarmed. You are armed for deeds of death. But I defy you. I am in your power, but you will not dare to do me harm; not because you do not desire it, but because you Trail and Counter-Trail. 249 are weak and cowardly. You are wanting" in that which alone makes men strong and brave; with that I am armed, and it is an armor that hate can not penetrate nor brute violence overcome. The innocent are always master of the guilty. You meet in the darkness to plot against a fellow- man who never did you or any man harm. You would destroy him as coolly as you would set your foot on a worm in your path. Not content with murder and pillage, you would traffic in weakness and misfortune, and see the innocent wear the infamy of your guilt. Beware! Your time is short. If you would lengthen the chapter of your guilty deeds, make haste. Would you add one more crime to the crimson list, now is your opportunity." Here he drew a step closer, and his tones softened, "Do I hate you? Why should I? I pity you. The same God made you and me. His stars shine alike up there for you and for me, but your deeds dim their light. You were once little chil- 250 In White and Black. dren, clinging to the breasts of fond mothers. What would it not be worth to you to-night to live for one brief moment amid the experiences that your innocent childhood filled with happy dreams. 1 have read the fiery syllables in which the tragedy of lives like yours is written. I have listened to the lengthened cry of anguish that the guilty smother behind a criminal exterior. I have seen the feeble but passionate movement of the poor broken wings of a mangled manhood. I would not punish you if I could. I would not exchange places with you for the world. I am unfortunate, you are criminal. There is no misfor tune that a true life may not illumine, there is no fortune that guilt will not turn into a hell. O brothers, brothers but what am I that I should so speak?" So saying, he turned abruptly to walk away, not a hand or a voice forbidding. Some influence seemed to restrain them. But the restraint was only mo mentary. He had only taken a step when a blow on the head felled him Trail and Counter- Trail. 25 1 to the earth and left him only half conscious of what was going on. In less time than is consumed in the tell ing, he was bound, gagged, and being dragged along by these desperadoes he knew not where. They had taken the precaution to blindfold as well as to gag him. They stopped at length, and he heard a grating sound, as of the opening of a heavy door or the removal of some obstruction. Then he was carried through a narrow opening and down a short flight of steps into what he took to be a cellar. He heard the door or grating close after them. Then they made their way along what seemed a narrow passage for quite a distance, and Lawrance was laid on a damp stone floor. In a few minutes the ban dage was removed from his eyes, and he saw a rather forbidding situa tion. By the dim light of a rude lamp that hung from a wall of masonry, he saw they were in a sort of tunnel, with some rude stools, stuff for pallets, and other primitive articles, indicating that this was a hiding-place to which these s$2 In White and Black. men were accustomed. They with drew to a short distance and consulted together a few minutes, and when they returned, the spokesman of the three began: "Seeing- you are to share our hos pitality for a time, Mr. Kenyon, we extend a welcome, and offer you the best we have. We hope you will make yourself comfortable during your stay. Roarer, bring that bottle from the sideboard and we will drink to the health of our guest." The sideboard was a greasy box, used evidently as cupboard, table, chair, as the occasion might demand. "Here's to you, and to prove it isn't poison," and the spokesman drank deeply, then handed to Lawrance, who refused it, and to the others, who drank freely. "We have been looking for you for some time," the spokesman resumed. "A mutual friend got us interested in you before we came to the city this time. We are sorry to have over looked you so long. We meant no disrespect; it was unavoidable. Just Trail and Counter-Trail. 253 as we were planning to go to you, by a stroke of good fortune you came to us. We were too polite to inter rupt you in the fine things you were saying, and besides, the street is not a suitable place to conduct a serious discussion. So when you concluded, we decided to return to our private chamber and bring you with us. "What you were saying to us, Mr. Kenyon, would doubtless be applica ble, if there were any truth in the ad age, There is honor among thieves;' but that is one of those convenient falsehoods invented by the crafty and reiterated by the ignorant. There is the same honor among thieves as among other people; that is, none at all. For instance, here are three of us; I do not trust these, they do not trust me. When it is to their interest to betray me, they will do so. They know I hold them as dear as their service to me can make them. When their hanging shall pay me better than their living, I hang them, and, as the teachers say, vice versa. To this hour, we hang together, that we may not 254 In White and Black. hang separately. That remark is his toric, and history is repeating itself. We three are engaged in a revolution. We want to get the bottom rail on top. That is to say, we are normal human beings, with the luck a little against us at present. "Men live together in society as we live here. They watch each other, use each other, and, as opportunity offers, devour each other. I was devoured several times myself while clinging to that stale lie that honest men out number rogues. Why do men obey laws? Because they think it best for themselves. We think it to our inter est to violate law. Where's the differ ence? Sleek and proper gentlemen pose as patterns of righteousness and grow rich off the gullibility of the public. Their manners are the smooth key with which they unlock the safety- vaults of success. We choose to use . a different kind of key. They are ] called gentlemen and we are called rogues. Well, there is nothing in a name, and it's all one to me which one I am called by. It comes to the same Trail and Counter-Trail. 255 in the end. I have my little day, and then well it is interesting. One can't have his way all the time, and the only wisdom in this world is to make the most of it while you can. I used to be what the world calls a gentleman, but (here there was a pause, and a brief shadow crossed the careless face) let that pass. It is out of its dra matic relations in this chapter. "To come to the point: you are a gentleman among thieves. As the thieves are in the majority, and thieves and gentlemen can not agree, I sup pose it is clear to you that the gentle man must lose the contest. In other words, you are in our power. The law wants you. The law has offered to pay a thousand dollars for you. We are opposed to the law, but we want the money. You pay us the money* and you go free. If you don't, then we turn you over to the law. We shall regret to do the law a favor, but it is in exchange for a favor. We prefer to give you your freedom for the same amount. It is purely a matter of business with us, and the profits 256 In White and Black. of business are simply a question of power. "To illustrate: You are in debt. You go to your sleek shylock, and you say, 'Lend me.' He smiles, rubs his hands, and says, The risk is great I must have my twenty per cent.' You cringe, but you pay it. The power is his of money. Or you are hungry. It is bad to be hungry. You go to the man who sells food. He and others have bought it all up. They have held it, counting on the power of hunger. He says food is up, up. But you must pay the price. He has the power on his side. These are our power (pat ting the butt of his pistol and the ropes on Lawrance's hands and feet). Your liberty is at stake. We demand our little profit. You pay it. We smile, and you go free, and we go on our way. "You will vote for your shylock and your food-vender for congress as soon as they are rich enough, us you will hang when you catch us. That is a blunder. It is all a blunder. Had Trail and Counter-Trail. 257 there been any thing else, I should have been living on Fifth avenue, instead of in well, it don't matter where, only it is not exactly a palace. " Then after a pause, "What have you to say to our proposition?'' The face and manner of this man had been a'study during his talk. Lawrance saw before him a sort of combina tion of the shrewd man of affairs, the blase man of the world, the abandoned criminal, and the embittered misan thrope. It was hard to tell which pre dominated. His situation was not favorable either to the study of char acter, to which he had schooled him self, or to the enjoyment of a peculiar type, but he could not help being drawn away from his perils by both influences as he listened and watched by the flare of the lamp that hung by the wall the changes on the face of this strange man. His absorption had kept him from being ready for his part in the curious performance. Indeed, he had hardly been able to realize what it all meant. He was about to speak after a time, but was relieved 258 In White and Black. from doing so by the spokesman, who began again: "You do not answer? Perhaps you want a little time to think it over. You have understood me, and know the alternative. You pay us our profit in this little game and go free, or the law pays it and you go to prison. At any rate we are sure of our profit. Do you understand?" Lawrance simply nodded. "Then I give you till morn ing to decide. Then, if you have a friend, you can write him, or her (and here there was a look that had some meaning Lawrance did not then divine). Here are writing ma terials. You can write and I will deliver your missive. Now I must leave you, for my business calls me. Make yourself as comfortable as you can, for you may have to enjoy the hospitality of our mansion for some time, till this business is settled. Good night." So saying he stole into the dark ness. His footfalls could be heard like the tick of a clock, until he passed out into the night. Lawrance now Trail and Counter-Trail. 259 began to study the situation more closely. By the dim light of the lamp he could see above a few feet an arch of masonry, beneath which one could scarcely walk erect. On either side were walls only a few feet apart. This was all, except two walls of darkness that wavered and crept as the lamp flared and flickered. He made out that he was imprisoned in some sort of walled passage or tunnel. There was clearly no need for guards, and soon the two remaining men went out without even a word, except a whis pered consultation together. Left thus, Lawrance never felt him self so much alone. It was as if all the world was dead and he was in a living grave. He had read of dark ness that could be felt, but he had never before thought of a silence that could be felt. The sound of his own breathing startled him and he could hear the beating of his heart. He welcomed the companionship of a spider that crawled out in the light on the wall opposite. It was a comfort to know that one other living thing 260 In White and Black. tion. It was plainly a desperate one. These men were capable of anything-, however mean or cruel. They cared nothing for human life and as little for human rights. He could not pay their price for liberty even if he would, and he would not if he could. He must take his chances in the courts, if he were ever so fortunate as to see the light of day again. Those men led a precarious life. They might be cap tured or killed in their prowling, and he be left to die unhelped and unpitied in that awful dungeon. These thoughts occupied his mind he knew not how long. It seemed to him an age since he had come there, when what was that? It surely sounded like a footfall in the silence. It was com ing nearer. Was it a footstep or only the beating of his heart? He could not hope for the coming of a friend, but an enemy was preferable to this loneliness and silence. To lie still in such a den, not knowing where you are, with vistas of unexplored dark ness, and you know not what else, be- Trail and Counter-Trail. 261 tween you and light, the sound of dripping- water striking on the air in the dead silence thus to wait for you know not whom or what to creep upon you, and no hand to strike in your de fense, and no ear to hear your cry it must be a hot-blood that would not chill at the experience. The steps came nearer. Lawrance held his breath. Nearer still. Straining his gaze, he saw in the dim light, that had grown dimmer now, a shadow waver on the wall, then the form of a man come in view. Nearer still. In his hand was something that glistened in the light. It was a knife. Nearer the form bent over his. The empty left hand was laid on his shoulder, a gruff voice said: " Are you awake?" The eyes alone answered. "Be easy. Do as I tell you." And he stooped and cut the ropes from the feet. "Get up come." Without an other word the man moved in the di rection from which he had come, with a very cautious tread, now and then pausing to listen, with finger on his 262 In White and Black. lip. Lawrance's hands were still bound. Where was he being 1 led? On, on, it seemed to him an intermin able distance, in the choking air, the impenetrable darkness, the mouldy smells no sunlight had ever touched with one purifying ray. On, on, in si lence, broken only by the ring, ring, of their footsteps, hollow and weird. At last there was something akin to light, or a sort of faded darkness. The air was less dense. Then the guide stopped, listened, motioned his charge to wait, went forward further, listened again, then returned. "Mr. Kenyon, I am a-goin' to turn you loose. Don't as' me no questions an' I won't have to tell you no lies. Them 'at lives underground don't talk. You go alone. There's eyes, eyes, ev erywhere. If they are open, they musn't see but one; ef they do, the jig's up. When you git out turn round, an' in the sky you will see the lights o' the city. When you git thar, ef you ever do, don't stay, for the bloodhounds will be on yer track. Keep mum's the ticket. You don't know nothin' tell I Trail and Counter-Trail. 263 see you, ef we both live which ain't by no means certain. You can go but I have not loosed your hands. No, I don't need no thanks, I'm git- tin' better pay. Go, an' sell out dear ef you haf ter." Having cut the bonds from Law- ranee's hands, and put the knife in his right, his companion led the way to where the tunnel came to an abrupt termination, and he had only to clam ber up a steep, and he was in what one would take for a cavern-mouth or sink-hole. Around it grew bushes and reeds, and there were also heaps of rub bish that had gathered for years. The dew glittering on the grass in the star light was beautiful, and the air was sweet. It wasa lonely spotandtheknife was a comfort. As he was taking his bearings the silence was broken by the hoot of an owl close to his left. Look ing up he found it came from the walls of a ruined building, and as he gazed the proportions of a tower still majes tic and time-defying came out against the sky, and, recognizing the ruins of an old mission, he thought, "Those 264 In White and Black. old Jesuits loved dark and secret ways, and spared no toil to provide against surprises." Lawrance reached his room in safety. He felt it would be wise to take the advice of his deliverer and quit the city for a time. He was pon dering" over the situation next morn ing, when he heard a knock on his door. At his invitation a man entered and stood before him who would have been a study for an artist. His hair was uncut and uncombed. His beard coarse, stubby and of a grizzly hue. His person was innocent of soap and water. His clothes were shabby, ill- matched, and without pretense of fit ting. There was a stoop at the shoul ders and a furtive, hunted look out of the eyes, imparted by a life of misery and criminality. Withal, he was a pic ture to excite commiseration. When asked to take a seat, he replied: "Wall, I mought set down a minnit, fur I want a word wi' ye. Ye mayn't mind I wuz one o' them you wuz talkin' to out there las' night," with a jerk of the head in the direction of the Alamo, Trail ana Counter-Trail. 265 "an' I may say I am the chap that sot you free. I wuz one o' that sort, but I've come ter tell yer I've quit fer good. Chris Ware is goin' ter be sober an' honest the rest o' his nat'ral life; yes sir, sober an' honest Them two things goes together, an' ef I'd allus been sober I'd a-been honest. When I tuck ter drink, it warn't long tell I tuck to wuss. Sence ye said what ye did las' night, I been a-thinkin', an' I made up my min' ter turn over a leaf. "You wuz in a close place. Them's bad un's. An' I've got in a close place by helpin' you out, but that's nothin'. I bin thar before now, an' if they finish me, which they will if they git the drap, it won't be no big job, an' I'll be at the finishin', an' they know it, All night I been a-thinkin' o' my wife, what died 'bout six months ago all along o' my bad treatment. I could hear 'er cough, an' see 'er pale, tired face es plain es my hand. I could see my boy Chris you've seen 'im, a peart boy 'e is and hear 'im 266 In White and Black. cryin' fur 'is ma, 'at wuz all the com fort 'e had. "You may not know what it is to have so many things you can't undo, an' ter have 'em come up before you like that. Somehow yo' words brought it all back to me, an' the sight of ye minded me of the time ye knocked me down whin ye come in on me usin' the wife rough like. Yes, I'm the chap ye floored, an' I've allus liked ye fur it. An' I 'lowed ter git even, an' I dun it las' night. An' I'm goin' ter work, an' ef I ever can do anything fur ye, let me know, fur I owe ye a sight more'n I can ever pay." So saying, he was about to go, but Lawrance restrained him. This man had given him his liberty, if not his life. This seemed to Lawrance a lib eral reward for having knocked him down only once. He was impressed with the evident sincerity of the man. Moreover, he had no idea of missing this opportunity of learning the possi ble whereabouts of the detective. Questioning this fellow, Lawrance learned that the detective had become Trail and Counter-Trail. 267 too weak to travel as they were on their way from the borders of Mexico. His companions had stolen away and left him without notice. He had managed to get the confession from "Shocky," and they had become a little suspicious of him, and so left him. They had not been long in the city. When they reached the city their pal who was here before them had already got track of Lawrance. His clew they had followed till last night's developments. Lawrance lost no time in making ready for his journey. In an incred ibly short time after this chance inter view, he was hurrying out of the city, borne by a sturdy pony. His heart was in this search. He felt, in setting out, that sense of elevation that ac companies any unselfish action. True he was interested to secure the con fession of "Shocky," but, to his credit be it said, the ruling motive was the desire to find and help the detective. In accordance with the vague direc tions of his informant, he took his journey to the southwest. But to 268 In White and Black. start is one thing", and, in this region of prairies that all look alike and roads that are not roads, to find your way is quite another. Before night, Lawrance had found himself far off his track many times. When he had been told to "take the plainest way," he often found that he had only suc ceeded in taking" the newest way, and after riding ten miles, without seeing- a human being 1 , would suddenly come upon a ranch, and find that he must retrace his steps. By this process he made slow headway, and was worn out and discouraged the first day. The distance often covered without seeing 1 a house was another discour agement, and he had to ride far into the night to find a resting-place. This day's experience was repeated with some variations, and new and graver difficulties thrown in, enough to ut terly discourage any but the most resolute, particularly when there was so much indefiniteness of information on which to proceed. A week had passed before he reached the region where the detective was last supposed Trail and Counter- Trail. 269 to have been seen. It was a mere vil lage, a sort of centre of supplies for ranches, made up mostly of saloons and a post-office. After much inquiry, Lawrance made himself tolerably certain that the de tective had taken the stage at this point, after being left by his compan ions while lying sick in the only hotel in the village. To this he had secured access by his weakly appearance and plausible manner. He had left there a few days after by stage, but for what point no one knew. It was supposed he was making his way to San Antonio. In hope of more definite information, he waited for the stage, which made a weekly trip. This delayed him an other three days. When it came, there was a new driver who could give no information whatever. Law rance only grew in his determination as the difficulties thickened. He felt more and more that he must succeed. So he set out, with the purpose to in quire at every possible place along the way. At the end of the first day's jour ney, no discoveries had been made. In White and Black. In the afternoon of the following day, there fell one of those floods of rain that autumn so frequently brings to this region. Streams whose beds had been dry an hour be fore began to fill and became raging torrents, sweeping everything bef.ore them. Lawrance was far from any habitation when this storm arose. He soon saw by a line of trees in the dis tance, as he slowly made his way through the clinging black mud of the prairie, that he was nearing a stream. When he came to its banks, it pre sented a threatening aspect. With a deafening roar it swept its murky current between full banks. It was enough to deter one with a stouter heart than Lawrance possessed, but somehow his old irresolution had for saken him. The purpose before him had called up all the strength of will of which he was capable. Indeed, he found a sort of satisfaction in the ! dangers and sacrifices attending this search. Difficulties were not to be thought of, dangers not to be reck oned with. Plunging the spurs into Trail and Counter-Trail. 271 the flanks of the rebellious pony, he forced him into the boiling flood. It was only for a brief space that the pony could maintain his footing. To swim across that current was impossi ble; to swim with it was only a de gree less difficult. The pony battled bravely, but it was of no use. Horse and rider were at the mercy of the angry current. Lawrance saw above the swirling flood that now and then engulfed him, a man on the opposite bank from where he entered striving to keep pace with him as he was whirled down the stream. That was the last he knew. He was clinging to the neck of the horse, choked by the waters, in his ears the voice of a thou sand thunders, something struck him with fearful force, his hold gave way, and he was only half conscious of a last frantic struggle, an effort to cry for help, a swift vision of the past, and then oblivion. CHAPTER XXII. IN SEARCH OF HEALTH. On the banks of the San Antonio river, which flows or rather winds serpent-like through the quaint old city that bears its name, there stands a spacious and beautiful home. ' The house sets well back from the street in a grove of pecan-trees, which are draped with graceful festoons of sway ing moss. The river makes one of its sudden turns at this point, and so is visible from the rear and two sides of the house, and even from the great porch on the front its gleaming cur rent can be seen gracefully turning the point above. On its banks, cala- diums, bananas and waving rushes grow in great abundance and give a tropical appearance to the scene. The large yard is covered with grass still green and fresh, though November has already put his coating of sober 273 In Search of Health. 273 brown on more northern latitudes. A Marechal Neil rose clambers the en tire width of the front porch and is still enwreathed with a perfect wealth of this queen of roses. A row of chrysanthemums on either side of the walk is arrayed in a gorgeous variety of color. Surely this is a place to lose one's care and dream sweet dreams. The air is soft and balmy and seems to rush with delicious freedom into the ex panding lungs. It is neither too warm for comfort nor too cool for outdoor delight and is never still nor silent, but sings of health as it flies over end less stretches of prairie on wings still redolent of gambols with the crested billows of the Gulf. The sky is high and soft and of deepest blue, with that peculiar welcome to the upward look that seems to permit the rejoicing eye to penetrate its depths and rest in its hospitable bosom. It is that most soothing hour of twilight, and on the front porch of this home are four peo ple, two old people and two young ladies, and sitting by choice and by 274 In White and Black. courtesy on the steps another whom we shall soon recognize. The conver sation is concerning the city in which we find them. "And so you already confess that San Antonio is a great deal nicer place than your slow-going Vandalia, eh?'' This was spoken by the old gentle man to the individual on the steps. The latter promptly replied: "Dis pow'ful nice, sho; 1 boun' say dat, but, laws-a-massy, what you gwin' say fur dese mud huts settin' squar on de street wid no mo' ya'd dan er tater- celler, an' so low yo' kin mi'nigh salt yo' cows on de ruff? Stop do', I furgit de cows' hawns so long dey cain't git thoo de streets, ef you call 'em streets, 'bout ez wide ez er pig-path and ez crooked ez er fishin'-worm wid er bad case er de colic. You come to Van- dalia, an' we show you streets what's got room ter git a good bref in. Den you got de mos' onsplainable people here I ebber see in all my bawn days. Dey ain't black, an' dey ain't yaller, an' dey ain' white, but sorter 'twixt an' 'tween. Dey hats look like er fodder In Search of Health. 275 stack; dey ties dey red bandanner roun' dey wais' stid er roun' dey head lak er sensible pusson, an' dey cyar' er kiverlid roun' dey shoulders, des lak dey dun an' got outer bed an* furgit ter leab de kiver. Dey don' know nuthin', kase dey won' answer er de cent pusson's question, but dey shake dey haid an' mutter sump'n' am' got no sense in it." The reader has recognized the fa miliar speech of Aunt Lylie, for it is none other. Those four on the porch are Capt. and Mrs. Melton, Dora's uncle and aunt, Amelia Bramwell and Dora herself. These friends of ours have found their way to this far city of the Southwest by a very natural chain of circumstances. Dora's need of change for health's sake, the fame of this climate, and the residence of her uncle in this city explain it. Dora suc ceeded in persuading her friend to ac company her, and Aunt Lylie would . not hear to being left behind. They found a warm welcome and a delight ful home. In White and Black. The young ladies found a charming novelty in their surroundings, which Capt. Melton never tired of dilating upon and enhancing with incident and history as he drove them from point to point. They spent much time loit ering along the banks of the river, lulled almost in spite of themselves into f orgetf ulness of care. Even Aunt Lylie was deeply impressed, but she would not give way to enthusiasm. She was not altogether pleased with the unbounded pleasure of the young ladies. It did not sound to her patri otic ears altogether loyal to Vandalia. With her it was Vandalia, then Heaven, with no intermediate stages. Going upward, the celestial city was the next and only one on that side; the rest of the habitable universe lay below in various downward degrees. Many a good-natured tilt did she and Capt. Melton have on the merits of the two cities, much to his amuse ment, for it afforded a fine opportunity to test the flavor of the old negro's peculiar wit. In Search of Health. 277 Capt. Melton owned a large cattle- ranch about forty miles west of the city, which, by the way, is a very short distance in that country, where space is peculiarly lavish of room. His only son, whom he called Jack, at tended to the ranch, and the father now and then paid him a visit, going out with supplies in a large covered hack kept for the purpose. He enter tained his visitors with many graphic stories of ranch life, which filled their minds with pictures of a calling pre senting a lively contrast to their cot ton and corn culture at home. They longed to see this strange world with their own eyes, and were promised a visit to Capt. Melton's ranch, much to their delight Their life here was all that could be desired, and the days sped by with quick and lithesome tread, leaving behind a growing strength and cheer. Young hearts are easily wooed by strange skies and give ready and hearty response to the charm of novelty. The process of healing is slower for hearts than for bodies; but, nevertheless, time and In White and Black. change work wonders even in the cure of those ailments that are beyond the reach of physic. Both these bruised hearts began to heal, and the sunshine of hope began to break through the clouds and spread itself over their lives. CHAPTER XXIII. A LONE GRAVE BY THE WAYSIDE. "Be up early to-morrow and in readiness to start betimes, for it is a long drive you are to take," said Capt. Melton, the evening before the trip to the ranch, "that is, unless you want to camp out at night." "Oh, wouldn't that be fine! By all means, let's camp out. What say you, Amelia?" And Dora fairly clapped her hands with delight at the idea. "I haven't as much fancy for nov elty as you have, my dear, and am not sure that sleeping under the open sky is an experiment one would go a thousand miles to seek. I have a great liking for houses, but I confess this once I am not averse to this project. But perhaps Capt. Melton would not approve." "Oh, by all means, Miss Amelia," said Capt. Melton, "nothing would be S70 28o In White and Black. more to my mind, and had I imagined it would please, I should have pro posed it at once." "It would be such an experience to tell when we get back home, and then, for my part, I have a natural fondness for the company of the stars," said Dora. "But perhaps Aunt Lylie would not agree," saidCapt. Melton, turning to wards that worthy personage as he spoke. She had been listening to the conversation with every indication of the most eager interest, but she had not comprehended a word, except in the vaguest sort of way. She was watch ing the dawning light on Dora's face, and hailing the new enthusiasm, which was a sign to her that the old life was returning. She was like one worn out with watching for the return of a ship that has been long at sea when the home-coming sail is first sighted. Had one listened closely,he mighthave heard a whispered "bless de Lawd." "Whut you 'sputin' 'bout, Mars' Cap'in? I's gittin' so ole I dun an' fergit ter tek notice." A Lone Grave by the Wayside. 281 "We weren't disputing, Aunt Lylie, but just deciding whether or not we should camp out to-morrow night. The young ladies are willing if you are.'' "Well, I don' 'zac'ly know. I ain' no hand ter be projickin' wid sich. Who's gwin' keep off dem kyutuses I been hear you tell 'bout?" "You need have no fears of the coyotes," replied Capt. Melton, striv ing to keep a straight face despite Aunt Lylie's grotesque pronunciation of the name of the wild dog of the Texas prairie. "They always make such a hideous noise before they attack you that you have a chance to get out of the way. When you hear them, you have only to climb a tree, and re main till they go away." "How's er ole body lak' me gwine clim' er tree? I ain' nuver done dat when I's young. I'm jes' ez good ez cotch now, ef dat's de game." By a little coaxing and argument Aunt Lylie was somewhat reassured, and agreed to take the risk for Dora's sake; and so it was settled they would dine at home and then start for a 282 In White and Black. point about midway between the home and the ranch. Early in the afternoon, the hack drew up in front of the house, and Capt. Melton, Amelia, Dora, and Aunt Lylie climbed in and were whirled away in high expectation of a pleasant drive. The air was bracing and the sky without a cloud. Drawn by a pair of spirited ponies to whose nimble feet space seemed merely a plaything, they sped across the prairie. There was not much to break the mo notony of the journey; only once or twice a deer bounded across the road, if road the track across the level prai rie could be called. Then Dora lost herself in excitement and showed some of her old-time girlish enthu siasm. At twilight they found water for their ponies and struck camp for the night. It was the work of a few min utes to hobble the horses, gather some sticks, kindle a fire and make a pot of coffee for their supper with water that was all the better for being boiled and flavored with coffee. A Lone Grave by the Wayside. 283 The firelight on the glistening foliage of the live-oaks, the silent silver of the stars in acloudless sky, the monotone of the winds that in these parts are never weary, the endless sweep of level prairie, constituted a combination that would have charmed less vivid imagi nations than theirs. Capt. Melton had taken pains to work on this pre dominating faculty of Aunt Lylie by exciting tales of life in camp and ad ventures with wolves, Indians, and the like, to which she listened with wide- eyed credulity. By bedtime she was excited beyond the possibility of sleep. It was arranged that Dora and Amelia should sleep in the hack, Aunt Lylie under it, while Capt. Melton simply lay down on the grass. By the time talking had ceased a great owl in a tree near by smote the surrounding silence with a vigorous and hair-lifting hoo-hoo! This was too much for Aunt Ly lie's already ex cited nerves, and she started up, ex claiming: "What in de nameer good ness is dat, Mars Cap'in? For de Lawd's sake, jes' lis'en at 'im/' 284 In White and Black. When it was explained, she en joyed the laugh with them, but main tained that "he mus' er got 'is onuthly voice f'um ole Nick hisse'f." They had not yet fallen asleep when a huge bull began to bellow not far away, the low rumble of his challenge sounding like the roar of distant thunder and ending with the combination of an ex aggerated scream and an overgrown sob. Aunt Lylie sat up and held her breath. At the next trumpet-blast from this monarch of the prairie, that went careering through space like the trump of doom (which indeed it was to her), she straightened up, almost lifting the hack from the ground, exclaiming: "Is you-all gwine lie still when ole Nick hisse'f a-comin' arter you." The burst of merriment that greeted her ears was reassuring, for it led her to hope they might come out of this alive. But still she mentally vowed and orally declared that she would never again "git cotch in no sich non- sensible fix, fur," said she, "I ain't been brung up to no sich," No A Lone Grave by the Wayside. 285 amount of bantering or coaxing could bring" her to lie down again. She sat by the hack and kept sleepless watch for the next danger. It was late in the night when it came. If the reader has never heard the rallying cry of a pack of coyotes, the writer can give him no idea of the blood-curdling chorus that breaks out suddenly like pandemonium run mad, shrill staccato, tremolo, crescendo, as if the throats of a thousand demons were clamoring for blood. The coyote is a ventrilo quist; he always seems a great deal nearer than he is. In a twinkling, Aunt Lylie was in the hack, crying: "Laws-a-massy, honey, dis ain' no place fur usl Don' you hear? Lan' sake, jis lis'en at datl Hit's dem kyutuses huntin' bones ter pick, an' here's one ain' gwine set still an' 'vite 'em ter come an' hep dey- se'ves. I wish I's in Vandalia, whar dey ain' no sich onuthly varmints, dat I doesl" This time she was still harder to pacify. Shades of Houston Travis and the restl Had those 286 In White and Black. worthies heard the abuse heaped on Texas by her tongue, made eloquent by fear, they would have felt it was a country not worth fighting for. The 'consequence was that our party did not get much sleep, but had an im-| mense deal of fun, which compensated them, and on the whole the camping episode was voted a great success, not unanimously, however, for Aunt Lylie declared it was fit only for wild In dians. As between "ole Nick" and "dem kyutuses" there was not much choice, and she was morally certain that a camper in Texas was not left to that choice even, for both might pounce upon him at any moment. They reached the ranch about noon. Everything was in readiness to receive them. The comfortable, capacious, one-story house was neatly kept by a brisk Mexican woman, who had put every nook and corner at its best in ! honor of the expected guests. "Cousin Jack" was not by far the Bohemian they had expected to see. So far from being the roistering sav- A Lone Grave by the Wayside. age that the cowboy is represented as being in literature, he was a gentleman in leather overalls as truly as ever wore shining broadcloth. He could rope a steer or grace a drawing-room with equal ease, He soon showed himself a capable host, accommodat ing himself to the whims and fancies of his guests, and divining what would contribute to their pleasure with a tact born of a generous desire to please. With this good-natured, keen-witted, handsome cavalier of the pastures, the young ladies were soon on the best of terms, and the time passed delightfully in strolling about the place, reading, and especially in horseback-riding 1 . For this latter exercise there was abundance of space in the pasture of seventy thousand acres, and plenty of horses, and, we may also add, liberal inclination on the part of the guests and host. On the afternoon of the third day after their arrival, as they were hav ing their accustomed gallop, Jack sud denly reigned in his horse, and bid ding them wait till he returned, rode 288 In White and Black. off toward a huge steer that lifted his wide horns warily two hundred yards away. Jack unloosed his lariat as he rode. The steer was away with a de fiant toss of his head before half the distance had been covered, and went tearing across the prairie like a deer. Jack touched his pony with the spur and that animal needed no second warning, but seeing the game was up, leaped to the chase like an unleashed greyhound. Throwing his nose straight out, and giving every muscle to the chase, he sped over the bosom of the grass-grown prairie like a swal low. Gradually the space between horse and steer was diminishing, when with keen instinct, the steer tore like a tornado through a chapparal thicket where it was impossible for any horse man to follow. The horse, apparently without the use of the rein, circled round the obstruction without break ing his speed. The steer, instead of passing though the bushes to the op posite side, turned and came out at right angles from where he entered and then turned back on his track. A Lone Grave by the Wayside. 289 By the time Jack had made the cir cuit, a considerable distance had been put between him and the brute, by this time mad witt? fright and fury. As he turned into a straight run for his game, the horse seemed to gather up and throw all his energies into the chase, and his rider partook of his spirit, as he leaned far forward and gave him the spur. The space lessened. The horse with great leaps seems to be al ready rejoicing in his triumph, and now the lasso is in the air, and is cut ting swift circles above Jack's head. Now the opportune moment has come, and rising in his stirrups, Jack hurls the lasso through the air. The aim is true, it has caught, the rope tightens, a few short leaps and the horse comes to a standstill, with feet planted firm in front. The great brute stumbles, is down. Quick as thought, Jack leaps to the ground, rushes upon his prey with another rope, and in an incon ceivably short time the steer is help lessly bound. The two women had not spoken one word during this exciting chase. Only In White and Black. when it was safely over, Amelia said, "How daring he is/' with a tremor of admiration in her voice. As Jack galloped to their side, he said simply, "That fellow escaped us at the round-up, and now he must wait for the men to come and take him in. But had I missed my aim, you would have been in danger, as he was coming directly this way." They scolded him a little for his reckless ness, and praised him a good deal for his courage and skill, and he must have been either less or more than hu man if he had not expected and en joyed both. They rode on towards the west, Dora leading the way in a smart gallop, her cousin and Amelia bringing up the rear. These latter appeared to find in each other agreeable companionship. Dora came upon a gate and of neces sity waited for the others to come up. She was told they had reached the limit of her uncle's ranch. On a rise a half-mile away they could see a house which belonged to an old Ger man who owned the adjoining ranch. A Lone Grave by the Wayside. 291 Dora insisted on riding that far. She was enjoying the freedom, the move ment, the sunlight, the scenery. i Just before reaching the house, Dora, still a short way ahead, saw to the right of the road, amid a group of live-oaks, a new grave. Her quick sympathies and lively imagination drew her to the spot. The two saw her leap from her pony, and when they reached her side, she was kneel ing on the fresh dirt with her hands tightly clasped, her cheeks pale, her lips compressed, gazing at a name cut in rude letters on the wooden board at the head. They looked and read "L. Kenyon." Amelia understood, and kneeling by Dora's side placed an arm gently round her and spoke no word, but only sobbed. Then re sponsive tears stole down Dora's cheeks. The cousin, touched by the scene and silenced by the mystery and pa- _ thos of it, moved aside and with a fine instinct of propriety busied himself with the horses. When they arose Dora was almost calm. Amelia was 292 In White and Black. silent, for it was not an occasion for speech. Dora said, "Let us go yon der," pointing to the house. She and Amelia went arm in arm, while Jack followed, wondering what it all meant. They found only an elderly German woman. She was kind. She bustled about with every possible show of courtesy. She and her husband lived a secluded life, and she barely knew Jack Melton by sight. None of the visitors spoke German, and she not a word of English. They managed to make her understand they were interested in the new grave. She produced an envelope on which the name "Lawrance Kenyon, San Antonio, Texas," was written. This, she led them to understand, was all they had found on his person. This they were cheerfully permitted to keep. Dora was eager to see what the con tents might be and she opened it at once. It contained a legal paper, which proved to be a confession of the burn ing of the store of Melton and Ford. Dora's burden was lifted when she saw it was the confession of another A Lone Grave by the Wayside. 293 to the crime with which her lover was charged. This was a joy to her in the midst of her grief. After the first paroxysm of grief, and the revelation contained in the papers, Dora dried her tears and took leave of the place. Pausing at the grave, she laid on it a sprig of evergreen that she had worn on her bosom and said to Amelia, "Tell Cousin Jack," then mounted and rode away. Only a brief fragmentary explanation had been made to Jack at the cottage. As they rode homeward, Amelia told Jack the story. She did not make it clear as to Lawrance's leaving Van- dalia. It was not clear to her. She had not known the part Roswell had played. What Jack said to her it is not our business to know, but we can easily believe it is a dangerous thing to have another's love-story told you by a lovely young woman as you ride across broad prairies through the slant sun into the twilight. CHAPTER XXIV. LASSO CONTENDS WITH FLOOD. The lasso, that much underrated in strument of Western civilization, sometimes figures in a much higher capacity than mere herding- of cattle. When the cowboy, like the ancient shepherd boy, learns to put faith in the instrument with which he is most expert, he has learned a lesson of rare wisdom. Then a lasso may save a life, as a sling once saved a nation. When Lawrance was swept from his saddle in the swollen river, the man we saw on the shore was awaiting his opportunity. When the frantic hand was uplifted for a brief moment, as if to seize the sweet light, like the leap of the lightning the obedient rope flew to its mark and caught Lawrance by the wrist. When he came back to consciousness, he found himself lying on a pallet, under a huge live-oak, sur- 394 Lasso Contends With Flood. rounded by half a dozen cowboys, as many ponies, a few dogs, and the simple furnishings of a camp on the prairie. His first awakening was to the sound of a familiar song. The voice of a man was singing "Nearer, my God, to Thee," and there was peculiar sweetness in the strains as they stole out on the evening air. No cathedral choir ever chanted such harmonies as the ear of Lawrance found in the un skilled singing of that cowboy. Back to the days of his boyhood, back to home and mother, to the hiss and crackle of the pine-wood fire and the shadows dancing on the wall, to the blossoming meadow in springtime and the days of a guileless heart whereon were no scars, was he borne on the wings of the song. He scarcely knew whether he was dead or alive. Looking up he saw the huge branches of the live-oak swaying in the breeze that freshened from the gulf, and through them gleamed the first faint stars like so many signals of peace. Then he knew he lived in the 296 In White and Black. flesh. Had this not been sufficient, he would have been convinced beyond all conjecture that he was not yet among the celestial inhabitants, for the singer was greeted by language such as angels are not supposed to use. It was evident they were not a unit on the subject of sacred things. "Say, bud, give us a rest." "Will mamma's boy let up?" "Say, if you don't shut up that music-box, I'll break it, pardner." "Whar's yer text, par son?" But the singing continued till one of the boys, slipping up behind the singer, poured part of the contents of a bucket of water on his head, in mock baptism of the "singing Meth odist." This was greeted with a roar of laughter. Then, as the youth quietly wiped the water from his face without any show of resentment, the rest seemed to relent. "Tim, I be blamed ef that ain't a shame," said one to the man who had perpetrated the joke, "an' ef it was me I'd knock the fillin' out of you." Then turning to the aggrieved boy, the same speaker said: Lasso Contends With Flood. "Bob, why in the deuce didn't you knock him into the middle of next week?" There was no response to this, but the guying went on. At length the youth found his speech. It was calm and gentle. There was not a touch of anger or impatience in it. But it was manly and compelled attention. He said, "Boys, I don't believe you think I'm afraid, or that if any of you were in danger I should be wanting, but I am not going to fight nor quarrel, for bet ter reason than fear. Besides, I do not wonder that you laugh at me. It is what I ought to expect. It is what I have done many a time myself, for I did not understand. When I understood, I quit ridiculing; when you understand, you will quit. I once saw some boys laugh at another for crying, because they thought it was for the loss of a top or ball. But when he told them his mother had just died, they cried with him. You laugh at me when I sing, because you do not know what makes me sing. You think it strange I do not fight, because you do not 298 In White and Black. know what keeps me from fighting. That is why I say you do not under stand. I was not thinking- of you at all as I sang, but my mind was back at home. On a maple-crowned hill far away there is a sacred spot. It is a family burying-ground. My mother sleeps there. My father and older brother went to the war. They never came back. My mother survived till one year ago to-day. Before she died she called me to her and said, 'Robert, God has spared me to see you almost a man. Now I am going. The only legacy I have to leave you is my bless ing and my prayers. Live to deserve the respect of your fellow man, but do not despair if they despise you. You go out into the world to win your way. I can not go with you, but God will. The only thing you have to fear is the thing that will offend Him.' And then she was still. I went out among the shadows. The stars were coming out. Their light was an offense to me. The air was balmy, but its balm was bitter to me. It was such a night as this, and I resolved as I knelt on the sod Lasso Contends With Flood. 209 to take my mother's advice. The next day at the grave the neighbors sang- that song you heard me sing just now. It comes back to me when I think of the scene, and I was there just now, a thousand miles away, and something in my heart made me sing. Boys, were I to be angry, I should be lie my religion and fail of my moth er's teaching." Lawrance listened to this recital with deep feeling. It was a history much like his own. It moved him ac cordingly, as if a voice had come to him from the grave. He could not help asking himself if he were equally loyal to his training and to the deeper convictions of his nature. He de spised himself as he measured his life by that of this unknown cowboy. The rest had silently listened. Lawrance expected an outburst of ridicule, but it did not come. He noticed that one of them busied himself at once re plenishing the fire, another took a bucket and went to the creek to bring water, and a third found diversion in looking after the horses. When all $00 In White and Black. were seated again, the same young man who had so valiantly won the field before proposed to read to them from a book he had with him. Some time before he had been to the city and met a young lady at the home of Capt. Melton, and she had given him the book to read in camp. She was a niece of Capt. Melton's and was on a visit from Vandalia. Melton 1 Vandalia! Lawrance managed to listen without any sign that he heard, though at sound of those names his heart "knocked at the seated ribs" and every nerve quivered with excitement. He could scarcely credit his senses. There was an almost irresistible im pulse to start up and ask, "Was her name Dora?" But by a supreme effort he restrained himself, and list ened with inexpressible eagerness while the young man dilated on the charms of Miss Melton and her kind ness. "What was she like, Bob? Pretty, was she, and got next to your flutter- mill, hey?" asked Tim. Tim would have shuddered had he known how Lasso Contends With Flood. 301 near that question came to getting his own "flutter-mill" smashed by the "stranger." "Well, I can't say about that, but I'm sure she had something about her better than beauty, something that makes a fellow want to lift his hat and talk low. There was none of your sickening airs, but a simple, straightforward, homespun way. As you would say, Tim, simply business and no foolin'." "Yes, I seem to catch on. One of these ponies that can go the gaits but don't go in for showin' off. Jus' makes straight for the right cow every time, but bucks on the race-track, an' 'ud kick a painted buggy into kindlin' wood in a jiffy. That's what I like in folks. I'd as lief have Pedro Garcia's yellow cur about me as one of these fe male creatures that get themselves up in their crinoline, and curl-papers, and flummery and furbelows just for the drawin'-room, and then mince and giggle and say nothin' in a perfect stream for an hour. Makes you wish you didn't have a female ancestor on jo* In White and Black. either side the family for generations back. But boys, I know one that looks a fellow in the face and says something 1 every whack, whether she 1 speaks or not, and makes you feel like j you want to sit down and grow and j grow in her presence, and when she's gone, you can hear a voice callin' on you for days to get up and be some- thin'. That's why I'm here; but we'll leave that to be continued in the next number." "Well, I should not have put it that way, but you are not far from the truth. The fact is, I was so impressed with her goodness that I scarcely thought of her beauty. But I remem ber now, she has sunny hair, a little disorderly about the brow, a blue eye that you like to look at a second time, and a face well, a face so perfect that you don't bother about details. She brought this book all the way. from Vandalia, and gave it to me, be- j cause, she said, we must be lonely, and it would be company for us." Lawrance had been struggling with the conviction that the subject of this Lasso Contends With Flood. 303 conversation was the one Miss Melton that he had known or cared to know until he heard the description, and then all doubt vanished, for he was certain there was no other like her. He was in the presence of one who had recently looked into her face and listened to her voice. How he longed to ask questions, to learn all why she was there, whether she was still in the city, and how long she would stay. But quick came the thought that there could be no interest to him in know ing, and no good in revealing what must remain to these men and all men a buried secret. So he lay quietly with every nerve a-flutter and thoughts stirring in his brain that were not for words. The fact that she had been in the city clung to his mind, that he had been so near her and had not known it. The rude supper was now ready. The cowboys forgot the subject of their conversation in the more inter esting process of eating, for which they were as thoroughly qualified as health, pure air and hard labor could 304 In White and Black. render them. Lawrance did not for get; how could he? What did it mean to him? Was it not all one to him whether she were near or far? It is not distance that di vides hearts. Distance had not al tered his heart, being near him could not affect hers. So long as she cared not for him, there might as well be continents between them. Yet there was something inexpressibly delight ful in the thought that she was nearer than he had known, and all his soul went out in a longing to get sight of her. Yet perhaps it was best he should not. He was drawn irresistibly toward the city, and yet sober reflection told him he had best flee from it, since he dared not make himself known, and no good could come of seeing her. Impulse or reason, which shall prevail? Long he pondered, and as long found no resting-place for his thoughts. The cowboys were kind, they could not be gentle. Their homely speeches, their rude familiarity, their uncouth manners, could not conceal the native kindliness of their natures; indeed, Lasso Contends With Flood. these were signs, the only signs they knew how to give, of their friendly dis position. Of fine speeches they knew nothing, of fine manners less if possi ble, but in fine deeds they were not wanting. When it was found that a fever had set in, and that he could not possibly resume his journey yet, they nursed him with unabated attention, His heart turned toward the city now, and he pursuaded himself he would not for some time be strong enough to continue his search. He felt he had left something of his old self on the other side of that stream, and in that terrible moment when all seemed lost to him, he had seen in one swift, awful vision the meaning of life as never before. He had faced life's issues where there were no subter fuges nor sophistries, but only cold, bare, cruel realities, and he came from the revelation with new and higher ideals. All his views of life had been taken hitherto looking forward, only this once he had one quick glimpse of it looking backward. Life viewed from the beginning is one thing; life jo6 In White and Black. viewed from the ending is quite an other. To-morrow is never under stood until it becomes yesterday. To stand at the dawn and watch the rose tint fade into the white glory of noon tide while every pulse beats high with hope is sweet, but also deceptive; to stand where the day wanes into dark ness and see the fading of the light in which we have wrought and reveled, and realize that we are facing the finished and irrevocable record, is awful, but it is also sacredly and faith fully real. Once that vision falls on the soul, it fixes its stamp and furnishes thereafter the standard by which life is to be tried. That which will not stand the test of this backward look, which will not glow transplendent in the calm and deepening twilight, is but the chaff which the wind driveth away. When Lawrance turned home ward, there was a seriousness in the tenor of his thoughts that was new, and, whether he knew it or not, he had crossed a stream on life's high way that he could never recross. Lasso Contends With Flood. 307 There was also in his thoughts that which he had long tried in vain to put out of them. That which had been awakened in his heart could not accu rately be named hope; perhaps it was only a yearning that rose up to fight again with despair. One thing was once more clear to him, and that was that no time or space or circumstance could overlay or efface the image of Dora so that it would not still be the chief treasure of his heart; and no am bition or toil so usurp the mind that the sound of her name would not com mand all the forces of his being, as a war-cry will arouse an army from slumber. There remained one hope as to Dora; that he might clear him self in her eyes from any suspicion of crime. It was, he tried to persuade himself, the only hope he cherished. Who shall say there did not linger about this a troop of shadowy, vague, unuttered hopes? Not he, for we are not judges of ourselves. Hope dies hard, and where the twin sister, love, abides, hope is in calling distance. But of this one hope he pondered much. joS In White and Black. Could he but secure those proofs, meant for her originally, courts and juries might do their worst. If he were only innocent in her eyes the world might go its way. Since this hope was not now near to realization, he told himself a thousand times, it was in vain he drew near by each rod of advance to his idol of the past. Yet his heart refused to be cold and accept the comfortless reality which common sense, that pitiless tyrant that after all is sometimes no sense at all, kept on thrusting upon it. In spite of all his dreary conclusions, his heart glowed and thrilled with a nameless rapture, that seemed to deepen as he approached the city. What is that in us that makes us cling and cling to a happiness, even when it seems clean gone from us? Is it a prophecy of im mortality, a promise of the compen sations of eternity, a germ that shall at last flower and fruit on the now barren soil of our earthly disappoint ments? CHAPTER XXV. THE BREAKING OF THE CLOUDS. The visit to the ranch was ended. The discovery of the grave broke the spell of enjoyment completely, and three days later it was a very discon solate party that made its way back to the city. Dora's sadness was deep and genuine, but it was tempered by the fact that she had secured the proof of Lawrance's innocence. Also there was compensation in the very realiza tion of certainty. There is much in knowing the full weight you have to carry, that you may properly adjust yourself to it. Dora had now reached that point where she saw all the waste and barrenness of the future. There was no longer that harassing uncer tainty that oscillates between hope and despair, between resistance and resignation. Amelia was surprised at the calmness and patience with which 800 In White and Black. her friend faced her new discovery. It was more a settled melancholy than a violent grief that dominated the chastened spirit. When Aunt Lylie had been in formed of their melancholy dis covery, she was affected by it in a way that others had not been. She was pained for Dora's sake, but there was a keener pain than that. That grave was a stern and grim impedi ment to her faith. She had always contended they would find Law- ranee, For that she had prayed and trusted. Her confidence was not easily shaken but this was a severe test. She had relied on an inward impression and the facts seemed to contradict that testimony. For the first time in many years she retired that night without praying. She was not in a state of rebellion, but she was in a state of perplexity and dangerously near the border-land of doubt. Not many days after their return to the city, she started to the post-office at least half a mile from Capt. Mel- The Breaking of the Clouds, ton's residence. Passing along on her way thither by a street she did not usually travel, she suddenly stopped in front of a barber-shop, and stood with open mouth and expanding eyes till two or three disgusted pedestrians had run against her, and then, as if unconscious of onlookers, made a dash for the door, exclaiming, "Bless de Lawd!" upsetting a spittoon and en dangering the life of a man who was undergoing the torture of having a crop of beard of two weeks growth in the sun and weather of ranch life mowed from his face, threw her arms around Ben. It is useless to say two hearts were happy. It is to Ben's credit that he did not resent the unconventional en thusiasm of his simple old mammy, though barbers and customers were greatly amused. He got himself ex cused and retired with her into a room in the rear where they might talk. Ben was as surprised to see her as she to see him. He soon explained to her that he had been employed by a man from San Antonio with a drove of 312 In White and Black. horses, and had been persuaded to re turn to that city with him when he had disposed of his drove. He had found employment in this shop and by in dustry and sobriety was getting on well. That in which Aunt Lylie was most interested was the information that Ben had to give concerning Lawrance. He had been in that very shop and recognized Ben, and they had talked together. It had not been a month since he had seen Lawrance. He was surprised and grieved to hear of the finding of his grave, but re called the fact that he was anything but well when he saw him. When Aunt Lylie left him it was understood that Ben was to busy himself till they should meet again next day in search of the place where Lawrance had boarded, and for any other informa tion he might gain about him. There was a hope in her mind that she might discover that in connection with Law- ranee's life in the city which would be a comfort to the heart of Dora. She had, in her ignorance of many The Breaking of the Clouds. things, that womanly wisdom that di vines the deep, delicate needs of the heart. She felt that any little proofs of his devotion, of his fidelity to his first love, or even praise of his life from the lips of strangers, or other tokens of his worth, would be to Dora's bruised spirit like dew on mown grass. Shall we say this was her only hope? We dare not, for whether she ever formulated it or not, there still lingered a glow of that hope that had sustained her so long, of one day seeing Law- ranee and Dora happy. Of course, she dared not whisper it to herself, but it clung about her simple heart as the afterglow of sunset lingers in the sky, or like the perfume of flowers clinging to the shattered vase. Shall we blame her? This hope had wrought itself in with the most sacred impulses of her life; it had struck its roots into the deepest, divinest soil of her nature. It had linked itself so with her faith and become so a part of her religion that to destroy the one threatened the other when she could no longer pray for that, she could not pray at all. 314 In White and Black. However unreasoning, even insane, such a hope might be, who shall blame her if it clung to her still? When she returned to the Melton home they had been waiting long for letters from home. Then she realized that she had not been to the office at all, and exclaimed: "Ef dat don' beat all. I 'clar ter gracious, dis town so stractin' hit mek er niggah lose dey haid." Then she turned and went back, leaving Amelia wondering what had come over her. That night Aunt Lylie prayed long and fervently. Her faith had received a new impulse. She began to see dimly. It is easier to believe when there is some light on the eyes. Such is human weakness. Aunt Lylie kept her secret. Since the return from the ranch she had slept little and eaten less. Now that she had found Ben and gotten trace of Lawrance, sleep was impossible. The flame of life was burning too brightly to be smothered by sleep, if not too brightly to last. Next day she found an excuse to go to see Ben. He had been diligent The Breaking of the Clouds. 315 and had found out where Lawrance had boarded. He learned there that he was often away several days at a time. At this time he had been away for many days, and it was not known where he had gone. She resolved to go and make inquiries about him and quiet her conscience by doing her best. She had but a short distance to go, and somehow she felt it was not much more she should do for Dodie. Arid so she went on her search heed less of all else. She had been gone long enough to create anxiety when she turned the corner in front of the Melton residence at a most undigni fied and we beg her pardon a most ungainly speed. Her skirts were flap ping wildly and her white handker chief, partially escaped from its moor ings, was flying over her shoulder like a torn sail in a tempest. She paid no attention to a half-dozen street Arabs who started up from as many different places along the way, and followed, shouting all sorts of ridiculous phrases. It was as the chirp of sparrows in the path of a conqueror. When a heart 316 In White and Black. has been full of a purpose, a high, un selfish purpose, and that purpose is accomplished, what avails the ridicule of a regiment more or less of the thoughtless. Aunt Lylie was lifted into a region where praise and blame are both alike, because they are not heard. She bounded up the front steps, crying, "Whar's Dodie? Whar's Dodie? Fs foun' 'im. Fs foun' 'im." Hearing the sound of a door flung wide, and the falling of a chair that dared obstruct this triumphal march, Dora came out into the hall just in time to catch a glimpse of this white and black thundercloud of emotion, and then to be caught in its embrace. She felt the pressure of arms that had so often shielded her from pain and loneliness, and the quick heaving of a bosom that never harbored any but a tender thought of her, while her aston ished ears caught the fragmentary outbursts of the glad tidings: "I tole yer we gwine fin' 'im I seed 'im wid dese eyes." There was no chance for interruptions. Dora was The Breaking of the Clouds. 317 a.t a loss to consider whether Aunt Lylie was beside herself, or the story true. She drew the old negro into her room and gave her a chair, into which she fell breathless, unable to speak for some time. Dora flew to call Amelia, who was walking by the riverside, and brought her to Aunt Lylie. Her coming was the signal for another outburst. Amelia listened and heard her say: "Mars Lawrance an' Ben, too, I foun' 'em," and caught Dora in her arms, and they two min gled their tears of joy. When they turned their attention to Aunt Lylie again, she was leaning against the side of the chair, her hands hanging limp, her eyes closed she had fainted. The excitement of the last few days, this sudden joy, together with the headlong run, had been too much for her. She was helped to a bed and simple restoratives soon brought a change. When she was able to speak, she opened her eyes, looked up at Dora, who was bending over her, and said with ineffable ten- 318 In White and Black. derness: "Dodie ole black mam- mie's wuk dun, an' dun." They dared not question her, she was too feeble and so they must wait. She closed her eyes and slept. Dora drew the shades and leaving- Aunt'; Lylie in charge of her aunt, Mrs. Melton, she and Amelia stole out and sitting 1 on the river-bank talked or thought the tidings over together. They believed Aunt Lylie. They could not understand how there could be any mistake about the grave, but less could they understand how the old servant could be misled. Dora said little. She seemed to be lis tening. She was listening to the music in her heart. She could not think nor plan, but only rejoice. She was not now in a world of fact, only in a world of feeling. That world that has no past, no future, but is one eternal now. It has neither memory nor hope, but revels in realization. As; they sat with clasped hands, the river murmured among the flags along the bank, and the lithe wind whispered through the boughs overhead, and the The Breaking of the Clouds. 319 brown leaves danced merrily about their feet. Amelia made out in her own mind this much: As soon as Aunt Lylie could tell it, they must find out where Lawrance was and that she would then undertake the pleasing 1 task of bringing 1 him and Dora together. When they were able to gather the full story, it was less pleasing than they had supposed. Aunt Lylie had really found Lawrance but she had found him in prison. When she searched out the house in which he boarded, she learned he had been ar rested that morning and was in the custody of the police. She had made her way to the jail, where she was per mitted to see the prisoner. She said little to him, only enough to make sure of his identity and to give him to understand she had been in search of him. Then she had made that head long rush for home, bearing her tid ings. As to what Lawrance had said to her, he was too much astonished by her brief visit to say anything, in fact 320 In White and Black. the full import of it did not dawn on him until he heard her voice come back from the corridors of the prison in declaration of his innocence and in vigorous denunciation of the injustice being 1 done him. He had made up his mind to await patiently the course of the law, and meet the charges where they origi nated. He had little hope of the aid of the detective now, and even his new friend who called himself Chris Ware had disappeared from the scene. There was one consolation in it all. Dora was here and would not be in Vandalia to witness his shame. But when Aunt Lylie appeared on the scene even that consolation was shat tered. The visit of that individual and the few excited words that she uttered led him to believe that Dora believed him innocent, and that she would per haps be willing to befriend him. But at that thought all the bitterness of his disappointment came back to him, and he saw once more the awful sylla bles that had blighted his life. No judge could ever pronounce a sentence The Breaking of the Clouds. 321 that would not be less terrible than was the one that exiled him from hope and home. Now his pride and sense of innocence were his only friends they should still be his only friends, and she who had robbed him of hope should not now bid him throw away his pride. If the visit of Aunt Lylie should mean that Dora meant him any service, he would not accept it, it had come too late. The heart of Lawrance grew hot with the most in tense resentment that it had ever cherished towards Dora. The prison- bars, the humiliation, the friendless- ness all served to give emphasis to memories that would not die. He saw her white hand on the prison-bolt and felt she had thrust him in there. His strength rallied as he kindled the fires of resentment on the altar of his love, those hottest, fiercest fires kindled out of the fuel of things most sacred. They make men strong, but with a terrible, cruel strength. Night came draped in clouds, and with a low rumble of thunder coming now and then out of the west one of , 322 In White and Black. those nights that thrust their gloom into the very marrow and" lay chill hands of dread on the soul. Ben had come to see his mother, and had brought other information. He had found out the charge on which Lawrance had been arrested, and that he was likely to be held there for a day or two and perhaps more before he was sent to Vandalia. Capt. Melton was out of the city. Dora threw her cloak about her and taking Ben with her went out into the night. Was it safe? She did not know. Was this step womanly? She did not ask. She had reached that stage where a true woman remembers one thing and one only. She did not count the cost, she was resolved to act regard less of cost. Lawrance must be freed, and then whatever came. To that point all the woman's soul of her gath ered itself up and hastened, not heed ing what lay between; beyond it her heart forbade her to look lest the beauty of the deed be marred. Guided by Ben she went straight to the prison. The place was anything The Breaking of the Clouds. but inviting even to stouter nerves than Dora's. It was a dingy, grimy, two-story stone building with police office below and prison-cells above. They were hard, stern, unsympathetic faces that confronted her. The nar row office was lighted by a single jet, that shot its yellow arrows into a dense cloud of tobacco smoke. Dora's cause gave her courage, and she went bravely in, clutching under her cloak the weapon with which she was to fight for the freedom of Lawrance the confession of "Shocky." "How, what have we here, my lass? Rather an unseasonable hour for such as you. What can we do for you?" This was her greeting by a burly po liceman, as he rested one hand on the butt of his pistol and with the other twirled a stout club. There was some thing in the voice painfully unlike the voices she had been used to, and the sight of half a dozen others of the same general pattern lounging and smoking on the inside was not reas suring. At the sound of her voice, they all became instantly attentive, as 324 In White and Black. if alert for the latest sensation. Dora mastered her timidity, and spoke firmly: "You have a prisoner here by the name of Kenyon, have you not?" "Kenyon? When did he come in?" He was answered from within: "That's the chap I pulled this morn ing, Chief." "Oh, yes. Well, what of him?" "I wish to speak to him," said Dora. "That is impossible. He has been locked up, and it is too late for vis itors." "But I must see him. Only for a minute, just to speak a word to him. I know he is innocent, I have the proof, and I must tell him. Fancy what it means, what it would mean to you, to be locked up like that when you were innocent, and no word from from any one." She spoke earn estly and rapidly, and at the last her voice broke, and her eyes were bril liant and eloquent with tears. The voice that replied was less harsh now, "I am sorry, Miss, but it is The Breaking of the Clouds. 325 against the rules for visitors to see prisoners at this hour, and we can not make exceptions." "But," said Dora, "here are proofs of his innocence. It is the confession of the guilty man. When you see it you will let him go?" This last as an eager question, producing the precious document as she finished. "I would be glad to accommodate you, ma'am, but it is impossible. All the proofs in the world are of no use here. You will have a chance to pro duce them at the proper time," and he turned away to indicate that there was nothing further to be said. Dora hesitated. How helpless she felt in the presence of that great power called law, sometimes also called justice, which seemed to her now a monster deaf to pleading and blind to tears. She thought of a message to Lawrance, a message that would have sweetened all the bitter ness of his heart and turned that prison into a palace, but that message refused to blossom in that atmosphere, and with sinking heart she turned J26 In White and Black. sadly away; and Lawrance brooded in the darkness, all ignorant of the hap piness so near to him happiness for him, if he had known it, in the very wretchedness of Dora. Then a thought came to Dora that brightened her face. There was a chance yet. How hearts defy dis tance! And that there is anywhere in the wide earth one, just one, soul that will always lower its scepter at our coming, how it cheers and strengthens ! Dora knew the electricity of the clouds yonder did not leap to meet the elec tricity of the earth more surely or readily than the strength of her father would leap to gird her weakness, and the thought soothed her as the embrace of his arms had often done for the motherless girl. She hurried to the telegraph-office not far away and sent the following message to him: "Lawrance arrested here for burning store. Have him released. I have proof of his innocence. DORA." It had begun to rain. The clouds hung low. The streets were silent and the street-lamps flickered with a sickly glow where they chanced to be. To- The Breaking of the Clouds. 327 night there was much darkness be tween them, and the way for Dora and Ben was along the river, which sang a dull minor over the shal lows in full harmony with the dismal heavens above and the depressed spirits within. At one point a sudden turn brought them close to the river- bank, under the dark, dripping trees. Dora was listening to their footfalls, which seemed startlingly loud in the silence, when suddenly two men stepped into the path in front of them. Their outlines could barely be seen as they planted themselves across the path. Dora and Ben stopped. When the two men started to advance Ben's courage, not the most virile at the best, forsook him utterly and he took to his heels. This brought Dora to herself, and in a voice of command and re buke, she simply said, "Ben!" It had the desired effect. Ben retraced his steps. The voice of Dora had rallied his courage or else her authority had mastered his fears. The unknown men were only two paces in advance, completely barring the way. One of 328 In White and Black. them spoke in an easy, almost polite voice: "Make no noise, Miss, and you shall suffer no harm. We only want those papers you have about you. Be so kind as to hand me those and you may pass on." Dora thought with the rapidity of lightning. These men must know the value of these papers and that she had them. She thought of some ugly faces she had seen at the police sta tion. They were, then, enemies of Lawrance. His safety was at stake. She must defend those papers, even with her life. Yet how? She could not flee, she was at the mercy of these men. Could she commit the precious package to the darkness? In a firm tone she said, "Let me pass. I will give you my life sooner than these papers." So saying, she made a movement forward. One of the men sprang at her, but was met by the fist of Ben, which laid him his length on the ground. Then she saw Ben felled by a club in the hands of the other. She must act quickly. She The Breaking of the Clouds. 329 grasped the package of papers, and flung them out into the darkness. To her amazement she saw the white leaves uncurl on the bosom of the river, touched at that point by the light of a distant street-lamp, and the careless waters laughed and gam boled as they bore away what was to her more precious than life itself. The highwayman sprang towards her at the moment she threw the paper, but he never reached her, for swift and terrible came a blow from some un seen hand in his rear that laid him sprawling on the earth. Then before she knew what was happening, she was caught by a strong pair of arms, lifted from her feet and carried away, she knew not whither, as if she had been a child. She had not fainted nor cried out during all the excitement, nor did she do either now, but she was powerless in the giant grasp to do anything but let herself be borne along, bewildered, overcome by the excitement through which she had just passed and was passing. She hadn't time for much reflection, till In White and Black. there came a voice from that monster with the iron grip saying, "Don't be oneasy, Miss, we'll have you home in a minute." This was all, till she was put gently down at her uncle's door, and the voice said again, "I hope yer not shuck up ter hurt/' and before she could answer or breathe her thanks, the darkness had swallowed him. She lost no time in looking after Ben, who, when help reached him, was alone, the two highwaymen hav ing managed to take themselves away. Ben was recovering consciousness. He was bleeding freely from a wound in the head but proved not to be se riously hurt. Dora, delivered from the strange whirlwind of events in which all think ing had been swallowed up, began to cast about to see if she might decide what was to be done next. It was a gray morning that broke on the sleepless eyes looking out of her window, and the clouds that rolled in huge masses across the sky envelop ing and enfolding each other were fit The Breaking of the Clouds. 331 symbols of her mental condition. She paced the room in the early light and tried to compose her spirits. While thus absorbed, there came a sudden gleam of light, and looking up she saw the city was bathed in the glory of the rising sun, that had ploughed a huge breach in the clouds, set all the spires agleam and turned the growth along the river into an or chard of diamonds. As suddenly something within her that the clouds and darkness had quenched was touched into life by that light. Though she did not see the way, in some vague yet beautiful sense she felt there was a way and that she was equal to finding it. While her nature in the morning light was getting its slack forces into place as a bow is bent to the string, she heard the door-bell ring. Listen ing, she heard her own name called. Who could it be? Perhaps a message from Lawrance. Soon she was sum moned to greet a strange man, who made a too evident and therefore 332 In White and Black. awkward effort to hide that ill-used, shrinking manner that crime and mis ery beget. After her kind greeting, he began in a hesitating drawl: "I come to see you, Miss, not that the like o' me is fit to look at the like o' you, but because I knowed things you didn't, and can help you. Ef I'd a* wanted to hurt you, I could a' done it las' night when I brung you home. But it makes me happy to do for you, 'cause you've been good to my Chris what I left like a dog. I furgot you don't know I am Chris's pa, an' it ain't fur him to be proud uv." Dora could contain herself no longer, and she exclaimed, "You the father of Chris, and you here, and it was you who defended me, and brought me home last night! Do let me thank you " "Don't mind, Miss; it's all on ac count o' Chris, an' 'cause you bin good to him, an' Mr. Kenyon an' his good word to me. It's not many good turns I've done in my time, an' it makes a body feel more like 'e's some The Breaking of the Clouds. 333 account to lend a hand for them as deserves it It's not a long story, nor one 'at a feller can brag 1 about, but I'll make it as cler as I can. "You see, I was wuthless, an* all fum drink, an* I fell into ways as wus bad, bad. Then I had to hide out, an' with two other men I come here, after goin' down to Mexico. One of the three was the man that burnt the store. He give a man them papers you had last night. He wanted to git rid o' that showin' o' his guilt, an' also to git Mr. Kenyon convicted, for he was to git a part o' the reward. He was at the station las' night, an' heard you say you had 'em, though how you come by 'em 1 can't make out. He then follered on with 'is pal to waylay you an' git 'em from you. I've quit 'em, all along o' Mr. Kenyon givin' us a talk one night. I was at the station an' watched 'em. I knowed they meant mischief, you see I know that sort, an' I follered. My jedg- ment was right, an' I got there jest in time ter help you out, though you 334 ? n White and Black. shorely was stan'in' yer groun' plucky fur a' 'oman. "I come ter say 'bout Mr. Kenyon, don't you be no ways oneasy. I 1 knows all erbout that bizness, an' I'm er goin' to see 'im through. They ain't nary hair o' his head in no danger. I ain't hankerin' after no court, fur I've got reasons to fight shy uv all sich, but ef Mr. Kenyon has ter go thar, here's one as is goin' too, an' tell what I know ef I hang fur it which I don't think, min' you, he'll ever have to go. An' I wanted you to know you could count on me in this 'ere bizness for all I'm wuth, an' that ain't much." While he was speaking, a telegram was put into Dora's hands which was opened with trembling fingers. It read: "All right. No cause for arrest. Will be ordered re leased at once. FATHER.*' "Jes' as I 'lowed it 'ud be," said the \ visitor when it was read, and his face showed only a little less satisfaction than Dora's. The Breaking of the Clouds. 335 It was genuine delicacy and insight that prompted Dora to ask this man to carry the dispatch with her compli ments to Mr. Kenyon, and his soul was in the alacrity with which he ac cepted the task. CHAPTER XXVI. A MEETING AND A PARTING. Lawrance found himself at liberty and back in his room at the noon hour. There were thing's for him to think over. None so absorbing" as the fact that evidently, whether he was willing or not, Dora had played an important part in securing his release, except that other question of what he was to do about it, now he was out of prison. He did not know the motive that lay back of her acts, nor what they might mean to him. She dared not let him know. To her he was the lover who had left her without a word of explanation. To him she was the woman who had cruelly flung him from her, and he felt now he could not forget and meet her as a friend simply. He felt it would be discourteous not to in some way recognize her kindness. He went through the form of writing a formal 888 A Meeting and a Parting. JS7 note of thanks, but he was half con scious all the time it was being written that he would not send it. When he finished he was thoroughly certain it would be acting a stupendous false hood to send that, and he tore it to shreds. Then he wrote a polite re quest for the privilege of calling to ex press his thanks in person. But when he thought of her coming to the prison and encountering those ruffians, and for him, he called himself names not at all complimentary for resorting to that formality, and did the manly, sensible thing went straight to Capt. Melton's and called for Dora. For the rest no pen is adequate. Happy souls, we leave you to your bliss! We can trust the hand of love to tear away the veil that has hung between you. Distance, that friend of delusion and deception, no longer divides you, and the voice of love will break the long silence and lay the ghosts of suspicion. We only know that falsehood can not live, nor doubt haunt the heart, when two who love are face to face. Further we have no 338 In White and Black. care to inquire. How many strange things of the past few months will be made plain in the white light of that holy confidence, and what tides of rapture shall roll over the desert sands as heart speaks to heart! We bid you welcome to love's Elysium; you de serve it, as those whose hearts are true deserve it always. ******* It was growing late in the day when Lawrance rose to go. The sun was descending the cloud-flecked west, and a holy peace was over the earth. Aunt Lylie had asked to see the lov ers before they parted. This privilege was willingly granted her, for they felt how much they owed to her fidel ity, and also it had been made clear that she was near the end. The forces of her life had spent themselves, and the restless energies were slowing up. It began to be evident that her prophecy was true that her work was done. Noble work it had been, though done by an humble soul. Her mind was clear, only when she slept A Meeting and a Parting. there were broken sentences that showed she was moving in the realm of shadows. "I's gittin' monst'ous ti'd, but den 'tain't but erleetle furder. I kin see de house an' de big- beech an' ole mistiss waitin' fur me on de big po'ch." Then she waved her hand as if answering a signal. Sometimes she sang a simple lullaby, accompa nied by a swaying motion of the head and arms, then patting the cover, she would say, "Dar now, leetle Dodie ain' gwine' cry no mo; kase black mammy dun an' sung 'er ter sleep." She was back in the childhood of Dora. Once more recent memories wove themselves into her dreams, and she murmured, "Lylie hears yer callin', Mistiss, an' she comin' now, kase she done foun' 'im, and' de li'l lam' kin git 'long 'dout me now." Lawrance tried. to thank her for the part she had taken in bringing them together, but she simply said, "It's de Lawd's doin's. I bin prayin' fur ter fin' yer. When dey told me yer wuz dead an' dey done foun' yo' grabe, I 340 In White and Black. mos' gin up, but I ain' quite, kase somp'in' toP me we gwin' fin' yer." "Do you think the Lord had some thing to do with all this?" This ques tion was no idle one. Lawrance was attracted and impressed by the simple faith of this ignorant, wise soul, and he had sighted the headlands of faith under the storm-rent skies of the last few days. Dora looked at him with the first pained, hurt expression he had ever seen on her face, but she was silent. "Law, chil', I knows it. How come we heah dis mawnin' ef 'e ain' lead us? Dis is er big woiT, an' we bin fur 'part an' now we heah in dis little room. Ain' somebody brung us heah?" "Aunt Lylie, I have sometimes thought He did not care; else He would not let His children suffer as Dora and you and I have suffered." "Dat's whut I can' zac'ly mek out myse'f; but I know dis, yo' burden don' git no lighter when you' don' trus' an' pray; hit git heavier; but when you pray, it seem lak er han' A Meeting and a Parting. 341 cum down an' he'ps you tote de load. I don't know but whut hit 'pears ter me trouble's ez much de sign er His love ez de glad is, kase he's tryin' ter sabe us. Ben use ter git er splinter in 'is foot an cum cryin' to 'is mammy. Den I'd set 'im on my lap an' take er needle an' git it out. He might beg me dat I won' hu't him. But hit gwine ter hu't wuss fur dat splinter ter stay dar dan hit hu't ter git it out. I ain' axin' how come it in, but I axin' how I kin git it out. I don' know how 'tis, but I spec' de Lawd hab ter do his chillun dat a way." "Aunt Lylie, I want to believe as you believe, and as Dora believes," said Lawrance, "for it makes life beautiful and the heart glad, and I am going to try." "Mars Lawrance, I dun an' prayed fur you day an' night. Now I gwine leab Dodie wid you, de chile whut I nuss an' keer fur so long. She ain' got no mudder, an' she won' hab ole black Mammy no longer. Ole Mistiss waitin' fur 'er up yander an' Ps gwine ter be waitin' fur 'er, an' we 34 2 In White and Black. spec'in' you ter he'p 'er an' come wid 'er. I promus Ole Mistiss I gwine stay wid 'er an' do my bes' fur 'er twell she don' need me no mo'. Now dat time's done come, an' I gwine to leab you an' her in de han's er de One whut sabed Ole Mistiss an' sabes Ole Lylie dis minnit." She took Dora's hand in one of hers and Lawrance's in the other, as they stood on opposite sides of the bed with bowed heads. Invol untarily they obeyed her unexpressed desire and knelt, and she prayed with voice sinking lower and lower: "O Lawd, take dese chillun by dey han' an' lead 'em same ez you led Ole Marster an' Mistiss. De paf been mighty rough an' dark, but now hit's come smoov, an' cle light's done bruk fur 'em. Keep 'em side an' side in de narrer paf " here the voice sank to a whisper, "an' bring 'em safe " it was the end. The last breath had spent itself in prayer, a prayer as sa cred and acceptable as ever ascended from splendid cathedral altar, and one that will be remembered in Heaven A Meeting and a Parting. 343 when the stately pleadings of a thou sand sacerdotal lips are forgotten. Just then the sunshine broke through a cloud and, stealing through the window lattice, fell across all three. When the two arose from their knees, Aunt Lylie's bosom was still. Lawrance looked at Dora with a new tenderness, a new, .deep joy. The light had entered his soul, for he had looked toward the Son of Right eousness. Here we bid farewell to as true, pure, and heroic a soul as ever dwelt in human clay God's image in black, as in those two at her side He is seek ing to repeat His image in white. Lawrance came from the death bed of Aunt Lylie" a changed man. The great deeps of his nature had been stirred by the events of the past few days. He had been drifted be yond the cold and cheerless regions of speculation by currents of emotion that scarcely left time or space for the rudder of his own choice. At the last scene of that strangely simple yet wondrously wise life, ebbing out 344 I n White and Black. into the light, he had yielded himself to the divine will and once again there was joy in Heaven. He walked home ward feeling as one who has been long struggling through a wilderness, pathless and wild, going he knew not whither, but has at last emerged into the open, and sees the plain highway lead between green fields and sunny meadows, all sweet with the breath of springtime. The clouds had lifted; there was peace. He had come at once to the end of his wandering and the end of his doubting. Between the joy of his old love re quited and of his new love just found he could easily distinguish. One was the best earth had to offer, the other a taste of the best Heaven has to be stow. Till now the love of Dora never held its rightful place in his heart. It was divested of idolatry, for it was now subordinate to a higher love. It was none the less tender, none the less dominant among human loves, but it was truer, more divine, and gave more real joy because it held its rightful place in a heart that A Meeting and a Parting. 345 had found a higher anchorage. His human love and its object were lifted to a higher plane and transfigured in the new light into a beauty to which they were before strangers. The whole of life, its joy and sorrow, as sumed a new beauty under the glow of this splendid dawn.. He had not only found Dora, but the world, him self, and God. Henceforth the way was clear. He was walking by the river-side, the swish of its waters was in his ears; he was watching the sway of the long grass that grew beneath the surface, and the glad rhythm of its seaward flow was appealing to his eye and ear. Just overhead a mocking-bird sang from the boughs of a pecan-tree rav ishing snatches that leapt from song to song, as if the singer were trying all the songs he knew to find one that would fit the mood of the hour, and the last seeming ever sweeter than the rest a ladder of song on which the soul might climb far into the heights of rapture. Lawrance was in a mood to enjoy the scene to the full, for once 346 In White and Black. more his heart was open to nature's secrets, and more so than ever to her highest secrets, and he was happy. Hearing a stealthy footstep behind him Lawrance turned and was face to face with Chris Ware. Extending his hand he said, "Come with me, my friend," and his voice and his manner spoke more than his words. The proffered hand was let fall by the two rough hands that seized it, and taking a step backward, the man stood a moment before speaking, then shaking his head sadly he said, "Me? me?- your friend? You didn't mean that." "Why shouldn't I? You saved me from those ruffians at the risk of your life, and last night you saved her, and you are my friend and her friend," Lawrance replied. "Not yit, not yit " and the head shook slowly and mournfully and the words were like a sob. "Yer see, 'tain't no ways shore yit I'm a-tryin,' but the devil's in here 1" and he clutched and tore at his breast. "The drink, the drink, it's been like a fire in me all A Meeting and a Parting. 347 night an' all day, an' I've tramped the streets with this ragin' hell in my breast. I know ther's a devil, but is ther a God, an' will 'e he'p? Ef I go down this time, it's no use, the jig's up. Sumpin' tole me jistnow, 'Here's the river, jump in an' pass yer checks, fer it's no use tryin'; but when I seen you I run fum the river." "Listen to me," said Lawrance, kindly laying his hand on Ware's shoulder. "There is a God and He will help His children. You are one of His blinded prodigal children, and I am your brother. As a proof that God will help, He has taught you to help and is teaching me to help. Come with me and we will learn together." Ware drew back, and almost shook the hand from his shoulder. "No, I can't. I must clear out. I am hungry. I can't git no work. Who'd ye 'spect to trust me? Ef I could only git work, I mought stick." Then Lawrance looked at his face and saw it was pale and sunken, and it dawned on him that the struggle was not only with the devil of thirst 34 s In White and Black. but also of hunger. Then the tragedy of this unequal fight for manhood, this almost hopeless clutching for a foot ing on the steps that lift themselves into the eternal sunshine, presented itself before his mind, and this man, who had waged his struggle in the dark without sympathy or bread, with all the habits of a lifetime tugging at him, and all the world putting out its hands to push him down, was trans formed into a hero. But he also knew there is an end to human endurance, and this man had but now reached it, and put out his hand for that touch of human sympathy that would rally his courage. The heart of Lawrance went out to him and he felt as if he were laying hold on a soul just slipping into hell. The hand he laid on the man now was one of authority, and the voice had in it tenderness but also command as he said, "Come." And that baffled soul seized its footing on the upward slope; and as they walked away there were three, and the third was whispering, "Lo, I am with you." CHAPTER XXVII. A MERRY CHRISTMAS AND HOME AGAIN. The holidays were at hand. The north wind rather rudely caressed the roses that had dared the domain of winter, swept the pecans from the trees, spread a covering of leaves over the shivering earth, and set the even ing fires hissing and glowing with their message of cheer. The color was coming to Dora's cheek, the light to her eye. There is that which is more than climate, more than physic; which can set all the wheels of life awhirl and make the pulse bound with new energy. It can change the snows of Lapland to blooming gardens and transform the leaden gloom of winter to tropic springtime. That something had come to Dora. Cousin Jack gladdened them all with a promised visit. Dora and Lawrance were constantly together, MO 350 In White and Black. and Amelia was left almost entirely to Jack's attentions thrown on his mercy, as she expressed it. A very tender mercy, we are about to suspect. Lawrance could no longer withhold from Dora the secret of his book. > Who was ever able to hide his ambi tions from the one he loves? It is one of the noblest fruits of love that it furnishes an atmosphere in which am bitious dreams and half-formed Uto pias ripen. The crude, unfinished poem, kept under lock and key from the indifferent eyes of the world, is brought out and read, not without sly apology and promise of improvement. Dreams that one has blushed even to entertain, and which have been put away a hundred times as a foolish fancy, are laid bare; and life plans, which in the world's atmosphere of cold criticism would split the sides of ridicule, deck themselves out in the garb of rhetorical exaggeration in the i tempting sunshine of love. Well it ' is for him who can keep through the toiling years in the enchanting atmos phere that has the power to lure from Merry Christmas Home Again. Its cowering retreat the daring spirit of endeavor. Toward the close of the holidays Amelia received the following letter: DEAR AMELIA: Permit me to address you thus once more. I know I have forfeited that right, but it soothes the pain at my heart to speak to you as of old. As I think of that time, now forever gone with all but its memories, a flood of thoughts come over me, but of that I will not write. I have wronged you and others deeper than you know, and deeper than I realized until recently. Pride, avarice and ambition blinded my eyes to my own guilt. The discovery of it has come too late. All that is left m now is to seek forgiveness. I am sick the physicians say hopelessly, and so I believe. Could I see you once more and hear you say you forgive me, I could die content. If this is not to be, will you not at least try to think of me as I used to appear to you in those bright days before the shadows fell? Farewell till we meet. ROSWELL GRANTLBY. Then Amelia was in haste to go. Un fathomable heart of woman! Her idol was shattered, and she no longer wor shiped, but pity still reigned in her heart. "The being she loved was no mora. What she saw in the silence and heard in the lone Void of life, was the young hero born of her own Perished youth." There is a master to some natures stronger than love; its name is duty. Amelia's was one of those natures, 352 In White and Black. and when her sensitive conscience said she ought, though all the clamor of pride and passion and pleasure sought to drown its voice, her will re sponded unhesitatingly, "I must." This is the stuff of which martyrs and heroes are made, and all the world's uplift has come through the strength of such souls. Poor Jack ! It was a sad and lonely day for him when he went back to the ranch. Amelia had left him without one encouraging word. She had been kind, gentle, almost tender in her manner, but had forbidden him to hope. If Jack was pained at this part ing, he was not alone in his suffering. Life has in it more tragedy than is written. If he made a forced sacri fice to Amelia's high sense of duty, she laid her own live, beating heart on the altar willingly. She had set her face towards a rare and beautiful sacrifice. Thus, when the sun shines for some, the shadows fall on others. The extent of Amelia's sacrifice is be yond our power to know, as its na ture and motive are beyond the com- Merry Christmas Home Again. 353 prehension of any whose lives are on a lower plane than hers. Her heart, all bruised and mangled as it was, had begun to heal in the atmosphere of Jack's genial, noble presence. She had known him only a few days when she was dismayed to find that what she had thought an impossibility was actually coming to pass. She had put far from her all thoughts of loving again. Her heart was dead within her. But it now began to live, and the thoughts and dreams of love be gan to come back as the nesting birds come back in the springtime. But she kept her secret subdued and hid den with higher thoughts. When that secret struggled to be free, and she yearned to give response to the love that plead for one little crumb of hope, she hushed its cry with another word, "duty." Thus, these two, the currents of whose lives had met and mingled, and whose hearts had leaped to each other as if all the past had meant them for each other, parted and went their ways. 354 I H White and Black. Amelia hastened to the bed-side of Roswell. She found him indeed a wreck of his former self, with no hope of recovery, but at most only the pros pect of lingering invalidism. She as sured him of her complete forgive ness, cheered and comforted him as only she could do, and at once took her position as his good angel. She forbade him to speak of the painful things of the past, under penalty of her displeasure. She spent such part of every day by his side, reading and talking, as she could spare from her work, for she was compelled to teach for support. We leave her there at her self-chosen post, in spite of her heart's human yearnings, and in spite of the tender, pleading letters from Jack, keeping steadily to the highway of duty as it appeared to her. Who shall blame her if her heart was often far away with the ranchman, and who shall think her the less a heroine that she was not able to smother the passion to which she refused to yield? Noble nature 1 Thy like is all too rare in this Merry Christmas Home Again. 355 beclouded earth, where unselfish deeds shine so bright and so far! Perhaps, some day, when thou art released from thy self-imposed watch by the side of him who caused thy deepest pain, Heaven will appoint thee thy place by the side of one who will bring joy to thee, thy greatest joy; who knows? Meantime, think well that in the crucifixion of thy own life thou art also devoting to a life of inconsolable loneliness another, and while bring ing light and cheer to one, thou art drawing a cloud of gloom over the sky of another. Think well, and choose. Mr. Melton welcomed both Dora and Lawrance with great joy. He gave them a father's blessing, and in their happiness this man of many years and many cares became happy himself, and, as he beheld their sweet contentment, was carried out of his perplexities back to the sunny years of his own youth, and love again sang its rapturous songs through his dreams. In White and Black. The reader would not, and ought not, to foEgive" these lovers if they did not go out under the big beech and stand once more together on the spot where on that memorable first of May the secret broke into speech. Trust them to think of the propriety of that, or, rather, to do it, propriety or no propriety. Standing there, look ing into each other's eyes, once again speech fails. In a delicious, eloquent, rapturous silence they give them selves to memories and hopes, or rather let us say to oblivion of all save each other. "Dora!" "Lawrance!" Reader, let us take a turn among these stately trees, and draw our wraps about us; for it is chilly for those who have nothing else to keep them warm save these woven rags, and let us not try to overhear or oversee these lovers. Let us together be glad that such a moment has ever been in our own lives, and pity the poor wretches who, beneath some beech, or beside some rosebush, or astroll Merry Christmas Home A gain. on some moonlit lawn, have never listened to their own hearts beat in passionate syllables and heard the echo from another heart, blissfully conscious the while that no curious eyes or ears were nigh. THE END. UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LIBRARY Los Angeles This book is DUE on the last date stamped below. Form L9-Series 4939 PS353U P6 000 929 281 4 PLEASE DO NOT REMOVE THIS BOOK CARDS University Research Library t i lu Jl UJ 0) J