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<div>*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 14355 ***</div>
<h1>The Project Gutenberg eBook, 54-40 or Fight, by Emerson Hough, Illustrated
by Arthur I. Keller</h1>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<hr class="full" />
<div class="figcenter"><a href="images/001.jpg"><img src=
"images/001.jpg" width="45%" alt="" title="" /></a><br />
<b>"Madam," said I, "let me, at least, alone." <a href=
"#page_049">Page 49</a>.</b>
<br /></div>
<h1>54-40 or Fight</h1>
<h2>By Emerson Hough</h2>
<h5>Author of</h5>
<div>
<h4><i>The Mississippi Bubble</i>, <i>The Way of the Man</i>,<br />
etc.</h4>
</div>
<div class="figcenter"><br />
<img src="images/002.png" width="10%" alt="" title="" /></div>
<h5>WITH FOUR ILLUSTRATIONS</h5>
<h4>BY ARTHUR I. KELLER</h4>
<h6>A. L. Burt Company<br />
Publishers -- New York</h6>
<h4>1909</h4>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p class="center"><small>TO</small><br />
<b><i>Theodore Roosevelt</i></b><br />
<br />
<small>PRESIDENT OF THE UNITED STATES<br />
AND FIRM BELIEVER IN THE RULE OF THE PEOPLE<br />
<br />
THIS BOOK IS DEDICATED<br />
WITH THE LOYALTY AND ADMIRATION<br />
OF THE AUTHOR</small></p>
<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<h2>CONTENTS</h2>
<div class="center">
<table summary="">
<tr>
<td align="right">CHAPTER</td>
<td> </td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td align="right"><a href="#CHAPTER_I">I</a></td>
<td> <a href="#CHAPTER_I">THE MAKERS OF MAPS</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td align="right"><a href="#CHAPTER_II">II</a></td>
<td> <a href="#CHAPTER_II">BY SPECIAL DESPATCH</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td align="right"><a href="#CHAPTER_III">III</a></td>
<td> <a href="#CHAPTER_III">IN ARGUMENT</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td align="right"><a href="#CHAPTER_IV">IV</a></td>
<td> <a href="#CHAPTER_IV">THE BARONESS HELENA</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td align="right"><a href="#CHAPTER_V">V</a></td>
<td> <a href="#CHAPTER_V">ONE OF THE WOMEN IN THE
CASE</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td align="right"><a href="#CHAPTER_VI">VI</a></td>
<td> <a href="#CHAPTER_VI">THE BOUDOIR OF THE
BARONESS</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td align="right"><a href="#CHAPTER_VII">VII</a></td>
<td> <a href="#CHAPTER_VII">REGARDING ELISABETH</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td align="right"><a href="#CHAPTER_VIII">VIII</a></td>
<td> <a href="#CHAPTER_VIII">MR. CALHOUN
ACCEPTS</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td align="right"><a href="#CHAPTER_IX">IX</a></td>
<td> <a href="#CHAPTER_IX">A KETTLE OF FISH</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td align="right"><a href="#CHAPTER_X">X</a></td>
<td> <a href="#CHAPTER_X">MIXED DUTIES</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td align="right"><a href="#CHAPTER_XI">XI</a></td>
<td> <a href="#CHAPTER_XI">WHO GIVETH THIS
WOMAN</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td align="right"><a href="#CHAPTER_XII">XII</a></td>
<td> <a href="#CHAPTER_XII">THE MARATHON</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td align="right"><a href="#CHAPTER_XIII">XIII</a></td>
<td> <a href="#CHAPTER_XIII">ON SECRET SERVICE</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td align="right"><a href="#CHAPTER_XIV">XIV</a></td>
<td> <a href="#CHAPTER_XIV">THE OTHER WOMAN</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td align="right"><a href="#CHAPTER_XV">XV</a></td>
<td> <a href="#CHAPTER_XV">WITH MADAM THE
BARONESS</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td align="right"><a href="#CHAPTER_XVI">XVI</a></td>
<td> <a href="#CHAPTER_XVI">DÉJEÛNER A LA
FOURCHETTE</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td align="right"><a href="#CHAPTER_XVII">XVII</a></td>
<td> <a href="#CHAPTER_XVII">A HUNTER OF
BUTTERFLIES</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td align="right"><a href="#CHAPTER_XVIII">XVIII</a></td>
<td> <a href="#CHAPTER_XVIII">THE MISSING
SLIPPER</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td align="right"><a href="#CHAPTER_XIX">XIX</a></td>
<td> <a href="#CHAPTER_XIX">THE GENTLEMAN FROM
TENNESSEE</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td align="right"><a href="#CHAPTER_XX">XX</a></td>
<td> <a href="#CHAPTER_XX">THE LADY FROM MEXICO</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td align="right"><a href="#CHAPTER_XXI">XXI</a></td>
<td> <a href="#CHAPTER_XXI">POLITICS UNDER
COVER</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td align="right"><a href="#CHAPTER_XXII">XXII</a></td>
<td> <a href="#CHAPTER_XXII">BUT YET A WOMAN</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td align="right"><a href="#CHAPTER_XXIII">XXIII</a></td>
<td> <a href="#CHAPTER_XXIII">SUCCESS IN SILK</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td align="right"><a href="#CHAPTER_XXIV">XXIV</a></td>
<td> <a href="#CHAPTER_XXIV">THE WHOA-HAW TRAIL</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td align="right"><a href="#CHAPTER_XXV">XXV</a></td>
<td> <a href="#CHAPTER_XXV">OREGON</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td align="right"><a href="#CHAPTER_XXVI">XXVI</a></td>
<td> <a href="#CHAPTER_XXVI">THE DEBATED
COUNTRY</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td align="right"><a href="#CHAPTER_XXVII">XXVII</a></td>
<td> <a href="#CHAPTER_XXVI">IN THE CABIN OF
MADAM</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td align="right"><a href="#CHAPTER_XXVIII">XXVIII</a></td>
<td> <a href="#CHAPTER_XXVIII">WHEN A WOMAN
WOULD</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td align="right"><a href="#CHAPTER_XXIX">XXIX</a></td>
<td> <a href="#CHAPTER_XXIX">IN EXCHANGE</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td align="right"><a href="#CHAPTER_XXX">XXX</a></td>
<td> <a href="#CHAPTER_XXX">COUNTER CURRENTS</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td align="right"><a href="#CHAPTER_XXXI">XXXI</a></td>
<td> <a href="#CHAPTER_XXXI">THE PAYMENT</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td align="right"><a href="#CHAPTER_XXXII">XXXII</a></td>
<td> <a href="#CHAPTER_XXXIII">PAKENHAM'S PRICE</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td align="right"><a href="#CHAPTER_XXXIII">XXXIII</a></td>
<td> <a href="#CHAPTER_XXXIII">THE STORY OF HELENA VON
RITZ</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td align="right"><a href="#CHAPTER_XXXIV">XXXIV</a></td>
<td> <a href="#CHAPTER_XXXIV">THE VICTORY</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td align="right"><a href="#CHAPTER_XXXV">XXXV</a></td>
<td> <a href="#CHAPTER_XXXV">THE PROXY OF
PAKENHAM</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td align="right"><a href="#CHAPTER_XXXVI">XXXVI</a></td>
<td> <a href="#CHAPTER_XXXVI">THE PALO ALTO
BALL</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td> </td>
<td> <a href="#EPILOGUE">EPILOGUE</a></td>
</tr>
</table>
</div>
<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<div>
<h1>FIFTY-FOUR FORTY<br />
OR FIGHT</h1>
</div>
<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<h2><a name="CHAPTER_I" id="CHAPTER_I"></a>CHAPTER I</h2>
<h3>THE MAKERS OF MAPS</h3>
<div class="blockquot">
<p>There is scarcely a single cause in which a woman is not engaged
in some way fomenting the suit.—<i>Juvenal</i>.</p>
</div>
<p>"Then you offer me no hope, Doctor?" The gray mane of Doctor
Samuel Ward waved like a fighting crest as he made answer:</p>
<p>"Not the sort of hope you ask." A moment later he added: "John,
I am ashamed of you."</p>
<p>The cynical smile of the man I called my chief still remained
upon his lips, the same drawn look of suffering still remained upon
his gaunt features; but in his blue eye I saw a glint which proved
that the answer of his old friend had struck out some unused spark
of vitality from the deep, cold flint of his heart.</p>
<p>"I never knew you for a coward, Calhoun," went on Doctor Ward,
"nor any of your family I give you now the benefit of my personal
acquaintance with this generation of the Calhouns. I ask something
more of you than faint-heartedness."</p>
<p>The keen eyes turned upon him again with the old flame of flint
which a generation had known—a generation, for the most part,
of enemies. On my chief's face I saw appear again the fighting
flush, proof of his hard-fibered nature, ever ready to rejoin with
challenge when challenge came.</p>
<p>"Did not Saul fall upon his own sword?" asked John Calhoun.
"Have not devoted leaders from the start of the world till now
sometimes rid the scene of the responsible figures in lost fights,
the men on whom blame rested for failures?"</p>
<p>"Cowards!" rejoined Doctor Ward. "Cowards, every one of them!
Were there not other swords upon which they might have
fallen—those of their enemies?"</p>
<p>"It is not my own hand—my own sword, Sam," said Calhoun.
"Not that. You know as well as I that I am already marked and
doomed, even as I sit at my table to-night. A walk of a wet night
here in Washington—a turn along the Heights out there when
the winter wind is keen—yes, Sam, I see my grave before me,
close enough; but how can I rest easy in that grave? Man, we have
not yet dreamed how great a country this may be. We <i>must</i>
have Texas. We <i>must</i> have also Oregon. We must
have—"</p>
<p>"Free?" The old doctor shrugged his shoulders and smiled at the
arch pro-slavery exponent.</p>
<p>"Then, since you mention it, yes!" retorted Calhoun fretfully.
"But I shall not go into the old argument of those who say that
black is white, that South is North. It is only for my own race
that I plan a wider America. But then—" Calhoun raised a
long, thin hand. "Why," he went on slowly, "I have just told you
that I have failed. And yet you, my old friend, whom I ought to
trust, condemn me to live on!"</p>
<p>Doctor Samuel Ward took snuff again, but all the answer he made
was to waggle his gray mane and stare hard at the face of the
other.</p>
<p>"Yes," said he, at length, "I condemn you to fight on, John;"
and he smiled grimly.</p>
<p>"Why, look at you, man!" he broke out fiercely, after a moment.
"The type and picture of combat! Good bone, fine bone and hard; a
hard head and bony; little eye, set deep; strong, wiry muscles, not
too big—fighting muscles, not dough; clean limbs; strong
fingers; good arms, legs, neck; wide chest—"</p>
<p>"Then you give me hope?" Calhoun flashed a smile at him.</p>
<p>"No, sir! If you do your duty, there is no hope for you to live.
If you do not do your duty, there is no hope for you to die, John
Calhoun, for more than two years to come—perhaps five
years—six. Keep up this work—as you must, my
friend—and you die as surely as though I shot you through as
you sit there. Now, is this any comfort to you?"</p>
<p>A gray pallor overspread my master's face. That truth is welcome
to no man, morbid or sane, sound or ill; but brave men meet it as
this one did.</p>
<p>"Time to do much!" he murmured to himself. "Time to mend many
broken vessels, in those two years. One more fight—yes, let
us have it!"</p>
<p>But Calhoun the man was lost once more in Calhoun the visionary,
the fanatic statesman. He summed up, as though to himself,
something of the situation which then existed at Washington.</p>
<p>"Yes, the coast is clearer, now that Webster is out of the
cabinet, but Mr. Upshur's death last month brings in new
complications. Had he remained our secretary of state, much might
have been done. It was only last October he proposed to Texas a
treaty of annexation."</p>
<p>"Yes, and found Texas none so eager," frowned Doctor Ward.</p>
<p>"No; and why not? You and I know well enough. Sir Richard
Pakenham, the English plenipotentiary here, could tell if he liked.
<i>England</i> is busy with Texas. Texas owes large funds to
<i>England. England</i> wants Texas as a colony. There is fire
under this smoky talk of Texas dividing into two governments, one,
at least, under England's gentle and unselfish care!</p>
<p>"And now, look you," Calhoun continued, rising, and pacing up
and down, "look what is the evidence. Van Zandt, <i>chargé
d'affaires</i> in Washington for the Republic of Texas, wrote
Secretary Upshur only a month before Upshur's death, and told him
to go carefully or he would drive Mexico to resume the war, <i>and
so cost Texas the friendship of England!</i> Excellent Mr. Van
Zandt! I at least know what the friendship of England means. So, he
asks us if we will protect Texas with troops and ships in case she
<i>does</i> sign that agreement of annexation. Cunning Mr. Van
Zandt! He knows what that answer must be to-day, with England ready
to fight us for Texas and Oregon both, and we wholly unready for
war. Cunning Mr. Van Zandt, covert friend of England! And lucky Mr.
Upshur, who was killed, and so never had to make that answer!"</p>
<p>"But, John, another will have to make it, the one way or the
other," said his friend.</p>
<p>"Yes!" The long hand smote on the table.</p>
<p>"President Tyler has offered you Mr. Upshur's portfolio as
secretary of state?"</p>
<p>"Yes!" The long hand smote again.</p>
<p>Doctor Ward made no comment beyond a long whistle, as he
recrossed his legs. His eyes were fixed on Calhoun's frowning face.
"There will be events!" said he at length, grinning.</p>
<p>"I have not yet accepted," said Calhoun. "If I do, it will be to
bring Texas and Oregon into this Union, one slave, the other free,
but both vast and of a mighty future for us. That done, I resign at
once."</p>
<p>"Will you accept?"</p>
<p>Calhoun's answer was first to pick up a paper from his desk.
"See, here is the despatch Mr. Pakenham brought from Lord Aberdeen
of the British ministry to Mr. Upshur just two days before his
death. Judge whether Aberdeen wants liberty—or territory! In
effect he reasserts England's right to interfere in our affairs. We
fought one war to disprove that. England has said enough on this
continent. And England has meddled enough."</p>
<p>Calhoun and Ward looked at each other, sober in their
realization of the grave problems which then beset American
statesmanship and American thought. The old doctor was first to
break the silence. "Then do you accept? Will you serve again,
John?"</p>
<p>"Listen to me. If I do accept, I shall take Mr. Upshur's and Mr.
Nelson's place only on one condition—yes, if I do, here is
what <i>I</i> shall say to England regarding Texas. I shall show
her what a Monroe Doctrine is; shall show her that while Texas is
small and weak, Texas <i>and</i> this republic are not. This is
what I have drafted as a possible reply. I shall tell Mr. Pakenham
that his chief's avowal of intentions has made it our <i>imperious
duty</i>, in self-defense, to hasten the annexation of Texas, cost
what it may, mean what it may! John Calhoun does not
shilly-shally.</p>
<p>"<i>That</i> will be my answer," repeated my chief at last.
Again they looked gravely, each into the other's eye, each knowing
what all this might mean.</p>
<p>"Yes, I shall have Texas, as I shall have Oregon, settled before
I lay down my arms, Sam Ward. No, I am <i>not</i> yet ready to
die!" Calhoun's old fire now flamed in all his mien.</p>
<p>"The situation is extremely difficult," said his friend slowly.
"It must be done; but how? We are as a nation not ready for war.
You as a statesman are not adequate to the politics of all this.
Where is your political party, John? You have none. You have outrun
all parties. It will be your ruin, that you have been honest!"</p>
<p>Calhoun turned on him swiftly. "You know as well as I that mere
politics will not serve. It will take some extraordinary
measure—you know men—and, perhaps, <i>women</i>."</p>
<p>"Yes," said Doctor Ward, "and a precious silly lot: they are;
the two running after each other and forgetting each other; using
and wasting each other; ruining and despoiling each other, all the
years, from Troy to Rome! But yes! For a man, set a woman for a
trap. <i>Vice versa</i>, I suppose?"</p>
<p>Calhoun nodded, with a thin smile. "As it chances, I need a man.
Ergo, and very plainly, I must use a woman!"</p>
<p>They looked at each other for a moment. That Calhoun planned
some deep-laid stratagem was plain, but his speech for the time
remained enigmatic, even to his most intimate companion.</p>
<p>"There are two women in our world to-day," said Calhoun. "As to
Jackson, the old fool was a monogamist, and still is. Not so much
so Jim Polk of Tennessee. Never does he appear in public with eyes
other than for the Doña Lucrezia of the Mexican legation!
Now, one against the other—Mexico against Austria—"</p>
<p>Doctor Ward raised his eyebrows in perplexity.</p>
<p>"That is to say, England, and <i>not</i> Austria," went on
Calhoun coldly. "The ambassadress of England to America was born in
Budapest! So I say, Austria; or perhaps Hungary, or some other
country, which raised this strange representative who has made some
stir in Washington here these last few weeks."</p>
<p>"Ah, <i>you mean the baroness!</i>" exclaimed Doctor Ward. "Tut!
Tut!"</p>
<p>Calhoun nodded, with the same cold, thin smile. "Yes," he said,
"I mean Mr. Pakenham's reputed mistress, his assured secret agent
and spy, the beautiful Baroness von Ritz!"</p>
<p>He mentioned a name then well known in diplomatic and social
life, when intrigue in Washington, if not open, was none too well
hidden.</p>
<p>"Gay Sir Richard!" he resumed. "You know, his ancestor was a
brother-in-law of the Duke of Wellington. He himself seems to have
absorbed some of the great duke's fondness for the fair. Before he
came to us he was with England's legation in Mexico. 'Twas there he
first met the Doña Lucrezia. 'Tis said he would have
remained in Mexico had it not been arranged that she and her
husband, Señor Yturrio, should accompany General Almonte in
the Mexican ministry here. On <i>these</i> conditions, Sir Richard
agreed to accept promotion as minister plenipotentiary to
Washington!"</p>
<p>"That was nine years ago," commented Doctor Ward.</p>
<p>"Yes; and it was only last fall that he was made envoy
extraordinary. He is at least an extraordinary envoy! Near fifty
years of age, he seems to forget public decency; he forgets even
the Doña Lucrezia, leaving her to the admiration of Mr. Polk
and Mr. Van Zandt, and follows off after the sprightly Baroness von
Ritz. Meantime, Señor Yturrio <i>also</i> forgets the
Doña Lucrezia, and proceeds <i>also</i> to follow after the
baroness—although with less hope than Sir Richard, as they
say! At least Pakenham has taste! The Baroness von Ritz has brains
and beauty both. It is <i>she</i> who is England's real envoy. Now,
I believe she knows England's real intentions as to Texas."</p>
<p>Doctor Ward screwed his lips for a long whistle, as he
contemplated John Calhoun's thin, determined face.</p>
<p>"I do not care at present to say more," went on my chief; "but
do you not see, granted certain motives, Polk might come into power
pledged to the extension of our Southwest borders—"</p>
<p>"Calhoun, are you mad?" cried his friend. "Would you plunge this
country into war? Would you pit two peoples, like cocks on a floor?
And would you use women in our diplomacy?"</p>
<p>Calhoun now was no longer the friend, the humanitarian. He was
the relentless machine; the idea; the single purpose, which to the
world at large he had been all his life in Congress, in cabinets,
on this or the other side of the throne of American power. He spoke
coldly as he went on:</p>
<p>"In these matters it is not a question of means, but of results.
If war comes, let it come; although I hope it will not come. As to
the use of women—tell me, <i>why not women?</i> Why anything
<i>else</i> but women? It is only playing life against life; one
variant against another. That is politics, my friend. I <i>want</i>
Pakenham. So, I must learn what <i>Pakenham</i> wants! Does he want
Texas for England, or the Baroness von Ritz <i>for
himself?</i>"</p>
<p>Ward still sat and looked at him. "My God!" said he at last,
softly; but Calhoun went on:</p>
<p>"Why, who has made the maps of the world, and who has written
pages in its history? Who makes and unmakes cities and empires and
republics to-day? <i>Woman</i>, and not man! Are you so
ignorant—and you a physician, who know them both? Gad, man,
you do not understand your own profession, and yet you seek to
counsel me in mine!"</p>
<p>"Strange words from you, John," commented his friend, shaking
his head; "not seemly for a man who stands where you stand
to-day."</p>
<p>"Strange weapons—yes. If I could always use my old weapons
of tongue and brain, I would not need these, perhaps. Now you tell
me my time is short. I must fight now to win. I have never fought
to lose. I can not be too nice in agents and instruments."</p>
<p>The old doctor rose and took a turn up and down the little room,
one of Calhoun's modest ménage at the nation's capital,
which then was not the city it is to-day. Calhoun followed him with
even steps.</p>
<p>"Changes of maps, my friend? Listen to me. The geography of
America for the next fifty years rests under a little roof over in
M Street to-night—a roof which Sir Richard secretly
maintains. The map of the United States, I tell you, is covered
with a down counterpane <i>à deux</i>, to-night. You ask me
to go on with my fight. I answer, first I must find the woman. Now,
I say, I have found her, as you know. Also, I have told you
<i>where</i> I have found her. Under a counterpane! Texas, Oregon,
these United States under a counterpane!"</p>
<p>Doctor Ward sighed, as he shook his head. "I don't pretend to
know now all you mean."</p>
<p>Calhoun whirled on him fiercely, with a vigor which his wasted
frame did not indicate as possible.</p>
<p>"Listen, then, and I will tell you what John Calhoun
means—John Calhoun, who has loved his own state, who has
hated those who hated him, who has never prayed for those who
despitefully used him, who has fought and will fight, since all
insist on that. It is true Tyler has offered me again to-day the
portfolio of secretary of state. Shall I take it? If I do, it means
that I am employed by this administration to secure the admission
of Texas. Can you believe me when I tell you that my ambition is
for it all—<i>all</i>, every foot of new land, west to the
Pacific, that we can get, slave <i>or</i> free? Can you believe
John Calhoun, pro-slavery advocate and orator all his life, when he
says that he believes he is an humble instrument destined, with
God's aid, and through the use of such instruments as our human
society affords, to build, <i>not</i> a wider slave country, but a
wider America?"</p>
<p>"It would be worth the fight of a few years more, Calhoun,"
gravely answered his old friend. "I admit I had not dreamed this of
you."</p>
<p>"History will not write it of me, perhaps," went on my chief.
"But you tell me to fight, and now I shall fight, and in my own
way. I tell you, that answer shall go to Pakenham. And I tell you,
Pakenham shall not <i>dare</i> take offense at me. War with Mexico
we possibly, indeed certainly, shall have. War on the Northwest,
too, we yet may have unless—" He paused; and Doctor Ward
prompted him some moments later, as he still remained in
thought.</p>
<p>"Unless what, John? What do you mean—still hearing the
rustle of skirts?"</p>
<p>"Yes!—unless the celebrated Baroness Helena von Ritz says
otherwise!" replied he grimly.</p>
<p>"How dignified a diplomacy have we here! You plan war between
two embassies on the distaff side!" smiled Doctor Ward.</p>
<p>Calhoun continued his walk. "I do not say so," he made answer;
"but, if there must be war, we may reflect that war is at its best
when woman <i>is</i> in the field!"</p>
<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<h2><a name="CHAPTER_II" id="CHAPTER_II"></a>CHAPTER II</h2>
<h3>BY SPECIAL DESPATCH</h3>
<div class="blockquot">
<p>In all eras and all climes a woman of great genius or beauty has
done what she chose.—<i>Ouido</i>.</p>
</div>
<p>"Nicholas," said Calhoun, turning to me suddenly, but with his
invariable kindliness of tone, "oblige me to-night. I have written
a message here. You will see the address—"</p>
<p>"I have unavoidably heard this lady's name," I hesitated.</p>
<p>"You will find the lady's name above the seal. Take her this
message from me. Yes, your errand is to bring the least known and
most talked of woman in Washington, alone, unattended save by
yourself, to a gentleman's apartments, to his house, at a time past
the hour of midnight! That gentleman is myself! You must not take
any answer in the negative."</p>
<p>As I sat dumbly, holding this sealed document in my hand, he
turned to Doctor Ward, with a nod toward myself.</p>
<p>"I choose my young aide, Mr. Trist here, for good reasons. He is
just back from six months in the wilderness, and may be shy; but
once he had a way with women, so they tell me—and you know,
in approaching the question <i>ad feminam</i> we operate <i>per
hominem</i>."</p>
<p>Doctor Ward took snuff with violence as he regarded me
critically.</p>
<p>"I do not doubt the young man's sincerity and faithfulness,"
said he. "I was only questioning one thing."</p>
<p>"Yes?"</p>
<p>"His age."</p>
<p>Calhoun rubbed his chin. "Nicholas," said he, "you heard me. I
have no wish to encumber you with useless instructions. Your errand
is before you. Very much depends upon it, as you have heard. All I
can say is, keep your head, keep your feet, and keep your
heart!"</p>
<p>The two older men both turned now, and smiled at me in a manner
not wholly to my liking. Neither was this errand to my liking.</p>
<p>It was true, I was hardly arrived home after many months in the
West; but I had certain plans of my own for that very night, and
although as yet I had made no definite engagement with my
fiancée, Miss Elisabeth Churchill, of Elmhurst Farm, for
meeting her at the great ball this night, such certainly was my
desire and my intention. Why, I had scarce seen Elisabeth twice in
the last year.</p>
<p>"How now, Nick, my son?" began my chief. "Have staff and scrip
been your portion so long that you are wholly wedded to them? Come,
I think the night might promise you something of interest. I assure
you of one thing—you will receive no willing answer from the
fair baroness. She will scoff at you, and perhaps bid you farewell.
See to it, then; do what you like, but bring her <i>with</i> you,
and bring her <i>here</i>.</p>
<p>"You will realize the importance of all this when I tell you
that my answer to Mr. Tyler must be in before noon to-morrow. That
answer will depend upon the answer the Baroness von Ritz makes to
<i>me</i>, here, to-night! I can not go to her, so she must come to
me. You have often served me well, my son. Serve me to-night. My
time is short; I have no moves to lose. It is you who will decide
before morning whether or not John Calhoun is the next secretary of
state. And that will decide whether or not Texas is to be a state."
I had never seen Mr. Calhoun so intent, so absorbed.</p>
<p>We all three now sat silent in the little room where the candles
guttered in the great glass <i>cylindres</i> on the mantel—an
apartment scarce better lighted by the further aid of lamps fed by
oil.</p>
<p>"He might be older," said Calhoun at length, speaking of me as
though I were not present. "And 'tis a hard game to play, if once
my lady Helena takes it into her merry head to make it so for him.
But if I sent one shorter of stature and uglier of visage and with
less art in approaching a crinoline—why, perhaps he would get
no farther than her door. No; he will serve—he <i>must</i>
serve!"</p>
<p>He arose now, and bowed to us both, even as I rose and turned
for my cloak to shield me from the raw drizzle which then was
falling in the streets. Doctor Ward reached down his own shaggy top
hat from the rack.</p>
<p>"To bed with you now, John," said he sternly.</p>
<p>"No, I must write."</p>
<p>"You heard me say, to bed with you! A stiff toddy to make you
sleep. Nicholas here may wake you soon enough with his mysterious
companion. I think to-morrow will be time enough for you to work,
and to-morrow very likely will bring work for you to do."</p>
<p>Calhoun sighed. "God!" he exclaimed, "if I but had back my
strength! If there were more than those scant remaining years!"</p>
<p>"Go!" said he suddenly; and so we others passed down his step
and out into the semi-lighted streets.</p>
<p>So this, then, was my errand. My mind still tingled at its
unwelcome quality. Doctor Ward guessed something of my mental
dissatisfaction.</p>
<p>"Never mind, Nicholas," said he, as we parted at the street
corner, where he climbed into the rickety carriage which his
colored driver held awaiting him. "Never mind. I don't myself quite
know what Calhoun wants; but he would not ask of you anything
personally improper. Do his errand, then. It is part of your work.
In any case—" and I thought I saw him grin in the dim
light—"you may have a night which you will remember."</p>
<p>There proved to be truth in what he said.</p>
<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<h2><a name="CHAPTER_III" id="CHAPTER_III"></a>CHAPTER III</h2>
<h3>IN ARGUMENT</h3>
<div class="blockquot">
<p>The egotism of women is always for two.—<i>Mme. De
Stäel</i>.</p>
</div>
<p>The thought of missing my meeting with Elisabeth still rankled
in my soul. Had it been another man who asked me to carry this
message, I must have refused. But this man was my master, my chief,
in whose service I had engaged.</p>
<p>Strange enough it may seem to give John Calhoun any title
showing love or respect. To-day most men call him
traitor—call him the man responsible for the war between
North and South—call him the arch apostle of that impossible
doctrine of slavery, which we all now admit was wrong. Why, then,
should I love him as I did? I can not say, except that I always
loved, honored and admired courage, uprightness, integrity.</p>
<p>For myself, his agent, I had, as I say, left the old Trist
homestead at the foot of South Mountain in Maryland, to seek my
fortune in our capital city. I had had some three or four years'
semi-diplomatic training when I first met Calhoun and entered his
service as assistant. It was under him that I finished my studies
in law. Meantime, I was his messenger in very many quests, his
source of information in many matters where he had no time to go
into details.</p>
<p>Strange enough had been some of the circumstances in which I
found myself thrust through this relation with a man so intimately
connected for a generation with our public life. Adventures were
always to my liking, and surely I had my share. I knew the frontier
marches of Tennessee and Alabama, the intricacies of politics of
Ohio and New York, mixed as those things were in Tyler's time. I
had even been as far west as the Rockies, of which young
Frémont was now beginning to write so understandingly. For
six months I had been in Mississippi and Texas studying matters and
men, and now, just back from Natchitoches, I felt that I had earned
some little rest.</p>
<p>But there was the fascination of it—that big game of
politics. No, I will call it by its better name of statesmanship,
which sometimes it deserved in those days, as it does not to-day.
That was a day of Warwicks. The nominal rulers did not hold the
greatest titles. Naturally, I knew something of these things, from
the nature of my work in Calhoun's office. I have had insight into
documents which never became public. I have seen treaties made. I
have seen the making of maps go forward. This, indeed, I was in
part to see that very night, and curiously, too.</p>
<p>How the Baroness von Ritz—beautiful adventuress as she was
sometimes credited with being, charming woman as she was elsewhere
described, fascinating and in some part dangerous to any man, as
all admitted—could care to be concerned with this purely
political question of our possible territories, I was not shrewd
enough at that moment in advance to guess; for I had nothing more
certain than the rumor she was England's spy. I bided my time,
knowing that ere long the knowledge must come to me in Calhoun's
office even in case I did not first learn more than Calhoun
himself.</p>
<p>Vaguely in my conscience I felt that, after all, my errand was
justified, even though at some cost to my own wishes and my own
pride. The farther I walked in the dark along Pennsylvania Avenue,
into which finally I swung after I had crossed Rock Bridge, the
more I realized that perhaps this big game was worth playing in
detail and without quibble as the master mind should dictate. As he
was servant of a purpose, of an ideal of triumphant democracy, why
should not I also serve in a cause so splendid?</p>
<p>I was, indeed, young—Nicholas Trist, of Maryland; six feet
tall, thin, lean, always hungry, perhaps a trifle freckled, a
little sandy of hair, blue I suppose of eye, although I am not
sure; good rider and good marcher, I know; something of an expert
with the weapons of my time and people; fond of a horse and a dog
and a rifle—yes, and a glass and a girl, if truth be told. I
was not yet thirty, in spite of my western travels. At that age the
rustle of silk or dimity, the suspicion of adventure, tempts the
worst or the best of us, I fear. Woman!—the very sound of the
word made my blood leap then. I went forward rather blithely, as I
now blush to confess. "If there are maps to be made to-night," said
I, "the Baroness Helena shall do her share in writing on my chief's
old mahogany desk, and not on her own dressing case."</p>
<p>That was an idle boast, though made but to myself. I had not yet
met the woman.</p>
<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<h2><a name="CHAPTER_IV" id="CHAPTER_IV"></a>CHAPTER IV</h2>
<h3>THE BARONESS HELENA</h3>
<div class="blockquot">
<p>Woman is seldom merciful to the man who is timid.<br />
<span style="margin-left: 10em;">—<i>Edward Bulwer
Lytton</i>.</span></p>
</div>
<p>There was one of our dim street lights at a central corner on
old Pennsylvania Avenue, and under it, after a long walk, I paused
for a glance at the inscription on my sealed document. I had not
looked at it before in the confusion of my somewhat hurried mental
processes. In addition to the name and street number, in Calhoun's
writing, I read this memorandum: "Knock at the third door in the
second block beyond M Street"</p>
<p>I recalled the nearest cross street; but I must confess the
direction still seemed somewhat cryptic. Puzzled, I stood under the
lamp, shielding the face of the note under my cloak to keep off the
rain, as I studied it.</p>
<p>The sound of wheels behind me on the muddy pavement called my
attention, and I looked about. A carriage came swinging up to the
curb where I stood. It was driven rapidly, and as it approached the
door swung open. I heard a quick word, and the driver pulled up his
horses. I saw the light shine through the door on a glimpse of
white satin. I looked again. Yes, it was a beckoning hand! The
negro driver looked at me inquiringly.</p>
<p>Ah, well, I suppose diplomacy under the stars runs much the same
in all ages. I have said that I loved Elisabeth, but also said I
was not yet thirty. Moreover, I was a gentleman, and here might be
a lady in need of help. I need not say that in a moment I was at
the side of the carriage. Its occupant made no exclamation of
surprise; in fact, she moved back upon the other side of the seat
in the darkness, as though to make room for me!</p>
<p>I was absorbed in a personal puzzle. Here was I, messenger upon
some important errand, as I might guess. But white satin and a
midnight adventure—at least, a gentleman might bow and ask if
he could be of assistance!</p>
<p>A dark framed face, whose outlines I could only dimly see in the
faint light of the street lamp, leaned toward me. The same small
hand nervously reached out, as though in request.</p>
<p>I now very naturally stepped closer. A pair of wide and very
dark eyes was looking into mine. I could now see her face. There
was no smile upon her lips. I had never seen her before, that was
sure—nor did I ever think to see her like again; I could say
that even then, even in the half light. Just a trifle foreign, the
face; somewhat dark, but not too dark; the lips full, the eyes
luminous, the forehead beautifully arched, chin and cheek
beautifully rounded, nose clean-cut and straight, thin but not
pinched. There was nothing niggard about her. She was
magnificent—a magnificent woman. I saw that she had splendid
jewels at her throat, in her ears—a necklace of diamonds,
long hoops of diamonds and emeralds used as ear-rings; a sparkling
clasp which caught at her white throat the wrap which she had
thrown about her ball gown—for now I saw she was in full
evening dress. I guessed she had been an attendant at the great
ball, that ball which I had missed with so keen a regret
myself—the ball where I had hoped to dance with Elisabeth.
Without doubt she had lost her way and was asking the first
stranger for instructions to her driver.</p>
<p>My lady, whoever she was, seemed pleased with her rapid
temporary scrutiny. With a faint murmur, whether of invitation or
not I scarce could tell, she drew back again to the farther side of
the seat. Before I knew how or why, I was at her side. The driver
pushed shut the door, and whipped up his team.</p>
<p>Personally I am gifted with but small imagination. In a very
matter of fact way I had got into this carriage with a strange
lady. Now in a sober and matter of fact way it appeared to me my
duty to find out the reason for this singular situation.</p>
<p>"Madam," I remarked to my companion, "in what manner can I be of
service to you this evening?"</p>
<p>I made no attempt to explain who I was, or to ask who or what
she herself was, for I had no doubt that our interview soon would
be terminated.</p>
<p>"I am fortunate that you are a gentleman," she said, in a low
and soft voice, quite distinct, quite musical in quality, and
marked with just the faintest trace of some foreign accent,
although her English was perfect.</p>
<p>I looked again at her. Yes, her hair was dark; that was sure. It
swept up in a great roll above her oval brow. Her eyes, too, must
be dark, I confirmed. Yes—as a passed lamp gave me
aid—there were strong dark brows above them. Her nose, too,
was patrician; her chin curving just strongly enough, but not too
full, and faintly cleft, a sign of power, they say.</p>
<p>A third gracious lamp gave me a glimpse of her figure, huddled
back among her draperies, and I guessed her to be about of medium
height. A fourth lamp showed me her hands, small, firm, white; also
I could catch a glimpse of her arm, as it lay outstretched, her
fingers clasping a fan. So I knew her arms were round and taper,
hence all her limbs and figure finely molded, because nature does
not do such things by halves, and makes no bungles in her symmetry
of contour when she plans a noble specimen of humanity. Here
<i>was</i> a noble specimen of what woman may be.</p>
<p>On the whole, as I must confess, I sighed rather comfortably at
the fifth street lamp; for, if my chief must intrust to me
adventures of a dark night—adventures leading to closed
carriages and strange companions—I had far liefer it should
be some such woman as this. I was not in such a hurry to ask again
how I might be of service. In fact, being somewhat surprised and
somewhat pleased, I remained silent now for a time, and let matters
adjust themselves; which is not a bad course for any one similarly
engaged.</p>
<p>She turned toward me at last, deliberately, her fan against her
lips, studying me. And I did as much, taking such advantage as I
could of the passing street lamps. Then, all at once, without
warning or apology, she smiled, showing very even and white
teeth.</p>
<p>She smiled. There came to me from the purple-colored shadows
some sort of deep perfume, strange to me. I frown at the
description of such things and such emotions, but I swear that as I
sat there, a stranger, not four minutes in companionship with this
other stranger, I felt swim up around me some sort of amber shadow,
edged with purple—the shadow, as I figured it then, being
this perfume, curious and alluring!</p>
<p>It was wet, there in the street. Why should I rebel at this
stealing charm of color or fragrance—let those name it better
who can. At least I sat, smiling to myself in my purple-amber
shadow, now in no very special hurry. And now again she smiled,
thoughtfully, rather approving my own silence, as I guessed;
perhaps because it showed no unmanly perturbation—my lack of
imagination passing for aplomb.</p>
<p>At last I could not, in politeness, keep this up further.</p>
<p>"<i>How may I serve the Baroness?</i>" said I.</p>
<p>She started back on the seat as far as she could go.</p>
<p>"How did you know?" she asked. "And who are <i>you</i>?"</p>
<p>I laughed. "I did not know, and did not guess until almost as I
began to speak; but if it comes to that, I might say I am simply an
humble gentleman of Washington here. I might be privileged to peep
in at ambassadors' balls—through the windows, at least."</p>
<p>"But you were not there—you did not see me? I never saw
you in my life until this very moment—how, then, do you know
me? Speak! At once!" Her satins rustled. I knew she was tapping a
foot on the carriage floor.</p>
<p>"Madam," I answered, laughing at her; "by this amber purple
shadow, with flecks of scarlet and pink; by this perfume which
weaves webs for me here in this carriage, I know you. The light is
poor, but it is good enough to show one who can be no one else but
the Baroness von Ritz."</p>
<p>I was in the mood to spice an adventure which had gone thus far.
Of course she thought me crazed, and drew back again in the shadow;
but when I turned and smiled, she smiled in answer—herself
somewhat puzzled.</p>
<p>"The Baroness von Ritz can not be disguised," I said; "not even
if she wore her domino."</p>
<p>She looked down at the little mask which hung from the silken
cord, and flung it from her.</p>
<p>"Oh, then, very well!" she said. "If you know who I am, who are
<i>you</i>, and why do you talk in this absurd way with me, a
stranger?"</p>
<p>"And why, Madam, do you take me up, a stranger, in this absurd
way, at midnight, on the streets of Washington?—I, who am
engaged on business for my chief?"</p>
<p>She tapped again with her foot on the carriage floor. "Tell me
who you are!" she said.</p>
<p>"Once a young planter from Maryland yonder; sometime would-be
lawyer here in Washington. It is my misfortune not to be so
distinguished in fame or beauty that my name is known by all; so I
need not tell you my name perhaps, only assuring you that I am at
your service if I may be useful."</p>
<p>"Your name!" she again demanded.</p>
<p>I told her the first one that came to my lips—I do not
remember what. It did not deceive her for a moment.</p>
<p>"Of course that is not your name," she said; "because it does
not fit you. You have me still at disadvantage."</p>
<p>"And me, Madam? You are taking me miles out of my way. How can I
help you? Do you perhaps wish to hunt mushrooms in the Georgetown
woods when morning comes? I wish that I might join you, but I
fear—"</p>
<p>"You mock me," she retorted. "Very good. Let me tell you it was
not your personal charm which attracted me when I saw you on the
pavement! `Twas because you were the only man in sight."</p>
<p>I bowed my thanks. For a moment nothing was heard save the
steady patter of hoofs on the ragged pavement. At length she went
on.</p>
<p>"I am alone. I have been followed. I was followed when I called
to you—by another carriage. I asked help of the first
gentleman I saw, having heard that Americans all are
gentlemen."</p>
<p>"True," said I; "I do not blame you. Neither do I blame the
occupant of the other carriage for following you."</p>
<p>"I pray you, leave aside such chatter!" she exclaimed.</p>
<p>"Very well, then, Madam. Perhaps the best way is for us to be
more straightforward. If I can not be of service I beg you to let
me descend, for I have business which I must execute to-night."</p>
<p>This, of course, was but tentative. I did not care to tell her
that my business was with herself. It seemed almost unbelievable to
me that chance should take this turn.</p>
<p>She dismissed this with an impatient gesture, and continued.</p>
<p>"See, I am alone," she said. "Come with me. Show me my
way—I will pay—I will pay anything in reason." Actually
I saw her fumble at her purse, and the hot blood flew to my
forehead.</p>
<p>"What you ask of me, Madam, is impossible," said I, with what
courtesy I could summon. "You oblige me now to tell my real name. I
have told you that I am an American gentleman—Mr. Nicholas
Trist. We of this country do not offer our services to ladies for
the sake of pay. But do not be troubled over any mistake—it
is nothing. Now, you have perhaps had some little adventure in
which you do not wish to be discovered. In any case, you ask me to
shake off that carriage which follows us. If that is all, Madam, it
very easily can be arranged."</p>
<p>"Hasten, then," she said. "I leave it to you. I was sure you
knew the city."</p>
<p>I turned and gazed back through the rear window of the carriage.
True, there was another vehicle following us. We were by this time
nearly at the end of Washington's limited pavements. It would be
simple after that. I leaned out and gave our driver some brief
orders. We led our chase across the valley creeks on up the
Georgetown hills, and soon as possible abandoned the last of the
pavement, and took to the turf, where the sound of our wheels was
dulled. Rapidly as we could we passed on up the hill, until we
struck a side street where there was no paving. Into this we
whipped swiftly, following the flank of the hill, our going, which
was all of earth or soft turf, now well wetted by the rain. When at
last we reached a point near the summit of the hill, I stopped to
listen. Hearing nothing, I told the driver to pull down the hill by
the side street, and to drive slowly. When we finally came into our
main street again at the foot of the Georgetown hills, not far from
the little creek which divided that settlement from the main city,
I could hear nowhere any sound of our pursuer.</p>
<p>"Madam," said I, turning to her; "I think we may safely say we
are alone. What, now, is your wish?"</p>
<p>"Home!" she said.</p>
<p>"And where is home?"</p>
<p>She looked at me keenly for a time, as though to read some
thought which perhaps she saw suggested either in the tone of my
voice or in some glimpse she might have caught of my features as
light afforded. For the moment she made no answer.</p>
<p>"Is it here?" suddenly I asked her, presenting to her inspection
the sealed missive which I bore.</p>
<p>"I can not see; it is quite dark," she said hurriedly.</p>
<p>"Pardon me, then—" I fumbled for my case of lucifers, and
made a faint light by which she might read. The flare of the match
lit up her face perfectly, bringing out the framing roll of thick
dark hair, from which, as a high light in a mass of shadows, the
clear and yet strong features of her face showed plainly. I saw the
long lashes drooped above her dark eyes, as she bent over
studiously. At first the inscription gave her no information. She
pursed her lips and shook her head.</p>
<p>"I do not recognize the address," said she, smiling, as she
turned toward me.</p>
<p>"Is it this door on M Street, as you go beyond this other
street?" I asked her. "Come—think!"</p>
<p>Then I thought I saw the flush deepen on her face, even as the
match flickered and failed.</p>
<p>I leaned out of the door and called to the negro driver. "Home,
now, boy—and drive fast!"</p>
<p>She made no protest.</p>
<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<h2><a name="CHAPTER_V" id="CHAPTER_V"></a>CHAPTER V</h2>
<h3>ONE OF THE WOMEN IN THE CASE</h3>
<div class="blockquot">
<p>There is a woman at the beginning of all great things.<br />
<span style=
"margin-left: 19em;">—<i>Lamartine</i>.</span></p>
</div>
<p>A quarter of an hour later, we slowed down on a rough brick
pavement, which led toward what then was an outlying portion of the
town—one not precisely shabby, but by no means fashionable.
There was a single lamp stationed at the mouth of the narrow little
street. As we advanced, I could see outlined upon our right, just
beyond a narrow pavement of brick, a low and not more than
semi-respectable house, or rather, row of houses; tenements for the
middle class or poor, I might have said. The neighborhood, I knew
from my acquaintance with the city, was respectable enough, yet it
was remote, and occupied by none of any station. Certainly it was
not to be considered fit residence for a woman such as this who sat
beside me. I admit I was puzzled. The strange errand of my chief
now assumed yet more mystery, in spite of his forewarnings.</p>
<p>"This will do," said she softly, at length. The driver already
had pulled up.</p>
<p>So, then, I thought, she had been here before. But why? Could
this indeed be her residence? Was she incognita here? Was this
indeed the covert embassy of England?</p>
<p>There was no escape from the situation as it lay before me. I
had no time to ponder. Had the circumstances been otherwise, then
in loyalty to Elisabeth I would have handed my lady out, bowed her
farewell at her own gate, and gone away, pondering only the
adventures into which the beckoning of a white hand and the
rustling of a silken skirt betimes will carry a man, if he dares or
cares to go. Now, I might not leave. My duty was here. This was my
message; here was she for whom it was intended; and this was the
place which I was to have sought alone. I needed only to remember
that my business was not with Helena von Ritz the woman, beautiful,
fascinating, perhaps dangerous as they said of her, but with the
Baroness von Ritz, in the belief of my chief the ally and something
more than ally of Pakenham, in charge of England's fortunes on this
continent. I did remember my errand and the gravity of it. I did
not remember then, as I did later, that I was young.</p>
<p>I descended at the edge of the narrow pavement, and was about to
hand her out at the step, but as I glanced down I saw that the rain
had left a puddle of mud between the carriage and the walk.</p>
<p>"Pardon, Madam," I said; "allow me to make a light for
you—the footing is bad."</p>
<p>I lighted another lucifer, just as she hesitated at the step.
She made as though to put out her right foot, and withdrew it.
Again she shifted, and extended her left foot. I faintly saw proof
that nature had carried out her scheme of symmetry, and had not
allowed wrist and arm to forswear themselves! I saw also that this
foot was clad in the daintiest of white slippers, suitable enough
as part of her ball costume, as I doubted not was this she wore.
She took my hand without hesitation, and rested her weight upon the
step—an adorable ankle now more frankly revealed. The
briefness of the lucifers was merciful or merciless, as you
like.</p>
<p>"A wide step, Madam; be careful," I suggested. But still she
hesitated.</p>
<p>A laugh, half of annoyance, half of amusement, broke from her
lips. As the light flickered down, she made as though to take the
step; then, as luck would have it, a bit of her loose drapery,
which was made in the wide-skirted and much-hooped fashion of the
time, caught at the hinge of the carriage door. It was a chance
glance, and not intent on my part, but I saw that her other foot
was stockinged, but not shod!</p>
<p>"I beg Madam's pardon," I said gravely, looking aside, "but she
has perhaps not noticed that her other slipper is lost in the
carriage."</p>
<p>"Nonsense!" she said. "Allow me your hand across to the walk,
please. It is lost, yes."</p>
<p>"But lost—where?" I began.</p>
<p>"In the other carriage!" she exclaimed, and laughed freely.</p>
<p>Half hopping, she was across the walk, through the narrow gate,
and up at the door before I could either offer an arm or ask for an
explanation. Some whim, however, seized her; some feeling that in
fairness she ought to tell me now part at least of the reason for
her summoning me to her aid.</p>
<p>"Sir," she said, even as her hand reached up to the door
knocker; "I admit you have acted as a gentleman should. I do not
know what your message may be, but I doubt not it is meant for me.
Since you have this much claim on my hospitality, even at this
hour, I think I must ask you to step within. There may be some
answer needed."</p>
<p>"Madam," said I, "there <i>is</i> an answer needed. I am to take
back that answer. I know that this message is to the Baroness von
Ritz. I guess it to be important; and I know you are the Baroness
von Ritz."</p>
<p>"Well, then," said she, pulling about her half-bared shoulders
the light wrap she wore; "let me be as free with you. If I have
missed one shoe, I have not lost it wholly. I lost the slipper in a
way not quite planned on the program. It hurt my foot. I sought to
adjust it behind a curtain. My gentleman of Mexico was in wine. I
fled, leaving my escort, and he followed. I called to you. You know
the rest. I am glad you are less in wine, and are more a
gentleman."</p>
<p>"I do not yet know my answer, Madam."</p>
<p>"Come!" she said; and at once knocked upon the door.</p>
<p>I shall not soon forget the surprise which awaited me when at
last the door swung open silently at the hand of a wrinkled and
brown old serving-woman—not one of our colored women, but of
some dark foreign race. The faintest trace of surprise showed on
the old woman's face, but she stepped back and swung the door wide,
standing submissively, waiting for orders.</p>
<p>We stood now facing what ought to have been a narrow and dingy
little room in a low row of dingy buildings, each of two stories
and so shallow in extent as perhaps not to offer roof space to more
than a half dozen rooms. Instead of what should have been, however,
there was a wide hall—wide as each building would have been
from front to back, but longer than a half dozen of them would have
been! I did not know then, what I learned later, that the
partitions throughout this entire row had been removed, the
material serving to fill up one of the houses at the farthest
extremity of the row. There was thus offered a long and narrow
room, or series of rooms, which now I saw beyond possibility of
doubt constituted the residence of this strange woman whom chance
had sent me to address; and whom still stranger chance had thrown
in contact with me even before my errand was begun!</p>
<p>She stood looking at me, a smile flitting over her features, her
stockinged foot extended, toe down, serving to balance her on her
high-heeled single shoe.</p>
<p>"Pardon, sir," she said, hesitating, as she held the sealed
epistle in her hand. "You know me—perhaps you follow
me—I do not know. Tell me, are you a spy of that man
Pakenham?"</p>
<p>Her words and her tone startled me. I had supposed her bound to
Sir Richard by ties of a certain sort. Her bluntness and
independence puzzled me as much as her splendid beauty enraptured
me. I tried to forget both.</p>
<p>"Madam, I am spy of no man, unless I am such at order of my
chief, John Calhoun, of the United States Senate—perhaps, if
Madam pleases, soon of Mr. Tyler's cabinet."</p>
<p>In answer, she turned, hobbled to a tiny marquetry table, and
tossed the note down upon it, unopened. I waited patiently, looking
about me meantime. I discovered that the windows were barred with
narrow slats of iron within, although covered with heavy draperies
of amber silk. There was a double sheet of iron covering the door
by which we had entered.</p>
<p>"Your cage, Madam?" I inquired. "I do not blame England for
making it so secret and strong! If so lovely a prisoner were mine,
I should double the bars."</p>
<p>The swift answer to my presumption came in the flush of her
cheek and her bitten lip. She caught up the key from the table, and
half motioned me to the door. But now I smiled in turn, and pointed
to the unopened note on the table. "You will pardon me, Madam," I
went on. "Surely it is no disgrace to represent either England or
America. They are not at war. Why should we be?" We gazed steadily
at each other.</p>
<p>The old servant had disappeared when at length her mistress
chose to pick up my unregarded document. Deliberately she broke the
seal and read. An instant later, her anger gone, she was laughing
gaily.</p>
<p>"See," said she, bubbling over with her mirth; "I pick up a
stranger, who should say good-by at my curb; my apartments are
forced; and this is what this stranger asks: that I shall go with
him, to-night, alone, and otherwise unattended, to see a man,
perhaps high in your government, but a stranger to me, at his own
rooms-alone! Oh, la! la! Surely these Americans hold me high!"</p>
<p>"Assuredly we do, Madam," I answered. "Will it please you to go
in your own carriage, or shall I return with one for you?"</p>
<p>She put her hands behind her back, holding in them the opened
message from my chief. "I am tired. I am bored. Your impudence
amuses me; and your errand is not your fault. Come, sit down. You
have been good to me. Before you go, I shall have some refreshment
brought for you."</p>
<p>I felt a sudden call upon my resources as I found myself in this
singular situation. Here, indeed, more easily reached than I had
dared hope, was the woman in the case. But only half of my errand,
the easier half, was done.</p>
<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<h2><a name="CHAPTER_VI" id="CHAPTER_VI"></a>CHAPTER VI</h2>
<h3>THE BOUDOIR OF THE BARONESS</h3>
<div class="blockquot">
<p>A woman's counsel brought us first to
woe.—<i>Dryden</i>.</p>
</div>
<p>"Wait!" she said. "We shall have candles." She clapped her hands
sharply, and again there entered the silent old serving-woman, who,
obedient to a gesture, proceeded to light additional candles in the
prism stands and sconces. The apartment was now distinct in all its
details under this additional flood of light. Decently as I might I
looked about. I was forced to stifle the exclamation of surprise
which rose to my lips.</p>
<p>We were plain folk enough in Washington at that time. The
ceremonious days of our first presidents had passed for the
democratic time of Jefferson and Jackson; and even under Mr. Van
Buren there had been little change from the simplicity which was
somewhat our boast. Washington itself was at that time scarcely
more than an overgrown hamlet, not in the least to be compared to
the cosmopolitan centers which made the capitals of the Old World.
Formality and stateliness of a certain sort we had, but of luxury
we knew little. There was at that time, as I well knew, no state
apartment in the city which in sheer splendor could for a moment
compare with this secret abode of a woman practically unknown. Here
certainly was European luxury transferred to our shores. This in
simple Washington, with its vast white unfinished capitol, its
piecemeal miles of mixed residences, boarding-houses, hotels,
restaurants, and hovels! I fancied stern Andrew Jackson or plain
John Calhoun here!</p>
<p>The furniture I discovered to be exquisite in detail, of
rosewood and mahogany, with many brass chasings and carvings, after
the fashion of the Empire, and here and there florid ornamentation
following that of the court of the earlier Louis. Fanciful little
clocks with carved scrolls stood about; Cupid tapestries had
replaced the original tawdry coverings of these common walls, and
what had once been a dingy fireplace was now faced with embossed
tiles never made in America. There were paintings in oil here and
there, done by master hands, as one could tell. The curtained
windows spoke eloquently of secrecy. Here and there a divan and
couch showed elaborate care in comfort. Beyond a lace-screened
grille I saw an alcove—doubtless cut through the original
partition wall between two of these humble houses—and within
this stood a high tester bed, its heavy mahogany posts beautifully
carved, the couch itself piled deep with foundations of I know not
what of down and spread most daintily with a coverlid of amber
satin, whose edges fringed out almost to the floor. At the other
extremity, screened off as in a distinct apartment, there stood a
smaller couch, a Napoleon bed, with carved ends, furnished more
simply but with equal richness. Everywhere was the air not only of
comfort, but of ease and luxury, elegance and sensuousness
contending. I needed no lesson to tell me that this was not an
ordinary apartment, nor occupied by an ordinary owner.</p>
<p>One resented the liberties England took in establishing this
manner of ménage in our simple city, and arrogantly taking
for granted our ignorance regarding it; but none the less one was
forced to commend the thoroughness shown. The ceilings, of course,
remained low, but there was visible no trace of the original
architecture, so cunningly had the interior been treated. As I have
said, the dividing partitions had all been removed, so that the
long interior practically was open, save as the apartments were
separated by curtains or grilles. The floors were carpeted thick
and deep. Silence reigned here. There remained no trace of the
clumsy comfort which had sufficed the early builder. Here was no
longer a series of modest homes, but a boudoir which might have
been the gilded cage of some favorite of an ancient court. The
breath and flavor of this suspicion floated in every drapery, swam
in the faint perfume which filled the place. My first impression
was that of surprise; my second, as I have said, a feeling of
resentment at the presumption which installed all this in our
capital of Washington.</p>
<p>I presume my thought may have been reflected in some manner in
my face. I heard a gentle laugh, and turned about. She sat there in
a great carved chair, smiling, her white arms stretched out on the
rails, the fingers just gently curving. There was no apology for
her situation, no trace of alarm or shame or unreadiness. It was
quite obvious she was merely amused. I was in no way ready to
ratify the rumors I had heard regarding her.</p>
<p>She had thrown back over the rail of the chair the rich cloak
which covered her in the carriage, and sat now in the full light,
in the splendor of satin and lace and gems, her arms bare, her
throat and shoulders white and bare, her figure recognized
graciously by every line of a superb gowning such as we had not yet
learned on this side of the sea. Never had I seen, and never since
have I seen, a more splendid instance of what beauty of woman may
be.</p>
<p>She did not speak at first, but sat and smiled, studying, I
presume, to find what stuff I was made of. Seeing this, I pulled
myself together and proceeded briskly to my business.</p>
<p>"My employer will find me late, I fear, my dear baroness," I
began.</p>
<p>"Better late than wholly unsuccessful," she rejoined, still
smiling. "Tell me, my friend, suppose you had come hither and
knocked at my door?"</p>
<p>"Perhaps I might not have been so clumsy," I essayed.</p>
<p>"Confess it!" she smiled. "Had you come here and seen the
exterior only, you would have felt yourself part of a great
mistake. You would have gone away."</p>
<p>"Perhaps not," I argued. "I have much confidence in my chief's
acquaintance with his own purposes and his own facts. Yet I confess
I should not have sought madam the baroness in this neighborhood.
If England provides us so beautiful a picture, why could she not
afford a frame more suitable? Why is England so secret with
us?"</p>
<p>She only smiled, showing two rows of exceedingly even white
teeth. She was perfect mistress of herself. In years she was not my
equal, yet I could see that at the time I did scarcely more than
amuse her.</p>
<p>"Be seated, pray," she said at last. "Let us talk over this
matter."</p>
<p>Obedient to her gesture, I dropped into a chair opposite to her,
she herself not varying her posture and still regarding me with the
laugh in her half-closed eyes.</p>
<p>"What do you think of my little place?" she asked finally.</p>
<p>"Two things, Madam," said I, half sternly. "If it belonged to a
man, and to a minister plenipotentiary, I should not approve it. If
it belonged to a lady of means and a desire to see the lands of
this little world, I should approve it very much."</p>
<p>She looked at me with eyes slightly narrowed, but no trace of
perturbation crossed her face. I saw it was no ordinary woman with
whom we had to do.</p>
<p>"But," I went on, "in any case and at all events, I should say
that the bird confined in such a cage, where secrecy is so
imperative, would at times find weariness—would, in fact,
wish escape to other employment. You, Madam"—I looked at her
directly—"are a woman of so much intellect that you could not
be content merely to live."</p>
<p>"No," she said, "I would not be content merely to live."</p>
<p>"Precisely. Therefore, since to make life worth the living there
must be occasionally a trifle of spice, a bit of adventure, either
for man or woman, I suggest to you, as something offering
amusement, this little journey with me to-night to meet my chief.
You have his message. I am his messenger, and, believe me, quite at
your service in any way you may suggest. Let us be frank. If you
are agent, so am I. See; I have come into your camp. Dare you not
come into ours? Come; it is an adventure to see a tall, thin old
man in a dressing-gown and a red woolen nightcap. So you will find
my chief; and in apartments much different from these."</p>
<p>She took up the missive with its broken seal. "So your chief, as
you call him, asks me to come to him, at midnight, with you, a
stranger?"</p>
<p>"Do you not believe in charms and in luck, in evil and good
fortune, Madam?" I asked her. "Now, it is well to be lucky. In
ordinary circumstances, as you say, I could not have got past
yonder door. Yet here I am. What does it augur, Madam?"</p>
<p>"But it is night!"</p>
<p>"Precisely. Could you go to the office of a United States
senator and possible cabinet minister in broad daylight and that
fact not be known? Could he come to your apartments in broad
daylight and that fact not be known? What would 'that man Pakenham'
suspect in either case? Believe me, my master is wise. I do not
know his reason, but he knows it, and he has planned best to gain
his purpose, whatever it may be. Reason must teach you, Madam, that
night, this night, this hour, is the only time in which this visit
could be made. Naturally, it would be impossible for him to come
here. If you go to him, he will—ah, he will reverence you, as
I do, Madam. Great necessity sets aside conventions, sets aside
everything. Come, then!"</p>
<div><a name="page_049" id="page_049"></a></div>
<p>But still she only sat and smiled at me. I felt that purple and
amber glow, the emanation of her personality, of her senses,
creeping around me again as she leaned forward finally, her parted
red-bowed lips again disclosing her delicate white teeth. I saw the
little heave of her bosom, whether in laughter or emotion I could
not tell. I was young. Resenting the spell which I felt coming upon
me, all I could do was to reiterate my demand for haste. She was
not in the least impressed by this.</p>
<p>"Come!" she said. "I am pleased with these Americans. Yes, I am
not displeased with this little adventure."</p>
<p>I rose impatiently, and walked apart in the room. "You can not
evade me, Madam, so easily as you did the Mexican gentleman who
followed you. You have him in the net also? Is not the net full
enough?"</p>
<p>"Never!" she said, her head swaying slowly from side to side,
her face inscrutable. "Am I not a woman? Ah, am I not?"</p>
<p>"Madam," said I, whirling upon her, "let me, at least, alone. I
am too small game for you. I am but a messenger. Time passes. Let
us arrive at our business."</p>
<p>"What would you do if I refused to go with you?" she asked,
still smiling at me. She was waiting for the spell of these
surroundings, the spirit of this place, to do their work with me,
perhaps; was willing to take her time with charm of eye and arm and
hair and curved fingers, which did not openly invite and did not
covertly repel. But I saw that her attitude toward me held no more
than that of bird of prey and some little creature well within its
power. It made me angry to be so rated.</p>
<p>"You ask me what I should do?" I retorted savagely. "I shall
tell you first what I <i>will</i> do if you continue your refusal.
I will <i>take</i> you with me, and so keep my agreement with my
chief. Keep away from the bell rope! Remain silent! Do not move!
You should go if I had to carry you there in a sack—because
that is my errand!"</p>
<p>"Oh, listen at him threaten!" she laughed still. "And he
despises my poor little castle here in the side street, where half
the time I am so lonely! What would Monsieur do if Monsieur were in
my place—and if I were in Monsieur's place? But, bah! you
would not have me following <i>you</i> in the first hour we met,
boy!"</p>
<p>I flushed again hotly at this last word. "Madam may discontinue
the thought of my boyhood; I am older than she. But if you ask me
what I would do with a woman if I followed her, or if she followed
me, then I shall tell you. If I owned this place and all in it, I
would tear down every picture from these walls, every silken cover
from yonder couches! I would rip out these walls and put back the
ones that once were here! You, Madam, should be taken out of luxury
and daintiness—"</p>
<p>"Go on!" She clapped her hands, for the first time kindling, and
dropping her annoying air of patronizing me. "Go on! I like you
now. Tell me what Americans do with women that they love! I have
heard they are savages."</p>
<p>"A house of logs far out in the countries that I know would do
for you, Madam!" I went on hotly. "You should forget the touch of
silk and lace. No neighbor you should know until I was willing. Any
man who followed you should meet <i>me</i>. Until you loved me all
you could, and said so, and proved it, I would wring your neck with
my hands, if necessary, until you loved me!"</p>
<p>"Excellent! What then?"</p>
<p>"Then, Madam the Baroness, I would in turn build you a palace,
one of logs, and would make you a most excellent couch of the husks
of corn. You should cook at my fireplace, and for <i>me!</i>"</p>
<p>She smiled slowly past me, at me. "Pray, be seated," she said.
"You interest me."</p>
<p>"It is late," I reiterated. "Come! Must I do some of these
things—force you into obedience—carry you away in a
sack? My master can not wait."</p>
<p>"Don Yturrio of Mexico, on the other hand," she mused, "promised
me not violence, but more jewels. Idiot!"</p>
<p>"Indeed!" I rejoined, in contempt. "An American savage would
give you but one gown, and that of your own weave; you could make
it up as you liked. But come, now; I have no more time to
lose."</p>
<p>"Ah, also, idiot!" she murmured. "Do you not see that I must
reclothe myself before I could go with you—that is to say, if
I choose to go with you? Now, as I was saying, my ardent Mexican
promises thus and so. My lord of England—ah, well, they may
be pardoned. Suppose I might listen to such suits—might there
not be some life for me—some life with events? On the other
hand, what of interest could America offer?"</p>
<p>"I have told you what life America could give you."</p>
<p>"I imagined men were but men, wherever found," she went on; "but
what you say interests me, I declare to you again. A woman is a
woman, too, I fancy. She always wants one thing—to be all the
world to one man."</p>
<p>"Quite true," I answered. "Better that than part of the world to
one—or two? And the opposite of it is yet more true. When a
woman is all the world to a man, she despises him."</p>
<p>"But yes, I should like that experience of being a cook in a
cabin, and being bruised and broken and choked!" She smiled, lazily
extending her flawless arms and looking down at them, at all of her
splendid figure, as though in interested examination. "I am alone
so much—so bored!" she went on. "And Sir Richard Pakenham is
so very, very fat. Ah, God! You can not guess how fat he is. But
you, you are not fat." She looked me over critically, to my great
uneasiness.</p>
<p>"All the more reason for doing as I have suggested, Madam; for
Mr. Calhoun is not even so fat as I am. This little interview with
my chief, I doubt not, will prove of interest. Indeed"—I went
on seriously and intently—"I venture to say this much without
presuming on my station: the talk which you will have with my chief
to-night will show you things you have never known, give you an
interest in living which perhaps you have not felt. If I am not
mistaken, you will find much in common between you and my master. I
speak not to the agent of England, but to the lady Helena von
Ritz."</p>
<p>"He is old," she went on. "He is very old. His face is thin and
bloodless and fleshless. He is old."</p>
<p>"Madam," I said, "his mind is young, his purpose young, his
ambition young; and his country is young. Is not the youth of all
these things still your own?"</p>
<p>She made no answer, but sat musing, drumming lightly on the
chair arm. I was reaching for her cloak. Then at once I caught a
glimpse of her stockinged foot, the toe of which slightly protruded
from beneath her ball gown. She saw the glance and laughed.</p>
<p>"Poor feet," she said. "Ah, <i>mes pauvres pieds la</i>! You
would like to see them bruised by the hard going in some heathen
country? See you have no carriage, and mine is gone. I have not
even a pair of shoes. Go look under the bed beyond."</p>
<p>I obeyed her gladly enough. Under the fringe of the satin
counterpane I found a box of boots, slippers, all manner of
footwear, daintily and neatly arranged. Taking out a pair to my
fancy, I carried them out and knelt before her.</p>
<p>"Then, Madam," said I, "since you insist on this, I shall
choose. America is not Europe. Our feet here have rougher going and
must be shod for it. Allow me!"</p>
<p>Without the least hesitation in the world, or the least
immodesty, she half protruded the foot which still retained its
slipper. As I removed this latter, through some gay impulse, whose
nature I did not pause to analyze, I half mechanically thrust it
into the side pocket of my coat.</p>
<p>"This shall be security," said I, "that what you speak with my
master shall be the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the
truth."</p>
<p>There was a curious deeper red in her cheek. I saw her bosom
beat the faster rhythm.</p>
<p>"Quite agreed!" she answered. But she motioned me away, taking
the stout boot in her own hand and turning aside as she fastened
it. She looked over her shoulder at me now and again while thus
engaged.</p>
<p>"Tell me," she said gently, "what security do <i>I</i> have? You
come, by my invitation, it is true, but none the less an intrusion,
into my apartments. You demand of me something which no man has a
right to demand. Because I am disposed to be gracious, and because
I am much disposed to be <i>ennuyé</i>, and because Mr.
Pakenham is fat, I am willing to take into consideration what you
ask. I have never seen a thin gentleman in a woolen nightcap, and I
am curious. But no gentleman plays games with ladies in which the
dice are loaded for himself. Come, what security shall <i>I</i>
have?"</p>
<p>I did not pretend to understand her. Perhaps, after all, we all
had been misinformed regarding her? I could not tell. But her
spirit of <i>camaraderie</i>, her good fellowship, her courage,
quite aside from her personal charm, had now begun to impress
me.</p>
<p>"Madam," said I, feeling in my pocket; "no heathen has much of
this world's goods. All my possessions would not furnish one of
these rooms. I can not offer gems, as does Señor
Yturrio—but, would this be of service—until to-morrow?
That will leave him and me with a slipper each. It is with
reluctance I pledge to return mine!"</p>
<p>By chance I had felt in my pocket a little object which I had
placed there that very day for quite another purpose. It was only a
little trinket of Indian manufacture, which I had intended to give
Elisabeth that very evening; a sort of cloak clasp, originally made
as an Indian blanket fastening, with two round discs ground out of
shells and connected by beaded thongs. I had got it among the
tribes of the far upper plains, who doubtless obtained the shells,
in their strange savage barter, in some way from the tribes of
Florida or Texas, who sometimes trafficked in shells which found
their way as far north as the Saskatchewan. The trinket was
curious, though of small value. The baroness looked at it with
interest.</p>
<p>"How it reminds me of this heathen country!" she said. "Is this
all that your art can do in jewelry? Yet it <i>is</i> beautiful.
Come, will you not give it to me?"</p>
<p>"Until to-morrow, Madam."</p>
<p>"No longer?"</p>
<p>"I can not promise it longer. I must, unfortunately, have it
back when I send a messenger—I shall hardly come myself,
Madam."</p>
<p>"Ah!" she scoffed. "Then it belongs to another woman?"</p>
<p>"Yes, it is promised to another."</p>
<p>"Then this is to be the last time we meet?"</p>
<p>"I do not doubt it."</p>
<p>"Are you not sorry?"</p>
<p>"Naturally, Madam!"</p>
<p>She sighed, laughing as she did so. Yet I could not evade seeing
the curious color on her cheek, the rise and fall of the laces over
her bosom. Utterly self-possessed, satisfied with life as it had
come to her, without illusion as to life, absorbed in the great
game of living and adventuring—so I should have described
her. Then why should her heart beat one stroke the faster now? I
dismissed that question, and rebuked my eyes, which I found
continually turning toward her.</p>
<p>She motioned to a little table near by. "Put the slipper there,"
she said. "Your little neck clasp, also." Again I obeyed her.</p>
<p>"Stand there!" she said, motioning to the opposite side of the
table; and I did so. "Now," said she, looking at me gravely, "I am
going with you to see this man whom you call your chief—this
old and ugly man, thin and weazened, with no blood in him, and a
woolen nightcap which is perhaps red. I shall not tell you whether
I go of my own wish or because you wish it. But I need soberly to
tell you this: secrecy is as necessary for me as for you. The favor
may mean as much on one side as on the other—I shall not tell
you why. But we shall play fair until, as you say, perhaps
to-morrow. After that—"</p>
<p>"After that, on guard!"</p>
<p>"Very well, on guard! Suppose I do not like this other
woman?"</p>
<p>"Madam, you could not help it. All the world loves her."</p>
<p>"Do you?"</p>
<p>"With my life."</p>
<p>"How devoted! Very well, <i>on guard</i>, then!"</p>
<p>She took up the Indian bauble, turning to examine it at the
nearest candle sconce, even as I thrust the dainty little slipper
of white satin again into the pocket of my coat. I was
uncomfortable. I wished this talk of Elisabeth had not come up. I
liked very little to leave Elisabeth's property in another's hands.
Dissatisfied, I turned from the table, not noticing for more than
an instant a little crumpled roll of paper which, as I was vaguely
conscious, now appeared on its smooth marquetry top.</p>
<p>"But see," she said; "you are just like a man, after all, and an
unmarried man at that! I can not go through the streets in this
costume. Excuse me for a moment."</p>
<p>She was off on the instant into the alcove where the great
amber-covered bed stood. She drew the curtains. I heard her humming
to herself as she passed to and fro, saw the flare of a light as it
rose beyond. Once or twice she thrust a laughing face between the
curtains, held tight together with her hands, as she asked me some
question, mocking me, still amused—yet still, as I thought,
more enigmatic than before.</p>
<p>"Madam," I said at last, "I would I might dwell here for ever,
but—you are slow! The night passes. Come. My master will be
waiting. He is ill; I fear he can not sleep. I know how intent he
is on meeting you. I beg you to oblige an old, a dying man!"</p>
<p>"And you, Monsieur," she mocked at me from beyond the curtain,
"are intent only on getting rid of me. Are you not adventurer
enough to forget that other woman for one night?"</p>
<p>In her hands—those of a mysterious foreign woman—I
had placed this little trinket which I had got among the western
tribes for Elisabeth—a woman of my own people—the woman
to whom my pledge had been given, not for return on any morrow. I
made no answer, excepting to walk up and down the floor.</p>
<p>At last she came out from between the curtains, garbed more
suitably for the errand which was now before us. A long, dark cloak
covered her shoulders. On her head there rested a dainty up-flared
bonnet, whose jetted edges shone in the candle light as she moved
toward me. She was exquisite in every detail, beautiful as mind of
man could wish; that much was sure, must be admitted by any man. I
dared not look at her. I called to mind the taunt of those old men,
that I was young! There was in my soul vast relief that she was not
delaying me here longer in this place of spells—that in this
almost providential way my errand had met success.</p>
<p>She paused for an instant, drawing on a pair of the short gloves
of the mode then correct. "Do you know why I am to go on this
heathen errand?" she demanded. I shook my head.</p>
<p>"Mr. Calhoun wishes to know whether he shall go to the cabinet
of your man Tyler over there in that barn you call your White
House. I suppose Mr. Calhoun wishes to know how he can serve Mr.
Tyler?"</p>
<p>I laughed at this. "Serve him!" I exclaimed. "Rather say
<i>lead</i> him, <i>tell</i> him, <i>command</i> him!"</p>
<p>"Yes," she nodded. I began to see another and graver side of her
nature. "Yes, it is of course Texas."</p>
<p>I did not see fit to make answer to this.</p>
<p>"If your master, as you call him, takes the portfolio with
Tyler, it is to annex Texas," she repeated sharply. "Is not that
true?"</p>
<p>Still I would not answer. "Come!" I said.</p>
<p>"And he asks me to come to him so that he may decide—"</p>
<p>This awoke me. "No man decides for John Calhoun, Madam," I said.
"You may advance facts, but <i>he</i> will decide." Still she went
on.</p>
<p>"And Texas not annexed is a menace. Without her, you heathen
people would not present a solid front, would you?"</p>
<p>"Madam has had much to do with affairs of state," I said.</p>
<p>She went on as though I had not spoken:</p>
<p>"And if you were divided in your southern section, England would
have all the greater chance. England, you know, says she wishes
slavery abolished. She says that—"</p>
<p>"England <i>says</i> many things!" I ventured.</p>
<p>"The hypocrite of the nations!" flashed out this singular woman
at me suddenly. "As though diplomacy need be hypocrisy! Thus,
to-night Sir Richard of England forgets his place, his
protestations. He does not even know that Mexico has forgotten its
duty also. Sir, you were not at our little ball, so you could not
see that very fat Sir Richard paying his bored <i>devoirs</i> to
Doña Lucrezia! So I am left alone, and would be bored, but
for you. In return—a slight jest on Sir Richard
to-night!—I will teach him that no fat gentleman should pay
even bored attentions to a lady who soon will be fat, when his
obvious duty should call him otherwhere! Bah! 'tis as though I
myself were fat; which is not true."</p>
<p>"You go too deep for me, Madam," I said. "I am but a simple
messenger." At the same time, I saw how admirably things were
shaping for us all. A woman's jealousy was with us, and so a
woman's whim!</p>
<p>"There you have the measure of England's sincerity," she went
on, with contempt. "England is selfish, that is all. Do you not
suppose I have something to do besides feeding a canary? To read,
to study—that is my pleasure. I know your politics here in
America. Suppose you invade Texas, as the threat is, with troops of
the United States, before Texas is a member of the Union? Does that
not mean you are again at war with Mexico? And does that not mean
that you are also at war with England? Come, do you not know some
of those things?"</p>
<p>"With my hand on my heart, Madam," I asserted solemnly, "all I
know is that you must go to see my master. Calhoun wants you.
America needs you. I beg you to do what kindness you may to the
heathen."</p>
<p>"<i>Et moi?</i>"</p>
<p>"And you?" I answered. "You shall have such reward as you have
never dreamed in all your life."</p>
<p>"How do you mean?"</p>
<p>"I doubt not the reward for a soul which is as keen and able as
your heart is warm, Madam. Come, I am not such a fool as you think,
perhaps. Nor are you a fool. You are a great woman, a wonderful
woman, with head and heart both, Madam, as well as beauty such as I
had never dreamed. You are a strange woman, Madam. You are a
genius, Madam, if you please. So, I say, you are capable of a
reward, and a great one. You may find it in the gratitude of a
people."</p>
<p>"What could this country give more than Mexico or England?" She
smiled quizzically.</p>
<p>"Much more, Madam! Your reward shall be in the later thought of
many homes—homes built of logs, with dingy fireplaces and
couches of husks in them—far out, all across this continent,
housing many people, many happy citizens, men who will make their
own laws, and enforce them, man and man alike! Madam, it is the
spirit of democracy which calls on you to-night! It is not any
political party, nor the representative of one. It is not Mr.
Calhoun; it is not I. Mr. Calhoun only puts before you the summons
of—"</p>
<p>"Of what?"</p>
<p>"Of that spirit of democracy."</p>
<p>She stood, one hand ungloved, a finger at her lips, her eyes
glowing. "I am glad you came," she said. "On the whole, I am also
glad I came upon my foolish errand here to America."</p>
<p>"Madam," said I, my hand at the fastening of the door, "we have
exchanged pledges. Now we exchange places. It is you who are the
messenger, not myself. There is a message in your hands. I know not
whether you ever served a monarchy. Come, you shall see that our
republic has neither secrets nor hypocrisies."</p>
<p>On the instant she was not shrewd and tactful woman of the
world, not student, but once more coquette and woman of impulse.
She looked at me with mockery and invitation alike in her great
dark eyes, even as I threw down the chain at the door and opened it
wide for her to pass.</p>
<p>"Is that my only reward?" she asked, smiling as she fumbled at a
glove.</p>
<p>In reply, I bent and kissed the fingers of her ungloved hand.
They were so warm and tender that I had been different than I was
had I not felt the blood tingle in all my body in the impulse of
the moment to do more than kiss her fingers.</p>
<p>Had I done so—had I not thought of Elisabeth—then,
as in my heart I still believe, the flag of England to-day would
rule Oregon and the Pacific; and it would float to-day along the
Rio Grande; and it would menace a divided North and South, instead
of respecting a strong and indivisible Union which owns one flag
and dreads none in the world.</p>
<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<h2><a name="CHAPTER_VII" id="CHAPTER_VII"></a>CHAPTER VII</h2>
<h3>REGARDING ELISABETH</h3>
<div class="blockquot">
<p>Without woman the two extremities of this life would be
destitute of succor and the middle would be devoid of
pleasure.—<i>Proverb</i>.</p>
</div>
<p>In some forgotten garret of this country, as I do not doubt,
yellowed with age, stained and indistinguishable, lost among
uncared-for relics of another day, there may be records of that
interview between two strange personalities, John Calhoun and
Helena von Ritz, in the arrangement of which I played the part
above described. I was not at that time privileged to have much
more than a guess at the nature of the interview. Indeed, other
things now occupied my mind. I was very much in love with Elisabeth
Churchill.</p>
<p>Of these matters I need to make some mention. My father's
plantation was one of the old ones in Maryland. That of the
Churchills lay across a low range of mountains and in another
county from us, but our families had long been friends. I had known
Elisabeth from the time she was a tall, slim girl, boon companion
ever to her father, old Daniel Churchill; for her mother she had
lost when she was still young. The Churchills maintained a city
establishment in the environs of Washington itself, although that
was not much removed from their plantation in the old State of
Maryland. Elmhurst, this Washington estate was called, and it was
well known there, with its straight road approaching and its great
trees and its wide-doored halls—whereby the road itself
seemed to run straight through the house and appear
beyond—and its tall white pillars and hospitable galleries,
now in the springtime enclosed in green. I need not state that now,
having finished the business of the day, or, rather, of the night,
Elmhurst, home of Elisabeth, was my immediate Mecca.</p>
<p>I had clad myself as well as I could in the fashion of my time,
and flattered myself, as I looked in my little mirror, that I made
none such bad figure of a man. I was tall enough, and straight,
thin with long hours afoot or in the saddle, bronzed to a good
color, and if health did not show on my face, at least I felt it
myself in the lightness of my step, in the contentedness of my
heart with all of life, in my general assurance that all in the
world meant well toward me and that everything in the world would
do well by me. We shall see what license there was for this.</p>
<p>As to Elisabeth Churchill, it might have been in line with a
Maryland-custom had she generally been known as Betty; but Betty
she never was called, although that diminutive was applied to her
aunt, Jennings, twice as large as she, after whom she had been
named. Betty implies a snub nose; Elisabeth's was clean-cut and
straight. Betty runs for a saucy mouth and a short one; Elisabeth's
was red and curved, but firm and wide enough for strength and
charity as well. Betty spells round eyes, with brows arched above
them as though in query and curiosity; the eyes of Elisabeth were
long, her brows long and straight and delicately fine. A Betty
might even have red hair; Elisabeth's was brown in most lights, and
so liquid smooth that almost I was disposed to call it dense rather
than thick. Betty would seem to indicate a nature impulsive, gay,
and free from care; on the other hand, it was to be said of
Elisabeth that she was logical beyond her kind—a trait which
she got from her mother, a daughter of old Judge Henry Gooch, of
our Superior Court. Yet, disposed as she always was to be logical
in her conclusions, the great characteristic of Elisabeth was
serenity, consideration and charity.</p>
<p>With all this, there appeared sometimes at the surface of
Elisabeth's nature that fire and lightness and impulsiveness which
she got from her father, Mr. Daniel Churchill. Whether she was
wholly reserved and reasonable, or wholly warm and impulsive, I,
long as I had known and loved her, never was quite sure. Something
held me away, something called me forward; so that I was always
baffled, and yet always eager, God wot. I suppose this is the way
of women. At times I have been impatient with it, knowing my own
mind well enough.</p>
<p>At least now, in my tight-strapped trousers and my long blue
coat and my deep embroidered waistcoat and my high stock, my
shining boots and my tall beaver, I made my way on my well-groomed
horse up to the gates of old Elmhurst; and as I rode I pondered and
I dreamed.</p>
<p>But Miss Elisabeth was not at home, it seemed. Her father, Mr.
Daniel Churchill, rather portly and now just a trifle red of face,
met me instead. It was not an encounter for which I devoutly
wished, but one which I knew it was the right of both of us to
expect ere long. Seeing the occasion propitious, I plunged at once
<i>in medias res</i>. Part of the time explanatory, again
apologetic, and yet again, I trust, assertive, although always
blundering and red and awkward, I told the father of my intended of
my own wishes, my prospects and my plans.</p>
<p>He listened to me gravely and, it seemed to me, with none of
that enthusiasm which I would have welcomed. As to my family, he
knew enough. As to my prospects, he questioned me. My record was
not unfamiliar to him. So, gaining confidence at last under the
insistence of what I knew were worthy motives, and which certainly
were irresistible of themselves, so far as I was concerned, I asked
him if we might not soon make an end of this, and, taking chances
as they were, allow my wedding with Elisabeth to take place at no
very distant date.</p>
<p>"Why, as to that, of course I do not know what my girl will
say," went on Mr. Daniel Churchill, pursing up his lips. He looked
not wholly lovable to me, as he sat in his big chair. I wondered
that he should be father of so fair a human being as Elisabeth.</p>
<p>"Oh, of course—that," I answered; "Miss Elisabeth and
I—"</p>
<p>"The skeesicks!" he exclaimed. "I thought she told me
everything."</p>
<p>"I think Miss Elisabeth tells no one quite everything," I
ventured. "I confess she has kept me almost as much in the dark as
yourself, sir. But I only wanted to ask if, after I have seen her
to-day, and if I should gain her consent to an early day, you would
not waive any objections on your own part and allow the matter to
go forward as soon as possible?"</p>
<p>In answer to this he arose from his chair and stood looking out
of the window, his back turned to me. I could not call his
reception of my suggestion enthusiastic; but at last he turned.</p>
<p>"I presume that our two families might send you young people a
sack of meal or a side of bacon now and then, as far as that is
concerned," he said.</p>
<p>I could not call this speech joyous.</p>
<p>"There are said to be risks in any union, sir," I ventured to
say. "I admit I do not follow you in contemplating any risk
whatever. If either you or your daughter doubts my loyalty or
affection, then I should say certainly it were wise to end all
this; but—" and I fancied I straightened perceptibly—"I
think that might perhaps be left to Miss Elisabeth herself."</p>
<p>After all, Mr. Dan Churchill was obliged to yield, as fathers
have been obliged from the beginning of the world. At last he told
me I might take my fate in my own hands and go my way.</p>
<p>Trust the instinct of lovers to bring them together! I was quite
confident that at that hour I should find Elisabeth and her aunt in
the big East Room at the president's reception, the former looking
on with her uncompromising eyes at the little pageant which on
reception days regularly went forward there.</p>
<p>My conclusion was correct. I found a boy to hold my horse in
front of Gautier's café. Then I hastened off across the
intervening blocks and through the grounds of the White House, in
which presently, having edged through the throng in the
ante-chambers, I found myself in that inane procession of
individuals who passed by in order, each to receive the limp
handshake, the mechanical bow and the perfunctory smite of
President Tyler—rather a tall, slender-limbed, active man,
and of very decent presence, although his thin, shrunken cheeks and
his cold blue-gray eye left little quality of magnetism in his
personality.</p>
<p>It was not new to me, of course, this pageant, although it never
lacked of interest. There were in the throng representatives of all
America as it was then, a strange, crude blending of refinement and
vulgarity, of ease and poverty, of luxury and thrift. We had there
merchants from Philadelphia and New York, politicians from canny
New England and not less canny Pennsylvania. At times there came
from the Old World men representative of an easier and more opulent
life, who did not always trouble to suppress their smiles at us.
Moving among these were ladies from every state of our Union,
picturesque enough in their wide flowered skirts and their flaring
bonnets and their silken mitts, each rivalling the other in the
elegance of her mien, and all unconsciously outdone in charm,
perhaps, by some demure Quakeress in white and dove color, herself
looking askance on all this form and ceremony, yet unwilling to
leave the nation's capital without shaking the hand of the nation's
chief. Add to these, gaunt, black-haired frontiersmen from across
the Alleghanies; politicians from the South, clean-shaven, pompous,
immaculately clad; uneasy tradesmen from this or the other corner
of their commonwealth. A motley throng, indeed!</p>
<p>A certain air of gloom at this time hung over official
Washington, for the minds of all were still oppressed by the memory
of that fatal accident—the explosion of the great cannon
"Peacemaker" on board the war vessel <i>Princeton</i>—which
had killed Mr. Upshur, our secretary of state, with others, and
had, at one blow, come so near to depriving this government of its
head and his official family; the number of prominent lives thus
ended or endangered being appalling to contemplate. It was this
accident which had called Mr. Calhoun forward at a national
juncture of the most extreme delicacy and the utmost importance. In
spite of the general mourning, however, the informal receptions at
the White House were not wholly discontinued, and the
administration, unsettled as it was, and fronted by the gravest of
diplomatic problems, made such show of dignity and even
cheerfulness as it might.</p>
<p>I considered it my duty to pass in the long procession and to
shake the hand of Mr. Tyler. That done, I gazed about the great
room, carefully scan-fling the different little groups which were
accustomed to form after the ceremonial part of the visit was over.
I saw many whom I knew. I forgot them; for in a far corner, where a
flood of light came through the trailing vines that shielded the
outer window, my anxious eyes discovered the object of my
quest—Elisabeth.</p>
<p>It seemed to me I had never known her so fair as she was that
morning in the great East Room of the White House. Elisabeth was
rather taller than the average woman, and of that splendid southern
figure, slender but strong, which makes perhaps the best
representative of our American beauty. She was very bravely arrayed
to-day in her best pink-flowered lawn, made wide and full, as was
the custom of the time, but not so clumsily gathered at the waist
as some, and so serving not wholly to conceal her natural
comeliness of figure. Her bonnet she had removed. I could see the
sunlight on the ripples of her brown hair, and the shadows which
lay above her eyes as she turned to face me, and the slow pink
which crept into her cheeks.</p>
<p>Dignified always, and reserved, was Elisabeth Churchill. But now
I hope it was not wholly conceit which led me to feel that perhaps
the warmth, the glow of the air, caught while riding under the open
sky, the sight of the many budding roses of our city, the scent of
the blossoms which even then came through the lattice—the
meeting even with myself, so lately returned—something at
least of this had caused an awakening in her girl's heart.
Something, I say, I do not know what, gave her greeting to me more
warmth than was usual with her. My own heart, eager enough to break
bounds, answered in kind. We stood—blushing like children as
our hands touched—forgotten in that assemblage of
Washington's pomp and circumstance.</p>
<p>"How do you do?" was all I could find to say. And "How do you
do?" was all I could catch for answer, although I saw, in a
fleeting way, a glimpse of a dimple hid in Elisabeth's cheek. She
never showed it save when pleased. I have never seen a dimple like
that of Elisabeth's.</p>
<p>Absorbed, we almost forgot Aunt Betty Jennings—stout,
radiant, snub-nosed, arch-browed and curious, Elisabeth's chaperon.
On the whole, I was glad Aunt Betty Jennings was there. When a
soldier approaches a point of danger, he does not despise the cover
of natural objects. Aunt Betty appeared to me simply as a natural
object at the time. I sought her shelter.</p>
<p>"Aunt Betty," said I, as I took her hand; "Aunt Betty, have we
told you, Elisabeth and I?"</p>
<p>I saw Elisabeth straighten in perplexity, doubt or horror, but I
went on.</p>
<p>"Yes, Elisabeth and I—"</p>
<p>"You <i>dear</i> children!" gurgled Aunt Betty.</p>
<p>"Congratulate us both!" I demanded, and I put Elisabeth's hand,
covered with my own, into the short and chubby fingers of that
estimable lady. Whenever Elisabeth attempted to open her lips I
opened mine before, and I so overwhelmed dear Aunt Betty Jennings
with protestations of my regard for her, my interest in her family,
her other nieces, her chickens, her kittens, her home—I so
quieted all her questions by assertions and demands and
exclamations, and declarations that Mr. Daniel Churchill had given
his consent, that I swear for the moment even Elisabeth believed
that what I had said was indeed true. At least, I can testify she
made no formal denial, although the dimple was now frightened out
of sight.</p>
<p>Admirable Aunt Betty Jennings! She forestalled every assertion I
made, herself bubbling and blushing in sheer delight. Nor did she
lack in charity. Tapping me with her fan lightly, she exclaimed:
"You rogue! I know that you two want to be alone; that is what you
want. Now I am going away—just down the room. You will ride
home with us after a time, I am sure?"</p>
<p>Adorable Aunt Betty Jennings! Elisabeth and I looked at her
comfortable back for some moments before I turned, laughing, to
look Elisabeth in the eyes.</p>
<p>"You had no right—" began she, her face growing pink.</p>
<p>"Every right!" said I, and managed to find a place for our two
hands under cover of the wide flounces of her figured lawn as we
stood, both blushing. "I have every right. I have truly just seen
your father. I have just come from him."</p>
<p>She looked at me intently, glowingly, happily.</p>
<p>"I could not wait any longer," I went on. "Within a week I am
going to have an office of my own. Let us wait no longer. I have
waited long enough. Now—"</p>
<p>I babbled on, and she listened. It was strange place enough for
a betrothal, but there at least I said the words which bound me;
and in the look Elisabeth gave me I saw her answer. Her eyes were
wide and straight and solemn. She did not smile.</p>
<p>As we stood, with small opportunity and perhaps less inclination
for much conversation, my eyes chanced to turn toward the main
entrance door of the East Room. I saw, pushing through, a certain
page, a young boy of good family, who was employed by Mr. Calhoun
as messenger. He knew me perfectly well, as he did almost every one
else in Washington, and with precocious intelligence his gaze
picked me out in all that throng.</p>
<p>"Is that for me?" I asked, as he extended his missive.</p>
<p>"Yes," he nodded. "Mr. Calhoun told me to find you and to give
you this at once."</p>
<p>I turned to Elisabeth. "If you will pardon me?" I said. She made
way for me to pass to a curtained window, and there, turning my
back and using such secrecy as I could, I broke the seal.</p>
<p>The message was brief. To be equally brief I may say simply that
it asked me to be ready to start for Canada that night on business
connected with the Department of State! Of reasons or explanations
it gave none.</p>
<p>I turned to Elisabeth and held out the message from my chief.
She looked at it. Her eyes widened. "Nicholas!" she exclaimed.</p>
<p>I looked at her in silence for a moment. "Elisabeth," I said at
last, "I have been gone on this sort of business long enough. What
do you say to this? Shall I decline to go? It means my resignation
at once."</p>
<p>I hesitated. The heart of the nation and the nation's life were
about me. Our state, such as it was, lay there in that room, and
with it our problems, our duties, our dangers. I knew, better than
most, that there were real dangers before this nation at that very
hour. I was a lover, yet none the less I was an American. At once a
sudden plan came into my mind.</p>
<p>"Elisabeth," said I, turning to her swiftly, "I will agree to
nothing which will send me away from you again. Listen,
then—" I raised a hand as she would have spoken. "Go home
with your Aunt Betty as soon as you can. Tell your father that
to-night at six I shall be there. Be ready!"</p>
<p>"What do you mean?" she panted. I saw her throat flutter.</p>
<p>"I mean that we must be married to-night before I go. Before
eight o'clock I must be on the train."</p>
<p>"When will you be back?" she whispered.</p>
<p>"How can I tell? When I go, my wife shall wait there at
Elmhurst, instead of my sweetheart."</p>
<p>She turned away from me, contemplative. She, too, was young.
Ardor appealed to her. Life stood before her, beckoning, as to me.
What could the girl do or say?</p>
<p>I placed her hand on my arm. We started toward the door,
intending to pick up Aunt Jennings on our way. As we advanced, a
group before us broke apart. I stood aside to make way for a
gentleman whom I did not recognize. On his arm there leaned a
woman, a beautiful woman, clad in a costume of flounced and
rippling velvet of a royal blue which made her the most striking
figure in the great room. Hers was a personality not easily to be
overlooked in any company, her face one not readily to be equalled.
It was the Baroness Helena von Ritz!</p>
<p>We met face to face. I presume it would have been too much to
ask even of her to suppress the sudden flash of recognition which
she showed. At first she did not see that I was accompanied. She
bent to me, as though to adjust her gown, and, without a change in
the expression of her face, spoke to me in an undertone no one else
could hear.</p>
<div class="figcenter"><br />
<a href="images/086.jpg"><img src="images/086.jpg" width="45%" alt=
"" title="" /></a><br />
<b>"Wait!" she murmured "There is to be a meeting—"</b>
<br /></div>
<p>"Wait!" she murmured. "There is to be a meeting—" She had
time for no more as she swept by.</p>
<p>Alas, that mere moments should spell ruin as well as happiness!
This new woman whom I had wooed and found, this new Elisabeth whose
hand lay on my arm, saw what no one else would have seen—that
little flash of recognition on the face of Helena von Ritz! She
heard a whisper pass. Moreover, with a woman's uncanny facility in
detail, she took in every item of the other's costume. For myself,
I could see nothing of that costume now save one object—a
barbaric brooch of double shells and beaded fastenings, which
clasped the light laces at her throat.</p>
<p>The baroness had perhaps slept as little as I the night before.
If I showed the ravages of loss of sleep no more than she, I was
fortunate. She was radiant, as she passed forward with her escort
for place in the line which had not yet dwindled away.</p>
<p>"You seem to know that lady," said Elisabeth to me gently.</p>
<p>"Did I so seem?" I answered. "It is professional of all to smile
in the East Room at a reception," said I.</p>
<p>"Then you do not know the lady?"</p>
<p>"Indeed, no. Why should I, my dear girl?" Ah, how hot my face
was!</p>
<p>"I do not know," said Elisabeth. "Only, in a way she resembles a
certain lady of whom we have heard rather more than enough here in
Washington."</p>
<p>"Put aside silly gossip, Elisabeth," I said. "And, please, do
not quarrel with me, now that I am so happy. To-night—"</p>
<p>"Nicholas," she said, leaning just a little forward and locking
her hands more deeply in my arm, "don't you know you were telling
me one time about the little brooch you were going to bring
me—an Indian thing—you said it should be my—my
wedding present? Don't you remember that? Now, I was
thinking—"</p>
<p>I stood blushing red as though detected in the utmost villainy.
And the girl at my side saw that written on my face which now,
within the very moment, it had become her <i>right</i> to question!
I turned to her suddenly.</p>
<p>"Elisabeth," said I, "you shall have your little brooch
to-night, if you will promise me now to be ready and waiting for me
at six. I will have the license."</p>
<p>It seemed to me that this new self of Elisabeth's—warmer,
yielding, adorable—was slowly going away from me again, and
that her old self, none the less sweet, none the less alluring, but
more logical and questioning, had taken its old place again. She
put both her hands on my arm now and looked me fairly in the face,
where the color still proclaimed some sort of guilt on my part,
although my heart was clean and innocent as hers.</p>
<p>"Nicholas," she said, "come to-night. Bring me my little
jewel—and bring—"</p>
<p>"The minister! If I do that, Elisabeth, you will marry me
then?"</p>
<p>"Yes!" she whispered softly.</p>
<p>Amid all the din and babble of that motley throng I heard the
word, low as it was. I have never heard a voice like
Elisabeth's.</p>
<p>An instant later, I knew not quite how, her hand was away from
my arm, in that of Aunt Betty, and they were passing toward the
main door, leaving me standing with joy and doubt mingled in my
mind.</p>
<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<h2><a name="CHAPTER_VIII" id="CHAPTER_VIII"></a>CHAPTER VIII</h2>
<h3>MR. CALHOUN ACCEPTS</h3>
<div class="blockquot">
<p>A woman's tongue is her sword, that she never lets rust.<br />
<span style="margin-left: 19em;">—<i>Madam
Necker</i>.</span></p>
</div>
<p>I struggled among three courses. The impulses of my heart,
joined to some prescience of trouble, bade me to follow Elisabeth.
My duty ordered me to hasten to Mr. Calhoun. My interest demanded
that I should tarry, for I was sure that the Baroness von Ritz
would make no merely idle request in these circumstances.
Hesitating thus, I lost sight of her in the throng. So I concluded
I would obey the mandate of duty, and turned toward the great
doors. Indeed, I was well toward the steps which led out into the
grounds, when all at once two elements of my problem resolved
themselves into one. I saw the tall figure of Mr. Calhoun himself
coming up the walk toward me.</p>
<p>"Ah," said he briefly, "then my message found you?"</p>
<p>"I was starting for you this moment, sir" I replied.</p>
<p>"Wait for a moment. I counted on finding you here. Matters have
changed."</p>
<p>I turned with him and we entered again the East Room, where Mr.
Tyler still prolonged the official greeting of the curious, the
obsequious, or the banal persons who passed. Mr. Calhoun stood
apart for a time, watching the progress of this purely American
function. It was some time ere the groups thinned. This latter fact
usually would have ended the reception, since it is not etiquette
to suppose that the president can lack an audience; but to-day Mr.
Tyler lingered. At last through the thinning throng he caught sight
of the distinctive figure of Mr. Calhoun. For the first time his
own face assumed a natural expression. He stopped the line for an
instant, and with a raised hand beckoned to my chief.</p>
<p>At this we dropped in at the tail of the line, Mr. Calhoun in
passing grasping almost as many hands as Mr. Tyler. When at length
we reached the president's position, the latter greeted him and
added a whispered word. An instant later he turned abruptly, ending
the reception with a deep bow, and retired into the room from which
he had earlier emerged.</p>
<p>Mr. Calhoun turned now to me with a request to follow him, and
we passed through the door where the president had vanished.
Directed by attendants, we were presently ushered into yet another
room, which at that time served the president as his cabinet room,
a place for meeting persons of distinction who called upon
business.</p>
<p>As we entered I saw that it was already occupied. Mr. Tyler was
grasping the hand of a portly personage, whom I knew to be none
other than Mr. Pakenham. So much might have been expected. What was
not to have been expected was the presence of another—none
less than the Baroness von Ritz! For this latter there was no
precedent, no conceivable explanation save some exigent
emergency.</p>
<p>So we were apparently to understand that my lady was here as
open friend of England! Of course, I needed no word from Mr.
Calhoun to remind me that we must seem ignorant of this lady, of
her character, and of her reputed relations with the British
Foreign Office.</p>
<p>"I pray you be seated, Mr. Pakenham," said Mr. Tyler, and he
gestured also to us others to take chairs near his table. Mr.
Pakenham, in rather a lofty fashion, it seemed to me, obeyed the
polite request, but scarcely had seated himself ere he again rose
with an important clearing of his throat. He was one who never
relished the democratic title of "Mr." accorded him by Mr. Tyler,
whose plain and simple ways, not much different now from those of
his plantation life, were in marked contrast to the ceremoniousness
of the Van Buren administration, which Pakenham also had known.</p>
<p>"Your <i>Excellency</i>," said he, "her Majesty the Queen of
England's wish is somewhat anticipated by my visit here to-day. I
hasten only to put in the most prompt and friendly form her
Majesty's desires, which I am sure formally will be expressed in
the first mails from England. We deplore this most unhappy accident
on your warship <i>Princeton</i>, which has come so near working
irremediable injury to this country. Unofficially, I have ventured
to make this personal visit under the flag of this enlightened
Republic, and to the center of its official home, out of a
friendship for Mr. Upshur, the late secretary of state, a
friendship as sincere as is that of my own country for this
Republic."</p>
<p>"Sir," said Mr. Tyler, rising, with a deep bow, "the courtesy of
your personal presence is most gratifying. Allow me to express that
more intimate and warmer feeling of friendship for yourself which
comes through our long association with you. This respect and
admiration are felt by myself and my official family for you and
the great power which you represent. It goes to you with a special
sincerity as to a gentleman of learning and distinction, whose
lofty motives and ideals are recognized by all."</p>
<p>Each having thus delivered himself of words which meant nothing,
both now seated themselves and proceeded to look mighty grave. For
myself, I stole a glance from the tail of my eye toward the
Baroness von Ritz. She sat erect in her chair, a figure of easy
grace and dignity, but on her face was nothing one could read to
tell who she was or why she was here. So far from any external
<i>gaucherie</i>, she seemed quite as much at home here, and quite
as fit here, as England's plenipotentiary.</p>
<p>"I seize upon this opportunity, Mr. Pakenham," said Mr. Tyler
presently, with a smile which he meant to set all at ease and to
soften as much as possible the severity of that which was to
follow, "I gladly take this opportunity to mention in an informal
way my hope that this matter which was already inaugurated by Mr.
Upshur before his untimely death may come to perfectly pleasant
consummation. I refer to the question of Texas."</p>
<p>"I beg pardon, your Excellency," rejoined Mr. Pakenham, half
rising. "Your meaning is not perfectly clear to me."</p>
<p>The same icy smile sat upon Mr. Tyler's face as he went on: "I
can not believe that your government can wish to interfere in
matters upon this continent to the extent of taking the position of
open ally of the Republic of Mexico, a power so recently at war
upon our own borders with the brave Texans who have left our flag
to set up, through fair conquest, a republic of their own."</p>
<p>The mottled face of Mr. Pakenham assumed a yet deeper red. "As
to that, your Excellency," said he, "your remark is, as you say,
quite informal, of course—that is to say, as I may
state—"</p>
<p>"Quite so," rejoined Mr. Tyler gravely. "The note of my Lord
Aberdeen to us, none the less, in the point of its bearing upon the
question of slavery in Texas, appears to this government as an
expression which ought to be disavowed by your own government. Do I
make myself quite clear?" (With John Calhoun present, Tyler could
at times assume a courage though he had it not.)</p>
<p>Mr. Pakenham's face glowed a deeper red. "I am not at liberty to
discuss my Lord Aberdeen's wishes in this matter," he said. "We met
here upon a purely informal matter, and—"</p>
<p>"I have only ventured to hope," rejoined Mr. Tyler, "that the
personal kindness of your own heart might move you in so grave a
matter as that which may lead to war between two powers."</p>
<p>"War, sir, <i>war</i>?" Mr. Pakenham went wholly purple in his
surprise, and sprang to his feet. "War!" he repeated once more. "As
though there could be any hope—"</p>
<p>"Quite right, sir," said Mr. Tyler grimly. "As though there
could be any hope for us save in our own conduct of our own
affairs, without any interference from any foreign power!"</p>
<p>I knew it was John Calhoun speaking these words, not Mr. Tyler.
I saw Mr. Calhoun's keen, cold eyes fixed closely upon the face of
his president. The consternation created by the latter's words was
plainly visible.</p>
<p>"Of course, this conversation is entirely irregular—I mean
to say, wholly unofficial, your Excellency?" hesitated Pakenham.
"It takes no part in our records?"</p>
<p>"Assuredly not," said Mr. Tyler. "I only hope the question may
never come to a matter of record at all. Once our country knows
that dictation has been attempted with us, even by England herself,
the North will join the South in resentment. Even now, in
restiveness at the fancied attitude of England toward Mexico, the
West raises the demand that we shall end the joint occupancy of
Oregon with Great Britain. Do you perchance know the watchword
which is now on the popular tongue west of the Alleghanies? It bids
fair to become an American <i>Marseillaise</i>."</p>
<p>"I must confess my ignorance," rejoined Mr. Pakenham.</p>
<p>"Our backwoodsmen have invented a phrase which runs
<i>Fifty-four Forty or Fight</i>!"</p>
<p>"I beg pardon, I am sure, your Excellency?"</p>
<p>"It means that if we conclude to terminate the very
unsatisfactory muddle along the Columbia River—a stream which
our mariners first explored, as we contend—and if we conclude
to dispute with England as well regarding our delimitations on the
Southwest, where she has even less right to speak, then we shall
contend for <i>all</i> that territory, not only up to the Columbia,
but north to the Russian line, the parallel of fifty-four degrees
and forty minutes! We claim that we once bought Texas clear to the
Rio Grande, from Napoleon, although the foolish treaty with Spain
in 1819 clouded our title—in the belief of our Whig friends,
who do not desire more slave territory. Even the Whigs think that
we own Oregon by virtue of first navigation of the Columbia. Both
Whigs and Democrats now demand Oregon north to fifty-four degrees,
forty minutes. The alternative? My Lord Aberdeen surely makes no
deliberate bid to hear it!"</p>
<p>"Or fight!" exclaimed Pakenham. "God bless my soul! Fight
<i>us</i>?"</p>
<p>Mr. Tyler flushed. "Such things have been," said he with
dignity.</p>
<p>"That is to say," he resumed calmly, "our rude Westerners are
egotistic and ignorant. I admit that we are young. But believe me,
when the American people say <i>fight</i>, it has but one meaning.
As their servant, I am obliged to convey that meaning. In this
democracy, the will of the people rules. In war, we have no Whigs,
no Democrats, we have only <i>the people</i>!"</p>
<p>At this astounding speech the British minister sat dumfounded.
This air of courage and confidence on the part of Mr. Tyler himself
was something foreign to his record. I knew the reason for his
boldness. John Calhoun sat at his right hand.</p>
<p>At least, the meaning of this sudden assault was too much for
England's representative. Perhaps, indeed, the Berserker blood of
our frontier spoke in Mr. Tyler's gaze. That we would fight indeed
was true enough.</p>
<p>"It only occurs to us, sir," continued the president, "that the
great altruism of England's heart has led her for a moment to utter
sentiments in a form which might, perhaps, not be sanctioned in her
colder judgment. This nation has not asked counsel. We are not yet
agreed in our Congress upon the admission of Texas—although I
may say to you, sir, with fairness, that such is the purpose of
this administration. There being no war, we still have Whigs and
Democrats!"</p>
<p>"At this point, your Excellency, the dignity of her Majesty's
service would lead me to ask excuse," rejoined Mr. Pakenham
formally, "were it not for one fact, which I should like to offer
here. I have, in short, news which will appear full warrant for any
communication thus far made by her Majesty's government. I can
assure you that there has come into the possession of this lady,
whose able services I venture to enlist here in her presence, a
communication from the Republic of Texas to the government of
England. That communication is done by no less a hand than that of
the attaché for the Republic of Texas, Mr. Van Zandt
himself."</p>
<p>There was, I think, no other formal invitation for the Baroness
von Ritz to speak; but now she arose, swept a curtsey first to Mr.
Tyler and then to Mr. Pakenham and Mr. Calhoun.</p>
<p>"It is not to be expected, your Excellency and gentlemen," said
she, "that I can add anything of value here." Her eyes were
demurely downcast.</p>
<p>"We do not doubt your familiarity with many of these late
events," encouraged Mr. Tyler.</p>
<p>"True," she continued, "the note of my Lord Aberdeen is to-day
the property of the streets, and of this I have some knowledge. I
can see, also, difficulty in its reception among the courageous
gentlemen of America. But, as to any written communication from Mr.
Van Zandt, there must be some mistake!"</p>
<p>"I was of the impression that you would have had it last night,"
rejoined Pakenham, plainly confused; "in fact, that gentleman
advised me to such effect."</p>
<p>The Baroness Helena von Ritz looked him full in the face and
only gravely shook her head. "I regret matters should be so much at
fault," said she.</p>
<p>"Then let me explain," resumed Pakenham, almost angrily. "I will
state—unofficially, of course—that the promises of Mr.
Van Zandt were that her Majesty might expect an early end of the
talk of the annexation of Texas to the United States. The greater
power of England upon land or sea would assure that weak Republic
of a great and enlightened ally—in his belief."</p>
<p>"An ally!" broke out Mr. Calhoun. "And a document sent to that
effect by the attaché of Texas!" He smiled coldly. "Two
things seem very apparent, Mr. President. First, that this gentle
lady stands high in the respect of England's ministry. Second, that
Mr. Van Zandt, if all this were true, ought to stand very low in
ours. I would say all this and much more, even were it a state
utterance, to stand upon the records of this nation!"</p>
<p>"Sir," interrupted Mr. Tyler, swiftly turning to Mr. Calhoun,
"<i>may I not ask you that it be left as a state
utterance?</i>"</p>
<p>Mr. Calhoun bowed with the old-time grace habitual to him, his
hand upon his heart, but he made no answer. The real reason might
have been read in the mottled face of Pakenham, now all the colors
of the rainbow, as he looked from one to the other.</p>
<p>"Mr. Calhoun," continued the president, "you know that the
office of our secretary of state is vacant. There is no one living
would serve in that office more wisely than yourself, no one more
in accordance with my own views as to these very questions which
are before us. Since it has come to that point, I offer you now
that office, and do so officially. I ask your answer."</p>
<p>The face of England's minister now for the first time went
colorless. He knew what this meant.</p>
<p>As for John Calhoun, he played with both of them as a cat would
with a mouse, sneeringly superior. His answer was couched in terms
suited to his own purposes. "This dignity, Mr. President," said he,
bowing deeply again, "so unexpected, so onerous, so responsible, is
one which at least needs time for proper consideration. I must
crave opportunity for reflection and for pondering. In my surprise
at your sudden request, I find no proper answer ready."</p>
<p>Here, then, seemed an opportunity for delay, which Mr. Pakenham
was swift to grasp. He arose and bowed to Mr. Tyler. "I am sure
that Mr. Calhoun will require some days at least for the framing of
his answer to an invitation so grave as this."</p>
<p>"I shall require at least some moments," said Mr. Calhoun,
smiling. "That <i>Marseillaise</i> of '44, Mr. President, says
<i>Fifty-four Forty or Fight</i>. That means 'the Rio Grande or
fight,' as well."</p>
<p>A short silence fell upon us all. Mr. Tyler half rose and half
frowned as he noticed Mr. Pakenham shuffling as though he would
depart.</p>
<p>"It shall be, of course, as you suggest," said the president to
Pakenham. "There is no record of any of this. But the answer of Mr.
Calhoun, which I await and now demand, is one which will go upon
the records of this country soon enough, I fancy. I ask you, then,
to hear what Mr. Calhoun replies."</p>
<p>Ah, it was well arranged and handsomely staged, this little
comedy, and done for the benefit of England, after all! I almost
might have believed that Mr. Calhoun had rehearsed this with the
president. Certainly, the latter knew perfectly well what his
answer was to be. Mr. Calhoun himself made that deliberately plain,
when presently he arose.</p>
<p>"I have had some certain moments for reflection, Mr. President,"
said he, "and I have from the first moment of this surprising offer
on your part been humbly sensible of the honor offered so old and
so unfit a man.</p>
<p>"Sir, my own record, thank God, is clear. I have stood for the
South. I stand now for Texas. I believe in her and her future. She
belongs to us, as I have steadfastly insisted at all hours and in
all places. She will widen the southern vote in Congress, that is
true. She will be for slavery. That also is true. I myself have
stood for slavery, but I am yet more devoted to democracy and to
America than I am to the South and to slavery. So will Texas be. I
know what Texas means. She means for us also Oregon. She means more
than that. She means also a democracy spreading across this entire
continent. My attitude in that regard has been always clear. I have
not sought to change it. Sir, if I take this office which you
offer, I do so with the avowed and expressed purpose of bringing
Texas into this Union, in full view of any and all consequences. I
shall offer her a treaty of annexation <i>at once!</i> I shall urge
annexation at every hour, in every place, in all ways within my
means, and in full view of the consequences!" He looked now gravely
and keenly at the English plenipotentiary.</p>
<p>"That is well understood, Mr. Calhoun," began Mr. Tyler. "Your
views are in full accord with my own."</p>
<p>Pakenham looked from the one to the other, from the thin,
vulpine face to the thin, leonine one. The pity Mr. Tyler felt for
the old man's visible weakness showed on his face as he spoke.</p>
<p>"What, then, is the answer of John Calhoun to this latest call
of his country?"</p>
<p>That answer is one which is in our history.</p>
<p>"John Calhoun accepts!" said my master, loud and clear.</p>
<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<h2><a name="CHAPTER_IX" id="CHAPTER_IX"></a>CHAPTER IX</h2>
<h3>A KETTLE OF FISH</h3>
<div class="blockquot">
<p>Few disputes exist which have not had their origin in
women—<i>Juvenal</i>.</p>
</div>
<p>I saw the heavy face of Mr. Pakenham go pale, saw the face of
the Baroness von Ritz flash with a swift resolution, saw the eyes
of Mr. Calhoun and Mr. Tyler meet in firmness. An instant later,
Mr. Tyler rose and bowed our dismissal. Our little play was done.
Which of us knew all the motives that had lain behind its
setting?</p>
<p>Mr. Pakenham drew apart and engaged in earnest speech with the
lady who had accompanied him; so that meantime I myself found
opportunity for a word with Mr. Calhoun.</p>
<p>"Now," said I, "the fat certainly is all in the fire!"</p>
<p>"What fat, my son?" asked Calhoun serenely; "and what fire?"</p>
<p>"At least"—and I grinned covertly, I fear—"it seems
all over between my lady and her protector there. She turned
traitor just when he had most need of her! Tell me, what argument
did you use with her last night?"</p>
<p>Mr. Calhoun took snuff.</p>
<p>"You don't know women, my son, and you don't know men, either."
The thin white skin about his eyes wrinkled.</p>
<p>"Certainly, I don't know what arts may have been employed in Mr.
Calhoun's office at half-past two this morning." I smiled frankly
now at my chief, and he relaxed in turn.</p>
<p>"We had a most pleasant visit of an hour. A delightful woman, a
charming woman, and one of intellect as well. I appealed to her
heart, her brain, her purse, and she laughed, for the most part.
Yet she argued, too, and seemed to have some interest—as you
see proved now. Ah, I wish I could have had the other two great
motives to add to my appeal!"</p>
<p>"Meaning—?"</p>
<p>"Love—and curiosity! With those added, I could have won
her over; for believe me, she is none too firmly anchored to
England. I am sure of that, though it leaves me still puzzled. If
you think her personal hold on yonder gentleman will be lessened,
you err," he added, in a low voice. "I consider it sure that he is
bent on her as much as he is on England. See, she has him back in
hand already! I would she were <i>our</i> friend!"</p>
<p>"Is she not?" I asked suddenly.</p>
<p>"We two may answer that one day," said Calhoun
enigmatically.</p>
<p>Now I offered to Mr. Calhoun the note I had received from his
page.</p>
<p>"This journey to-night," I began; "can I not be excused from
making that? There is a very special reason."</p>
<p>"What can it be?" asked Calhoun, frowning.</p>
<p>"I am to be married to-night, sir," said I, calmly as I
could.</p>
<p>It was Calhoun's turn now to be surprised. "<i>Married?</i>
Zounds! boy, what do you mean? There is no time to waste."</p>
<p>"I do not hold it quite wasted, sir," said I with dignity. "Miss
Elisabeth Churchill and I for a long time—"</p>
<p>"Miss Elisabeth! So the wind is there, eh? My daughter's friend.
I know her very well, of course. Very well done, indeed, for you.
But there can be no wedding to-night."</p>
<p>I looked at him in amazement. He was as absorbed as though he
felt empowered to settle that matter for me. A moment later, seeing
Mr. Pakenham taking his leave, he stepped to the side of the
baroness. I saw him and that mysterious lady fall into a
conversation as grave as that which had but now been ended. I
guessed, rather than reasoned, that in some mysterious way I came
into their talk. But presently both approached me.</p>
<p>"Mr. Trist," said Mr. Calhoun, "I beg you to hand the Baroness
von Ritz to her carriage, which will wait at the avenue." We were
then standing near the door at the head of the steps.</p>
<p>"I see my friend Mr. Polk approaching," he continued, "and I
would like to have a word or so with him."</p>
<p>We three walked in company down the steps and a short distance
along the walk, until presently we faced the gentleman whose
approach had been noted. We paused in a little group under the
shade of an avenue tree, and the gentlemen removed their hats as
Mr. Calhoun made a somewhat formal introduction.</p>
<p>At that time, of course, James K. Polk, of Tennessee, was not
the national figure he was soon to become at the Baltimore
convention. He was known best as Speaker of the House for some
time, and as a man experienced in western politics, a friend of
Jackson, who still controlled a large wing of the disaffected; the
Democratic party then being scarce more than a league of warring
cliques. Although once governor of Tennessee, it still was an honor
for Mr. Polk to be sought out by Senator John Calhoun, sometime
vice-president, sometime cabinet member in different capacities. He
showed this as he uncovered. A rather short man, and thin,
well-built enough, and of extremely serious mien, he scarce could
have been as wise as he looked, any more than Mr. Daniel Webster;
yet he was good example of conventional politics, platitudes and
all.</p>
<p>"They have adjourned at the House, then?" said Calhoun.</p>
<p>"Yes, and adjourned a bear pit at that," answered the gentleman
from Tennessee. "Mr. Tyler has asked me to come across town to meet
him. Do you happen to know where he is now?"</p>
<p>"He was here a few moments ago, Governor. We were but escorting
this lady to her carriage, as she claims fatigue from late hours at
the ball last night."</p>
<p>"Surely so radiant a presence," said Mr. Polk gallantly, "means
that she left the ball at an early hour."</p>
<p>"Quite so," replied that somewhat uncertain lady demurely.
"Early hours and a good conscience are advised by my
physicians."</p>
<p>"My dear lady, Time owns his own defeat in you," Mr. Polk
assured her, his eyes sufficiently admiring.</p>
<p>"Such pretty speeches as these gentlemen of America make!" was
her gay reply. "Is it not so, Mr. Secretary?" She smiled up at
Calhoun's serious face.</p>
<p>Polk was possessed of a political nose which rarely failed him.
"<i>Mr. Secretary?</i>" he exclaimed, turning to Calhoun.</p>
<p>The latter bowed. "I have just accepted the place lately filled
by Mr. Upshur," was his comment.</p>
<p>A slow color rose in the Tennesseean's face as he held out his
hand. "I congratulate you, Mr. Secretary," said he. "Now at last we
shall see an end of indecision and boasting pretense."</p>
<p>"Excellent things to end, Governor Polk!" said Calhoun
gravely.</p>
<p>"I am but an humble adviser," rejoined the man from Tennessee;
"but assuredly I must hasten to congratulate Mr. Tyler. I have no
doubt that this means Texas. Of course, my dear Madam, we talk
riddles in your presence?"</p>
<p>"Quite riddles, although I remain interested," she answered. I
saw her cool eyes take in his figure, measuring him calmly for her
mental tablets, as I could believe was her wont. "But I find myself
indeed somewhat fatigued," she continued, "and since these are
matters of which I am ignorant—"</p>
<p>"Of course, Madam," said Mr. Calhoun. "We crave your pardon. Mr.
Trist—"</p>
<p>So now I took the lady's sunshade from her hand, and we two,
making adieux, passed down the shaded walk toward the avenue.</p>
<p>"You are a good cavalier," she said to me. "I find you not so
fat as Mr. Pakenham, nor so thin as Mr. Calhoun. My faith, could
you have seen that gentleman this morning in a wrapper—and in
a red worsted nightcap!"</p>
<p>"But what did you determine?" I asked her suddenly. "What has my
chief said to cause you to fail poor Mr. Pakenham as you did? I
pitied the poor man, in such a grueling, and wholly without
warning!"</p>
<p>"Monsieur is droll," she replied evasively. "As though I had
changed! I will say this much: I think Sir Richard will care more
for Mexico and less for Mexicans after this! But you do not tell me
when you are coming to see me, to bring back my little shoe. Its
mate has arrived by special messenger, but the pair remains still
broken. Do you come to-night—this afternoon?"</p>
<p>"I wish that I might," said I.</p>
<p>"Why be churlish with me?" she demanded. "Did I not call at your
request upon a gentleman in a red nightcap at two in the morning?
And for your sake—and the sake of sport—did I not
almost promise him many things? Come now, am I not to see you and
explain all that; and hear you explain all this?" She made a little
<i>moue</i> at me.</p>
<p>"It would be my delight, Madam, but there are two
reasons—"</p>
<p>"One, then."</p>
<p>"I am going to Montreal to-night, for one."</p>
<p>She gave me a swift glance, which I could not understand.</p>
<p>"So?" she said. "Why so soon?"</p>
<p>"Orders," said I briefly. "But perhaps I may not obey orders for
once. There is another reason."</p>
<p>"And that one?"</p>
<p>"I am to be married at six."</p>
<p>I turned to enjoy her consternation. Indeed, there was an
alternate white and red passed across her face! But at once she was
in hand.</p>
<p>"And you allowed me to become your devoted slave," she said,
"even to the extent of calling upon a man in a red nightcap; and
then, even upon a morning like this, when the birds sing so sweetly
and the little flowers show pink and white—now you cast down
my most sacred feelings!"</p>
<p>The mockery in her tone was perfect. I scarce had paused to note
it. I was absorbed in one thought—of Elisabeth. Where one
fire burns high and clear upon the altar of the heart, there is
small room for any other.</p>
<p>"I might have told you," said I at Last, "but I did not myself
know it until this morning."</p>
<p>"My faith, this country!" she exclaimed with genuine surprise.
"What extraordinary things it does! I have just seen history made
between the lightings of a cigarette, as it were. Now comes this
man and announces that since midnight he has met and won the lady
who is to rule his heart, and that he is to marry her at six!"</p>
<p>"Then congratulate me!" I demanded.</p>
<p>"Ah," she said, suddenly absorbed; "it was that tall girl! Yes,
yes, I see, I see! I understand! So then! Yes!"</p>
<p>"But still you have not congratulated me."</p>
<p>"Ah, Monsieur," she answered lightly, "one woman never
congratulates a man when he has won another! What of my own heart?
Fie! Fie!" Yet she had curious color in her face.</p>
<p>"I do not credit myself with such fatal charms," said I. "Rather
say what of my little clasp there. I promised that to the tall
girl, as you know."</p>
<p>"And might I not wear it for an hour?"</p>
<p>"I shall give you a dozen better some time," said I; "but
to-night—"</p>
<p>"And my slipper? I said I must have that back, because I can not
hop along with but one shoe all my life."</p>
<p>"That you shall have as soon as I can get to my rooms at Brown's
Hotel yonder. A messenger shall bring it to you at once. Time will
indeed be short for me. First, the slipper for Madam. Then the
license for myself. Then the minister. Then a friend. Then a
carriage. Five miles to Elmhurst, and the train for the North
starts at eight. Indeed, as you say, the methods of this country
are sometimes hurried. Madam, can not you use your wits in a cause
so worthy as mine?"</p>
<p>I could not at the time understand the swift change of her
features. "One woman's wits against another's!" she flashed at me.
"As for that"—She made a swift motion to her throat. "Here is
the trinket. Tell the tall lady it is my present to you. Tell her I
may send her a wedding present—when the wedding really is to
happen. Of course, you do not mean what you have said about being
married in such haste?"</p>
<p>"Every word of it," I answered. "And at her own home. 'Tis no
runaway match; I have the consent of her father."</p>
<p>"But you said you had her consent only an hour ago. Ah, this is
better than a play!"</p>
<p>"It is true," said I, "there has not been time to inform Miss
Churchill's family of my need for haste. I shall attend to that
when I arrive. The lady has seen the note from Mr. Calhoun ordering
me to Montreal."</p>
<p>"To Montreal? How curious!" she mused. "But what did Mr. Calhoun
say to this marriage?"</p>
<p>"He forbade the banns."</p>
<p>"But Monsieur will take her before him in a sack—and he
will forbid you, I am sure, to condemn that lady to a life in a
cabin, to a couch of husks, to a lord who would crush her arms and
command her—"</p>
<p>I flushed as she reminded me of my own speech, and there came no
answer but the one which I imagine is the verdict of all lovers.
"She is the dearest girl in the world," I declared.</p>
<p>"Has she fortune?"</p>
<p>"I do not know."</p>
<p>"Have you fortune?"</p>
<p>"God knows, no!"</p>
<p>"You have but love-and this country?"</p>
<p>"That is all."</p>
<p>"It is enough," said she, sighing. "Dear God, it is enough! But
then"-she turned to me suddenly—"I don't think you will be
married so soon, after all. Wait."</p>
<p>"That is what Mr. Pakenham wanted Mr. Calhoun to do," I
smiled.</p>
<p>"But Mr. Pakenham is not a woman."</p>
<p>"Ah, then you also forbid our banns?"</p>
<p>"If you challenge me," she retorted, "I shall do my worst."</p>
<p>"Then do your worst!" I said. "All of you do your joint worst.
You can not shake the faith of Elisabeth Churchill in me, nor mine
in her. Oh, yes, by all means do your worst!"</p>
<p>"Very well," she said, with a catch of her breath. "At least we
both said—'on guard!'</p>
<p>"I wish I could ask you to attend at our wedding," I concluded,
as her carriage approached the curb; "but it is safe to say that
not even friends of the family will be present, and of those not
all the family will be friends."</p>
<p>She did not seem to see her carriage as it paused, although she
prepared to enter when I opened the door. Her look, absorbed,
general, seemed rather to take in the sweep of the wide grounds,
the green of the young springtime, the bursting of the new white
blossoms, the blue of the sky, the loom of the distant capitol
dome—all the crude promise of our young and tawdry capital,
still in the making of a world city. Her eyes passed to me and
searched my face without looking into my eyes, as though I made
part of her study. What sat on her face was perplexity, wonder,
amazement, and something else, I know not what. Something of her
perfect poise and confidence, her quality as woman of the world,
seemed to drop away. A strange and childlike quality came into her
face, a pathos unlike anything I had seen there before. She took my
hand mechanically.</p>
<p>"Of course," said she, as though she spoke to herself, "it can
not be. But, dear God! would it not be enough?"</p>
<p>I did not understand her speech. I stood and watched her
carriage as it whirled away. Thinking of my great need for haste,
mechanically I looked at my watch. It was one o'clock. Then I
reflected that it was at eleven of the night previous that I had
first met the Baroness von Ritz. Our acquaintance had therefore
lasted some fourteen hours.</p>
<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<h2><a name="CHAPTER_X" id="CHAPTER_X"></a>CHAPTER X</h2>
<h3>MIXED DUTIES</h3>
<div class="blockquot">
<p>Most women will forgive a liberty, rather than a slight.<br />
<span style="margin-left: 21em;">—<i>Colton</i>.</span></p>
</div>
<p>When I crossed the White House grounds and found my way to the
spot where I had left my horse, I discovered my darky boy lying on
his back, fast asleep under a tree, the bridle reins hooked over
his upturned foot. I wakened him, took the reins and was about to
mount, when at the moment I heard my name called.</p>
<p>Turning, I saw emerge from the door of Gautier's little
café, across the street, the tall figure of an erstwhile
friend of mine, Jack Dandridge, of Tennessee, credited with being
the youngest member in the House of Representatives at
Washington—and credited with little else.</p>
<p>Dandridge had been taken up by friends of Jackson and Polk and
carried into Congress without much plan or objection on either
side. Since his arrival at the capital he had been present at few
roll-calls, and had voted on fewer measures. His life was given up
in the main to one specialty, to-wit: the compounding of a certain
beverage, invented by himself, the constituent parts of which were
Bourbon whiskey, absinthe, square faced gin and a dash of <i>eau de
vie</i>. This concoction, over which few shared his own personal
enthusiasm, he had christened the Barn-Burner's Dream; although Mr.
Dandridge himself was opposed to the tenets of the political party
thus entitled—which, by the way, was to get its whimsical
name, possibly from Dandridge himself, at the forthcoming
Democratic convention of that year.</p>
<p>Jack Dandridge, it may be said, was originally possessed of a
splendid constitution. Nearly six feet tall, his full and somewhat
protruding eye was as yet only a trifle watery, his wide lip only a
trifle loose, his strong figure only a trifle portly. Socially he
had been well received in our city, and during his stay east of the
mountains he had found occasion to lay desperate suit to the hand
of none other than Miss Elisabeth Churchill. We had been rivals,
although not enemies; for Jack, finding which way the wind sat for
him, withdrew like a man, and cherished no ill will. When I saw him
now, a sudden idea came to me, so that I crossed the street at his
invitation.</p>
<p>"Come in," said he. "Come in with me, and have a Dream. I have
just invented a new touch for it; I have, 'pon my word."</p>
<p>"Jack," I exclaimed, grasping him by the shoulder, "you are the
man I want. You are the friend that I need—the very one."</p>
<p>"Certainly, certainly," he said; "but please do not disarrange
my cravat. Sir, I move you the previous question. Will you have a
Dream with me? I construct them now with three additional squirts
of the absinthe." He locked his arm in mine.</p>
<p>"You may have a Dream," said I; "but for me, I need all my head
to-day. In short, I need both our heads as well."</p>
<p>Jack was already rapping with the head of his cane upon the
table, to call an attendant, but he turned to me. "What is the
matter? Lady, this time?"</p>
<p>"Two of them."</p>
<p>"Indeed? One apiece, eh?"</p>
<p>"None apiece, perhaps. In any case, you lose."</p>
<p>"Then the names—or at least one?"</p>
<p>I flushed a bit in spite of myself. "You know Miss Elisabeth
Churchill?"</p>
<p>He nodded gravely. "And about the other lady?"</p>
<p>"I can not tell you much about her," said I; "I have but little
knowledge myself. I mean the Baroness von Ritz."</p>
<p>"Oh, ho!" Jack opened his eyes, and gave a long whistle. "State
secrets, eh?"</p>
<p>I nodded, and looked him square in the eye.</p>
<p>"Well, why should you ask me to help you, then? Calhoun is none
too good a friend of Mr. Polk, of my state. Calhoun is neither Whig
nor Democrat. He does not know where he stands. If you train with
him, why come to our camp for help?"</p>
<p>"Not that sort, jack," I answered. "The favor I ask is
personal."</p>
<p>"Explain."</p>
<p>He sipped at the fiery drink, which by this time had been placed
before him, his face brightening.</p>
<p>"I must be quick. I have in my possession—on the bureau in
my little room at my quarters in Brown's Hotel—a slipper
which the baroness gave me last night—a white satin
slipper—"</p>
<p>Jack finished the remainder of his glass at a gulp. "Good God!"
he remarked.</p>
<p>"Quite right," I retorted hotly. "Accuse me Anything you like!
But go to my headquarters, get that slipper, go to this address
with it"—I scrawled on a piece of paper and thrust it at
him—"then get a carriage and hasten to Elmhurst drive, where
it turns in at the road. Wait for me there, just before six."</p>
<p>He sat looking at me with amusement and amazement both upon his
face, as I went on:</p>
<p>"Listen to what I am to do in the meantime. First I go post
haste to Mr. Calhoun's office. Then I am to take his message, which
will send me to Canada, to-night. After I have my orders I hurry
back to Brown's and dress for my wedding."</p>
<p>The glass in his hand dropped to the floor in splinters.</p>
<p>"Your wedding?"</p>
<p>"Yes, Miss Elisabeth and I concluded this very morning not to
wait. I would ask you to help me as my best man, if I dare."</p>
<p>"You do dare," said he. "You're all a-fluster. Go on; I'll get a
parson—how'll Doctor Halford do?—and I'd take care of
the license for you if I could—Gad! sorry it's not my
own!"</p>
<p>"You are the finest fellow in the world, Jack. I have only one
thing more to ask"—I pointed to the splintered glass upon the
floor—"Don't get another."</p>
<p>"Of course not, of course not!" he expostulated. His voice was
just a trifle thickened. We left now together for the license
clerk, and I intrusted the proper document in my friend's hands. An
instant later I was outside, mounted, and off for Calhoun's office
at his residence in Georgetown.</p>
<p>At last, as for the fourth time I flung down the narrow walk and
looked down the street, I saw his well-known form approaching. He
walked slowly, somewhat stooped upon his cane. He raised a hand as
I would have begun to speak. His customary reserve and dignity held
me back.</p>
<p>"So you made it out well with the lady," he began.</p>
<p>"Yes," I answered, flushing. "Not so badly for the time that
offered."</p>
<p>"A remarkable woman," he said. "Most remarkable!" Then he went
on: "Now as to your own intended, I congratulate you. But I suggest
that you keep Miss Elisabeth Churchill and the Baroness von Ritz
pretty well separated, if that be possible."</p>
<p>"Sir," I stammered; "that certainly is my personal intent. But
now, may I ask—"</p>
<p>"You start to Canada to-night," said Calhoun sharply—all
softness gone from his voice.</p>
<p>"I can not well do that," I began. His hand tapped with
decision.</p>
<p>"I have no time to choose another messenger," he said. "Time
will not wait. You must not fail me. You will take the railway
train at eight. You will be joined by Doctor Samuel Ward, who will
give you a sealed paper, which will contain your instructions, and
the proper moneys. He goes as far as Baltimore."</p>
<p>"You would be the better agent," he added presently, "if this
love silliness were out of your head. It is not myself you are
serving, and not my party. It is this country you are serving."</p>
<p>"But, sir—" I began.</p>
<p>His long thin hand was imperative. "Go on, then, with your
wedding, if you will, and if you can; but see that you do not miss
the train at eight!"</p>
<p>Half in a daze, I left him; nor did I see him again that day,
nor for many after.</p>
<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XI" id="CHAPTER_XI"></a>CHAPTER XI</h2>
<h3>WHO GIVETH THIS WOMAN</h3>
<div class="blockquot">
<p>Woman is a miracle of divine contradictions.—<i>Jules
Michelet</i>.</p>
</div>
<p>On my return to my quarters at Brown's I looked at the top of my
bureau. It was empty. My friend Dandridge had proved faithful. The
slipper of the baroness was gone! So now, hurriedly, I began my
toilet for that occasion which to any gentleman should be the one
most exacting, the most important of his life's events.</p>
<p>Elisabeth deserved better than this unseemly haste. Her
sweetness and dignity, her adherence to the forms of life, her
acquaintance with the elegancies, the dignities and conventions of
the best of our society, bespoke for her ceremony more suited to
her class and mine. Nothing could excuse these hurly burly ways
save only my love, our uncertainty regarding my future presence,
and the imperious quality of my duties.</p>
<p>I told none about my quarters anything of my plans, but arranged
for my portmanteaus to be sent to the railway station for that
evening's train north. We had not many outgoing and incoming trains
in those days in Washington. I hurried to Bond's jewelry place and
secured a ring—two rings, indeed; for, in our haste,
betrothal and wedding ring needed their first use at the same day
and hour. I found a waiting carriage which served my purpose, and
into it I flung, urging the driver to carry me at top speed into
Elmhurst road. Having now time for breath, I sat back and consulted
my watch. There were a few moments left for me to compose myself.
If all went well, I should be in time.</p>
<p>As we swung down the road I leaned forward, studying with
interest the dust cloud of an approaching carriage. As it came
near, I called to my driver. The two vehicles paused almost wheel
to wheel. It was my friend Jack Dandridge who sprawled on the rear
seat of the carriage! That is to say, the fleshly portion of Jack
Dandridge. His mind, his memory, and all else, were gone.</p>
<p>I sprang into his carriage and caught him roughly by the arm. I
felt in all his pockets, looked on the carriage floor, on the seat,
and pulled up the dust rug. At last I found the license.</p>
<p>"Did you see the baroness?" I asked, then.</p>
<p>At this he beamed upon me with a wide smile.</p>
<p>"Did I?" said he, with gravity pulling down his long buff
waistcoat. "Did I? Mos' admi'ble woman in all the worl'! Of course,
Miss 'Lis'beth Churchill also mos' admi'ble woman in the worl'," he
added politely, "but I didn't see <i>her</i>. Many, many
congrash'lations. Mos' admi'ble girl in worl'—whichever girl
she is! I want do what's right!"</p>
<p>The sudden sweat broke out upon my forehead. "Tell me, what have
you done with the slipper!"</p>
<p>He shook his head sadly. "Mishtaken, my friend! I gave mos'
admi'ble slipper in the worl', just ash you said, just as baroness
said, to Mish Elisabeth Churchill—mos' admi'ble woman in the
worl'! Proud congrash'late you both, m' friend!"</p>
<p>"Did you see her?" I gasped. "Did you see her father—any
of her family?"</p>
<p>"God blesh me, no!" rejoined this young statesman. "Feelings
delicacy prevented. Realized having had
three—four—five—Barn Burners; washn't in fit
condition to approach family mansion. Alwaysh mos' delicate. Felt
m'self no condition shtan' up bes' man to mosh admi'ble man and
mosh admi'ble girl in worl'. Sent packazh in by servant, from
gate—turned round—drove off—found you. Lo, th'
bridegroom cometh! Li'l late!"</p>
<p>My only answer was to spring from his carriage into my own and
to order my driver to go on at a run. At last I reached the
driveway of Elmhurst, my carriage wheels cutting the gravel as we
galloped up to the front door. My approach was noted. Even as I
hurried up the steps the tall form of none other than Mr. Daniel
Churchill appeared to greet me. I extended my hand. He did not
notice it. I began to speak. He bade me pause.</p>
<p>"To what may I attribute this visit, Mr. Trist?" he asked me,
with dignity.</p>
<p>"Since you ask me, and seem not to know," I replied, "I may say
that I am here to marry your daughter, Miss Elisabeth! I presume
that the minister of the gospel is already here?"</p>
<p>"The minister is here," he answered. "There lacks one
thing—the bride."</p>
<p>"What do you mean?"</p>
<p>He put out his arm across the door.</p>
<p>"I regret that I must bar my door to you. But you must take my
word, as coming from my daughter, that you are not to come here
to-night."</p>
<p>I looked at him, my eyes staring wide. I could not believe what
he said.</p>
<p>"Why," I began; "how utterly monstrous!"</p>
<p>A step sounded in the hall behind him, and he turned back. We
were joined by the tall clerical figure of the Reverend Doctor
Halford, who had, it seemed, been at least one to keep his
appointment as made. He raised his hand as if to silence me, and
held out to me a certain object. It was the slipper of the Baroness
Helena von Ritz—white, delicate, dainty, beribboned. "Miss
Elisabeth does not pretend to understand why your gift should take
this form; but as the slipper evidently has been worn by some one,
she suggests you may perhaps be in error in sending it at all." He
spoke in even, icy tones.</p>
<p>"Let me into this house!" I demanded. "I must see her!"</p>
<p>There were two tall figures now, who stood side by side in the
wide front door.</p>
<p>"But don't you see, there has been a mistake, a horrible
mistake?" I demanded.</p>
<p>Doctor Halford, in his grave and quiet way, assisted himself to
snuff. "Sir," he said, "knowing both families, I agreed to this
haste and unceremoniousness, much against my will. Had there been
no objection upon either side, I would have undertaken to go
forward with the wedding ceremony. But never in my life have I, and
never shall I, join two in wedlock when either is not in that state
of mind and soul consonant with that holy hour. This ceremony can
not go on. I must carry to you this young lady's wish that you
depart. She can not see you."</p>
<p>There arose in my heart a sort of feeling of horror, as though
something was wrong, I could not tell what. All at once I felt a
swift revulsion. There came over me the reaction, an icy calm. I
felt all ardor leave me. I was cold as stone.</p>
<p>"Gentlemen," said I slowly, "what you tell me is absolutely
impossible and absurd. But if Miss Elisabeth really doubts me on
evidence such as this, I would be the last man in the world to ask
her hand. Some time you and she may explain to me about this. It is
my right. I shall exact it from you later. I have no time to argue
now. Good-by!"</p>
<p>They looked at me with grave faces, but made no reply. I
descended the steps, the dainty, beribboned slipper still in my
hand, got into my carriage and started back to the city.</p>
<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XII" id="CHAPTER_XII"></a>CHAPTER XII</h2>
<h3>THE MARATHON</h3>
<div class="blockquot">
<p>As if two gods should play some heavenly match, and on this
wager lay two earthly women.—<i>Shakespeare</i>.</p>
</div>
<p>An automaton, scarcely thinking, I gained the platform of the
station. There was a sound of hissing steam, a rolling cloud of
sulphurous smoke, a shouting of railway captains, a creaking of the
wheels. Without volition of my own, I was on my northward journey.
Presently I looked around and found seated at my side the man whom
I then recollected I was to meet—Doctor Samuel Ward. I
presume he took the train after I did.</p>
<p>"What's wrong, Nicholas?" he asked. "Trouble of any kind?"</p>
<p>I presume that the harsh quality of my answer surprised him. He
looked at me keenly.</p>
<p>"Tell me what's up, my son," said he.</p>
<p>"You know Miss Elisabeth Churchill—" I hesitated.</p>
<p>He nodded. "Yes," he rejoined; "and damn you, sir! if you give
that girl a heartache, you'll have to settle with me!"</p>
<p>"Some one will have to settle with me!" I returned hotly.</p>
<p>"Tell me, then."</p>
<p>So, briefly, I did tell him what little I knew of the events of
the last hour. I told him of the shame and humiliation of it all.
He pondered for a minute and asked me at length if I believed Miss
Elisabeth suspected anything of my errand of the night before.</p>
<p>"How could she?" I answered. "So far as I can recollect I never
mentioned the name of the Baroness von Ritz."</p>
<p>Then, all at once, I did recollect! I did remember that I had
mentioned the name of the baroness that very morning to Elisabeth,
when the baroness passed us in the East Room! I had not told the
truth—I had gone with a lie on my lips that very day, and
asked her to take vows with me in which no greater truth ought to
be heard than the simple truth from me to her, in any hour of the
day, in any time of our two lives!</p>
<p>Doctor Ward was keen enough to see the sudden confusion on my
face, but he made no comment beyond saying that he doubted not time
would clear it all up; that he had known many such affairs.</p>
<p>"But mind you one thing," he added; "keep those two women
apart."</p>
<p>"Then why do you two doddering old idiots, you and John Calhoun,
with life outworn and the blood dried in your veins, send me, since
you doubt me so much, on an errand of this kind? You see what it
has done for me. I am done with John Calhoun. He may get some other
fool for his service."</p>
<p>"Where do you propose going, then, my friend?"</p>
<p>"West," I answered. "West to the Rockies—"</p>
<p>Doctor Ward calmly produced a tortoise shell snuffbox from his
left-hand waistcoat pocket, and deliberately took snuff. "You are
going to do nothing of the kind," said he calmly. "You are going to
keep your promise to John Calhoun and to me. Believe me, the
business in hand is vital. You go to Canada now in the most
important capacity you have ever had."</p>
<p>"I care nothing for that," I answered bitterly.</p>
<p>"But you are the agent of your country. You are called to do
your country's urgent work. Here is your trouble over one girl.
Would you make trouble for a million American girls—would you
unsettle thousands and thousands of American homes because, for a
time, you have known trouble? All life is only trouble vanquished.
I ask you now to be a man; I not only expect it, but demand it of
you!"</p>
<p>His words carried weight in spite of myself. I began to listen.
I took from his hand the package, looked at it, examined it.
Finally, as he sat silently regarding me, I broke the seal.</p>
<p>"Now, Nicholas Trist," resumed Doctor Ward presently, "there is
to be at Montreal at the date named in these papers a meeting of
the directors of the Hudson Bay Company of England. There will be
big men there—the biggest their country can produce; leaders
of the Hudson Bay Company, many, public men even of England. It is
rumored that a brother of Lord Aberdeen, of the British Ministry,
will attend. Do you begin to understand?"</p>
<p>Ah, did I not? Here, then, was further weaving of those complex
plots which at that time hedged in all our history as a republic.
Now I guessed the virtue of our knowing somewhat of England's
secret plans, as she surely did of ours. I began to feel behind me
the impulse of John Calhoun's swift energy.</p>
<p>"It is Oregon!" I exclaimed at last.</p>
<p>Doctor Ward nodded. "Very possibly. It has seemed to Mr. Calhoun
very likely that we may hear something of great importance
regarding the far Northwest. A missed cog now may cost this country
a thousand miles of territory, a hundred years of history."</p>
<p>Doctor Ward continued: "England, as you know," said he, "is the
enemy of this country as much to-day as ever. She claims she wishes
Texas to remain free. She forgets her own record—forgets the
burning cities of Rohilkhand, the imprisoned princesses of Oudh!
Might is her right. She wants Texas as a focus of contention, a
rallying point of sectionalism. If she divides us, she conquers us.
That is all. She wants the chance for the extension of her own hold
on this continent, which she will push as far, and fast as she
dare. She must have cotton. She would like land as well."</p>
<p>"That means also Oregon?"</p>
<p>He nodded. "Always with the Texas question comes the Oregon
question. Mr. Calhoun is none too friendly to Mr. Polk, and yet he
knows that through Jackson's influence with the Southern democracy
Polk has an excellent chance for the next nomination for the
presidency. God knows what folly will come then. But sometime, one
way or another, the joint occupancy of England and the United
States in the Oregon country must end. It has been a waiting game
thus far, as you know; but never think that England has been idle.
This meeting in Montreal will prove that to you."</p>
<p>In spite of myself, I began to feel the stimulus of a thought
like this. It was my salvation as a man. I began to set aside
myself and my own troubles.</p>
<p>"You are therefore," he concluded, "to go to Montreal, and find
your own way into that meeting of the directors of the Hudson Bay
Company. There is a bare chance that in this intrigue Mexico will
have an emissary on the ground as well. There is reason to suspect
her hostility to all our plans of extension, southwest and
northwest. Naturally, it is the card of Mexico to bring on war, or
accept it if we urge; but only in case she has England as her ally.
England will get her pay by taking Texas, and what is more, by
taking California, which Mexico does not value. She owes England
large sums now. That would leave England owner of the Pacific
coast; for, once she gets California, she will fight us then for
<i>all</i> of Oregon. It is your duty to learn all of these
matters—who is there, what is done; and to do this without
making known your own identity."</p>
<p>I sat for a moment in thought. "It is an honor," said I finally;
"an honor so large that under it I feel small."</p>
<p>"Now," said Doctor Ward, placing a gnarled hand on my shoulder,
"you begin to talk like a Marylander. It's a race, my boy, a race
across this continent. There are two trails—one north and one
mid-continent. On these paths two nations contend in the greatest
Marathon of all the world. England or the United
States—monarchy or republic—aristocracy or humanity'?
These are some of the things which hang on the issue of this
contest. Take then your duty and your honor, humbly and
faithfully."</p>
<p>"Good-by," he said, as we steamed into Baltimore station. I
turned, and he was gone.</p>
<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XIII" id="CHAPTER_XIII"></a>CHAPTER XIII</h2>
<h3>ON SECRET SERVICE</h3>
<div class="blockquot">
<p>If the world was lost through woman, she alone can save
it.—<i>Louis de Beaufort.</i></p>
</div>
<p>In the days of which I write, our civilization was, as I may
say, so embryonic, that it is difficult for us now to realize the
conditions which then obtained. We had great men in those days, and
great deeds were done; but to-day, as one reflects upon life as it
then was, it seems almost impossible that they and their deeds
could have existed in a time so crude and immature.</p>
<p>The means of travel in its best form was at that time at least
curious. We had several broken railway systems north and south, but
there were not then more than five thousand miles of railway built
in America. All things considered, I felt lucky when we reached New
York less than twenty-four hours out from Washington.</p>
<p>From New York northward to Montreal one's journey involved a
choice of routes. One might go up the Hudson River by steamer to
Albany, and thence work up the Champlain Lake system, above which
one might employ a short stretch of rails between St. John and La
Prairie, on the banks of the St. Lawrence opposite Montreal. Or,
one might go from Albany west by rail as far as Syracuse, up the
Mohawk Valley, and so to Oswego, where on Lake Ontario one might
find steam or sailing craft.</p>
<p>Up the Hudson I took the crack steamer <i>Swallow</i>, the same
which just one year later was sunk while trying to beat her own
record of nine hours and two minutes from New York to Albany. She
required eleven hours on our trip. Under conditions then obtaining,
it took me a day and a half more to reach Lake Ontario. Here,
happily, I picked up a frail steam craft, owned by an adventurous
soul who was not unwilling to risk his life and that of others on
the uncertain and ice-filled waters of Ontario. With him I
negotiated to carry me with others down the St. Lawrence. At that
time, of course, the Lachine Canal was not completed, and the
Victoria Bridge was not even conceived as a possibility. One delay
after another with broken machinery, lack of fuel, running ice and
what not, required five days more of my time ere I reached
Montreal.</p>
<p>I could not be called either officer or spy, yet none the less I
did not care to be recognized here in the capacity of one
over-curious. I made up my costume as that of an innocent free
trader from the Western fur country of the states, and was able,
from my earlier experiences, to answer any questions as to beaver
at Fort Hall or buffalo on the Yellowstone or the Red. Thus I
passed freely in and about all the public places of the town, and
inspected with a certain personal interest all its points of
interest, from the Gray Nunneries to the new cathedrals, the Place
d'Armes, the Champ de Mars, the barracks, the vaunted brewery, the
historic mountain, and the village lying between the arms of the
two rivers—a point where history for a great country had been
made, and where history for our own now was planning.</p>
<p>As I moved about from day to day, making such acquaintance as I
could, I found in the air a feeling of excitement and expectation.
The hotels, bad as they were, were packed. The public places were
noisy, the private houses crowded. Gradually the town became
half-military and half-savage. Persons of importance arrived by
steamers up the river, on whose expanse lay boats which might be
bound for England—or for some of England's colonies. The
Government—not yet removed to Ottawa, later capital of
Ontario—was then housed in the old Château Ramezay,
built so long before for the French governor, Vaudreuil.</p>
<p>Here, I had reason to believe, was now established no less a
personage than Sir George Simpson, Governor of the Hudson Bay
Company. Rumor had it at the time that Lord Aberdeen of England
himself was at Montreal. That was not true, but I established
without doubt that his brother really was there, as well as
Lieutenant William Peel of the Navy, son of Sir Robert Peel,
England's prime minister. The latter, with his companion, Captain
Parke, was one time pointed out to me proudly by my
inn-keeper—two young gentlemen, clad in the ultra fashion of
their country, with very wide and tall bell beavers, narrow
trousers, and strange long sack-coats unknown to us in the
States—of little shape or elegance, it seemed to me.</p>
<p>There was expectancy in the air, that was sure. It was open
secret enough in England, as well as in Montreal and in Washington,
that a small army of American settlers had set out the foregoing
summer for the valley of the Columbia, some said under leadership
of the missionary Whitman. Britain was this year awakening to the
truth that these men had gone thither for a purpose. Here now was a
congress of Great Britain's statesmen, leaders of Great Britain's
greatest monopoly, the Hudson Bay Company, to weigh this act of the
audacious American Republic. I was not a week in Montreal before I
learned that my master's guess, or his information, had been
correct. The race was on for Oregon!</p>
<p>All these things, I say, I saw go on about me. Yet in truth as
to the inner workings of this I could gain but little actual
information. I saw England's ships, but it was not for me to know
whether they were to turn Cape Hope or the Horn. I saw Canada's
<i>voyageurs</i>, but they might be only on their annual journey,
and might go no farther than their accustomed posts in the West. In
French town and English town, among common soldiers,
<i>voyageurs</i>, inn-keepers and merchants, I wandered for more
than one day and felt myself still helpless.</p>
<p>That is to say, such was the case until there came to my aid
that greatest of all allies, Chance.</p>
<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XIV" id="CHAPTER_XIV"></a>CHAPTER XIV</h2>
<h3>THE OTHER WOMAN</h3>
<div class="blockquot">
<p>The world is the book of women.—<i>Rousseau</i>.</p>
</div>
<p>I needed not to be advised that presently there would be a
meeting of some of the leading men of the Hudson Bay Company at the
little gray stone, dormer-windowed building on Notre Dame Street.
In this old building—in whose vaults at one time of emergency
was stored the entire currency of the Canadian treasury—there
still remained some government records, and now under the
steep-pitched roof affairs were to be transacted somewhat larger
than the dimensions of the building might have suggested. The
keeper of my inn freely made me a list of those who would be
present—a list embracing so many scores of prominent men whom
he then swore to be in the city of Montreal that, had the old
Château Ramezay afforded twice its room, they could not all
have been accommodated. For myself, it was out of the question to
gain admittance.</p>
<p>In those days all Montreal was iron-shuttered after nightfall,
resembling a series of jails; and to-night it seemed doubly
screened and guarded. None the less, late in the evening, I allowed
seeming accident to lead me in a certain direction. Passing as
often as I might up and down Notre Dame Street without attracting
attention, I saw more than one figure in the semi-darkness enter
the low château door. Occasionally a tiny gleam showed at the
edge of a shutter or at the top of some little window not fully
screened. As to what went on within I could only guess.</p>
<p>I passed the château, up and down, at different times from
nine o'clock until midnight. The streets of Montreal at that time
made brave pretense of lighting by virtue of the new gas works; at
certain intervals flickering and wholly incompetent lights serving
to make the gloom more visible. None the less, as I passed for the
last time, I plainly saw a shaft of light fall upon the half
darkness from a little side door. There emerged upon the street the
figure of a woman. I do not know what led me to cast a second
glance, for certainly my business was not with ladies, any more
than I would have supposed ladies had business there; but, victim
of some impulse of curiosity, I walked a step or two in the same
direction as that taken by the cloaked figure.</p>
<p>Careless as I endeavored to make my movements, the veiled lady
seemed to take suspicion or fright. She quickened her steps.
Accident favored me. Even as she fled, she caught her skirt on some
object which lay hidden in the shadows and fell almost at full
length. This I conceived to be opportunity warranting my approach.
I raised my hat and assured her that her flight was needless.</p>
<p>She made no direct reply to me, but as she rose gave utterance
to an expression of annoyance. "<i>Mon Dieu!</i>" I heard her
say.</p>
<p>I stood for a moment trying to recall where I had heard this
same voice! She turned her face in such a way that the light
illuminated it. Then indeed surprise smote me.</p>
<p>"Madam Baroness," said I, laughing, "it is wholly impossible for
you to be here, yet you are here! Never again will I say there is
no such thing as chance, no such thing as fate, no such thing as a
miracle!"</p>
<p>She looked at me one brief moment; then her courage
returned.</p>
<p>"Ah, then, my idiot," she said, "since it is to be our fortune
always to meet of dark nights and in impossible ways, give me your
arm."</p>
<p>I laughed. "We may as well make treaty. If you run again, I
shall only follow you."</p>
<p>"Then I am again your prisoner?"</p>
<p>"Madam, I again am yours!"</p>
<p>"At least, you improve!" said she. "Then come."</p>
<p>"Shall I not call a <i>calèche?</i>—the night is
dark."</p>
<p>"No, no!" hurriedly.</p>
<p>We began a midnight course that took us quite across the old
French quarter of Montreal. At last she turned into a small, dark
street of modest one-story residences, iron-shuttered, dark and
cheerless. Here she paused in front of a narrow iron gate.</p>
<p>"Madam," I said, "you represent to me one of the problems of my
life. Why does your taste run to such quarters as these? This might
be that same back street in Washington!"</p>
<p>She chuckled to herself, at length laughed aloud. "But wait! If
you entered my abode once," she said, "why not again? Come."</p>
<p>Her hand was at the heavy knocker as she spoke. In a moment the
door slowly opened, just as it had done that night before in
Washington. My companion passed before me swiftly. As she entered I
saw standing at the opening the same brown and wrinkled old dame
who had served that night before in Washington!</p>
<p>For an instant the light dazzled my eyes, but, determined now to
see this adventure through, I stepped within. Then, indeed, I found
it difficult to stifle the exclamation of surprise which came to my
lips. Believe it or not, as you like, we <i>were</i> again in
Washington!</p>
<p>I say that I was confronted by the identical arrangement, the
identical objects of furnishing, which had marked the luxurious
boudoir of Helena von Ritz in Washington! The tables were the same,
the chairs, the mirrors, the consoles. On the mantel stood the same
girandoles with glittering crystals. The pictures upon the walls,
so far as I could remember their themes, did not deviate in any
particular of detail or arrangement. The oval-backed chairs were
duplicates of those I had seen that other night at midnight. Beyond
these same amber satin curtains stood the tall bed with its canopy,
as I could see; and here at the right was the same low Napoleon bed
with its rolled ends. The figures of the carpets were the same,
their deep-piled richness, soft under foot, the same. The flowered
cups of the sconces were identical with those I had seen before. To
my eye, even as it grew more studious, there appeared no
divergence, no difference, between these apartments and those I had
so singularly visited—and yet under circumstances so
strangely akin to these—in the capital of my own country!</p>
<p>"You are good enough to admire my modest place," said a laughing
voice at my shoulder. Then indeed I waked and looked about me, and
saw that this, stranger than any mirage of the brain, was but a
fact and must later be explained by the laborious processes of the
feeble reason.</p>
<p>I turned to her then, pulling myself together as best I could.
Yes, she too was the same, although in this case costumed somewhat
differently. The wide ball gown of satin was gone, and in its place
was a less pretentious robing of some darker silk. I remembered
distinctly that the flowers upon the white satin gown I first had
seen were pink roses. Here were flowers of the crocus, cunningly
woven into the web of the gown itself. The slippers which I now saw
peeping out as she passed were not of white satin, but better foot
covering for the street. She cast over the back of a chair, as she
had done that other evening, her light shoulder covering, a dark
mantle, not of lace now, but of some thin cloth. Her jewels were
gone, and the splendor of her dark hair was free of decoration. No
pale blue fires shone at her white throat, and her hands were
ringless. But the light, firm poise of her figure could not be
changed; the mockery of her glance remained the same, half laughing
and half wistful. The strong curve of her lips remained, and I
recalled this arch of brow, the curve of neck and chin, the droop
of the dark locks above her even forehead. Yes, it was she. It
could be no one else.</p>
<p>She clapped her hands and laughed like a child as she turned to
me. "Bravo!" she said. "My judgment, then, was quite correct."</p>
<p>"In regard to what?"</p>
<p>"Yourself!"</p>
<p>"Pardon me?"</p>
<p>"You do not show curiosity! You do not ask me questions! Good! I
think I shall ask you to wait. I say to you frankly that I am alone
here. It pleases me to live—as pleases me! You are alone in
Montreal. Why should we not please ourselves?"</p>
<p>In some way which I did not pause to analyze, I felt perfectly
sure that this strange woman could, if she cared to do so, tell me
some of the things I ought to know. She might be here on some
errand identical with my own. Calhoun had sent for her once before.
Whose agent was she now? I found chairs for us both.</p>
<p>An instant later, summoned in what way I do not know, the old
serving-woman again reappeared. "Wine, Threlka," said the baroness;
"service for two—you may use this little table. Monsieur,"
she added, turning to me, "I am most happy to make even some slight
return for the very gracious entertainment offered me that morning
by Mr. Calhoun at his residence. Such a droll man! Oh, la! la!"</p>
<p>"Are you his friend, Madam?" I asked bluntly.</p>
<p>"Why should I not be?"</p>
<p>I could frame neither offensive nor defensive art with her. She
mocked me.</p>
<p>In a few moments the weazened old woman was back with cold fowl,
wine, napery, silver.</p>
<p>"Will Monsieur carve?" At her nod the old woman filled my glass,
after my hostess had tasted of her own. We had seated ourselves at
the table as she spoke.</p>
<p>"Not so bad for a black midnight, eh?" she went on, "—in a
strange town—and on a strange errand? And again let me
express my approbation of your conduct."</p>
<p>"If it pleases you, 'tis more than I can say of it for myself,"
I began. "But why?"</p>
<p>"Because you ask no questions. You take things as they come. I
did not expect you would come to Montreal."</p>
<p>"Then you know—but of course, I told you."</p>
<p>"Have you then no question?" she went on at last. Her glass
stood half full; her wrists rested gently on the table edge, as she
leaned back, looking at me with that on her face which he had
needed to be wiser than myself, who could have read.</p>
<p>"May I, then?"</p>
<p>"Yes, now you may go on."</p>
<p>"I thank you. First, of course, for what reason do you carry the
secrets of my government into the stronghold of another government?
Are you the friend of America, or are you a spy upon America? Are
you my friend, or are we to be enemies to-night?"</p>
<p>She flung back her head and laughed delightedly. "That is a good
beginning," she commented.</p>
<p>"You must, at a guess, have come up by way of the lakes, and by
batteau from La Prairie?" I ventured.</p>
<p>She nodded again. "Of course. I have been here six days."</p>
<p>"Indeed?—you have badly beaten me in our little race."</p>
<p>She flashed on me a sudden glance. "Why do you not ask me
outright <i>why</i> I am here?"</p>
<p>"Well, then, I do! I do ask you that. I ask you how you got
access to that meeting to-night—for I doubt not you were
there?"</p>
<p>She gazed at me deliberately again, parting her red lips, again
smiling at me. "What would you have given to have been there
yourself?"</p>
<p>"All the treasures those vaults ever held."</p>
<p>"So much? What will you give me, then, to tell you what I
know?"</p>
<p>"More than all that treasure, Madam. A place—"</p>
<p>"Ah! a 'place in the heart of a people!' I prefer a locality
more restricted."</p>
<p>"In my own heart, then; yes, of course!"</p>
<p>She helped herself daintily to a portion of the white meat of
the fowl. "Yes," she went on, as though speaking to herself, "on
the whole, I rather like him. Yet what a fool! Ah, such a droll
idiot!"</p>
<p>"How so, Madam?" I expostulated. "I thought I was doing very
well."</p>
<p>"Yet you can not guess how to persuade me?"</p>
<p>"No; how could that be?"</p>
<p>"Always one gains by offering some equivalent, value for
value—especially with women, Monsieur."</p>
<p>She went on as though to herself. "Come, now, I fancy him! He is
handsome, he is discreet, he has courage, he is not usual, he is
not curious; but ah, <i>mon Dieu</i>, what a fool!"</p>
<p>"Admit me to be a fool, Madam, since it is true; but tell me in
my folly what equivalent I can offer one who has everything in the
world—wealth, taste, culture, education, wit, learning,
beauty?"</p>
<p>"Go on! Excellent!"</p>
<p>"Who has everything as against my nothing! <i>What</i> value,
Madam?"</p>
<p>"Why, gentle idiot, to get an answer ask a question,
always."</p>
<p>"I have asked it."</p>
<p>"But you can not guess that <i>I</i> might ask one? So, then,
one answer for another, we might do—what you Americans call
some business—eh? Will you answer <i>my</i> question?"</p>
<p>"Ask it, then."</p>
<p>"<i>Were you married</i>—that other night?"</p>
<p>So, then, she was woman after all, and curious! Her sudden
speech came like a stab; but fortunately my dull nerves had not had
time to change my face before a thought flashed into my mind. Could
I not make merchandise of my sorrow? I pulled myself into control
and looked her fair in the face.</p>
<p>"Madam," I said, "look at my face and read your own answer."</p>
<p>She looked, searching me, while every nerve of me tingled; but
at last she shook her head. "No," she sighed. "I can not yet say."
She did not see the sweat starting on my forehead.</p>
<p>I raised my kerchief over my head. "A truce, then, Madam! Let us
leave the one question against the other for a time."</p>
<p>"Excellent! I shall get my answer first, in that case, and for
nothing."</p>
<p>"How so?"</p>
<p>"I shall only watch you. As we are here now, I were a fool,
worse than you, if I could not tell whether or not you are married.
None the less, I commend you, I admire you, because you do not tell
me. If you are <i>not</i>, you are disappointed. If you <i>are</i>,
you are eager!"</p>
<p>"I am in any case delighted that I can interest Madam."</p>
<p>"Ah, but you do! I have not been interested, for so long! Ah,
the great heavens, how fat was Mr. Pakenham, how thin was Mr.
Calhoun! But you—come, Monsieur, the night is long. Tell me
of yourself. I have never before known a savage."</p>
<p>"Value for value only, Madam! Will you tell me in turn of
yourself?"</p>
<p>"All?" She looked at me curiously.</p>
<p>"Only so much as Madam wishes."</p>
<p>I saw her dark eyes study me once more. At last she spoke again.
"At least," she said, "it would be rather vulgar if I did not
explain some of the things which become your right to know when I
ask you to come into this home, as into my other home in
Washington."</p>
<p>"In Heaven's name, how many of these homes have you, then? Are
they all alike?"</p>
<p>"Five only, now," she replied, in the most matter-of-fact manner
in the world, "and, of course, all quite alike."</p>
<p>"Where else?"</p>
<p>"In Paris, in Vienna, in London," she answered. "You see this
one, you see them all. 'Tis far cooler in Montreal than in
Washington in the summer time. Do you not approve?"</p>
<p>"The arrangement could not be surpassed."</p>
<p>"Thank you. So I have thought. The mere charm of difference does
not appeal to me. Certain things my judgment approves. They serve,
they suffice. This little scheme it has pleased me to reproduce in
some of the capitals of the world. It is at least as well chosen as
the taste of the Prince of Orleans, son of Louis Philippe, could
advise."</p>
<p>This with no change of expression. I drew a long breath.</p>
<p>She went on as though I had spoken. "My friend," she said, "do
not despise me too early. There is abundant time. Before you judge,
let the testimony be heard. I love men who can keep their own
tongues and their own hands to themselves."</p>
<p>"I am not your judge, Madam, but it will be long before I shall
think a harsh thought of you. Tell me what a woman may. Do not tell
me what a secret agent may <i>not</i>. I ask no promises and make
none. You are very beautiful. You have wealth. I call you `Madam.'
You are married?"</p>
<p>"I was married at fifteen."</p>
<p>"At fifteen! And your husband died?"</p>
<p>"He disappeared."</p>
<p>"Your own country was Austria?"</p>
<p>"Call me anything but Austrian! I left my country because I saw
there only oppression and lack of hope. No, I am Hungarian."</p>
<p>"That I could have guessed. They say the most beautiful women of
the world come from that country."</p>
<p>"Thank you. Is that all?"</p>
<p>"I should guess then perhaps you went to Paris?"</p>
<p>"Of course," she said, "of course! of course! In time reasons
existed why I should not return to my home. I had some little
fortune, some singular experiences, some ambitions of my own. What
I did, I did. At least, I saw the best and worst of Europe."</p>
<p>She raised a hand as though to brush something from before her
face. "Allow me to give you wine. Well, then, Monsieur knows that
when I left Paris I felt that part of my studies were complete. I
had seen a little more of government, a little more of humanity, a
little more of life, a little more of men. It was not men but
mankind that I studied most. I had seen much of injustice and
hopelessness and despair. These made the fate of mankind—in
that world."</p>
<p>"I have heard vaguely of some such things, Madam," I said. "I
know that in Europe they have still the fight which we sought to
settle when we left that country for this one."</p>
<p>She nodded. "So then, at last," she went on, "still young,
having learned something and having now those means of carrying on
my studies which I required, I came to this last of the countries,
America, where, if anywhere, hope for mankind remains. Washington
has impressed me more than any capital of the world."</p>
<p>"How long have you been in Washington?" I asked.</p>
<p>"Now you begin to question—now you show at last curiosity!
Well, then, I shall answer. For more than one year, perhaps more
than two, perhaps more than three!"</p>
<p>"Impossible!" I shook my head. "A woman like you could not be
concealed—not if she owned a hundred hidden places such as
this."</p>
<p>"Oh, I was known," she said. "You have heard of me, you knew of
me?"</p>
<p>I still shook my head. "No," said I, "I have been far in the
West for several years, and have come to Washington but rarely.
Bear me out, I had not been there my third day before I found
you!"</p>
<p>We sat silent for some moments, fixedly regarding each other. I
have said that a more beautiful face than hers I had never seen.
There sat upon it now many things—youth, eagerness, ambition,
a certain defiance; but, above all, a pleading pathos! I could not
find it in my heart, eager as I was, to question her further.
Apparently she valued this reticence.</p>
<p>"You condemn me?" she asked at length. "Because I live alone,
because quiet rumor wags a tongue, you will judge me by your own
creed and not by mine?"</p>
<p>I hesitated before I answered, and deliberated. "Madam, I have
already told you that I would not. I say once more that I accredit
you with living up to your own creed, whatever that may have
been."</p>
<p>She drew a long breath in turn. "Monsieur, you have done
yourself no ill turn in that."</p>
<p>"It was rumored in diplomatic circles, of course, that you were
in touch with the ministry of England," I ventured. "I myself saw
that much."</p>
<p>"Naturally. Of Mexico also! At least, as you saw in our little
carriage race, Mexico was desirous enough to establish some sort of
communication with my humble self!"</p>
<p>"Calhoun was right!" I exclaimed. "He was entirely right, Madam,
in insisting that I should bring you to him that morning, whether
or not you wished to go."</p>
<p>"Whim fits with whim sometimes. `Twas his whim to see me, mine
to go."</p>
<p>"I wonder what the Queen of Sheba would have said had Solomon
met her thus!"</p>
<p>She chuckled at the memory. "You see, when you left me at Mr.
Calhoun's door in care of the Grand Vizier James, I wondered
somewhat at this strange country of America. The <i>entresol</i>
was dim and the Grand Vizier was slow with candles. I half fell
into the room on the right. There was Mr. Calhoun bolt upright in
his chair, both hands spread out on the arms. As you promised, he
wore a red nightcap and long gown of wool. He was asleep, and ah!
how weary he seemed. Never have I seen a face so sad as his,
asleep. He was gray and thin, his hair was gray and thin, his eyes
were sunken, the veins were corded at his temples, his hands were
transparent. He was, as you promised me, old. Yet when I saw him I
did not smile. He heard me stir as I would have withdrawn, and when
he arose to his feet he was wide-awake. Monsieur, he is a great
man; because, even so clad he made no more apology than you do,
showed no more curiosity; and he welcomed me quite as a gentleman
unashamed—as a king, if you please."</p>
<p>"How did he receive you, Madam?" I asked. "I never knew."</p>
<p>"Why, took my hand in both his, and bowed as though I indeed
were queen, he a king."</p>
<p>"Then you got on well?"</p>
<p>"Truly; for he was wiser than his agent, Monsieur. He found
answers by asking questions."</p>
<p>"Ah, you were kinder to him than to me?"</p>
<p>"Naturally."</p>
<p>"For instance, he asked—"</p>
<p>"What had been my ball gown that night—who was
there—how I enjoyed myself! In a moment we were talking as
though we had been friends for years. The Grand Vizier brought in
two mugs of cider, in each a toasted apple. Monsieur, I have not
seen diplomacy such as this. Naturally, I was helpless."</p>
<p>"Did he perhaps ask how you were induced to come at so
impossible a time? My own vanity, naturally, leads me to ask so
much as that."</p>
<p>"No, Mr. Calhoun confined himself to the essentials! Even had he
asked me I could not have replied, because I do not know, save that
it was to me a whim. But at least we talked, over our cider and
toasted apples."</p>
<p>"You told him somewhat of yourself?"</p>
<p>"He did not allow me to do that, Monsieur."</p>
<p>"But he told you somewhat of this country?"</p>
<p>"Ah, yes, yes! So then I saw what held him up in his work, what
kept him alive. I saw something I have not often seen—a
purpose, a principle, in a public man. His love for his own land
touched even me, how or why I scarcely know. Yes, we spoke of the
poor, the oppressed, of the weary and the heavy laden."</p>
<p>"Did he ask you what you knew of Mexico and England?"</p>
<p>"Rather what I knew of the poor in Europe. I told him some
things I knew of that hopeless land, that priest-ridden,
king-ridden country—my own land. Then he went on to tell me
of America and its hope of a free democracy of the people. Believe
me, I listened to Mr. Calhoun. Never mind what we said of Mr. Van
Zandt and Sir Richard Pakenham. At least, as you know, I paid off a
little score with Sir Richard that next morning. What was strangest
to me was the fact that I forgot Mr. Calhoun's attire, forgot the
strangeness of my errand thither. It was as though only our minds
talked, one with the other. I was sorry when at last came the Grand
Vizier James to take Mr. Calhoun's order for his own carriage, that
brought me home—my second and more peaceful arrival there
that night. The last I saw of Mr. Calhoun was with the Grand Vizier
James putting a cloak about him and leading him by force from his
study to his bed, as I presume. As for me, I slept no more that
night. Monsieur, I admit that I saw the purpose of a great man.
Yes; and of a great country."</p>
<p>"Then I did not fail as messenger, after all! You told Mr.
Calhoun what he desired to know?"</p>
<p>"In part at least. But come now, was I not bound in some sort of
honor to my great and good friend, Sir Richard? Was it not
treachery enough to rebuke him for his attentions to the
Doña Lucrezia?"</p>
<p>"But you promised to tell Mr. Calhoun more at a later time?"</p>
<p>"On certain conditions I did," she assented.</p>
<p>"I do not know that I may ask those?"</p>
<p>"You would be surprised if I told you the truth? What I required
of Mr. Calhoun was permission and aid still further to study his
extraordinary country, its extraordinary ways, its extraordinary
ignorance of itself. I have told you that I needed to travel, to
study, to observe mankind—and those governments invented or
tolerated by mankind."</p>
<p>"Since then, Madam," I concluded, stepping to assist her with
her chair, as she signified her completion of our repast, "since
you do not feel now inclined to be specific, I feel that I ought to
make my adieux, for the time at least. It grows late. I shall
remember this little evening all my life. I own my defeat. I do not
know why you are here, or for whom."</p>
<p>"At what hotel do you stop?"</p>
<p>"The little place of Jacques Bertillon, a square or so beyond
the Place d'Armes."</p>
<p>"In that case," said she, "believe me, it would be more discreet
for you to remain unseen in Montreal. No matter which flag is mine,
I may say that much for a friend and comrade in the service."</p>
<p>"But what else?"</p>
<p>She looked about her. "Be my guest to-night!" she said suddenly.
"There is danger—"</p>
<p>"For me?" I laughed. "At my hotel? On the streets?"</p>
<p>"No, for me."</p>
<p>"Where?"</p>
<p>"Here."</p>
<p>"And of what, Madam?"</p>
<p>"Of a man; for the first time I am afraid, in spite of all."</p>
<p>I looked at her straight. "Are you not afraid of <i>me?</i>" I
asked.</p>
<p>She looked at me fairly, her color coming. "With the fear which
draws a woman to a man," she said.</p>
<p>"Whereas, mine is the fear which causes a man to flee from
himself!"</p>
<p>"But you will remain for my protection? I should feel safer.
Besides, in that case I should know the answer."</p>
<p>"How do you mean?"</p>
<p>"I should know whether or not you were married!"</p>
<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XV" id="CHAPTER_XV"></a>CHAPTER XV</h2>
<h3>WITH MADAM THE BARONESS</h3>
<div class="blockquot">
<p>It is not for good women that men have fought battles, given
their lives and staked their souls.—<i>Mrs. W.K.
Clifford</i>.</p>
</div>
<p>"But, Madam—" I began.</p>
<p>She answered me in her own way. "Monsieur hesitates—he is
lost!" she said. "But see, I am weary. I have been much engaged
to-day. I have made it my plan never to fatigue myself. It is my
hour now for my bath, my exercise, my bed, if you please. I fear I
must bid you good night, one way or the other. You will be welcome
here none the less, if you care to remain. I trust you did not find
our little repast to-night unpleasing? Believe me, our breakfast
shall be as good. Threlka is expert in omelets, and our coffee is
such as perhaps you may not find general in these provinces."</p>
<p>Was there the slightest mocking sneer in her words? Did she
despise me as a faint-heart? I could not tell, but did not like the
thought.</p>
<p>"Believe me, Madam," I answered hotly, "you have courage, at
least. Let me match it. Nor do I deny that this asks courage on my
part too. If you please, in these circumstances, <i>I shall
remain</i>."</p>
<p>"You are armed?" she asked simply.</p>
<p>I inserted a finger in each waistcoat pocket and showed her the
butts of two derringers; and at the back of my neck—to her
smiling amusement at our heathen fashion—I displayed just the
tip of the haft of a short bowie-knife, which went into a leather
case under the collar of my coat. And again I drew around the belt
which I wore so that she could see the barrel of a good pistol,
which had been suspended under cover of the bell skirt of my
coat.</p>
<p>She laughed. I saw that she was not unused to weapons. I should
have guessed her the daughter of a soldier or acquainted with arms
in some way. "Of course," she said, "there might be need of these,
although I think not. And in any case, if trouble can be deferred
until to-morrow, why concern oneself over it? You interest me. I
begin yet more to approve of you."</p>
<p>"Then, as to that breakfast <i>à la fourchette</i> with
Madam; if I remain, will you agree to tell me what is your business
here?"</p>
<p>She laughed at me gaily. "I might," she said, "provided that
meantime I had learned whether or not you were married that
night."</p>
<p>I do not profess that I read all that was in her face as she
stepped back toward the satin curtains and swept me the most
graceful curtsey I had ever seen in all my life. I felt like
reaching out a hand to restrain her. I felt like following her. She
was assuredly bewildering, assuredly as puzzling as she was
fascinating. I only felt that she was mocking me. Ah, she was a
woman!</p>
<p>I felt something swiftly flame within me. There arose about me
that net of amber-hued perfume, soft, enthralling, difficult of
evasion.... Then I recalled my mission; and I remembered what Mr.
Calhoun and Doctor Ward had said. I was not a man; I was a
government agent. She was not a woman; she was my opponent. Yes,
but then—</p>
<p>Slowly I turned to the opposite side of this long central room.
There were curtains here also. I drew them, but as I did so I
glanced back. Again, as on that earlier night, I saw her face
framed in the amber folds—a face laughing, mocking. With an
exclamation of discontent, I threw down my heavy pistol on the
floor, cast my coat across the foot of the bed to prevent the
delicate covering from being soiled by my boots, and so rested
without further disrobing.</p>
<p>In the opposite apartment I could hear her moving about, humming
to herself some air as unconcernedly as though no such being as
myself existed in the world. I heard her presently accost her
servant, who entered through some passage not visible from the
central apartments. Then without concealment there seemed to go
forward the ordinary routine of madam's toilet for the evening.</p>
<p>"No, I think the pink one," I heard her say, "and
please—the bath, Threlka, just a trifle more warm." She spoke
in French, her ancient serving-woman, as I took it, not
understanding the English language. They both spoke also in a
tongue I did not know. I heard the rattling of toilet articles,
certain sighs of content, faint splashings beyond. I could not
escape from all this. Then I imagined that perhaps madam was having
her heavy locks combed by the serving-woman. In spite of myself, I
pictured her thus, even more beautiful than before.</p>
<p>For a long time I concluded that my presence was to be dismissed
as a thing which was of no importance, or which was to be regarded
as not having happened. At length, however, after what seemed at
least half an hour of these mysterious ceremonies, I heard certain
sighings, long breaths, as though madam were taking calisthenic
movements, some gymnastic training—I knew not what. She
paused for breath, apparently very well content with herself.</p>
<p>Shame on me! I fancied perhaps she stood before a mirror. Shame
on me again! I fancied she sat, glowing, beautiful, at the edge of
the amber couch.</p>
<p>At last she called out to me: "Monsieur!"</p>
<p>I was at my own curtains at once, but hers remained tight
folded, although I heard her voice close behind them. "<i>Eh
bien?</i>" I answered.</p>
<p>"It is nothing, except I would say that if Monsieur feels
especially grave and reverent, he will find a very comfortable
<i>prie-dieu</i> at the foot of the bed."</p>
<p>"I thank you," I replied, gravely as I could.</p>
<p>"And there is a very excellent rosary and crucifix on the table
just beyond!"</p>
<p>"I thank you," I replied, steadily as I could.</p>
<p>"And there is an English Book of Common Prayer upon the stand
not far from the head of the bed, upon this side!"</p>
<p>"A thousand thanks, my very good friend."</p>
<p>I heard a smothered laugh beyond the amber curtains. Presently
she spoke again, yawning, as I fancied, rather contentedly.</p>
<p>"<i>A la bonne heure, Monsieur!</i>"</p>
<p>"<i>A la bonne heure, Madame!</i>"</p>
<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XVI" id="CHAPTER_XVI"></a>CHAPTER XVI</h2>
<h3>DÉJEÛNER À LA FOURCHETTE</h3>
<div class="blockquot">
<p>Woman is a creature between man and the angels.<br />
<span style="margin-left: 15.5em;">—<i>Honoré de
Balzac</i>.</span></p>
</div>
<p>A government agent, it seems, may also in part be little more
than a man, after all. In these singular surroundings I found
myself not wholly tranquil.... At last toward morning, I must have
slept. It was some time after daybreak when I felt a hand upon my
shoulder as I lay still partly clad. Awakened suddenly, I arose and
almost overthrew old Threlka, who stood regarding me with no
expression whatever upon her brown and wrinkled countenance. She
did no more than point the way to a door, where presently I found a
bath-room, and so refreshed myself and made the best toilet
possible under the circumstances.</p>
<p>My hostess I found awaiting me in the central room of the
apartments. She was clad now in a girdled peignoir of rich
rose-color, the sleeves, wide and full, falling hack from her round
arms. Her dark hair was coiled and piled high on her head this
morning, regardless of current mode, and confined in a heavy twist
by a tall golden comb; so that her white neck was left uncovered.
She wore no jewelry, and as she stood, simple and free from any
trickery of the coquette, I thought that few women ever were more
fair. That infinite witchery not given to many women was hers, yet
dignity as well. She was, I swear, <i>grande dame</i>, though young
and beautiful as a goddess. Her brow was thoughtful now, her air
more demure. Faint blue shadows lay beneath her eyes. A certain
hauteur, it seemed to me, was visible in her mien, yet she was the
soul of graciousness, and, I must admit, as charming a hostess as
ever invited one to usual or unusual repast.</p>
<p>The little table in the center of the room was already spread.
Madam filled my cup from the steaming urn with not the slightest
awkwardness, as she nodded for me to be seated. We looked at each
other, and, as I may swear, we both broke into saving laughter.</p>
<p>So we sat, easier now, as I admit, and, with small concern for
the affairs of the world outside at the time, discussed the very
excellent omelet, which certainly did not allow the reputation of
Threlka to suffer; the delicately grilled bones, the crisp toasted
rye bread, the firm yellow butter, the pungent early cress, which
made up a meal sufficiently dainty even for her who presided over
it.</p>
<p>Even that pitiless light of early morning, the merciless
cross-light of opposing windows, was gentle with her. Yes, she was
young! Moreover, she ate as a person of breeding, and seemed
thoroughbred in all ways, if one might use a term so hackneyed.
Rank and breeding had been hers; she needed not to claim them, for
they told their own story. I wondered what extraordinary history of
hers remained untold—what history of hers and mine and of
others she might yet assist in making!</p>
<p>"I was saying," she remarked presently, "that I would not have
you think that I do not appreciate the suffering in which you were
plunged by the haste you found necessary in the wedding of your
<i>jeune fille</i>."</p>
<p>But I was on my guard. "At least, I may thank you for your
sympathy, Madam!" I replied.</p>
<p>"Yet in time," she went on, gone reflective the next instant,
"you will see how very unimportant is all this turmoil of love and
marriage."</p>
<p>"Indeed, there is, as you say, something of a turmoil regarding
them in our institutions as they are at present formed."</p>
<p>"Because the average of humanity thinks so little. Most of us
judge life from its emotions. We do not search the depths."</p>
<p>"If I could oblige Madam by abolishing society and home and
humanity, I should be very glad—because, of course, that is
what Madam means!"</p>
<p>"At any cost," she mused, "that torture of life must be passed
on to coming generations for their unhappiness, their grief, their
misery. I presume it was necessary that there should be this plan
of the general blindness and intensity of passion."</p>
<p>"Yes, if, indeed, it be not the most important thing in the
world for us to marry, at least it is important that we should
think so. Madam is philosopher this morning," I said, smiling.</p>
<p>She hardly heard me. "To continue the crucifixion of the soul,
to continue the misapprehensions, the debasings of contact with
human life—yes, I suppose one must pay all that for the sake
of the gaining of a purpose. Yet there are those who would endure
much for the sake of principle, Monsieur. Some such souls are born,
do you not think?"</p>
<p>"Yes, Sphinx souls, extraordinary, impossible for the average of
us to understand."</p>
<p>"That torch of <i>life</i>!" she mused. "See! It was only
<i>that</i> which you were so eager to pass on to another
generation! That was why you were so mad to hasten to the side of
that woman. Whereas," she mused still, "it were so much grander and
so much nobler to pass on the torch of a <i>principle</i> as
well!"</p>
<p>"I do not understand."</p>
<p>"The general business of offspring goes on unceasingly in all
the nations," she resumed frankly. "There will be children, whether
or not you and I ever find some one wherewith to mate in the
compromise which folk call wedlock. But <i>principles</i>—ah!
my friend, who is to give those to others who follow us? What rare
and splendid wedlock brings forth <i>that</i> manner of
offspring?"</p>
<p>"Madam, in the circumstances," said I, "I should be happy to
serve you more omelet."</p>
<p>She shook her head as though endeavoring to dismiss something
from her mind.</p>
<p>"Do not philosophize with me," I said. "I am already distracted
by the puzzle you offer to me. You are so young and beautiful, so
fair in your judgment, so kind—"</p>
<p>"In turn, I ask you not to follow that," she remarked coldly.
"Let us talk of what you call, I think, business."</p>
<p>"Nothing could please me more. I have slept little, pondering on
this that I do call business. To begin with, then, you were there
at the Château Ramezay last night. I would have given all I
had to have been there for an hour."</p>
<p>"There are certain advantages a woman may have."</p>
<p>"But you were there? You know what went forward?"</p>
<p>"Certainly."</p>
<p>"Did they know you were present?"</p>
<p>"Monsieur is somewhat importunate!"</p>
<p>She looked me now directly in the eye, studying me mercilessly,
with a scrutiny whose like I should not care often to undergo.</p>
<p>"I should be glad if it were possible to answer you," she said
at last enigmatically; "but I have faith to keep
with—others—with you—with—myself."</p>
<p>Now my own eagerness ran away with me; I became almost rude.
"Madam," I exclaimed, "why beat about the bush? I do not care to
deceive you, and you must not deceive me. Why should we not be
friends in every way, and fair ones?"</p>
<p>"You do not know what you are saying," she said simply.</p>
<p>"Are you then an enemy of my country?" I demanded. "If I thought
you were here to prove traitress to my country, you should never
leave this room except with me. You shall not leave it now until
you have told me what you are, why you are here, what you plan to
do!"</p>
<p>She showed no fear. She only made a pretty little gesture at the
dishes between us. "At my own table!" she pouted.</p>
<p>Again our eyes met directly and again hers did not lower. She
looked at me calmly. I was no match for her.</p>
<p>"My dear lady," I began again, "my relation to the affairs of
the American Republic is a very humble one. I am no minister of
state, and I know you deal with ministers direct. How, then, shall
I gain your friendship for my country? You are dangerous to have
for an enemy. Are you too high-priced to have for a
friend—for a friend to our Union—a friend of the
principle of democracy? Come now, you enjoy large questions. Tell
me, what does this council mean regarding Oregon? Is it true that
England plans now to concentrate all her traders, all her troops,
and force them west up the Saskatchewan and into Oregon this coming
season? Come, now, Madam, is it to be war?"</p>
<p>Her curved lips broke into a smile that showed again her small
white teeth.</p>
<p>"Were you, then, married?" she said.</p>
<p>I only went on, impatient. "Any moment may mean everything to
us. I should not ask these questions if I did not know that you
were close to Mr. Calhoun."</p>
<p>She looked me square in the eye and nodded her head slowly. "I
may say this much, Monsieur, that it has pleased me to gain a
little further information."</p>
<p>"You will give my government that information?"</p>
<p>"Why should I?"</p>
<p>"Yet you spoke of others who might come here. What others? Who
are they? The representatives of Mexico? Some attaché of the
British Embassy at Washington? Some minister from England itself,
sent here direct?"</p>
<p>She smiled at me again. "I told you not to go back to your
hotel, did I not?"</p>
<p>I got no further with her, it seemed.</p>
<p>"You interest me sometimes," she went on slowly, at last, "yet
you seem to have so little brain! Now, in your employment, I should
think that brain would be somewhat useful at times."</p>
<p>"I do not deny that suggestion, Madam."</p>
<p>"But you are unable to analyze. Thus, in the matter of yourself.
I suppose if you were told of it, you would only say that you
forgot to look in the toe of the slipper you had."</p>
<p>"Thus far, Baroness," I said soberly, "I have asked no special
privilege, at least. Now, if it affords you any pleasure, I
<i>beg</i> you, I <i>implore</i> you, to tell me what you
mean!"</p>
<p>"Did you credit the attaché of Mexico with being nothing
more than a drunken rowdy, to follow me across town with a little
shoe in his carriage?"</p>
<p>"But you said he was in wine."</p>
<p>"True. But would that be a reason? Continually you show your
lack of brain in accepting as conclusive results which could not
possibly have occurred. <i>Granted</i> he was in wine,
<i>granted</i> he followed me, <i>granted</i> he had my shoe in his
possession—what then? Does it follow that at the ball at the
White House he could have removed that shoe? Does Monsieur think
that I, too, was in wine?"</p>
<p>"I agree that I have no brain! I can not guess what you mean. I
can only beg once more that you explain."</p>
<p>"Now listen. In your most youthful and charming innocence I
presume you do not know much of the capabilities for concealment
offered by a lady's apparel! Now, suppose I had a
message—where do you think I could hide it; granted, of
course, the conditions obtaining at a ball in the White House?"</p>
<p>"Then you did have a message? It came to you there, at that
time?"</p>
<p>She nodded. "Certainly. Mr. Van Zandt had almost no other
opportunity to meet me or get word to me."</p>
<p>"<i>Van Zandt!</i> Madam, are you indeed in the camp of
<i>all</i> these different interests? So, what Pakenham said was
true! Van Zandt is the attaché of Texas. Van Zandt is
pleading with Mr. Calhoun that he shall take up the secretaryship.
Van Zandt promises us the friendship of Texas if we will stand out
for the annexation of Texas. Van Zandt promises us every effort in
his power against England. Van Zandt promises us the sternest of
fronts against treacherous Mexico. Van Zandt is known to be
interested in this fair Doña Lucrezia, just as Polk is. Now,
then, comes Van Zandt with his secret message slipped into the hand
of Madam at the Ambassador's ball—Madam, <i>the friend of
England!</i> The attaché of Mexico is
curious—furious—to know what Texas is saying to
England! And that message must be concealed! And Madam conceals it
in—"</p>
<p>She smiled at me brilliantly. "You come on," she said. "Should
your head be opened and analyzed, yes, I think a trace of brain
might be discovered by good chemistry."</p>
<p>I resumed impatiently. "You put his message in your
slipper?"</p>
<p>She nodded. "Yes," she said, "in the toe of it. There was barely
chance to do that. You see, our skirts are full and wide; there are
curtains in the East Room; there was wine by this time; there was
music; so I effected that much. But when you took the slipper, you
took Van Zandt's note! You had it. It was true, what I told
Pakenham before the president—I did <i>not</i> then have that
note! <i>You</i> had it. At least, I <i>thought</i> you had it,
till I found it crumpled on the table the next day! It must have
fallen there from the shoe when we made our little exchange that
night. Ah, you hurried me. I scarce knew whether I was clad or
shod, until the next afternoon—after I left you at the White
House grounds. So you hastily departed—to your wedding?"</p>
<p>"So small a shoe could not have held an extended epistle,
Madam," I said, ignoring her question.</p>
<p>"No, but the little roll of paper caused me anguish. After I had
danced I was on the point of fainting. I hastened to the cover of
the nearest curtain, where I might not be noticed. Señor
Yturrio of Mexico was somewhat vigilant. He wished to know what
Texas planned with England. He has long made love to me—by
threats, and jewels. As I stood behind the curtain I saw his face,
I fled; but one shoe—the empty one—was not well
fastened, and it fell. I could not walk. I reached down, removed
the other shoe with its note, hid it in my handkerchief—thank
Providence for the fashion of so much lace—and so, not in
wine, Monsieur, as you may believe, and somewhat anxious, as you
may also believe, expecting to hear at once of an encounter between
Van Zandt and the Mexican minister, Señor Almonte, or his
attaché Yturrio, or between one of them and some one else, I
made my adieux—I will warrant the only woman in her stocking
feet who bowed for Mr. Tyler at the ball that night!"</p>
<p>"Yes, so far as I know, Madam, you are the only lady who ever
left the East Room precisely so clad. And so you got into your own
carriage—alone—after a while? And so, when you were
there you put on the shoe which was left? And so Yturrio of Mexico
got the other one—and found nothing in it! And so, he wanted
this one!"</p>
<p>"You come on," she said. "You have something more than a trace
of brain."</p>
<p>"And that other shoe, which <i>I</i> got that night?"</p>
<p>Without a word she smoothed out a bit of paper which she removed
from a near-by desk, and handed it to me. "<i>This</i> was in
yours! As I said, in my confusion I supposed you had it. You said I
should go in a sack. I suppose I did! I suppose I lost my head,
somewhere! But certainly I thought you had found the note and given
it to Mr. Calhoun; else I should have driven harder terms with him!
I would drive harder terms with you, now, were I not in such haste
to learn the answer to my question! Tell me, <i>were</i> you
married?"</p>
<p>"Is that answer worth more than Van Zandt?" I smiled.</p>
<p>"Yes," she answered, also smiling.</p>
<p>I spread the page upon the cloth before me; my eyes raced down
the lines. I did not make further reply to her.</p>
<p>"Madam," went on the communication, "say to your august friend
Sir Richard that we have reached the end of our endurance of these
late delays. The promises of the United States mean nothing. We can
trust neither Whig nor Democrat any longer. There is no one party
in power, nor will there be. There are two sections in America and
there is no nation, and Texas knows not where to go. We have
offered to Mr. Tyler to join the Union if the Union will allow us
to join. We intend to reserve our own lands and reserve the right
to organize later into four or more states, if our people shall so
desire. But as a great state we will join the Union if the Union
will accept us. That must be seen.</p>
<p>"England now beseeches us not to enter the Union, but to stand
apart, either for independence or for alliance with Mexico and
England. The proposition has been made to us to divide into two
governments, one free and one slave. England has proposed to us to
advance us moneys to pay all our debts if we will agree to this.
Settled by bold men from our mother country, the republic, Texas
has been averse to this. But now our own mother repudiates us, not
once but many times. We get no decision. This then, dear Madam, is
from Texas to England by your hand, and we know you will carry it
safe and secret. We shall accept this proposal of England, and
avail ourselves of the richness of her generosity.</p>
<p>"If within thirty days action is not taken in Washington for the
annexation of Texas, Texas will never in the history of the world
be one of the United States. Moreover, if the United States shall
lose Texas, also they lose Oregon, and all of Oregon. Carry this
news—I am persuaded that it will be welcome—to that
gentleman whose ear I know you have; and believe me always, my dear
Madam, with respect and admiration, yours, for the State of Texas,
Van Zandt."</p>
<p>I drew a deep breath as I saw this proof of double play on the
part of this representative of the republic of the Southwest. "They
are traitors!" I exclaimed. "But there must be
action—something must be done at once. I must not wait; I
must go! I must take this, at least, to Mr. Calhoun."</p>
<p>She laughed now, joyously clapping her white hands together.
"Good!" she said. "You are a man, after all. You may yet grow
brain."</p>
<p>"Have I been fair with you thus far?" she asked at length.</p>
<p>"More than fair. I could not have asked this of you. In an hour
I have learned the news of years. But will you not also tell me
what is the news from Château Ramezay? Then, indeed, I could
go home feeling I had done very much for my chief."</p>
<p>"Monsieur, I can not do so. You will not tell me that other
news."</p>
<p>"Of what?"</p>
<p>"Of your nuptials!"</p>
<p>"Madam, I can not do so. But for you, much as I owe you, I would
like to wring your neck. I would like to take your arms in my hands
and crush them, until—"</p>
<p>"Until what?" Her face was strange. I saw a hand raised to her
throat.</p>
<p>"Until you told me about Oregon!" said I.</p>
<p>I saw her arms move—just one instant—her body
incline. She gazed at me steadily, somberly. Then her hands
fell.</p>
<p>"Ah, God! how I hate you both!" she said; "you and her. You
<i>were</i> married, after all! Yes, it can be, it can be! A woman
may love one man—even though he could give her only a bed of
husks! And a man may love a woman, too—one woman! I had not
known."</p>
<p>I could only gaze at her, now more in perplexity than ever.
Alike her character and her moods were beyond me. What she was or
had been I could not guess; only, whatever she was, she was not
ordinary, that was sure, and was to be classified under no ordinary
rule. Woman or secret agent she was, and in one or other identity
she could be my friend or my powerful enemy, could aid my country
powerfully if she had the whim; or damage it irreparably if she had
the desire. But—yes—as I studied her that keen, tense,
vital moment, she was woman!</p>
<p>A deep fire burned in her eyes, that was true; but on her face
was—what? It was not rage, it was not passion, it was not
chagrin. No, in truth and justice I swear that what I then saw on
her face was that same look I had noted once before, an expression
of almost childish pathos, of longing, of appeal for something
missed or gone, though much desired. No vanity could contemplate
with pleasure a look like that on the face of a woman such as
Helena von Ritz.</p>
<p>I fancied her unstrung by excitement, by the strain of her
trying labor, by the loneliness of her life, uncertain,
misunderstood, perhaps, as it was. I wondered if she could be more
unhappy than I myself, if life could offer her less than it did to
me. But I dared not prolong our masking, lest all should be
unmasked.</p>
<p>"It is nothing!" she said at last, and laughed gaily as
ever.</p>
<p>"Yes, Madam, it is nothing. I admit my defeat. I shall ask no
more favors, expect no further information from you, for I have not
earned it, and I can not pay. I will make no promise that I could
not keep."</p>
<p>"Then we part even!"</p>
<p>"As enemies or friends?"</p>
<p>"I do not yet know. I can not think—for a long time. But
I, too, am defeated."</p>
<p>"I do not understand how Madam can be defeated in anything."</p>
<p>"Ah, I am defeated only because I have won. I have your secret;
you do not have mine. But I laid also another wager, with myself. I
have lost it. Ceremony or not—and what does the ceremony
value?—you <i>are</i> married. I had not known marriage to be
possible. I had not known you—you savages. No—so
much—I had not known."</p>
<p>"Monsieur, adieu!" she added swiftly.</p>
<p>I bent and kissed her hand. "Madam, <i>au revoir!</i>"</p>
<p>"No, <i>adieu!</i> Go!"</p>
<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XVII" id="CHAPTER_XVII"></a>CHAPTER XVII</h2>
<h3>A HUNTER OF BUTTERFLIES</h3>
<div class="blockquot">
<p>I love men, not because they are men, but because they are not
women.—<i>Queen Christina</i>.</p>
</div>
<p>There was at that time in Montreal a sort of news room and
public exchange, which made a place of general meeting. It was
supplied with newspapers and the like, and kept up by subscriptions
of the town merchants—a spacious room made out of the old
Methodist chapel on St. Joseph Street. I knew this for a place of
town gossip, and hoped I might hit upon something to aid me in my
errand, which was no more than begun, it seemed. Entering the place
shortly before noon, I made pretense of reading, all the while with
an eye and an ear out for anything that might happen.</p>
<p>As I stared in pretense at the page before me, I fumbled idly in
a pocket, with unthinking hand, and brought out to place before me
on the table, an object of which at first I was
unconscious—the little Indian blanket clasp. As it lay before
me I felt seized of a sudden hatred for it, and let fall on it a
heavy hand. As I did so, I heard a voice at my ear.</p>
<p>"<i>Mein Gott</i>, man, do not! You break it, surely."</p>
<p>I started at this. I had not heard any one approach. I
discovered now that the speaker had taken a seat near me at the
table, and could not fail to see this object which lay before
me.</p>
<p>"I beg pardon," he said, in a broken speech which showed his
foreign birth; "but it iss so beautiful; to break it iss
wrong."</p>
<p>Something in his appearance and speech fixed my attention. He
was a tall, bent man, perhaps sixty years of age, of gray hair and
beard, with the glasses and the unmistakable air of the student.
His stooped shoulders, his weakened eye, his thin, blue-veined
hand, the iron-gray hair standing like a ruff above his forehead,
marked him not as one acquainted with a wild life, but better
fitted for other days and scenes.</p>
<p>I pushed the trinket along the table towards him.</p>
<p>"'Tis of little value," I said, "and is always in the way when I
would find anything in my pocket."</p>
<p>"But once some one hass made it; once it hass had value. Tell me
where you get it?"</p>
<p>"North of the Platte, in our western territories," I said. "I
once traded in that country."</p>
<p>"You are American?"</p>
<p>"Yes."</p>
<p>"So," he said thoughtfully. "So. A great country, a very great
country. Me, I also live in it."</p>
<p>"Indeed?" I said. "In what part?"</p>
<p>"It iss five years since I cross the Rockies."</p>
<p>"You have crossed the Rockies? I envy you."</p>
<p>"You meesunderstand me. I live west of them for five years. I am
now come east."</p>
<p>"All the more, then, I envy you! You have perhaps seen the
Oregon country? That has always been my dream."</p>
<p>My eye must have kindled at that, for he smiled at me.</p>
<p>"You are like all Americans. They leave their own homes and make
new governments, yess? Those men in Oregon haf made a new
government for themselfs, and they tax those English traders to pay
for a government which iss American!"</p>
<p>I studied him now closely. If he had indeed lived so long in the
Oregon settlements, he knew far more about certain things than I
did.</p>
<p>"News travels slowly over so great a distance," said I. "Of
course I know nothing of these matters except that last year and
the year before the missionaries have come east to ask us for more
settlers to come out to Oregon. I presume they want their churches
filled."</p>
<p>"But most their <i>farms!</i>" said the old man.</p>
<p>"You have been at Fort Vancouver?"</p>
<p>He nodded. "Also to Fort Colville, far north; also to what they
call California, far south; and again to what they may yet call
Fort Victoria. I haf seen many posts of the Hudson Bay
Company."</p>
<p>I was afraid my eyes showed my interest; but he went on.</p>
<p>"I haf been, in the Columbia country, and in the Willamette
country, where most of your Americans are settled. I know somewhat
of California. Mr. Howard, of the Hudson Bay Company, knows also of
this country of California. He said to those English gentlemans at
our meeting last night that England should haf someting to offset
California on the west coast; because, though Mexico claims
California, the Yankees really rule there, and will rule there yet
more. He iss right; but they laughed at him."</p>
<p>"Oh, I think little will come of all this talk," I said
carelessly. "It is very far, out to Oregon." Yet all the time my
heart was leaping. So he had been there, at that very meeting of
which I could learn nothing!</p>
<p>"You know not what you say. A thousand men came into Oregon last
year. It iss like one of the great migrations of the peoples of
Asia, of Europe. I say to you, it iss a great epoch. There iss a
folk-movement such as we haf not seen since the days of the Huns,
the Goths, the Vandals, since the Cimri movement. It iss an epoch,
my friend! It iss fate that iss in it."</p>
<p>"So, then, it is a great country?" I asked.</p>
<p>"It iss so great, these traders do not wish it known. They wish
only that it may be savage; also that their posts and their harems
may be undisturbed. That iss what they wish. These Scots go wild
again, in the wilderness. They trade and they travel, but it iss
not homes they build. Sir George Simpson wants steel traps and not
ploughs west of the Rockies. That iss all!"</p>
<p>"They do not speak so of Doctor McLaughlin," I began
tentatively.</p>
<p>"My friend, a great man, McLaughlin, believe me! But he iss not
McKay; he iss not Simpson; he iss not Behrens; he iss not Colville;
he iss not Douglas. And I say to you, as I learned last
night—you see, they asked me also to tell what I knew of
Oregon—I say to you that last night McLaughlin was deposed.
He iss in charge no more—so soon as they can get word to him,
he loses his place at Vancouver."</p>
<p>"After a lifetime in the service!" I commented.</p>
<p>"Yess, after a lifetime; and McLaughlin had brain and heart,
too. If England would listen to him, she would learn sometings. He
plants, he plows, he bass gardens and mills and houses and herds.
Yess, if they let McLaughlin alone, they would haf a civilization
on the Columbia, and not a fur-trading post. Then they could oppose
your civilization there. That iss what he preaches. Simpson
preaches otherwise. Simpson loses Oregon to England, it may
be."</p>
<p>"You know much about affairs out in Oregon," I ventured again.
"Now, I did not happen to be present at the little meeting last
night."</p>
<p>"I heard it all," he remarked carelessly, "until I went to
sleep. I wass bored. I care not to hear of the splendor of
England!"</p>
<p>"Then you think there is a chance of trouble between our country
and England, out there?"</p>
<p>He smiled. "It iss not a chance, but a certainty," he said.
"Those settlers will not gif up. And England is planning to push
them out!"</p>
<p>"We had not heard that!" I ventured.</p>
<p>"It wass only agreed last night. England will march this summer
seven hundred men up the Peace River. In the fall they will be
across the Rockies. So! They can take boats easily down the streams
to Oregon. You ask if there will be troubles. I tell you,
yess."</p>
<p>"And which wins, my friend?" I feared he would hear my heart
thumping at this news.</p>
<p>"If you stop where you are, England wins. If you keep on going
over the mountains England shall lose."</p>
<p>"What time can England make with her brigades, west-bound, my
friend?" I asked him casually. He answered with gratifying
scientific precision.</p>
<p>"From Edmonton to Fort Colville, west of the Rockies, it hass
been done in six weeks and five days, by Sir George himself. From
Fort Colville down it iss easy by boats. It takes the
<i>voyageur</i> three months to cross, or four months. It would
take troops twice that long, or more. For you in the States, you
can go faster. And, ah! my friend, it iss worth the race, that
Oregon. Believe me, it iss full of bugs—of new bugs; twelve
new species I haf discovered and named. It iss sometings of honor,
iss it not?"</p>
<p>"What you say interests me very much, sir," I said. "I am only
an American trader, knocking around to see the world a little bit.
You seem to have been engaged in some scientific pursuit in that
country."</p>
<p>"Yess," he said. "Mein own government and mein own university,
they send me to this country to do what hass not been done. I am
insectologer. Shall I show you my bugs of Oregon? You shall see
them, yess? Come with me to my hotel. You shall see many bugs, such
as science hass not yet known."</p>
<p>I was willing enough to go with him; and true to his word he did
show me such quantities of carefully prepared and classified
insects as I had not dreamed our own country offered.</p>
<p>"Twelve new species!" he said, with pride. "Mein own country
will gif me honor for this. Five years I spend. Now I go back
home.</p>
<p>"I shall not tell you what nickname they gif me in Oregon," he
added, smiling; "but my real name iss Wolfram von Rittenhofen.
Berlin, it wass last my home. Tell me, you go soon to Oregon?"</p>
<p>"That is very possible," I answered; and this time at least I
spoke the truth. "We are bound in opposite directions, but if you
are sailing for Europe this spring, you would save time and gain
comfort by starting from New York. It would give us great pleasure
if we could welcome so distinguished a scientist in
Washington."</p>
<p>"No, I am not yet distinguished. Only shall I be distinguished
when I have shown my twelve new species to mein own
university."</p>
<p>"But it would give me pleasure also to show you Washington. You
should see also the government of those backwoodsmen who are
crowding out to Oregon. Would you not like to travel with me in
America so far as that?"</p>
<p>He shook his head doubtfully. "Perhaps I make mistake to come by
the St. Lawrence? It would be shorter to go by New York? Well, I
haf no hurry. I think it over, yess."</p>
<p>"But tell me, where did you get that leetle thing?" he asked me
again presently, taking up in his hand the Indian clasp.</p>
<p>"I traded for it among the Crow Indians."</p>
<p>"You know what it iss, eh?"</p>
<p>"No, except that it is Indian made."</p>
<p>He scanned the round disks carefully. "Wait!" he exclaimed. "I
show you sometings."</p>
<p>He reached for my pencil, drew toward him a piece of paper,
taking from his pocket meantime a bit of string. Using the latter
for a radius, he drew a circle on the piece of paper.</p>
<p>"Now look what I do!" he said, as I bent over curiously. "See, I
draw a straight line through the circle. I divide it in half, so. I
divide it in half once more, and make a point. Now I shorten my
string, one-half. On each side of my long line I make me a half
circle—only half way round on the opposite sides. So, now,
what I got, eh? You understand him?"</p>
<p>I shook my head. He pointed in turn to the rude ornamentation in
the shell clasp. I declare that then I could see a resemblance
between the two designs!</p>
<p>"It is curious," I said.</p>
<p>"<i>Mein Gott</i>! it iss more than curious. It iss vonderful! I
haf two <i>Amazonias</i> collected by my own bands, and twelve
species of my own discovery, yess, in butterflies alone. That iss
much? Listen. It iss notings! <i>Here</i> iss the
<i>discovery!</i>"</p>
<p>He took a pace or two excitedly, and came back to thump with his
forefinger on the little desk.</p>
<p>"What you see before you iss the sign of the Great Monad! It iss
known in China, in Burmah, in all Asia, in all Japan. It iss sign
of the great One, of the great Two. In your hand iss the Tah
Gook—the Oriental symbol for life, for sex. Myself, I haf
seen that in Sitka on Chinese brasses; I haf seen it on Japanese
signs, in one land and in another land. But here you show it to me
made by the hand of some ignorant aborigine of <i>this</i>
continent! On <i>this</i> continent, where it did not originate and
does not belong! It iss a discovery! Science shall hear of it. It
iss the link of Asia to America. It brings me fame!"</p>
<p>He put his hand into a pocket, and drew it out half filled with
gold pieces and with raw gold in the form of nuggets, as though he
would offer exchange. I waved him back. "No," said I; "you are
welcome to one of these disks, if you please. If you wish, I will
take one little bit of these. But tell me, where did you find these
pieces of raw gold?"</p>
<p>"Those? They are notings. I recollect me I found these one day
up on the Rogue River, not far from my cabin. I am pursuing a most
beautiful moth, such as I haf not in all my collection. So, I fall
on a log; I skin me my leg. In the moss I find some bits of rock. I
recollect me not where, but believe it wass somewhere there. But
what I find now, here, by a stranger—it iss worth more than
gold! My friend, I thank you, I embrace you! I am favored by fate
to meet you. Go with you to Washington? Yess, yess, I go!"</p>
<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XVIII" id="CHAPTER_XVIII"></a>CHAPTER
XVIII</h2>
<h3>THE MISSING SLIPPER</h3>
<div class="blockquot">
<p>There will always remain something to be said of woman as long
as there is one on earth.—<i>Bauflers</i>.</p>
</div>
<p>My new friend, I was glad to note, seemed not anxious to
terminate our acquaintance, although in his amiable and childlike
fashion he babbled of matters which to me seemed unimportant. He
was eager to propound his views on the connection of the American
tribes with the peoples of the Orient, whereas I was all for
talking of the connection of England and the United States with
Oregon. Thus we passed the luncheon hour at the hostelry of my
friend Jacques Bertillon; after which I suggested a stroll about
the town for a time, there being that upon my mind which left me
ill disposed to remain idle. He agreed to my suggestion, a fact for
which I soon was to feel thankful for more reasons than one.</p>
<p>Before we started upon our stroll, I asked him to step to my own
room, where I had left my pipe. As we paused here for a moment, he
noticed on the little commode a pair of pistols of American make,
and, with a word of apology, took them up to examine them.</p>
<p>"You also are acquainted with these?" he asked politely.</p>
<p>"It is said that I am," I answered.</p>
<p>"Sometimes you need to be?" he said, smiling. There smote upon
me, even as he spoke, the feeling that his remark was strangely
true. My eye fell on the commode's top, casually. I saw that it now
was bare. I recalled the strange warning of the baroness the
evening previous. I was watched! My apartment had been entered in
my absence. Property of mine had been taken.</p>
<p>My perturbation must have been discoverable in my face. "What
iss it?" asked the old man. "You forget someting?"</p>
<p>"No," said I, stammering. "It is nothing."</p>
<p>He looked at me dubiously. "Well, then," I admitted; "I miss
something from my commode here. Some one has taken it."</p>
<p>"It iss of value, perhaps?" he inquired politely.</p>
<p>"Well, no; not of intrinsic value. 'Twas only a slipper—of
white satin, made by Braun, of Paris."</p>
<p>"<i>One</i> slipper? Of what use?—"</p>
<p>"It belonged to a lady—I was about to return it," I said;
but I fear my face showed me none too calm. He broke out in a
gentle laugh.</p>
<p>"So, then, we had here the stage setting," said he; "the
pistols, the cause for pistols, sometimes, eh?"</p>
<p>"It is nothing—I could easily explain—"</p>
<p>"There iss not need, my young friend. Wass I not also young
once? Yess, once wass I young." He laid down the pistols, and I
placed them with my already considerable personal armament, which
seemed to give him no concern.</p>
<p>"Each man studies for himself his own specialty," mused the old
man. "You haf perhaps studied the species of woman. Once, also
I."</p>
<p>I laughed, and shook my head.</p>
<p>"Many species are there," he went on; "many with wings of gold
and blue and green, of unknown colors; creatures of air and sky.
Haf I not seen them? But always that one species which we pursue,
we do not find. Once in my life, in Oregon, I follow through the
forest a smell of sweet fields of flowers coming to me. At last I
find it—a wide field of flowers. It wass in summer time. Over
the flowers were many, many butterflies. Some of them I knew; some
of them I had. One great new one, such as I haf not seen, it wass
there. It rested. 'I shall now make it mine,' I said. It iss fame
to gif name first to this so noble a species. I would inclose it
with mein little net. Like this, you see, I creep up to it. As I am
about to put it gently in my net—not to harm it, or break it,
or brush away the color of its wings—lo! like a puff of down,
it rises and goes above my head. I reach for it; I miss. It rises
still more; it flies; it disappears! So! I see it no more. It iss
gone. <i>Stella Terræ</i> I name it—my Star of the
Earth, that which I crave but do not always haf, eh? Believe me, my
friend, yess, the study of the species hass interest. Once I wass
young. Should I see that little shoe I think myself of the time
when I wass young, and made studies—<i>Ach, Mein
Gott!</i>—also of the species of woman! I, too, saw it fly
from me, my <i>Stella Terræ!</i>"</p>
<p>We walked, my friend still musing and babbling, myself still
anxious and uneasy. We turned out of narrow Notre Dame Street, and
into St. Lawrence Main Street. As we strolled I noted without much
interest the motley life about me, picturesque now with the
activities of the advancing spring. Presently, however, my idle
gaze was drawn to two young Englishmen whose bearing in some way
gave me the impression that they belonged in official or military
life, although they were in civilian garb.</p>
<p>Presently the two halted, and separated. The taller kept on to
the east, to the old French town. At length I saw him joined, as
though by appointment, by another gentleman, one whose appearance
at once gave me reason for a second look. The severe air of the
Canadian spring seemed not pleasing to him, and he wore his coat
hunched up about his neck, as though he were better used to milder
climes. He accosted my young Englishman, and without hesitation the
two started off together. As they did so I gave an involuntary
exclamation. The taller man I had seen once before, the shorter,
very many times—in Washington!</p>
<p>"Yess," commented my old scientist calmly; "so strange! They go
together."</p>
<p>"Ah, you know them!" I almost fell upon him.</p>
<p>"Yess—last night. The tall one iss Mr. Peel, a young
Englishman; the other is Mexican, they said—Señor
Yturrio, of Mexico. He spoke much. Me, I wass sleepy then. But also
that other tall one we saw go back—that wass Captain Parke,
also of the British Navy. His ship iss the war boat
<i>Modesté</i>—a fine one. I see her often when I walk
on the riffer front, there."</p>
<p>I turned to him and made some excuse, saying that presently I
would join him again at the hotel. Dreamily as ever, he smiled and
took his leave. For myself, I walked on rapidly after the two
figures, then a block or so ahead of me.</p>
<p>I saw them turn into a street which was familiar to myself. They
passed on, turning from time to time among the old houses of the
French quarter. Presently they entered the short side street which
I myself had seen for the first time the previous night. I
pretended to busy myself with my pipe, as they turned in at the
very gate which I knew, and knocked at the door which I had entered
with my mysterious companion!</p>
<p>The door opened without delay; they both entered.</p>
<p>So, then, Helena von Ritz had other visitors! England and Mexico
were indeed conferring here in Montreal. There were matters going
forward here in which my government was concerned. That was
evident. I was almost in touch with them. That also was evident.
How, then, might I gain yet closer touch?</p>
<p>At the moment nothing better occurred to me than to return to my
room and wait for a time. It would serve no purpose for me to
disclose myself, either in or out of the apartments of the
baroness, and it would not aid me to be seen idling about the
neighborhood in a city where there was so much reason to suppose
strangers were watched. I resolved to wait until the next morning,
and to take my friend Von Rittenhofen with me. He need not know all
that I knew, yet in case of any accident to myself or any sudden
contretemps, he would serve both as a witness and as an excuse for
disarming any suspicion which might be entertained regarding
myself.</p>
<p>The next day he readily enough fell in with my suggestion of a
morning stroll, and again we sallied forth, at about nine o'clock,
having by that time finished a <i>déjeûner à la
fourchette</i> with Jacques Bertillon, which to my mind compared
unfavorably with one certain other I had shared.</p>
<p>A sense of uneasiness began to oppress me, I knew not why,
before I had gone half way down the little street from the corner
where we turned. It was gloomy and dismal enough at the best, and
on this morning an unusual apathy seemed to sit upon it, for few of
the shutters were down, although the hour was now mid-morning. Here
and there a homely habitant appeared, and bade us good morning; and
once in a while we saw the face of a good wife peering from the
window. Thus we passed some dozen houses or so, in a row, and
paused opposite the little gate. I saw that the shutters were
closed, or at least all but one or two, which were partly ajar.
Something said to me that it would be as well for me to turn
back.</p>
<p>I might as well have done so. We passed up the little walk, and
I raised the knocker at the door; but even as it sounded I knew
what would happen. There came to me that curious feeling which one
experiences when one knocks at the door of a house which lacks
human occupancy. Even more strongly I had that strange feeling now,
because this sound was not merely that of unoccupied rooms—it
came from rooms empty and echoing!</p>
<p>I tried the door. It was not locked. I flung it wide, and
stepped within. At first I could not adjust my eyes to the dimness.
Absolute silence reigned. I pushed open a shutter and looked about
me. The rooms were not only unoccupied, but unfurnished! The walls
and floors were utterly bare! Not a sign of human occupancy
existed. I hastened out to the little walk, and looked up and down
the street, to satisfy myself that I had made no mistake. No, this
was the number—this was the place. Yesterday these rooms were
fitted sumptuously as for a princess; now they were naked. Not a
stick of the furniture existed, nor was there any trace either of
haste or deliberation in this removal. What had been, simply was
not; that was all.</p>
<p>Followed by my wondering companion, I made such inquiry as I
could in the little neighborhood. I could learn nothing. No one
knew anything of the occupant of these rooms. No one had heard any
carts approach, nor had distinguished any sounds during the
night.</p>
<p>"Sir," said I to my friend, at last; "I do not understand it. I
have pursued, but it seems the butterfly has flown." So, both
silent, myself morosely so, we turned and made our way back across
the town.</p>
<p>Half an hour later we were on the docks at the river front,
where we could look out over the varied shipping which lay there.
My scientific friend counted one vessel after another, and at last
pointed to a gap in the line.</p>
<p>"Yesterday I wass here," he said, "and I counted all the ships
and their names. The steamer <i>Modesté</i> she lay there.
Now she iss gone."</p>
<p>I pulled up suddenly. This was the ship which carried Captain
Parke and his friend Lieutenant Peel, of the British Navy. The
secret council at Montreal was, therefore, apparently ended! There
would be an English land expedition, across Canada to Oregon. Would
there be also an expedition by sea? At least my errand in Montreal,
now finished, had not been in vain, even though it ended in a
mystery and a query. But ah! had I but been less clumsy in that war
of wits with a woman, what might I have learned! Had she not been
free to mock me, what might I not have learned! She was free to
mock me, why? Because of Elisabeth. Was it then true that faith and
loyalty could purchase alike faithlessness and—failure?</p>
<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XIX" id="CHAPTER_XIX"></a>CHAPTER XIX</h2>
<h3>THE GENTLEMAN FROM TENNESSEE</h3>
<div class="blockquot">
<p>Women distrust men too much in general, and not enough in
particular.—<i>Philibert Commerson.</i></p>
</div>
<p>Now all the more was it necessary for me and my friend from
Oregon to hasten on to Washington. I say nothing further of the
arguments I employed with him, and nothing of our journey to
Washington, save that we made it hastily as possible. It was now
well toward the middle of April, and, brief as had been my absence,
I knew there had been time for many things to happen in Washington
as well as in Montreal.</p>
<p>Rumors abounded, I found as soon as I struck the first cities
below the Canadian line. It was in the air now that under Calhoun
there would be put before Congress a distinct and definite attempt
at the annexation of Texas. Stories of all sorts were on the
streets; rumors of the wrath of Mr. Clay; yet other rumors of
interesting possibilities at the coming Whig and Democratic
conventions. Everywhere was that strange, ominous, indescribable
tension of the atmosphere which exists when a great people is moved
deeply. The stern figure of Calhoun, furnishing courage for a
people, even as he had for a president, loomed large in the public
prints.</p>
<p>Late as it was when I reached Washington, I did not hesitate to
repair at once to the residence of Mr. Calhoun; and I took with me
as my best adjutant my strange friend Von Rittenhofen, who, I
fancied, might add detailed information which Mr. Calhoun would
find of value. We were admitted to Mr. Calhoun, and after the first
greetings he signified that he would hear my report. He sat, his
long, thin hands on his chair arm, as I went on with my story, his
keen eyes scanning also my old companion as I spoke. I explained
what the latter knew regarding Oregon. I saw Mr. Calhoun's eyes
kindle. As usual, he did not lack decision.</p>
<p>"Sir," said he to Von Rittenhofen presently, "we ourselves are
young, yet I trust not lacking in a great nation's interest in the
arts and sciences. It occurs to me now that in yourself we have
opportunity to add to our store of knowledge in respect to certain
biological features."</p>
<p>The old gentleman rose and bowed. "I thank you for the honor of
your flattery, sir," he began; but Calhoun raised a gentle
hand.</p>
<p>"If it would please you, sir, to defer your visit to your own
country for a time, I can secure for you a situation in our
department in biology, where your services would be of extreme
worth to us. The salary would also allow you to continue your
private researches into the life of our native tribes."</p>
<p>Von Rittenhofen positively glowed at this. "Ach, what an honor!"
he began again.</p>
<p>"Meantime," resumed Calhoun, "not to mention the value which
that research would have for us, we could also find use, at proper
remuneration, for your private aid in making up a set of maps of
that western country which you know so well, and of which even I
myself am so ignorant. I want to know the distances, the
topography, the means of travel. I want to know the peculiarities
of that country of Oregon. It would take me a year to send a
messenger, for at best it requires six months to make the outbound
passage, and in the winter the mountains are impassable. If you
could, then, take service with us now, we should be proud to make
you such return as your scientific attainments deserve."</p>
<p>Few could resist the persuasiveness of Mr. Calhoun's speech,
certainly not Von Rittenhofen, who thus found offered him precisely
what he would have desired. I was pleased to see him so happily
situated and so soon. Presently we despatched him down to my hotel,
where I promised later to make him more at home. In his elation
over the prospect he now saw before him, the old man fairly
babbled. Germany seemed farthest from his mind. After his
departure, Calhoun again turned to me.</p>
<p>"I want you to remain, Nicholas," said he, "because I have an
appointment with a gentleman who will soon be present."</p>
<p>"Rather a late hour, sir," I ventured. "Are you keeping faith
with Doctor Ward?"</p>
<p>"I have no time for hobbies," he exclaimed, half petulantly.
"What I must do is this work. The man we are to meet to-night is
Mr. Polk. It is important."</p>
<p>"You would not call Mr. Polk important?" I smiled frankly, and
Calhoun replied in icy kind.</p>
<p>"You can not tell how large a trouble may be started by a small
politician," said he. "At least, we will hear what he has to say.
'Twas he that sought the meeting, not myself."</p>
<p>Perhaps half an hour later, Mr. Calhoun's old negro man ushered
in this awaited guest, and we three found ourselves alone in one of
those midnight conclaves which went on in Washington even then as
they do to-day. Mr. Polk was serious as usual; his indecisive
features wearing the mask of solemnity, which with so many passed
as wisdom.</p>
<p>"I have come, Mr. Calhoun," said he—when the latter had
assured him that my presence would entail no risk to him—"to
talk over this Texas situation."</p>
<p>"Very well," said my chief. "My own intentions regarding Texas
are now of record."</p>
<p>"Precisely," said Mr. Polk. "Now, is it wise to make a definite
answer in that matter yet? Would it not be better to defer action
until later—until after, I may say—"</p>
<p>"Until after you know what your own chances will be, Jim?" asked
Mr. Calhoun, smiling grimly.</p>
<p>"Why, that is it, John, precisely, that is it exactly! Now, I
don't know what you think of my chances in the convention, but I
may say that a very large branch of the western Democracy is
favoring me for the nomination." Mr. Polk pursed a short upper lip
and looked monstrous grave. His extreme morality and his extreme
dignity made his chief stock in trade. Different from his master,
Old Hickory, he was really at heart the most aristocratic of
Democrats, and like many another so-called leader, most of his love
for the people really was love of himself.</p>
<p>"Yes, I know that some very strange things happen in politics,"
commented Calhoun, smiling.</p>
<p>"But, God bless me! you don't call it out of the way for me to
seek the nomination? <i>Some</i> one must be president! Why not
myself? Now, I ask your support."</p>
<p>"My support is worth little, Jim," said my chief. "But have you
earned it? You have never consulted my welfare, nor has Jackson. I
had no majority behind me in the Senate. I doubt even the House
now. Of what use could I be to you?"</p>
<p>"At least, you could decline to do anything definite in this
Texas matter."</p>
<p>"Why should a man ever do anything <i>in</i>definite, Jim Polk?"
asked Calhoun, bending on him his frosty eyes.</p>
<p>"But you may set a fire going which you can not stop. The people
may get out of hand <i>before the convention!</i>"</p>
<p>"Why should they not? They have interests as well as we. Do they
not elect us to subserve those interests?"</p>
<p>"I yield to no man in my disinterested desire for the welfare of
the American people," began Polk pompously, throwing back the hair
from his forehead.</p>
<p>"Of course not," said Calhoun grimly. "My own idea is that it is
well to give the people what is already theirs. They feel that
Texas belongs to them."</p>
<p>"True," said the Tennesseean, hesitating; "a good strong blast
about our martial spirit and the men of the Revolution—that
is always good before an election or a convention. Very true. But
now in my own case—"</p>
<p>"Your own case is not under discussion, Jim. It is the case of
the United States! I hold a brief for them, not for you or any
other man!"</p>
<p>"How do you stand in case war should be declared against
Mexico?" asked Mr. Polk. "That ought to be a popular measure. The
Texans have captured the popular imagination. The Alamo rankles in
our nation's memory. What would you say to a stiff demand there,
with a strong show of military force behind it?"</p>
<p>"I should say nothing as to a strong <i>showing</i> in any case.
I should only say that if war came legitimately—not
otherwise—I should back it with all my might. I feel the same
in regard to war with England."</p>
<p>"With England? What chance would we have with so powerful a
nation as that?"</p>
<p>"There is a God of Battles," said John Calhoun.</p>
<p>The chin of James K. Polk of Tennessee sank down into his stock.
His staring eyes went half shut. He was studying something in his
own mind. At last he spoke, tentatively, as was always his way
until he got the drift of things.</p>
<p>"Well, now, perhaps in the case of England that is good
politics," he began. "It is very possible that the people hate
England as much as they do Mexico. Do you not think so?"</p>
<p>"I think they fear her more."</p>
<p>"But I was only thinking of the popular imagination!"</p>
<div class="figcenter"><br />
<a href="images/212.jpg"><img src="images/212.jpg" width="45%" alt=
"" title="" /></a><br />
<b>"Fifty-four Forty or Fight!" exclaimed Polk.</b>
<br /></div>
<p>"You are always thinking of the popular imagination, Jim. You
have been thinking of that for some time in Tennessee. All that
outcry about the whole of Oregon is ill-timed to-day."</p>
<p>"<i>Fifty-four Forty or Fight</i>; that sounds well!" exclaimed
Polk; "eh?"</p>
<p>"Trippingly on the tongue, yes!" said John Calhoun. "But how
would it sound to the tune of cannon fire? How would it look
written in the smoke of musketry?"</p>
<p>"It might not come to that," said Polk, shifting in his seat "I
was thinking of it only as a rallying cry for the campaign. Dash
me—I beg pardon—" he looked around to see if there were
any Methodists present—"but I believe I could go into the
convention with that war cry behind me and sweep the boards of all
opposition!"</p>
<p>"And afterwards?"</p>
<p>"But England may back down," argued Mr. Polk. "A strong showing
in the Southwest and Northwest might do wonders for us."</p>
<p>"But what would be behind that strong showing, Mr. Polk?"
demanded John Calhoun. "We would win the combat with Mexico, of
course, if that iniquitous measure should take the form of war. But
not Oregon—we might as well or better fight in Africa than
Oregon. It is not yet time. In God's name, Jim Polk, be careful of
what you do! Cease this cry of taking all of Oregon. You will
plunge this country not into one war, but two. Wait! Only wait, and
we will own all this continent to the Saskatchewan—or even
farther north."</p>
<p>"Well," said the other, "have you not said there is a God of
Battles?"</p>
<p>"The Lord God of Hosts, yes!" half screamed old John Calhoun;
"yes, the God of Battles for <i>nations</i>, for
<i>principles</i>—but <i>not</i> for <i>parties</i>! For the
<i>principle</i> of democracy, Jim Polk, yes, yes; but for the
Democratic <i>party</i>, or the Whig <i>party</i>, or for any
demagogue who tries to lead either, no, no!"</p>
<p>The florid face of Polk went livid. "Sir," said he, reaching for
his hat, "at least I have learned what I came to learn. I know how
you will appear on the floor of the convention, Sir, you will
divide this party hopelessly. You are a traitor to the Democratic
party! I charge it to your face, here and now. I came to ask of you
your support, and find you only, talking of principles! Sir, tell
me, what have <i>principles</i> to do with <i>elections</i>?"</p>
<p>John Calhoun looked at him for one long instant. He looked down
then at his own thin, bloodless hands, his wasted limbs. Then he
turned slowly and rested his arms on the table, his face resting in
his hands. "My God!" I heard him groan.</p>
<p>To see my chief abused was a thing not in my nature to endure. I
forgot myself. I committed an act whose results pursued me for many
a year.</p>
<p>"Mr. Polk, sir," said I, rising and facing him, "damn you, sir,
you are not fit to untie Mr. Calhoun's shoe! I will not see you
offer him one word of insult. Quarrel with me if you like! You will
gain no votes here now in any case, that is sure!"</p>
<p>Utterly horrified at this, Mr. Polk fumbled with his hat and
cane, and, very red in the face, bowed himself out, still mumbling,
Mr. Calhoun rising and bowing his adieux.</p>
<p>My chief dropped into his chair again. For a moment he looked at
me directly. "Nick," said he at length slowly, "you have divided
the Democratic party. You split that party, right then and
there."</p>
<p>"Never!" I protested; "but if I did, 'twas ready enough for the
division. Let it split, then, or any party like it, if that is what
must hold it together! I will not stay in this work, Mr. Calhoun,
and hear you vilified. Platforms!"</p>
<p>"Platforms!" echoed my chief. His white hand dropped on the
table as he still sat looking at me. "But he will get you some
time, Nicholas!" he smiled. "Jim Polk will not forget."</p>
<p>"Let him come at me as he likes!" I fumed.</p>
<p>At last, seeing me so wrought up, Mr. Calhoun rose, and,
smiling, shook me heartily by the hand.</p>
<p>"Of course, this had to come one time or another," said he. "The
split was in the wood of their proposed platform of bluff and
insincerity. `What do the people say?' asks Jim Polk. 'What do they
<i>think</i>?' asks John Calhoun. And being now, in God's
providence; chosen to do some thinking for them, I have
thought."</p>
<p>He turned to the table and took up a long, folded document,
which I saw was done in his cramped hand and with many
interlineations. "Copy this out fair for me to-night, Nicholas,"
said he. "This is our answer to the Aberdeen note. You have already
learned its tenor, the time we met Mr. Pakenham with Mr. Tyler at
the White House."</p>
<p>I grinned. "Shall we not take it across direct to Mr. Blair for
publication in his <i>Globe</i>?"</p>
<p>Mr. Calhoun smiled rather bitterly at this jest. The hostility
of Blair to the Tyler administration was a fact rather more than
well known.</p>
<p>"'Twill all get into Mr. Polk's newspaper fast enough,"
commented he at last. "He gets all the news of the Mexican
ministry!"</p>
<p>"Ah, you think he cultivates the Doña Lucrezia, rather
than adores her!"</p>
<p>"I know it! One-third of Jim Polk may be human, but the other
two-thirds is politician. He will flatter that lady into
confidences. She is well nigh distracted at best, these days, what
with the fickleness of her husband and the yet harder abandonment
by her old admirer Pakenham; so Polk will cajole her into
disclosures, never fear. In return, when the time comes, he will
send an army of occupation into her country! And all the while, on
the one side and the other, he will appear to the public as a moral
and lofty-minded man."</p>
<p>"On whom neither man nor woman could depend!"</p>
<p>"Neither the one nor the other."</p>
<p>The exasperation of his tone amused me, as did this chance
importance of what seemed to me at the time merely a petticoat
situation.</p>
<p>"Silk! Mr. Calhoun," I grinned. "Still silk and dimity, my
faith! And you!"</p>
<p>He seemed a trifle nettled at this. "I must take men and women
and circumstances as I find them," he rejoined; "and must use such
agencies as are left me."</p>
<p>"If we temporarily lack the Baroness von Ritz to add zest to our
game," I hazarded, "we still have the Doña Lucrezia and her
little jealousies."</p>
<p>Calhoun turned quickly upon me with a sharp glance, as though
seized by some sudden thought. "By the Lord Harry! boy, you give me
an idea. Wait, now, for a moment. Do you go on with your copying
there, and excuse me for a time."</p>
<p>An instant later he passed from the room, his tall figure bent,
his hands clasped behind his back, and his face wrinkled in a
frown, as was his wont when occupied with some problem.</p>
<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XX" id="CHAPTER_XX"></a>CHAPTER XX</h2>
<h3>THE LADY FROM MEXICO</h3>
<div class="blockquot">
<p>As soon as women are ours, we are no longer theirs.<br />
<span style="margin-left: 21.5em;">—Montaigne.</span></p>
</div>
<p>After a time my chief reëntered the office room and bent
over me at my table. I put before him the draft of the document
which he had given me for clerical care.</p>
<p>"So," he said, "'tis ready—our declaration. I wonder what
may come of that little paper!"</p>
<p>"Much will come of it with a strong people back of it. The
trouble is only that what Democrat does, Whig condemns. And not
even all our party is with Mr. Tyler and yourself in this, Mr.
Calhoun. Look, for instance, at Mr. Polk and his plans." To this
venture on my part he made no present answer.</p>
<p>"I have no party, that is true," said he at last—"none but
you and Sam Ward!" He smiled with one of his rare, illuminating
smiles, different from the cold mirth which often marked him.</p>
<p>"At least, Mr. Calhoun, you do not take on your work for the
personal glory of it," said I hotly; "and one day the world will
know it!"</p>
<p>"'Twill matter very little to me then," said he bitterly. "But
come, now, I want more news about your trip to Montreal. What have
you done?"</p>
<p>So now, till far towards dawn of the next day, we sat and
talked. I put before him full details of my doings across the
border. He sat silent, his eye betimes wandering, as though
absorbed, again fixed on me, keen and glittering.</p>
<p>"So! So!" he mused at length, when I had finished, "England has
started a land party for Oregon! Can they get across next fall,
think you?"</p>
<p>"Hardly possible, sir," said I. "They could not go so swiftly as
the special fur packets. Winter would catch them this side of the
Rockies. It will be a year before they can reach Oregon."</p>
<p>"Time for a new president and a new policy," mused he.</p>
<p>"The grass is just beginning to sprout on the plains, Mr.
Calhoun," I began eagerly.</p>
<p>"Yes," he nodded. "God! if I were only young!"</p>
<p>"I am young, Mr. Calhoun," said I. "Send <i>me!</i>"</p>
<p>"Would you go?" he asked suddenly.</p>
<p>"I was going in any case."</p>
<p>"Why, how do you mean?" he demanded.</p>
<p>I felt the blood come to my face. "'Tis all over between Miss
Elisabeth Churchill and myself," said I, as calmly as I might.</p>
<p>"Tut! tut! a child's quarrel," he went on, "a child's quarrel!
`Twill all mend in time."</p>
<p>"Not by act of mine, then," said I hotly.</p>
<p>Again abstracted, he seemed not wholly to hear me.</p>
<p>"First," he mused, "the more important things"—riding over
my personal affairs as of little consequence.</p>
<p>"I will tell you, Nicholas," said he at last, wheeling swiftly
upon me. "Start next week! An army of settlers waits now for a
leader along the Missouri. Organize them; lead them out! Give them
enthusiasm! Tell them what Oregon is! You may serve alike our party
and our nation. You can not measure the consequences of prompt
action sometimes, done by a man who is resolved upon the right. A
thousand things may hinge on this. A great future may hinge upon
it."</p>
<p>It was only later that I was to know the extreme closeness of
his prophecy.</p>
<p>Calhoun began to pace up and down. "Besides her land forces," he
resumed, "England is despatching a fleet to the Columbia! I doubt
not that the <i>Modesté</i> has cleared for the Horn. There
may be news waiting for you, my son, when you get across!</p>
<p>"While you have been busy, I have not been idle," he continued.
"I have here another little paper which I have roughly drafted." He
handed me the document as he spoke.</p>
<p>"A treaty—with Texas!" I exclaimed.</p>
<p>"The first draft, yes. We have signed the memorandum. We await
only one other signature."</p>
<p>"Of Van Zandt!"</p>
<p>"Yes. Now comes Mr. Nicholas Trist, with word of a certain woman
to the effect that Mr. Van Zandt is playing also with England."</p>
<p>"And that woman also is playing with England."</p>
<p>Calhoun smiled enigmatically.</p>
<p>"But she has gone," said I, "who knows where? She, too, may have
sailed for Oregon, for all we know."</p>
<p>He looked at me as though with a flash of inspiration. "That may
be," said he; "it may very well be! That would cost us our hold
over Pakenham. Neither would we have any chance left with her."</p>
<p>"How do you mean, Mr. Calhoun?" said I. "I do not understand
you."</p>
<p>"Nicholas," said Mr. Calhoun, "that lady was much impressed with
you." He regarded me calmly, contemplatively, appraisingly.</p>
<p>"I do not understand you," I reiterated.</p>
<p>"I am glad that you do not and did not. In that case, all would
have been over at once. You would never have seen her a second
time. Your constancy was our salvation, and perhaps your own!"</p>
<p>He smiled in a way I liked none too well, but now I began myself
to engage in certain reflections. Was it then true that faith could
purchase faith—and win not failure, but success?</p>
<p>"At least she has flown," went on Calhoun. "But why? What made
her go? 'Tis all over now, unless, unless—unless—" he
added to himself a third time.</p>
<p>"But unless what?"</p>
<p>"Unless that chance word may have had some weight. You say that
you and she talked of <i>principles?</i>"</p>
<p>"Yes, we went so far into abstractions."</p>
<p>"So did I with her! I told her about this country; explained to
her as I could the beauties of the idea of a popular government.
'Twas as a revelation to her. She had never known a republican
government before, student as she is. Nicholas, your long legs and
my long head may have done some work after all! How did she seem to
part with you?"</p>
<p>"As though she hated me; as though she hated herself and all the
world. Yet not quite that, either. As though she would have
wept—that is the truth. I do not pretend to understand her.
She is a puzzle such as I have never known."</p>
<p>"Nor are you apt to know another her like. Look, here she is,
the paid spy, the secret agent, of England. Additionally, she is
intimately concerned with the private life of Mr. Pakenham. For the
love of adventure, she is engaged in intrigue also with Mexico. Not
content with that, born adventuress, eager devourer of any
hazardous and interesting intellectual offering, any puzzle, any
study, any intrigue—she comes at midnight to talk with me,
whom she knows to be the representative of yet a third power!"</p>
<p>"And finds you in your red nightcap!" I laughed.</p>
<p>"Did she speak of that?" asked Mr. Calhoun in consternation,
raising a hand to his head. "It may be that I forgot—but none
the less, she came!</p>
<p>"Yes, as I said, she came, by virtue of your long legs and your
ready way, as I must admit; and you were saved from her only, as I
believe—Why, God bless Elisabeth Churchill, my boy, that is
all! But my faith, how nicely it all begins to work out!"</p>
<p>"I do not share your enthusiasm, Mr. Calhoun," said I bitterly.
"On the contrary, it seems to me to work out in as bad a fashion as
could possibly be contrived."</p>
<p>"In due time you will see many things more plainly. Meantime, be
sure England will be careful. She will make no overt movement, I
should say, until she has heard from Oregon; which will not be
before my lady baroness shall have returned and reported to Mr.
Pakenham here. All of which means more time for us."</p>
<p>I began to see something of the structure of bold enterprise
which this man deliberately was planning; but no comment offered
itself; so that presently, he went on, as though in soliloquy.</p>
<p>"The Hudson Bay Company have deceived England splendidly enough.
Doctor McLaughlin, good man that he is, has not suited the Hudson
Bay Company. His removal means less courtesy to our settlers in
Oregon. Granted a less tactful leader than himself, there will be
friction with our high-strung frontiersmen in that country. No man
can tell when the thing will come to an issue. For my own part, I
would agree with Polk that we ought to own that country to
fifty-four forty—but what we <i>ought</i> to do and what we
can do are two separate matters. Should we force the issue now and
lose, we would lose for a hundred years. Should we advance firmly
and hold firmly what we gain, in perhaps less than one hundred
years we may win <i>all</i> of that country, as I just said to Mr.
Polk, to the River Saskatchewan—I know not where! In my own
soul, I believe no man may set a limit to the growth of the idea of
an honest government by the people. <i>And this continent is meant
for that honest government!</i>"</p>
<p>"We have already a Monroe Doctrine, Mr. Calhoun," said I. "What
you enunciate now is yet more startling. Shall we call it the
Calhoun Doctrine?"</p>
<p>He made no answer, but arose and paced up and down, stroking the
thin fringe of beard under his chin. Still he seemed to talk with
himself.</p>
<p>"We are not rich," he went on. "Our canals and railways are
young. The trail across our country is of monstrous difficulty.
Give us but a few years more and Oregon, ripe as a plum, would drop
in our lap. To hinder that is a crime. What Polk proposes is
insincerity, and all insincerity must fail. There is but one result
when pretense is pitted against preparedness. Ah, if ever we needed
wisdom and self-restraint, we need them now! Yet look at what we
face! Look at what we may lose! And that through
party—through platform—through <i>politics</i>!"</p>
<p>He sighed as he paused in his walk and turned to me. "But now,
as I said, we have at least time for Texas. And in regard to Texas
we need another woman."</p>
<p>I stared at him.</p>
<p>"You come now to me with proof that my lady baroness traffics
with Mexico as well as England," he resumed. "That is to say,
Yturrio meets my lady baroness. What is the inference? At least,
jealousy on the part of Yturrio's wife, whether or not she cares
for him! Now, jealousy between the sexes is a deadly weapon if well
handled. Repugnant as it is, we must handle it."</p>
<p>I experienced no great enthusiasm at the trend of events, and
Mr. Calhoun smiled at me cynically as he went on. "I see you don't
care for this sort of commission. At least, this is no midnight
interview. You shall call in broad daylight on the Señora
Yturrio. If you and my daughter will take my coach and four
to-morrow, I think she will gladly receive your cards. Perhaps also
she will consent to take the air of Washington with you. In that
case, she might drop in here for an ice. In such case, to conclude,
I may perhaps be favored with an interview with that lady. I must
have Van Zandt's signature to this treaty which you see here!"</p>
<p>"But these are Mexicans, and Van Zandt is leader of the Texans,
their most bitter enemies!"</p>
<p>"Precisely. All the less reason why Señora Yturrio should
be suspected."</p>
<p>"I am not sure that I grasp all this, Mr. Calhoun."</p>
<p>"Perhaps not You presently will know more. What seems to me
plain is that, since we seem to lose a valuable ally in the
Baroness von Ritz, we must make some offset to that loss. If
England has one woman on the Columbia, we must have another on the
Rio Grande!"</p>
<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XXI" id="CHAPTER_XXI"></a>CHAPTER XXI</h2>
<h3>POLITICS UNDER COVER</h3>
<div class="blockquot">
<p>To a woman, the romances she makes are more amusing than those
she reads.—<i>Théophile Gautier</i>.</p>
</div>
<p>It was curious how cleverly this austere old man, unskilled in
the arts of gallantry, now handled the problem to which he had
addressed himself, even though that meant forecasting the whim of
yet another woman. It all came easily about, precisely as he had
planned.</p>
<p>It seemed quite correct for the daughter of our secretary of
state to call to inquire for the health of the fair Señora
Yturrio, and to present the compliments of Madam Calhoun, at that
time not in the city of Washington. Matters went so smoothly that I
felt justified in suggesting a little drive, and Señora
Yturrio had no hesitation in accepting. Quite naturally, our
stately progress finally brought us close to the residence of Miss
Calhoun. That lady suggested that, since the day was warm, it might
be well to descend and see if we might not find a sherbet; all of
which also seemed quite to the wish of the lady from Mexico. The
ease and warmth of Mr. Calhoun's greeting to her were such that she
soon was well at home and chatting very amiably. She spoke English
with but little hesitancy.</p>
<p>Lucrezia Yturrio, at that time not ill known in Washington's
foreign colony, was beautiful, in a sensuous, ripe way. Her hair
was dark, heavily coiled, and packed in masses above an oval
forehead. Her brows were straight, dark and delicate; her teeth
white and strong; her lips red and full; her chin well curved and
deep. A round arm and taper hand controlled a most artful fan. She
was garbed now, somewhat splendidly, in a corded cherry-colored
silk, wore gems enough to start a shop, and made on the whole a
pleasing picture of luxury and opulence. She spoke in a most
musical voice, with eyes sometimes cast modestly down. He had been
a poor student of her species who had not ascribed to her a wit of
her own; but as I watched her, somewhat apart, I almost smiled as I
reflected that her grave and courteous host had also a wit to match
it. Then I almost frowned as I recalled my own defeat in a somewhat
similar contest.</p>
<p>Mr. Calhoun expressed great surprise and gratification that mere
chance had enabled him to meet the wife of a gentleman so
distinguished in the diplomatic service as Señor Yturrio.
The Señora was equally gratified. She hoped she did not make
intrusion in thus coming. Mr. Calhoun assured her that he and his
were simple in their family life, and always delighted to meet
their friends.</p>
<p>"We are especially glad always to hear of our friends from the
Southwest," said he, at last, with a slight addition of formality
in tone and attitude.</p>
<p>At these words I saw my lady's eyes flicker. "It is fate,
Señor," said she, again casting down her eyes, and spreading
out her hands as in resignation, "fate which left Texas and Mexico
not always one."</p>
<p>"That may be," said Mr. Calhoun. "Perhaps fate, also, that those
of kin should cling together."</p>
<p>"How can a mere woman know?" My lady shrugged her very graceful
and beautiful shoulders—somewhat mature shoulders now, but
still beautiful.</p>
<p>"Dear Señora," said Mr. Calhoun, "there are so many
things a woman may not know. For instance, how could she know if
her husband should perchance leave the legation to which he was
attached and pay a visit to another nation?"</p>
<p>Again the slight flickering of her eyes, but again her hands
were outspread in protest.</p>
<p>"How indeed, Señor?"</p>
<p>"What if my young aide here, Mr. Trist, should tell you that he
has seen your husband some hundreds of miles away and in conference
with a lady supposed to be somewhat friendly towards—"</p>
<p>"Ah, you mean that baroness—!"</p>
<p>So soon had the shaft gone home! Her woman's jealousy had
offered a point unexpectedly weak. Calhoun bowed, without a smile
upon his face.</p>
<p>"Mr. Pakenham, the British minister, is disposed to be friendly
to this same lady. Your husband and a certain officer of the
British Navy called upon this same lady last week in
Montreal—informally. It is sometimes unfortunate that plans
are divulged. To me it seemed only wise and fit that you should not
let any of these little personal matters make for us greater
complications in these perilous times. I think you understand me,
perhaps, Señora Yturrio?"</p>
<p>She gurgled low in her throat at this, any sort of sound,
meaning to remain ambiguous. But Calhoun was merciless.</p>
<p>"It is not within dignity, Señora, for me to make trouble
between a lady and her husband. But we must have friends with us
under our flag, or know that they are not our friends. You are
welcome in my house. Your husband is welcome in the house of our
republic. There are certain duties, even thus."</p>
<p>Only now and again she turned upon him the light of her splendid
eyes, searching him.</p>
<p>"If I should recall again, gently, my dear Señora, the
fact that your husband was with that particular woman—if I
should say, that Mexico has been found under the flag of England,
while supposed to be under <i>our</i> flag—if I should add
that one of the representatives of the Mexican legation had been
discovered in handing over to England certain secrets of this
country and of the Republic of Texas—why, then, what answer,
think you, Señora, Mexico would make to me?"</p>
<p>"But Señor Calhoun does not mean—does not dare to
say—"</p>
<p>"I do dare it; I do mean it! I can tell you all that Mexico
plans, and all that Texas plans. All the secrets are out; and since
we know them, we purpose immediate annexation of the Republic of
Texas! Though it means war, Texas shall be ours! This has been
forced upon us by the perfidy of other nations."</p>
<p>He looked her full in the eye, his own blue orbs alight with
resolution. She returned his gaze, fierce as a tigress. But at last
she spread out her deprecating hands.</p>
<p>"Señor," she said, "I am but a woman. I am in the
Señor Secretary's hands. I am even in his <i>hand</i>. What
can he wish?"</p>
<p>"In no unfair way, Señora, I beg you to understand, in no
improper way are you in our hands. But now let us endeavor to
discover some way in which some of these matters may be composed.
In such affairs, a small incident is sometimes magnified and taken
in connection with its possible consequences. You readily may see,
Señora, that did I personally seek the dismissal of your
husband, possibly even the recall of General Almonte, his chief,
that might be effected without difficulty."</p>
<p>"You seek war, Señor Secretary! My people say that your
armies are in Texas now, or will be."</p>
<p>"They are but very slightly in advance of the truth,
Señora," said Calhoun grimly. "For me, I do not believe in
war when war can be averted. But suppose it <i>could</i> be
averted? Suppose the Señora Yturrio herself <i>could</i>
avert it? Suppose the Señora could remain here still, in
this city which she so much admires? A lady of so distinguished
beauty and charm is valuable in our society here."</p>
<p>He bowed to her with stately grace. If there was mockery in his
tone, she could not catch it; nor did her searching eyes read his
meaning.</p>
<p>"See," he resumed, "alone, I am helpless in this situation. If
my government is offended, I can not stop the course of events. I
am not the Senate; I am simply an officer in our
administration—a very humble officer of his Excellency our
president, Mr. Tyler."</p>
<p>My lady broke out in a peal of low, rippling laughter, her white
teeth gleaming. It was, after all, somewhat difficult to trifle
with one who had been trained in intrigue all her life.</p>
<p>Calhoun laughed now in his own quiet way. "We shall do better if
we deal entirely frankly, Señora," said he. "Let us then
waste no time. Frankly, then, it would seem that, now the Baroness
von Ritz is off the scene, the Señora Yturrio would have all
the better title and opportunity in the affections of—well,
let us say, her own husband!"</p>
<p>She bent toward him now, her lips open in a slow smile, all her
subtle and dangerous beauty unmasking its batteries. The impression
she conveyed was that of warmth and of spotted shadows such as play
upon the leopard's back, such as mark the wing of the butterfly,
the petal of some flower born in a land of heat and passion. But
Calhoun regarded her calmly, his finger tips together, and spoke as
deliberately as though communing with himself. "It is but one
thing, one very little thing."</p>
<p>"And what is that, Señor?" she asked at length.</p>
<p>"The signature of Señor Van Zandt, attaché for
Texas, on this memorandum of treaty between the United States and
Texas."</p>
<p>Bowing, he presented to her the document to which he had earlier
directed my own attention. "We are well advised that Señor
Van Zandt is trafficking this very hour with England as against
us," he explained. "We ask the gracious assistance of Señora
Yturrio. In return we promise her—silence!"</p>
<p>"I can not—it is impossible!" she exclaimed, as she
glanced at the pages. "It is our ruin—!"</p>
<p>"No, Señora," said Calhoun sternly; "it means annexation
of Texas to the United States. But that is not your ruin. It is
your salvation. Your country well may doubt England, even England
bearing gifts!"</p>
<p>"I have no control over Señor Van Zandt—he is the
enemy of my country!" she began.</p>
<p>Calhoun now fixed upon her the full cold blue blaze of his
singularly penetrating eyes. "No, Señora," he said sternly;
"but you have access to my friend Mr. Polk, and Mr. Polk is the
friend of Mr. Jackson, and they two are friends of Mr. Van Zandt;
and Texas supposes that these two, although they do not represent
precisely my own beliefs in politics, are for the annexation of
Texas, not to England, but to America. There is good chance Mr.
Polk may be president. If you do not use your personal influence
with him, he may consult politics and not you, and so declare war
against Mexico. That war would cost you Texas, and much more as
well. Now, to avert that war, do you not think that perhaps you can
ask Mr. Polk to say to Mr. Van Zandt that his signature on this
little treaty would end all such questions simply, immediately, and
to the best benefit of Mexico, Texas and the United States?
Treason? Why, Señora, 'twould be preventing treason!"</p>
<p>Her face was half hidden by her fan, and her eyes, covered by
their deep lids, gave no sign of her thoughts. The same cold voice
went on:</p>
<p>"You might, for instance, tell Mr. Polk, which is to say Mr. Van
Zandt, that if his name goes on this little treaty for Texas,
nothing will be said to Texas regarding his proposal to give Texas
over to England. It might not be safe for that little fact
generally to be known in Texas as it is known to me. We will keep
it secret. You might ask Mr. Van Zandt if he would value a seat in
the Senate of these United States, rather than a lynching rope! So
much do I value your honorable acquaintance with Mr. Polk and with
Mr. Van Zandt, my dear lady, that I do not go to the latter and
<i>demand</i> his signature in the name of his republic—no, I
merely suggest to you that did <i>you</i> take this little treaty
for a day, and presently return it to me with his signature
attached, I should feel so deeply gratified that I should not ask
you by what means you had attained this most desirable result! And
I should hope that if you could not win back the affections of a
certain gentleman, at least you might win your own evening of the
scales with him."</p>
<p>Her face colored darkly. In a flash she saw the covert allusion
to the faithless Pakenham. Here was the chance to cut him to the
soul. <i>She could cost England Texas!</i> Revenge made its swift
appeal to her savage heart. Revenge and jealousy, handled coolly,
mercilessly as weapons—those cost England Texas!</p>
<p>She sat, her fan tight at her white teeth. "It would be death to
me if it were known," she said. But still she pondered, her eye
alight with somber fire, her dark cheek red in a woman's anger.</p>
<p>"But it never will be known, my dear lady. These things,
however, must be concluded swiftly. We have not time to wait. Let
us not argue over the unhappy business. Let me think of Mexico as
our sister republic and our friend!"</p>
<p>"And suppose I shall not do this that you ask,
Señor?"</p>
<p>"That, my dear lady, <i>I do not suppose!</i>"</p>
<p>"You threaten, Señor Secretary?"</p>
<p>"On the contrary, I implore! I ask you not to be treasonable to
any, but to be our ally, our friend, in what in my soul I believe a
great good for the peoples of the world. Without us, Texas will be
the prey of England. With us, she will be working out her destiny.
In our graveyard of state there are many secrets of which the
public never knows. Here shall be one, though your heart shall
exult in its possession. Dear lady, may we not conspire
together—for the ultimate good of three republics, making of
them two noble ones, later to dwell in amity? Shall we not hope to
see all this continent swept free of monarchy, held <i>free</i>,
for the peoples of the world?"</p>
<p>For an instant, no more, she sat and pondered. Suddenly she
bestowed upon him a smile whose brilliance might have turned the
head of another man. Rising, she swept him a curtsey whose grace I
have not seen surpassed.</p>
<p>In return, Mr. Calhoun bowed to her with dignity and ease, and,
lifting her hand, pressed it to his lips. Then, offering her an
arm, he led her to his carriage. I could scarce believe my eyes and
ears that so much, and of so much importance, had thus so easily
been accomplished, where all had seemed so near to the
impossible.</p>
<p>When last I saw my chief that day he was sunk in his chair,
white to the lips, his long hands trembling, fatigue written all
over his face and form; but a smile still was on his grim mouth.
"Nicholas," said he, "had I fewer politicians and more women behind
me, we should have Texas to the Rio Grande, and Oregon up to
Russia, and all without a war!"</p>
<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XXII" id="CHAPTER_XXII"></a>CHAPTER XXII</h2>
<h3>BUT YET A WOMAN</h3>
<div class="blockquot">
<p>Woman turns every man the wrong side out,<br />
And never gives to truth and virtue that<br />
Which simpleness and merit purchaseth.<br />
<span style=
"margin-left: 11.5em;">—<i>Shakespeare</i>.</span></p>
</div>
<p>My chief played his game of chess coldly, methodically, and with
skill; yet a game of chess is not always of interest to the
spectator who does not know every move. Least of all does it
interest one who feels himself but a pawn piece on the board and
part of a plan in whose direction he has nothing to say. In truth,
I was weary. Not even the contemplation of the hazardous journey to
Oregon served to stir me. I traveled wearily again and again my
circle of personal despair.</p>
<p>On the day following my last interview with Mr. Calhoun, I had
agreed to take my old friend Doctor von Rittenhofen upon a short
journey among the points of interest of our city, in order to
acquaint him somewhat with our governmental machinery and to put
him in touch with some of the sources of information to which he
would need to refer in the work upon which he was now engaged. We
had spent a couple of hours together, and were passing across to
the capitol, with the intent of looking in upon the deliberations
of the houses of Congress, when all at once, as we crossed the
corridor, I felt him touch my arm.</p>
<p>"Did you see that young lady?" he asked of me. "She looked at
you, yess?"</p>
<p>I was in the act of turning, even as he spoke. Certainly had I
been alone I would have seen Elisabeth, would have known that she
was there.</p>
<p>It was Elisabeth, alone, and hurrying away! Already she was
approaching the first stair. In a moment she would be gone. I
sprang after her by instinct, without plan, clear in my mind only
that she was going, and with her all the light of the world; that
she was going, and that she was beautiful, adorable; that she was
going, and that she was Elisabeth!</p>
<p>As I took a few rapid steps toward her, I had full opportunity
to see that no grief had preyed upon her comeliness, nor had
concealment fed upon her damask cheek. Almost with some resentment
I saw that she had never seemed more beautiful than on this
morning. The costume of those days was trying to any but a
beautiful woman; yet Elisabeth had a way of avoiding extremes which
did not appeal to her individual taste. Her frock now was all in
pink, as became the gentle spring, and the bunch of silvery ribbons
which fluttered at her belt had quite the agreeing shade to finish
in perfection the cool, sweet picture that she made. Her sleeves
were puffed widely, and for the lower arm were opened just
sufficiently. She carried a small white parasol, with pinked edges,
and her silken mitts, light and dainty, matched the clear whiteness
of her arms. Her face, turned away from me, was shaded by a wide
round bonnet, not quite so painfully plain as the scooplike affair
of the time, but with a drooping brim from which depended a slight
frilling of sheer lace. Her smooth brown hair was drawn primly down
across her ears, as was the fashion of the day, and from the masses
piled under the bonnet brim there fell down a curl, round as though
made that moment, and not yet limp from the damp heat of
Washington. Fresh and dainty and restful as a picture done on
Dresden, yet strong, fresh, fully competent, Elisabeth walked as
having full right in the world and accepting as her due such
admiration as might be offered. If she had ever known a care, she
did not show it; and, I say, this made me feel resentment. It was
her proper business to appear miserable.</p>
<p>If she indeed resembled a rare piece of flawless Dresden on this
morning, she was as cold, her features were as unmarked by any
human pity. Ah! so different an Elisabeth, this, from the one I had
last seen at the East Room, with throat fluttering and cheeks far
warmer than this cool rose pink. But, changed or not, the full
sight of her came as the sudden influence of some powerful drug,
blotting out consciousness of other things. I could no more have
refrained from approaching her than I could have cast away my own
natural self and form. Just as she reached the top of the broad
marble stairs, I spoke.</p>
<p>"Elisabeth!"</p>
<p>Seeing that there was no escape, she paused now and turned
toward me. I have never seen a glance like hers. Say not there is
no language of the eyes, no speech in the composure of the
features. Yet such is the Sphinx power given to woman, that now I
saw, as though it were a thing tangible, a veil drawn across her
eyes, across her face, between her soul and mine.</p>
<p>Elisabeth drew herself up straight, her chin high, her eyes
level, her lips just parted for a faint salutation in the
conventions of the morning.</p>
<p>"How do you do?" she remarked. Her voice was all cool white
enamel. Then that veil dropped down between us.</p>
<p>She was there somewhere, but I could not see her clearly now. It
was not her voice. I took her hand, yes; but it had now none of
answering clasp. The flush was on her cheek no more. Cool, pale,
sweet, all white now, armed cap-a-pie with indifference, she looked
at me as formally as though I were a remote acquaintance. Then she
would have passed.</p>
<p>"Elisabeth," I began; "I am just back. I have not had
time—I have had no leave from you to come to see you—to
ask you—to explain—"</p>
<p>"Explain?" she said evenly.</p>
<p>"But surely you can not believe that I—"</p>
<p>"I only believe what seems credible, Mr. Trist."</p>
<p>"But you promised—that very morning you agreed—Were
you out of your mind, that—"</p>
<p>"I was out of my mind that morning—but not that
evening."</p>
<p>Now she was <i>grande demoiselle</i>, patrician, superior.
Suddenly I became conscious of the dullness of my own garb. I cast
a quick glance over my figure, to see whether it had not
shrunken.</p>
<p>"But that is not it, Elisabeth—a girl may not allow a man
so much as you promised me, and then forget that promise in a day.
It <i>was</i> a promise between us. <i>You</i> agreed that I should
come; I did come. You had given your word. I say, was that the way
to treat me, coming as I did?"</p>
<p>"I found it possible," said she. "But, if you please, I must go.
I beg your pardon, but my Aunt Betty is waiting with the
carriage."</p>
<p>"Why, damn Aunt Betty!" I exclaimed. "You shall not go! See,
look here!"</p>
<p>I pulled from my pocket the little ring which I had had with me
that night when I drove out to Elmhurst in my carriage, the one
with the single gem which I had obtained hurriedly that afternoon,
having never before that day had the right to do so. In another
pocket I found the plain gold one which should have gone with the
gem ring that same evening. My hand trembled as I held these out to
her.</p>
<p>"I prove to you what I meant. Here! I had no time! Why,
Elisabeth, I was hurrying—I was mad!—I had a right to
offer you these things. I have still the right to ask you why you
did not take them? Will you not take them now?"</p>
<p>She put my hand away from her gently. "Keep them," she said,
"for the owner of that other wedding gift—the one which I
received."</p>
<p>Now I broke out. "Good God! How can I be held to blame for the
act of a drunken friend? You know Jack Dandridge as well as I do
myself. I cautioned him—I was not responsible for his
condition."</p>
<p>"It was not that decided me."</p>
<p>"You could not believe it was <i>I</i> who sent you that
accursed shoe which belonged to another woman."</p>
<p>"He said it came from you. Where did <i>you</i> get it,
then?"</p>
<p>Now, as readily may be seen, I was obliged again to hesitate.
There were good reasons to keep my lips sealed. I flushed. The red
of confusion which came to my cheek was matched by that of
indignation in her own. I could not tell her, and she could not
understand, that my work for Mr. Calhoun with that other woman was
work for America, and so as sacred and as secret as my own love for
her. Innocent, I still seemed guilty.</p>
<p>"So, then, you do not say? I do not ask you."</p>
<p>"I do not deny it."</p>
<p>"You do not care to tell me where you got it."</p>
<p>"No," said I; "I will not tell you where I got it."</p>
<p>"Why?"</p>
<p>"Because that would involve another woman."</p>
<p>"<i>Involve another woman?</i> Do you think, then, that on this
one day of her life, a girl likes to think of her—her
lover—as involved with any other woman? Ah, you made me begin
to think. I could not help the chill that came on my heart. Marry
you?—I could not! I never could, now."</p>
<p>"Yet you had decided—you had told me—it was
agreed—"</p>
<p>"I had decided on facts as I thought they were. Other facts came
before you arrived. Sir, you do me a very great compliment."</p>
<p>"But you loved me once," I said banally.</p>
<p>"I do not consider it fair to mention that now."</p>
<p>"I never loved that other woman. I had never seen her more than
once. You do not know her."</p>
<p>"Ah, is that it? Perhaps I could tell you something of one
Helena von Ritz. Is it not so?"</p>
<p>"Yes, that was the property of Helena von Ritz," I told her,
looking her fairly in the eye.</p>
<p>"Kind of you, indeed, to involve me, as you say, with a lady of
her precedents!"</p>
<p>Now her color was up full, and her words came crisply. Had I had
adequate knowledge of women, I could have urged her on then, and
brought on a full-fledged quarrel. Strategically, that must have
been a far happier condition than mere indifference on her part.
But I did not know; and my accursed love of fairness blinded
me.</p>
<p>"I hardly think any one is quite just to that lady," said I
slowly.</p>
<p>"Except Mr. Nicholas Trist! A beautiful and accomplished lady, I
doubt not, in his mind."</p>
<p>"Yes, all of that, I doubt not."</p>
<p>"And quite kind with her little gifts."</p>
<p>"Elisabeth, I can not well explain all that to you. I can not,
on my honor."</p>
<p>"Do not!" she cried, putting out her hand as though in alarm.
"Do not invoke your honor!" She looked at me again. I have never
seen a look like hers. She had been calm, cold, and again
indignant, all in a moment's time. That expression which now showed
on her face was one yet worse for me.</p>
<p>Still I would not accept my dismissal, but went on stubbornly:
"But may I not see your father and have my chance again? I <i>can
not</i> let it go this way. It is the ruin of my life."</p>
<p>But now she was advancing, dropping down a step at a time, and
her face was turned straight ahead. The pink of her gown was
matched by the pink of her cheeks. I saw the little working of the
white throat wherein some sobs seemed stifling. And so she went
away and left me.</p>
<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XXIII" id="CHAPTER_XXIII"></a>CHAPTER
XXIII</h2>
<h3>SUCCESS IN SILK</h3>
<div class="blockquot">
<p>As things are, I think women are generally better
creatures<br />
than men.—<i>S.T. Coleridge</i>.</p>
</div>
<p>It was a part of my duties, when in Washington, to assist my
chief in his personal and official correspondence, which
necessarily was very heavy. This work we customarily began about
nine of the morning. On the following day I was on hand earlier
than usual. I was done with Washington now, done with everything,
eager only to be off on the far trails once more. But I almost
forgot my own griefs when I saw my chief. When I found him, already
astir in his office, his face was strangely wan and thin, his hands
bloodless. Over him hung an air of utter weariness; yet, shame to
my own despair, energy showed in all his actions. Resolution was
written on his face. He greeted me with a smile which strangely
lighted his grim face.</p>
<p>"We have good news of some kind this morning, sir?" I
inquired.</p>
<p>In answer, he motioned me to a document which lay open upon his
table. It was familiar enough to me. I glanced at the bottom. There
were <i>two</i> signatures!</p>
<p>"Texas agrees!" I exclaimed. "<i>The Doña Lucrezia has
won Van Zandt's signature!</i>"</p>
<p>I looked at him. His own eyes were swimming wet! This, then, was
that man of whom it is only remembered that he was a pro-slavery
champion.</p>
<p>"It will be a great country," said he at last. "This once done,
I shall feel that, after all, I have not lived wholly in vain."</p>
<p>"But the difficulties! Suppose Van Zandt proves traitorous to
us?"</p>
<p>"He dare not. Texas may know that he bargained with England, but
he dare not traffic with Mexico and let <i>that</i> be known. He
would not live a day."</p>
<p>"But perhaps the Doña Lucrezia herself might some time
prove fickle."</p>
<p>"<i>She</i> dare not! She never will. She will enjoy in secret
her revenge on perfidious Albion, which is to say, perfidious
Pakenham. Her nature is absolutely different from that of the
Baroness von Ritz. The Doña Lucrezia dreams of the torch of
love, not the torch of principle!"</p>
<p>"The public might not approve, Mr. Calhoun; but at least there
<i>were</i> advantages in this sort of aids!"</p>
<p>"We are obliged to find such help as we can. The public is not
always able to tell which was plot and which counterplot in the
accomplishment of some intricate things. The result excuses all. It
was written that Texas should come to this country. Now for Oregon!
It grows, this idea of democracy!"</p>
<p>"At least, sir, you will have done your part. Only
now—"</p>
<p>"Only what, then?"</p>
<p>"We are certain to encounter opposition. The Senate may not
ratify this Texas treaty."</p>
<p>"The Senate will <i>not</i> ratify," said he. "I am perfectly
well advised of how the vote will be when this treaty comes before
it for ratification. We will be beaten, two to one!"</p>
<p>"Then, does that not end it?"</p>
<p>"End it? No! There are always other ways. If the people of this
country wish Texas to belong to our flag, she will so belong. It is
as good as done to-day. Never look at the obstacles; look at the
goal! It was this intrigue of Van Zandt's which stood in our way.
By playing one intrigue against another, we have won thus far. We
must go on winning!"</p>
<p>He paced up and down the room, one hand smiting the other. "Let
England whistle now!" he exclaimed exultantly. "We shall annex
Texas, in full view, indeed, of all possible consequences. There
can be no consequences, for England has no excuse left for war over
Texas. I only wish the situation were as clear for Oregon."</p>
<p>"There'll be bad news for our friend Señor Yturrio when
he gets back to his own legation!" I ventured.</p>
<p>"Let him then face that day when Mexico shall see fit to look to
us for aid and counsel. We will build a mighty country <i>here</i>,
on <i>this</i> continent!"</p>
<p>"Mr. Pakenham is accredited to have certain influence in our
Senate."</p>
<p>"Yes. We have his influence exactly weighed. Yet I rejoice in at
least one thing—one of his best allies is not here."</p>
<p>"You mean Señor Yturrio?"</p>
<p>"I mean the Baroness von Ritz. And now comes on that next
nominating convention, at Baltimore."</p>
<p>"What will it do?" I hesitated.</p>
<p>"God knows. For me, I have no party. I am alone! I have but few
friends in all the world"—he smiled now—"you, my boy,
as I said, and Doctor Ward and a few women, all of whom hate each
other."</p>
<p>I remained silent at this shot, which came home to me; but he
smiled, still grimly, shaking his head. "Rustle of silk, my boy,
rustle of silk—it is over all our maps. But we shall make
these maps! Time shall bear me witness."</p>
<p>"Then I may start soon for Oregon?" I demanded.</p>
<p>"You shall start to-morrow," he answered.</p>
<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XXIV" id="CHAPTER_XXIV"></a>CHAPTER XXIV</h2>
<h3>THE WHOA-HAW TRAIL</h3>
<div class="blockquot">
<p>There are no pleasures where women are not.<br />
<span style="margin-left: 18em;">—Marie de Romba.</span></p>
</div>
<p>How shall I tell of those stirring times in such way that
readers who live in later and different days may catch in full
their flavor? How shall I write now so that at a later time men may
read of the way America was taken, may see what America then was
and now is, and what yet, please God! it may be? How shall be set
down that keen zest of a nation's youth, full of ambition and
daring, full of contempt for obstacles, full of a vast and splendid
hope? How shall be made plain also that other and stronger thing
which so many of those days have mentioned to me, half in
reticence—that feeling that, after all, this fever of the
blood, this imperious insistence upon new lands, had under it
something more than human selfishness?</p>
<p>I say I wish that some tongue or brush or pen might tell the
story of our people at that time. Once I saw it in part told in
color and line, in a painting done by a master hand, almost one fit
to record the spirit of that day, although it wrought in this
instance with another and yet earlier time. In this old canvas,
depicting an early Teutonic tribal wandering, appeared some scores
of human figures, men and women half savage in their look, clad in
skins, with fillets of hide for head covering; men whose beards
were strong and large, whose limbs, wrapped loose in hides, were
strong and large; women, strong and large, who bore burdens on
their backs. Yet in the faces of all these there shone, not
savagery alone, but intelligence and resolution. With them were
flocks and herds and beasts of burden and carts of rude build; and
beside these traveled children. There were young and old men and
women, and some were gaunt and weary, but most were bold and
strong. There were weapons for all, and rude implements, as well,
of industry. In the faces of all there was visible the spirit of
their yellow-bearded leader, who made the center of the picture's
foreground.</p>
<p>I saw the soul of that canvas—a splendid
resolution—a look forward, a purpose, an aim to be attained
at no counting of cost. I say, as I gazed at that canvas, I saw in
it the columns of my own people moving westward across the Land,
fierce-eyed, fearless, doubting nothing, fearing nothing. That was
the genius of America when I myself was young. I believe it still
to be the spirit of a triumphant democracy, knowing its own, taking
its own, holding its own. They travel yet, the dauntless figures of
that earlier day. Let them not despair. No imaginary line will ever
hold them back, no mandate of any monarch ever can restrain
them.</p>
<p>In our own caravans, now pressing on for the general movement
west of the Missouri, there was material for a hundred canvases
like yonder one, and yet more vast. The world of our great western
country was then still before us. A stern and warlike people was
resolved to hold it and increase it. Of these west-bound I now was
one. I felt the joy of that thought. I was going West!</p>
<p>At this time, the new railroad from Baltimore extended no
farther westward than Cumberland, yet it served to carry one well
toward the Ohio River at Pittsburg; whence, down the Ohio and up
the Missouri to Leavenworth, my journey was to be made by
steamboats. In this prosaic travel, the days passed monotonously;
but at length I found myself upon that frontier which then marked
the western edge of our accepted domain, and the eastern extremity
of the Oregon Trail.</p>
<p>If I can not bring to the mind of one living to-day the full
picture of those days when this country was not yet all ours, and
can not restore to the comprehension of those who never were
concerned with that life the picture of that great highway,
greatest path of all the world, which led across our unsettled
countries, that ancient trail at least may be a memory. It is not
even yet wiped from the surface of the earth. It still remains in
part, marked now no longer by the rotting head-boards of its
graves, by the bones of the perished ones which once traveled it;
but now by its ribands cut through the turf, and lined by nodding
prairie flowers.</p>
<p>The old trail to Oregon was laid out by no government, arranged
by no engineer, planned by no surveyor, supported by no
appropriation. It sprang, a road already created, from the earth
itself, covering two thousand miles of our country. Why? Because
there was need for that country to be covered by such a trail at
such a time. Because we needed Oregon. Because a stalwart and
clear-eyed democracy needs America and will have it. That was the
trail over which our people outran their leaders. If our leaders
trifle again, once again we shall outrun them.</p>
<p>There were at this date but four places of human residence in
all the two thousand miles of this trail, yet recent as had been
the first hoofs and wheels to mark it, it was even then a distinct
and unmistakable path. The earth has never had nor again can have
its like. If it was a path of destiny, if it was a road of hope and
confidence, so was it a road of misery and suffering and sacrifice;
for thus has the democracy always gained its difficult and lasting
victories. I think that it was there, somewhere, on the old road to
Oregon, sometime in the silent watches of the prairie or the
mountain night, that there was fought out the battle of the Old
World and the New, the battle between oppressors and those who
declared they no longer would be oppressed.</p>
<p>Providentially for us, an ignorance equal to that of our leaders
existed in Great Britain. For us who waited on the banks of the
Missouri, all this ignorance was matter of indifference. Our men
got their beliefs from no leaders, political or editorial, at home
or abroad. They waited only for the grass to come.</p>
<p>Now at last the grass did begin to grow upon the eastern edge of
the great Plains; and so I saw begin that vast and splendid
movement across our continent which in comparison dwarfs all the
great people movements of the earth. Xenophon's March of the Ten
Thousand pales beside this of ten thousand thousands. The movements
of the Goths and Huns, the Vandals, the Cimri—in a way, they
had a like significance with this, but in results those migrations
did far less in the history of the world; did less to prove the
purpose of the world.</p>
<p>I watched the forming of our caravan, and I saw again that
canvas which I have mentioned, that picture of the savages who
traveled a thousand years before Christ was born. Our picture was
the vaster, the more splendid, the more enduring. Here were savages
born of gentle folk in part, who never yet had known repulse. They
marched with flocks and herds and implements of husbandry. In their
faces shone a light not less fierce than that which animated the
dwellers of the old Teutonic forests, but a light clearer and more
intelligent. Here was the determined spirit of progress, here was
the agreed insistence upon an <i>equal opportunity!</i> Ah! it was
a great and splendid canvas which might have been painted there on
our Plains—the caravans west-bound with the greening grass of
spring—that hegira of Americans whose unheard command was but
the voice of democracy itself.</p>
<p>We carried with us all the elements of society, as has the
Anglo-Saxon ever. Did any man offend against the unwritten creed of
fair play, did he shirk duty when that meant danger to the common
good, then he was brought before a council of our leaders, men of
wisdom and fairness, chosen by the vote of all; and so he was
judged and he was punished. At that time there was not west of the
Missouri River any one who could administer an oath, who could
execute a legal document, or perpetuate any legal testimony; yet
with us the law marched <i>pari passu</i> across the land. We had
leaders chosen because they were fit to lead, and leaders who felt
full sense of responsibility to those who chose them. We had with
us great wealth in flocks and herds—five thousand head of
cattle went West with our caravan, hundreds of horses; yet each
knew his own and asked not that of his neighbor. With us there were
women and little children and the gray-haired elders bent with
years. Along our road we left graves here and there, for death went
with us. In our train also were many births, life coming to renew
the cycle. At times, too, there were rejoicings of the newly wed in
our train. Our young couples found society awheel valid as that
abiding under permanent roof.</p>
<p>At the head of our column, we bore the flag of our Republic. On
our flanks were skirmishers, like those guarding the flanks of an
army. It <i>was</i> an army—an army of our people. With us
marched women. With us marched home. <i>That</i> was the difference
between our cavalcade and that slower and more selfish one, made up
of men alone, which that same year was faring westward along the
upper reaches of the Canadian Plains. That was why we won. It was
because women and plows were with us.</p>
<p>Our great column, made up of more than one hundred wagons, was
divided into platoons of four, each platoon leading for a day, then
falling behind to take the bitter dust of those in advance. At noon
we parted our wagons in platoons, and at night we drew them
invariably into a great barricade, circular in form, the leading
wagon marking out the circle, the others dropping in behind, the
tongue of each against the tail-gate of the wagon ahead, and the
last wagon closing up the gap. Our circle completed, the animals
were unyoked and the tongues were chained fast to the wagons next
ahead; so that each night we had a sturdy barricade, incapable of
being stampeded by savages, whom more than once we fought and
defeated. Each night we set out a guard, our men taking turns, and
the night watches in turn rotating, so that each man got his share
of the entire night during the progress of his journey. Each morn
we rose to the notes of a bugle, and each day we marched in order,
under command, under a certain schedule. Loosely connected,
independent, individual, none the less already we were establishing
a government. We took the American Republic with us across the
Plains!</p>
<p>This manner of travel offered much monotony, yet it had its
little pleasures. For my own part, my early experience in Western
matters placed me in charge of our band of hunters, whose duty it
was to ride at the flanks of our caravan each day and to kill
sufficient buffalo for meat. This work of the chase gave us more to
do than was left for those who plodded along or rode bent over upon
the wagon seats; yet even for these there was some relaxation. At
night we met in little social circles around the camp-fires. Young
folk made love; old folk made plans here as they had at home. A
church marched with us as well as the law and courts; and, what was
more, the schools went also; for by the faint flicker of the
firelight many parents taught their children each day as they moved
westward to their new homes. History shows these children were well
taught. There were persons of education and culture with us.</p>
<p>Music we had, and of a night time, even while the coyotes were
calling and the wind whispering in the short grasses of the Plains,
violin and flute would sometimes blend their voices, and I have
thus heard songs which I would not exchange in memory for others
which I have heard in surroundings far more ambitious. Sometimes
dances were held on the greensward of our camps. Regularly the
Sabbath day was observed by at least the most part of our pilgrims.
Upon all our party there seemed to sit an air of content and
certitude. Of all our wagons, I presume one was of greatest value.
It was filled with earth to the brim, and in it were fruit trees
planted, and shrubs; and its owner carried seeds of garden plants.
Without doubt, it was our mission and our intent to take with us
such civilization as we had left behind.</p>
<p>So we marched, mingled, and, as some might have said, motley in
our personnel—sons of some of the best families in the South,
men from the Carolinas and Virginia, Georgia and Louisiana, men
from Pennsylvania and Ohio; Roundhead and Cavalier, Easterner and
Westerner, Germans, Yankees, Scotch-Irish—all Americans. We
marched, I say, under a form of government; yet each took his
original marching orders from his own soul. We marched across an
America not yet won. Below us lay the Spanish
civilization—Mexico, possibly soon to be led by Britain, as
some thought. North of us was Canada, now fully alarmed and surely
led by Britain. West of us, all around us, lay the Indian tribes.
Behind, never again to be seen by most of us who marched, lay the
homes of an earlier generation. But we marched, each obeying the
orders of his own soul. Some day the song of this may be sung; some
day, perhaps, its canvas may be painted.</p>
<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XXV" id="CHAPTER_XXV"></a>CHAPTER XXV</h2>
<h3>OREGON</h3>
<div class="blockquot">
<p>The spell and the light of each path we pursue—<br />
If woman be there, there is happiness too.<br />
<span style="margin-left: 21em;">—Moore.</span></p>
</div>
<p>Twenty miles a day, week in and week out, we edged westward up
the Platte, in heat and dust part of the time, often plagued at
night by clouds of mosquitoes. Our men endured the penalties of the
journey without comment. I do not recall that I ever heard even the
weakest woman complain. Thus at last we reached the South Pass of
the Rockies, not yet half done our journey, and entered upon that
portion of the trail west of the Rockies, which had still two
mountain ranges to cross, and which was even more apt to be
infested by the hostile Indians. Even when we reached the ragged
trading post, Fort Hall, we had still more than six hundred miles
to go.</p>
<p>By this time our forces had wasted as though under assault of
arms. Far back on the trail, many had been forced to leave prized
belongings, relics, heirlooms, implements, machinery, all
conveniences. The finest of mahogany blistered in the sun,
abandoned and unheeded. Our trail might have been followed by
discarded implements of agriculture, and by whitened bones as well.
Our footsore teams, gaunt and weakened, began to faint and fall.
Horses and oxen died in the harness or under the yoke, and were
perforce abandoned where they fell. Each pound of superfluous
weight was cast away as our motive power thus lessened. Wagons were
abandoned, goods were packed on horses, oxen and cows. We put cows
into the yoke now, and used women instead of men on the drivers'
seats, and boys who started riding finished afoot. Our herds were
sadly lessened by theft of the Indians, by death, by strayings
which our guards had not time to follow up. If a wagon lagged it
was sawed shorter to lessen its weight Sometimes the hind wheels
were abandoned, and the reduced personal belongings were packed on
the cart thus made, which nevertheless traveled on, painfully,
slowly, yet always going ahead. In the deserts beyond Fort Hall,
wagons disintegrated by the heat. Wheels would fall apart,
couplings break under the straining teams. Still more here was the
trail lined with boxes, vehicles, furniture, all the flotsam and
jetsam of the long, long Oregon Trail.</p>
<p>The grass was burned to its roots, the streams were reduced to
ribbons, the mirages of the desert mocked us desperately. Rain came
seldom now, and the sage-brush of the desert was white with bitter
dust, which in vast clouds rose sometimes in the wind to make our
journey the harder. In autumn, as we approached the second range of
mountains, we could see the taller peaks whitened with snow. Our
leaders looked anxiously ahead, dreading the storms which must ere
long overtake us. Still, gaunt now and haggard, weakened in body
but not in soul, we pressed on across. That was the way to
Oregon.</p>
<p>Gaunt and brown and savage, hungry and grim, ragged, hatless,
shoeless, our cavalcade closed up and came on, and so at last came
through. Ere autumn had yellowed all the foliage back east in
gentler climes, we crossed the shoulders of the Blue Mountains and
came into the Valley of the Walla Walla; and so passed thence down
the Columbia to the Valley of the Willamette, three hundred miles
yet farther, where there were then some slight centers of our
civilization which had gone forward the year before.</p>
<p>Here were some few Americans. At Champoeg, at the little
American missions, at Oregon City, and other scattered points, we
met them, we hailed and were hailed by them. They were Americans.
Women and plows were with them. There were churches and schools
already started, and a beginning had been made in government. Faces
and hands and ways and customs and laws of our own people greeted
us. Yes. It was America.</p>
<p>Messengers spread abroad the news of the arrival of our wagon
train. Messengers, too, came down from the Hudson Bay posts to scan
our equipment and estimate our numbers. There was no word
obtainable from these of any Canadian column of occupation to the
northward which had crossed at the head of the Peace River or the
Saskatchewan, or which lay ready at the head waters of the Fraser
or the Columbia to come down to the lower settlements for the
purpose of bringing to an issue, or making more difficult, this
question of the joint occupancy of Oregon. As a matter of fact,
ultimately we won that transcontinental race so decidedly that
there never was admitted to have been a second.</p>
<p>As for our people, they knew how neither to hesitate nor to
dread. They unhooked their oxen from the wagons and put them to the
plows. The fruit trees, which had crossed three ranges of mountains
and two thousand miles of unsettled country, now found new rooting.
Streams which had borne no fruit save that of the beaver traps now
were made to give tribute to little fields and gardens, or asked to
transport wheat instead of furs. The forests which had blocked our
way were now made into roofs and walls and fences. Whatever the
future might bring, those who had come so far and dared so much
feared that future no more than they had feared the troubles which
in detail they had overcome in their vast pilgrimage.</p>
<p>So we took Oregon by the only law of right. Our broken and
weakened cavalcade asked renewal from the soil itself. We ruffled
no drum, fluttered no flag, to take possession of the land. But the
canvas covers of our wagons gave way to permanent roofs. Where we
had known a hundred camp-fires, now we lighted the fires of many
hundred homes.</p>
<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XXVI" id="CHAPTER_XXVI"></a>CHAPTER XXVI</h2>
<h3>THE DEBATED COUNTRY</h3>
<div class="blockquot">
<p>The world was sad, the garden was a wild!<br />
The man, the hermit, sighed—till woman smiled!<br />
<span style="margin-left: 19em;">—<i>Campbell</i>.</span></p>
</div>
<p>Our army of peaceful occupation scattered along the more fertile
parts of the land, principally among the valleys. Of course, it
should not be forgotten that what was then called Oregon meant all
of what now is embraced in Oregon, Washington and Idaho, with part
of Wyoming as well. It extended south to the Mexican possessions of
California. How far north it was to run, it was my errand here to
learn.</p>
<p>To all apparent purposes, I simply was one of the new settlers
in Oregon, animated by like motives, possessed of little more
means, and disposed to adjust myself to existing circumstances,
much as did my fellows. The physical conditions of life in a
country abounding in wild game and fish, and where even careless
planting would yield abundant crops, offered no very difficult task
to young men accustomed to shifting for themselves; so that I
looked forward to the winter with no dread.</p>
<p>I settled near the mouth of the Willamette River, near Oregon
City, and not far from where the city of Portland later was begun;
and builded for myself a little cabin of two rooms, with a
connecting roof. This I furnished, as did my neighbors their
similar abodes, with a table made of hewed puncheons, chairs sawed
from blocks, a bed framed from poles, on which lay a rude mattress
of husks and straw. My window-panes were made of oiled deer hide.
Thinking that perhaps I might need to plow in the coming season, I
made me a plow like those around me, which might have come from
Mexico or Egypt—a forked limb bound with rawhide. Wood and
hide, were, indeed, our only materials. If a wagon wheel showed
signs of disintegration, we lashed it together with rawhide. When
the settlers of the last year sought to carry wheat to market on
the Willamette barges, they did so in sacks made of the hides of
deer. Our clothing was of skins and furs.</p>
<p>From the Eastern States I scarcely could now hear in less than a
year, for another wagon train could not start west from the
Missouri until the following spring. We could only guess how events
were going forward in our diplomacy. We did not know, and would not
know for a year, the result of the Democratic convention at
Baltimore, of the preceding spring! We could only wonder who might
be the party nominees for the presidency. We had a national
government, but did not know what it was, or who administered it.
War might be declared, but we in Oregon would not be aware of it.
Again, war might break out in Oregon, and the government at
Washington could not know that fact.</p>
<p>The mild winter wore away, and I learned little. Spring came,
and still no word of any land expedition out of Canada. We and the
Hudson Bay folk still dwelt in peace. The flowers began to bloom in
the wild meads, and the horses fattened on their native pastures.
Wider and wider lay the areas of black overturned soil, as our busy
farmers kept on at their work. Wider grew the clearings in the
forest lands. Our fruit trees, which we had brought two thousand
miles in the nursery wagon, began to put out tender leafage. There
were eastern flowers—marigolds, hollyhocks,
mignonette—planted in the front yards of our little cabins.
Vines were trained over trellises here and there. Each flower was a
rivet, each vine a cord, which bound Oregon to our Republic.</p>
<p>Summer came on. The fields began to whiten with the ripening
grain. I grew uneasy, feeling myself only an idler in a land so
able to fend for itself. I now was much disposed to discuss means
of getting back over the long trail to the eastward, to carry the
news that Oregon was ours. I had, it must be confessed, nothing new
to suggest as to making it firmly and legally ours, beyond what had
already been suggested in the minds of our settlers themselves. It
was at this time that there occurred a startling and decisive
event.</p>
<p>I was on my way on a canoe voyage up the wide Columbia, not far
above the point where it receives its greatest lower tributary, the
Willamette, when all at once I heard the sound of a cannon shot. I
turned to see the cloud of blue smoke still hanging over the
surface of the water. Slowly there swung into view an ocean-going
vessel under steam and auxiliary canvas. She made a gallant
spectacle. But whose ship was she? I examined her colors anxiously
enough. I caught the import of her ensign. She flew the British
Union Jack!</p>
<p>England had won the race by sea!</p>
<p>Something in the ship's outline seemed to me familiar. I knew
the set of her short masts, the pitch of her smokestacks, the
number of her guns. Yes, she was the <i>Modesté</i> of the
English Navy—the same ship which more than a year before I
had seen at anchor off Montreal!</p>
<p>News travels fast in wild countries, and it took us little time
to learn the destination of the <i>Modesté</i>. She came to
anchor above Oregon City, and well below Fort Vancouver. At once,
of course, her officers made formal calls upon Doctor McLaughlin,
the factor at Fort Vancouver, and accepted head of the British
element thereabouts. Two weeks passed in rumors and counter rumors,
and a vastly dangerous tension existed in all the American
settlements, because word was spread that England had sent a ship
to oust us. Then came to myself and certain others at Oregon City
messengers from peace-loving Doctor McLaughlin, asking us to join
him in a little celebration in honor of the arrival of her
Majesty's vessel.</p>
<p>Here at last was news; but it was news not wholly to my liking
which I soon unearthed. The <i>Modesté</i> was but one ship
of fifteen! A fleet of fifteen vessels, four hundred guns, then lay
in Puget Sound. The watch-dogs of Great Britain were at our doors.
This question of monarchy and the Republic was not yet settled,
after all!</p>
<p>I pass the story of the banquet at Fort Vancouver, because it is
unpleasant to recite the difficulties of a kindly host who finds
himself with jarring elements at his board. Precisely this was the
situation of white-haired Doctor McLaughlin of Fort Vancouver. It
was an incongruous assembly in the first place. The officers of the
British Navy attended in the splendor of their uniforms, glittering
in braid and gold. Even Doctor McLaughlin made brave display, as
was his wont, in his regalia of dark blue cloth and shining
buttons—his noble features and long, snow-white hair making
him the most lordly figure of them all. As for us Americans, lean
and brown, with hands hardened by toil, our wardrobes scattered
over a thousand miles of trail, buckskin tunics made our coats, and
moccasins our boots. I have seen some noble gentlemen so clad in my
day.</p>
<p>We Americans were forced to listen to many toasts at that little
frontier banquet entirely to our disliking. We heard from Captain
Parke that "the Columbia belonged to Great Britain as much as the
Thames"; that Great Britain's guns "could blow all the Americans
off the map"; that her fleet at Puget Sound waited but for the
signal to "hoist the British flag over all the coast from Mexico to
Russia" Yet Doctor McLaughlin, kindly and gentle as always, better
advised than any one there on the intricacies of the situation now
in hand, only smiled and protested and explained.</p>
<p>For myself, I passed only as plain settler. No one knew my
errand in the country, and I took pains, though my blood boiled, as
did that of our other Americans present at that board, to keep a
silent tongue in my head. If this were joint occupancy, I for one
was ready to say it was time to make an end of it. But how might
that be done? At least the proceedings of the evening gave no
answer.</p>
<p>It was, as may be supposed, late in the night when our somewhat
discordant banqueting party broke up. We were all housed, as was
the hospitable fashion of the country, in the scattered log
buildings which nearly always hedge in a western fur-trading post.
The quarters assigned me lay across the open space, or what might
be called the parade ground of Fort Vancouver, flanked by Doctor
McLaughlin's four little cannon.</p>
<p>As I made my way home, stumbling among the stumps in the dark, I
passed many semi-drunken Indians and <i>voyageurs</i>, to whom
special liberty had been accorded in view of the occasion, all of
them now engaged in singing the praises of the "King George" men as
against the "Bostons." I talked now and again with some of our own
brown and silent border men, farmers from the Willamette, none of
them any too happy, all of them sullen and ready for trouble in any
form. We agreed among us that absolute quiet and freedom from any
expression of irritation was our safest plan. "Wait till next
fall's wagon trains come in!" That was the expression of our new
governor, Mr. Applegate; and I fancy it found an echo in the
opinions of most of the Americans. By snowfall, as we believed, the
balance of power would be all upon our side, and our swift-moving
rifles would outweigh all their anchored cannon.</p>
<p>I was almost at my cabin door at the edge of the forest frontage
at the rear of the old post, when I caught glimpse, in the dim
light, of a hurrying figure, which in some way seemed to be
different from the blanket-covered squaws who stalked here and
there about the post grounds. At first I thought she might be the
squaw of one of the employees of the company, who lived scattered
about, some of them now, by the advice of Doctor McLaughlin,
beginning to till little fields; but, as I have said, there was
something in the stature or carriage or garb of this woman which
caused me idly to follow her, at first with my eyes and then with
my footsteps.</p>
<p>She passed steadily on toward a long and low log cabin, located
a short distance beyond the quarters which had been assigned to me.
I saw her step up to the door and heard her knock; then there came
a flood of light—more light than was usual in the opening of
the door of a frontier cabin. This displayed the figure of the
night walker, showing her tall and gaunt and a little stooped; so
that, after all, I took her to be only one of our American frontier
women, being quite sure that she was not Indian or half-breed.</p>
<p>This emboldened me, on a mere chance—an act whose mental
origin I could not have traced—to step up to the door after
it had been closed, and myself to knock thereat. If it were a party
of Americans here, I wished to question them; if not, I intended to
make excuses by asking my way to my own quarters. It was my
business to learn the news of Oregon.</p>
<p>I heard women's voices within, and as I knocked the door opened
just a trifle on its chain. I saw appear at the crack the face of
the woman whom I had followed.</p>
<p>She was, as I had believed, old and wrinkled, and her face now,
seen close, was as mysterious, dark and inscrutable as that of any
Indian squaw. Her hair fell heavy and gray across her forehead, and
her eyes were small and dark as those of a native woman. Yet, as
she stood there with the light streaming upon her, I saw something
in her face which made me puzzle, ponder and start—and put my
foot within the crack of the door.</p>
<p>When she found she could not close the door, she called out in
some foreign tongue. I heard a voice answer. The blood tingled in
the roots of my hair!</p>
<p>"Threlka," I said quietly, "tell Madam the Baroness it is I,
Monsieur Trist, of Washington."</p>
<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XXVII" id="CHAPTER_XXVII"></a>CHAPTER
XXVII</h2>
<h3>IN THE CABIN OF MADAM</h3>
<div class="blockquot">
<p>Woman must not belong to herself; she is bound to alien<br />
destinies.—<i>Friedrich von Schiller</i>.</p>
</div>
<p>With an exclamation of surprise the old woman departed from the
door. I heard the rustle of a footfall. I could have told in
advance what face would now appear outlined in the candle
glow—with eyes wide and startled, with lips half parted in
query. It was the face of Helena, Baroness von Ritz!</p>
<p>"<i>Eh bien!</i> madam, why do you bar me out?" I said, as
though we had parted but yesterday.</p>
<p>In her sheer astonishment, I presume, she let down the fastening
chain, and without her invitation I stepped within. I heard her
startled "<i>Mon Dieu!</i>" then her more deliberate exclamation of
emotion. "My God!" she said. She stood, with her hands caught at
her throat, staring at me. I laughed and held out a hand.</p>
<p>"Madam Baroness," I said, "how glad I am! Come, has not fate
been kind to us again?" I pushed shut the door behind me. Still
without a word, she stepped deeper into the room and stood looking
at me, her hands clasped now loosely and awkwardly, as though she
were a country girl surprised, and not the Baroness Helena von
Ritz, toast or talk of more than one capital of the world.</p>
<p>Yet she was the same. She seemed slightly thinner now, yet not
less beautiful. Her eyes were dark and brilliant as ever. The clear
features of her face were framed in the roll of her heavy locks, as
I had seen them last. Her garb, as usual, betokened luxury. She was
robed as though for some fête, all in white satin, and pale
blue fires of stones shone faintly at throat and wrist. Contrast
enough she made to me, clad in smoke-browned tunic of buck, with
the leggings and moccasins of a savage, my belt lacking but
prepared for weapons.</p>
<p>I had not time to puzzle over the question of her errand here,
why or whence she had come, or what she purposed doing. I was
occupied with the sudden surprises which her surroundings
offered.</p>
<p>"I see, Madam," said I, smiling, "that still I am only asleep
and dreaming. But how exquisite a dream, here in this wild country!
How unfit here am I, a savage, who introduce the one discordant
note into so sweet a dream!"</p>
<p>I gestured to my costume, gestured about me, as I took in the
details of the long room in which we stood. I swear it was the same
as that in which I had seen her at a similar hour in Montreal! It
was the same I had first seen in Washington!</p>
<p>Impossible? I am doubted? Ah, but do I not know? Did I not see?
Here were the pictures on the walls, the carved Cupids, the
candelabra with their prisms, the chairs, the couches! Beyond
yonder satin curtains rose the high canopy of the
embroidery-covered couch, its fringed drapery reaching almost to
the deep pile of the carpets. True, opportunity had not yet offered
for the full concealment of these rude walls; yet, as my senses
convinced me even against themselves, here were the apartments of
Helena von Ritz, furnished as she had told me they always were at
each place she saw fit to honor with her presence!</p>
<p>Yet not quite the same, it seemed to me. There were some little
things missing, just as there were some little things missing from
her appearance. For instance, these draperies at the right, which
formerly had cut off the Napoleon bed at its end of the room, now
were of blankets and not of silk. The bed itself was not piled deep
in down, but contained, as I fancied from my hurried glance, a thin
mattress, stuffed perhaps with straw. A roll of blankets lay across
its foot. As I gazed to the farther extremity of this side of the
long suite, I saw other evidences of change. It was indeed as
though Helena von Ritz, creature of luxury, woman of an old,
luxurious world, exotic of monarchical surroundings, had begun
insensibly to slip into the ways of the rude democracy of the far
frontiers.</p>
<p>I saw all this; but ere I had finished my first hurried glance I
had accepted her, as always one must, just as she was; had accepted
her surroundings, preposterously impossible as they all were from
any logical point of view, as fitting to herself and to her humor.
It was not for me to ask how or why she did these things. She had
done them; because, here they were; and here was she. We had found
England's woman on the Columbia!</p>
<p>"Yes," said she at length, slowly, "yes, I now believe it to be
fate."</p>
<p>She had not yet smiled. I took her hand and held it long. I felt
glad to see her, and to take her hand; it seemed pledge of
friendship; and as things now were shaping, I surely needed a
friend.</p>
<p>At last, her face flushing slightly, she disengaged her hand and
motioned me to a seat. But still we stood silent for a few moments.
"Have you <i>no</i> curiosity?" said she at length.</p>
<p>"I am too happy to have curiosity, my dear Madam."</p>
<p>"You will not even ask me why I am here?" she insisted.</p>
<p>"I know. I have known all along. You are in the pay of England.
When I missed you at Montreal, I knew you had sailed on the
<i>Modesté</i> for Oregon We knew all this, and planned for
it. I have come across by land to meet you. I have waited. I greet
you now!"</p>
<p>She looked me now clearly in the face. "I am not sure," said she
at length, slowly.</p>
<p>"Not sure of what, Madam? When you travel on England's warship,"
I smiled, "you travel as the guest of England herself. If, then,
you are not for England, in God's name, <i>whose friend are
you?"</i></p>
<p>"Whose friend am I?" she answered slowly. "I say to you that I
do not know. Nor do I know who is my friend. A friend—what is
that? I never knew one!"</p>
<p>"Then be mine. Let me be your friend. You know my history. You
know about me and my work. I throw my secret into your hands. You
will not betray me? You warned me once, at Montreal. Will you not
shield me once again?"</p>
<p>She nodded, smiling now in an amused way. "Monsieur always takes
the most extraordinary times to visit me! Monsieur asks always the
most extraordinary things! Monsieur does always the most
extraordinary acts! He takes me to call upon a gentleman in a night
robe! He calls upon me himself, of an evening, in dinner dress of
hides and beads—"</p>
<p>"'Tis the best I have, Madam!" I colored, but her eye had not
criticism, though her speech had mockery.</p>
<p>"This is the costume of your American savages," she said. "I
find it among the most beautiful I have ever seen. Only a man can
wear it. You wear it like a man. I like you in it—I have
never liked you so well. Betray you, Monsieur? Why should I? How
could I?"</p>
<p>"That is true. Why should you? You are Helena von Ritz. One of
her breeding does not betray men or women. Neither does she make
any journeys of this sort without a purpose."</p>
<p>"I had a purpose, when I started. I changed it in mid-ocean.
Now, I was on my way to the Orient."</p>
<p>"And had forgotten your report to Mr. Pakenham?" I shook my
head. "Madam, you are the guest of England."</p>
<p>"I never denied that," she said. "I was that in Washington. I
was so in Montreal. But I have never given pledge which left me
other than free to go as I liked. I have studied, that is
true—but I have <i>not</i> reported."</p>
<p>"Have we not been fair with you, Baroness? Has my chief not
proved himself fair with you?"</p>
<p>"Yes," she nodded. "You have played the game fairly, that is
true."</p>
<p>"Then you will play it fair with us? Come, I say you have still
that chance to win the gratitude of a people."</p>
<p>"I begin to understand you better, you Americans," she said
irrelevantly, as was sometimes her fancy. "See my bed yonder. It is
that couch of husks of which Monsieur told me! Here is the cabin of
logs. There is the fireplace. Here is Helena von Ritz—even as
you told me once before she sometime might be. And here on my
wrists are the imprints of your fingers! What does it mean,
Monsieur? Am I not an apt student? See, I made up that little bed
with my own hands! I—Why, see, I can cook! What you once said
to me lingered in my mind. At first, it was matter only of
curiosity. Presently I began to see what was beneath your words,
what fullness of life there might be even in poverty. I said to
myself, 'My God! were it not, after all, enough, this, if one be
loved?' So then, in spite of myself, without planning, I say, I
began to understand. I have seen about me here these
savages—savages who have walked thousands of miles in a
pilgrimage—for what?"</p>
<p>"For what, Madam?" I demanded. "For what? For a cabin! For a bed
of husks! Was it then for the sake of ease, for the sake of
selfishness? Come, can you betray a people of whom you can say so
much?"</p>
<p>"Ah, now you would try to tempt me from a trust which has been
reposed in me!"</p>
<p>"Not in the least I would not have you break your word with Mr.
Pakenham; but I know you are here on the same errand as myself. You
are to learn facts and report them to Mr. Pakenham—as I am to
Mr. Calhoun."</p>
<p>"What does Monsieur suggest?" she asked me, with her little
smile.</p>
<p>"Nothing, except that you take back all the facts—and
allow them to mediate. Let them determine between the Old World and
this New one—your satin couch and this rude one you have
learned to make. Tell the truth only. Choose, then, Madam!"</p>
<p>"Nations do not ask the truth. They want only excuses."</p>
<p>"Quite true. And because of that, all the more rests with you.
If this situation goes on, war must come. It can not be averted,
unless it be by some agency quite outside of these two governments.
Here, then, Madam, is Helena von Ritz!"</p>
<p>"At least, there is time," she mused. "These ships are not here
for any immediate active war. Great Britain will make no move
until—"</p>
<p>"Until Madam the Baroness, special agent of England, most
trusted agent, makes her report to Mr. Pakenham! Until he reports
to his government, and until that government declares war! 'Twill
take a year or more. Meantime, you have not reported?"</p>
<p>"No, I am not yet ready."</p>
<p>"Certainly not. You are not yet possessed of your facts. You
have not yet seen this country. You do not yet know these
men—the same savages who once accounted for another Pakenham
at New Orleans—hardy as buffaloes, fierce as wolves. Wait and
see them come pouring across the mountains into Oregon. Then make
your report to this Pakenham. Ask him if England wishes to fight
our backwoodsmen once more!"</p>
<p>"You credit me with very much ability!" she smiled.</p>
<p>"With all ability. What conquests you have made in the diplomacy
of the Old World I do not know. You have known courts. I have known
none. Yet you are learning life. You are learning the meaning of
the only human idea of the world, that of a democracy of endeavor,
where all are equal in their chances and in their hopes. That,
Madam, is the only diplomacy which will live. If you have passed on
that torch of principle of which you spoke—if I can do as
much—then all will be well. We shall have served."</p>
<p>She dropped now into a chair near by a little table, where the
light of the tall candles, guttering in their enameled sconces,
fell full upon her face. She looked at me fixedly, her eyes dark
and mournful in spite of their eagerness.</p>
<p>"Ah, it is easy for you to speak, easy for you who have so rich
and full a life—who have all! But I—my hands are
empty!" She spread out her curved fingers, looking at them,
dropping her hands, pathetically drooping her shoulders.</p>
<p>"All, Madam? What do you mean? You see me almost in rags. Beyond
the rifle at my cabin, the pistol at my tent, I have scarce more in
wealth than what I wear, while you have what you like."</p>
<p>"All but everything!" she murmured; "all but home!"</p>
<p>"Nor have I a home."</p>
<p>"All, except that my couch is empty save for myself and my
memories!"</p>
<p>"Not more than mine, nor with sadder memories, Madam."</p>
<p>"Why, what do you mean?" she asked me suddenly. "What do you
<i>mean?</i>" She repeated it again, as though half in horror.</p>
<p>"Only that we are equal and alike. That we are here on the same
errand. That our view of life should be the same."</p>
<p>"What do you mean about home? But tell me, <i>were you not then
married?</i>"</p>
<p>"No, I am alone, Madam. I never shall be married."</p>
<p>There may have been some slight motion of a hand which beckoned
me to a seat at the opposite side of the table. As I sat, I saw her
search my face carefully, slowly, with eyes I could not read. At
last she spoke, after her frequent fashion, half to herself.</p>
<p>"It succeeded, then!" said she. "Yet I am not happy! Yet I have
failed!"</p>
<p>"I pause, Madam," said I, smiling. "I await your pleasure."</p>
<p>"Ah, God! Ah, God!" she sighed. "What have I done?" She
staggered to her feet and stood beating her hands together, as was
her way when perturbed. "What have I <i>done</i>!"</p>
<p>"Threlka!" I heard her call, half chokingly. The old servant
came hurriedly.</p>
<p>"Wine, tea, anything, Threlka!" She dropped down again opposite
me, panting, and looking at me with wide eyes.</p>
<p>"Tell me, do you know what you have said?" she began.</p>
<p>"No, Madam. I grieve if I have caused you any pain."</p>
<p>"Well, then, you are noble; when look, what pain I have caused
you! Yet not more than myself. No, not so much. I hope not so
much!"</p>
<p>Truly there is thought which passes from mind to mind. Suddenly
the thing in her mind sped across to mine. I looked at her
suddenly, in my eyes also, perhaps, the horror which I felt.</p>
<p>"It was you!" I exclaimed. "It was you! Ah, now I begin to
understand! How could you? You parted us! <i>You</i> parted me from
Elisabeth!"</p>
<p>"Yes," she said regretfully, "I did it It was my fault."</p>
<p>I rose and drew apart from her, unable to speak. She went
on.</p>
<p>"But I was not then as I am now. See, I was embittered,
reckless, desperate. I was only beginning to think—I only
wanted time. I did not really mean to do all this. I only
thought—Why, I had not yet known you a day nor her an hour.
'Twas all no more than half a jest"</p>
<p>"How could you do it?" I demanded. "Yet that is no more strange.
How <i>did</i> you do it?"</p>
<p>"At the door, that first night. I was mad then over the wrong
done to what little womanhood I could claim for my own. I hated
Yturrio. I hated Pakenham. They had both insulted me. I hated every
man. I had seen nothing but the bitter and desperate side of
life—I was eager to take revenge even upon the innocent ones
of this world, seeing that I had suffered so much. I had an old
grudge against women, against women, I say—against
<i>women!</i>"</p>
<p>She buried her face in her hands. I saw her eyes no more till
Threlka came and lifted her head, offering her a cup of drink, and
so standing patiently until again she had dismissal.</p>
<p>"But still it is all a puzzle to me, Madam," I began. "I do not
understand."</p>
<p>"Well, when you stood at the door, my little shoe in your
pocket, when you kissed my hand that first night, when you told me
what you would do did you love a woman—when I saw something
new in life I had not seen—why, then, in the devil's
resolution that no woman in the world should be happy if I could
help it, I slipped in the body of the slipper a little line or so
that I had written when you did not see, when I was in the other
room. 'Twas that took the place of Van Zandt's message, after all!
Monsieur, it was fate. Van Zandt's letter, without plan, fell out
on my table. Your note, sent by plan, remained in the shoe!"</p>
<p>"And what did it say? Tell me at once."</p>
<p>"Very little. Yet enough fora woman who loved and who expected.
Only this: '<i>In spite of that other woman, come to me still. Who
can teach yon love of woman as can I? Helena.</i>' I think it was
some such words as those."</p>
<p>I looked at her in silence.</p>
<p>"You did not see that note?" she demanded. "After all, at first
I meant it only for <i>you</i>. I wanted to see you again. I did
not want to lose you. Ah, God! I was so lonely, so—so—I
can not say. But you did not find my message?"</p>
<p>I shook my head. "No," I said, "I did not look in the slipper. I
do not think my friend did."</p>
<p>"But she—that girl, did!"</p>
<p>"How could she have believed?"</p>
<p>"Ah, grand! I reverence your faith. But she is a woman! She
loved you and expected you that hour, I say. Thus comes the shock
of finding you untrue, of finding you at least a common man, after
all. She is a woman. 'Tis the same fight, all the centuries, after
all! Well, I did that."</p>
<p>"You ruined the lives of two, neither of whom had ever harmed
you, Madam."</p>
<p>"What is it to the tree which consumes another tree—the
flower which devours its neighbor? Was it not life?"</p>
<p>"You had never seen Elisabeth."</p>
<p>"Not until the next morning, no. Then I thought still on what
you had said. I envied her—I say, I coveted the happiness of
you both. What had the world ever given me? What had I
done—what had I been—what could I ever be? Your
messenger came back with the slipper. The note was in the shoe
untouched. Your messenger had not found it, either. See, I
<i>did</i> mean it for you alone. But now since sudden thought came
to me. I tucked it back and sent your drunken friend away with it
for her—where I knew it would be found! I did not know what
would be the result. I was only desperate over what life had done
to me. I wanted to get <i>out</i>—out into a wider and
brighter world."</p>
<p>"Ah, Madam, and was so mean a key as this to open that world for
you? Now we all three wander, outside that world."</p>
<p>"No, it opened no new world for me," she said. "I was not meant
for that. But at least, I only acted as I have been treated all my
life. I knew no better then."</p>
<p>"I had not thought any one capable of that," said I.</p>
<p>"Ah, but I repented on the instant! I repented before night
came. In the twilight I got upon my knees and prayed that all my
plan might go wrong—if I could call it plan. 'Now,' I said,
as the hour approached, 'they are before the priest; they stand
there—she in white, perhaps; he tall and grave. Their hands
are clasped each in that of the other. They are saying those
tremendous words which may perhaps mean so much.' Thus I ran on to
myself. I say I followed you through the hour of that ceremony. I
swore with her vows, I pledged with her pledge, promised with her
promise. Yes, yes—yes, though I prayed that, after all, I
might lose, that I might pay back; that I might some time have
opportunity to atone for my own wickedness! Ah! I was only a woman.
The strongest of women are weak sometimes.</p>
<p>"Well, then, my friend, I have paid. I thank God that I failed
then to make another wretched as myself. It was only I who again
was wretched. Ah! is there no little pity in your heart for me,
after all?—who succeeded only to fail so miserably?"</p>
<p>But again I could only turn away to ponder.</p>
<p>"See," she went on; "for myself, this is irremediable, but it is
not so for you, nor for her. It is not too ill to be made right
again. There in Montreal, I thought that I had failed in my plan,
that you indeed were married. You held yourself well in hand; like
a man, Monsieur. But as to that, you <i>were</i> married, for your
love for her remained; your pledge held. And did not I, repenting,
marry you to her—did not I, on my knees, marry you to her
that night? Oh, do not blame me too much!"</p>
<p>"She should not have doubted," said I. "I shall not go back and
ask her again. The weakest of men are strong sometimes!"</p>
<p>"Ah, now you are but a man! Being such, you can not understand
how terribly much the faith of man means for a woman. It was her
<i>need</i> for you that spoke, not her <i>doubt</i> of you.
Forgive her. She was not to blame. Blame me! Do what you like to
punish me! Now, I shall make amends. Tell me what I best may do.
Shall I go to her, shall I tell her?"</p>
<p>"Not as my messenger. Not for me."</p>
<p>"No? Well, then, for myself? That is my right. I shall tell her
how priestly faithful a man you were."</p>
<p>I walked to her, took her arms in my hands and raised her to my
level, looking into her eyes.</p>
<p>"Madam," I said, "God knows, I am no priest. I deserve no
credit. It was chance that cast Elisabeth and me together before
ever I saw you. I told you one fire was lit in my heart and had
left room for no other. I meet youth and life with all that there
is in youth and life. I am no priest, and ask you not to confess
with me. We both should confess to our own souls."</p>
<p>"It is as I said," she went on; "you were married!"</p>
<p>"Well, then, call it so—married after my fashion of
marriage; the fashion of which I told you, of a cabin and a bed of
husks. As to what you have said, I forget it, I have not heard it.
Your sort could have no heart beat for one like me. 'Tis men like
myself are slaves to women such as you. You could never have cared
for me, and never did. What you loved, Madam, was only what you had
<i>lost</i>, was only what you saw in this country—was only
what this country means! Your past life, of course, I do not
know."</p>
<p>"Sometime," she murmured, "I will tell you."</p>
<p>"Whatever it was, Madam, you have been a brilliant woman, a
power in affairs. Yes, and an enigma, and to none more than to
yourself. You show that now. You only loved what Elisabeth loved.
As woman, then, you were born for the first time, touched by that
throb of her heart, not your own. `Twas mere accident I was there
to feel that throb, as sweet as it was innocent. You were not woman
yet, you were but a child. You had not then chosen. You have yet to
choose. It was Love that you loved! Perhaps, after all, it was
America you loved. You began to see, as you say, a wider and a
sweeter world than you had known."</p>
<p>She nodded now, endeavoring to smile.</p>
<p>"<i>Gentilhomme!</i>" I heard her murmur.</p>
<p>"So then I go on, Madam, and say we are the same. I am the agent
of one idea, you of another. I ask you once more to choose. I know
how you will choose."</p>
<p>She went on, musing to herself. "Yes, there is a gulf between
male and female, after all. As though what he said could be true!
Listen!" She spoke up more sharply. "If results came as you liked,
what difference would the motives make?"</p>
<p>"How do you mean?"</p>
<p>"Only this, Monsieur, that I am not so lofty as you think. I
might do something. If so, 'twould need to be through some motive
wholly sufficient to <i>myself</i>."</p>
<p>"Search, then, your own conscience."</p>
<p>"I have one, after all! It might say something to me, yes."</p>
<p>"Once you said to me that the noblest thing in life was to pass
on the torch of a great principle."</p>
<p>"I lied! I lied!" she cried, beating her hands together. "I am a
woman! Look at me!"</p>
<p>She threw back her shoulders, standing straight and fearless.
God wot, she was a woman. Curves and flame! Yes, she was a woman.
White flesh and slumbering hair! Yes, she was a woman. Round flesh
and the red-flecked purple scent arising! Yes, she was a woman.
Torture of joy to hold in a man's arms! Yes, she was a woman!</p>
<p>"How, then, could I believe"—she laid a hand upon her
bosom—"how, then, could I believe that principle was more
than life? It is for you, a <i>man</i>, to believe that. Yet even
you will not. You leave it to me, and I answer that I will not!
What I did I did, and I bargain with none over that now. I pay my
wagers. I make my own reasons, too. If I do anything for the sake
of this country, it will not be through altruism, not through love
of principle! 'Twill be because I am a woman. Yes, once I was a
girl. Once I was born. Once, even, I had a mother, and was
loved!"</p>
<p>I could make no answer; but presently she changed again, swift
as the sky when some cloud is swept away in a strong gust of
wind.</p>
<p>"Come," she said, "I will bargain with you, after all!"</p>
<p>"Any bargain you like, Madam."</p>
<p>"And I will keep my bargain. You know that I will."</p>
<p>"Yes, I know that."</p>
<p>"Very well, then. I am going back to Washington."</p>
<p>"How do you mean?"</p>
<p>"By land, across the country; the way you came."</p>
<p>"You do not know what you say, Madam. The journey you suggest is
incredible, impossible."</p>
<p>"That matters nothing. I am going. And I am going
alone—No, you can not come with me. Do you think I would risk
more than I have risked? I go alone. I am England's spy; yes, that
is true. I am to report to England; yes, that is true. Therefore,
the more I see, the more I shall have to report. Besides, I have
something else to do."</p>
<p>"But would Mr. Pakenham listen to your report, after all?"</p>
<p>Now she hesitated for a moment. "I can induce him to listen,"
she said. "That is part of my errand. First, before I see Mr.
Pakenham I am going to see Miss Elisabeth Churchill. I shall report
also to her. Then I shall have done my duty. Is it not so?"</p>
<p>"You could do no more," said I. "But what bargain—"</p>
<p>"Listen. If she uses me ill and will not believe either you or
me—then, being a woman, I shall hate her; and in that case I
shall go to Sir Richard for my own revenge. I shall tell him to
bring on this war. In that case, Oregon will be lost to you, or at
least bought dear by blood and treasure."</p>
<p>"We can attend to that, Madam," said I grimly, and I smiled at
her, although a sudden fear caught at my heart. I knew what damage
she was in position to accomplish if she liked. My heart stood
still. I felt the faint sweat again on my forehead.</p>
<p>"If I do not find her worthy of you, then she can not have you,"
went on Helena von Ritz.</p>
<p>"But Madam, you forget one thing. She <i>is</i> worthy of me, or
of any other man!"</p>
<p>"I shall be judge of that. If she is what you think, you shall
have her—and Oregon!"</p>
<p>"But as to myself, Madam? The bargain?"</p>
<p>"I arrive, Monsieur! If she fails you, then I ask only time. I
have said to you I am a woman!"</p>
<p>"Madam," I said to her once more, "who are you and what are
you?"</p>
<p>In answer, she looked me once more straight in the face. "Some
day, back there, after I have made my journey, I shall tell
you."</p>
<p>"Tell me now."</p>
<p>"I shall tell you nothing. I am not a little girl. There is a
bargain which I offer, and the only one I shall offer. It is a
gamble. I have gambled all my life. If you will not accord me so
remote a chance as this, why, then, I shall take it in any
case."</p>
<p>"I begin to see, Madam," said I, "how large these stakes may
run."</p>
<p>"In case I lose, be sure at least I shall pay. I shall make my
atonement," she said.</p>
<p>"I doubt not that, Madam, with all your heart and mind and
soul."</p>
<p>"And <i>body</i>!" she whispered. The old horror came again upon
her face. She shuddered, I did not know why. She stood now as one
in devotions for a time, and I would no more have spoken than had
she been at her prayers, as, indeed, I think she was. At last she
made some faint movement of her hands. I do not know whether it was
the sign of the cross.</p>
<p>She rose now, tall, white-clad, shimmering, a vision of beauty
such as that part of the world certainly could not then offer. Her
hair was loosened now in its masses and drooped more widely over
her temples, above her brow. Her eyes were very large and dark, and
I saw the faint blue shadows coming again beneath them. Her hands
were clasped, her chin raised just a trifle, and her gaze was rapt
as that of some longing soul. I could not guess of these things,
being but a man, and, I fear, clumsy alike of body and wit.</p>
<div class="figcenter"><br />
<a href="images/298.jpg"><img src="images/298.jpg" width="45%" alt=
"" title="" /></a><br />
<b>"I want—" said she. "I wish—I wish—"</b>
<br /></div>
<p>"There is one thing, Madam, which we have omitted," said I at
last. "What are <i>my</i> stakes? How may I pay?"</p>
<p>She swayed a little on her feet, as though she were weak. "I
want," said she, "I wish—I wish—"</p>
<p>The old childlike look of pathos came again. I have never seen
so sad a face. She was a lady, white and delicately clad; I, a rude
frontiersman in camp-grimed leather. But I stepped to her now and
took her in my arms and held her close, and pushed back the damp
waves of her hair. And because a man's tears were in my eyes, I
have no doubt of absolution when I say I had been a cad and a
coward had I not kissed her own tears away. I no longer made
pretense of ignorance, but ah! how I wished that I were ignorant of
what it was not my right to know....</p>
<p>I led her to the edge of the little bed of husks and found her
kerchief. Ah, she was of breeding and courage! Presently, her voice
rose steady and clear as ever. "Threlka!" she called. "Please!"</p>
<p>When Threlka came, she looked closely at her lady's face, and
what she read seemed, after all, to content her.</p>
<p>"Threlka," said my lady in French, "I want the little one."</p>
<p>I turned to her with query in my eyes.</p>
<p>"<i>Tiens!</i>" she said. "Wait. I have a little surprise."</p>
<p>"You have nothing at any time save surprises, Madam."</p>
<p>"Two things I have," said she, sighing: "a little dog from
China, Chow by name. He sleeps now, and I must not disturb him,
else I would show you how lovely a dog is Chow. Also here I have
found a little Indian child running about the post. Doctor
McLaughlin was rejoiced when I adopted her."</p>
<p>"Well, then, Madam, what next!"</p>
<p>—"Yes, with the promise to him that I would care for that
little child. I want something for my own. See now. Come,
Natoka!"</p>
<p>The old servant paused at the door. There slid across the floor
with the silent feet of the savage the tiny figure of a little
child, perhaps four years of age, with coal-black hair and beady
eyes, clad in all the bequilled finery that a trading-post could
furnish—a little orphan child, as I learned later, whose
parents had both been lost in a canoe accident at the Dalles. She
was an infant, wild, untrained, unloved, unable to speak a word of
the language that she heard. She stood now hesitating, but that was
only by reason of her sight of me. As I stepped aside, the little
one walked steadily but with quickening steps to my satin-clad lady
on her couch of husks. She took up the child in her arms.... Now,
there must be some speech between woman and child. I do not know,
except that the Baroness von Ritz spoke and that the child put out
a hand to her cheek. Then, as I stood awkward as a clown myself and
not knowing what to do, I saw tears rain again from the eyes of
Helena von Ritz, so that I turned away, even as I saw her cheek
laid to that of the child while she clasped it tight.</p>
<p>"Monsieur!" I heard her say at last.</p>
<p>I did not answer. I was learning a bit of life myself this
night. I was years older than when I had come through that
door.</p>
<p>"Monsieur!" I heard her call yet again.</p>
<p>"<i>Eh bien</i>, Madam?" I replied, lightly as I could, and so
turned, giving her all possible time. I saw her holding the Indian
child out in front of her in her strong young arms, lightly as
though the weight were nothing.</p>
<p>"See, then," she said; "here is my companion across the
mountains."</p>
<p>Again I began to expostulate, but now she tapped her foot
impatiently in her old way. "You have heard me say it. Very well.
Follow if you like. Listen also if you like. In a day or so, Doctor
McLaughlin plans a party for us all far up the Columbia to the
missions at Wailatpu. That is in the valley of the Walla Walla,
they tell me, just at this edge of the Blue Mountains, where the
wagon trains come down into this part of Oregon."</p>
<p>"They may not see the wagon trains so soon," I ventured. "They
would scarcely arrive before October, and now it is but
summer."</p>
<p>"At least, these British officers would see a part of this
country, do you not comprehend? We start within three days at
least. I wish only to say that perhaps—"</p>
<p>"Ah, I will be there surely, Madam!"</p>
<p>"If you come independently. I have heard, however, that one of
the missionary women wishes to go back to the States. I have
thought that perhaps it might be better did we go together. Also
Natoka. Also Chow."</p>
<p>"Does Doctor McLaughlin know of your plans?"</p>
<p>"I am not under his orders, Monsieur. I only thought that, since
you were used to this western travel, you could, perhaps, be of aid
in getting me proper guides and vehicles. I should rely upon your
judgment very much, Monsieur."</p>
<p>"You are asking me to aid you in your own folly," said I
discontentedly, "but I will be there; and be sure also you can not
prevent me from following—if you persist in this absolute
folly. A woman—to cross the Rockies!"</p>
<p>I rose now, and she was gracious enough to follow me part way
toward the door. We hesitated there, awkwardly enough. But once
more our hands met in some sort of fellowship.</p>
<p>"Forget!" I heard her whisper. And I could think of no reply
better than that same word.</p>
<p>I turned as the door swung for me to pass out into the night. I
saw her outlined against the lights within, tall and white, in her
arms the Indian child, whose cheek was pressed to her own. I do not
concern myself with what others may say of conduct or of constancy.
To me it seemed that, had I not made my homage, my reverence, to
one after all so brave as she, I would not be worthy the cover of
that flag which to-day floats both on the Columbia and the Rio
Grande.</p>
<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XXVIII" id="CHAPTER_XXVIII"></a>CHAPTER
XXVIII</h2>
<h3>WHEN A WOMAN WOULD</h3>
<div class="blockquot">
<p>The two pleasantest days of a woman are her marriage day and the
day of her funeral.—<i>Hipponax</i>.</p>
</div>
<p>My garden at the Willamette might languish if it liked, and my
little cabin might stand in uncut wheat. For me, there were other
matters of more importance now. I took leave of hospitable Doctor
McLaughlin at Fort Vancouver with proper expressions of the
obligation due for his hospitality; but I said nothing to him, of
course, of having met the mysterious baroness, nor did I mention
definitely that I intended to meet them both again at no distant
date. None the less, I prepared to set out at once up the Columbia
River trail.</p>
<p>From Fort Vancouver to the missions at Wailatpu was a distance
by trail of more than two hundred miles. This I covered horseback,
rapidly, and arrived two or three days in advance of the English.
Nothing disturbed the quiet until, before noon of one day, we heard
the gun fire and the shoutings which in that country customarily
made announcement of the arrival of a party of travelers. Being on
the lookout for these, I soon discovered them to be my late friends
of the Hudson Bay Post.</p>
<p>One old brown woman, unhappily astride a native pony, I took to
be Threlka, my lady's servant, but she rode with her class, at the
rear. I looked again, until I found the baroness, clad in buckskins
and blue cloth, brave as any in finery of the frontier. Doctor
McLaughlin saw fit to present us formally, or rather carelessly, it
not seeming to him that two so different would meet often in the
future; and of course there being no dream even in his shrewd mind
that we had ever met in the past. This supposition fitted our
plans, even though it kept us apart. I was but a common emigrant
farmer, camping like my kind. She, being of distinction, dwelt with
the Hudson Bay party in the mission buildings.</p>
<p>We lived on here for a week, visiting back and forth in amity,
as I must say. I grew to like well enough those blunt young fellows
of the Navy. With young Lieutenant Peel especially I struck up
something of a friendship. If he remained hopelessly British, at
least I presume I remained quite as hopelessly American; so that we
came to set aside the topic of conversation on which we could not
agree.</p>
<p>"There is something about which you don't know," he said to me,
one evening. "I am wholly unacquainted with the interior of your
country. What would you say, for instance, regarding its safety for
a lady traveling across—a small party, you know, of her own?
I presume of course you know whom I mean?"</p>
<p>I nodded. "You must mean the Baroness von Ritz."</p>
<p>"Yes. She has been traveling abroad. Of course we took such care
of her on shipboard as we could, although a lady has no place on
board a warship. She had with her complete furnishings for a suite
of apartments, and these were delivered ashore at Fort Vancouver.
Doctor McLaughlin gave her quarters. Of course you do not know
anything of this?"</p>
<p>I allowed him to proceed.</p>
<p>"Well, she has told us calmly that she plans crossing this
country from here to the Eastern States!"</p>
<p>"That could not possibly be!" I declared.</p>
<p>"Quite so. The old trappers tell me that the mountains are
impassable even in the fall. They say that unless she met some
west-bound train and came back with it, the chance would be that
she would never be heard of again."</p>
<p>"You have personal interest in this?" I interrupted.</p>
<p>He nodded, flushing a little. "Awfully so," said he.</p>
<p>"I would have the right to guess you were hit pretty hard?"</p>
<p>"To the extent of asking her to become my wife!" said he firmly,
although his fair face flushed again.</p>
<p>"You do not in the least know her," he went on. "In my case, I
have done my turn at living, and have seen my share of women, but
never her like in any part of the world! So when she proposed to
make this absurd journey, I offered to go with her. It meant of
course my desertion from the Navy, and so I told her. She would not
listen to it. She gives me no footing which leaves it possible for
me to accompany her or to follow her. Frankly, I do not know what
to do."</p>
<p>"It seems to me, Lieutenant Peel," I ventured, "that the most
sensible thing in the world for us to do is to get together an
expedition to follow her."</p>
<p>He caught me by the hand. "You do not tell me <i>you</i> would
do that?"</p>
<p>"It seems a duty."</p>
<p>"But could you yourself get through?"</p>
<p>"As to that, no one can tell. I did so coming west."</p>
<p>He sat silent for a time. "It will be the last I shall ever see
of her in any case," said he, at length. "We don't know how long it
will be before we leave the mouth of the Columbia, and then I could
not count on finding her. You do not think me a fool for telling
you what I have?"</p>
<p>"No," said I. "I do not blame you for being a fool. All men who
are men are fools over women, one time or other."</p>
<p>"Good luck to you, then! Now, what shall we do?"</p>
<p>"In the first place," said I, "if she insists upon going, let us
give her every possible chance for success."</p>
<p>"It looks an awfully slender chance," he sighed. "You will
follow as close on their heels as you can?"</p>
<p>"Of that you may rest assured."</p>
<p>"What is the distance, do you think?"</p>
<p>"Two thousand miles at least, before she could be safe. She
could not hope to cover more than twenty-five miles a day, many
days not so much as that. To be sure, there might be such a thing
as her meeting wagons coming out; and, as you say, she might
return."</p>
<p>"You do not know her!" said he. "She will not turn back."</p>
<p>I had full reason to agree with him.</p>
<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XXIX" id="CHAPTER_XXIX"></a>CHAPTER XXIX</h2>
<h3>IN EXCHANGE</h3>
<div class="blockquot">
<p>Great women belong to history and to self-sacrifice.<br />
<span style="margin-left: 18em;">—<i>Leigh
Hunt</i>.</span></p>
</div>
<p>For sufficient reasons of my own, which have been explained, I
did not care to mingle more than was necessary with the party of
the Hudson Bay folk who made their quarters with the missionary
families. I kept close to my own camp when not busy with my
inquiries in the neighborhood, where I now began to see what could
be done in the preparation of a proper outfit for the baroness.
Herself I did not see for the next two days; but one evening I met
her on the narrow log gallery of one of the mission houses. Without
much speech we sat and looked over the pleasant prospect of the
wide flats, the fringe of willow trees, the loom of the mountains
off toward the east.</p>
<p>"Continually you surprise me, Madam," I began, at last. "Can we
not persuade you to abandon this foolish plan of your going
east?"</p>
<p>"I see no reason for abandoning it," said she. "There are some
thousands of your people, men, women and children, who have crossed
that trail. Why should not I?"</p>
<p>"But they come in large parties; they come well prepared. Each
helps his neighbor."</p>
<p>"The distance is the same, and the method is the same."</p>
<p>I ceased to argue, seeing that she would not be persuaded. "At
least, Madam," said I, "I have done what little I could in securing
you a party. You are to have eight mules, two carts, six horses,
and two men, beside old Joe Meek, the best guide now in Oregon. He
would not go to save his life. He goes to save yours."</p>
<p>"You are always efficient," said she. "But why is it that we
always have some unpleasant argument? Come, let us have tea!"</p>
<p>"Many teas together, Madam, if you would listen to me. Many a
pot brewed deep and black by scores of camp-fires."</p>
<p>"Fie! Monsieur proposes a scandal."</p>
<p>"No, Monsieur proposes only a journey to Washington—with
you, or close after you."</p>
<p>"Of course I can not prevent your following," she said.</p>
<p>"Leave it so. But as to pledges—at least I want to keep my
little slipper. Is Madam's wardrobe with her? Could she humor a
peevish friend so much as that? Come, now, I will make fair
exchange. I will trade you again my blanket clasp for that one
little shoe!"</p>
<p>I felt in the pocket of my coat, and held out in my hand the
remnants of the same little Indian ornament which had figured
between us the first night we had met. She grasped at it eagerly,
turning it over in her hand.</p>
<p>"But see," she said, "one of the clasps is gone."</p>
<p>"Yes, I parted with it. But come, do I have my little
slipper?"</p>
<p>"Wait!" said she, and left me for a moment. Presently she
returned, laughing, with the little white satin foot covering in
her hand.</p>
<p>"I warrant it is the only thing of the sort ever was seen in
these buildings," she went on. "Alas! I fear I must leave most of
my possessions here! I have already disposed of the furnishings of
my apartment to Mr. James Douglas at Fort Vancouver. I hear he is
to replace this good Doctor McLaughlin. Well, his half-breed wife
will at least have good setting up for her household. Tell me,
now," she concluded, "what became of the other shell from this
clasp?"</p>
<p>"I gave it to an old man in Montreal," I answered. I went on to
show her the nature of the device, as it had been explained to me
by old Doctor von Rittenhofen.</p>
<p>"How curious!" she mused, as it became more plain to her. "Life,
love, eternity! The beginning and the end of all this turmoil about
passing on the torch of life. It is old, old, is it not? Tell me,
who was the wise man who described all this to you?"</p>
<p>"Not a stranger to this very country, I imagine," was my answer.
"He spent some years here in Oregon with the missionaries, engaged,
as he informed me, in classifying the butterflies of this new
region. A German scientist, I think, and seemingly a man of
breeding."</p>
<p>"If I were left to guess," she broke out suddenly, "I would say
it must have been this same old man who told you about the plans of
the Canadian land expedition to this country."</p>
<p>"Continually, Madam, we find much in common. At least we both
know that the Canadian expedition started west. Tell me, when will
it arrive on the Columbia?"</p>
<p>"It will never arrive. It will never cross the Rockies. Word has
gone up the Columbia now that for these men to appear in this
country would bring on immediate war. That does not suit the book
of England more than it does that of America."</p>
<p>"Then the matter will wait until you see Mr. Pakenham?"</p>
<p>She nodded. "I suppose so."</p>
<p>"You will find facts enough. Should you persist in your mad
journey and get far enough to the east, you will see two thousand,
three thousand men coming out to Oregon this fall. It is but the
beginning. But you and I, sitting here, three thousand miles and
more away from Washington, can determine this question. Madam,
perhaps yet you may win your right to some humble home, with a
couch of husks or straw. Sleep, then, by our camp-fires across
America, and let our skies cover you at night. Our men will watch
over you faithfully. Be our guest—our friend!"</p>
<p>"You are a good special pleader," said she; "but you do not
shake me in my purpose, and I hold to my terms. It does not rest
with you and me, but with another. As I have told you—as we
have both agreed—"</p>
<p>"Then let us not speak her name," said I.</p>
<p>Again her eyes looked into mine, straight, large and dark. Again
the spell of her beauty rose all around me, enveloped me as I had
felt it do before. "You can not have Oregon, except through me,"
she said at last. "You can not have—her—except through
me!"</p>
<p>"It is the truth," I answered. "In God's name, then, play the
game fair."</p>
<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XXX" id="CHAPTER_XXX"></a>CHAPTER XXX</h2>
<h3>COUNTER CURRENTS</h3>
<div class="blockquot">
<p>Woman is like the reed that bends to every breeze, but breaks
not in the tempest.—<i>Bishop Richard Whately</i>.</p>
</div>
<p>The Oregon immigration for 1845 numbered, according to some
accounts, not less than three thousand souls. Our people still
rolled westward in a mighty wave. The history of that great
west-bound movement is well known. The story of a yet more decisive
journey of that same year never has been written—that of
Helena von Ritz, from Oregon to the east. The price of that journey
was an empire; its cost—ah, let me not yet speak of that.</p>
<p>Although Meek and I agreed that he should push east at the best
possible speed, it was well enough understood that I should give
him no more than a day or so start. I did not purpose to allow so
risky a journey as this to be undertaken by any woman in so small a
party, and made no doubt that I would overtake them at least at
Fort Hall, perhaps five hundred miles east of the Missions, or at
farthest at Fort Bridger, some seven hundred miles from the
starting point in Oregon.</p>
<p>The young wife of one of the missionaries was glad enough to
take passage thus for the East; and there was the silent Threlka.
Those two could offer company, even did not the little Indian maid,
adopted by the baroness, serve to interest her. Their equipment and
supplies were as good as any purchasable. What could be done, we
now had done.</p>
<p>Yet after all Helena von Ritz had her own way. I did not see her
again after we parted that evening at the Mission. I was absent for
a couple of days with a hunting party, and on my return discovered
that she was gone, with no more than brief farewell to those left
behind! Meek was anxious as herself to be off; but he left word for
me to follow on at once.</p>
<p>Gloom now fell upon us all. Doctor Whitman, the only white man
ever to make the east-bound journey from Oregon, encouraged us as
best he could; but young Lieutenant Peel was the picture of
despair, nor did he indeed fail in the prophecy he made to me; for
never again did he set eyes on the face of Helena von Ritz, and
never again did I meet him. I heard, years later, that he died of
fever on the China coast.</p>
<p>It may be supposed that I myself now hurried in my plans. I was
able to make up a small party of four men, about half the number
Meek took with him; and I threw together such equipment as I could
find remaining, not wholly to my liking, but good enough, I
fancied, to overtake a party headed by a woman. But one thing after
another cost us time, and we did not average twenty miles a day. I
felt half desperate, as I reflected on what this might mean. As
early fall was approaching, I could expect, in view of my own lost
time, to encounter the annual wagon train two or three hundred
miles farther westward than the object of my pursuit naturally
would have done. As a matter of fact, my party met the wagons at a
point well to the west of Fort Hall.</p>
<p>It was early in the morning we met them coming west,—that
long, weary, dust-covered, creeping caravan, a mile long, slow
serpent, crawling westward across the desert. In time I came up to
the head of the tremendous wagon train of 1845, and its leader and
myself threw up our hands in the salutation of the wilderness.</p>
<p>The leader's command to halt was passed back from one wagon to
another, over more than a mile of trail. As we dismounted, there
came hurrying up about us men and women, sunburned, lean, ragged,
abandoning their wagons and crowding to hear the news from Oregon.
I recall the picture well enough to-day—the sun-blistered
sands all about, the short and scraggly sage-brush, the long line
of white-topped wagons dwindling in the distance, the thin-faced
figures which crowded about.</p>
<p>The captain stood at the head of the front team, his hand
resting on the yoke as he leaned against the bowed neck of one of
the oxen. The men and women were thin almost as the beasts which
dragged the wagons. These latter stood with lolling tongues even
thus early in the day, for water hereabout was scarce and bitter to
the taste. So, at first almost in silence, we made the salutations
of the desert. So, presently, we exchanged the news of East and
West. So, I saw again my canvas of the fierce west-bound.</p>
<p>There is to-day no news of the quality which we then
communicated. These knew nothing of Oregon. I knew nothing of the
East. A national election had been held, regarding which I knew not
even the names of the candidates of either party, not to mention
the results. All I could do was to guess and to point to the
inscription on the white top of the foremost wagon: "<i>Fifty-four
Forty or Fight!</i>"</p>
<p>"Is Polk elected?" I asked the captain of the train.</p>
<p>He nodded. "He shore is," said he. "We're comin' out to take
Oregon. What's the news?"</p>
<p>My own grim news was that Oregon was ours and must be ours. I
shook hands with a hundred men on that, our hands clasped in stern
and silent grip. Then, after a time, I urged other questions
foremost in my own mind. Had they seen a small party
east-bound?</p>
<p>Yes, I had answer. They had passed this light outfit east of
Bridger's post. There was one chance in a hundred they might get
over the South Pass that fall, for they were traveling light and
fast, with good animals, and old Joe Meek was sure he would make it
through. The women? Well, one was a preacher's wife, another an old
Gipsy, and another the most beautiful woman ever seen on the trail
or anywhere else. Why was she going east instead of west, away from
Oregon instead of to Oregon? Did I know any of them? I was
following them? Then I must hurry, for soon the snow would come in
the Rockies. They had seen no Indians. Well, if I was following
them, there would be a race, and they wished me well! But why go
East, instead of West?</p>
<p>Then they began to question me regarding Oregon. How was the
land? Would it raise wheat and corn and hogs? How was the weather?
Was there much game? Would it take much labor to clear a farm? Was
there any likelihood of trouble with the Indians or with the
Britishers? Could a man really get a mile square of good farm land
without trouble? And so on, and so on, as we sat in the blinding
sun in the sage-brush desert until midday.</p>
<p>Of course it came to politics. Yes, Texas had been annexed,
somehow, not by regular vote of the Senate. There was some hitch
about that. My leader reckoned there was no regular treaty. It had
just been done by joint resolution of the House—done by Tyler
and Calhoun, just in time to take the feather out of old Polk's
cap! The treaty of annexation—why, yes, it was ratified by
Congress, and everything signed up March third, just one day before
Polk's inaugural! Polk was on the warpath, according to my gaunt
leader. There was going to be war as sure as shooting, unless we
got all of Oregon. We had offered Great Britain a fair show, and in
return she had claimed everything south to the Columbia, so now we
had withdrawn all soft talk. It looked like war with Mexico and
England both. Never mind, in that case we would whip them both!</p>
<p>"Do you see that writin' on my wagon top?" asked the captain.
"<i>Fifty-four Forty or Fight.</i> That's us!"</p>
<p>And so they went on to tell us how this cry was spreading, South
and West, and over the North as well; although the Whigs did not
dare cry it quite so loudly.</p>
<p>"They want the <i>land</i>, just the same," said the captain.
"We <i>all</i> want it, an', by God! we're goin' to git it!"</p>
<p>And so at last we parted, each the better for the information
gained, each to resume what would to-day seem practically an
endless journey. Our farewells were as careless, as confident, as
had been our greetings. Thousands of miles of unsettled country lay
east and west of us, and all around us, our empire, not then
won.</p>
<p>History tells how that wagon train went through, and how its
settlers scattered all along the Willamette and the Columbia and
the Walla Walla, and helped us to hold Oregon. For myself, the
chapter of accidents continued. I was detained at Fort Hall, and
again east of there. I met straggling immigrants coming on across
the South Pass to winter at Bridger's post; but finally I lost all
word of Meek's party, and could only suppose that they had got over
the mountains.</p>
<p>I made the journey across the South Pass, the snow being now
beaten down on the trails more than usual by the west-bound animals
and vehicles. Of all these now coming on, none would get farther
west than Fort Hall that year. Our own party, although over the
Rockies, had yet the Plains to cross. I was glad enough when we
staggered into old Fort Laramie in the midst of a blinding
snow-storm. Winter had caught us fair and full. I had lost the
race!</p>
<p>Here, then, I must winter. Yet I learned that Joe Meek had
outfitted at Laramie almost a month earlier, with new animals; had
bought a little grain, and, under escort of a cavalry troop which
had come west with the wagon train, had started east in time,
perhaps, to make it through to the Missouri. In a race of one
thousand miles, the baroness had already beaten me almost by a
month! Further word was, of course, now unobtainable, for no trains
or wagons would come west so late, and there were then no stages
carrying mail across the great Plains. There was nothing for me to
do except to wait and eat out my heart at old Fort Laramie, in the
society of Indians and trappers, half-breeds and traders. The
winter seemed years in length, so gladly I make its story
brief.</p>
<p>It was now the spring of 1846, and I was in my second year away
from Washington. Glad enough I was when in the first sunshine of
spring I started east, taking my chances of getting over the
Plains. At last, to make the long journey also brief, I did reach
Fort Leavenworth, by this time a five months' loser in the
transcontinental race. It was a new annual wagon train which I now
met rolling westward. Such were times and travel not so long
ago.</p>
<p>Little enough had come of my two years' journey out to Oregon.
Like to the army of the French king, I had marched up the hill and
then marched down again. As much might have been said of the United
States; and the same was yet more true of Great Britain, whose army
of occupation had not even marched wholly up the hill. So much as
this latter fact I now could tell my own government; and I could
say that while Great Britain's fleet held the sea entry, the vast
and splendid interior of an unknown realm was open on the east to
our marching armies of settlers. Now I could describe that realm,
even though the plot of events advanced but slowly regarding it. It
was a plot of the stars, whose work is done in no haste.</p>
<p>Oregon still was held in that oft renewed and wholly absurd
joint occupancy, so odious and so dangerous to both nations. Two
years were taken from my life in learning that—and in
learning that this question of Oregon's final ownership was to be
decided not on the Pacific, not on the shoulders of the Blues or
the Cascades, but in the east, there at Washington, after all. The
actual issue was in the hands of the God of Battles, who sometimes
uses strange instruments for His ends. It was not I, it was not Mr.
Calhoun, not any of the officers of our government, who could get
Oregon for us. It was the God of Battles, whose instrument was a
woman, Helena von Ritz. After all, this was the chief fruit of my
long journey.</p>
<p>As to the baroness, she had long since left Fort Leavenworth for
the East. I followed still with what speed I could employ. I could
not reach Washington now until long after the first buds would be
out and the creepers growing green on the gallery of Mr. Calhoun's
residence. Yes, green also on all the lattices of Elmhurst Mansion.
What had happened there for me?</p>
<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XXXI" id="CHAPTER_XXXI"></a>CHAPTER XXXI</h2>
<h3>THE PAYMENT</h3>
<div class="blockquot">
<p>What man seeks in love is woman; what woman seeks in man is
love.—<i>Houssaye</i>.</p>
</div>
<p>When I reached Washington it was indeed spring, warm, sweet
spring. In the wide avenues the straggling trees were doing their
best to dignify the city, and flowers were blooming everywhere.
Wonderful enough did all this seem to me after thousands of miles
of rude scenery of bare valleys and rocky hills, wild landscapes,
seen often through cold and blinding storms amid peaks and gorges,
or on the drear, forbidding Plains.</p>
<p>Used more, of late, to these wilder scenes, I felt awkward and
still half savage. I did not at once seek out my own friends. My
first wish was to get in touch with Mr. Calhoun, for I knew that so
I would most quickly arrive at the heart of events.</p>
<p>He was away when I called at his residence on Georgetown
Heights, but at last I heard the wheels of his old omnibus, and
presently he entered with his usual companion, Doctor Samuel Ward.
When they saw me there, then indeed I received a greeting which
repaid me for many things! This over, we all three broke out in
laughter at my uncouth appearance. I was clad still in such
clothing as I could pick up in western towns as I hurried on from
the Missouri eastward; and I had as yet found no time for
barbers.</p>
<p>"We have had no word from you, Nicholas," said Mr. Calhoun
presently, "since that from Laramie, in the fall of eighteen
forty-four. This is in the spring of eighteen forty-six! Meantime,
we might all have been dead and buried and none of us the wiser.
What a country! 'Tis more enormous than the mind of any of us can
grasp."</p>
<p>"You should travel across it to learn that," I grinned.</p>
<p>"Many things have happened since you left. You know that I am
back in the Senate once more?"</p>
<p>I nodded. "And about Texas?" I began.</p>
<p>"Texas is ours," said he, smiling grimly. "You have heard how?
It was a hard fight enough—a bitter, selfish, sectional fight
among politicians. But there is going to be war. Our troops crossed
the Sabine more than a year ago. They will cross the Rio Grande
before this year is done. The Mexican minister has asked for his
passports. The administration has ordered General Taylor to
advance. Mr. Polk is carrying out annexation with a vengeance.
Seeing a chance for more territory, now that Texas is safe from
England, he plans war on helpless and deserted Mexico! We may hear
of a battle now at any time. But this war with Mexico may yet mean
war with England. That, of course, endangers our chance to gain all
or any of that great Oregon country. Tell me, what have you
learned?"</p>
<p>I hurried on now with my own news, briefly as I might. I told
them of the ships of England's Navy waiting in Oregon waters; of
the growing suspicion of the Hudson Bay people; of the changes in
the management at Fort Vancouver; of the change also from a
conciliatory policy to one of half hostility. I told them of our
wagon trains going west, and of the strength of our frontiersmen;
but offset this, justly as I might, by giving facts also regarding
the opposition these might meet.</p>
<p>"Precisely," said Calhoun, walking up and down, his head bent.
"England is prepared for war! How much are we prepared? It would
cost us the revenues of a quarter of a century to go to war with
her to-day. It would cost us fifty thousand lives. We would need an
army of two hundred and fifty thousand men. Where is all that to
come from? Can we transport our army there in time? But had all
this bluster ceased, then we could have deferred this war with
Mexico; could have bought with coin what now will cost us blood;
and we could also have bought Oregon without the cost of either
coin or blood. <i>Delay</i> was what we needed! <i>All</i> of
Oregon should have been ours!"</p>
<p>"But, surely, this is not all news to you?" I began. "Have you
not seen the Baroness von Ritz? Has she not made her report?"</p>
<p>"The baroness?" queried Calhoun. "That stormy petrel—that
advance agent of events! Did she indeed sail with the British ships
from Montreal? <i>Did</i> you find her there—in Oregon?"</p>
<p>"Yes, and lost her there! She started east last summer, and beat
me fairly in the race. Has she not made known her presence here?
She told me she was going to Washington."</p>
<p>He shook his head in surprise. "Trouble now, I fear! Pakenham
has back his best ally, our worst antagonist."</p>
<p>"That certainly is strange," said I. "She had five months the
start of me, and in that time there is no telling what she has done
or undone. Surely, she is somewhere here, in Washington! She held
Texas in her shoes. I tell you she holds Oregon in her gloves
to-day!"</p>
<p>I started up, my story half untold.</p>
<p>"Where are you going?" asked Mr. Calhoun of me. Doctor Ward
looked at me, smiling. "He does not inquire of a certain young
lady—"</p>
<p>"I am going to find the Baroness von Ritz!" said I. I flushed
red under my tan, I doubt not; but I would not ask a word regarding
Elisabeth.</p>
<p>Doctor Ward came and laid a hand on my shoulder. "Republics
forget," said he, "but men from South Carolina do not. Neither do
girls from Maryland. Do you think so?"</p>
<p>"That is what I am going to find out."</p>
<p>"How then? Are you going to Elmhurst as you look now?"</p>
<p>"No. I shall find out many things by first finding the Baroness
von Ritz." And before they could make further protests, I was out
and away.</p>
<p>I hurried now to a certain side street, of which I have made
mention, and knocked confidently at a door I knew. The neighborhood
was asleep in the warm sun. I knocked a second time, and began to
doubt, but at last heard slow footsteps.</p>
<p>There appeared at the crack of the door the wrinkled visage of
the old serving-woman, Threlka. I knew that she would be there in
precisely this way, because there was every reason in the world why
it should not have been. She paused, scanning me closely, then
quickly opened the door and allowed me to step inside, vanishing as
was her wont. I heard another step in a half-hidden hallway beyond,
but this was not the step which I awaited; it was that of a man,
slow, feeble, hesitating. I started forward as a face appeared at
the parted curtains. A glad cry welcomed me in turn. A tall, bent
form approached me, and an arm was thrown about my shoulder. It was
my whilom friend, our ancient scientist, Von Rittenhofen! I did not
pause to ask how he happened to be there. It was quite natural,
since it was wholly impossible. I made no wonder at the Chinese dog
Chow, or the little Indian maid, who both came, stared, and
silently vanished. Seeing these, I knew that their strange
protector must also have won through safe.</p>
<p>"<i>Ach, Gott! Gesegneter Gott!</i> I see you again, my friend!"
Thus the old Doctor.</p>
<p>"But tell me," I interrupted, "where is the mistress of this
house, the Baroness von Ritz?"</p>
<p>He looked at me in his mild way. "You mean my daughter
Helena?"</p>
<p>Now at last I smiled. His daughter! This at least was too
incredible! He turned and reached behind him to a little table. He
held up before my eyes my little blanket clasp of shell. Then I
knew that this last and most impossible thing also was true, and
that in some way these two had found each other! But <i>why</i>?
What could he now mean?</p>
<p>"Listen now," he began, "and I shall tell you. I wass in the
street one day. When I walk alone, I do not much notice. But now,
as I walk, before my eyes on the street, I see what?
This—this, the Tah Gook! At first, I see nothing but it. Then
I look up. Before me iss a woman, young and beautiful. Ach! what
should I do but take her in my arms!"</p>
<p>"It was she; it was—"</p>
<p>"My daughter! Yess, my daughter. It iss <i>Helena</i>! I haf not
seen her for many years, long, cruel years. I suppose her dead. But
now there we were, standing, looking in each other's eyes! We see
there—Ach, Gott! what do we not see? Yet in spite of all, it
wass Helena. But she shall tell you." He tottered from the room.</p>
<p>I heard his footsteps pass down the hall. Then softly, almost
silently, Helena von Ritz again stood before me. The light from a
side window fell upon her face. Yes, it was she! Her face was
thinner now, browner even than was its wont. Her hair was still
faintly sunburned at its extremities by the western winds. Yet hers
was still imperishable youth and beauty.</p>
<p>I held out my hands to her. "Ah," I cried, "you played me false!
You ran away! By what miracle did you come through? I confess my
defeat. You beat me by almost half a year."</p>
<p>"But now you have come," said she simply.</p>
<p>"Yes, to remind you that you have friends. You have been here in
secret all the winter. Mr. Calhoun did not know you had come. Why
did you not go to him?"</p>
<p>"I was waiting for you to come. Do you not remember our bargain?
Each day I expected you. In some way, I scarce knew how, the weeks
wore on."</p>
<p>"And now I find you both here—you and your
father—where I would expect to find neither. Continually you
violate all law of likelihood. But now, you have seen
Elisabeth?"</p>
<p>"Yes, I have seen her," she said, still simply.</p>
<p>I could think of no word suited to that moment. I stood only
looking at her. She would have spoken, but on the instant raised a
hand as though to demand my silence. I heard a loud knock at the
door, peremptory, commanding, as though the owner came.</p>
<p>"You must go into another room," said Helena von Ritz to me
hurriedly.</p>
<p>"Who is it? Who is it at the door?" I asked.</p>
<p>She looked at me calmly. "It is Sir Richard Pakenham," said she.
"This is his usual hour. I will send him away. Go
now—quick!"</p>
<p>I rapidly passed behind the screening curtains into the hall,
even as I heard a heavy foot stumbling at the threshold and a
somewhat husky voice offer some sort of salutation.</p>
<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XXXII" id="CHAPTER_XXXII"></a>CHAPTER
XXXII</h2>
<h3>PAKENHAM'S PRICE</h3>
<div class="blockquot">
<p>The happiest women, like nations, have no history.<br />
<span style="margin-left: 15.5em;">—<i>George
Eliot</i>.</span></p>
</div>
<p>The apartment into which I hurriedly stepped I found to be a
long and narrow hall, heavily draped. A door or so made off on the
right-hand side, and a closed door also appeared at the farther
end; but none invited me to enter, and I did not care to intrude.
This situation did not please me, because I must perforce hear all
that went on in the rooms which I had just left. I heard the thick
voice of a man, apparently none the better for wine.</p>
<p>"My dear," it began, "I—" Some gesture must have warned
him.</p>
<p>"God bless my soul!" he began again. "Who is here, then? What is
wrong?"</p>
<p>"My father is here to-day," I heard her clear voice answer,
"and, as you suggest, it might perhaps be better—"</p>
<p>"God bless my soul!" he repeated. "But, my dear, then I must go!
<i>To-night</i>, then! Where is that other key? It would never do,
you know—"</p>
<p>"No, Sir Richard, it would never do. Go, then!" spoke a low and
icy voice, hers, yet not hers. "Hasten!" I heard her half whisper.
"I think perhaps my father—"</p>
<p>But it was my own footsteps they heard. This was something to
which I could not be party. Yet, rapidly as I walked, her visitor
was before me. I caught sight only of his portly back, as the
street door closed behind him. She stood, her back against the
door, her hand spread out against the wall, as though to keep me
from passing.</p>
<p>I paused and looked at her, held by the horror in her eyes. She
made no concealment, offered no apologies, and showed no shame. I
repeat that it was only horror and sadness mingled which I saw upon
her face.</p>
<p>"Madam," I began. And again, "Madam!" and then I turned
away.</p>
<p>"You see," she said, sighing.</p>
<p>"Yes, I fear I see; but I wish I did not. Can I not—may I
not be mistaken?"</p>
<p>"No, it is true. There is no mistake."</p>
<p>"What have you done? Why? <i>Why</i>?"</p>
<p>"Did you not always credit me with being the good friend of Mr.
Pakenham years ago—did not all the city? Well, then I was
<i>not</i>; but I <i>am</i>, now! I was England's agent
only—<i>until last night</i>. Monsieur, you have come too
soon, too late, too late. Ah, my God! my God! Last night I gave at
last that consent. He comes now to claim, to exact, to
take—possession—of me ... Ah, my God!"</p>
<p>"I can not, of course, understand you, Madam. <i>What</i> is it?
Tell me!"</p>
<p>"For three years England's minister besought me to be his, not
England's, property. It was not true, what the town thought. It was
not true in the case either of Yturrio. Intrigue—yes—I
loved it. I intrigued with England and Mexico both, because it was
in my nature; but no more than that. No matter what I once was in
Europe, I was not here—not, as I said, until last night. Ah,
Monsieur! Ah, Monsieur!" Now her hands were beating together.</p>
<p>"But <i>why</i> then? Why <i>then</i>? What do you mean?" I
demanded.</p>
<p>"Because no other way sufficed. All this winter, here, alone, I
have planned and thought about other means. Nothing would do. There
was but the one way. Now you see why I did not go to Mr. Calhoun,
why I kept my presence here secret."</p>
<p>"But you saw Elisabeth?"</p>
<p>"Yes, long ago. My friend, you have won! You both have won, and
I have lost. She loves you, and is worthy of you. You are worthy of
each other, yes. I saw I had lost; and I told you I would pay my
wager. I told you I would give you her—and Oregon! Well,
then, that last was—hard." She choked. "That was—hard
to do." She almost sobbed. "But I have—paid! Heart and soul
... and <i>body</i> ... I have ... <i>paid</i>! Now, he comes ...
for ... the <i>price</i>!"</p>
<p>"But then—but then!" I expostulated. "What does this mean,
that I see here? There was no need for this. Had you no friends
among us? Why, though it meant war, I myself to-night would choke
that beast Pakenham with my own hands!"</p>
<p>"No, you will not."</p>
<p>"But did I not hear him say there was a key—<i>his</i>
key—to-night?"</p>
<p>"Yes, England once owned that key. Now, <i>he</i> does. Yes, it
is true. Since yesterday. Now, he comes ..."</p>
<p>"But, Madam—ah, how could you so disappoint my belief in
you?"</p>
<p>"Because"—she smiled bitterly—"in all great causes
there are sacrifices."</p>
<p>"But no cause could warrant this."</p>
<p>"I was judge of that," was her response. "I saw
her—Elisabeth—that girl. Then I saw what the future
years meant for me. I tell you, I vowed with her, that night when I
thought you two were wedded. I did more. I vowed myself to a new
and wider world that night. Now, I have lost it. After all, seeing
I could not now be a woman and be happy, I—Monsieur—I
pass on to others, after this, not that torture of life, but that
torturing <i>principle</i> of which we so often spoke. Yes, I, even
as I am; because by this—this act—this
sacrifice—I can win you for her. And I can win that wider
America which you have coveted; which I covet for you—which I
covet <i>with</i> you!"</p>
<p>I could do no more than remain silent, and allow her to explain
what was not in the least apparent to me. After a time she went
on.</p>
<p>"Now—now, I say—Pakenham the minister is sunk in
Pakenham the man. He does as I demand—because he is a man. He
signs what I demand because I am a woman. I say,
to-night—but, see!"</p>
<p>She hastened now to a little desk, and caught up a folded
document which lay there. This she handed to me, unfolded, and I
ran it over with a hasty glance. It was a matter of tremendous
importance which lay in those few closely written lines.</p>
<p>England's minister offered, over the signature of England, a
compromise of the whole Oregon debate, provided this country would
accept the line of the forty-ninth degree! That, then, was
Pakenham's price for this key that lay here.</p>
<p>"This—this is all I have been able to do with him thus
far," she faltered. "It is not enough. But I did it for you!"</p>
<p>"Madam, this is more than all America has been able to do
before! This has not been made public?"</p>
<p>"No, no! It is not enough. But to-night I shall make him
surrender all—all north, to the very ice, for America, for
the democracy! See, now, I was born to be devoted, immolated, after
all, as my mother was before me. That is fate! But I shall make
fate pay! Ah, Monsieur! Ah, Monsieur!"</p>
<p>She flung herself to her feet. "I can get it all for you, you
and yours!" she reiterated, holding out her hands, the little pink
fingers upturned, as was often her gesture. "You shall go to your
chief and tell him that Mr. Polk was right—that you yourself,
who taught Helena von Ritz what life is, taught her that after all
she was a woman—are able, because she was a woman, to bring
in your own hands all that country, yes, to fifty-four forty, or
even farther. I do not know what all can be done. I only know that
a fool will part with everything for the sake of his body."</p>
<p>I stood now looking at her, silent, trying to fathom the
vastness of what she said, trying to understand at all their worth
the motives which impelled her. The largeness of her plan, yes,
that could be seen. The largeness of her heart and brain, yes, that
also. Then, slowly, I saw yet more. At last I understood. What I
saw was a horror to my soul.</p>
<p>"Madam," said I to her, at last, "did you indeed think me so
cheap as that? Come here!" I led her to the central apartment, and
motioned her to a seat.</p>
<p>"Now, then, Madam, much has been done here, as you say. It is
all that ever can be done. You shall not see Pakenham to-night, nor
ever again!"</p>
<p>"But think what that will cost you!" she broke out. "This is
only part. It should <i>all</i> be yours."</p>
<p>I flung the document from me. "This has already cost too much,"
I said. "We do not buy states thus."</p>
<p>"But it will cost you your future! Polk is your enemy, now, as
he is Calhoun's. He will not strike you now, but so soon as he
dares, he will. Now, if you could do this—if you could take
this to Mr. Calhoun, to America, it would mean for you personally
all that America could give you in honors."</p>
<p>"Honors without honor, Madam, I do not covet," I replied. Then I
would have bit my tongue through when I saw the great pallor cross
her face at the cruelty of my speech.</p>
<p>"And <i>myself</i>?" she said, spreading out her hands again.
"But no! I know you would not taunt me. I know, in spite of what
you say, there must be a sacrifice. Well, then, I have made it. I
have made my atonement. I say I can give you now, even thus, at
least a part of Oregon. I can perhaps give you <i>all</i> of
Oregon—to-morrow! The Pakenhams have always dared much to
gain their ends. This one will dare even treachery to his country.
To-morrow—if I do not kill him—if I do not die—I
can perhaps give you all of Oregon—bought—bought and
... paid!" Her voice trailed off into a whisper which seemed loud
as a bugle call to me.</p>
<p>"No, you can not give us Oregon," I answered. "We are men, not
panders. We fight; we do not traffic thus. But you have given me
Elisabeth!"</p>
<p>"My rival!" She smiled at me in spite of all. "But no, not my
rival. Yes, I have already given you her and given you to her. To
do that—to atone, as I said, for my attempt to part
you—well, I will give Mr. Pakenham the key that Sir Richard
Pakenham of England lately held. I told you a woman pays,
<i>body</i> and soul! In what coin fate gave me, I will pay it. You
think my morals mixed. No, I tell you I am clean! I have only
bought my own peace with my own conscience! Now, at last, Helena
von Ritz knows why she was born, to what end! I have a work to do,
and, yes, I see it now—my journey to America after all was
part of the plan of fate. I have learned much—through you,
Monsieur."</p>
<p>Hurriedly she turned and left me, passing through the heavy
draperies which cut off the room where stood the great satin couch.
I saw her cast herself there, her arms outflung. Slow, deep and
silent sobs shook all her body.</p>
<p>"Madam! Madam!" I cried to her. "Do not! Do not! What you have
done here is worth a hundred millions of dollars, a hundred
thousand of lives, perhaps. Yes, that is true. It means most of
Oregon, with honor, and without war. That is true, and it is much.
But the price paid—it is more than all this continent is
worth, if it cost so much as that Nor shall it!"</p>
<p>Black, with a million pin-points of red, the world swam around
me. Millions of dead souls or souls unborn seemed to gaze at me and
my unhesitating rage. I caught up the scroll which bore England's
signature, and with one clutch cast it in two pieces on the floor.
As it lay, we gazed at it in silence. Slowly, I saw a great, soft
radiance come upon her face. The red pin-points cleared away from
my own vision.</p>
<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XXXIII" id="CHAPTER_XXXIII"></a>CHAPTER
XXXIII</h2>
<h3>THE STORY OF HELENA VON RITZ</h3>
<div class="blockquot">
<p>There is in every true woman's heart a spark of heavenly fire,
which beams and blazes in the dark hours of
adversity.—<i>Washington Irving</i>.</p>
</div>
<p>"But Madam; but Madam—" I tried to begin. At last, after
moments which seemed to me ages long, I broke out: "But once, at
least, you promised to tell me who and what you are. Will you do
that now?"</p>
<p>"Yes! yes!" she said. "Now I shall finish the clearing of my
soul. You, after all, shall be my confessor."</p>
<p>We heard again a faltering footfall in the hallway. I raised an
eyebrow in query.</p>
<p>"It is my father. Yes, but let him come. He also must hear. He
is indeed the author of my story, such as it is.</p>
<p>"Father," she added, "come, sit you here. I have something to
say to Mr. Trist."</p>
<p>She seated herself now on one of the low couches, her hands
clasped across its arm, her eyes looking far away out of the little
window, beyond which could be seen the hills across the wide
Potomac.</p>
<p>"We are foreigners," she went on, "as you can tell. I speak your
language better than my father does, because I was younger when I
learned. It is quite true he is my father. He is an Austrian
nobleman, of one of the old families. He was educated in Germany,
and of late has lived there."</p>
<p>"I could have told most of that of you both," I said.</p>
<p>She bowed and resumed:</p>
<p>"My father was always a student. As a young man in the
university, he was devoted to certain theories of his own.
<i>N'est-ce pas vrai, mon drôle?</i>" she asked, turning to
put her arm on her father's shoulder as he dropped weakly on the
couch beside her.</p>
<p>He nodded. "Yes, I wass student," he said. "I wass not content
with the ways of my people."</p>
<p>"So, my father, you will see," said she, smiling at him, "being
much determined on anything which he attempted, decided, with five
others, to make a certain experiment. It was the strangest
experiment, I presume, ever made in the interest of what is called
science. It was wholly the most curious and the most cruel thing
ever done."</p>
<p>She hesitated now. All I could do was to look from one to the
other, wonderingly.</p>
<p>"This dear old dreamer, my father, then, and five
others—"</p>
<p>"I name them!" he interrupted. "There were Karl von Goertz,
Albrecht Hardman, Adolph zu Sternbern, Karl von Starnack, and
Rudolph von Wardberg. We were all friends—"</p>
<p>"Yes," she said softly, "all friends, and all fools. Sometimes I
think of my mother."</p>
<p>"My dear, your mother!"</p>
<p>"But I must tell this as it was! Then, sir, these six, all
Heidelberg men, all well born, men of fortune, all men devoted to
science, and interested in the study of the hopelessness of the
average human being in Central Europe—these fools, or heroes,
I say not which—they decided to do something in the interest
of science. They were of the belief that human beings were becoming
poor in type. So they determined to marry—"</p>
<p>"Naturally," said I, seeking to relieve a delicate
situation—"they scorned the marriage of
convenience—they came to our American way of thinking, that
they would marry for love."</p>
<p>"You do them too much credit!" said she slowly. "That would have
meant no sacrifice on either side. They married in the interest of
<i>science!</i> They married with the deliberate intention of
improving individuals of the human species! Father, is it not
so?"</p>
<p>Some speech stumbled on his tongue; but she raised her hand.
"Listen to me. I will be fair to you, fairer than you were either
to yourself or to my mother.</p>
<p>"Yes, these six concluded to improve the grade of human animals!
They resolved to marry <i>among the peasantry</i>—because
thus they could select finer specimens of womankind, younger,
stronger, more fit to bring children into the world. Is not that
the truth, my father?"</p>
<p>"It wass the way we thought," he whispered. "It wass the way we
thought wass wise."</p>
<p>"And perhaps it was wise. It was selection. So now they
selected. Two of them married German working girls, and those two
are dead, but there is no child of them alive. Two married in
Austria, and of these one died, and the other is in a mad house.
One married a young Galician girl, and so fond of her did he become
that she took him down from his station to hers, and he was lost.
The other—"</p>
<p>"Yes; it was my father," she said, at length. "There he sits, my
father. Yes, I love him. I would forfeit my life for him
now—I would lay it down gladly for him. Better had I done so.
But in my time I have hated him.</p>
<p>"He, the last one, searched long for this fitting animal to lead
to the altar. He was tall and young and handsome and rich, do you
see? He could have chosen among his own people any woman he liked.
Instead, he searched among the Galicians, the lower Austrians, the
Prussians. He examined Bavaria and Saxony. Many he found, but still
none to suit his scientific ideas. He bethought him then of
searching among the Hungarians, where, it is said, the most
beautiful women of the world are found. So at last he found her,
that peasant, <i>my mother!</i>"</p>
<p>The silence in the room was broken at last by her low, even,
hopeless voice as she went on.</p>
<p>"Now the Hungarians are slaves to Austria. They do as they are
bid, those who live on the great estates. They have no hope. If
they rebel, they are cut down. They are not a people. They belong
to no one, not even to themselves."</p>
<p>"My God!" said I, a sigh breaking from me in spite of myself. I
raised my hand as though to beseech her not to go on. But she
persisted.</p>
<p>"Yes, we, too, called upon <i>our</i> gods! So, now, my father
came among that people and found there a young girl, one much
younger than himself. She was the most beautiful, so they say, of
all those people, many of whom are very beautiful."</p>
<p>"Yes—proof of that!" said I. She knew I meant no idle
flattery.</p>
<p>"Yes, she was beautiful. But at first she did not fancy to marry
this Austrian student nobleman. She said no to him, even when she
found who he was and what was his station—even when she found
that he meant her no dishonor. But our ruler heard of it, and,
being displeased at this mockery of the traditions of the court,
and wishing in his sardonic mind to teach these fanatical young
nobles to rue well their bargain, he sent word to the girl that she
<i>must</i> marry this man—my father. It was made an imperial
order!</p>
<p>"And so now, at last, since he was half crazed by her beauty, as
men are sometimes by the beauty of women, and since at last this
had its effect with her, as sometimes it does with women, and since
it was perhaps death or some severe punishment if she did not obey,
she married him—my father."</p>
<p>"And loved me all her life!" the old man broke out. "Nefer had
man love like hers, I will haf it said. I will haf it said that she
loved me, always and always; and I loved <i>her</i> always, with
all my heart!"</p>
<p>"Yes," said Helena von Ritz, "they two loved each other, even as
they were. So here am I, born of that love."</p>
<p>Now we all sat silent for a time. "That birth was at my father's
estates," resumed the same even, merciless voice. "After some short
time of travels, they returned to the estates; and, yes, there I
was born, half noble, half peasant; and then there began the most
cruel thing the world has ever known.</p>
<p>"The nobles of the court and of the country all around began to
make existence hideous for my mother. The aristocracy, insulted by
the republicanism of these young noblemen, made life a hell for the
most gentle woman of Hungary. Ah, they found new ways to make her
suffer. They allowed her to share in my father's estate, allowed
her to appear with him when he could prevail upon her to do so.
Then they twitted and taunted her and mocked her in all the
devilish ways of their class. She was more beautiful than any court
beauty of them all, and they hated her for that. She had a good
mind, and they hated her for that. She had a faithful, loyal heart,
and they hated her for that. And in ways more cruel than any man
will ever know, women and men made her feel that hate, plainly and
publicly, made her admit that she was chosen as breeding stock and
nothing better. Ah, it was the jest of Europe, for a time. They
insulted my mother, and that became the jest of the court, of all
Vienna. She dared not go alone from the castle. She dared not
travel alone."</p>
<p>"But your father resented this?"</p>
<p>She nodded. "Duel after duel he fought, man after man he killed,
thanks to his love for her and his manhood. He would not release
what he loved. He would not allow his class to separate him from
his choice. But the <i>women!</i> Ah, he could not fight them! So I
have hated women, and made war on them all my life. My father could
not placate his Emperor. So, in short, that scientific experiment
ended in misery—and me!"</p>
<p>The room had grown dimmer. The sun was sinking as she talked.
There was silence, I know, for a long time before she spoke
again.</p>
<p>"In time, then, my father left his estates and went out to a
small place in the country; but my mother—her heart was
broken. Malice pursued her. Those who were called her superiors
would not let her alone. See, he weeps, my father, as he thinks of
these things.</p>
<p>"There was cause, then, to weep. For two years, they tell me, my
mother wept Then she died. She gave me, a baby, to her friend, a
woman of her village—Threlka Mazoff. You have seen her. She
has been my mother ever since. She has been the sole guardian I
have known all my life. She has not been able to do with me as she
would have liked."</p>
<p>"You did not live at your own home with your father?" I
asked.</p>
<p>"For a time. I grew up. But my father, I think, was permanently
shocked by the loss of the woman he had loved and whom he had
brought into all this cruelty. She had been so lovable, so
beautiful—she was so beautiful, my mother! So they sent me
away to France, to the schools. I grew up, I presume, proof in part
of the excellence of my father's theory. They told me that I was a
beautiful animal!"</p>
<p>The contempt, the scorn, the pathos—the whole tragedy of
her voice and bearing—were such as I can not set down on
paper, and such as I scarce could endure to hear. Never in my life
before have I felt such pity for a human being, never so much
desire to do what I might in sheer compassion.</p>
<p>But now, how clear it all became to me! I could understand many
strange things about the character of this singular woman, her
whims, her unaccountable moods, her seeming carelessness, yet,
withal, her dignity and sweetness and air of breeding—above
all her mysteriousness. Let others judge her for themselves. There
was only longing in my heart that I might find some word of
comfort. What could comfort her? Was not life, indeed, for her to
remain a perpetual tragedy?</p>
<p>"But, Madam," said I, at length, "you must not wrong your father
and your mother and yourself. These two loved each other devotedly.
Well, what more? You are the result of a happy marriage. You are
beautiful, you are splendid, by that reason."</p>
<p>"Perhaps. Even when I was sixteen, I was beautiful," she mused.
"I have heard rumors of that. But I say to you that then I was only
a beautiful animal. Also, I was a vicious animal I had in my heart
all the malice which my mother never spoke. I felt in my soul the
wish to injure women, to punish men, to torment them, to make them
pay! To set even those balances of torture!—ah, that was my
ambition! I had not forgotten that, when I first met you, when I
first heard of—her, the woman whom you love, whom already in
your savage strong way you have wedded—the woman whose vows I
spoke with her—I—I, Helena von Ritz, with history such
as mine!</p>
<p>"Father, father,"—she turned to him swiftly;
"rise—go! I can not now speak before you. Leave us alone
until I call!"</p>
<p>Obedient as though he had been the child and she the parent, the
old man rose and tottered feebly from the room.</p>
<p>"There are things a woman can not say in the presence of a
parent," she said, turning to me. Her face twitched. "It takes all
my bravery to talk to you."</p>
<p>"Why should you? There is not need. Do not!"</p>
<p>"Ah, I must, because it is fair," said she. "I have lost, lost!
I told you I would pay my wager."</p>
<p>After a time she turned her face straight toward mine and went
on with her old splendid bravery.</p>
<p>"So, now, you see, when I was young and beautiful I had rank and
money. I had brains. I had hatred of men. I had contempt for the
aristocracy. My heart was peasant after all. My principles were
those of the republican. Revolution was in my soul, I say.
Thwarted, distorted, wretched, unscrupulous, I did what I could to
make hell for those who had made hell for us. I have set dozens of
men by the ears. I have been promised in marriage to I know not how
many. A dozen men have fought to the death in duels over me. For
each such death I had not even a thought. The more troubles I made,
the happier I was. Oh, yes, in time I became known—I had a
reputation; there is no doubt of that.</p>
<p>"But still the organized aristocracy had its revenge—it
had its will of me, after all. There came to me, as there had to my
mother, an imperial order. In punishment for my fancies and
vagaries, I was condemned to marry a certain nobleman. That was the
whim of the new emperor, Ferdinand, the degenerate. He took the
throne when I was but sixteen years of age. He chose for me a
degenerate mate from his own sort." She choked, now.</p>
<p>"You did marry him?"</p>
<p>She nodded. "Yes. Debauché, rake, monster, degenerate,
product of that aristocracy which had oppressed us, I was obliged
to marry him, a man three times my age! I pleaded. I begged. I was
taken away by night. I was—I was—They say I was married
to him. For myself, I did not know where I was or what happened.
But after that they said that I was the wife of this man, a sot, a
monster, the memory only of manhood. Now, indeed, the revenge of
the aristocracy was complete!"</p>
<p>She went on at last in a voice icy cold. "I fled one night, back
to Hungary. For a month they could not find me. I was still young.
I saw my people then as I had not before. I saw also the monarchies
of Europe. Ah, now I knew what oppression meant! Now I knew what
class distinction and special privileges meant! I saw what ruin it
was spelling for our country—what it will spell for your
country, if they ever come to rule here. Ah, then that dream came
to me which had come to my father, that beautiful dream which
justified me in everything I did. My friend, can it—can it in
part justify me—now?</p>
<p>"For the first time, then, I resolved to live! I have loved my
father ever since that time. I pledged myself to continue that work
which he had undertaken! I pledged myself to better the condition
of humanity if I might.</p>
<p>"There was no hope for me. I was condemned and ruined as it was.
My life was gone. Such as I had left, that I resolved to give
to—what shall we call it?-the <i>idée
démocratique</i>.</p>
<p>"Now, may God rest my mother's soul, and mine also, so that some
time I may see her in another world—I pray I may be good
enough for that some time. I have not been sweet and sinless as was
my mother. Fate laid a heavier burden upon me. But what remained
with me throughout was the idea which my father had bequeathed
me—"</p>
<p>"Ah, but also that beauty and sweetness and loyalty which came
to you from your mother," I insisted.</p>
<p>She shook her head. "Wait!" she said. "Now they pursued me as
though I had been a criminal, and they took me back—horsemen
about me who did as they liked. I was, I say, a sacrifice. News of
this came to that man who was my husband. They shamed him into
fighting. He had not the courage of the nobles left. But he heard
of one nobleman against whom he had a special grudge; and him one
night, foully and unfairly, he murdered.</p>
<p>"News of that came to the Emperor. My husband was tried, and,
the case being well known to the public, it was necessary to
convict him for the sake of example. Then, on the day set for his
beheading, the Emperor reprieved him. The hour for the execution
passed, and, being now free for the time, he fled the country. He
went to Africa, and there he so disgraced the state that bore him
that of late times I hear he has been sent for to come back to
Austria. Even yet the Emperor may suspend the reprieve and send him
to the block for his ancient crime. If he had a thousand heads, he
could not atone for the worse crimes he has done!</p>
<p>"But of him, and of his end, I know nothing. So, now, you see, I
was and am wed, and yet am not wed, and never was. I do not know
what I am, nor who I am. After all, I can not tell you who I am, or
what I am, because I myself do not know.</p>
<p>"It was now no longer safe for me in my own country. They would
not let me go to my father any more. As for him, he went on with
his studies, some part of his mind being bright and clear. They did
not wish him about the court now. All these matters were to be
hushed up. The court of England began to take cognizance of these
things. Our government was scandalized. They sent my father, on
pretext of scientific errands, into one country and
another—to Sweden, to England, to Africa, at last to America.
Thus it happened that you met him. You must both have been very
near to meeting me in Montreal. It was fate, as we of Hungary would
say.</p>
<p>"As for me, I was no mere hare-brained radical. I did not go to
Russia, did not join the revolutionary circles of Paris, did not
yet seek out Prussia. That is folly. My father was right. It must
be the years, it must be the good heritage, it must be the good
environment, it must be even opportunity for all, which alone can
produce good human beings! In short, believe me, a victim, <i>the
hope of the world is in a real democracy</i>. Slowly, gradually, I
was coming to believe that."</p>
<p>She paused a moment. "Then, one time, Monsieur,—I met you,
here in this very room! God pity me! You were the first man I had
ever seen. God pity me!—I believe I—loved
you—that night, that very first night! We are friends. We are
brave. You are man and gentleman, so I may say that, now. I am no
longer woman. I am but sacrifice.</p>
<p>"Opportunity must exist, open and free for all the world," she
went on, not looking at me more than I could now at her. "I have
set my life to prove this thing. When I came here to this
America—out of pique, out of a love of adventure, out of
sheer daring and exultation in imposture—<i>then</i> I saw
why I was born, for what purpose! It was to do such work as I might
to prove the theory of my father, and to justify the life of my
mother. For that thing I was born. For that thing I have been
damned on this earth; I may be damned in the life to come, unless I
can make some great atonement. For these I suffer and shall always
suffer. But what of that? There must always be a sacrifice."</p>
<p>The unspeakable tragedy of her voice cut to my soul. "But
listen!" I broke out. "You are young. You are free. All the world
is before you. You can have anything you like—"</p>
<p>"Ah, do not talk to me of that," she exclaimed imperiously. "Do
not tempt me to attempt the deceit of myself! I made myself as I
am, long ago. I did not love. I did not know it. As to marriage, I
did not need it. I had abundant means without. I was in the upper
ranks of society. I was there; I was classified; I lived with them.
But always I had my purposes, my plans. For them I paid, paid,
paid, as a woman must, with—what a woman has.</p>
<p>"But now, I am far ahead of my story. Let me bring it on. I went
to Paris. I have sown some seeds of venom, some seeds of
revolution, in one place or another in Europe in my time. Ah, it
works; it will go! Here and there I have cost a human life. Here
and there work was to be done which I disliked; but I did it.
Misguided, uncared for, mishandled as I had been—well, as I
said, I went to Paris.</p>
<p>"Ah, sir, will you not, too, leave the room, and let me tell on
this story to myself, to my own soul? It is fitter for my confessor
than for you."</p>
<p>"Let me, then, <i>be</i> your confessor!" said I. "Forget!
Forget! You have not been this which you say. Do I not know?"</p>
<p>"No, you do not know. Well, let be. Let me go on! I say I went
to Paris. I was close to the throne of France. That little Duke of
Orleans, son of Louis Philippe, was a puppet in my hands. Oh, I do
not doubt I did mischief in that court, or at least if I failed it
was through no lack of effort! I was called there 'America
Vespucci.' They thought me Italian! At last they came to know who I
was. They dared not make open rupture in the face of the courts of
Europe. Certain of their high officials came to me and my young
Duke of Orleans. They asked me to leave Paris. They did not command
it—the Duke of Orleans cared for that part of it. But they
requested me outside—not in his presence. They offered me a
price, a bribe—such an offering as would, I fancied, leave me
free to pursue my own ideas in my own fashion and in any corner of
the world. You have perhaps seen some of my little fancies. I
imagined that love and happiness were never for me—only
ambition and unrest. With these goes luxury, sometimes. At least
this sort of personal liberty was offered me—the price of
leaving Paris, and leaving the son of Louis Philippe to his own
devices. I did so."</p>
<p>"And so, then you came to Washington? That must have been some
years ago."</p>
<p>"Yes; some five years ago. I still was young. I told you that
you must have known me, and so, no doubt, you did. Did <i>you</i>
ever hear of 'America Vespucci'?"</p>
<p>A smile came to my face at the suggestion of that celebrated
adventuress and mysterious impostress who had figured in the annals
of Washington—a fair Italian, so the rumor ran, who had come
to this country to set up a claim, upon our credulity at least, as
to being the descendant of none less than Amerigo Vespucci himself!
This supposititious Italian had indeed gone so far as to secure the
introduction of a bill in Congress granting to her certain Lands.
The fate of that bill even then hung in the balance. I had no
reason to put anything beyond the audacity of this woman with whom
I spoke! My smile was simply that which marked the eventual voting
down of this once celebrated measure, as merry and as bold a jest
as ever was offered the credulity of a nation—one conceivable
only in the mad and bitter wit of Helena von Ritz!</p>
<p>"Yes, Madam," I said, "I have heard of 'America Vespucci.' I
presume that you are now about to repeat that you are she!"</p>
<p>She nodded, the mischievous enjoyment of her colossal jest
showing in her eyes, in spite of all. "Yes," said she, "among other
things, I have been 'America Vespucci'! There seemed little to do
here in intrigue, and that was my first endeavor to amuse myself.
Then I found other employment. England needed a skilful secret
agent. Why should I be faithful to England? At least, why should I
not also enjoy intrigue with yonder government of Mexico at the
same time? There came also Mr. Van Zandt of this Republic of Texas.
Yes, it is true, I have seen some sport here in Washington! But all
the time as I played in my own little game—with no one to
enjoy it save myself—I saw myself begin to lose. This
country—this great splendid country of savages—began to
take me by the hands, began to look me in the eyes, and to ask me,
'<i>Helena von Ritz, what are you? What might you have
been?</i>'</p>
<p>"So now," she concluded, "you asked me, asked me what I was, and
I have told you. I ask you myself, what am I, what am I to be; and
I say, I am unclean. But, being as I am, I have done what I have
done. It was for a principle—or it was—for you! I do
not know."</p>
<p>"There are those who can be nothing else but clean," I broke
out. "I shall not endure to hear you speak thus of yourself.
You—you, what have you not done for us? Was not your mother
clean in her heart? Sins such as you mention were never those of
scarlet. If you have sinned, your sins are white as snow. I at
least am confessor enough to tell you that."</p>
<p>"Ah, my confessor!" She reached out her hands to me, her eyes
swimming wet. Then she pushed me back suddenly, beating with her
little hands upon my breast as though I were an enemy. "Do not!"
she said. "Go!"</p>
<p>My eye caught sight of the great key, <i>Pakenham's key</i>,
lying there on the table. Maddened, I caught it up, and, with a
quick wrench of my naked hands, broke it in two, and threw the
halves on the floor to join the torn scroll of England's
pledge.</p>
<p>I divided Oregon at the forty-ninth parallel, and not at
fifty-four forty, when I broke Pakenham's key. But you shall see
why I have never regretted that.</p>
<p>"Ask Sir Richard Pakenham if he wants his key <i>now!</i>" I
said.</p>
<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XXXIV" id="CHAPTER_XXXIV"></a>CHAPTER
XXXIV</h2>
<h3>THE VICTORY</h3>
<div class="blockquot">
<p>She will not stay the siege of loving terms,<br />
Nor bide the encounter of assailing eyes,<br />
Nor ope her lap to soul-seducing gold ...<br />
For she is wise, if I can judge of her;<br />
And fair she is, if that mine eyes be true;<br />
And true she is, as she hath proved herself.<br />
<span style=
"margin-left: 18.5em;">—<i>Shakespeare</i>.</span></p>
</div>
<p>"What have you done?" she exclaimed. "Are you mad? He may be
here at any moment now. Go, at once!"</p>
<p>"I shall not go!"</p>
<p>"My house is my own! I am my own!"</p>
<p>"You know it is not true, Madam!"</p>
<p>I saw the slow shudder that crossed her form, the the fringe of
wet which sprang to her eyelashes. Again the pleading gesture of
her half-open fingers.</p>
<p>"Ah, what matter?" she said. "It is only one woman more, against
so much. What is past, is past, Monsieur. Once down, a woman does
not rise."</p>
<p>"You forget history,—you forget the thief upon the
cross!"</p>
<p>"The thief on the cross was not a woman. No, I am guilty beyond
hope!"</p>
<p>"Rather, you are only mad beyond reason, Madam. I shall not go
so long as you feel thus,—although God knows I am no
confessor."</p>
<p>"I confessed to you,—told you my story, so there could be
no bridge across the gulf between us. My happiness ended then."</p>
<p>"It is of no consequence that we be happy, Madam. I give you
back your own words about yon torch of principles."</p>
<p>For a time she sat and looked at me steadily. There was, I say,
some sort of radiance on her face, though I, dull of wit, could
neither understand nor describe it. I only knew that she seemed to
ponder for a long time, seemed to resolve at last. Slowly she rose
and left me, parting the satin draperies which screened her boudoir
from the outer room. There was silence for some time. Perhaps she
prayed,—I do not know.</p>
<p>Now other events took this situation in hand. I heard a footfall
on the walk, a cautious knocking on the great front door. So, my
lord Pakenham was prompt. Now I could not escape even if I
liked.</p>
<p>Pale and calm, she reappeared at the parted draperies. I lifted
the butts of my two derringers into view at my side pockets, and at
a glance from her, hurriedly stepped into the opposite room. After
a time I heard her open the door in response to a second knock.</p>
<p>I could not see her from my station, but the very silence gave
me a picture of her standing, pale, forbidding, rebuking the first
rude exclamation of his ardor.</p>
<p>"Come now, is he gone? Is the place safe at last?" he
demanded.</p>
<p>"Enter, my lord," she said simply.</p>
<p>"This is the hour you said," he began; and she answered:</p>
<p>"My lord, it is the hour."</p>
<p>"But come, what's the matter, then? You act solemn, as though
this were a funeral, and not—just a kiss," I heard him
add.</p>
<p>He must have advanced toward her. Continually I was upon the
point of stepping out from my concealment, but as continually she
left that not quite possible by some word or look or gesture of her
own with him.</p>
<p>"Oh, hang it!" I heard him grumble, at length; "how can one tell
what a woman'll do? Damn it, Helen!"</p>
<p>"'Madam,' you mean!"</p>
<p>"Well, then, Madam, why all this hoighty-toighty? Haven't I
stood flouts and indignities enough from you? Didn't you make a
show of me before that ass, Tyler, when I was at the very point of
my greatest coup? You denied knowledge that I knew you had. But did
I discard you for that? I have found you since then playing with
Mexico, Texas, United States all at once? Have I punished you for
<i>that?</i> No, I have only shown you the more regard."</p>
<p>"My lord, you punish me most when you most show me your
regard."</p>
<p>"Well, God bless my soul, listen at that! Listen at
that—here, now, when I've—Madam, you shock me, you
grieve me. I—could I have a glass of wine?"</p>
<p>I heard her ring for Threlka, heard her fasten the door behind
her as she left, heard him gulp over his glass. For myself,
although I did not yet disclose myself, I felt no doubt that I
should kill Pakenham in these rooms. I even pondered whether I
should shoot him through the temple and cut off his consciousness,
or through the chest and so let him know why he died.</p>
<p>After a time he seemed to look about the room, his eye falling
upon the littered floor.</p>
<p>"My key!" he exclaimed; "broken! Who did that? I can't use it
now!"</p>
<p>"You will not need to use it, my lord."</p>
<p>"But I bought it, yesterday! Had I given you all of the Oregon
country it would not have been worth twenty thousand pounds. What
I'll have to-night—what I'll take—will be worth twice
that. But I bought that key, and what I buy I keep."</p>
<p>I heard a struggle, but she repulsed him once more in some way.
Still my time had not come. He seemed now to stoop, grunting, to
pick up something from the floor.</p>
<p>"How now? My memorandum of treaty, and torn in two! Oh, I
see—I see," he mused. "You wish to give it back to
me—to be wholly free! It means only that you wish to love me
for myself, for what I am! You minx!"</p>
<p>"You mistake, my lord," said her calm, cold voice.</p>
<p>"At least, 'twas no mistake that I offered you this damned
country at risk of my own head. Are you then with England and Sir
Richard Pakenham? Will you give my family a chance for revenge on
these accursed heathen—these Americans? Come, do that, and I
leave this place with you, and quit diplomacy for good. We'll
travel the continent, we'll go the world over, you and I. I'll quit
my estates, my family for you. Come, now, why do you delay?"</p>
<p>"Still you misunderstand, my lord."</p>
<p>"Tell me then what you do mean."</p>
<p>"Our old bargain over this is broken, my lord. We must make
another."</p>
<p>His anger rose. "What? You want more? You're trying to lead me
on with your damned courtezan tricks!"</p>
<p>I heard her voice rise high and shrill, even as I started
forward.</p>
<p>"Monsieur," she cried, "back with you!"</p>
<p>Pakenham, angered as he was, seemed half to hear my footsteps,
seemed half to know the swinging of the draperies, even as I
stepped back in obedience to her gesture. Her wit was quick as
ever.</p>
<p>"My lord," she said, "pray close yonder window. The draft is
bad, and, moreover, we should have secrecy." He obeyed her, and she
led him still further from the thought of investigating his
surroundings.</p>
<p>"Now, my lord," she said, "<i>take back</i> what you have just
said!"</p>
<p>"Under penalty?" he sneered.</p>
<p>"Of your life, yes."</p>
<p>"So!" he grunted admiringly; "well, now, I like fire in a woman,
even a deceiving light-o'-love like you!"</p>
<p>"Monsieur!" her voice cried again; and once more it restrained
me in my hiding.</p>
<p>"You devil!" he resumed, sneering now in all his ugliness of
wine and rage and disappointment. "What were <i>you?</i> Mistress
of the prince of France! Toy of a score of nobles! Slave of that
infamous rake, your husband! Much you've got in your life to make
you uppish now with me!"</p>
<p>"My lord," she said evenly, "retract that. If you do not, you
shall not leave this place alive."</p>
<p>In some way she mastered him, even in his ugly mood.</p>
<p>"Well, well," he growled, "I admit we don't get on very well in
our little love affair; but I swear you drive me out of my mind.
I'll never find another woman in the world like you. It's Sir
Richard Pakenham asks you to begin a new future with himself."</p>
<p>"We begin no future, my lord."</p>
<p>"What do you mean? Have you lied to me? Do you mean to break
your word—your promise?"</p>
<p>"It is within the hour that I have learned what the truth
is."</p>
<p>"God damn my soul!" I heard him curse, growling.</p>
<p>"Yes, my lord," she answered, "God will damn your soul in so far
as it is that of a brute and not that of a gentleman or a
statesman."</p>
<p>I heard him drop into a chair. "This from one of your sort!" he
half whimpered.</p>
<p>"Stop, now!" she cried. "Not one word more of that! I say within
the hour I have learned what is the truth. I am Helena von Ritz,
thief on the cross, and at last clean!"</p>
<p>"God A'might, Madam! How pious!" he sneered. "Something's behind
all this. I know your record. What woman of the court of Austria or
France comes out with <i>morals?</i> We used you here because you
had none. And now, when it comes to the settlement between you and
me, you talk like a nun. As though a trifle from virtue such as
yours would be missed!"</p>
<p>"Ah, my God!" I heard her murmur. Then again she called to me,
as he thought to himself; so that all was as it had been, for the
time.</p>
<p>A silence fell before she went on.</p>
<p>"Sir Richard," she said at length, "we do not meet again. I
await now your full apology for these things you have said. Such
secrets as I have learned of England's, you know will remain safe
with me. Also your own secret will be safe. Retract, then, what you
have said, of my personal life!"</p>
<p>"Oh, well, then," he grumbled, "I admit I've had a bit of wine
to-day. I don't mean much of anything by it. But here now, I have
come, and by your own invitation—your own agreement. Being
here, I find this treaty regarding Oregon torn in two and you gone
nun all a-sudden."</p>
<p>"Yes, my lord, it is torn in two. The consideration moving to it
was not valid. But now I wish you to amend that treaty once more,
and for a consideration valid in every way. My lord, I promised
that which was not mine to give—myself! Did you lay hand on
me now, I should die. If you kissed me, I should kill you and
myself! As you say, I took yonder price, the devil's shilling. Did
I go on, I would be enlisting for the damnation of my soul; but I
will not go on. I recant!"</p>
<p>"But, good God! woman, what are you asking <i>now?</i> Do you
want me to let you have this paper anyhow, to show old John
Calhoun? I'm no such ass as that. I apologize for what I've said
about you. I'll be your friend, because I can't let you go. But as
to this paper here, I'll put it in my pocket."</p>
<p>"My lord, you will do nothing of the kind. Before you leave this
room there shall be two miracles done. You shall admit that one has
gone on in me; I shall see that you yourself have done
another."</p>
<p>"What guessing game do you propose, Madam?" he sneered. He
seemed to toss the torn paper on the table, none the less. "The
condition is forfeited," he began.</p>
<p>"No, it is not forfeited except by your own word, my lord,"
rejoined the same even, icy voice. "You shall see now the first
miracle!"</p>
<p>"Under duress?" he sneered again.</p>
<p>"<i>Yes</i>, then! Under duress of what has not often come to
surface in you, Sir Richard. I ask you to do truth, and not
treason, my lord! She who was Helena von Ritz is dead—has
passed away. There can be no question of forfeit between you and
her. Look, my lord!"</p>
<p>I heard a half sob from him. I heard a faint rustling of silks
and laces. Still her even, icy voice went on.</p>
<p>"Rise, now, Sir Richard," she said. "Unfasten my girdle, if you
like! Undo my clasps, if you can. You say you know my past. Tell
me, do you see me now? Ungird me, Sir Richard! Look at me! Covet
me! Take me!"</p>
<p>Apparently he half rose, shuffled towards her, and stopped with
a stifled sound, half a sob, half a growl.</p>
<p>I dared not picture to myself what he must have seen as she
stood fronting him, her hands, as I imagined, at her bosom, tearing
back her robes.</p>
<p>Again I heard her voice go on, challenging him. "Strip me now,
Sir Richard, if you can! Take now what you bought, if you find it
here. You can not? You do not? Ah, then tell me that miracle has
been done! She who was Helena von Ritz, as you knew her, or as you
thought you knew her, <i>is not here!</i>"</p>
<p>Now fell long silence. I could hear the breathing of them both,
where I stood in the farther corner of my room. I had dropped both
the derringers back in my pockets now, because I knew there would
be no need for them. Her voice was softer as she went on.</p>
<p>"Tell me, Sir Richard, has not that miracle been done?" she
demanded. "Might not in great stress that thief upon the cross have
been a woman? Tell me, Sir Richard, am I not clean?"</p>
<p>He flung his body into a seat, his arm across the table. I heard
his groan.</p>
<p>"God! Woman! What are you?" he exclaimed. "Clean? By God, yes,
as a lily! I wish I were half as white myself."</p>
<p>"Sir Richard, did you ever love a woman?"</p>
<p>"One other, beside yourself, long ago."</p>
<p>"May not we two ask that other miracle of yourself?"</p>
<p>"How do you mean? You have beaten me already."</p>
<p>"Why, then, this! If I could keep my promise, I would. If I
could give you myself, I would. Failing that, I may give you
gratitude. Sir Richard, I would give you gratitude, did you restore
this treaty as it was, for that new consideration. Come, now, these
savages here are the same savages who once took that little island
for you yonder. Twice they have defeated you. Do you wish a third
war? You say England wishes slavery abolished. As you know, Texas
is wholly lost to England. The armies of America have swept Texas
from your reach for ever, even at this hour. But if you give a new
state in the north to these same savages, you go so far against
oppression, against slavery—you do <i>that</i> much for the
doctrine of England, and her altruism in the world. Sir Richard,
never did I believe in hard bargains, and never did any great soul
believe in such. I own to you that when I asked you here this
afternoon I intended to wheedle from you all of Oregon north to
fifty-four degrees, forty minutes. I find in you done some such
miracle as in myself. Neither of us is so bad as the world has
thought, as we ourselves have thought. Do then, that other miracle
for me. Let us compose our quarrel, and so part friends."</p>
<p>"How do you mean, Madam?"</p>
<p>"Let us divide our dispute, and stand on this treaty as you
wrote it yesterday. Sir Richard, you are minister with
extraordinary powers. Your government ratifies your acts without
question. Your signature is binding—and there it is, writ
already on this scroll. See, there are wafers there on the table
before you. Take them. Patch together this treaty for me. That will
be <i>your</i> miracle, Sir Richard, and 'twill be the mending of
our quarrel. Sir, I offered you my body and you would not take it.
I offer you my hand. Will you have <i>that</i>, my lord? I ask this
of a gentleman of England."</p>
<p>It was not my right to hear the sounds of a man's shame and
humiliation; or of his rising resolve, of his reformed manhood; but
I did hear it all. I think that he took her hand and kissed it.
Presently I heard some sort of shufflings and crinkling of paper on
the table. I heard him sigh, as though he stood and looked at his
work. His heavy footfalls crossed the room as though he sought hat
and stick. Her lighter feet, as I heard, followed him, as though
she held out both her hands to him. There was a pause, and yet
another; and so, with a growling half sob, at last he passed out
the door; and she closed it softly after him.</p>
<p>When I entered, she was standing, her arms spread out across the
door, her face pale, her eyes large and dark, her attire still
disarrayed. On the table, as I saw, lay a parchment, mended with
wafers.</p>
<p>Slowly she came, and put her two arms across my shoulders.
"Monsieur!" she said, "Monsieur!"</p>
<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XXXV" id="CHAPTER_XXXV"></a>CHAPTER XXXV</h2>
<h3>THE PROXY OF PAKENHAM</h3>
<div class="blockquot">
<p>A man can not possess anything that is better than a good woman,
nor anything that is worse than a bad
one.—<i>Simonides</i>.</p>
</div>
<p>When I reached the central part of the city, I did not hasten
thence to Elmhurst Mansion. Instead, I returned to my hotel. I did
not now care to see any of my friends or even to take up matters of
business with my chief. It is not for me to tell what feelings came
to me when I left Helena von Ritz.</p>
<p>Sleep such as I could gain, reflections such as were inevitable,
occupied me for all that night. It was mid-morning of the following
day when finally I once more sought out Mr. Calhoun.</p>
<p>He had not expected me, but received me gladly. It seemed that
he had gone on about his own plans and with his own methods. "The
Señora Yturrio is doing me the honor of an early morning
call," he began. "She is with my daughter in another part of the
house. As there is matter of some importance to come up, I shall
ask you to attend."</p>
<p>He despatched a servant, and presently the lady mentioned joined
us. She was a pleasing picture enough in her robe of black laces
and sulphur-colored silks, but her face was none too happy, and her
eyes, it seemed to me, bore traces either of unrest or tears. Mr.
Calhoun handed her to a chair, where she began to use her languid
but effective fan.</p>
<p>"Now, it gives us the greatest regret, my dear Señora,"
began Mr. Calhoun, "to have General Almonte and your husband return
to their own country. We have valued, their presence here very
much, and I regret the disruption of the friendly relations between
our countries."</p>
<p>She made any sort of gesture with her fan, and he went on: "It
is the regret also of all, my dear lady, that your husband seems so
shamelessly to have abandoned you. I am quite aware, if you will
allow me to be so frank, that you need some financial
assistance."</p>
<p>"My country is ruined," said she. "Also, Señor, I am
ruined. As you say, I have no means of life. I have not even money
to secure my passage home. That Señor Van Zandt—"</p>
<p>"Yes, Van Zandt did much for us, through your agency,
Señora. We have benefited by that, and I therefore regret he
proved faithless to you personally. I am sorry to tell you that he
has signified his wish to join our army against your country. I
hear also that your late friend, Mr. Polk, has forgotten most of
his promises to you."</p>
<p>"Him I hate also!" she broke out. "He broke his promise to
Señor Van Zandt, to my husband, to me!"</p>
<p>Calhoun smiled in his grim fashion. "I am not surprised to hear
all that, my dear lady, for you but point out a known
characteristic of that gentleman. He has made me many promises
which he has forgotten, and offered me even of late distinguished
honors which he never meant me to accept. But, since I have been
personally responsible for many of these things which have gone
forward, I wish to make what personal amends I can; and ever I
shall thank you for the good which you have done to this country.
Believe me, Madam, you served your own country also in no ill
manner. This situation could not have been prevented, and it is not
your fault. I beg you to believe that. Had you and I been left
alone there would have been no war."</p>
<p>"But I am poor, I have nothing!" she rejoined.</p>
<p>There was indeed much in her situation to excite sympathy. It
had been through her own act that negotiations between England and
Texas were broken off. All chance of Mexico to regain property in
Texas was lost through her influence with Van Zandt. Now, when all
was done, here she was, deserted even by those who had been her
allies in this work.</p>
<p>"My dear Señora," said John Calhoun, becoming less formal
and more kindly, "you shall have funds sufficient to make you
comfortable at least for a time after your return to Mexico. I am
not authorized to draw upon our exchequer, and you, of course, must
prefer all secrecy in these matters. I regret that my personal
fortune is not so large as it might be, but, in such measure as I
may, I shall assist you, because I know you need assistance. In
return, you must leave this country. The flag is down which once
floated over the house of Mexico here."</p>
<p>She hid her face behind her fan, and Calhoun turned aside.</p>
<p>"Señora, have you ever seen this slipper?" he asked,
suddenly placing upon the table the little shoe which for a purpose
I had brought with me and meantime thrown upon the table.</p>
<p>She flashed a dark look, and did not speak.</p>
<p>"One night, some time ago, your husband pursued a lady across
this town to get possession of that very slipper and its contents!
There was in the toe of that little shoe a message. As you know, we
got from it certain information, and therefore devised certain
plans, which you have helped us to carry out. Now, as perhaps you
have had some personal animus against the other lady in these same
complicated affairs, I have taken the liberty of sending a special
messenger to ask her presence here this morning. I should like you
two to meet, and, if that be possible, to part with such friendship
as may exist in the premises."</p>
<p>I looked suddenly at Mr. Calhoun. It seemed he was planning
without my aid.</p>
<p>"Yes," he said to me, smiling, "I have neglected to mention to
you that the Baroness von Ritz also is here, in another apartment
of this place. If you please, I shall now send for her also."</p>
<p>He signaled to his old negro attendant. Presently the latter
opened the door, and with a deep bow announced the Baroness von
Ritz, who entered, followed closely by Mr. Calhoun's inseparable
friend, old Doctor Ward.</p>
<p>The difference in breeding between these two women was to be
seen at a glance. The Doña Lucrezia was beautiful in a way,
but lacked the thoroughbred quality which comes in the highest
types of womanhood. Afflicted by nothing but a somewhat mercenary
or personal grief, she showed her lack of gameness in adversity. On
the other hand, Helena von Ritz, who had lived tragedy all her
life, and now was in the climax of such tragedy, was smiling and
debonaire as though she had never been anything but wholly content
with life! She was robed now in some light filmy green material,
caught up here and there on the shoulders and secured with silken
knots. Her white neck showed, her arms were partly bare with the
short sleeves of the time. She stood, composed and easy, a figure
fit for any company or any court, and somewhat shaming our little
assembly, which never was a court at all, only a private meeting in
the office of a discredited and disowned leader in a republican
government. Her costume and her bearing were Helena von Ritz's
answer to a woman's fate! A deep color flamed in her cheeks. She
stood with head erect and lips smiling brilliantly. Her curtsey was
grace itself. Our dingy little office was glorified.</p>
<p>"I interrupt you, gentlemen," she began.</p>
<p>"On the contrary, I am sure, my dear lady," said Doctor Ward,
"Senator Calhoun told me he wished you to meet Señora
Yturrio."</p>
<p>"Yes," resumed Calhoun, "I was just speaking with this lady over
some matters concerned with this Little slipper." He smiled as he
held it up gingerly between thumb and finger. "Do you recognize it,
Madam Baroness?"</p>
<p>"Ah, my little shoe!" she exclaimed. "But see, it has not been
well cared for."</p>
<p>"It traveled in my war bag from Oregon to Washington," said I.
"Perhaps bullet molds and powder flasks may have damaged it."</p>
<p>"It still would serve as a little post-office, perhaps," laughed
the baroness. "But I think its days are done on such errands."</p>
<p>"I will explain something of these errands to the Señora
Yturrio," said Calhoun. "I wish you personally to say to that lady,
if you will, that Señor Yturrio regarded this little
receptacle rather as official than personal post."</p>
<p>For one moment these two women looked at each other, with that
on their faces which would be hard to describe. At last the
baroness spoke:</p>
<p>"It is not wholly my fault, Señora Yturrio, if your
husband gave you cause to think there was more than diplomacy
between us. At least, I can say to you that it was the sport of it
alone, the intrigue, if you please, which interested me. I trust
you will not accuse me beyond this."</p>
<p>A stifled exclamation came from the Doña Lucrezia. I have
never seen more sadness nor yet more hatred on a human face than
hers displayed. I have said that she was not thoroughbred. She
arose now, proud as ever, it is true, but vicious. She declined
Helena von Ritz's outstretched hand, and swept us a curtsey.
"<i>Adios!</i>" said she. "I go!"</p>
<p>Mr. Calhoun gravely offered her an arm; and so with a rustle of
her silks there passed from our lives one unhappy lady who helped
make our map for us.</p>
<p>The baroness herself turned. "I ought not to remain," she
hesitated.</p>
<p>"Madam," said Mr. Calhoun, "we can not spare you yet."</p>
<p>She flashed upon him a keen look. "It is a young country," said
she, "but it raises statesmen. You foolish, dear Americans! One
could have loved you all."</p>
<p>"Eh, what?" said Doctor Ward, turning to her. "My dear lady, two
of us are too old for that; and as for the other—"</p>
<p>He did not know how hard this chance remark might smite, but as
usual Helena von Ritz was brave and smiling.</p>
<p>"You are men," said she, "such as we do not have in our courts
of Europe. Men and women—that is what this country
produces."</p>
<p>"Madam," said Calhoun, "I myself am a very poor sort of man. I
am old, and I fail from month to month. I can not live long, at
best. What you see in me is simply a purpose—a purpose to
accomplish something for my country—a purpose which my
country itself does not desire to see fulfilled. Republics do not
reward us. What <i>you</i> say shall be our chief reward. I have
asked you here also to accept the thanks of all of us who know the
intricacies of the events which have gone forward. Madam, we owe
you Texas! 'Twas not yonder lady, but yourself, who first advised
of the danger that threatened us. Hers was, after all, a simpler
task than yours, because she only matched faiths with Van Zandt,
representative of Texas, who had faith in neither men, women nor
nations. Had all gone well, we might perhaps have owed you yet
more, for Oregon."</p>
<p>"Would you like Oregon?" she asked, looking at him with the full
glance of her dark eyes.</p>
<p>"More than my life! More than the life of myself and all my
friends and family! More than all my fortune!" His voice rang clear
and keen as that of youth.</p>
<p>"All of Oregon?" she asked.</p>
<p>"All? We do not own all! Perhaps we do not deserve it. Surely we
could not expect it. Why, if we got one-half of what that fellow
Polk is claiming, we should do well enough—that is more than
we deserve or could expect. With our army already at war on the
Southwest, England, as we all know, is planning to take advantage
of our helplessness in Oregon."</p>
<p>Without further answer, she held out to him a document whose
appearance I, at least, recognized.</p>
<p>"I am but a woman," she said, "but it chances that I have been
able to do this country perhaps something of a favor. Your
assistant, Mr. Trist, has done me in his turn a favor. This much I
will ask permission to do for him."</p>
<p>Calhoun's long and trembling fingers were nervously opening the
document. He turned to her with eyes blazing with eagerness. "<i>It
is Oregon!</i>" He dropped back into his chair.</p>
<p>"Yes," said Helena von Ritz slowly. "It is Oregon. It is bought
and paid for. It is yours!"</p>
<p>So now they all went over that document, signed by none less
than Pakenham himself, minister plenipotentiary for Great Britain.
That document exists to-day somewhere in our archives, but I do not
feel empowered to make known its full text. I would I had never
need to set down, as I have, the cost of it. These others never
knew that cost; and now they never can know, for long years since
both Calhoun and Doctor Ward have been dead and gone. I turned
aside as they examined the document which within the next few weeks
was to become public property. The red wafers which mended
it—and which she smilingly explained at Calhoun's
demand—were, as I knew, not less than red drops of blood.</p>
<p>In brief I may say that this paper stated that, in case the
United States felt disposed to reopen discussions which Mr. Polk
peremptorily had closed, Great Britain might be able to listen to a
compromise on the line of the forty-ninth parallel. This compromise
had three times been offered her by diplomacy of United States
under earlier administrations. Great Britain stated that in view of
her deep and abiding love of peace and her deep and abiding
admiration for America, she would resign her claim of all of Oregon
down to the Columbia; and more, she would accept the forty-ninth
parallel; provided she might have free navigation rights upon the
Columbia. In fact, this was precisely the memorandum of agreement
which eventually established the lines of the treaty as to Oregon
between Great Britain and the United States.</p>
<p>Mr. Calhoun is commonly credited with having brought about this
treaty, and with having been author of its terms. So he was, but
only in the singular way which in these foregoing pages I have
related. States have their price. Texas was bought by blood.
Oregon—ah, we who own it ought to prize it. None of our
territory is half so full of romance, none of it is half so clean,
as our great and bodeful far Northwest, still young in its days of
destiny.</p>
<p>"We should in time have had <i>all</i> of Oregon, perhaps," said
Mr. Calhoun; "at least, that is the talk of these fierce
politicians."</p>
<p>"But for this fresh outbreak on the Southwest there would have
been a better chance," said Helena von Ritz; "but I think, as
matters are to-day, you would be wise to accept this compromise. I
have seen your men marching, thousands of them, the grandest sight
of this century or any other. They give full base for this
compromise. Given another year, and your rifles and your plows
would make your claims still better. But this is to-day—"</p>
<p>"Believe me, Mr. Calhoun," I broke in, "your signature must go
on this."</p>
<p>"How now? Why so anxious, my son?"</p>
<p>"Because it is right!"</p>
<p>Calhoun turned to Helena von Ritz. "Has this been presented to
Mr. Buchanan, our secretary of state?" he asked.</p>
<p>"Certainly not. It has been shown to no one. I have been here in
Washington working—well, working in secret to secure this
document for you. I do this—well, I will be frank with
you—I do it for Mr. Trist. He is my friend. I wish to say to
you that he has been—a faithful—"</p>
<p>I saw her face whiten and her lips shut tight. She swayed a
little as she stood. Doctor Ward was at her side and assisted her
to a couch. For the first time the splendid courage of Helena von
Ritz seemed to fail her. She sank back, white, unconscious.</p>
<p>"It's these damned stays, John!" began Doctor Ward fiercely.
"She has fainted. Here, put her down, so. We'll bring her around in
a minute. Great Jove! I want her to <i>hear</i> us thank her. It's
splendid work she has done for us. But <i>why</i>?"</p>
<p>When, presently, under the ministrations of the old physician,
Helena von Ritz recovered her consciousness, she arose, fighting
desperately to pull herself together and get back her splendid
courage.</p>
<p>"Would you retire now, Madam?" asked Mr. Calhoun. "I have sent
for my daughter."</p>
<p>"No, no. It is nothing!" she said. "Forgive me, it is only an
old habit of mine. See, I am quite well!"</p>
<p>Indeed, in a few moments she had regained something of that
magnificent energy which was her heritage. As though nothing had
happened, she arose and walked swiftly across the room. Her eyes
were fixed upon the great map which hung upon the walls—a
strange map it would seem to us to-day. Across this she swept a
white hand.</p>
<p>"I saw your men cross this," she said, pointing along the course
of the great Oregon Trail—whose detailed path was then
unknown to our geographers. "I saw them go west along that road of
destiny. I told myself that by virtue of their courage they had won
this war. Sometime there will come the great war between your
people and those who rule them. The people still will win."</p>
<p>She spread out her two hands top and bottom of the map. "All,
all, ought to be yours,—from the Isthmus to the ice, for the
sake of the people of the world. The people—but in time they
will have their own!"</p>
<p>We listened to her silently, crediting her enthusiasm to her
sex, her race; but what she said has remained in one mind at least
from that day to this. Well might part of her speech remain in the
minds to-day of people and rulers alike. Are we worth the price
paid for the country that we gained? And when we shall be worth
that price, what numerals shall mark our territorial lines?</p>
<p>"May I carry this document to Mr. Pakenham?" asked John Calhoun,
at last, touching the paper on the table.</p>
<p>"Please, no. Do not. Only be sure that this proposition of
compromise will meet with his acceptance."</p>
<p>"I do not quite understand why you do not go to Mr. Buchanan,
our secretary of state."</p>
<p>"Because I pay my debts," she said simply. "I told you that Mr.
Trist and I were comrades. I conceived it might be some credit for
him in his work to have been the means of doing this much."</p>
<p>"He shall have that credit, Madam, be sure of that," said John
Calhoun. He held out to her his long, thin, bloodless hand.</p>
<p>"Madam," he said, "I have been mistaken in many things. My life
will be written down as failure. I have been misjudged. But at
least it shall not be said of me that I failed to reverence a woman
such as you. All that I thought of you, that first night I met you,
was more than true. And did I not tell you you would one day, one
way, find your reward?"</p>
<p>He did not know what he said; but I knew, and I spoke with him
in the silence of my own heart, knowing that his speech would be
the same were his knowledge even with mine.</p>
<p>"To-morrow," went on Calhoun, "to-morrow evening there is to be
what we call a ball of our diplomacy at the White House. Our
administration, knowing that war is soon to be announced in the
country, seeks to make a little festival here at the capital. We
whistle to keep up our courage. We listen to music to make us
forget our consciences. To-morrow night we dance. All Washington
will be there. Baroness von Ritz, a card will come to you."</p>
<p>She swept him a curtsey, and gave him a smile.</p>
<p>"Now, as for me," he continued, "I am an old man, and long ago
danced my last dance in public. To-morrow night all of us will be
at the White House—Mr. Trist will be there, and Doctor Ward,
and a certain lady, a Miss Elisabeth Churchill, Madam, whom I shall
be glad to have you meet. You must not fail us, dear lady, because
I am going to ask of you one favor."</p>
<p>He bowed with a courtesy which might have come from generations
of an old aristocracy. "If you please, Madam, I ask you to honor me
with your hand for my first dance in years—my last dance in
all my life."</p>
<p>Impulsively she held out both her hands, bowing her head as she
did so to hide her face. Two old gray men, one younger man, took
her hands and kissed them.</p>
<p>Now our flag floats on the Columbia and on the Rio Grande. I am
older now, but when I think of that scene, I wish that flag might
float yet freer; and though the price were war itself, that it
might float over a cleaner and a nobler people, over cleaner and
nobler rulers, more sensible of the splendor of that heritage of
principle which should be ours.</p>
<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XXXVI" id="CHAPTER_XXXVI"></a>CHAPTER
XXXVI</h2>
<h3>THE PALO ALTO BALL</h3>
<div class="blockquot">
<p>A beautiful woman pleases the eye, a good woman pleases the
heart; one is a jewel, the other a treasure.—<i>Napoleon
I</i>.</p>
</div>
<p>On the evening of that following day in May, the sun hung red
and round over a distant unknown land along the Rio Grande. In that
country, no iron trails as yet had come. The magic of the wire, so
recently applied to the service of man, was as yet there unknown.
Word traveled slowly by horses and mules and carts. There came
small news from that far-off country, half tropic, covered with
palms and crooked dwarfed growth of mesquite and chaparral. The
long-horned cattle lived in these dense thickets, the spotted
jaguar, the wolf, the ocelot, the javelina, many smaller creatures
not known in our northern lands. In the loam along the stream the
deer left their tracks, mingled with those of the wild turkeys and
of countless water fowl. It was a far-off, unknown, unvalued land.
Our flag, long past the Sabine, had halted at the Nueces. Now it
was to advance across this wild region to the Rio Grande. Thus did
smug James Polk keep his promises!</p>
<p>Among these tangled mesquite thickets ran sometimes long bayous,
made from the overflow of the greater rivers—<i>resacas</i>,
as the natives call them. Tall palms sometimes grew along the
bayous, for the country is half tropic. Again, on the drier ridges,
there might be taller detached trees, heavier forests—<i>palo
alto</i>, the natives call them. In some such place as this, where
the trees were tall, there was fired the first gun of our war in
the Southwest. There were strange noises heard here in the
wilderness, followed by lesser noises, and by human groans. Some
faces that night were upturned to the moon—the same moon
which swam so gloriously over Washington. Taylor camped closer to
the Rio Grande. The fight was next to begin by the lagoon called
the Resaca de la Palma. But that night at the capital that same
moon told us nothing of all this. We did not hear the guns. It was
far from Palo Alto to our ports of Galveston or New Orleans. Our
cockaded army made its own history in its own unreported way.</p>
<p>We at the White House ball that night also made history in our
own unrecorded way. As our army was adding to our confines on the
Southwest, so there were other, though secret, forces which added
to our territory in the far Northwest. As to this and as to the
means by which it came about, I have already been somewhat
plain.</p>
<p>It was a goodly company that assembled for the grand ball, the
first one in the second season of Mr. Polk's somewhat confused and
discordant administration. Social matters had started off dour
enough. Mrs. Polk was herself of strict religious practice, and I
imagine it had taken somewhat of finesse to get her consent to
these festivities. It was called sometimes the diplomats' ball. At
least there was diplomacy back of it. It was mere accident which
set this celebration upon the very evening of the battle of Palo
Alto, May eighth, 1846.</p>
<p>By ten o'clock there were many in the great room which had been
made ready for the dancing, and rather a brave company it might
have been called. We had at least the splendor of the foreign
diplomats' uniforms for our background, and to this we added the
bravest of our attire, each one in his own individual fashion, I
fear. Thus my friend Jack Dandridge was wholly resplendent in a new
waistcoat of his own devising, and an evening coat which almost
swept the floor as he executed the evolutions of his western style
of dancing. Other gentlemen were, perhaps, more grave and staid. We
had with us at least one man, old in government service, who dared
the silk stockings and knee breeches of an earlier generation. Yet
another wore the white powdered queue, which might have been more
suited for his grandfather. The younger men of the day wore their
hair long, in fashion quite different, yet this did not detract
from the distinction of some of the faces which one might have seen
among them—some of them to sleep all too soon upturned to the
moon in another and yet more bitter war, aftermath of this with
Mexico. The tall stock was still in evidence at that time, and the
ruffled shirts gave something of a formal and old-fashioned touch
to the assembly. Such as they were, in their somewhat varied but
not uninteresting attire, the best of Washington were present.
Invitation was wholly by card. Some said that Mrs. Polk wrote these
invitations in her own hand, though this we may be permitted to
doubt.</p>
<p>Whatever might have been said as to the democratic appearance of
our gentlemen in Washington, our women were always our great
reliance, and these at least never failed to meet the approval of
the most sneering of our foreign visitors. Thus we had present that
night, as I remember, two young girls both later to become famous
in Washington society; tall and slender young Térèse
Chalfant, later to become Mrs. Pugh of Ohio, and to receive at the
hands of Denmark's minister, who knelt before her at a later public
ball, that jeweled clasp which his wife had bade him present to the
most beautiful woman he found in America. Here also was Miss
Harriet Williams of Georgetown, later to become the second wife of
that Baron Bodisco of Russia who had represented his government
with us since the year 1838—a tall, robust, blonde lady she
later grew to be. Brown's Hotel, home of many of our statesmen and
their ladies, turned out a full complement. Mr. Clay was there,
smiling, though I fear none too happy. Mr. Edward Everett, as it
chanced, was with us at that time. We had Sam Houston of Texas, who
would not, until he appeared upon the floor, relinquish the striped
blanket which distinguished him—though a splendid figure of a
man he appeared when he paced forth in evening dress, a part of
which was a waistcoat embroidered in such fancy as might have
delighted the eye of his erstwhile Indian wife had she been there
to see it. Here and there, scattered about the floor, there might
have been seen many of the public figures of America at that time,
men from North and South and East and West, and from many other
nations beside our own.</p>
<p>Under Mrs. Polk's social administration, we did not waltz, but
our ball began with a stately march, really a grand procession, in
its way distinctly interesting, in scarlet and gold and blue and
silks, and all the flowered circumstance of brocades and laces of
our ladies. And after our march we had our own polite Virginia
reel, merry as any dance, yet stately too.</p>
<p>I was late in arriving that night, for it must be remembered
that this was but my second day in town, and I had had small chance
to take my chief's advice, and to make myself presentable for an
occasion such as this. I was fresh from my tailor, and very
new-made when I entered the room. I came just in time to see what I
was glad to see; that is to say, the keeping of John Calhoun's
promise to Helena von Ritz.</p>
<p>It was not to be denied that there had been talk regarding this
lady, and that Calhoun knew it, though not from me. Much of it was
idle talk, based largely upon her mysterious life. Beyond that, a
woman beautiful as she has many enemies among her sex. There were
dark glances for her that night, I do not deny, before Mr. Calhoun
changed them. For, however John Calhoun was rated by his enemies,
the worst of these knew well his austerely spotless private life,
and his scrupulous concern for decorum.</p>
<p>Beautiful she surely was. Her ball gown was of light golden
stuff, and there was a coral wreath upon her hair, and her dancing
slippers were of coral hue. There was no more striking figure upon
the floor than she. Jewels blazed at her throat and caught here and
there the filmy folds of her gown. She was radiant, beautiful,
apparently happy. She came mysteriously enough; but I knew that Mr.
Calhoun's carriage had been sent for her. I learned also that he
had waited for her arrival.</p>
<p>As I first saw Helena von Ritz, there stood by her side Doctor
Samuel Ward, his square and stocky figure not undignified in his
dancing dress, the stiff gray mane of his hair waggling after its
custom as he spoke emphatically over something with her. A gruff
man, Doctor Ward, but under his gray mane there was a clear brain,
and in his broad breast there beat a large and kindly heart.</p>
<p>Even as I began to edge my way towards these two, I saw Mr.
Calhoun himself approach, tall, gray and thin.</p>
<p>He was very pale that night; and I knew well enough what effort
it cost him to attend any of these functions. Yet he bowed with the
grace of a younger man and offered the baroness an arm. Then,
methinks, all Washington gasped a bit. Not all Washington knew what
had gone forward between these two. Not all Washington knew what
that couple meant as they marched in the grand procession that
night—what they meant for America. Of all those who saw, I
alone understood.</p>
<p>So they danced; he with the dignity of his years, she with the
grace which was the perfection of dancing, the perfection of
courtesy and of dignity also, as though she knew and valued to the
full what was offered to her now by John Calhoun. Grave, sweet and
sad Helena von Ritz seemed to me that night. She was wholly
unconscious of those who looked and whispered. Her face was pale
and rapt as that of some devotee.</p>
<p>Mr. Polk himself stood apart, and plainly enough saw this little
matter go forward. When Mr. Calhoun approached with the Baroness
von Ritz upon his arm, Mr. Polk was too much politician to hesitate
or to inquire. He knew that it was safe to follow where John
Calhoun led! These two conversed for a few moments. Thus, I fancy,
Helena von Ritz had her first and last acquaintance with one of our
politicians to whom fate gave far more than his deserts. It was the
fortune of Mr. Polk to gain for this country Texas, California and
Oregon—not one of them by desert of his own! My heart has
often been bitter when I have recalled that little scene. Politics
so unscrupulous can not always have a John Calhoun, a Helena von
Ritz, to correct, guard and guide.</p>
<p>After this the card of Helena von Ritz might well enough indeed
been full had she cared further to dance. She excused herself
gracefully, saying that after the honor which had been done her she
could not ask more. Still, Washington buzzed; somewhat of Europe as
well. That might have been called the triumph of Helena von Ritz.
She felt it not. But I could see that she gloried in some other
thing.</p>
<p>I approached her as soon as possible. "I am about to go," she
said. "Say good-by to me, now, here! We shall not meet again. Say
good-by to me, now, quickly! My father and I are going to leave.
The treaty for Oregon is prepared. Now I am done. Yes. Tell me
good-by."</p>
<p>"I will not say it," said I. "I can not."</p>
<p>She smiled at me. Others might see her lips, her smile. I saw
what was in her eyes. "We must not be selfish," said she. "Come, I
must go."</p>
<p>"Do not go," I insisted. "Wait."</p>
<p>She caught my meaning. "Surely," she said, "I will stay a little
longer for that one thing. Yes, I wish to see her again, Miss
Elisabeth Churchill. I hated her. I wish that I might love her now,
do you know? Would—would she let me—if she knew?"</p>
<p>"They say that love is not possible between women," said I. "For
my own part, I wish with you."</p>
<p>She interrupted with a light tap of her fan upon my arm. "Look,
is not that she?"</p>
<p>I turned. A little circle of people were bowing before Mr. Polk,
who held a sort of levee at one side of the hall. I saw the tall
young girl who at the moment swept a graceful curtsey to the
president. My heart sprang to my mouth. Yes, it was Elisabeth! Ah,
yes, there flamed up on the altar of my heart the one fire, lit
long ago for her. So we came now to meet, silently, with small
show, in such way as to thrill none but our two selves. She, too,
had served, and that largely. And my constant altar fire had done
its part also, strangely, in all this long coil of large events.
Love—ah, true love wins and rules. It makes our maps. It
makes our world.</p>
<p>Among all these distinguished men, these beautiful women, she
had her own tribute of admiration. I felt rather than saw that she
was in some pale, filmy green, some crêpe of China, with
skirts and sleeves looped up with pearls. In her hair were green
leaves, simple and sweet and cool. To me she seemed graver,
sweeter, than when I last had seen her. I say, my heart came up
into my throat. All I could think was that I wanted to take her
into my arms. All I did was to stand and stare.</p>
<p>My companion was more expert in social maneuvers. She waited
until the crowd had somewhat thinned about the young lady and her
escort. I saw now with certain qualms that this latter was none
other than my whilom friend Jack Dandridge. For a wonder, he was
most unduly sober, and he made, as I have said, no bad figure in
his finery. He was very merry and just a trifle loud of speech,
but, being very intimate in Mr. Polk's household, he was warmly
welcomed by that gentleman and by all around him.</p>
<p>"She is beautiful!" I heard the lady at my arm whisper.</p>
<p>"Is she beautiful to you?" I asked.</p>
<p>"Very beautiful!" I heard her catch her breath. "She is good. I
wish I could love her. I wish, I wish—"</p>
<p>I saw her hands beat together as they did when she was agitated.
I turned then to look at her, and what I saw left me silent.
"Come," said I at last, "let us go to her." We edged across the
floor.</p>
<p>When Elisabeth saw me she straightened, a pallor came across her
face. It was not her way to betray much of her emotions. If her
head was a trifle more erect, if indeed she paled, she too lacked
not in quiet self-possession. She waited, with wide straight eyes
fixed upon me. I found myself unable to make much intelligent
speech. I turned to see Helena von Ritz gazing with wistful eyes at
Elisabeth, and I saw the eyes of Elisabeth make some answer. So
they spoke some language which I suppose men never will
understand—the language of one woman to another.</p>
<p>I have known few happier moments in my life than that. Perhaps,
after all, I caught something of the speech between their eyes.
Perhaps not all cheap and cynical maxims are true, at least when
applied to noble women.</p>
<p>Elisabeth regained her wonted color and more.</p>
<p>"I was very wrong in many ways," I heard her whisper. For almost
the first time I saw her perturbed. Helena von Ritz stepped close
to her. Amid the crash of the reeds and brasses, amid all the
broken conversation which swept around us, I knew what she said.
Low down in the flounces of the wide embroidered silks, I saw their
two hands meet, silently, and cling. This made me happy.</p>
<p>Of course it was Jack Dandridge who broke in between us. "Ah!"
said he, "you jealous beggar, could you not leave me to be happy
for one minute? Here you come back, a mere heathen, and proceed to
monopolize all our ladies. I have been making the most of my time,
you see. I have proposed half a dozen times more to Miss Elisabeth,
have I not?"</p>
<p>"Has she given you any answer?" I asked him, smiling.</p>
<p>"The same answer!"</p>
<p>"Jack," said I, "I ought to call you out."</p>
<p>"Don't," said he. "I don't want to be called out. I am getting
found out. That's worse. Well—Miss Elisabeth, may I be the
first to congratulate?"</p>
<p>"I am glad," said I, with just a slight trace of severity, "that
you have managed again to get into the good graces of Elmhurst.
When I last saw you, I was not sure that either of us would ever be
invited there again."</p>
<p>"Been there every Sunday regularly since you went away," said
Jack. "I am not one of the family in one way, and in another way I
am. Honestly, I have tried my best to cut you out. Not that you
have not played your game well enough, but there never was a game
played so well that some other fellow could not win by coppering
it. So I coppered everything you did—played it for just the
reverse. No go—lost even that way. And I thought <i>you</i>
were the most perennial fool of your age and generation."</p>
<p>I checked as gently as I could a joviality which I thought
unsuited to the time. "Mr. Dandridge," said I to him, "you know the
Baroness von Ritz?"</p>
<p>"Certainly! The <i>particeps criminis</i> of our bungled
wedding—of course I know her!"</p>
<p>"I only want to say," I remarked, "that the Baroness von Ritz
has that little shell clasp now all for her own, and that I have
her slipper again, all for my own. So now, we three—no,
four—at last understand one another, do we not? Jack, will
you do two things for me?"</p>
<p>"All of them but two."</p>
<p>"When the Baroness von Ritz insists on her intention of leaving
us—just at the height of all our happiness—I want you
to hand her to her carriage. In the second place, I may need you
again—"</p>
<p>"Well, what would any one think of that!" said Jack
Dandridge.</p>
<p>I never knew when these two left us in the crowd. I never said
good-by to Helena von Ritz. I did not catch that last look of her
eye. I remember her as she stood there that night, grave, sweet and
sad.</p>
<p>I turned to Elisabeth. There in the crash of the reeds and
brasses, the rise and fall of the sweet and bitter conversation all
around us, was the comedy and the tragedy of life.</p>
<p>"Elisabeth," I said to her, "are you not ashamed?"</p>
<p>She looked me full in the eye. "No!" she said, and smiled.</p>
<p>I have never seen a smile like Elisabeth's.</p>
<h3>THE END</h3>
<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<h2><a name="EPILOGUE" id="EPILOGUE"></a>EPILOGUE</h2>
<div class="blockquot">
<p>"'Tis the Star Spangled Banner; O, long may it wave,<br />
O'er the land of the free, and the home of the brave!"<br />
<span style="margin-left: 14em;">—<i>Francis Scott
Key</i>.</span></p>
</div>
<p>On the night that Miss Elisabeth Churchill gave me her hand and
her heart for ever—for which I have not yet ceased to thank
God—there began the guns of Palo Alto. Later, there came the
fields of Monterey, Buena Vista, Cerro Gordo, Contreras,
Cherubusco, Molino del Rey—at last the guns sounded at the
gate of the old City of Mexico itself. Some of that fighting I
myself saw; but much of the time I was employed in that manner of
special work which had engaged me for the last few years. It was
through Mr. Calhoun's agency that I reached a certain importance in
these matters; and so I was chosen as the commissioner to negotiate
a peace with Mexico.</p>
<p>This honor later proved to be a dangerous and questionable one.
General Scott wanted no interference of this kind, especially since
he knew Mr. Calhoun's influence in my choice. He thwarted all my
attempts to reach the headquarters of the enemy, and did everything
he could to secure a peace of his own, at the mouth of the cannon.
I could offer no terms better than Mr. Buchanan, then our secretary
of state, had prepared for me, and these were rejected by the
Mexican government at last. I was ordered by Mr. Polk to state that
we had no better terms to offer; and as for myself, I was told to
return to Washington. At that time I could not make my way out
through the lines, nor, in truth, did I much care to do so.</p>
<p>A certain event not written in history influenced me to remain
for a time at the little village of Guadalupe Hidalgo. Here, in
short, I received word from a lady whom I had formerly known, none
less than Señora Yturrio, once a member of the Mexican
legation at Washington. True to her record, she had again reached
influential position in her country, using methods of her own. She
told me now to pay no attention to what had been reported by
Mexico. In fact, I was approached again by the Mexican
commissioners, introduced by her! What was done then is history. We
signed then and there the peace of Guadalupe Hidalgo, in accordance
with the terms originally given me by our secretary of state. So,
after all, Calhoun's kindness to a woman in distress was not lost;
and so, after all, he unwittingly helped in the ending of the war
he never wished begun.</p>
<p>Meantime, I had been recalled to Washington, but did not know
the nature of that recall. When at last I arrived there I found
myself disgraced and discredited. My actions were repudiated by the
administration. I myself was dismissed from the service without
pay—sad enough blow for a young man who had been married less
than a year.</p>
<p>Mr. Polk's jealousy of John Calhoun was not the only cause of
this. Calhoun's prophecy was right. Polk did not forget his revenge
on me. Yet, none the less, after his usual fashion, he was not
averse to receiving such credit as he could. He put the
responsibility of the treaty upon the Senate! It was debated hotly
there for some weeks, and at last, much to his surprise and my
gratification, it was ratified!</p>
<p>The North, which had opposed this Mexican War—that same
war which later led inevitably to the War of the
Rebellion—now found itself unable to say much against the
great additions to our domain which the treaty had secured. We paid
fifteen millions, in addition to our territorial indemnity claim,
and we got a realm whose wealth could not be computed. So much, it
must be owned, did fortune do for that singular favorite, Mr. Polk.
And, curiously enough, the smoke had hardly cleared from Palo Alto
field before Abraham Lincoln, a young member in the House of
Congress, was introducing a resolution which asked the marking of
"the spot where that outrage was committed." Perhaps it was an
outrage. Many still hold it so. But let us reflect what would have
been Lincoln's life had matters not gone just as they did.</p>
<p>With the cessions from Mexico came the great domain of
California. Now, look how strangely history sometimes works out
itself. Had there been any suspicion of the discovery of gold in
California, neither Mexico nor our republic ever would have owned
it! England surely would have taken it. The very year that my
treaty eventually was ratified was that in which gold was
discovered in California! But it was too late then for England to
interfere; too late then, also, for Mexico to claim it. We got
untold millions of treasure there. Most of those millions went to
the Northern States, into manufactures, into commerce. The North
owned that gold; and it was that gold which gave the North the
power to crush that rebellion which was born of the Mexican
War—that same rebellion by which England, too late, would
gladly have seen this Union disrupted, so that she might have yet
another chance at these lands she now had lost for ever.</p>
<p>Fate seemed still to be with us, after all, as I have so often
had occasion to believe may be a possible thing. That war of
conquest which Mr. Calhoun opposed, that same war which grew out of
the slavery tenets which he himself held—the great error of
his otherwise splendid public life—found its own correction
in the Civil War. It was the gold of California which put down
slavery. Thenceforth slavery has existed legally only <i>north</i>
of the Mason and Dixon line!</p>
<p>We have our problems yet. Perhaps some other war may come to
settle them. Fortunate for us if there could be another California,
another Texas, another Oregon, to help us pay for them!</p>
<p>I, who was intimately connected with many of these less known
matters, claim for my master a reputation wholly different from
that given to him in any garbled "history" of his life. I lay claim
in his name for foresight beyond that of any man of his time. He
made mistakes, but he made them bravely, grandly, and consistently.
Where his convictions were enlisted, he had no reservations, and he
used every means, every available weapon, as I have shown. But he
was never self-seeking, never cheap, never insincere. A detester of
all machine politicians, he was a statesman worthy to be called the
William Pitt of the United States. The consistency of his career
was a marvelous thing; because, though he changed in his beliefs,
he was first to recognize the changing conditions of our country.
He failed, and he is execrated. He won, and he is forgot.</p>
<p>My chief, Mr. Calhoun, did not die until some six years after
that first evening when Doctor Ward and I had our talk with him. He
was said to have died of a disease of the lungs, yet here again
history is curiously mistaken. Mr. Calhoun slept himself away. I
sometimes think with a shudder that perhaps this was the revenge
which Nemesis took of him for his mistakes. His last days were
dreamlike in their passing. His last speech in the Senate was read
by one of his friends, as Doctor Ward had advised him. Some said
afterwards that his illness was that accursed "sleeping sickness"
imported from Africa with these same slaves: It were a strange
thing had John Calhoun indeed died of his error! At least he slept
away. At least, too, he made his atonement. The South, following
his doctrines, itself was long accursed of this same sleeping
sickness; but in the providence of God it was not lost to us, and
is ours for a long and splendid history.</p>
<p>It was through John Calhoun, a grave and somber figure of our
history, that we got the vast land of Texas. It was through him
also—and not through Clay nor Jackson, nor any of the
northern statesmen, who never could see a future for the
West—that we got all of our vast Northwest realm. Within a
few days after the Palo Alto ball, a memorandum of agreement was
signed between Minister Pakenham and Mr. Buchanan, our secretary of
state. This was done at the instance and by the aid of John
Calhoun. It was he—he and Helena von Ritz—who brought
about that treaty which, on June fifteenth, of the same year, was
signed, and gladly signed, by the minister from Great Britain. The
latter had been fully enough impressed (such was the story) by the
reports of the columns of our west-bound farmers, with rifles
leaning at their wagon seats and plows lashed to the tail-gates.
Calhoun himself never ceased to regret that we could not delay a
year or two years longer. In this he was thwarted by the impetuous
war with the republic on the south, although, had that never been
fought, we had lost California—lost also the South, and lost
the Union!</p>
<p>Under one form or other, one name of government or another, the
flag of democracy eventually must float over all this continent.
Not a part, but all of this country must be ours, must be the
people's. It may cost more blood and treasure now. Some time we
shall see the wisdom of John Calhoun; but some time, too, I think,
we shall see come true that prophecy of a strange and brilliant
mentality, which in Calhoun's presence and in mine said that all of
these northern lands and all Mexico as well must one day be
ours—which is to say, the people's—for the sake of
human opportunity, of human hope and happiness. Our battles are but
partly fought. But at least they are not, then, lost.</p>
<p>For myself, the close of the Mexican War found me somewhat worn
by travel and illy equipped in financial matters. I had been
discredited, I say, by my own government. My pay was withheld.
Elisabeth, by that time my wife, was a girl reared in all the
luxury that our country then could offer. Shall I say whether or
not I prized her more when gladly she gave up all this and joined
me for one more long and final journey out across that great trail
which I had seen—the trail of democracy, of America, of the
world?</p>
<p>At last we reached Oregon. It holds the grave of one of ours; it
is the home of others. We were happy; we asked favor of no man;
fear of no one did we feel. Elisabeth has in her time slept on a
bed of husks. She has cooked at a sooty fireplace of her own; and
at her cabin door I myself have been the guard. We made our way by
ourselves and for ourselves, as did those who conquered America for
our flag. "The citizen standing in the doorway of his home, shall
save the Republic." So wrote a later pen.</p>
<p>It was not until long after the discovery of gold in California
had set us all to thinking that I was reminded of the strange story
of the old German, Von Rittenhofen, of finding some pieces of gold
while on one of his hunts for butterflies. I followed out his vague
directions as best I might. We found gold enough to make us rich
without our land. That claim is staked legally. Half of it awaits
an owner who perhaps will never come.</p>
<p>There are those who will accept always the solemn asseverations
of politicians, who by word of mouth or pen assert that this or
that <i>party</i> made our country, wrote its history. Such as they
might smile if told that not even men, much less politicians, have
written all our story as a nation; yet any who smile at woman's
influence in American history do so in ignorance of the truth. Mr.
Webster and Lord Ashburton have credit for determining our boundary
on the northeast—England called it Ashburton's capitulation
to the Yankee. Did you never hear the other gossip? England laid
all that to Ashburton's American wife! Look at that poor,
hot-tempered devil, Yrujo, minister from Spain with us, who saw his
king's holdings on this continent juggled from hand to hand between
us all. His wife was daughter of Governor McKean in Pennsylvania
yonder. If she had no influence with her husband, so much the worse
for her. In important times a generation ago M. Genêt, of
France, as all know, was the husband of the daughter of Governor
Clinton of New York. Did that hurt our chances with France? My Lord
Oswald, of Great Britain, who negotiated our treaty of peace in
1782—was not his worldly fortune made by virtue of his
American wife? All of us should remember that Marbois, Napoleon's
minister, who signed the great treaty for him with us, married his
wife while he was a mere <i>chargé</i> here in Washington;
and she, too, was an American. Erskine, of England, when times were
strained in 1808, and later—and our friend for the most
part—was not he also husband of an American? It was as John
Calhoun said—our history, like that of England and France,
like that of Rome and Troy, was made in large part by women.</p>
<p>Of that strange woman, Helena, Baroness von Ritz, I have never
definitely heard since then. But all of us have heard of that great
uplift of Central Europe, that ferment of revolution, most
noticeable in Germany, in 1848. Out of that revolutionary spirit
there came to us thousands and thousands of our best population,
the sturdiest and the most liberty-loving citizens this country
ever had. They gave us scores of generals in our late war, and gave
us at least one cabinet officer. But whence came that spirit of
revolution in Europe? <i>Why</i> does it live, grow, increase, even
now? <i>Why</i> does it sound now, close to the oldest thrones?
<i>Where</i> originated that germ of liberty which did its work so
well? I am at least one who believes that I could guess something
of its source.</p>
<p>The revolution in Hungary failed for the time. Kossuth came to
see us with pleas that we might aid Hungary. But republics forget.
We gave no aid to Hungary. I was far away and did not meet Kossuth.
I should have been glad to question him. I did not forget Helena
von Ritz, nor doubt that she worked out in full that strange
destiny for which, indeed, she was born and prepared, to which she
devoted herself, made clean by sacrifice. She was not one to leave
her work undone. She, I know, passed on her torch of principle.</p>
<p>Elisabeth and I speak often of Helena von Ritz. I remember her
still-brilliant, beautiful, fascinating, compelling, pathetic,
tragic. If it was asked of her, I know that she still paid it
gladly—all that sacrifice through which alone there can be
worked out the progress of humanity, under that idea which blindly
we attempted to express in our Declaration; that idea which at
times we may forget, but which eventually must triumph for the good
of all the world. She helped us make our map. Shall not that for
which she stood help us hold it?</p>
<p>At least, let me say, I have thought this little story might be
set down; and, though some to-day may smile at flags and
principles, I should like, if I may be allowed, to close with the
words of yet another man of those earlier times: "The old flag of
the Union was my protector in infancy and the pride and glory of my
riper years; and, by the grace of God, under its shadow I shall
die!" N.T.</p>
<p> </p>
<div>*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 14355 ***</div>
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