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diff --git a/old/51883-0.txt b/old/51883-0.txt deleted file mode 100644 index c071670..0000000 --- a/old/51883-0.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,10018 +0,0 @@ -The Project Gutenberg EBook of Evelyn Byrd, by George Cary Eggleston - -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with -almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or -re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included -with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org/license - - -Title: Evelyn Byrd - -Author: George Cary Eggleston - -Illustrator: Charles Copeland - -Release Date: April 28, 2016 [EBook #51883] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: UTF-8 - -*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK EVELYN BYRD *** - - - - -Produced by Giovanni Fini, David Edwards and the Online -Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This -file was produced from images generously made available -by The Internet Archive) - - - - - - - - TRANSCRIBER’S NOTE: - -—Obvious print and punctuation errors were corrected. - - - - -[Illustration: - - _See page 317._ - -_“I ALREADY KNOW WHAT IS IN THE PAPERS.”_] - - - - - EVELYN BYRD - -[Illustration] - - By GEORGE CARY EGGLESTON - - AUTHOR OF “A CAROLINA CAVALIER,” “DOROTHY - SOUTH,” “THE MASTER OF WARLOCK,” - “RUNNING THE RIVER,” ETC., ETC. - - ILLUSTRATED BY - CHARLES COPELAND - - - [Illustration] - - NEW YORK - GROSSET & DUNLAP - PUBLISHERS - - - - -[Illustration] - - COPYRIGHT, 1904, - BY - GEORGE CARY EGGLESTON. - -[Illustration] - - Published May, 1904. - - - Norwood Press - J. S. Cushing & Co. — Berwick & Smith Co. - Norwood, Mass., U.S.A. - - - - -_PREFACE_ - - -_THIS book is the third and last of a trilogy of romances. In that -trilogy I have endeavoured to show forth the character of the -Virginians—men and women._ - -_In “Dorothy South” I tried to show what the Virginians were while the -old life lasted—“before the war.”_ - -_In “The Master of Warlock” I endeavoured faithfully to depict the -same people as they were during the first half of the Civil War, when -their valour seemed to promise everything of results that they desired. -In “Evelyn Byrd” I have sought to show the heroism of endurance that -marked the conduct of those people during the last half of the war, -when disaster stared them in the face and they unfalteringly confronted -it._ - - _GEORGE CARY EGGLESTON._ - - - - - CONTENTS - - - CHAPTER PAGE - - I. A STRICKEN CORSAGE 9 - - II. OWEN KILGARIFF 29 - - III. EVELYN BYRD 50 - - IV. THE LETTING DOWN OF THE BARS 59 - - V. DOROTHY’S OPINIONS 70 - - VI. “WHEN GREEK MEETS GREEK” 79 - - VII. WITH EVELYN AT WYANOKE 102 - - VIII. SOME REVELATIONS OF EVELYN 118 - - IX. THE GREAT WAR GAME 144 - - X. THE LAW OF LOVE 152 - - XI. ORDERS AND “NO NONSENSE” 167 - - XII. SAFE-CONDUCT OF TWO KINDS 178 - - XIII. KILGARIFF HEARS NEWS 185 - - XIV. IN THE WATCHES OF THE NIGHT 210 - - XV. IN THE TRENCHES 216 - - XVI. THE STARVING TIME 224 - - XVII. A GUN-PIT CONFERENCE 242 - - XVIII. EVELYN’S REVELATION 269 - - XIX. DOROTHY’S DECISION 277 - - XX. A MAN, A MAID, AND A HORSE 283 - - XXI. EVELYN LIFTS A CORNER OF THE CURTAIN 294 - - XXII. ALONE IN THE PORCH 302 - - XXIII. A LESSON FROM DOROTHY 318 - - XXIV. EVELYN’S BOOK 327 - - XXV. MORE OF EVELYN’S BOOK 345 - - XXVI. EVELYN’S BOOK, CONTINUED 370 - - XXVII. KILGARIFF’S PERPLEXITY 386 - - XXVIII. EVELYN’S BOOK, CONCLUDED 390 - - XXIX. EVELYN’S VIGIL 418 - - XXX. BEFORE A HICKORY FIRE 424 - - XXXI. THE LAST FLIGHT OF EVELYN 432 - - XXXII. THE END OF IT ALL 434 - - - - - ILLUSTRATIONS - - - “I already know what is in the papers” _Frontispiece_ - - PAGE - - “Who are you?” 89 - - “I may stroke his fur as much as I please” 166 - - Taking the papers from Campbell’s hand, passed out of - the house without a word of farewell 208 - - - - -EVELYN BYRD - -[Illustration] - - - - -I - -A STRICKEN CORSAGE - - -A BATTERY of six twelve-pounder Napoleon guns lay in a little skirt -of woodland on the south bank of the Rapidan. It was raining, not -violently, but with a soaking persistence that might well have made -the artillery-men tired of life and ready to welcome whatever end that -day’s skirmishing might bring to the weariness of living. But these -men were veteran soldiers, inured to hardship as well as to danger. A -saturating rain meant next to nothing to them. A day’s discomfort, more -or less, counted not at all in the monotonously uncomfortable routine -of their lives. - -They had been sent into the woodland an hour or two ago, and had done a -little desultory firing now and then, merely by way of disturbing the -movements of small bodies of the enemy who were being shifted about on -the other side of the river. - -Just now the guns were silent, no enemy being in sight, and Captain -Marshall Pollard being disposed to save his ammunition against the -time, now obviously near at hand, when the new commander of the Federal -forces, General Grant, should push the Army of the Potomac across the -river to make a final trial of strength and sagacity with that small -but wonderfully fighting Army of Northern Virginia directed by the -master mind of Robert E. Lee. - -But, while no enemy was within sight, there was a hornets’ nest of -Federal sharp-shooters concealed in a barn not far beyond the river, -and from their secure cover they were very seriously annoying the -Confederate lines. The barn lay a little to the left of the battery -front, but near enough for the sharp-shooters’ bullets to cut twigs -from the tree under which Captain Marshall Pollard sat on horseback -with Owen Kilgariff by his side. Still, the fire of the sharp-shooters -was not mainly directed upon the woodland-screened battery, but upon -the troops in the open field on Pollard’s left. - -Presently Captain Pollard, with the peculiar deliberation which -characterised all his actions, lowered his field-glass from his eyes, -and, withdrawing a handkerchief from a rain-proof breast pocket, -began polishing the mist-obscured lenses. As he did so, he said to -Kilgariff:— - -“Order one of the guns to burn that barn.” - -As he spoke, both his own horse and Kilgariff’s sank to the ground; the -one struggling in the agony of a mortal wound, the other instantly dead. - -“And tell the quartermaster-sergeant to send us two more horses—good -ones,” Captain Pollard added, with no more of change in his tone -than if the killing of the horses at that precise moment had been a -previously ordered part of the programme. - -A gun was quickly moved up to a little open space. It fired two shots. -The flames burst from the barn, and instantly a horde of sharp-shooters -abandoned the place and went scurrying across an open field in search -of cover. As they fled, the gun that had destroyed their lurking-place, -and another which Captain Pollard had instantly ordered up, shelled -them mercilessly. - -It was then that Owen Kilgariff said:— - -“That barn was full of fodder. Its owner had saved a little something -against a future need, and now all the results of his toil have gone up -in smoke. That’s war!” - -“Yes,” answered Captain Pollard, “and the worst of it is that the man -whose possessions we have destroyed is our friend, and not our enemy; -again, as you say, ‘that’s war.’ War is destruction—whether the thing -destroyed be that of friend or foe.” - -Just then a new and vicious fire of skilled sharp-shooters broke forth -from the mansion-house of the plantation to which the burned barn -had belonged. It was an old-time colonial edifice. Marshall Pollard -had spent many delightful days and nights under its hospitable roof. -He had learned to love its historic associations. He knew and loved -every old portrait that hung on its oak-wainscotted walls. He knew and -loved every stick of its old, colonial, plantation-made furniture; -its very floors of white ash, that had been polished every morning -for two hundred years; and its mahogany dining-table, around which -distinguished guests had gathered through many generations. All these -were dear to the peculiarly sympathetic soul of the scholar-soldier, -Marshall Pollard, a man born for books, and set by adverse fate to -command batteries instead; a man of creative genius, as his novels and -poems, written after the war, abundantly proved, set for the time to -do the brutal work of destruction. He remembered the library of that -mansion, too, the slow accumulation of two hundred years. He had read -there precious volumes that existed nowhere else in America, and that -money could not duplicate, however lavishly it might be offered for -books, of which no fellows were to be found except upon the sealed -shelves of the British Museum, or in other great public collections -from which no treasures are ever to be sold while the world shall -endure. - -That house, with all its memories and all its treasures, must be -destroyed. Marshall Pollard clearly understood the necessity, and he -was altogether a soldier now, in spite of his strong inclinations to -peace and civilisation, and all gentleness of spirit. Yet he found it -difficult to order the work of destruction that it was his manifest -duty to do. Presently, with bullets whistling about his ears, he turned -to Owen Kilgariff, and, in a tone of petulance that was wholly foreign -to his habit, asked:— - -“Why don’t you order the thing done? Why do you sit there on your horse -waiting for me to give the order?” - -Kilgariff understood. He was a man accustomed to understand quickly; -and now that Captain Pollard had made him his chief staff officer, -sergeant-major of the battery, his orders, whatever they might be, -carried with them all the authority of the captain’s own commands. - -Kilgariff instantly rode back to the battery and ordered up two -sections—four guns. Advancing them well to the front, where the house -to be shot at could be easily seen, he posted them with entire calm, -in spite of the fact that a Federal battery of rifled guns stationed -at a long distance was playing vigorously upon his position, and not -without effect. The artillery-men in both armies had, by this late -period of the war, become marksmen so expert that the only limit of the -effectiveness of their fire was the limit of their range. - -Half a dozen of Marshall Pollard’s men bit the dust, and nearly a dozen -of his horses were killed, while Owen Kilgariff was getting the four -guns into position for the effective doing of the work to be done, -although that process of placing the guns occupied less than a minute -of time. Two wheels of cannon carriages were smashed by well-directed -rifle shells, but these were quickly replaced by the extra wheels -carried on the caissons; for every detail of artillery drill was an -_a-b-c_ to the veterans of this battery, and if the men had nerves, the -fact was never permitted to manifest itself when there was work of war -to be done. - -Within sixty seconds after Owen Kilgariff rode away to give the orders -that Marshall Pollard hesitated to give, four Napoleon guns were -firing four shells each, a minute, into a mansion that had been famous -throughout all the history of Virginia, since the time when William -Byrd had been Virginia’s foremost citizen and the Knights of the Golden -Horseshoe had ridden out to possess themselves of the regions to the -west. - -Half a minute accomplished the purpose. The mansion was in flames, the -sharp-shooters who had made a fortress of it were scurrying to the -cover of the underbrush a few hundred yards in rear, and Owen Kilgariff -ordered the guns to “cease firing” and return to the cover of the -woodlands whence they had been brought forward for this service. Six of -Marshall Pollard’s men lay stark and stiff on the little meadow which -the guns had occupied. These were hastily removed for decent burial. -Nine others were wounded. They were carried away upon litters for -surgical attention. - -These details in no way disturbed the battery camp. They were the -commonplaces of war; so the men, unmindful of them, cooked such dinner -as they could command, and ate it with a relish unimpaired by the -events of the morning. - -But Captain Marshall Pollard and his companion, Sergeant-major Owen -Kilgariff, were not minded for dinner. Seeing the flames burst forth -from the upper stories of the old colonial mansion, Kilgariff said to -his captain:— - -“I wonder if all those fellows got away? There may be a wounded man or -two left in the house to roast to death. May I ride over there and see?” - -“Yes,” answered Pollard, “and I will ride with you. But first order -two of the guns to shell the sharp-shooters in the thicket yonder. -Otherwise we may not get back.” - -In spite of the heavy fire that the two guns poured into the thicket -beyond the house, the sharp-shooters stood their ground like the -veterans that they were, and Pollard and Kilgariff were their targets -as these two swam the swollen river and galloped across the last year’s -corn lands on their way to the burning house. - -Arrived there, they hastily searched the upper rooms. Here and there -they came upon a dead soldier, left by his companions to be incinerated -in company with the portraits of old colonial notables and beautiful -colonial dames that were falling from the walls as the ancient oaken -wainscot shrivelled in the fire. - -But no living thing was found there, and the two Confederates, -satisfied now that there was no life to be saved, hurried down the -burning stairway and out into the air, where instantly they became -targets again for the sharp-shooters, not three hundred yards away. - -As they were about to mount their horses, which had been screened -behind a wall projection, Kilgariff suddenly bethought him of the -cellar, and plunged down the stairway leading to it. He was promptly -followed by his captain, though both of them realised the peculiar -danger of the descent at a time when the whole structure seemed about -to tumble into that pit as a mass of burning timber. But they realised -also that the cellar was the place where they were most likely to find -living men too badly wounded to make their escape, and so, in spite of -the terrible hazard, they plunged into the depths, intent only upon -their errand of mercy. - -A hasty glance around in the half-light seemed to reveal only the -emptiness of the cavernous cellar. But just as the two companions -were about to quit the place, in a hurried effort to save themselves, -a great, blazing beam fell in, together with a massive area of -flame-enveloped flooring, illuminating the place. As Kilgariff turned, -he caught sight of a girl, crouching behind an angle of the wall. -She was a tall, slender creature, and Kilgariff was mighty in his -muscularity. There was not a fraction of a second to be lost if escape -from that fire pit was in any wise to be accomplished. Without a -moment’s pause, Kilgariff threw his arm around the girl and bore her -up the cellar stairs, just as the whole burning mass of timbers sank -suddenly into the space below. - -His captain followed him closely; and, emerging from the flames, -scorched and smoke-stifled, the three stood still for a moment, under -the deadly fire of the sharp-shooters. Then, with recovered breath, -they turned an angle of the wall, mounted their horses, and sped -away toward the river, under a rifle fire that seemed sufficient for -the destruction of a regiment. The shells from their own side of the -line, shrieking above the heads of the three fugitives, made their -horses squat almost to the ground; but with a resolution born of long -familiarity with danger, the two soldiers sped on, Kilgariff carrying -the girl on the withers of his horse and trying to shield her from the -fire of the sharp-shooters by so riding as to interpose his own body -between her and the swiftly on-coming bullets. - -Finally the river was reached, and, plunging into it, the two horses -bore their burdens safely across. Pollard might easily have been fifty -yards in advance of his sergeant-major, seeing that he had the better -horse, and that his companion’s animal was carrying double. But that -was not Marshall Pollard’s way. Instead of riding as fast as he could -toward the river and the comparative safety that lay beyond it, he -rode with his horse’s head just overlapping the flanks of the animal -which bore the girl and her rescuer. In this way he managed to make of -himself and his horse a protecting barrier between the enemy and the -girl whom Kilgariff was so gallantly trying to bear to safety. - -This was not a battle, or anything remotely resembling a battle. If -it had been, these two men would not have left their posts in the -battery. It was only an insignificant “operation of outposts,” which -the commanders in the front of both armies that night reported as -“some slight skirmishing along the outer lines.” On neither side was -it thought worth while to add that fifty or sixty brave young fellows -had been done to death in the “slight skirmishing.” The war was growing -old in the spring of 1864. Officers, hardened by experience of human -butchery on a larger scale, no longer thought it necessary to report -death losses that did not require three figures for their recording. - -When Pollard and Kilgariff reached the bit of woodland in which the -battery had been posted for a special purpose, they found the guns -already gone. The battery had been ordered during their absence to -return to its more permanent camp two or three miles in the rear, and -in Captain Pollard’s absence his senior lieutenant had taken command to -execute the order. It is the way of war that “men may come and men may -go,” but there is always some one next in command to take the place of -one in authority who meets death or is absent for any other cause. An -army organisation resembles Nature herself in its scrupulous care for -the general result, and in its absolute indifference to the welfare or -the fate of the individual. - -War is a merciless thing—inhuman, demoniacal, devilish. But -incidentally it calls into activity many of the noblest qualities of -human nature. It had done so in this instance. Having fired the house -on the enemy’s side of the river, and having thus driven away a company -of sharp-shooters who were grievously annoying the Confederate line, -Captain Pollard’s duty was fully done. But, at the suggestion that -some wounded enemy might have been left in the house to perish in the -torture of the flames, he and his companion had deliberately crossed -the river into the enemy’s country, and had ridden under a galling -fire to the burning building, as earnestly and as daringly intent upon -their mission of mercy as they had been a little while before upon -their work of slaughter and destruction. - -“Man’s a strange animal,” sings the poet, and his song is an echo of -truth. - -Pollard and Kilgariff rode on until the camp was reached. There -Kilgariff pushed his horse at once to the tent of the surgeon, and -delivered the girl into that officer’s keeping. - -“Quick!” he said. “I fear she is terribly wounded.” - -“No, no,” cried the girl; “I am not hurt. It is only that my corsage -is—what you call stricken. Is it that that is the word? No? Then what -shall I say? It is only that the bullet hurt what you call my stays. -Truly it did not touch me.” - -Just then Captain Pollard observed that Kilgariff’s left hand was -wrapped in a piece torn from the front of the girl’s gown, and that the -rude bandage was saturated with blood. Contrary to all military rule, -the sergeant-major had been holding his reins in his right hand, and -carrying the girl in the support of his left arm. This awkwardness, as -he was at pains to explain to the captain, had been brought about by -the hurry of necessity. - -“I grabbed the girl,” he explained, “without a thought of anything -but the danger to her. The house timbers were already falling, and -there was no time to be lost. When I got to my horse, the fire of the -sharp-shooters was too severe to be trifled with when I had a girl to -protect, so I mounted from the right side of my horse instead of the -left, and continued to ride with her on my left arm and my bridle-rein -in my right hand. I make my apologies, Captain.” - -“Oh, confound your apologies!” ejaculated Captain Pollard. “What’s the -matter with your left hand? Let the surgeon see it at once.” - -“It is nothing of consequence,” answered the young man, stripping -off the rudely improvised bandage. “Only the ends of a finger or two -carried away. I had thought until a moment ago that the bullet had -penetrated the young lady’s body. You see, Captain, I was holding -her in front of me and clasping her closely around the waist with my -fingers extended, the better to hold her in her uncertain seat on -the withers. So, when the bullet struck my fingers, I thought it had -pierced her person. Thank God, she has come off safe! But by the time -the surgeon is through with his work on my fingers, I shall have to use -my right hand on the bridle for a considerable time to come, Captain.” - -“You will have to go to the hospital,” said the surgeon. - -“Indeed I shall do nothing of the kind.” - -“Why not, Kilgariff?” asked Pollard, who had become mightily interested -in the strange and strangely reserved young man whom he had made his -sergeant-major. - -“Why not? Why, because I’m not going to miss the greatest and probably -the last campaign of the greatest war of all time.” - -As he spoke, the captain turned away toward his tent, leaving Kilgariff -to endure the painful operations of the surgeon upon his wounded hand, -without chloroform, for there was none of that anæsthetic left among -the supplies of this meagrely furnished field-hospital after the work -already done upon the wounded men of that morning. Kilgariff endured -the amputations without a groan or so much as a flinching, whereat -the surgeon marvelled the more, seeing that the patient was a man of -exceptionally nervous constitution and temperament. When the bandages -were all in place, the sergeant-major said simply:— - -“Please let me have a stiff drink of spirits, Doctor. I am a trifle -inclined to faintness after the pain.” That was absolutely the only -sign the man gave of the fact that he had been enduring torture for -nearly a half-hour. - -Relighting his pipe, which he had smoked throughout the painful -operation, Kilgariff bade the doctor good morning, and walked away to -the tent which he and the captain together occupied. - -In the meantime Captain Pollard had been questioning the girl as to -herself, and getting no satisfactory answers from her, not so much -because of any unwillingness on her part to give an account of herself, -as seemingly because she either did not understand the questions put to -her, or did not know what the answers to them ought to be. - -“I’ll tell you what, Captain,” said Kilgariff, when Pollard had briefly -suggested the situation to him, “Doctor Brent is at Orange Court -House, I hear, reorganising the field-hospital service for the coming -campaign, and his wife is with him. Why not send the girl to her?” - -“To Dorothy? Yes, I’ll send her to Dorothy. She will know what to do.” - -He hastily summoned an ambulance for the girl to ride in, and still -more hastily scribbled a note to Dorothy Brent—to her who had been -Dorothy South in the days of her maidenhood before the war. In it he -said:— - - I am sending you, under escort, a girl whom my sergeant-major most - daringly rescued this morning from a house on the enemy’s side of the - river, after we had shelled and set fire to the place. She seems too - badly scared, or too something else, for me to find out anything about - her. You, with your womanly tact, will perhaps be able to gain her - confidence and find out what should be done. If she has friends at - the North to whom she should be returned, I will arrange with General - Stuart to send her back across the river under a flag of truce. If - she hasn’t any friends, or if for any other reason she should be kept - within our lines, you will know what to do with her. I am helpless in - such a case, and I earnestly invoke the aid of the very wisest woman - I ever knew. When you see the girl—poor, innocent child that she - is—you, who were once yourself a child, and who, in growing older, - have lost none of the sweetness and especially none of the moral - courage of childhood, will be interested, I am very sure, in taking - charge of her for her good. - -Having despatched this note, and the girl, under escort, Pollard turned -to Kilgariff, and abruptly asked:— - -“Why did you call this coming campaign ‘the greatest and probably the -last campaign’ of the war?” - -“Why, all that seems obvious. The Army of the Potomac has at last found -a commander who knows how to handle it, and both sides are tired of the -war. Grant is altogether a different man from McClellan, or Pope, or -McDowell, or Burnside, or Meade. He knows his business. He knows that -the chief remaining strength of the Confederacy lies in the fighting -force of the Army of Northern Virginia. He will strike straight at -that. He will hurl his whole force upon us in an effort to destroy this -army. If he succeeds, the Confederacy can’t last even a fortnight after -that. If he fails, if Lee hurls him back across the Rapidan, broken and -beaten as all his predecessors have been, the North will never raise -another army—if the feeling there is anything like what the Northern -newspapers represent it to be. You see, I’ve been reading them all the -while—but, pardon me, I meant only to answer your question.” - -“Don’t apologise,” answered Pollard. And he wondered who this man, his -sergeant-major, was—whence he had come, and how, and why. For Captain -Marshall Pollard knew absolutely nothing about the man whom he had made -his confidential staff-sergeant, his tent mate, his bedfellow, and the -executant of all his orders. Nevertheless, he trusted him implicitly. -“I do not know his history,” he reflected, “but I know his quality as a -man and a soldier.” - - - - -II - -OWEN KILGARIFF - - -THE relations between Pollard and Kilgariff were peculiar. In many ways -they were inexplicable except upon the ground of instinctive sympathy -between two men, each of whom recognised the other as a gentleman; -both of whom were possessed of scholarly tastes combined with physical -vigour and all that is possible of manliness; both of whom loved books -and knew them intimately; and each of whom recognised in the other -somewhat more than is common of intellectual force. - -The history of their acquaintance had been quite unusual. Marshall -Pollard had risen from the ranks to be now the captain of a battery -originally organised and commanded by Captain Skinner, a West Point -graduate who had resigned from the United States army many years -before the war, but not until after he had seen much service in Mexico -and in Indian warfare. The battery had been composed at the outset -of ruffians from the purlieus of Richmond, jailbirds, wharf-rats, -beach-combers, men pardoned out of the penitentiary on condition of -their enlistment, and the friends and associates of such men. It had -been a fiercely fighting battery from the beginning. Slowly but surely -many of the men who had originally constituted it had been killed in -battle, and Virginia mountaineers had been enlisted to fill their -places. In the meanwhile discipline of the rigidest military sort -had wrought a wonderful change for the better in such of the men as -survived from the original organisation. By the time that the battery -returned to Virginia, after covering itself with glory at Gettysburg, -it was no longer a company of ruffians and criminals, but it continued -to maintain its reputation for desperate fighting and for cool, -self-contained, and unfaltering courage. For those mountaineers of -Virginia were desperately loyal to the fighting traditions of their -race. - -During the winter of 1863-4 Captain Pollard’s battery was stationed -at Lindsay’s Turnout, on the Virginia Central Railroad a few miles -west of Gordonsville. Indescribable, almost inconceivable mud was the -characteristic of that winter, and General Lee had taken advantage -of it, and of the complete veto it placed upon even the smallest -military operations, to retire the greater part of his army from the -Rappahannock and the Rapidan to the railroads in the rear, where it -was possible to feed the men and the horses, at least in some meagre -fashion. - -It was during this stay in winter quarters that Owen Kilgariff had come -to the battery. Whence he came, or how he got there, nobody knew and -nobody could guess. There were only two trains a day on the railroad; -one going east, and the other going west. It was the duty of strong -guards from Pollard’s battery to man the station whenever a train -arrived and inspect the passports of every passenger who descended from -the cars to the platform or passed from the platform to the cars. Owen -Kilgariff had not come by any of the trains. That much was absolutely -certain, and nobody knew any other way by which he could have come. -Yet one evening he appeared in Pollard’s battery at retreat roll-call -and stood looking on and listening while the orders for the night were -being read to the men. - -He was a singularly comely young man of thirty years, or a little -less—tall, rather slender, though very muscular, symmetrical in an -unusual degree, and carrying his large and well-shaped head with the -ease and grace of a trained athlete. - -When the military function was ended and the men had broken ranks, -Kilgariff approached Captain Pollard, and with a faultlessly correct -military salute said:— - -“Captain, I crave your permission to pass the night with some of your -men. In the morning I think I shall ask you to enlist me in your -battery.” - -There was something in the man’s speech and manner which strongly -appealed to Marshall Pollard’s sympathy and awakened his respect. - -“You shall be my own personal guest for the night,” he said; “I can -offer you some bacon and corn bread for supper, and a bundle of dry -broom-straw grass to sleep upon. As for enlistment, we’ll talk further -about that in the morning.” - -The evening passed pleasantly. The stranger was obviously a gentleman -to his finger tips. He conversed with rare intelligence and interest, -upon every subject that happened to arise among the officers who were -accustomed to gather in the captain’s hut every evening, making a sort -of club of his headquarters. Incidentally some one made reference -during the evening to some reported Japanese custom. Instantly but very -modestly Kilgariff said:— - -“Pardon me, but that is one of many misapprehensions concerning the -Japanese. They have no such custom. The notion arose originally out of -a misunderstanding—a misinterpretation; it got into print, and has -been popularly accepted ever since. Let me tell you, if you care to -listen, what the facts really are.” - -Then he went on, by eager invitation, to talk long and interestingly -about Japan and the Japanese—matters then very slightly -known—speaking all the while with the modest confidence of one who -knows his subject, but who is in no sense disposed to display the -extent of his knowledge. - -Finally, inquiry brought out the modestly reluctant information -that Kilgariff had been a member—though he avoided saying in what -capacity—of Commodore Perry’s expedition which compelled the -opening of the Japanese ports, and that instead of returning with -the expedition, he had somehow quitted it and made his way into the -interior of the hermit empire, where he had passed a year or two in -minute exploration. - -All this was drawn out by questioning only, and in no case did -Kilgariff go beyond the question asked, to volunteer information. -Especially he avoided speaking of himself or of his achievements at any -point in his conversation. He would say, “An American” did this, “An -English-speaking man” saw that, “A foreigner had an experience,” and so -forth. The first personal pronoun singular was almost completely absent -from his conversation. - -One of the lieutenants was a Frenchman, and to him Kilgariff spoke in -French whenever that officer seemed at a loss to understand a statement -made in English. The surgeon was a German, and with him Kilgariff -talked in German about scientific matters, and in such fashion that the -doctor said to Pollard next morning:— - -“It is that this man an accomplished physician is, or I mightily -mistaken am already.” - -In the morning Owen Kilgariff warmly thanked Captain Pollard for his -entertainment, adding:— - -“As one gentleman with another, you have been free to offer, and I free -to accept, your hospitality. Be very sure that I shall not presume upon -this after I become a common soldier under your command, as I intend to -do this morning if I have your permission.” - -Pollard protested that his battery was not a proper one for a man of -Kilgariff’s culture and refinement to enlist in, explaining that such -of the men as were not ex-criminals were illiterate mountaineers, -wholly unfit for association on equal terms with him. For answer, -Kilgariff said:— - -“I am told that you yourself enlisted here, Captain, when the -conditions were even less alluring than now.” - -“Well, yes, certainly. But my case was peculiar.” - -“Perhaps mine is equally so,” answered the man. “At any rate, I very -much want to enlist under your command, in a battery that, as I learn, -usually manages to get into the thick of every fight and to stay there -to the end.” - -A question was on Pollard’s lips, which he greatly wanted to ask, but -he dared not. With the instinctive shrinking of a gentleman from the -impertinence of personal questioning, Pollard found it impossible -to ask this man how it happened that he was not already a soldier -somewhere. And yet the matter was one which very naturally prompted -questioning. The Confederate conscription laws had long ago brought -into the army every able-bodied man in the South. How happened it, -then, that this man of twenty-eight or thirty years of age, perfect in -physique, had managed to avoid service until this fourth year of the -war? And how was it, that one so manifestly eager now for service of -the most active kind had been willing to keep out of the army for so -long a time? - -As if divining the thought which Captain Pollard could not bring -himself to formulate, Kilgariff said:— - -“Some day, perhaps, I shall be able to tell you how and why it is that -I am not already a soldier. At present I cannot. But I assure you, on -my honour as a gentleman, that there is absolutely no obstacle in the -way of your enlistment of me in your command. I earnestly ask you to -accept me as one of your cannoniers.” - -Accordingly, the man was enrolled as a private in the battery, and from -that hour he never once presumed upon the acquaintance he had been -privileged to form with the officers. With a scrupulosity greater than -was common even in that rigidly disciplined command, he observed the -distinction between officers and enlisted men. His behaviour indeed was -that of one bred under the strict surveillance of martinet professors -in a military school. He did all his military duties of whatever kind -with a like attention to every detail of good conduct; always obeying -like a soldier, never like a servant. That distinction is broad and -very important as an index of character. - -The officers liked him, and Pollard especially sought him out for -purposes of conversation. The men liked him, too, though they felt -instinctively that he was their superior. Perhaps their liking for him -was in large part due to the fact that he never asserted or in any -wise assumed his superiority—never recognised it, in fact, even by -implication. - -He nearly always had a book somewhere about his person—a book -borrowed in most cases, but bought when there was no opportunity to -borrow, for the man seemed always to have money in plenty. Now and then -he would go to a quartermaster or a paymaster with a gold piece and -exchange it for a great roll of the nearly worthless Confederate notes. -These he would spend for books or whatever else he wanted. - -On one occasion, when the men of the battery had been left for thirteen -bitterly cold days and nights with no food except a meagre dole of corn -meal, Kilgariff bought a farmer’s yoke of oxen that had become stalled -in the muddy roadway near the camp. These were emphatically “lean -kine,” and their flesh would make very tough beef, but the toughest -beef imaginable was better than no meat at all, and so Kilgariff paid -what looked like a king’s ransom for the half-starved and wholly -“stalled” oxen, got two of the men who had had experience in such work -to slaughter and dress them, and asked the commissary-sergeant to -distribute the meat among the men. - -The next day he exchanged another gold piece for Confederate notes -enough to paper a goodly sized wall, and the men rightly guessed -that for some reason, known only to himself, this stranger among them -carried a supply of gold coin in a belt buckled about his waist. But -not one of them ever ventured to ask him concerning the matter. He was -clearly not a man to be questioned with regard to his personal affairs. - -Thus it came about that Captain Pollard, who had made this man -successively corporal, sergeant, and finally sergeant-major, solely on -grounds of obvious fitness, actually knew nothing about him, except -that he was an ideally good soldier and a man of education and culture. - -Now that he had become sergeant-major, his association with the captain -was close and constant. The two occupied the same tent or hut—when -they had a tent or hut—messed together, slept together, and rode side -by side whithersoever the captain had occasion to go on duty. They read -together, too, in their idle hours, and talked much with each other -about books, men, and affairs. But never once did Captain Pollard ask -a personal question of his executive sergeant and intimate personal -associate. - -Nor did Kilgariff ever volunteer the smallest hint of information -concerning himself, either to the captain or to anybody else. On the -contrary, he seemed peculiarly to shrink even from the accidental or -incidental revelation of anything pertaining to himself. - -One day, in winter quarters, a gunner was trying to open a shell which -had failed to explode when fired from the enemy’s battery into the -Confederate lines. The missile burst while the gunner was handling -it, and tore off the poor fellow’s hand. The surgeon had ridden away -somewhither—nobody knew whither—and it was at least a mile’s distance -to the nearest camp where a surgeon might be found. Meanwhile, the man -seemed doomed to bleed to death. The captain was hurriedly wondering -what to do, when Kilgariff came quietly but quickly, pushed his way -through the group of excited men, knotted a handkerchief, and deftly -bound it around the wounded man’s arm. - -“Hold that firmly,” he said to a corporal standing by. “Watch the -stump, and if the blood begins to flow again, twist the loop a -trifle tighter, but not too tight, only enough to prevent a free -hemorrhage—bleeding, I mean.” - -Then, touching his cap brim, he asked the captain:— - -“May I go to the surgeon’s tent and bring some necessary appliances? I -think I may save this poor fellow’s life, and there is no time to be -lost.” - -The captain gave permission, of course, and a few minutes later -Kilgariff returned with a score of things needed. Kneeling, he arranged -them on the ground. Then he examined the wounded man’s pulse, and with -a look of satisfaction saturated a handkerchief with chloroform from -a bottle he had brought. He then turned again to Captain Pollard, -saying:— - -“Will you kindly hold that over the man’s nose and mouth? And will -you put your finger on his uninjured wrist, observing the pulse-beats -carefully? Tell me, please, if any marked change occurs.” - -“Why, what are you going to do?” asked the captain. - -“With your permission, I am going to amputate this badly shattered -wrist. There is no time to be lost.” - -With that, he set to work, pausing only to direct one of the corporals -to keep the men back and prevent too close a crowding around the -patient. - -With what seemed to Captain Pollard incredible quickness, Kilgariff -amputated the arm above the wrist, took up the arteries, and neatly -bandaged the wound. Then he bade some of the men bear the patient on a -litter to his hut, and place him in his bunk. He remained by the poor -fellow’s side until the effects of shock and chloroform had subsided. -Then he returned to his quarters quite as if nothing out of the -ordinary routine had happened. - -Captain Pollard had seen enough of field surgery during his three -years of active military service to know that Kilgariff’s work in this -case had been done with the skill of an expert, and his astonishment -over this revelation of his sergeant-major’s accomplishment was great. -Nevertheless, he shrank from questioning the man about the matter, or -saying anything to him which might be construed as an implied question. -All that he said was:— - -“I thank you, Kilgariff, and congratulate you! You have saved a good -man’s life this day, and God does not give it to many men to do that.” - -“I hope the surgeon will find my work satisfactory,” responded the -sergeant-major. “Is there any soup in the kettle, Tom?”—addressing the -coloured cook. “Bring me a cup of it, please.” - -The man’s nerves had gone through a fearful strain, of course, as every -surgeon’s do when he performs a capital operation, and the captain -saw that Kilgariff was exhausted. He offered to send for a drink of -whiskey, but Kilgariff declined it, saying that the hot soup was quite -all he needed. The bugle blowing the retreat call a moment later, -Kilgariff went, quite as if nothing had happened, to call the roll and -deliver the orders for the night. - -A little later the surgeon returned and was told what had happened. -After looking at the bandages, and without removing them, he muttered -something in German and walked away to the captain’s quarters. He was -surgeon to this battery only, for the reason that the company was for -the time detached from its battalion, and must have a medical officer -of its own. - -Entering the captain’s quarters, the bluff but emotional German doctor -grasped Kilgariff’s hand, and broke forth:— - -“It is that you are a brother then as well as a frient already. Why -then haf you not to me that you are a surgeon told it? Ach! I haf -myself that you speak the German forgot. It is only in the German that -I can what I wish to tell you say.” - -Then in German the excited doctor went on to lavish praise upon the -younger man for his skill. Presently the captain, seeing how sorely -Kilgariff was embarrassed by the encomiums, came to his relief by -asking:— - -“Have you taken off the bandages, Doctor, and examined the wound?” - -“Shade of Esculapius, NO! What am I, that I should with such a -bandaging tamper? One glance—one, what you call, look—quite enough -tells me. This the work of a master is—it is not the work with which -for me to interfere. The man who those bandages put on, that man knows -what the best masters can teach. It is not under the bandages that I -need to look to find out that. Ach, Herr Sergeant-major, I to you my -homage offer. Five years I in the hospitals of Berlin am, and four -years in Vienna. In the army of Austria I am surgeon for six years. Do -I not know?” - -Then the doctor began to question Kilgariff in German, to the younger -man’s sore embarrassment. But, fortunately for his reserve, Kilgariff -had the German language sufficiently at his command to parry every -question, and when tattoo sounded, the excited surgeon returned to his -own quarters, still muttering his astonishment and admiration. - -In the morning Captain Pollard asked Kilgariff to ride with him, -in order that they two might the better talk together. But even on -horseback Pollard found it difficult to approach this man upon any -subject that seemed in the least degree personal. It was not that there -was anything repellent, anything combative, and still less anything -pugnacious in Kilgariff’s manner; for there was never anything of -the sort. It was only that the man was so full of a gentle dignity, -so saturated with that reserve which a gentleman instinctively feels -concerning his own affairs that no other gentleman wishes to intrude -upon them. - -Still, Pollard had something to say to his sergeant-major on this -occasion, and presently he said it:— - -“I did not know until yesterday,” he began, “that you were a surgeon, -Kilgariff.” - -“Perhaps I should not call myself that,” interrupted the man, as if -anxious to forestall the captain’s thought. “One who has knocked about -the world as much as I have naturally picks up a good many bits of -useful information—especially with regard to the emergency care of men -who get themselves hurt.” - -“Now listen to me, Kilgariff,” said Pollard, with determination. -“Don’t try to hoodwink me. I have never asked you a question about -your personal affairs, and I don’t intend to do so now. You need not -seek by indirection to mislead me. I shall not ask you whether you are -a surgeon or not. There is no need. I have seen too much with my own -eyes, and I have heard too much from our battery surgeon as to your -skill, to believe for one moment that it is of the ‘jack-at-all-trades’ -kind. But I ask you no questions. I respect your privacy, as I demand -respect for my own. But I want to say to you that this army is badly in -need of surgeons, especially surgeons whose skill is greater than that -of the half-educated country doctors, many of whom we have been obliged -to commission for want of better-equipped men. I learn this from my -friend Doctor Arthur Brent, who tells me he is constantly embarrassed -by his inability to find really capable and experienced surgeons to -do the more difficult work of the general hospitals. He said to me -only a week ago, when he came to the front to reorganise the medical -service for this year’s campaign, that ‘many hundreds of gallant men -will die this summer for lack of a sufficient number of highly skilled -surgeons.’ He explained that while we have many men in the service -whose skill is of the highest, we have not nearly enough of such to -fill the places in which they are needed. Now I want you to let me send -you to Doctor Brent with a letter of introduction. He will quickly -procure a commission for you as a major-surgeon. It isn’t fit that such -a man as you should waste himself in the position of a non-commissioned -officer.” - -Not until he had finished the speech did Pollard turn his eyes upon -his companion’s face. Then he saw it to be pale—almost cadaverous. -Obviously the man was undergoing an agonising struggle with himself. - -“I beg your pardon, Kilgariff,” hastily spoke Captain Pollard, “if I -have said anything to wound you; I could not know—” - -“It is not that,” responded the sergeant-major. But he added nothing to -the declaration for a full minute afterward, during which time he was -manifestly struggling to control himself. Finally recovering his calm, -he said:— - -“It is very kind of you, Captain, and I thank you for it. But I cannot -accept your offer of service. I must remain as I am. I ought to have -remained a private, as I at first intended. It is very ungracious in me -not to tell you the wherefore of this, but I cannot, and your already -demonstrated respect for my privacy will surely forbid you to resent -a reserve concerning myself which I am bound to maintain. If you do -resent it, or if it displeases you in the least, I beg you to accept my -resignation as your sergeant-major, and let me return to my place among -the men as a private in the battery.” - -“No,” answered Pollard, decisively. “If the army cannot have the -advantage of your service in any higher capacity, I certainly shall not -let myself lose your intelligence and devotion as my staff-sergeant. -Believe me, Kilgariff, I spoke only for your good and the good of the -service.” - -“I quite understand, Captain, and I thank you. But with your permission -we will let matters remain as they are.” - -All this occurred about a week before the events related in the first -chapter of this story. - - - - -III - -EVELYN BYRD - - -WHEN the girl whom Kilgariff had rescued from the burning building was -delivered into Dorothy Brent’s hands, that most gracious of gentlewomen -received her quite as if her coming had been expected, and as if -there had been nothing unusual in the circumstances that had led to -her visit. Dorothy was too wise and too considerate to question the -frightened girl about herself upon her first arrival. She saw that she -was half scared and wholly bewildered by what had happened to her, -added to which her awe of Dorothy herself, stately dame that the very -young wife of Doctor Brent seemed in her unaccustomed eyes, was a -circumstance to be reckoned with. - -“I must teach her to love me first,” thought Dorothy, with the old -straightforwardness of mind. “Then she will trust me.” - -So, after she had hastily read Pollard’s note and characterised it as -“just like a man not to find out the girl’s name,” she took the poor, -frightened, fawnlike creature in her arms, saying, with caresses that -were genuine inspirations of her nature:— - -“Poor, dear girl! You have had a very hard day of it. Now the first -thing for you to do is to rest. So come on up to my room. You shall -have a refreshing little bath—I’ll give it to you myself with Mammy’s -aid—and then you shall go regularly to bed.” - -“But,” queried the doubting girl, “is it permitted to—” - -“Oh, yes, I know you are faint with hunger, and you shall have your -breakfast as soon as Dick can get it ready. Queer, isn’t it, to take -breakfast at three o’clock in the afternoon? But you shall have it -in bed, with nobody to bother you. Fortunately we have some coffee, -and Dick is an expert in making coffee. I taught him myself. I don’t -know, of course, how much or how little experience you have had with -servants, but I have always found that when I want them to do things in -my way, I must take all the trouble necessary to teach them what my -way is. Get her shoes and stockings off quick, Mammy.” - -“I have had little to do with servants,” said the girl, simply, “and so -I don’t know.” - -“Didn’t you ever have a dear old mammy? queried Dorothy, thus asking -the first of the questions that must be asked in order to discover the -girl’s identity. - -“No—yes. I don’t know. You see, they made me swear to tell nothing. I -mustn’t tell after that, must I?” - -“No, you dear girl; no. You needn’t tell me anything. I was only -wondering what girls do when they haven’t a good old mammy like mine -to coddle them and regulate them and make them happy. Why, you can’t -imagine what a bad girl I should have been if I hadn’t had Mammy here -to scold me and keep me straight. Can she, Mammy?” - -“Humph!” ejaculated the old coloured nurse. “Much good my scoldin’ o’ -you done do, Mis’ Dorothy. Dere nebber was a chile so cantankerous as -you is always been an’ is to dis day. I’d be ’shamed to tell dis heah -young lady ’bout your ways an’ your manners. Howsomever, she kin jedge -fer herse’f, seein’ as she fin’s you heah ’mong all de soldiers, when -you oughter be at Wyanoke a-givin’ o’ dinin’-days, an’ a-entertainin’ -o’ yer frien’s. I’se had a hard time with you, Mis’ Dorothy, all my -life. What fer you always a-botherin’ ’bout a lot o’ sick people an’ -wounded men, jes’ as yo’ done do ’bout dem no-’count niggas down at -Wyanoke when dey done gone an’ got deyselves sick? Ah, well, I spec -dat’s what ole mammies is bawn fer—jes’ to reg’late dere precious -chiles when de’re bent on habin’ dere own way anyhow. Don’ you go fer -to listen to Mis’ Dorothy ’bout sich things, nohow, Mis’—what’s yer -name, honey?” - -“I don’t think I can tell,” answered the girl, frightened again, -apparently; “at least, not certainly. It is Evelyn Byrd, but there was -something else added to it at last, and I don’t want to tell what the -rest of it is.” - -“Then you are a Virginian?” said Dorothy, quickly, surprised into a -question when she meant to ask none. - -“I think so,” said the girl; “I’m not quite sure.” - -She looked frightened again, and Dorothy pursued the inquiry no -further, saying:— - -“Oh, we won’t bother about that. Evelyn Byrd is name enough for -anybody to bear, and it is thoroughly Virginian. Here comes your -breakfast”—as Dick knocked at the door with a tray which Mammy took -from his hands and herself brought to the bed in which the girl had -been placed after her bath. “We won’t bother about anything now. Just -take your breakfast, and then try to sleep a little. You must be -utterly worn out.” - -The girl looked at her wistfully, but said nothing. She ate sparingly, -but apparently with the relish of one who is faint for want of food, -the which led Dorothy to say:— - -“It was just like a man to send you on here without giving you -something to eat.” - -“You are very good to me.” That was all the girl said in reply. - -When she had rested, Dorothy sitting sewing in the meanwhile, the girl -turned to her hostess and asked:— - -“Might I put on my clothes again, now?” - -“Why, certainly. Now that you are rested, you are to do whatever you -wish.” - -“Am I? I was never allowed to do anything I wished before this time—at -least not often.” - -The remark opened the way for questioning, but Dorothy was too discreet -to avail herself of the opportunity. She said only:— - -“Well, so long as you stay with me, Evelyn, you are to do precisely as -you please. I believe in liberty for every one. You heard what Mammy -said about me. Dear old Mammy has been trying to govern me ever since I -was born, and never succeeding, simply because she never really wanted -to succeed. Don’t you think people are the better for being left free -to do as they please in all innocent ways?” - -There was a fleeting expression as of pained memory on the girl’s face. -She did not answer immediately, but sat gazing as any little child -might, into Dorothy’s face. After a little, she said:— - -“I don’t quite know. You see, I know so very little. I think I would -like best to do whatever you please for me to do. Yes. That is what I -would like best.” - -“Would you like to go with me to my home, and live there with me till -you find your friends?” - -“I would like that, yes. But I think I haven’t any friends—I don’t -know.” - -“Well,” said Dorothy, “sometime you shall tell me about that—some day -when you have come to love me and feel like telling me about yourself.” - -“Thank you,” said the girl. “I think I love you already. But I mustn’t -tell anything because of what they made me swear.” - -“We’ll leave all that till we get to Wyanoke,” said Dorothy. “Wyanoke, -you should know, is Doctor Brent’s plantation. It is my home. You and -I will go to Wyanoke within a day or two. Just as soon as my husband, -Doctor Brent, can spare me.” - -The girl was manifestly losing something of her timidity under the -influence of her new-found trust and confidence in Dorothy, and Dorothy -was quick to discover the fact, but cautious not to presume upon it. -The two talked till supper time, and the girl accompanied her hostess -to that meal, where, for the first time, she met Arthur Brent. That -adept in the art of observation so managed the conversation as to -find out a good deal about Evelyn Byrd, without letting her know or -suspect that he was even interested in her. He asked her no questions -concerning herself or her past, but drew her into a shy participation -in the general conversation. That night he said to Dorothy:— - -“That girl has brains and a character. Both have been dwarfed, or -rather forbidden development, whether purposely or by accidental -circumstances I cannot determine. You will find out when you get her to -Wyanoke, and it really doesn’t matter. Under your influence she will -grow as a plant does in the sunshine. I almost envy you your pupil.” - -“She will be yours, too, even more than mine.” - -“After a while, perhaps, but not for some time to come. I have much -more to do here than I thought, and shall have to leave the laboratory -work at Wyanoke to you for the present. You’d better set out to-morrow -morning. The railroads are greatly overtaxed just now, as General Lee -is using every car he can get for the transportation of troops and -supplies—mainly troops, for heaven knows there are not many supplies -to be carried. I have promised the surgeon-general that the laboratory -at Wyanoke shall be worked to its full capacity in the preparation of -medicines and appliances, so you are needed there at once. But under -present conditions it is better that you travel across country in a -carriage. I’ve arranged all that. You will have a small military escort -as far as the James River. After that, you will have no need. How I do -envy you the interest you are going to feel in this Evelyn Byrd!” - - - - -IV - -THE LETTING DOWN OF THE BARS - - -NOT many days after Pollard’s fruitless talk with Kilgariff, the -sergeant-major asked leave, one morning, to visit Orange Court House. -He said nothing of his purpose in going thither, and Pollard had no -impulse to ask him, as he certainly would have been moved to ask any -other enlisted man under his command, especially now that the hasty -movements of troops in preparation for the coming campaign had brought -the army into a condition resembling fermentation. - -When Kilgariff reached the village, he inquired for Doctor Brent’s -quarters, and presently dismounted in front of the house temporarily -occupied by that officer. - -As he entered the office, Arthur Brent raised his eyes, and instantly a -look of amazed recognition came over his face. Rising and grasping his -visitor’s hand—though that hand had not been extended—he exclaimed:— - -“Kilgariff! You here?” - -“Thank you,” answered the sergeant-major. “You have taken my -hand—which I did not venture to offer. That means much.” - -“It means that I am Arthur Brent, and glad to greet Owen Kilgariff once -more in the flesh.” - -“It means more than that,” answered Kilgariff. “It means that you -generously believe in my innocence—jail-bird that I am.” - -“I have never believed you guilty,” answered the other. - -“But why not? The evidence was all against me.” - -“No, it was not. The _testimony_ was. But between evidence and -testimony there is a world of difference.” - -“Just how do you mean?” - -“Well, you and I know our chemistry. If a score of men should swear -to us that they had seen a jet of oxygen put out fire, and a jet of -carbonic acid gas rekindle it from a dying coal, we should instantly -reject their testimony in favour of the evidence of our own knowledge. -In the same way, I have always rejected the testimony that convicted -you, because I have, in my knowledge of you, evidence of your -innocence. You and I were students together both in this country and -in Europe. We were friends, roommates, comrades, day and night. I -learned to know your character perfectly, and I hold character to be as -definite a fact as complexion is, or height, or anything else. I had -the evidence of my own knowledge of you. The testimony contradicted it. -Therefore I rejected the testimony and believed the evidence.” - -“Believe me,” answered Kilgariff, “I am grateful to you for that. I did -not expect it. I ought to, but I did not. If I had reasoned as soundly -as you do, I should have known how you would feel. But I am morbid -perhaps. Circumstances have tended to make me so.” - -“Come with me to my bedroom upstairs,” said Arthur Brent. “There is -much that we must talk about, and we are subject to interruption here.” - -Then, summoning his orderly, Arthur Brent gave his commands:— - -“I shall be engaged with Sergeant-major Kilgariff upstairs for some -time to come, and I must not be interrupted on any account. Say so to -all who may ask to see me, and peremptorily refuse to bring me any card -or any name or any message. You understand.” - -Then, throwing his arm around his old comrade’s person, he led the way -upstairs. When the two were seated, Arthur Brent said:— - -“Tell me now about yourself. How comes it that you are here, and -wearing a Confederate uniform?” - -“Instead of prison stripes, eh? It is simple enough. By a desperate -effort I escaped from Sing Sing, and after a vast deal of trouble and -some hardship, I succeeded in making my way into the Confederate lines. -Thinking to hide myself as completely as possible, I enlisted in a -battery that has no gentlemen in its ranks, but has a habit of getting -itself into the thick of every fight and staying there. You know the -battery—Captain Pollard’s?” - -“Marshall Pollard’s? Yes. He is one of my very best friends. But tell -me—” - -“Permit me to finish. I wanted to hide myself. I thought that as -a cannonier in such a battery I should escape all possibility of -observation. But that battery has very little material out of which -to make non-commissioned officers. Very few of the men can read or -write. So it naturally came about that I was put into place as a -non-commissioned officer, and I am now sergeant-major, greatly to my -regret. In that position I must be always with Captain Pollard. When I -learned that he and you were intimates, and that your duty often called -you to the front, I saw the necessity of coming to you to find out on -what terms you and I might meet after—well, in consideration of the -circumstances.” - -Arthur Brent waited for a time before answering. Then he stood erect, -and said:— - -“Stand up, Owen, and let me look you in the eyes. I have not asked you -if you are innocent of the crimes charged against you. I never shall -ask you that. I _know_, because I know _you_!” - -“I thank you, Arthur, for putting the matter in that way. But it is due -to you—due to your faith in me—that I should voluntarily say to you -what you refuse to ask me to say. As God sees me, I am as innocent as -you are. I could have established my innocence at the critical time, -but I would not. To do that would have been to condemn—well, it would -have involved—” - -“Never mind that. I understand. You made a heroic self-sacrifice. Let -me rejoice only in the fact that you are free again. You are enlisted -under your own name?” - -“Of course. I could never take an alias. It was only when I learned -that you and Captain Pollard were friends—” - -“But suppose you fall into the hands of the enemy? Suppose you are made -prisoner?” - -“I shall never be taken alive,” was the response. - -“But you may be wounded.” - -“I am armed against all that,” the other replied. “I have my -pistols, of course. I carry an extra small one in my vest pocket for -emergencies. Finally, I have these”—drawing forth two little metallic -cases, one from the right, the other from the left trousers pocket. -“They are filled with pellets of cyanide of potassium. I carry them -in two pockets to make sure that no wound shall prevent me getting at -them. I shall not be taken alive. Even if that should happen, however, -I am armed against the emergency. Two men escaped from Sing Sing with -me. One of them was shot to death by the guards, his face being -fearfully mutilated. The other was wounded and captured. The body -of the dead man was identified as mine, and my death was officially -recorded. I do not think the law of New York would go behind that. But -in any case, I am armed against capture, and I shall never be taken -alive.” - -A little later Arthur Brent turned the conversation. - -“Let us talk of the future,” he said, “not of the past. I am -reorganising the medical staff for the approaching campaign. I am -sorely put to it to find fit men for the more responsible places. My -simple word will secure for you a commission as major-surgeon, and I -will assign you to the very best post at my disposal. I need just such -men as you are—a dozen, a score, yes, half a hundred of them. You must -put yourself in my hands. I’ll apply for your commission to-day, and -get it within three days at most.” - -“If you will think a moment, Arthur,” said the other, “you will -see that I could not do that without dishonour. Branded as I am -with a conviction of felony, I have no right to impose myself as a -commissioned officer upon men who would never consent to associate -with me upon such terms if they knew.” - -“I respect your scruple,” answered Doctor Brent, after a moment of -reflection, “but I do not share it. In the first place, the disability -you mention is your misfortune, not your fault. You _know_ yourself to -be innocent, and as you do not in any way stand accused in the eyes of -the officers of this army, there is absolutely no reason why you should -not become one of them, as a man conscious of his own rectitude. - -“Besides all that, we are living in new times, under different -conditions from those that existed before the war. It used to be said -that in Texas it was taking an unfair advantage of any man to inquire -into his life before his migration to that State. If he had conducted -himself well since his arrival there, he was entitled to all his -reserves with regard to his previous course of life in some other part -of the country. Now a like sentiment has grown strong in the South -since this war broke out. I don’t mean to suggest that we have lowered -our standards of honourable conduct in the least, for we have not done -so. But we have revised our judgments as to what constitutes worth. -The old class distinctions of birth and heritage have given place to -new tests of present conduct. There are companies by the score in this -army whose officers, elected by their men, were before the war persons -of much lower social position than that of a majority of their own men. -In any peacetime organisation these officers could never have hoped -for election to office of any kind; but they are fighters and men of -capacity; they know how to do the work of war well, and, under our new -and sounder standards of fitness, the men in the ranks have put aside -old social distinctions and elected to command them the men fittest -to command. The same principle prevails higher up. One distinguished -major-general in the Confederate service was a nobody before the war; -another was far worse; he was a negro trader who before the war would -not have been admitted, even as a merely tolerated guest, into the -houses of the gentlemen who are to-day glad to serve as officers and -enlisted men under his command. Still another was an ignorant Irish -labourer who did work for day’s wages in the employ of some of the men -to whom he now gives orders, and from whom he expects and receives -willing obedience. I tell you, Kilgariff, a revolution has been wrought -in this Southern land of ours, and the results of that revolution will -permanently endure, whatever the military or political outcome of the -war may be. In your case there is no need to cite these precedents, -except to show you that the old quixotism—it was a good old quixotism -in its way; it did a world of good, together with a very little of -evil—is completely gone. There is no earthly reason, Kilgariff, why -you should not render a higher and better service to the Confederacy -than that which you are now rendering. There is no reason—” - -“Pardon me, Arthur; in my own mind there is reason enough. And besides, -I am thoroughly comfortable as I am. You know I am given to being -comfortable. You remember that when you and I were students at Jena, -and afterward in the Latin Quarter in Paris, I was always content -to live in the meagre ways that other students did, though I had a -big balance to my credit in the bank and a large income at home. As -sergeant-major under our volunteer system, I am the intimate associate -not only of Captain Pollard, whose scholarship you know, but also -of all the battery officers, some of whom are men worth knowing. For -the rest, I like the actual fighting, and I am looking forward to -this summer’s campaign with positively eager anticipations. So, if -you don’t mind, we will let matters stand as they are. I will remain -sergeant-major till the end of it all.” - -With that, the two friends parted. - - - - -V - -DOROTHY’S OPINIONS - - -IT was not Arthur Brent’s habit to rest satisfied in the defeat of any -purpose. He was deeply interested to induce Owen Kilgariff to become -a member of the military medical staff. Having exhausted his own -resources of persuasion, he determined to consult Dorothy, as he always -did when he needed counsel. That night he sent a long letter to her. -In it he told her all he knew about the matter, reserving nothing—he -never practised reserve with her—but asking her to keep Kilgariff’s -name and history to herself. Having laid the whole matter before that -wise young woman, he frankly asked her what he should do further in the -case. For reply, she wrote:— - - I am deeply interested in Kilgariff’s case. I have thought all day and - nearly all night about it. It seems to me to be a case in which a man - is to be saved who is well worth saving. Not that I regard service in - the ranks as either a hardship or a shame to any man, when the ranks - are full of the best young men in all the land. If that were all, I - would not have you turn your hand over to lift this man into place as - a commissioned officer. - - If I interpret the matter aright, Kilgariff is simply morbid, and if - you can induce him to take the place you have pressed upon him, you - will have cured him of his morbidity of mind. And I think you can do - that. You know how I contemn the duello, and fortunately it seems - passing out of use. In these war times, when every man stands up every - day to be shot at by hundreds of men who are not scared, it would be - ridiculous for any man to stand up and let one scared man shoot at - him, in the hope of demonstrating his courage in that fashion. - - That is an aside. What I want to say is, that while the duello - has always been barbarous, and has now become ridiculous as well, - nevertheless it had some good features, one of which I think you might - use effectively in Owen Kilgariff’s case. As I understand the matter, - it was the custom under the code duello, sometimes to call a “court of - honour” to decide in a doubtful case precisely what honour required - a man to do, and, as I understand, the decision of such a court was - final, so far as the man whose duty was involved was concerned. It was - deemed the grossest of offences to call in question the conduct of a - man who acted in accordance with the finding of a court of honour. - - Now why cannot you call a court of honour to sit upon this case? - Without revealing Kilgariff’s identity—which of course you could not - do except by his permission—you could lay before the court a succinct - but complete statement of the case, and ask it to decide whether or - not the man concerned can, with honour, accept a commission in the - service without making the facts public. I am sure the verdict will be - in the affirmative, and armed with such a decision you can overcome - the poor fellow’s scruples and work a cure that is well worth working. - - Try my plan if it commends itself to your judgment, not otherwise. - - Little by little, I am finding out a good deal about our Evelyn - Byrd. Better still, I am learning to know her, and she interests me - mightily. She has a white soul and a mind that it is going to be a - delight to educate. She has already read a good deal in a strangely - desultory and unguided fashion, but her learning is utterly unbalanced. - - For example, she has read the whole, apparently, of the _Penny - Cyclopædia_—in a very old edition—and she has accepted it all as - unquestionable truth. Nobody had ever told the poor child that the - science of thirty years ago has been revised and enlarged since that - time, until I made the point clear to her singularly quick and - receptive mind in the laboratory yesterday. She seems also to have - read, and well-nigh committed to memory, the old plays published - fifty or sixty years ago under the title of _The British Drama_, but - she has hardly so much as heard of our great modern writers. She can - repeat whole dialogues from _Jane Shore_, _She Stoops to Conquer_, _A - New Way to Pay Old Debts_, _High Life Below Stairs_, and many plays - of a much lower moral character; but even the foulest of them have - manifestly done her no harm. Her own innocence seems to have performed - the function of the feathers on a duck’s back in a shower. She is so - unconscious of evil, indeed, that I do not care to explain my reasons - to her when I suggest that she had better not repeat to others some of - the literature that she knows by heart. - - I still haven’t the faintest notion of her history, or of whence she - came. She is docile in an extraordinary degree, but I think that is - due in large measure to her exaggerated sense of what she calls my - goodness to her. Poor child! It is certain that she never before knew - much of liberty or much of considerate kindness. She seems scarcely - able to realise, or even to believe, that in anything she is really - free to do as best pleases her, a fact from which I argue that she - has been subject always to the arbitrary will of others. She is by - no means lacking in spirit, and I suspect that those others who have - arbitrarily dominated her life have had some not altogether pleasing - experiences with her. She is capable of very vigorous revolt against - oppression, and her sense of justice is alert. But apparently she has - never before been treated with justice or with any regard whatever to - the rights of her individuality. She has been compelled to submit to - the will of others, but she has undoubtedly made trouble for those - who compelled her. At first with me she seemed always expecting some - correction, some assertion of authority, and she is only now beginning - to understand my attitude toward her, especially my insistence upon - her right to decide for herself all things that concern only herself. - The other day in the laboratory, she managed somehow to drop a beaker - and break it. She was about to gather up the fragments, but, as the - beaker had been filled with a corrosive acid, I bade her let them - alone, saying that I would have them swept up after the day’s work - should be done. She stood staring at me for a moment, after which she - broke into a little rippling laugh, threw her arms around my neck, and - said:— - - “I forgot. You never scold me, even when I am careless and break - things.” - - I tried hard to make her understand that I had no right to scold her, - besides having no desire to do so. It seemed a new gospel to her. - Finally she said, more to herself than to me:— - - “It is so different here. There was never anybody so good to me.” - - Her English is generally excellent, but it includes many odd - expressions, some of them localisms, I think, though I do not know - whence they come. Occasionally, too, she frames her English sentences - after a French rhetorical model, and the result is sometimes amusing. - And another habit of hers which interests me is her peculiar use - of auxiliary verbs and intensives. Instead of saying, “I had my - dinner,” she sometimes says, “I did have my dinner,” and to-day when - we had strawberries and cream for snack, she said, “I do find the - strawberries with the cream to be very good.” - - Yet never once have I detected the smallest suggestion of “broken - English” in her speech, except that now and then she places the accent - on a wrong syllable, as a foreigner might. Thus, when she first came, - she spoke of something as ex_cel_lent. I spoke the word correctly - soon afterward, and never since has she mispronounced it. Indeed, her - quickness in learning and her exceeding conscientiousness promise to - obliterate all that is peculiar in her speech before you get home - again, unless you come quickly. - - The girl doesn’t know what to make of Mammy. That dearest of despots - has conceived a great affection for this new “precious chile,” and - she tyrannises over her accordingly. She refused to let her get up - the other morning until after she had taken a cup of coffee in bed, - simply because no fire had been lighted in her room that morning. And - how Mammy did scold when she learned that Evelyn, thinking a fire - unnecessary, had sent the maid away who had gone to light it! - - “You’se jes’ anudder sich as Mis’ Dorothy,” she said. “Jes’ case it’s - spring yo’ won’t hab no fire to dress by even when it’s a-rainin’. An’ - so you’se a-tryin’ to cotch yo death o’ cole, jes’ to spite ole Mammy. - No, yo’ ain’t a-gwine to git up yit. Don’t you dar try to. You’se jes’ - a-gwine to lay still till dem no-’count niggas in de dinin’-room sen’s - you a cup o’ coffee what Mammy’s done tole ’em to bring jes’ as soon - as it’s ready. An’ de next time you goes fer to stop de makin’ o’ you - dressin’-fire, you’se a-gwine to heah from Mammy, yo’ is. Jes’ you - bear dat in mind.” - - Evelyn doesn’t quite understand. She says she thought we controlled - our servants, while in fact they control us. But she heartily likes - Mammy’s coddling tyranny—as what rightly constructed girl could fail - to do? Do you know, Arthur, the worst thing about this war is that - there’ll never be any more old mammies after it is ended? - - I’m teaching Evelyn chemistry, among other things, and she learns with - a rapidity that is positively astonishing. She has a perfect passion - for precision, which will make her invaluable in the laboratory - presently. Her deftness of hand, her accuracy, her conscientious - devotion to whatever she does, are qualities that are hard to match. - She never makes a false motion, even when doing the most unaccustomed - things; and whatever she does, she does conscientiously, as if its - doing were the sum of human duty. I am positively fascinated with - her. If I were a man, I should fall in love with her in a fashion - that would stop not at fire or flood. I ought to add that the girl is - a marvel of frankness—as much as any child might be—and that her - truthfulness is of the absolute, matter-of-course kind which knows no - other way. But these things you will have inferred from what I have - written before, if I have succeeded even in a small way in describing - Evelyn’s character. I heartily wish I knew her history; not because - of feminine curiosity, but because such knowledge might aid me in my - effort to guide and educate her aright. However, no such aid is really - necessary. With one so perfectly truthful, and so childishly frank, I - shall need only to study herself in order to know what to do in her - education. - -There was a postscript to this letter, of course. In it Dorothy wrote:— - - - Since this letter was written, Evelyn has revealed a totally - unsuspected accomplishment. She has been conversing with me in French, - and _such_ French! I never heard anything like it, and neither did - you. It is positively barbaric in its utter disregard of grammar, - and it includes many word forms that are half Indian, I suspect. It - interests me mightily, as an apt illustration of the way in which new - languages are formed, little by little, out of old ones. - -There was much else in Dorothy’s letter; for she and her husband -were accustomed to converse as fully and as freely on paper as they -did orally when together. These two were not only one flesh, but -one in mind, in spirit, and in all that meant life to them. Theirs -was a perfect marriage, an ideal union—a thing very rare in this -ill-assorted world of ours. - - - - -VI - -“WHEN GREEK MEETS GREEK” - - -AT midnight on the 3d of May, 1864, a message came to General Lee’s -headquarters. It told him only of an event which he had expected -to occur about this time. Grant was crossing the river into the -Wilderness, his army moving in two columns by way of the two lower -fords. - -General Lee’s plans were already formed in anticipation of this or any -other movement of the Army of the Potomac. He needed to learn only -which line of march of the several that were open to him General Grant -would adopt. Now he knew, and instantly his orders were given to carry -out plans previously and completely wrought out in his mind. Grant’s -movement by the lower fords indicated clearly what his plan of campaign -was to be. He had under his orders a veteran army of one hundred and -thirty thousand men, of whom rather more than one hundred thousand were -ready for actual battle. Lee had a total of a little less than sixty -thousand men—forty-five thousand of whom, perhaps, he could put upon -the firing-line, with which to oppose the Federal advance. - -Grant’s plan was to push forward rapidly through the Wilderness before -Lee could strike a blow, turn his adversary’s right, and plant his -greatly superior army near Gordonsville, in Lee’s rear, and between -him and Richmond. If he could have accomplished that purpose, the -surrender or destruction of the Army of Northern Virginia would have -been a matter only of a few days, or perhaps a few hours. For if cut -off in this fashion from all its sources of supply, and with no other -army anywhere to come to its relief, the already half-starving Virginia -force would have had no resource except to hurl itself upon Grant’s -double numbers and shatter itself to fragments in a vain effort to -break through impregnable lines. It would have had no possible route of -retreat open to it, no conceivable road of escape, no second line of -defence to fall back upon. - -But General Grant was dealing with the greatest master of strategy of -modern times. Grant’s plan of campaign was flawless, but Robert E. Lee -stood in the way. - -Lee instantly moved forward to interfere with his adversary’s march -toward Gordonsville, by assailing him in flank. At the same time -he threatened his advance corps on their front, in such fashion as -to compel Grant to recall them and accept battle amid the tangled -underbrush of the Wilderness. - -This Wilderness is, perhaps, the very wildest tract of land that lies -anywhere east of the Mississippi. It skirts the southern bank of the -Rapidan for fifteen miles, extending inland from that stream for -about ten miles. Originally it was densely timbered, but in colonial -days, and a little later, the timber was cut away to supply fuel for -the iron-furnaces that once abounded there, but that were afterward -abandoned. As the region does not at all tempt to agriculture, the -abandonment of the iron mines left it a veritable wilderness. Its -surface became covered with densely growing scrub trees, interlaced -with a tangle of vines and imbedded, as it were, in an undergrowth of a -density inconceivable to men who have not acquainted themselves with -the lavish luxuriance of Southern vegetation. - -It was in this Wilderness that Lee’s columns struck Grant’s in flank, -and for two days a battle raged there, of which, for difficulty of -conditions, there is scarcely a parallel in the history of warfare. - -The men could not see each other at a distance of more than a few rods. -Regiments, struggling through the tangled vines and underbrush, came -unexpectedly upon regiments of the enemy and fought desperately for -the possession of the ground, neither knowing how much or how little -the holding, the conquest, or the loss of the position involved might -signify in a military way. - -Orderly fighting was utterly out of the question. Not only was -it impossible for corps commanders to handle their troops with -co-operative intent; even brigades were so broken up, and their several -parts so hopelessly separated and lost to each other in the thickets, -that their commanders knew neither when nor where nor how to set one -regiment to reinforce another at a critical juncture. - -It was a veritable Donnybrook Fair on a large scale, where the only -strategy consisted in pushing forward, and the only tactics in striking -with all possible might at the enemy, wherever he was found. - -The fighting was desperate on both sides. It was such fighting as -only the most hardened veterans could have been expected to do under -circumstances so unfavourable, such fighting as would have been simply -impossible at any earlier stage of the war. To valour these two armies -had added discipline and long use in war. Their determination was that -of veterans, their courage that of matchless heroes, their endurance -that of insensate machines. Here for the first time the two greatest -armies of modern history had met in their perfection of discipline, of -experience in war, and of that high courage which makes no distinction -between the facing of death and the confronting of a summer shower. To -these war-seasoned men on either side the hum of bullets meant no more -than the buzzing of mosquitoes; battle, no more than a breeze. - -But bullets were by no means the only source of trouble and danger. -Several times during the long struggle, the woods caught fire, -literally suffocating men by hundreds who had passed safely through -hail-storms of bullets and successfully met and repelled charges with -the bayonet. Earthworks hastily thrown up with pine-log revetments for -their support, after enabling the men behind them to resist and repel -successive assaults of desperate adversaries, became themselves an -irresistible foe, by the firing of their log fronts and the consequent -emanation of a smoke too stifling for human lungs to breathe and -yet retain capacity for further breathing. The artillery played a -comparatively small and very difficult part in all this. Manœuvring -with guns in that underbrush was well-nigh impossible, and there were -no vantage grounds anywhere from which a gun could deliver its fire at -more than pistol-shot range. So delivering it, either the cannon fire -quickly drove the enemy away, or the fire of the enemy drove the gun -away; and in neither case, after that, could the artillery-men see any -enemy to shoot at. - -Nevertheless, Marshall Pollard’s battery managed to expend the greater -part of its ammunition during those days, and that with effect. -Kilgariff was largely instrumental in this. Early in the contest -Pollard had clearly seen the difficulty—nay, the impossibility—of -handling a battery of six guns as a unit in such conditions. He was -subject to orders, of course, but in the execution of his orders -he had a certain necessary discretion, and he exercised it. He had -only two lieutenants present for duty. Each of these, of course, had -immediate command of a section of two guns. The third section fell -to Sergeant-major Kilgariff, as next in command. So to him Marshall -Pollard said:— - -“I cannot have you personally with me in this fight. You have a -lieutenant’s duty to do, and I trust you to do it well. I shall try to -keep the battery together, and under my own command so far as I can; -but I foresee that it is going to be impossible to do that completely. -I must leave each section commander to his own discretion, in a very -large degree. Frankly, I have much greater confidence in your ability -to fight your guns for all they are worth than I have in that of either -of the lieutenants. They are good men and true, but they have had no -experience in independent command. You—well, anyhow, you know more -than they do So I am glad that you have the left section. That, of -course, must be the first to be detached. The others I shall try to -keep under my own direction.” - -Beyond a mere “Thank you, Captain,” Kilgariff made no response. Half -an hour later his section was detached and sent to a point of special -difficulty and danger. He plunged into action with an impetuosity which -surprised General Ewell, who was in personal command at that point, and -whose uniform habit it was to place himself at the post of danger. But -a moment later, observing the discretion with which Kilgariff selected -a position of vantage and planted his guns, with equal reference to -their effectiveness and their safety from capture by a dash of the -enemy, General Ewell turned to his staff, and said:— - -“That young man evidently knows his business. Who is he?” - -Nobody knew. - -“Then find out,” said Ewell. - -Meanwhile, Kilgariff was using canister in double charges, the range -being not greater than two hundred yards. Under this withering fire the -enemy gave way at that point, and Ewell’s whole line advanced quickly. -Again Kilgariff selected his gun position with discretion, and opened -a murderous fire upon the enemy’s key position. But this time he did -not use canister. Still, his fire seemed to have all the effect of -canister, and his target was for a brief while less than fifty yards -distant from the muzzles of his guns. - -Presently Ewell himself rode up to the guns, and asked, in his -peculiarly querulous voice:— - -“What ammunition are you using, Sergeant-major?” - -“Shrapnel, doubled and fuse downward,” answered Kilgariff. “It’s hard -on the guns, I know, but I’ve run out of canister, and must use what I -can, till a new supply comes. I’ve sent for it.” - -It should be explained that shrapnel consists of a thin, hollow shell -of iron, filled with leaden bullets. In the centre of each shell is a -small charge of powder, intended only to open the shell twenty-five -yards or so in front of an enemy’s line, and let the leaden bullets -with their initial impetus hurl themselves like hailstones into the -faces of the troops. But Kilgariff was turning his shrapnel shells -reverse way, with their fuses toward the powder charge, so that the -fuses should be melted at the moment of firing, and the shells explode -within the gun, thus making them serve the purpose of canister, which -consists of tin cans filled with iron balls. - -“Where did you learn that trick?” queried Ewell. - -“Oh, I suppose every artillery-man knows it,” answered the -sergeant-major, evasively. “But here comes a fresh supply of canister, -so I may spare the guns.” - -At that moment a rifled gun of the enemy, posted upon a hill eight or -nine hundred yards away, opened upon Kilgariff, through a gap in the -forest, threatening, by the precision of its fire, either to dismount -his guns or to compel his retirement from the position he had chosen. -Instantly he ordered one of his Napoleons to reply. It did so, but -without effect. After it had fired three shots to no purpose, Kilgariff -went to the gun, bade the gunner stand aside, and himself aimed the -piece, with as much of calm in his demeanour as if he had not been -under a double fire. - -[Illustration: _“WHO ARE YOU?”_] - -The gun was discharged, while Ewell watched the effect through a -field-glass. The shell seemed to strike immediately under the muzzle of -the enemy’s gun, and to explode at the very moment of striking. When -the smoke of its explosion cleared away, Ewell saw through his glass -that the enemy’s gun had been dismounted, its carriage destroyed, and -the men serving it swept out of existence. Dismounting, he walked up to -Kilgariff, and asked simply:— - -“Who are you?” - -“Owen Kilgariff, sergeant-major of Captain Marshall Pollard’s Virginia -battery.” - -“Thank you,” said Ewell, remounting as he issued orders for another -charge along his entire line. - -On both days, night ended the conflict, for the time at least, and the -first duty of officers great and small, after darkness set in each -evening, was to get their commands together as best they could and -reorganise them for the next day’s work. - -On the Confederate side, it was confidently expected, after the two -days’ fighting, that the next day’s work would consist in vigorously -pressing the rear of Grant’s columns on their retreat across the -river. For every soldier in the Army of Northern Virginia regarded -such retreat as inevitable, and the only difference of opinion among -them was as to what General Lee would do next. The general expectation -was that he would almost instantly move by his left flank for another -invasion of Maryland and Pennsylvania, another threatening of -Washington City. - -And there was good ground of precedent for these Confederate -expectations. Lee had undoubtedly inflicted a severer punishment -upon Grant than he had before done upon McClellan, Pope, Burnside, -or Hooker, and moreover he had completely baffled Grant’s plan of -campaign, thwarting his attempt to turn the Confederate right and -plant his army in the Confederate rear near Gordonsville. Four times -the Army of Northern Virginia had seen its adversary retreat and -assume the defensive after less disastrous defeats than that which the -Southerners were confident they had inflicted upon Grant in these two -days’ desperate work. Why should they not expect Grant, therefore, to -retreat across the river, as all his predecessors had done under like -circumstances? And why should not Lee again assume the right to decide -where and when and how the struggle should be renewed, as he had done -three times before? - -The fallacy in all this lay in its failure to recognise Grant’s -quality, in its assumption that he was another McClellan, another Pope, -another Burnside, another Hooker. - -Between him and his predecessors there was this fundamental difference: -they set out to force their way to Richmond by strategy and fighting, -and when they found themselves outmanœuvred and badly damaged in -battle, they gave up their aggressive attempts and contented themselves -with operations for the defence of the Federal capital; Grant had set -out to conquer or destroy Lee’s army by the use of a vastly superior -force whose losses could be instantly made good by reinforcements, -while Lee had nowhere any source from which to draw fresh troops, -and when Grant found his first attempt baffled and his columns badly -damaged in fight, he obstinately remained where he was, sent for -reinforcements, and made his preparations to “fight it out on this line -if it takes all summer.” - -Thus, in Grant’s character and temperament the Confederates had -a totally new condition to meet. And there was another supremely -important fact governing this campaign. Grant was the first commander -of the Army of the Potomac who also and at the same time controlled -all the other Federal armies in the field. These he directed with sole -reference to his one supreme strategic purpose—the purpose, namely, -of destroying the Army of Northern Virginia and making an end of the -tremendous resisting power of Robert E. Lee. In that resisting power -he, first of all men, saw clearly that the vitality of the Confederate -cause had its being. - -In order that he might destroy that, he had not only concentrated a -mightily superior force against it, and arranged to keep the strength -of his own army up to its maximum by heavy reinforcement after every -battle loss, but he had also ordered all the Federal armies in other -parts of the country to carry on such operations as should continually -occupy every Confederate force and forbid Lee to reinforce the Virginia -army from any quarter as its numbers should decline by reason of battle -losses. - -Grant directed Sherman to begin the Atlanta campaign simultaneously -with the beginning of the year’s work on the Rapidan. He ordered -Thomas to hold East Tennessee, and to operate in such fashion as to -occupy all the Confederate forces there. He ordered the Federal armies -west of the Mississippi to abandon their wasteful operations in that -quarter, concentrate in New Orleans, and move at once upon Mobile, in -order to prevent Lee from drawing troops from the Far South. - -He filled the valley of Virginia with forces sufficient to compel -Lee to keep a strong army corps there, instead of calling it to his -assistance in Northern Virginia. He sent Butler to the James River -region below Richmond, by way of compelling Lee to keep strong -detachments at Richmond and Petersburg, which otherwise he might have -called to his assistance in the crucial struggle with the Army of the -Potomac. - -As one looks back at all this, and clearly discerns Grant’s purpose -and the means he used for its accomplishment, it is easy to see that -both Lee and the Confederate cause were doomed in the very hour of -Grant’s passage across the Rapidan. The only chance of any other issue -lay in the remote possibility that the sixty thousand men of the -Army of Northern Virginia should inflict a decisive and destructive -defeat upon the one hundred and thirty thousand men of the Army of the -Potomac at the outset of the campaign, and in that way bring hopeless -discouragement at the North to their aid. - -This they did not succeed in doing at the Wilderness, and when, -after two days’ battling there, Grant moved by his left flank to -Spottsylvania Court House to join battle again, there was scarcely a -veteran in the Virginia army who did not fully understand that the -beginning of the end had come. Yet not one of them flinched from the -further fighting because of its manifest hopelessness. Not one of them -lost the courage of despair in losing hope. Perhaps there was no part -of the titanic struggle which so honourably distinguished those men of -the South as did that campaign in which they doggedly fought on after -they had come to understand that their fighting was futile. - -It is natural enough that men should be brave when the lure of hope and -the confident expectation of victory beckon them to the battle front, -but only men of most heroic mould may be expected to fight with still -greater desperation after all doors of hope are closed to them. - -From that hour when Grant moved from the Wilderness to Spottsylvania -till the end came, nearly a year later, these men of the South did, and -dared, and endured for love of honour alone, with no hope to inspire -them, no remotest chance of ultimate success as the reward of their -valour. Theirs was a pure heroism, untouched, untainted, unalloyed. - -After two days of such fighting as bulldogs do, the struggle in the -Wilderness ended with no decisive advantage on either side. Grant had -secured possession of roads leading out of the Wilderness. On the other -hand Lee had succeeded in completely baffling his adversary’s strategic -purpose, and was still in full possession of that region in his own -rear which Grant had hoped to seize upon with decisive effect. Grant’s -losses in killed, wounded, and prisoners greatly exceeded Lee’s; but as -an offset, he could afford to lose more heavily than the Confederates, -not only because his force outnumbered Lee’s by more than two to one, -but also because he could repair all his losses by reinforcement, while -Lee had no such resource. - -Baffled, but not beaten, Grant decided, on the evening of the 7th of -May, to move to the left, passing out of the Wilderness and taking up -a new position—strong both for attack and defence—on a line of hills -near Spottsylvania Court House. It was his hope to possess himself of -this position before Lee should discover his purpose, and to that end -he began his march after nightfall, pushing strong columns forward by -all available roads, while still ostentatiously holding his positions -in the Confederate front, as if to renew the battle in the Wilderness -the next morning. - -But his wily adversary anticipated the movement, and discovered it -almost as soon as it was begun. Lee sent his cavalry and a considerable -force of infantry to fell trees across the roads and otherwise obstruct -the march of Grant’s column. Meanwhile, with his main body, he moved in -haste to Spottsylvania Court House. The head of his column reached that -point in advance of Grant, and promptly seized upon the coveted line -of hills which the men, accustomed to such work, proceeded hastily to -fortify, fighting, meanwhile, with such of the Federal commands as had -come up to dispute their possession of the strategic position. - -It was during this preliminary struggle that a certain little hill in -front of the main ridge fell into hot dispute. Its possession by the -Federals would greatly weaken the Confederate line, and it was deemed -essential by the Confederate commanders present to secure it at all -hazards, while the Federals, seeing the importance of the little hill, -concentrated the fire of twenty guns upon it, sweeping its top as with -a broom, whenever a Confederate force, large or small, showed itself -there. - -Three times Confederate infantry were advanced to the crest, and three -times they were driven back by a storm of cannon shot before they could -throw up a dozen shovelfuls of earth. - -Kilgariff, again detached with his two guns, sat upon his horse, -looking on at all this and wondering what the result would be. -Presently a brigade of North Carolinians moved up into line just in -front of him, at the moment when the third of the charging bodies was -hurled back, baffled, beaten, and broken into fragments. - -Just then the chief of artillery of the corps with which Kilgariff was -temporarily serving rode up and said to him:— - -“Do you want your opportunity for distinction and a commission?” - -“I want all the opportunity I can get to render service,” was -Kilgariff’s answer. - -“Then take your guns to the crest of that hill and _stay there_!” -fairly shouted the officer. - -Kilgariff fully realised the desperate character of the attempt, and -the practical certainty that his guns, his men, and his horses would -be quickly swept off the face of the earth when he should appear upon -that shell-furrowed hilltop. But he had no thought of faltering. On the -contrary, just as he gave the order, “Forward,” a whimsical thought -occurred to him. “The general need not have been at the trouble to -order us to ‘stay there.’ We’ll stay there, whether we wish to or not. -The enemy will take care of that.” Then came the more serious thought -that unless he could bring his guns into battery almost instantly upon -reaching the hilltop, the slaughter of his horses might prevent the -proper placing of the pieces. So, at a full run, he carried the guns -up the slope, shouting the orders, “Fire to the front! In battery!” at -the moment of coming within sight of the Federal guns, less than half -a thousand yards away, and already partially protected by a hastily -constructed earthwork. - -Fortunately, the men of Captain Pollard’s battery were perfect in drill -to their very finger tips, and their alert precision brought the guns -into position within a second or two, and the twelve-pounders were -bellowing before the horses began falling just in the rear. - -Kilgariff ordered the horses and caissons to be retired a little way -down the hill, for the sake of such protection as the ground afforded, -but scarcely one of the animals lived to enjoy such protection even -briefly. - -Meantime, Kilgariff, dismounted now (for his horse had been the first -to fall), stood there working his two utterly unsupported guns under -the fiercely destructive fire of a score of pieces on the enemy’s side. -His men fell one after another, like autumn leaves in a gale. Within -half a minute he had called all the drivers to the guns to take the -places of their dead or dying comrades, and still each gun was being -operated by a detachment too scant in numbers for effectiveness of fire. - -It was obviously impossible that any of them could long survive under -a fire so concentrated and so terrific. Kilgariff reckoned upon three -minutes as the utmost time that any man there could live; and when -one of his guns was dismounted at its fifth discharge, and two of his -limber-chests exploded almost at the same moment, he hastily counted -the cannoniers left to him and found their number to be just seven, all -told. - -But he had not been ordered to undertake this desperate enterprise -without a purpose. Reckoning upon the almost superstitious reverence -that the infantry cherish for cannon, the generals in command had -sent Kilgariff’s guns into this caldron of fire as a means of luring -the infantry to a desperate attempt to take and hold the little hill. -Before Kilgariff had traversed half the distance toward the crest, the -commander of that North Carolina brigade had called out a message that -was quickly passed from mouth to mouth down his line. The message was:— - -“We must save those guns and hold that hill. They call us tar heels. -Let us show _how tar sticks_.” - -Instantly, and with a yell that might have come from the throats of so -many demons, the brigade of about two thousand men bent their heads -forward, rushed up the hill, and swarmed around Kilgariff’s guns. -Their deployment into line quickly diverted the enemy’s attention to -a larger front. Other guns were hurriedly brought up to the hill, and -half an hour later a substantial line of earthworks covered its crest. - -The three minutes that Kilgariff had allowed for the complete -destruction of his little command were scarcely gone when this relief -came. He was ordered to withdraw his remaining gun by hand down the -hill—by hand, for the reason that not a horse remained of the thirty -odd that had so lately galloped up the steep. - - - - -VII - -WITH EVELYN AT WYANOKE - - -AS if bearing a charmed life, Kilgariff had gone through all this -without a scratch. He had galloped up that hill in the face of a -heavy infantry fire; he had planted his section under the murderous -cannonading of twenty well-served guns firing at point-blank range; -he had fought his pieces under a bombardment so fierce that within -the brief space of three minutes his command was well-nigh destroyed. -Yet not a scratch of bullet or shell-fragment had so much as rent his -uniform. - -By one of those grim jests of which war is full, he fell after all this -was over, his neck pierced and torn by a stray bullet that had missed -its intended billet in front and sped on in search of some human target -in the rear. - -He was carried immediately to one of the field-hospitals which Doctor -Arthur Brent was hurriedly establishing just in rear of the newly -formed line of defence. There he fell into Doctor Brent’s own friendly -hands; for that officer, the moment he saw who the patient was, left -his work of supervision and himself knelt over the senseless form of -the sergeant-major to discover the extent of his injury and to repair -it if possible. He found it to be severe, but not necessarily fatal. He -proceeded to stop the dangerous hemorrhage, cleansed and dressed the -wound, and within half an hour Kilgariff regained consciousness. - -A few hours later, finding that the temporary hospital was exposed to -both artillery and musketry fire, Doctor Brent ordered the removal -of the wounded men to a point a mile or so in the rear; and finding -Kilgariff, thanks to his elastic constitution, able to endure a little -longer journey, he took him to his own quarters, still farther to the -rear. - -Here Captain Pollard managed to visit his sergeant-major during the -night. - -“General Anderson, who is in command of Longstreet’s corps, now that -Longstreet is wounded,” he said, during the interview, “has asked for -your report of your action on the hill. If you are strong enough to -answer a question or two, I’ll make the report in your stead.” - -“I think I can write it myself,” answered Kilgariff; “and I had rather -do that.” - -Paper and a pencil were brought, and, with much difficulty, the wounded -man wrote:— - - Under orders this day, I took the left section of Captain Pollard’s - Virginia Battery to the crest of a hill in front. - - After three minutes of firing, infantry having come up, I was ordered - to retire, and did so. My losses were eighteen men killed and fifteen - wounded, of a total force of thirty-eight men. One of my gun carriages - was destroyed by an enemy’s shell, and two limber-chests were blown - up. All of the horses having fallen, I brought off the remaining - gun and the two caissons by hand, in obedience to orders. I was - fortunately able also to bring off all the wounded. Every man under my - command behaved to my satisfaction. - - All of which is respectfully submitted. - - OWEN KILGARIFF, - - _Sergeant-major_. - -“Is that all you wish to say?” asked Pollard, when he had read the -report. - -“Quite all.” - -“You make no mention of your own wound.” - -“That was received later. It has no proper place in this report.” - -“True. That is for me to mention in my report for the day.” - -But in his indorsement upon the sergeant-major’s report Pollard wrote:— - - I cannot too highly commend to the attention of the military - authorities the extraordinary courage, devotion, and soldierly skill - manifested by Sergeant-major Kilgariff, both in this affair and in the - fighting of the last few days in the Wilderness. - -In the meantime General Ewell had mentioned in one of his reports the -way in which Kilgariff had done his work in the Wilderness, and now -General Anderson wrote almost enthusiastically in commendation of this -young man’s brilliant and daring action, so that when the several -reports reached General Lee’s headquarters, the great commander was -deeply impressed. Here was a young enlisted man whose conduct in action -had been so conspicuously gallant and capable as to attract favourable -mention from two corps commanders within a brief period of three -or four days. General Lee officially recommended that a captain’s -commission should be issued at once to a man so deserving of promotion -and so fit to command. - -The document did not reach Kilgariff until a fortnight later, after -Arthur Brent had sent him to Wyanoke for treatment and careful nursing. -Kilgariff took the commission in his enfeebled hands and carefully read -it through, seeming to find some species of pleasure in perusing the -formal words with which he was already familiar. Across the sheet was -written in red ink:— - - This commission is issued in accordance with the request of General R. - E. Lee, commanding, in recognition of gallant and meritorious conduct - in battle. - -That rubric seemed especially to please the sick man. For a moment it -brought light to his eyes, but in the next instant a look of trouble, -almost of despair, overspread his face. - -“Send it back,” he said to Evelyn, who was watching by the side of the -couch that had been arranged for him in the broad, breeze-swept hall at -Wyanoke. “Send it back; I do not want it.” - -Ever since Kilgariff’s removal to the house of the Brents, Evelyn had -been his nurse and companion, tireless in her attention to his comfort -when he was suffering, and cheerily entertaining at those times when he -was strong enough to engage in conversation. - -“You know, it was he who took me out of the burning house,” she said -to Dorothy, by way of explanation, not of apology; for in the innocent -sincerity of her nature, she did not understand or believe that there -can ever be need of an apology for the doing of any right thing. - -For one thing, she was accustomed to write the brief and infrequent -letters that Kilgariff wished written. These were mostly in -acknowledgment of letters of inquiry and sympathy that came to him from -friends in the army. - -Usually he dictated the notes to her, and she wrote them out in a hand -that was as legible as print and not unlike a rude print in appearance. -At first glance her manuscript looked altogether masculine, by reason -of the breadth of stroke and the size of the letters, but upon closer -scrutiny one discovered in it many little peculiarities that were -distinctly feminine. - -Kilgariff asked her one day:— - -“Who taught you to write, Evelyn?” - -“Nobody. Nobody ever taught me much of anything till I came to live at -Wyanoke.” - -“How, then, did you learn to read and write, and especially to spell so -well?” - -The girl appeared frightened a bit by these questions, which seemed -to be master keys of inquiry into the mystery of her early life. -Kilgariff, observing her hesitation, said quickly but very gently:— - -“There, little girl, don’t answer my ‘sick man’s’ questions. I didn’t -mean to ask them. They are impertinent.” - -“No,” she said reflectively, “nothing that comes from you can be -impertinent, I reckon,”—for she was rapidly adopting the dialect of -the cultivated Virginians. “You see, you took me out of that house -afire, and so you have a right—” - -“I claim no right whatever, Evelyn,” he said, “and you must quit -thinking about that little incident up there on the Rapidan.” - -“Oh, but I can never quit thinking about that. You were great and good, -and oh, so strong! and you did the best thing that ever anybody did for -me.” - -“But I would have done the same for a negro.” - -“But you didn’t do it for a negro. You did it for me. So you see I am -right about it. Am I not?” - -“I suppose so. Your logic is a trifle lame, perhaps, but your heart is -right. Never mind that now.” - -“But I want to tell you all I can,” the girl resumed. “You see, I can’t -tell you much, because I don’t know much about myself, and because -they made me swear. But I can answer this question of yours. I don’t -know just how I learned to read. I reckon somebody must have taught me -that when I was so little that I have forgotten all about it. Anyhow, -I don’t remember. But after I had read a good many books, there came a -time when I couldn’t get any books, except three that I was carrying -with me. That was when I was a little boy, and—” - -“A little boy? A little girl, you mean.” - -“No, I mean a little boy, but I mustn’t tell you about that, only I -have already told you that once I was a little boy. It slipped out, -and you must forget it, please, for I didn’t mean to say it. I wasn’t -really a boy, of course, but I had to wear a boy’s clothes and a boy’s -name. Never mind that. You mustn’t ask me about it. As I was saying, -when I grew tired of reading my three books over and over again, I -decided to write some new ones for myself. The only trouble was that -I had never learned to write. That didn’t bother me much, because I -had seen writing and had read a little of it sometimes; so I knew that -it was just the same as print, only that the letters were made more -carelessly and some of them just a little differently in shape. I knew -I could do it, after a little practice. I got some eagle’s quills -from—” here the girl checked herself, and bit her lip. Presently she -continued:— - -“I got some eagle’s quills from a man who had them, and I made myself -some pens. I had some blank-books that had been partly written in at -the—well, partly written in. But there wasn’t any ink there, so I made -myself some out of oak bark and nutgalls, ‘setting’ the colour with -copperas, as I had seen the people at the—well, as I had seen somebody -do it in that way. It made very good ink, and I soon taught myself how -to write. As for the spelling, I tried to remember how all the words -looked in the books I had read, and when I couldn’t remember, I would -stop writing and look through the three books I still had till I came -upon the word I wanted. After that, I never had any trouble about -spelling that word.” - -“I should imagine not,” said Kilgariff. “But did you succeed in writing -any books for yourself?” - -“Yes, two of them.” - -“What were they about?” - -“Well, in one of them I wrote all I could remember about myself; they -got hold of that and threw it into the fire.” - -“Who did that?” - -“Why—well, the people I was with—no, I mustn’t tell you about them. -In another of my books I wrote all I had learned about birds and -animals and trees and other things. I reckon I know a good deal about -such things, but what I wrote was only what I had learned for myself by -seeing so much of them. You see, I was alone a good deal then, except -for the wild creatures, and I got pretty well acquainted with them. -Even here, where they never knew me, I can call birds or squirrels to -me out of the trees, and they soon get so they will come to me even -without my calling them.” - -“Is that book in existence still?” asked Kilgariff, with manifest -eagerness. - -“I reckon so, but maybe not. I really don’t know. Anyhow, I shall never -see it again, of course, and nobody else would care for it.” - -“Oh, yes, somebody else would. I would give a thousand dollars in gold -for it at this moment.” - -“Why, what for? It was only a childish thing, and besides I had never -studied about such things.” - -“Listen!” interrupted Kilgariff. “Do you know where science comes -from, and what it is? Do you realise that absolutely every fact we -know, of the kind we call scientific, was originally found out just -by somebody’s looking and listening as you did with your animals and -birds and flowers? And the persons who looked and listened and thought -about what they saw, told other people about them in books, and so all -our science was born? Those other people have put things together and -given learned names to them, and classified the facts for convenience, -but the ones who did the observing have always been the discoverers, -the most profitable workers in science. Audubon was reckoned an idle, -worthless fellow by the commonplace people about him, because he -‘wasted his time’ roaming about in the woods, making friends of the -wild creatures and studying their habits. But scientific men, who -are not commonplace or narrow-minded, were glad to listen when this -idle fellow told them what he had learned in the woods. In Europe and -America the great learned societies never tired of heaping honours upon -him and the books he wrote; and the pictures he painted of his woodland -friends sold for fabulous sums, bringing him fame and fortune.” - -“I am glad of that,” answered the girl, simply; “for I like Audubon. -I’ve been reading his _Birds of America_, since I came to Wyanoke. But -I am not Audubon, and my poor, childish writings are not great like -his.” - -“They are if they record, as they must, observations that nobody else -had made before. On the chance of that, I would give a thousand dollars -in gold, as I said before, for that childish manuscript. Could you not -reproduce it?” - -“Oh, no; never. Of course, I remember all the things I put into it, but -I set them down so childishly—” - -“You set them down truthfully, of course.” - -“Oh, yes—but not in any proper order. I just wrote in my book each -day the new things I had seen or learned or thought. Mostly I was -interested in finding out what animals think, and how or in what queer -ways plants behave under certain circumstances. There was nothing in -all that—” - -“There was everything in all that, and it was worth everything. But of -course, as you say, you cannot reproduce the book—not now at least. -Perhaps some day you may.” - -“But I don’t understand?” queried the girl. “If I can’t rewrite the -book now—and I certainly can’t—how shall I ever be able to do it -‘some day’? Before ‘some day’ comes I shall have forgotten many things -that I remember now.” - -“No, you will not forget anything of vital interest. But now you are -self-conscious and therefore shy and self-distrustful, as you were not -in your childhood when you wrote the book, and as you will not be when -you grow into a maturer womanhood and learn to be less impressed by -what you now think the superiority of others. When that time comes, you -will write the book again, adding much to its store of observed facts, -for you are not going to stop observing any more than you are going to -stop thinking.” - -Evelyn shook her head. - -“I could never write a book—a real book, I mean—fit to be printed.” - -“We shall see about that later,” said Kilgariff. “You are a young woman -of unusual intellectual gifts, and under Mrs. Brent’s influence you -will grow, in ways that you do not now imagine.” - -Kilgariff was profoundly interested, and he was rapidly talking himself -into a fever. Evelyn was quick to see this, and she was also anxious to -escape further praise and further talk about herself. So, with a demure -little air of authority, she said:— - -“You must stop talking now. It is very bad for you. You must take a few -sips of broth and then a long sleep.” - -All this occurred long after the day when Kilgariff handed her his -captain’s commission and bade her “send it back,” saying, “I don’t want -it.” At that time she was wholly ignorant of military formalities. She -did not know that under military usage Kilgariff could not communicate -with the higher authorities except formally and “through the regular -channels”; that is to say, through a succession of officers, -beginning with his captain. She saw that this commission was dated -at the adjutant-general’s office in Richmond and signed, “S. Cooper, -Adjutant-general.” Nothing could be simpler, she thought, than to -relieve Kilgariff of all trouble in the matter by herself sending the -document back, with a polite note to Mr. S. Cooper. So she wrote the -note as follows:— - - S. COOPER, Adj’t-general, - Richmond. - - DEAR SIR:— - - Sergeant-major Kilgariff is too weak from his wound to write his own - letters, so I’m writing this note for him, to send back the enclosed - paper. Mr. Kilgariff doesn’t want it, but he thanks you for your - courtesy in sending it. - - Yours truly, - - EVELYN BYRD. - -Precisely what would have happened if this extraordinary note with its -enclosure had reached the adjutant-general of the army, in response to -his official communication, it is difficult to imagine. Fortunately, -Evelyn was puzzled to know whether she should write on the envelope, -“Mr. S. Cooper,” or “S. Cooper, Esq.” So she waited till Kilgariff -should be awake and able to instruct her on that point. - -When he saw what she had written, his first impulse was to cry out -in consternation. His second was to laugh aloud. But he did neither. -Instead, he quietly said:— - -“We must be a little more formal, dear, and do this business in -accordance with military etiquette. You see, these official people are -very exacting as to formalities.” - -Then he wrote upon the official letter which had accompanied the -commission a respectful indorsement declining the commission, after -which he directed his secretary-nurse to address it formally to Captain -Marshall Pollard, who, he explained, would indorse it and forward it -through the regular channels, as required by military usage. - -“But why not accept the commission?” asked Evelyn, simply. She did -not at all realise—and Kilgariff had taken pains that she should not -realise—the enormity of her blunder or the ludicrousness of it. “Isn’t -it better to be a captain than a sergeant-major?” - -“For most men, yes,” answered Kilgariff; “but not for me.” - -But he did not explain. - - - - -VIII - -SOME REVELATIONS OF EVELYN - - -IN the meanwhile Arthur Brent had acted upon Dorothy’s suggestion. -He had prepared a careful statement of Kilgariff’s case, withholding -his name of course, and had submitted it to General Stuart, with the -request that that typical exemplar of all that was best in chivalry -should himself choose such officers as he deemed best, to constitute -the court. - -The verdict was unanimous. Stuart wrote to Arthur Brent:— - - Every member of the court is of opinion that your own assurance of the - innocence of the gentleman concerned is conclusive. They are all of - opinion that he is entirely free and entitled to accept a commission, - and that he is not under the slightest obligation to reveal to anybody - the unfortunate circumstances that have caused him to hesitate in this - matter. It is the further opinion of the court, and I am asked to - express it with emphasis, that the course of the gentleman concerned, - in refusing to accept a commission upon the point of honour that - influenced him to that decision, is in itself a sufficient assurance - of his character. Tell him from me that, without at all knowing who he - is, I urge and, if I may, I command him to accept the post you offer - him, in order that he may render his best services to the cause that - we all love. - -Arthur Brent hurried this letter to his friend at Wyanoke; but before -it arrived, the writer of it, the “Chevalier of the Lost Cause,” had -passed from earth. He fell at the Yellow Tavern, at the head of his -troopers in one of the tremendous onsets which he knew so well how -to lead, before this generous missive—perhaps the last that he ever -wrote—fell under the eyes of the man, all unknown to him, whom he thus -commanded to accept honour and duty with it. - -The fact of Stuart’s death peculiarly embarrassed a man of Kilgariff’s -almost boyish sensitiveness. - - I feel [he wrote to Arthur Brent] as if I were disobeying Stuart’s - commands and disregarding his dying request, in still refusing to - reconsider my decision. Yet I feel that I must do so in spite of - the decision of your court of honour, in spite of your friendly - insistence, in spite of everything. After all, Arthur, a man must - be judge in his own case, when his honour is involved. The most that - others can do—the most even that a court of honour can do—is to - excuse, to pardon, to permit. I could never submit to the humiliation - of excuse, of pardon, of permission, however graciously granted. I - sincerely wish you could understand me, Arthur. In aid of that, let me - state the case. I am a man condemned on an accusation of crime. I am - an escaped prisoner, a fugitive from justice. I am innocent. I know - that, and you are generous enough to believe it. But the hideous fact - of my conviction remains. It seems to me that even upon the award of - a court of honour, backed by something like the dying injunction of - our gallant cavalier, Stuart, I cannot honourably consent to accept a - commission and meet men of stainless reputation upon equal terms, or - perhaps even as their superior and commanding officer, without first - revealing to each and all of them the ugly facts that stand in the - way. Generous they may be; generous they are. But it is not for me to - impose myself upon their generosity, or to deceive them by a reserve - which I am bound to practise. - - I have already sent back a captain’s commission which I had fairly - won by that little fight on the hill at Spottsylvania. With you I may - be frank enough to say that any sergeant-major doing what I did on - that occasion would have been entitled to his captaincy as a matter - of right, and not at all as a matter of favour. I had fairly won that - commission, yet I returned it to the war department, simply because - I could not forget the facts in my case. How much more imperative it - is that I should refuse the higher commission which you press upon - me, and which I have not won by any conspicuous service! Will you not - understand me, my friend? Will you not try to look at this matter from - my point of view? So long as I am a condemned criminal, a fugitive - from justice, I simply cannot consent to become a commissioned officer - entitled by my government’s certification to meet on equal terms men - against whom no accusation has been laid. - - Let that matter rest here. I shall remain a sergeant-major to the - end—an enlisted man, a non-commissioned officer whose captain may - send him back to the gun whenever it pleases him to do so, a man - who must touch his cap to every officer he meets, a man subject to - orders, a man ready for any work of war that may be given him to do. - In view of the tedious slowness with which I am recovering from this - wound, and the great need I know Captain Pollard has for an executive - sergeant, I wrote to him, two weeks ago, resigning my place, and - asking him to select some other capable man in my stead. He replied in - his generous fashion, absolutely refusing to accept my resignation. - -That was Kilgariff’s modest way of putting the matter. What Pollard had -actually written was this:— - - By your gallantry and your capacity as a hard-fighting soldier, - you have won for my battery such honour and distinction as had not - come to it from all its previous good conduct. Do you imagine that - I am going to lose such a sergeant-major as you are, merely because - his honourable wounds temporarily incapacitate him? I had thought - to lose you by your richly earned promotion to a rank equal to my - own, or superior to it. That promotion you have refused—foolishly, - I think—but at any rate you have refused it. You are still my - sergeant-major, therefore, and will remain that until you consent to - accept a higher place. - -This was the situation so far as Kilgariff was concerned, as it -revealed itself to Pollard and Arthur Brent. Dorothy knew another side -of it. For with Dorothy, Kilgariff had quickly established relations -of the utmost confidence and the truest friendship; and to Dorothy, -Kilgariff revealed every thought, as he had never done to any other -human being. - -Indeed, revelation was not necessary. Dorothy was a woman of that high -type that loves sincerely and with courage, and Dorothy had seen -the daily and hourly growing fascination of Kilgariff for Evelyn. -She had seen Evelyn’s devoted ministry to him, and had understood -the unconscious love that lay behind its childlike reserve. She had -understood, as he had not, that, all unknown to herself, Evelyn had -made of Kilgariff the hero of her adoration, and that Kilgariff’s soul -had been completely enthralled by a devotion which did not recognise -its own impulse or the fulness of its meaning. Dorothy knew far more, -indeed, of the relations between these two than either of themselves -had come to know. - -She was in no way unprepared, therefore, when one day Kilgariff said to -her, as they two sat in converse:— - -“You know, of course, that I am deeply in love with Evelyn?” - -“Yes,” Dorothy answered; “I must be blind if I did not see that.” - -“Of course,” responded the man, “I have said nothing to her on the -subject, and I shall say nothing, to the end. I speak to you of it only -because I want your help in avoiding the danger-point. Evelyn is not in -the least in love with me.” - -Dorothy made no response to that. - -“She is grateful to me for having saved her life, and gratitude is a -sentiment utterly at war with love. Moreover, Evelyn is perfectly frank -and unreserved in her conversations with me. No woman is ever so with -the man she loves, until after he has made her his wife. So I regard -Evelyn, as for the present, safe. She is not in love with me, and I -shall do nothing to induce such sentiment on her part.” - -Again Dorothy sat silent. - -“But there is much that I can do for her, and I want to do it. You -must help me. And above all you must tell me the moment you discover -in her any shadow or trace of that reserve toward me which might mean -or suggest a dawning of love. I shall be constantly on the lookout -for such signs, but you, with your woman’s wit and intuitions, may be -quicker than I to see.” - -“Precisely what do you mean, Kilgariff?” Dorothy asked, in her frank -way of going directly to the marrow of every matter with which she had -occasion to deal. “You say you are in love with Evelyn. Do you not wish -her to be in love with you?” - -“No! By every consideration of propriety, by every sentiment of honour, -no!” he answered, with more of vehemence than he was accustomed to put -into his words. - -“Do you not understand? I can never ask her to marry me; I am therefore -in honour bound not to win her love. I shall devote myself most -earnestly to the task of repairing such defects in her education as -I discover. But the moment I see or suspect the least disposition on -her part to think of me otherwise than with the indifference of mere -friendship, I shall take myself out of her life completely. I ask you -to aid me in watching for such indications of dawning affection, and in -forestalling them.” - -“You shall have all the assistance you need to discover and do your -real duty,” said Dorothy. But that most womanly of women did not at all -share Kilgariff’s interpretation either of his own duty or of Evelyn’s -sentiment toward him. She knew from her own experience that a woman -grows shy and reserved with a man the moment she understands herself to -be in love with him. But equally she knew that love may long conceal -itself even from the one who cherishes it, and that reserve, when it -comes, comes altogether too late for purposes of safeguarding. - -But Dorothy did not care. She wanted these two to love each other, and -she saw no reason why they should not. She recognised their peculiar -fitness for each other’s love, and as for the rest—wise woman that she -was—she trusted love to overcome all difficulties. In other words, -Dorothy was a woman, and she herself had loved and mated as God meant -that women should. So she was disposed to let well alone in this case. - -Kilgariff’s wound was healing satisfactorily now, and little by little -his strength was coming back to him. So, every day, he sat in the -laboratory with Dorothy and Evelyn, helping in the work by advice and -suggestion, and often in more direct and active ways. For Arthur Brent -had written to Dorothy:— - - I must remain with the army yet a while in order to keep the hospital - service in as efficient a state as adverse circumstances will permit, - and the constant shiftings from one place to another render this - difficult. When Kilgariff grows strong enough, set him at work in the - laboratory. He would never tell you so, but he is a better chemist - than I am, better even than you in some respects. Especially he - is expert in shortening processes, and the army’s pressing need - of medicines renders this a peculiarly valuable art just now. We - need everything at every hour, but especially we need opium and its - products, and quinine or quinine substitutes. Please give your own - special attention to your poppy fields, and get all you can of opium - from them. Send to Richmond all the product except so much as you can - use in the laboratory in extracting the still more valuable alkaloids. - - Another thing: the dogwood-root bark bitters you are sending prove to - be a valuable substitute for quinine. Please multiply your product if - you can. Enlist the services of your friends everywhere in supplying - you with the raw material. Get them to set their little negroes at - work digging and drying the roots, so that you may make as much of - the bitters as possible. There are a good many wild cherry trees at - Wyanoke and on other plantations round about. Won’t you experiment, - with Kilgariff’s assistance, and see if you can’t produce some - quinine? Our need of that is simply terrible. Malaria kills five times - as many men as Federal bullets do, and, apart from that, hundreds of - sick or wounded men could be returned to duty a month earlier than - they now are if we had quinine enough. Tell Kilgariff I invoke his - aid, and you’ll get it. - -Kilgariff responded enthusiastically to this appeal. He personally -investigated the quinine-producing capacity of every tree and plant -that grew at Wyanoke or in its neighbourhood. - -“The dog fennel,” he said to Dorothy, “is most promising. It yields -quinine in greater quantity, in proportion to the time and labour -involved, than anything else we have. Of course, if ours were a -commercial enterprise, it would not pay to attempt any of these -manufactures. But our problem is simply to produce medicines for the -army at whatever cost. So I have taken the liberty of ordering all your -chaps”—the term “chaps” in Virginia meant juvenile negroes—“to gather -all the dog fennel they can, and to dry it on fence-rail platforms. I -am having the men put up some kettles in which to steep it. The rest we -must do in the laboratory. Our great lack is that of kettles enough.” - -“Must they be of iron?” asked Evelyn, with earnest interest. “Must they -have fires under them?” - -“N-no,” answered Kilgariff, hesitatingly. “I suppose washtubs or -anything that will hold water will do. We must use hot water to steep -the plants in, but we might pour hot water into vessels in which we -couldn’t heat it. Yes, Evelyn, any sort of vessel that will hold water -will answer our purpose.” - -“Then I’ll provide all the tanks you need, if Dorothy will give me -leave to command the servant-men. I do know how.” - -The leave was promptly given, and Evelyn instructed the negroes how to -make staves of large proportions, and how to put them together. Three -days later, with an adequate supply of these, and with a quantity of -binding hoops which she had herself fashioned out of hickory saplings -to the utter astonishment of her comrades, the girl manufactured a -number of wooden and water-tight tanks, each capable of holding many -scores of gallons. - -“Where did you learn to do that?” Kilgariff asked, when the first of -the tanks was set up. - -“Among the whale fishermen,” she answered. “But I mustn’t tell you -about that, and you mustn’t ask. But my tanks will hold oil as well as -water, and I am going to make a little one for castor oil. You know we -have five acres in castor beans. I reckon you two do know how to make -castor oil out of them.” - -“Come here, Evelyn, and sit down,” said Dorothy. “Of course we know -how to extract castor oil from the beans, but we don’t know where or -how you got your peculiar English. Tell us about it.” - -“I do not understand. Is my English not like your own?” - -“In some respects, no. When you volunteered to make these tanks for us, -you said, ‘I do know how,’ and now you say, ‘You do know.’ We should -say, ‘I know,’ and ‘You know.’ Where did you get your peculiar usage?” - -The girl flushed crimson. Presently she answered:— - -“It is that I have not been taught. Pardon me. I am trying to learn. -I do listen—no, I should say—I listen to your speech, and I try to -speak the same. I have read books and tried to learn from them what -the right speech is. Am I not learning better now? I try, or I am -trying—which is it? And the big book—the dictionary—I am studying. I -never saw a dictionary until I came to Wyanoke.” - -“Don’t worry,” said Kilgariff, tenderly. “You speak quite well enough -to make us glad to listen.” - -And indeed they were glad to listen. For now that the girl had become -actively busy in the laboratory, she had lost much of her shy reserve, -and her conversation was full of inspiration and suggestiveness. It -was obvious that while her instruction had been meagre and exceedingly -irregular, she had done a world of thinking from such premises as were -hers, and the thinking had been sound. - -Her ways were sweet and winning, chiefly because of their utter -sincerity, and they fascinated both Dorothy and Kilgariff. - -“Kilgariff must marry her,” Dorothy wrote to Arthur Brent. “God -evidently intended that, when he made these two; but how it is to -come about, I do not at all know. Kilgariff has some foolish notions -that stand in the way, but of course love will overcome them. As for -Evelyn—well, she is a woman, and that is quite enough.” - -Evelyn’s use of the intensives, ‘do’ and ‘did’ and the like, was not at -all uniform. Often she would converse for half an hour without a lapse -into that or any other of her peculiarities of speech. It was usually -excitement or embarrassment or enthusiasm that brought on what Dorothy -called “an attack of dialect,” and Kilgariff one day said to Dorothy:— - -“The girl’s speech ‘bewrayeth her,’ as Peter’s did in the Bible.” - -“How do you mean?” - -“Why, it is easy and perfectly safe to infer from her speech a good -deal of her life-history.” - -“Go on, I am interested.” - -“Well, you observe that she has almost a phenomenal gift of unconscious -imitation. She has been with you for only a very brief while, yet in -the main her pronunciation, her inflection, and even her choice of -words are those of a young woman brought up in Virginia. She says -‘gyarden,’ ‘cyart,’ and the like, and her _a_’s are quite as broad -as your own when she talks of the grass or the basket. Now when she -lapses into her own dialect, there is a distinctively French note in -her syntax, from which I argue that she has lived among French-speaking -people for a time, catching their construction. But, on the other hand, -her English is so good that I cannot think her life has been mainly -passed among French-speaking people. Have you tried her in French -itself?” - -“Yes, and she speaks the most extraordinary French I ever heard.” - -“Well, that fits in with the other facts. This morning she spoke of a -hashed meat at breakfast as ‘pemmican,’ though she quickly corrected -herself; she often uses Indian terms, too, by inadvertence. Then -again, her accomplishments all smell of the woods. Putting all things -together, I should say that she has spent a good deal of time among, or -at least in frequent contact with, Canadian Frenchmen and Indians.” - -“I think you are right,” said Dorothy, “and yet some part of her life -has been passed in company with a well-bred and accomplished woman.” - -“Your body of facts, please?” said Kilgariff. - -“Her speech, for one thing; for in spite of its oddities it is mainly -the speech of a cultivated woman. She never uses slang; indeed, I’m -sure she knows no slang. Her constructions, though often odd, are -always grammatical, and her diction is that of educated people. Then -again, her scrupulous attention to personal neatness tells me much. -More important still, at least in my woman’s eyes, is the fact that -she perfectly knows how to make a bed and how to make the most of the -little ornaments and fripperies of a room. She did not learn these -things from squaws or half-breeds. Moreover, she does needlework of an -exquisite delicacy which I never saw matched anywhere. That tells of a -highly bred woman as an influence in her life and education.” - -While these three were at dinner that day, the negro head-man—for even -in his enforced absence Arthur Brent would not commit his authority -over his negroes to the brutal instincts of any overseer—came to the -door and asked to speak with “Mis’ Dorothy.” - -“Bring me a decanter and a glass, Elsie,” said Dorothy to the chief -serving-maid. She poured a dram into the glass, and handed it to the -girl. - -“Take that out to Uncle Joe,” she said, “and tell him to come in after -he has drunk it.” - -It was a peculiarity of the plantation negro in Virginia that he never -refused a dram from “the gre’t house,” and yet that he never drank to -excess. Those negroes that served about the house in one capacity or -another were always supplied with money—the proceeds of “tips”—and -could have bought liquor at will. Yet none of them ever formed the -drink habit. - -When Uncle Joe came into the dining-room, he had a number of matters -concerning which he desired instruction. When these affairs had been -disposed of, and Dorothy had directed him to slaughter a shoat on the -following morning, the mistress asked:— - -“How about the young mare, Uncle Joe? Are you ever going to have her -broken?” - -“Well, you see, Missus, Dick’s de only pusson on de plantation what -dars to tackle dat dar mar’, an’ Dick he’s done gone off to de wah wid -Mahstah. ‘Sides dat, de mar’ she done trowed Dick hisse’f tree times. -Dey simply ain’t no doin’ nuffin’ wid dat dar mar’, Missus. I reckon de -only ting to do wid her is to sell her to de artillery, whah dey don’ -ax no odds o’ no hoss whatsomever. She’s five year ole, an’ as strong -as two mules, an’ nobody ain’t never been able to break her yit.” - -“Poor creature!” said Evelyn. “May I try what I can do with her, -Dorothy?” - -“You, little Missus?” broke in Joe. “_You_ try to tackle de iron-gray -mar’? Why, she’d mash you like a potato wid her foh-feet, an’ den turn -roun’ an’ kick you to kingdom come wid de hind par.” - -“May I try, Dorothy?” the girl calmly asked again, quite ignoring Uncle -Joe’s prophecies of evil. - -“Hadn’t you better let some of the men or boys break her first?” - -“No. To me it is plain they have done too much of that already. Let me -have her as she is. Have her brought up to the house, Uncle Joe, soon -after dinner, with nothing on her but a halter.” - -“Why, little Mis’, you don’ know—” - -“Do precisely as I tell you,” interrupted the girl, who could be very -imperious when so minded. - -When the mare was brought, she was striking viciously at the negro who -led her. With ears laid back close to her head, and with the whites of -her eyes showing menacingly, she was striking out with her hoofs as if -intent upon committing homicide without further delay. - -“Turn her loose, Ben,” said the girl, who sat idly in the porch as if -she had no task on her hands. “Then go away from her, and make all the -rest go away, too—” motioning toward the gang of little negroes who -had assembled, “to see de iron-gray mar’ kill little Missie.” - -When all were gone, Evelyn began nibbling at a sugar lump. Presently, -after the mare had discovered that she was quite free and that her -tormentors were gone, Evelyn held out her hand with the sugar lump in -its palm. The animal was obviously unfamiliar with sugar lumps, but she -had the curiosity which is commonly—perhaps erroneously—attributed to -her sex. So, as Evelyn sat on the bench and made no motion indicative -of any purpose to seize the halter, the animal presently became -interested in the extended hand. Little by little, and with occasional -snortings and recessions, she approached the girl. Finally, finding -that the extended hand was not moved, she nosed the sugar lump, and -then with her long, flexible tongue, swept it into her mouth. - -Evelyn did not withdraw the hand at once, but held it extended till -the mare had got the full flavour of the sweet. Meanwhile, she cooed -to the animal soothingly, and, after a little, she produced a second -sugar lump and laid it upon the extended palm. This time, as the mare -took the dainty, Evelyn, still talking soothingly, ventured with her -other hand to stroke the beast’s silky nose, caressingly. There was a -shrinking back on the part of the timid creature, but the lure of the -sugar was enticing, and after once the gentle hand had stroked the -mare’s face, she seemed rather to welcome than to resent the caress. - -Thus, little by little, did the girl establish relations of amity -between herself and the spirited mare. After a while, Evelyn quitted -her seat, went out upon the lawn, and with a sugar-lump bribe tempted -the animal to approach her. Then she stroked its head and neck and -sides, gradually giving it to understand that she meant no harm and -accustoming it to the pleasant touch of her hands. Finally she stroked -its legs vigorously, and lifted one foot after another, examining each. - -By this time the mare seemed to have concluded that the young woman, -who talked ceaselessly in her cooing, contralto voice, was an -altogether pleasant acquaintance. Wherever the girl went, around the -grounds, the mare followed, nosing her and seemingly soliciting her -attention. - -At last the girl tolled the mare to a horse block, and for a time stood -upon it, gently stroking her silky back. - -Then she made a motion as if to sit upon that shapely back. The mare -shied away, perhaps remembering former attempts of the kind which -she had resented as indignities. But as Evelyn did not insist upon -her apparent purpose, and as the mare was by this time very much in -sympathy, if not in love, with the gentle girl, she presently sidled -back into position, and Evelyn seated herself upon her back, at the -same time caressingly stroking the sides of her neck. She had neither -saddle on which to sit securely, nor bridle with which to control her -mount, but there was no need of either. The mare was nibbling grass by -this time, and Evelyn permitted her to do so, letting her wander about -the house grounds at will, in search of the most succulent tufts. As -the supper hour drew near, the girl slipped from the animal’s back and -led the way, the animal following, to the stables. There, with her own -hands she filled the manger and the hay-rack, and after an affectionate -farewell to her new friend, returned to the house. But first she said -to Ben, the hostler:— - -“Let nobody feed the mare but me. I will be at the stables in time in -the morning. And let nobody touch her with a currycomb. I will myself -attend to all.” - -Three or four days later the high-spirited mare was Evelyn Byrd’s very -humble servant indeed. The girl rode her everywhere, teaching her a -number of pretty tricks, the most astonishing of which was the art of -lifting a gate latch with her teeth, and letting herself and her rider -through the many barriers that Virginian law accommodatingly permitted -planters to erect across the public roads. - -“But how did you learn all this?” asked Kilgariff, full of interest. - -“Oh, I do not know. I reckon I never learned it at all. You see, the -animals fight us only because they think we mean to fight them. So long -as they are afraid of us, they fight, of course. When they learn that -we are friendly, they are glad to be friends. Anybody can tame any -animal if he goes to work in the right way. I once tamed a Canada lynx, -and it became so used to me that I let it sleep on the foot of my bed. -But the lynx has a great deal of sense and very little affection, while -a horse has a great deal of affection and very little sense. With the -lynx, I appealed to its good sense, but I did never—I mean, I never -trusted its affection. - -“I have treated this mare like a baby that does not understand much, -but I have won its affection completely, and I trust that. The animal -has so little sense that it would scare at a scrap of paper lying in -the road, and go almost frantic if it saw a man pulling a buggy. But if -I were on its back, it would not run or do anything that might throw me -off. You see, one must know which is stronger in each animal—sense or -sentiment. With a horse it is sentiment, so I curry the mare myself, -talking to her all the while in a loving way, and I never let anybody -else go into the stall. Another thing: a horse loves liberty better -than anything else, so I have taken off the halter with which the mare -used to be tied in her stall, and, as you know, I turn her loose every -morning when she has finished her fodder, and she follows me up here -to the house grounds where she is perfectly free to nibble grass. But -she loves me so much that she often quits the grass and comes up here -to the porch just to get me to rub her nose or stroke her neck. She is -strong, and I am light, so she likes me to sit upon her back, as you -have seen me do for an hour at a time. She doesn’t quite like a saddle -yet—and neither do I. I would never use anything more than a blanket, -just for the protection of my clothes, only that Dorothy thinks that -people would wonder, if I should go visiting or to church riding -bareback. Why do people wonder in that way, Mr. Kilgariff, about other -people’s doings?” - -“Upon my word, I don’t know, unless it is that we are all like the -Pharisee in the parable, and want to emphasise our own superiority by -criticising others.” - -“But why shouldn’t the others criticise, too? The ways of the people -they criticise are no more different from their ways, than their ways -are different from those of the people they criticise. I confess I -don’t quite understand.” - -“Neither do I, Evelyn, except that it is the habit of people to set up -their own ways as a standard and model, and to regard every departure -from them as a barbarism. If it were not an accepted fact that the -Venus of Milo is the most perfect exemplification we have of feminine -beauty, and that it is the fashion to go into raptures over that piece -of sculpture, I imagine that nine fashionable women in every ten would -ridicule the way in which her hair is done up, simply because they do -not do up theirs in the same way.” - -“Yes, I know,” answered the girl, dreamily, and as if in a reverie. -“That was the trouble in the circus.” - -“In the circus? What do you mean?” - -“Nothing. Don’t ask me.” - - - - -IX - -THE GREAT WAR GAME - - -ALL this while the war was going on tremendously and Kilgariff was -chafing at the restraint of a wound which forbade him to bear his part -in it. - -As we have seen, General Grant had crossed into the Wilderness with -a double strategic purpose. He had hoped to turn Lee’s right flank -and compel the surrender of the Army of Northern Virginia. Failing in -that, he had hoped, with his enormously superior numbers, to crush and -destroy Lee’s army in battle. - -He had failed in that purpose also. By his promptitude and vigour in -assailing Grant’s army in flank, Lee had compelled his adversary to -abandon his flanking purpose, and to withdraw his advance columns over -a distance of more than ten miles in order to reinforce his sorely -beset divisions in the Wilderness and to save his own army from the -destruction he had hoped to inflict upon his adversary. - -After suffering a far heavier loss than he inflicted, Grant had -summoned reinforcements and moved by his left flank to Spottsylvania -Court House. By this movement he had again hoped to turn Lee’s right -flank, place himself between the Confederates and their capital, and -in that way compel the surrender or dispersal of the Army of Northern -Virginia. Again he had been foiled by Lee’s alertness and by the -marvellous mobility of an army that moved without a baggage-train, and -whose men carried no blankets, no extra clothing, no overcoats, no -canteens, no tin cups, no cooking-utensils—nothing, in fact, except -their rifles and their ammunition. - -Those men were on the verge of starvation all the while. Often they had -no rations at all for two days or more at a time. When rations were -fullest, they consisted of one, two, or three hard-tack biscuits a day -for each man, and perhaps a diminutive slice of salt pork or bacon, -which was eaten raw. - -But these men, who had formerly fought with the courage of hope, -inspired by splendid victory, were fighting now with the courage -of utter despair. A great wave of religious fervour had passed over -the army and the South. It took upon itself the fatalistic forms of -Calvinism, for the most part. The men of the army came to believe that -every event which occurs in this world was foreordained of God to -occur, decreed “before ever the foundations of the world were laid.” -They had not ceased to trust the genius and sagacity of Lee, but they -had accepted the rule and guidance of a greater than Lee—of God -Almighty himself. With a faith that was sublime even in its perversion, -these men committed themselves and their cause to God, and ceased to -reckon upon human probabilities as factors in the problem. - -There were prayer meetings in every tent and at every bivouac fire, -every day and every night. At every pause in the fighting, were it only -for a few minutes, the men on the firing-line threw themselves upon -their knees and besought God to crown their efforts and their arms with -victory, submissively leaving it to Him to determine the where, the -when, the how. And in this worship of God and this absolute dependence -upon His will the men of that army learned to regard themselves -personally as mere pawns upon the chess-board of the divine purpose. -They came to regard their own lives as dust in the balance, to be blown -away by the breath of God’s will, to be sacrificed, as fuel is, for the -maintenance of a flame. - -Believing firmly and without question that their cause was in God’s -charge, they executed every order given to them with an indifference to -personal consequences for the like of which one may search history in -vain. - -In his movement from the Wilderness to Spottsylvania, General Grant -again failed to turn the flank of his wily adversary, and, after a -prolonged endeavour to break and destroy Lee’s army there, the Federal -commander again moved by his left flank, in the hope of reaching -Hanover Court House in advance of the arrival there of the Army of -Northern Virginia. - -Again he was baffled of his purpose. Again Lee got there first, and -took up a position in which, by reason of the river’s tortuous course -and the conformation of the ground, Grant could not assail him without -dividing his own army into three parts, no one of which could be -depended upon to support either of the others. - -At one point the Federal general very nearly succeeded. There was a -bridge across the stream near Hanover Court House. If that could be -seized, the Federal forces might cross and assail Lee’s left flank with -effect. A strong column of Federals was thrown forward to possess the -bridge, and for a time it looked as if they would succeed and bring the -war to an end right there. - -But two Confederate batteries—utterly unsupported—were thrown -forward. One was Captain Pollard’s; the other was a battery from the -battalion of Major Baillie Pegram. Advancing at a full run, the two -batteries planted their guns at the head of the bridge, just as the -Federal columns were beginning to cross it, and within five minutes the -bridge had ceased to be. - -Has the reader ever seen Shepard’s spirited painting called “Virginia, -1864”? The sketch from which that painting was made was drawn on this -hotly contested field, the artist having three pencils carried away -from his grasp by rifle bullets and half a dozen rents made in his -drawing-paper while he worked. - -Thus, for the third time baffled in his effort to place his army -between Lee and Richmond, Grant moved again by his left flank to the -neighbourhood of Cold Harbour, where one of the severest battles of the -seven days’ fight between Lee and McClellan had been waged. - -Again Lee discovered his purpose, and again he got there first. He -seized upon a line of hills and hastily fortified them. He was now -in front of Richmond and only a few miles in advance of that city’s -defences. He thought it not imprudent, therefore, to call to his -assistance such troops as were engaged in garrisoning the works about -Richmond; thus for the first time in all that strenuous campaign having -an opportunity in some small degree to make good the waste of war, -by way of preparing himself to meet an enemy who had been reinforced -almost daily since the beginning of the campaign, and whose army at -that time outnumbered the Confederate force by more than three to one. - -At Lee’s back lay the now bridgeless Chickahominy—an erratic stream -which might at any moment cut him off from all possibility of retreat. -If Grant could defeat him where he lay, or even seriously cripple him, -the pathway of the Army of the Potomac into Richmond would be scarcely -at all obstructed. - -In hope of this result, Grant determined upon an assault in force. -In the gray of the morning of June 3, he assailed Lee with all of -impetuosity and all of force that an army of one hundred and fifty -thousand men could bring to bear against an army of less than fifty -thousand. - -The result was disastrous in the extreme to the Federals. They -marched into a very slaughter pen, where they lost about ten thousand -men within twenty minutes, for the reason that Lee had previously -discovered their purpose and had prepared himself to receive their -onslaught with all the enginery of slaughter. - -In effect, this disaster to the Federal arms ended the field campaign -of 1864. It had been four times demonstrated that in strategy Lee -was more than a match for his adversary. It had been four times -demonstrated that in field fighting the little Army of Northern -Virginia could not be overcome by the force, three times as great, -which Grant had so often and so determinedly hurled against it. - -There was nothing left to the Federal commander except to besiege -Richmond, either directly on the north and east, or indirectly by way -of Petersburg, twenty-two miles south and commanding the main lines of -Confederate military communication. - -Butler already lay on the south side of the James River with a strong -detachment and within easy striking distance of Petersburg, a city -defended by an exceedingly inadequate force under Beauregard. Grant -ordered Butler to seize upon Petersburg quickly, before the place -could be defended. If that plan had been successful, Richmond must -have surrendered or been evacuated, and the war must have ended in the -early summer of 1864, instead of dragging its slow length along for -nearly a year more. But Beauregard’s extraordinary alertness and vigour -baffled Butler’s purpose. In spite of the exceeding meagreness of the -Confederate defending force, before Grant could push the head of his -column into Petersburg, Lee was there; and within a few hours the Army -of Northern Virginia, equally skilled in the use of bayonet and spade, -had created that slender line of earthworks behind which Lee’s thin and -constantly diminishing force defended itself for two thirds of a year -to come. - - - - -X - -THE LAW OF LOVE - - -“MRS. BRENT—” Kilgariff so began a sentence one morning. - -But Dorothy interrupted him, quickly. - -“Why do you persist in addressing me in that way?” she asked. “Are we -not yet sufficiently friends for you to call me ‘Dorothy,’ as all my -intimates do? You know, I exacted that of Evelyn in the first moment -that I found myself fond of her and knew that she loved me.” - -“But there is a difference,” answered Kilgariff. “You see—” - -“Yes, there is a difference, but it is altogether on the side of my -contention. Evelyn is much younger than I am; for although, as you -know, I am still only twenty-four, Evelyn has the advantage of several -years of age. She _thinks_ she is only seventeen, but as nearly as -I can figure out from what she tells me she must be approaching -nineteen. However that may be, you, at any rate, are nearly as old as -Arthur. You and he have been intimates all your lives, and if that -intimacy is well-founded, I see no reason why you should not include me -in it, so far at least, as to call me by my Christian name. You see, -I was ‘Dorothy’ long before I became ‘Mrs. Brent,’ and my given name -has many pleasing associations in my ears. My father always called -me that. So did my mother, after I came to know her. Arthur did so, -too, after I learned to like him and gave him leave. Of course, to all -outsiders I am ‘Mrs. Brent’—a name that I am proud and glad to bear, -because—well, because of Arthur. But to the insiders—to my friends—I -have a strong inclination to be just ‘Dorothy.’ Don’t you think you -have become an insider?” - -Kilgariff hesitated for a time before answering. Finally he said:— - -“It is very gracious of you—all this. But I wonder how much Arthur has -told you about me?” - -“He has told me everything he knows,” she answered, with an added touch -of dignity. “We should not be man and wife if either were capable of -practising reserve with the other in such a case as this.” - -“Very well, then,” responded Kilgariff. “I do not like sailing under -false colours; but, as you know all, why, it will be a special pleasure -to me to be permitted to call you ‘Dorothy.’” - -“Now, what were you going to say when I interrupted you?” asked -Dorothy, the direct. - -“I’m afraid I forget.” - -“No, you don’t, or at least you can remember in such a case. So think -a bit, Owen, and tell me what you were going to say. It was something -about Evelyn.” - -“Why do you think that?” - -“Why, for several reasons. For one thing, you caught sight of Evelyn -just at that moment, as she was teaching her mare to kneel down for -her to mount. You heard her voice, too, as she chided the mare in half -playful fashion for rising too abruptly after the mount. A woman’s -voice means much to a man of sensitive nature. She talks in just that -way to the children—my babies—and their liking for it is positively -wonderful. Only this morning Mammy and I were having all sorts of -trouble to get them out of their bath. Bob, the boy, was bent upon -spending the rest of the day in the tub, and was disposed to raise a -rumpus over every effort to lift him out, and Mildred, girl-like, took -her cue from her ‘big brother.’ In the midst of the turmoil Evelyn came -in. She assumed a look of astonishment, which attracted Bob’s attention -and for the moment quieted him. Then she said:— - -“‘Oh, Bob! I m sorry you’re bad. But you are. You’re very bad indeed, -so I mustn’t tell you about the ten little Injuns. You’re getting to be -bad just like them.’ - -“By that time she had lifted the boy out of the tub and dried him and -slipped a garment upon him, he not protesting in the least. Then she -stood him up in her lap, and, looking at him in seeming surprise, she -exclaimed:— - -“‘Why, Bob isn’t bad a bit! Evey made a great big mistake. Evey’s going -to tell Bob about the ten little Injun boys.’ And from that moment -there was no disturbance in the nursery except the noise of joyous -laughter. - -“I said to her:— - -“‘You deal with them just as if they were wild animals to be tamed.’ - -“She answered:— - -“‘So they are, only people often forget it, cruelly.’” - -“Well, now,” said Kilgariff, “let me have your other reason, or -reasons, for thinking that what I set out to say had some reference -to Evelyn. I plead guilty to your charge that I caught sight of -Evelyn teaching the mare, and that I was charmed by the sweetness and -sympathetic jollity of her voice, as she addressed the animal in her -winning way. But you were going to offer another fact in support of -your assumption. What was it?” - -“Why, simply that you hadn’t spoken for ten minutes before you -addressed me. You were meditating, and whenever you meditate nowadays, -you are thinking of Evelyn.” - -“Are you sure of that?” - -“Absolutely. You are not always aware of the fact, but the fact is -always there. I like it to be always there.” - -“Why, Dorothy?” - -“Why, because I want you to be that way with Evelyn. It will mean -happiness in the future for both of you.” - -“No; it will mean at best a gently mitigated unhappiness to me—and I -shall be glad of the gentle mitigation. To her it will mean nothing -more than a pleasant friendship. I do not intend that it ever shall -mean more than that to her.” - -“But why not? Why should it not mean everything to her that womanhood -longs for? Why should you not win Evelyn’s love and make her your -wife? I never knew two people better fitted to make each other happy, -and fortunately you have possessions in Europe and at the North which -will enable you to take a wife, no matter how disastrously this war -may end for us of the South. Believe me, Owen, in creating men and -women, God intended marriage and happiness in marriage for the common -lot of humanity. He does not give it to all of us to be great, or to -achieve great things, or to render great services, but, if we hearken -to His voice as it whispers within us, He intends happiness for us, and -His way of giving happiness is in marriage, prompted by love. We poor -mortals interfere with Nature’s plan in many ways. Especially we sin by -‘match-making’—by bringing about marriages without love and for the -sake of convenience of one kind or another. We wed bonds to city lots. -We trade girls for titles, giving a money boot. We profane the holiest -of human relations in order to join one plantation to another, or to -unite two distinguished houses, or for some other equally devilish -reason. - -“It is the best thing about this war that its tendency is to obliterate -artificialities and restore men and women to natural conditions—at -least here at the South. Believe me, Owen, the union of a man and -a woman who really love each other, is the crowning fact of all -existence. You and I are somewhat skilled in science. We know the truth -that Nature is illimitably attentive not only to the preservation of -the race, but to its improvement also; and we know that Nature takes no -care whatever of the individual, but ruthlessly sacrifices him for the -sake of the race. Nature is right, and we are criminally wrong when we -thwart her purposes, as we do when we make marriages that have no love -for their inspiration, or in any way bar marriage where love prompts -it. I am old-fashioned, I suppose, but old fashions are sometimes good -fashions. They are always so when they are the outgrowths of natural -conditions. - -“Now put all that aside. I have had my little say. Let me hear what it -was that you were going to say to me concerning Evelyn. I recognise -your right, as you do not, to criticise in that quarter.” - -“Oh, I had no thought of criticising,” answered Kilgariff. “On the -contrary, I am disposed to think you and I have made a valuable -discovery in pedagogics.” - -“What is it?” - -“Why, that the best way to teach science is backward.” - -“I confess I do not understand.” - -“Well, look at the thing. If Evelyn had been sent to a scientific -school to study chemistry, her professor would have set her to studying -a book of general principles. Then, after three or four months of -drudgery, she would have been permitted to perform a few experiments -in the laboratory, by way of illustrating and verifying what the book -had told her, the greater part of which she had known before she -began. You and I have begun at the other end. We have set Evelyn to do -practical work in the laboratory. I remember that her first task was to -wash opium, and her next to manufacture blue mass out of rose petals -and mercury. Incidentally we explained to her the general principles -involved, and in that purely incidental way she has learned her general -chemistry so thoroughly within a few weeks, and without opening a book, -that she could pass any examination upon it that any college professor -could put up. She has learned more in a month than any systematic class -work would have taught her in a year.” - -“I suppose you are right,” answered Dorothy. “But that is the only way -I know. It is the way in which Arthur taught me.” - -“Yes, I should suppose that Arthur is distinctly a man of original -genius. He _knows how to get things done_. He is so immeasurably -the superior of all the professors I ever knew that I am disposed -to name none of them in comparison with him. If it is ever my lot -to undertake the teaching of science, I shall adopt precisely that -method. And I do not see why the same principle should not be applied -to other departments of learning. We begin at the wrong end. The -teacher makes the boy begin where he himself did. I think Arthur’s -methods immeasurably better, and I spoke of Evelyn’s case only as an -illustration of their superiority. That young woman knows much—very -much—of science without having had any formal instruction in it at -all. She has learned it in the natural way, and she is deeply imbued -with the scientific spirit. Only yesterday she said to me, in answer to -some question of mine, that she ‘looked straight at things, and thought -about them.’ I cannot imagine a more perfect method than that. - -“And what book ever taught her what she knows about animals and their -ways? What lecturer in all the world could have told her how to subdue -that wild and rebellious mare as she has done? She learned all that -simply by ‘looking straight at things and thinking about them.’ The -professional horse-tamers—Rarey and the rest—set to work, with their -mechanical appliances, to convince a horse that they are mightier than -he is. They succeed in a way. They make the horse afraid of them, and -so long as they deal with him, he submits, in fear of their superior -power. But let a timid novice undertake to ride horses thus broken, -or to drive them, and disaster comes. Evelyn’s way is incalculably -better and more scientific. She has studied animals and learned to -understand them and sympathise with them. She makes her appeal to what -is best in their natures, not to what is worst, and she gets results -that no horse-tamer of them all could ever hope for. The horse-tamer’s -processes belong to the domain of artifice. Hers are purely scientific.” - -“Absolutely,” answered Dorothy; “and I often wonder where she learned -it all, or rather where she got her inspiration, for it is not so much -learning as a natural bent.” - -“Well, she was born with an instinct of truthfulness for one thing,” -said Kilgariff. “That is the only basis of the scientific temperament. -I observed her yesterday trying to tempt a fox squirrel out of one of -the trees. She chirped to him in her peculiar fashion, and, in response -to her invitation, he would run down as far as the root of the tree; -but there he would pause and shrewdly reconnoitre, after which he would -run back up the tree. - -“‘Why don’t you hold out your hand?’ I asked. - -“She quickly answered:— - -“‘That would be lying to him. Whenever I hold out my hand to him, I -have something in it for him to eat. If I held it out empty, I should -be saying there was something for him to eat in it, and that would be a -lie. He would come to me then and find out that I had deceived him. You -do quit believing—pardon me—you quit believing—anybody that tells -you lies.’ - -“I admitted my propensity to distrust untruthful persons, and she -gravely asked:— - -“‘Why then do you wish me to deceive the poor little squirrel? Do you -want him to think me a person not to be trusted?’ - -“I made some lame excuse about his being only a dumb animal, and she -quickly responded:— - -“‘But dumb animals are entitled to truthfulness, are they not, -particularly when we ask them to confide in us? I should be ashamed of -you, Monsieur’—you know she always calls me ‘Monsieur’ when she is -displeased with me—‘if I did not understand. The human people do not -know the animals—how trustful they want to be if only we would let -them. We set traps for them, we deceive them in a hundred ways, and -that is why they distrust us. I did read a few days ago—you smile, -Monsieur; I should say, I read the other day—that the wild creatures -are selfish, that they care for us only as a source of food supply. -That is not true, as that squirrel shall teach you. It is true that all -the wild creatures are _hungry all the time_. There is not food enough -for all of them, and so when we offer them food, they come to us, even -in fear. They have many of their young to feed, and their supplies are -very scant. That is why they congregate around houses where there is -waste thrown out. But oh, Monsieur, many hundreds of them do starve to -death in the long winters. You notice that in the spring there are a -dozen robins on the lawn; in the early summer, when they have brought -forth their broods, there are scores and hundreds of them. But in the -next spring there are only the dozens again. The rest have perished -of cold and hunger. I have been reading Mr. Darwin’s book, and I know -that this is the universal law of progress, of advancement by the -struggle for existence, and the survival of the fittest under the law -of heredity. But it is very cruel. That isn’t what I wanted to say. I -wanted to show you that even the wild creatures—hungry as they always -are—have affection. I am going to make that squirrel come to me and -sit on my shoulder without giving him any food as a temptation. You -shall see. After that, I will give him plenty to eat.’ - -“And she did. She wheedled the squirrel till he came down his tree, -crossed the lawn, and invaded her lap. It was only then that she gave -him the peanuts with which she had filled her pockets. I tell you that -girl is a born scientist, and that her knowledge is wonderful. Did it -ever occur to you that the squirrels and birds that seem so happy here -in the Wyanoke grounds are habitually in a state of starvation?” - -Just then Evelyn came walking toward the porch. The mare was closely -following her, and a squirrel perched upon one shoulder, while a robin -clung to the other. She had pockets in her gown—she insisted upon -pockets—and from these she fed the wild creatures. Upon getting a nut, -the squirrel leaped to the ground, and upon receiving a bit of bread, -the robin flew away. - -“You see,” said Kilgariff, “how coldly selfish and calculating your -wild creatures are. The moment they get something to eat, they quit -your hospitality.” - -“Not so, Monsieur,” the girl answered. “They have their babies to feed. -They will come back to me when that is done,” and they did. - -“Touch the squirrel,” she said to Kilgariff, “and he will fasten his -long teeth in your flesh. But I may stroke his fur as much as I please. -That is because he has made friends with me. And see! The robin is a -wild bird. His first instinct is to keep his wings free for flying. Yet -I may take him thus”—possessing herself of the bird—“and lay him on -his back in my lap, so that his wings are useless to him, and he does -not mind. It is because he knows me for his friend and trusts me. Ah, -if only people would learn to know the wild creatures and teach them -the lesson of love!” - -Kilgariff felt like saying, “I know no such teacher of that lesson as -you are,” but he refrained, and so it fell to Dorothy afterward to -say:— - -“Not many people have your gift, dear, of making other creatures love -them.” - -“But you have it,” the girl answered enthusiastically. “Oh, how I do -love you, Dorothy!” - -[Illustration: _“I MAY STROKE HIS FUR AS MUCH AS I PLEASE.”_] - - - - -XI - -ORDERS AND “NO NONSENSE” - - -WHEN General Grant, with one hundred and twenty thousand men, sat down -before Petersburg and Richmond and called for reinforcements as a -necessary preliminary to further operations, his plan was obvious, and -its ultimate outcome was nearly as certain as any human event can be -before it has happened. - -Richmond lies on the north bank of the James River. Petersburg lies -on the Appomattox River twenty-two miles due south of Richmond. Each -river is navigable up to the gates of the city situated upon it, so -that in besieging the two cities from the east, General Grant had an -uninterrupted water communication over which to bring supplies and -reinforcements at will. His line of fortifications stretched from a -point on the north of Richmond, eastwardly and southwardly to the -James River, and thence southwardly, with a westerly trend, to a point -south of Petersburg. A rude outline map, which accompanies the text, -will give a clearer understanding than words can. - -A glance at the map will show the reader three lines of railway upon -which Richmond depended for communication with the South and for -supplies for Lee’s army. All of them lay south of the James River. - -Grant’s problem was to break these three lines of railway, and thus -to compel Richmond’s surrender or evacuation. If he could break the -Weldon railway first, and the others later, as he purposed, his vastly -superior army at the time of Richmond’s evacuation could be easily -interposed between Lee and any point farther south to which the -Confederate commander might plan to retreat. - -That is what actually happened eight months later, with Lee’s surrender -at Appomattox Court House as the outcome of this successful strategy. - -In the meanwhile, Lee, with less than forty thousand men, was called -upon to defend a line more than thirty miles long against an enemy -whose numbers were three or four times his own, and whose capacity of -reinforcement was almost limitless. - -[Illustration: Sketch Map showing Lee’s and Grant’s lines about -Richmond and Petersburg] - -Still more important was the fact that Lee must stand ready, by day and -by night, to defend every point on this long line, while his adversary, -with the assistance of ships and railroads in his rear, could -concentrate irresistible forces at any point he pleased and at any -time he pleased, without the knowledge of the Confederate commander. -To the military on-looker it appeared easy for Grant to break through -Lee’s lines whenever he pleased, by hurling an overwhelming force with -irresistible momentum against any part of the attenuated thread that he -might elect, breaking through with certainty and entire ease. - -Such would have been the case but for the splendid fighting quality of -that Army of Northern Virginia which was struggling almost literally -in its “last ditch.” Time after time Grant massed his forces and threw -them with all his might against the weakest points he could find in -Lee’s defensive lines, only to be baffled and beaten by a fighting -force that was absolutely unconquerable in its obstinate determination. - -But Grant had other arrows in his well-stocked quiver. His enormous -superiority in numbers, and his easy ability to manœuvre beyond his -adversary’s sight or ken, made it possible for him continually to -extend his lines to the left; pushing south and west, and compelling -Lee to stretch out his already slender line to the point of hopeless -thinness. - -Grant could one day assail the defences below Richmond on the north -side of the James River in vastly superior force, and the next morning -at daybreak hurl five men to Lee’s one against the works defending the -Weldon Railroad, thirty miles or more to the south. - -Yet even under these conditions the brilliant Confederate strategist -not only held his own, but detached from his all too meagre force a -strong column under Early, and sent it to sweep the valley of Virginia, -invade Maryland, and so far threaten Washington as to compel Grant -either to send forces for the defence of the Federal capital or to -forego for the time being the reinforcements which he was clamorously -demanding for the strengthening of his lines at Petersburg. - -Captain Marshall Pollard’s battery was included in the detail of -troops made for this final and despairing invasion of the country north -of the Potomac; and when the battery marched, Sergeant-major Owen -Kilgariff rode by the side of his captain, ready for any duty that -might fall to his lot. - -The wound in his neck was not yet well, or even nearly so, but he -was quite regardless of self in his eagerness to bear his part, and -so, in spite of all the warnings of all the doctors, he had rejoined -his command at the first moment in which he was strong enough to sit -upright in the saddle. - -Captain Pollard had but one commissioned officer with him on this -dare-devil expedition, and that one officer was shot in the first -skirmish, so that Owen Kilgariff, non-commissioned officer that he was, -was second in command of the battery. - -Early’s column swept like a hurricane down the valley, and like a -cyclone burst upon Maryland and Pennsylvania. It marched fearlessly -wherever it pleased and fought tremendously wherever it encountered a -foe. Its invasion of the North at a time when Grant with three or four -men to Lee’s one was beleaguering the Southern capital, was romantic, -gallant, picturesque, startling. But it did not accomplish the purpose -intended. It was Grant’s conviction that Washington City could take -care of itself; that the authorities there had force enough at command, -or within call, to meet and repel a Confederate invasion, without any -assistance from him. He, first of all Federal generals, acted upon this -conviction, and refused to weaken his lines at Petersburg and Richmond -by sending any considerable forces to defend Washington against Early. -Grant had little imagination, but he had a great fund of common sense. - -Only one considerable action was the outcome of this expedition. In -a minor encounter on the day before the battle was fought, Captain -Marshall Pollard lost a leg, thus leaving his sergeant-major, Owen -Kilgariff, in command of the battery, reduced now to four guns, with -only four horses to each piece or caisson. - -At Monocacy, Kilgariff fought the guns at their best, and by a dash of -a kind which artillery is neither armed nor expected to make, captured -two Federal rifled guns, with their full complement of horses. In his -report he spoke of this feat of arms only as “an opportunity which -offered to add two guns to the battery and to raise the tale of horses -to the regulation number of six to each gun and caisson.” - -But that night General Early sent for Kilgariff, in response to that -non-commissioned officer’s request that a commissioned officer should -be sent to take command of the battery. - -“I don’t see the necessity,” said Early, in his abrupt way. “I don’t -see how anybody could fight his guns better than you have done. Get -yourself killed if you want somebody else to command Pollard’s battery. -So long as you live, I shall send nobody else. How does it happen that -you haven’t a commission?” - -“I do not covet that responsibility,” Kilgariff answered evasively. - -“Well, that responsibility will rest on your shoulders from this -hour forth, till the end of this campaign, unless you escape it by -getting yourself killed. I shall certainly not send anybody else to -command your battery while you live. From this hour I shall regard you -as Captain Kilgariff; and when I get myself into communication with -General Lee or the war department, I’ll see that the title is made -good.” - -“Thank you, General,” answered Kilgariff. “But I sincerely wish you -wouldn’t. I have already received and rejected one commission as -captain, and I have declined a still higher rank offered me.” - -“What an idiot you must be!” squeaked Early in his peculiar, falsetto -voice. “But you know how to fight your guns, and I’ve got a use for -such men as you are. You may do as you please after this campaign is -over, but while you remain under my command you’ll be a captain. I’ll -see to that, and there’ll be no nonsense about it, either.” - -An hour later, an order, officially signed and certified, came to -Kilgariff. It read in this wise:— - - SPECIAL ORDER NO. 7. Sergeant-major Owen Kilgariff, of Captain - Pollard’s Virginia Battery, is hereby ordered to assume command of - said Battery as Acting Captain, and he will exercise the authority of - that rank in all respects. He is ordered hereafter to sign his reports - and orders as “Captain Commanding,” and all officers concerned are - hereby directed, by order of the Commanding General, to recognise - the rank thus conferred, not only in matters of ordinary obedience - to orders, but also in making details for court-martial service and - the like. This temporary appointment of Captain Kilgariff is made in - recognition of peculiarly gallant and meritorious conduct, and in due - time it will be confirmed by the War Department. In the meanwhile - Captain Kilgariff’s rank, commission, and authority are to be fully - recognised by all persons concerned, by virtue of this order. - -This order was duly signed by General Early’s adjutant-general, as by -his command. - -There was nothing for Kilgariff to do but obey an order so peremptory, -from a commander who was not accustomed to brook opposition with -patience. Kilgariff’s first thought was to send through the regular -military channels a written protest and declination. But an insuperable -difficulty stood in the way. Under Early’s order, he must sign that -document not as “Sergeant-major,” but as “Captain.” Otherwise, his -act would be of that contumacious sort which military law defines as -“conduct subversive of good order and military discipline.” - -But aside from that consideration was the fact that General Early had -sent Kilgariff a personal note, in which he had written:— - - I have issued an order in your case. Obey it. I don’t want any damned - nonsense. - -Kilgariff was too good a soldier to protest further while the campaign -under Early should continue. He meant to ask excuse later, but for the -time being there was nothing for him to do except assume the captain’s -rank and command to which Early had thus peremptorily assigned him. - - - - -XII - -SAFE-CONDUCT OF TWO KINDS - - -AS Early was slowly making his way back into the valley of -Virginia—fighting wherever there was a force to be fought—there came -a messenger to Owen Kilgariff one night a little before midnight. He -bore a slip of paper on which these words were written:— - - Come to me quickly. I am mortally wounded, and it is very necessary - for me to see you before I die—not for my sake, for you’d rejoice - to see me in hell, but for the sake of others and for your own - sake—though for yourself you don’t often care much. I’m in a - farm-house hospital three miles south of Harper’s Ferry on the - Martinsburg road. My messenger will guide you. The Federals have - possession, of course, but the bearer of this note has a safe-conduct - for you. Of course, this might be a trick, but it is not. On the word - of a gambler (and you know what that means) I am playing fair this - time. You are a brave enough man to risk this thing anyhow. Come! - -This note bore no signature, but Owen Kilgariff knew the hand that had -written it. That handwriting had sent him to jail once upon a time. He -had not forgotten. He was not given to forgetting. - -He summoned the messenger who had brought him the note. - -“You have a safe-conduct for me, I believe?” he asked. - -“Yes, Captain,” and he produced the document. - -“How did you manage to pass our picket lines? Did you come under a flag -of truce?” - -“No. That would have taken time, and there is no time to be wasted. -Major Campbell is terribly wounded. I live in these parts. I ain’t a -soldier, you know. So I slipped through the lines.” - -For a moment Kilgariff regarded the fellow with indignant contempt. -Then the indignation passed, and the contempt was intensified in his -expression. Presently he said:— - -“You low-lived, contemptible hound, I can’t make up my mind even to -be angry with you. You and your kind are the pest in this war. You -haven’t character enough to take sides. You serve either side at will, -and betray both with jaunty indifference. Now listen to me. Within -twenty-four hours I shall see Major Campbell, who sent me this note. -But I shall not go to him under the safe-conduct you have brought.” - -With that, Kilgariff tore the paper to bits and scattered its fragments -to the night wind. - -“I shall order you sent to the guard-house and manacled, until General -Early shall have decided what to do with you. He doesn’t like your -sort.” - -The man fell at once into panic and pleaded for his life. - -“Oh, what will become of me?” he piteously moaned. - -“I really don’t know,” answered Kilgariff, quite as if the question -had related to the disposition to be made of some inanimate object. -“General Early may have you shot at sunrise, or he may decide to hang -you instead. I don’t at all know, and after all it makes no real -difference. The one death is about as painless as the other, and as -for the matter of disgrace, of course you are hopelessly incapable -of considering that. Perhaps—oh, well, I don’t know. General Early -may conclude to turn you loose as a creature too contemptible to be -seriously dealt with.” - -“God grant that he may!” said the man, with fervour, as the guards took -him away. - -A minute later Kilgariff mounted his horse, Wyanoke—a special gift -from Dorothy—and rode hurriedly to General Early’s headquarters; it -was after midnight, but with this army sleeplessly “on service” very -little attention was given to hours, either of the day or of the night. -So, after a moment’s parley with a sentinel, Kilgariff was conducted to -General Early’s presence, under a tree. - -It was not Kilgariff’s habit to grow excited. He had passed through too -much for that, he thought. But on this occasion his perturbation of -spirit was so great that he had difficulty in enunciating his words. - -“General,” he said, “I want a little cavalry force, if you please. I -want to capture one of the enemy’s hospitals and hold it long enough -for me to have a talk with the most infamous scoundrel who ever lived.” - -“Calm yourself, Captain,” said Early. “Have a little apple brandy as a -tonic. Your nerves are shaken.” - -Kilgariff declined the stimulant, but at Early’s earnest solicitation -he sat down upon a stump, and presently so far commanded his own spirit -as to go on with what he had to say. - -“One of those contemptible border wretches got himself smuggled through -our lines to-night. I don’t know how. He brought me a note from the -most infamous scoundrel I ever knew, together with a safe-conduct -under which I could sneak into the enemy’s lines and talk with the -fellow, who is mortally wounded. I tore up the safe-conduct and sent -the emissary to the guard-house with the comfortable assurance that his -case would be submitted to you, and that you would pretty certainly -order him shot or hanged according to the gravity with which you might -regard his offence. I hope you’ll let him go. He is so poor-spirited a -cur that he will suffer a thousand deaths to-night in dreading one for -to-morrow. However, that isn’t what I want to speak with you about. I -want a cavalry force of a company or two. I want to raid that hospital -before morning and talk with that rascal in the interest of others -whose fate he may hold in his hands.” - -“Do you plan to kill him?” - -“Of course not. He is wounded unto death. And besides—well, General, -he isn’t of our class.” - -“I quite understand—not a man you could ‘call out.’” - -“Distinctly not—although he has a major’s commission.” - -“Oh—if you want a colonel’s or a brigadier-general’s, you shall have -it,” broke in Early, full of the enthusiasm of fight. - -“No, General,” answered Kilgariff, with an amused smile; “I have -always found it possible to fight anybody I pleased without raising -the question of rank. You know, a private, if he is a man of good -family, may slap a major-general’s jaws in our army, in full certainty -that his escapade will bring a challenge rather than a citation -before a court-martial. No. I want to talk with this man before he -dies. He sent me a safe-conduct, as I have already said. That was a -gracious permission from the Federal authorities for me to see him. I -have a very pronounced prejudice against the acceptance of gracious -permissions from the Federal authorities. So I have come to ask for a -squadron of cavalry, to which I will add a couple of guns, in order -that I may capture that post, enter its hospital, and have my talk with -its inmate without anybody’s permission but yours, General.” - -The humour of the situation appealed strongly to Early, as it did also -to Major Irby of the Virginia Cavalry, who was sitting near by. That -officer was a man of few words, but he carried an unusually alert -sabre, and his sense of humour was uncommonly keen. - -“If you don’t mind, General,” he said, in his quiet fashion, “I should -like to ‘sit in’ the captain’s game.” - -“Do it!” said Early. “Take three companies and two of Kilgariff’s guns, -and let him show the fellow that he carries his own safe-conduct at his -back.” - -Things were done promptly and quickly in those stirring times, and five -minutes after Early had spoken his words of permission, Major Irby -moved at the head of three companies of cavalry and two of Kilgariff’s -guns—the two so recently captured from the enemy, and selected now by -way of emphasising the jest. - -A dash, a scurry, and every picket post south of Harper’s Ferry was -swept out of sight. - - - - -XIII - -KILGARIFF HEARS NEWS - - -AS soon as Major Irby had possessed himself of the hospital and the -region round about, he gave orders to throw out pickets a mile or so -in every direction, in order to guard against surprise. He posted -Kilgariff’s guns on a little hill, where their fire could sweep all -of the roads over which an advance of the enemy was possible. Then he -ordered the officer of the guard to post a strong line of sentinels -around the house itself, which served as hospital, and to send a -corporal’s guard into the building with orders to dispose themselves as -Kilgariff might direct. - -Kilgariff, who had stripped the chevrons off his sleeves, and sewed -a captain’s three bars on his collar in obedience to General Early’s -order, immediately entered the house and made his way to the separate -room in which Campbell’s cot had been placed. Kilgariff turned to the -corporal of the guard, and commanded:— - -“Place two sentinels in that outer room. Order them to see to it that -there is no eavesdropping. You understand?” - -“Perfectly, Captain.” - -There is this advantage about military over other arrangements, that -they can be absolutely depended upon. The sentinel who has “orders” is -an autocrat in their execution. He has no discretion. He enters into -no argument. He parleys with nobody, whatever that somebody’s rank -may be. He simply commands, “Halt”; and if the one advancing takes -one other step, the sentinel fires a death shot at short range and -with absolutely certain aim. Killing, on the part of a sentinel whose -command of “Halt” is disregarded, is not only no crime in military -law—it is a virtue, a simple discharge of peremptory duty. And the -sentinel himself, if ordered to stand twenty feet away from a door, -stands there, not encroaching upon the distance by so much as a foot, -under pain of punishment “in the discretion of a court-martial,” as the -military law phrases it. - -So, when Kilgariff entered the room in which the man who had ruined his -life lay wounded, in answer to that man’s summons, he knew that his -conversation would be neither interrupted nor overheard in any word or -syllable of it. The absoluteness of military law and practice forbade -that, even as a possibility. - -Kilgariff advanced to the man’s bedside, took his seat upon a camp -stool, and without the remotest suggestion of a greeting in his voice -or manner, abruptly said:— - -“I am here. What do you want?” - -“I was sure you would come,” answered the man; “the safe-conduct—” - -“I tore that up the moment I received it,” answered Kilgariff. - -“But why? It was valid.” - -“For any other officer in our army, yes,” answered Kilgariff; “but not -for me, as you very well know. Anyhow, I preferred to come under the -safe-conduct of Southern carbines and cannon and sabres. Never mind -that. Go on. What do you want?” - -The man winced and groaned with pain as he turned himself a little on -his cot in order to face his interlocutor. Presently he said:— - -“I’m shot through the groin with a canister ball. It is a wound unto -death, I suppose.” - -“Yes? Well? What else? I did not come to ask after your health.” - -“Of course not. I mention my condition only as a man who flings a -card upon the table at a critical moment exclaims, ‘That’s a trump.’ -You see, the things I want to say to you are in the nature of an -ante-mortem statement, and I want you to understand that, so that you -may believe all I have to tell you.” - -“I understand,” said Kilgariff. “You are precisely the sort of man, -who, after lying and cheating all his life, would tell the truth in a -dying statement, if only by way of cheating the Day of Judgment and -playing stacked cards on the Almighty. Go on.” - -But before the man could speak again, Kilgariff added:— - -“As a still further stimulus to truth-telling on your part, let me make -a few suggestions. You are completely in my power. If I choose, I can -have you taken hence to General Early and introduce you to him as a man -who accepted a commission in the Confederate Army and then deserted -to the other side and deceived the authorities there into giving him -a commission to fight the cause he had solemnly sworn to support. You -know what would happen in such a case.” - -“Yes, I know. There’d be a drumhead court-martial, and I’d be hanged at -daybreak. But hear me, Kilgariff. I’m a gambler, as you know, not in -one way, but in all ways. And I know how to be a good loser. I’ve drawn -a very bad hand this time, but I’ve called the game; and if I’m hanged -for it, I shall not whine about my luck. Whenever I die, and however I -die, I’ll die game. So you can’t intimidate me. But before I die, there -are certain things I want to tell you—for the sake of the others. For -although I have no moral principles and don’t profess any, there are -some things I want to tell you about—” - -“Go on. Tell me about my brother.” - -“That wasn’t what I wanted to talk about first. Besides, you know most -of the story.” - -“Never mind that. I want to hear it all from your lips. Much of it I -never understood. Tell it all and quickly.” - -“Well, your brother’s a fool, you know.” - -“Yes, I know. Otherwise—never mind that. Tell me the whole story. How -far was my brother a sharer in your guilt? How far did he consent to -my wrecking? Why did he join you for my destruction, after all I had -done for him?” - -“It’s very hard to say. Opinions differ, and standards of morality—” - -“Damn opinions and standards!—especially yours. I want the facts—all -of them, to the last detail. Go on, and don’t waste time.” - -“Well, your brother is a fool, as I said before, though in the end he -did ‘make his jack’ and win a pot of money. But that was good luck—not -good play.” - -“Don’t fall into reflections,” interrupted Kilgariff, seeing that -Campbell was in a reminiscent mood. “We’ve no time for that sort of -thing. Go on with the facts.” - -“Well, you see your brother was that sort of man about whom people say -that he was ‘more sinned against than sinning.’ He always wanted to do -right, and if he could have got a good steady job as a millionaire, I -don’t know anybody who would have been more scrupulously upright than -he. You see, he really thought he had principles—moral character and -that sort of thing—when he hadn’t anything of the kind. Many people -deceive themselves in that way. I never did. I was born of as good a -family as yours, or any other. I was raised in the most honourable -traditions, and as a young man I was reckoned a pattern of high-minded -conduct. I knew all the time that I had no moral character, no -principles. Or rather, I gradually became conscious of that fact.” - -Kilgariff was exceedingly impatient of this autobiography, but he -thought the shortest way to the man’s facts was to let him talk on in -his own way. So he forebore to interrupt, and Campbell continued:— - -“I would have killed any man who called me a liar, but I never -hesitated to lie when lying seemed to me of advantage. I was scrupulous -in paying my debts and discharging every social duty, but I knew myself -well enough to know that if an opportunity came to me to rob any man -without being found out, I would do it and not hesitate or repent over -it. Like the great majority of men, I was honest only as a matter of -policy. I had no moral character. Most people haven’t any, but they go -on thinking they have and pretending about it until they completely -deceive themselves. They refuse to take the old sage’s advice to ‘know -thyself.’ I took it. I early learned to know myself. - -“But if I had no principles, I at least had sentiments. One of those -sentiments was pride in my family. When I saw clearly that I was -going to be an adventurer, a gambler, a swindler, a man living by his -wits, I did not shrink from that, but I shuddered at the thought of -disgracing the name I bore. So I decided not to bear that name, but to -choose another. At first I thought of calling myself ‘George Washington -Bib’—just for the humour of the thing. The sudden slump from the -resonance of ‘George Washington’ to the monosyllabic inconsequence -of ‘Bib’ struck me as funny. But I reflected that while I had never -heard of anybody named Bib, there might be people by that name. Still -further, it occurred to me that anybody on being introduced to George -Washington Bib would be sure to remember the name, and in the career I -had marked out for myself that might be inconvenient. So I made up my -mind to call myself Campbell. There are so many families of that name, -and they are so prolific, that the mere name means nothing—not even -a probability of kinship. But you’re not interested in all this. You -want to hear about your brother.” - -“Yes,” answered Kilgariff. - -“Well, your brother was highly respectable, as you know. He was -comfortably rich at the first, and after he lost most of his money he -struggled hard to keep up the pretence of being still comfortably rich. -He did the thing very cleverly, and it let him into several pretty good -things in Wall Street. But it let him into a good many very bad things -also, and in his over-anxiety to become really rich again, he went into -the bad things headforemost and blindfold. I was posing as a lawyer -then, you know, and cutting a large swath. I really had no regular -practice of any consequence, but I kept two large suites of offices and -any number of clerks, as a blind, and I managed every now and then to -find out things that I could turn to account—” - -“Blackmail, I suppose.” - -“Yes, I suppose you’d call it that, but always with a weather eye on -the law. You see, when an active lawyer finds out that a big banker -has been doing things he oughtn’t, the big banker is apt to conclude -that he needs the services of precisely that particular lawyer as -private counsel. There are big fees in the business sometimes, but -it’s risky and uncertain. So I had my ups and downs. I was in one -of the very worst of my downs when this bank affair fell in. I had -been a bank examiner at one time, and had twice examined the affairs -of this bank. I knew that its deposits were enormous and its assets -sufficient, if properly handled, to pay out everything and leave a -large surplus, besides something for the receiver. So I decided to -become in effect, though not in fact, the receiver. I owned a judge. -He owed me money which he couldn’t pay, and that money was owing on -account of things which he couldn’t on any consideration allow to -be inquired into in ‘proceedings.’ Moreover, I knew a lot of other -things which in themselves made me his master. Still again, his term -was nearly at an end, and I had the political influence necessary to -secure or defeat his renomination and re-election, as I might choose. -In short, I owned him body and soul. So, when it fell to him to appoint -a receiver for this bank, he naturally sent for me in consultation. -His idea was to appoint me to the receivership, but I saw clearly -that that would not do. It would raise a row, for I was pretty well -known to the big financiers, many of whom had been obliged to employ -me by way of silencing me at one time or another. But more important -than that was the fact that the plans I had formed for the handling of -the bank’s affairs involved a good deal of risk to the receiver. The -bank had a great many investments that must be closed out in order to -put the institution on its feet again, and there are various ways of -closing out such investments. It was my idea that they should be so -closed out as to leave the bank just barely solvent and able to pay its -depositors, you understand—” - -“Yes—and that you and your pals should pocket the surplus.” - -“Precisely. I didn’t imagine you had so good a head for business.” - -“Never mind my head. Consider your own neck, and go on with the story.” - -“Now won’t you understand,” said the adventurer, “that I’m not thinking -about my neck? I’ve staked that as my ’ante’ in this game, and I never -ask the ante back. Well, I showed my judge that it wouldn’t do at all -to make me receiver, but I told him I would find him the right man. -Your brother had already occurred to me as available. He was in extreme -financial difficulties at that time. He was in arrears in his club -dues, and his tailor’s bills, and even to his servants. He had sold out -every bond and every share of stock he owned, and still his debts were -sorely pressing him. He lived at a fine though small place just out -of town, where he and his wife and daughters entertained sumptuously. -For even to his wife and daughters he kept up the pretence of being -comfortably rich, so that they had no hesitation in giving orders at -the caterers’ and the florists’ and directing that the bills be sent to -him. - -“I knew his condition. I knew that he was passing sleepless nights in -dreadful apprehension of the quickly coming time when the florists and -the caterers would surely refuse to fill the orders of his wife and -daughters on the ground that he owed them and didn’t pay. - -“One day I sent for him to dine with me in a private room at an -expensive hotel. I vaguely suggested to him that his fortune was made; -that within a few days I should be able to put him in position to -twiddle his fingers at the florists and the caterers. But I gave him no -details. I gave him limitless champagne instead, and, as my digestion -resented champagne at that time, I excused myself from drinking more -than a very small share of the enticing beverage. We decided to play -poker, after dinner, just for amusement. The chips were valued high—a -dollar for a white chip, two and a half for a red, and five dollars for -a blue. - -“For a time your brother had marvellous ‘luck.’ He won enough of my -paper promises to pay to make him feel already quite independent of -the caterers and the florists, and to convince him that at poker I was -exceedingly easy prey to a man who ‘really understood the game,’ as he -conceitedly thought he did. Well, we played on till morning; and when -sunrise came, he had given me his I O U’s for more money than he had -ever owned in his life.” - -“That is to say, you had made him drunk on champagne, and then had -cheated him without limit?” - -“Well, yes, that’s about it. Anyhow, I owned him. After he had got over -the headache and the champagne, he came to me at my office to see what -could be done by way of compromise. I told him that I had no money and -no resources except my wits; I frankly confessed that but for certain -cash payments he had made early in the game, I could not have paid for -the hotel room and tipped the waiters to the tune that waiters set when -they are privy to a game of that kind. - -“‘But it’s all right,’ I assured him. ‘Don’t bother about the I O U’s. -They’ll keep. They are debts of honour, of course, but they needn’t -be paid till it is convenient to pay them; and when you go into the -position that I’ve secured for you, it will be not only convenient, but -exceedingly easy.’ - -“Then I told him about the receivership and my purpose to have him -appointed. I explained that in the mere matter of commissions it would -give him a princely income, to say nothing of perquisites. I didn’t -explain what ‘perquisites’ in such a case meant. That was because I had -no moral character. He didn’t ask. That was because he thought he had a -moral character and wished to spare it affront. - -“It was easily arranged that the judge I owned should appoint as -receiver the man I owned. But I didn’t own my man completely, as yet. -He owed me more money, as a debt of honour, than he could pay at that -time; but once in the receivership, he could quickly pay off all that, -and then I shouldn’t own him at all. Indeed, he might have repudiated -the I O U’s as illegal gambling debts; he might have refused to pay -them at all. But I wasn’t afraid of that. Your brother fondly imagined -that he was a man of honour, of high moral principle, and so I knew -that in order to keep up that pretence with himself he would stand by -his debts of honour. But I foresaw that he might presently discharge -them all, out of the proceeds of the receivership, and send me adrift. -I must get a stronger grip on him. So I told my judge to send for him -and say certain things to him. - -“‘You must setup a house,’ the judge told him, ‘in a fashionable -quarter of the town, by way of maintaining your position. You see, it -won’t do for me to put anybody in charge of those many millions who -isn’t recognised as himself a man of independent wealth. You must have -a good house and enlarge your establishment. The receivership will -abundantly recoup you in the end, but from the beginning we must keep -up appearances.’ - -“Your brother came to me in great distress of mind to tell me what -the judge had required of him. He frankly told me he hadn’t the money -necessary to make a first payment on the lease of a town house, to -furnish it suitably, and to establish himself in it. I pretended to -be worried over the matter, and I took twenty-four hours in which to -think about it. Then I sent for your brother again and told him I saw a -way out; that certain clients of mine had money to invest on bond and -mortgage, and had placed it in my hands; that by a little stretching of -my authority I could let him have the amount he needed, as a mortgage -loan on his place in the country. I saw his face fall when I suggested -this, as I had expected to see it fall. Presently he explained that in -order to give a mortgage on his country place, which really stood in -his wife’s name and had in fact come to her as a dowry, he must get -her to execute the papers. That would be very awkward, he explained, -as he had never thought it necessary to bother his womankind about his -affairs. To ask his wife to execute a mortgage would necessitate a -statement to her of his financial position, and a whole lot more of -that sort, which I had expected. I told him I thought I could arrange -the matter; that my clients had placed their affairs completely in -my hands; that all they wanted was the prompt payment of interest -and adequate security for their invested money; that the profits of -the receivership would be ample to secure all this; and that any -arrangement I might make would never be questioned by my clients. I -told him that the mortgage security was after all only a matter of -form in a case where the other security was so ample, and that the -whole thing was in my hands. So I suggested that he should—as a mere -matter of form—execute the mortgage, himself signing his wife’s name -in her stead. I would take care of the document, not even recording -it, and the loan could be paid off presently, with nobody the wiser. -Your brother fell into the trap. He executed the mortgage, signing his -wife’s name to it, and he was at once made receiver of the bank. - -“From that hour, of course, he was my property. No negro slave in all -the South was ever more completely owned, or more absolutely under the -control of his master. - -“I had only to reveal the facts at any moment in order to send him to -jail. He had committed a felony—he, the highly respectable receiver of -a savings bank, and a man regarded as a leader in social and even in -religious movements of every kind. I held complete proofs of his felony -in my own hands. He must do my bidding or go to State’s prison. - -“My first order to him was to put me into the bank as counsel to the -receiver, at a good salary, and also as expert accountant, at another -good salary. The bank could afford all this and vastly more. Its -assets were easily three times its liabilities—if properly handled, -and I knew how to handle them. I meant no harm to your brother. -On the contrary, I meant to make him rich and let him retire from -the completed receivership with the commendation of the court for -the masterly manner in which he had so handled the affairs of the -institution as to make good every dollar of its deposits with interest, -and to deliver it into the hands of its trustees again in a perfectly -solvent condition. You see, the assets were ample for that, and to -provide for my future besides. The only trouble before had been bad -management and a deficient knowledge of the art of bookkeeping on the -part of the respectable old galoots who had been in control of the -bank. They might easily have straightened out everything without any -court proceedings at all, if they had known how. Their violations of -the law had been purely technical—such as occur in every bank every -day—and these things can always be arranged on a good basis of assets, -if the people in charge only know how. - -“Now, when I began operations in the bank, your brother was inclined -to object to some of the things I did. I had only to remind him of the -mortgage papers in order to reduce him to subjection. He still thought -he had a moral character, and so when I proposed to sell out the bank’s -securities at ten or twenty or fifty per cent less than their value, -and take a commission of five or ten or forty per cent for ourselves -from the buyers, he raised grave moral objections. But he was in no -position to insist upon them, and besides he was largely profiting by -the transactions. Meanwhile, I was slowly getting the bank’s affairs -into shape—very slowly, for there were the salaries of him and myself -to be considered. Then came the revolt of the chief bookkeeper, and -his complaint that we were robbing the bank. I tried hard to square -him, but he wouldn’t square. That fellow really had a moral character, -and, worse still, he couldn’t be scared. I showed him that as he had -already permitted false entries in the bank’s books, he must himself -be involved in any exposure that might be made. He answered that he -knew that, and was prepared to explain matters in court and ‘take -the consequences.’ Then your brother got scared half to death, and -consulted you. If he had waited for forty-eight hours, I should have -had that bookkeeper in jail, and your brother would have got credit -for extreme vigilance. But when he sent for you, all was up. You came -into the bank and practically took your brother’s place and function. -But you neglected to provide yourself with legal authority to be in the -bank at all. Another thing you didn’t reckon upon was my foresight. -I had taken pains to win several of the clerks and bookkeepers to my -side. I had ‘let them in,’ so that when you angrily dismissed me, I -still had daily and hourly information of what was going on. You found -out that the bank’s securities had been sold for less than they were -worth, and you set to work to repair the wrong. You couldn’t cancel the -sales that had been made, but you could and did pay your own money into -the bank to make good what you regarded as the defalcations. That made -it easy for me. I went to my judge—the one I owned—and laid before -him the fact that you were handling the bank’s assets without a shadow -of legal authority; that you had dismissed me—the receiver’s counsel -and expert accountant—upon discovering that I knew of defalcations, -and all the rest of it. You know that part of the story, for you -suffered from it. To save your brother, you had sacrificed large sums -of money. When that failed and you found that either he or you must go -to prison for these defalcations, you decided to sacrifice your liberty -and your reputation in order to save him and his wife and daughters. -You refused to defend yourself. I thought your plan was to get a stay, -give bail, and skip it. But you had the disadvantage of having a -moral character, so you stood your hand and were sent to prison. Your -brother, having no moral character, let you do this thing and pretended -great grief over your dishonesty and perfidy. But he had learned the -business by that time, and so he got away with the swag, and with the -reputation of a man of truly Roman virtue who suffered acutely over -the misbehaviour of his ‘black sheep’ brother. What a farce it all is -anyhow—life, I mean—if one tries to take it seriously! Let me have a -little brandy, please! I’m growing very faint.” - -The brandy did its appointed work of stimulation, and presently -Campbell resumed:— - -“I don’t in the least understand why you should care for your brother, -but, as you do, it may gratify you to know that he is leading a quiet -life of luxury in the country on the Hudson. He is a comfortably -rich man; for he kept the money he got out of the bank and invested -it prudently—a thing I never could do when I had money. He highly -disapproved of me, of course; but when I quitted the Southern army and -went North—” - -“When you deserted, you mean.” - -“Yes, if you look at it in that way—he used his influence to get me my -present commission. That was cheaper than supporting me, which he must -otherwise have done, for I had lost and squandered everything. That -brings me to what I really want to talk to you about. I have a daughter -somewhere in the South, if she is still alive. She was captured a few -months ago during an effort on the part of—well, never mind whom—to -smuggle her through the lines into the South, where she has some -relatives, though I don’t believe she knows who they are. It doesn’t -matter. They say I’ve persecuted the girl—and I suppose in a way I -have. - -“Never mind that. I’m sinking fast now and haven’t any time for -explanations. I have some papers here that may mean everything to her -after she comes of age. She has been taught that she is only seventeen -years old. In fact, she is nineteen, and she must have these papers -when she is twenty-one. I sent for you to ask you to find her and -deliver them. You really have a moral character, and so you won’t trade -on this matter. With your wide acquaintance, you’ll know how to find -the girl. Her name is Evelyn Byrd.” - -If a shell had exploded in the room, Kilgariff would not have been -so startled as he was by this announcement. But he had no time for -questions. He had heard picket-firing for several minutes past, and -his practised ear told him with certainty that the rattle of the -musketry was steadily drawing nearer. He knew what that meant. The -Federals were advancing in adequate force for the recapture of the -position and the destruction of Major Irby’s little handful of men. - -A few minutes before Campbell made his startling announcement, a note -had come to Kilgariff from Major Irby, saying:— - -“Enemy advancing in considerable force, but I can hold place for an -hour or more if absolutely necessary. You needn’t hurry. Only cut it as -short as you can.” - -But just at the moment of the mention of Evelyn Byrd’s name, the voices -of two rifled cannon were heard near at hand, and Kilgariff knew the -guns for his own. Instantly he sprang up, and, taking the papers from -Campbell’s hand, passed out of the house without a word of farewell, -leaped upon his horse, and galloped to the little hill where his guns -had been posted. - -It was in the gray of early dawn, and even considerable bodies of -troops could not be seen except at short distances. But the enemy was -pressing Major Irby hard, apparently bent upon capturing his force. -Both his flanks were threatened, while his centre was specially hard -pressed. - -[Illustration: _TAKING THE PAPERS FROM CAMPBELL’S HAND, PASSED OUT OF -THE HOUSE WITHOUT A WORD OF FAREWELL._] - -No sooner had Kilgariff reported that his mission was finished, and -that he was himself with the guns, than Irby gave some rapid commands, -threw his whole force upon the enemy with great impetuosity, and then, -while the recoil before his charge lasted, swung his little band about -and made good its escape at a gallop. - - - - -XIV - -IN THE WATCHES OF THE NIGHT - - -OWEN KILGARIFF was now beset with perplexities. So long as he should -continue to serve with Early in the valley, he must retain the rank -of captain which that commander had forced upon him, and this he was -determined not to do. He knew that Early had reported upon his case, -and that very certainly a commission would come to him in regular -form from Richmond. He foresaw that its coming would greatly increase -his embarrassment. He could not decline it except officially through -General Early, to whom, of course, he could give no satisfactory reason -for his erratic course. - -Then, too, he was puzzled about the papers that Campbell had given him. -These clearly belonged to Evelyn, and his first impulse was to send -them to her and let her do what she would with them. But he remembered -that Campbell’s injunction had been, or seemed to be, to deliver the -documents into her hands only when she attained the age of twenty-one -years. Not knowing what might be in the papers, Kilgariff could not -know what or how much of harm might come to her from their premature -delivery. - -It is true that he had given no promise to Campbell, and as for the -wishes of the adventurer, Kilgariff was in no way bound to respect -them, and certainly he was not disposed to do so. His sole concern in -the matter was for Evelyn’s welfare, and he could not make up his mind -what his course of conduct ought to be with respect to that. He needed -counsel very sorely, and there was only one man in all the South of -whom he could freely ask counsel. That man was Arthur Brent, who might -be still at Petersburg, or might have gone back to his laboratory work -at Wyanoke. - -In either case, consultation with him seemed equally out of the -question. No confidence was to be placed in mails at that disturbed -time, and of course Kilgariff would not ask for or accept even the -sick furlough which the increasing inflammation of his neglected -wound rendered exceedingly desirable, so long as there was well-nigh -continuous fighting in progress at the front. - -Altogether, Owen Kilgariff was sorely beset with puzzling uncertainty -of mind. He was in action during most of the day after the night he had -spent with Campbell, but neither weariness nor loss of sleep enabled -him to close his eyes during the following night. He lay throughout -the hours of darkness stretched upon the ground under a great chestnut -tree, weary but with wide-open eyes, staring upward at the stars that -showed through the leaves, and thinking to no purpose. - -One thought occurred to him at last which caused him suddenly to sit -up, and for a moment made his heart bound. - -His vigil of ceaseless thought and perplexity had taught him much of -his own soul’s condition which he had but vaguely guessed at before. -It had shown him clearly what his feeling was toward Evelyn Byrd. He -understood now, as he had not done before, that his love for the girl -was the supreme passion of his life—the limitless, all-embracing, -all-conquering impulse of a strong nature which had schooled itself -to repression and self-sacrifice. He saw clearly that all this -self-discipline—greatly as it had enabled him to endure and to make -sacrifice—had given him no strength adequate to his present need. He -had thought to conquer his passionate love; he knew now that he could -never conquer it. He had thought to put it out of his mind as a longing -for the unattainable; he knew now that it would for ever refuse to be -dismissed. - -“So long as I live,” he thought, “I must bear this burden; so long as -I live, I must suffer and be still. For I shall at any rate retain -too much of manhood and courage to win Evelyn’s love or to sadden her -life by linking it with my own. My honour, at any rate, shall remain -unspotted. Fortunately, a bullet or a sabre stroke is likely to solve -all my riddles for me before this year comes to an end—and so much the -more imperative is it that I arrange quickly for the disposal of her -papers to her best advantage. But what is best? If these papers reveal -to her the cruel fact that her father was an adventurer, a gambler, a -swindler—and they must if they reveal anything—will it not be a great -wrong to let her have them at all? And yet who but herself has a right -to decide that she shall not receive whatever revelation the documents -may make?” - -Then it was that the thought came to Kilgariff which made him sit up -suddenly. - -“She is the daughter of that man. Is there not in that fact an offset -to my disability? Am I not free to tell her concerning myself, after -she has learned her own origin, and to stand with eyes on a level with -her own, asking her to be my wife?” - -No sooner had he formulated the thought thus than he rejected it as -unworthy. For a time he scourged himself for permitting the suggestion -to arise in his mind, but presently he comforted himself by recalling -the words of a great divine who, speaking of evil thoughts quickly -dismissed, said:— - -“I cannot prevent the birds from flying over my head, but I can forbid -them to make nests in my hair.” - -“I will not let that bird make a nest in my hair,” thought Kilgariff, -resolutely, and greatly to the relief of his troubled conscience. - -At that moment the reveille sounded in all the camps, and Kilgariff -rose to his feet, stripped himself to the waist, sluiced his head, -shoulders, and chest in the cold water of a neighbouring spring, -resumed his clothing, and was ready for the day’s duties, whatever -their nature might be. But his vigil had not brought him any nearer -than he was before to the solution of the problems that so greatly -perplexed him. It had only added a new and distressing self-knowledge -to the burdens that weighed upon his mind. He had never feared death; -now he looked upon it as a chance of welcome release from a sorely -burdened life. Thenceforth he thought of the bullets as friendly -messengers, one of which might bear a message for him. - - - - -XV - -IN THE TRENCHES - - -OPERATIONS in front of Petersburg had by this time settled down into a -sullenly obstinate struggle for mastery between the two finest armies -of veterans that ever met each other anywhere in the world. It is -no exaggeration to characterise those armies by such superlatives. -For in them it was not only organisations—regiments, brigades, and -divisions—that were war-seasoned, but the individual men themselves. -They had educated themselves by four years of fighting into a personal -perfection of soldiership such as has nowhere else been seen among the -rank and file of contending armies. - -The slender lines of hastily constructed earthworks behind which -these two opposing hosts had confronted each other at the beginning -of that supreme struggle of the war, had been wrought into other and -incalculably stronger forms by work that had never for one moment -ceased and would not pause until the end. - -The breastworks had been raised, broadened, and strengthened under the -direction of skilled engineers. At every salient angle a regular fort -of some sort had been constructed and heavily armed for offence and -defence. - -In rear of these lines every little eminence had been crowned by a -frowning fortification, as sullen in appearance and as capable of -destructive work as the Redan or the Malakoff at Sebastopol. - -At brief intervals along the outer lines traverses had been built at -right angles to the works, as a protection against all enfilading fire. - -The fields just behind the lines were intricately laced with trenches -and protective earthworks of every kind. Without these the men in front -would have been completely cut off from communication with the rear, by -a resistless, all-consuming fire. - -Great covered ways—protected passages—were cut as the only avenues by -which men or supplies could be moved even for the shortest distances. -Every spring that could yield water with which to quench the thirst of -the fighting men was defended by jealous fortifications. - -There was no more thought now of enumerating the actions fought, or -naming them. There was one continuous battle, ceaseless by day or by -night, in which dogged resistance opposed itself daily and hourly to -desperate assault, both inspired by a courage that did not so much -resemble anything human as it did the struggle of opposing and titanic -natural forces. Did the reader ever see the breaking up of the ice in -a great river or lake, under the angry impulse of flood and storm? As -the great ice floes in that case assailed the rocks with seemingly -resistless fury, and as the rocks stood fast in the courage of their -immovability, so at Petersburg the opposing forces met, day after day, -with the courage and determination of inanimate forces. - -Every great gun that either side could bring from any quarter was -placed in position, so that the fire, continuous by day and by night, -grew steadily greater in volume and more destructive in effect. - -In this matter of guns, as well as in numbers of men, the Federals had -enormous advantage. They had arsenals and foundries equipped with the -most improved machinery to supply them, and they could draw freely -upon the armouries of Europe, besides. The Confederates had no such -resources. The few and small shops within their command were antiquated -in their equipment and very sharply limited in their capacity. But they -did their best. - -As soon as regular siege operations began, the Federals set to work -establishing mortar batteries at every available point. Mortars are -very short guns fired at a high “elevation”; that is, pointing upward -at an angle of forty-five degrees to the horizon, or more than that, so -as to throw shells high in air and let them fall perpendicularly upon -an enemy’s works, breaking down defences and reaching points in rear of -works to which ordinary cannon fire cannot penetrate. - -The lines were so close together—at one point only fifty yards -apart—that everything had to be done under cover of some kind, and -thus mortars became a vitally necessary arm with which to break down -the enemy’s cover. The Confederates had none of these guns at first, -but their foundries were at least capable of manufacturing so simple -a weapon in a rude but effective fashion, making the mortars of iron -instead of brass, and mounting them in oaken blocks heavily banded -with wrought iron. In a very brief time the mortars began to arrive, -and their numbers rapidly increased, but there were very few of the -officers who knew how to handle a weapon so wholly different from -ordinary guns both in construction and in methods of use. - -This scarcity of mortar-skilled officers in the lower grades gave Owen -Kilgariff his opportunity. The thought occurred to him suddenly on the -day after his vigil, and he acted upon it at once. - -He wrote to Arthur Brent, addressing his letter to Wyanoke, whence it -would of course be forwarded should Doctor Brent be at Petersburg still. - - I want you, Arthur [he wrote], to use your influence in my behalf - in a matter that touches me closely. For several reasons I want to - be ordered from this place to Petersburg. For one thing, there is a - matter of business, vitally interesting to you and me and closely - involving the welfare of others. I simply must see you concerning it - without delay. If I can get to Petersburg, I can see you, for Wyanoke - is near enough to the beleaguered city for you to visit me in the - trenches. There are other reasons, but the necessity of seeing you is - the most important and the least personal to myself, so I need not - bother you now with the other considerations that move me to desire - this change, which you can bring about if you will—and I am sure you - will. - - I should ask for the transfer of the battery now under my command, if - I did not know that it would be idle to do so. For some reason General - Early seems to have taken a fancy to me, and still more to two highly - improved rifle guns that I recently added to the battery by capture. - He will never let me go unless compelled by orders to do so. - - But I see another way. I learn that our mortar fire at Petersburg is - less effective than it should be, by reason of our lack of battery - officers skilled in handling that species of ordnance. Now that is a - direction in which I could render specially valuable service, not only - by commanding many mortar pits myself, and instructing the men, but - also by teaching our unskilled battery officers what to do with such - guns, and how to do it. If you will personally see General Lee’s chief - of artillery and lay the case before him, I am sure he will order me - transferred to the trenches. You can tell him that I was graduated at - Annapolis, taking special honours in gunnery. You need tell him no - more of my personal history than that after graduation I resigned from - the navy to study medicine, and that you learned to know me well in - our student days at Jena, Berlin, and Paris. - - Do this thing for me, Arthur, and do it as quickly as possible. And - as soon as I reach Petersburg, make some occasion to see me there, - bearing in mind that to see you with reference to matters of vital - importance to others is my primary purpose in asking for this transfer. - -Arthur Brent was at Wyanoke when this letter came, but he hastened -to Petersburg to execute his friend’s commission. He told more of -Kilgariff’s personal history than Kilgariff had suggested. That is to -say, he told of his gallantry at Spottsylvania and of its mention in -general orders. He had neither to urge nor beseech. No sooner was the -chief of artillery made aware of the facts than he answered:— - -“I want such a man badly. Orders for his immediate transfer to the -lines here shall go to-day.” - -So it came about that before the end of that week, Owen Kilgariff stood -in a drenching rain-storm and nearly up to his knees in the mud of a -mortar pit at Petersburg, bombarding a salient in the enemy’s lines. - -The storm of bullets and rifle shells that raged around his pits was -as ceaseless as the downpour of rain, but as calmly as a schoolmaster -expounding a lesson in algebra, he alternately instructed his men and -explained to the half a dozen subaltern officers who had been sent to -him to learn. He was teaching them the methods of mortar range-finding, -the details of powder-gauging for accuracy, the art of fuse-cutting, -and all the rest of it, when out of a badly exposed covered way came -Doctor Arthur Brent to greet him. - - - - -XVI - -THE STARVING TIME - - -THE stress of war had now fallen upon every Southern household. -Its terrors had invaded every home. Its privations made themselves -manifest in scanty food upon tables that had been noted for lavish -and hospitable abundance, and in a score of other ways. The people -of Virginia were not only standing at bay, heroically confronting an -invading force three or four times outnumbering their own armies, but -at the same time starvation itself was staring them in the face. - -The food supplies of Virginia were exhausted. Half the State had been -trampled over by contending armies, until it was reduced to a desert so -barren that—as Sheridan picturesquely stated the case—“the crow that -flies over it must carry his rations with him.” The other half of the -State, already stripped to bareness, was compelled during that terrible -summer, almost wholly to support the army at Richmond and Petersburg -and the army in the valley, for the reason that the means of drawing -even scanty supplies from the well-nigh exhausted country farther south -were practically destroyed. Little by little Grant had extended his -left southward and westward until it crossed the Weldon Railroad south -of Petersburg, thus severing that most important line of communication. -In the meanwhile the Federal cavalry was continually raiding the South -Side Railroad and the Richmond and Danville Line, tearing up tracks, -burning the wooden bridges, and so seriously interrupting traffic as -to render those avenues of communication with the South practically -valueless, so far at least as the bringing of supplies for the armies -was concerned. - -Thus Virginia had not only to bear the calamities of the war, but also, -single-handed, to maintain the armies in the field, and Virginia was -already stripped to the point of nakedness. - -Yet the people bore all with patriotic cheerfulness. They emptied their -smokehouses, their corncribs, and their granaries. They sent even their -milky herds to the slaughter, by way of furnishing meat for soldiers’ -rations, and they went thereafter without milk and butter for lack -of cows, as they were already going without meat. Those of them who -were near enough the lines desolated their poultry yards, and lived -thereafter upon corn pone, with greens gathered in the fields and such -perishable fruits as could in no wise be converted into rations. - -The army was being slowly destroyed by the daily losses in the -trenches, which, excluding the greater losses of the more strenuous -battles, amounted to about thirty per cent a month in the commands that -defended the most exposed points. Thus Owen Kilgariff’s mortar command -of two hundred and ten men lost sixty-two within a single month, and -some others lost still more heavily for lack of the wise discretion -Kilgariff constantly brought to bear upon the problem of husbanding the -lives and limbs of his men while getting out of them the uttermost atom -of effective service of which they were capable. - -Whenever a severe mortar fire was opened upon his line of pits, he -would station himself in a peculiarly exposed position on top of the -earth mound that protected his magazine. From that point he could -direct the work of every gun under his command and at the same time -do much for the protection of his men. A mortar shell can be seen in -the air—particularly at night, when its flaming fuse is a torch—and -its point of contact and explosion can be calculated with a good deal -of precision. It was Kilgariff’s practice to watch for the enemy’s -shells, and whenever he saw that one of them was likely to fall within -one or other of his pits and explode there with the certainty of -blowing a whole gun detachment to atoms, he would call out the numbers -of the exposed pits, whereupon the men within them would run into -the boom-proofs provided for that purpose and shelter there till the -explosion was over. - -In the meanwhile, he, posted high upon the magazine mound, was exposed -not only to the mortar fire that endangered his men, but still more to -a hail-storm of musket bullets and to a ceaseless flow of rifled cannon -shells that skimmed the edge of his parapet, with fuses so skilfully -timed and so accurately cut that every shell exploded within a few feet -of his head. - -Perhaps he was thinking of the kindly bullet or the friendly shell -fragment that was to make an end of his perplexities. Who knows? Yet -his exposure of himself was not reckless, but carefully calculated for -the preservation of his men. It was only such as was common among the -Confederate officers at Petersburg, where the percentage of officers to -men among the killed and wounded was greater than was ever recorded in -any war before or since. - -By this exposure of his own person Kilgariff undoubtedly saved the -lives of many of his men, all of whom were volunteers who had offered -themselves to man a position so dangerous that the chief of artillery -had refused to order mortars to occupy it, and had reluctantly -consented to its occupation by Kilgariff and his desperately daring men -as volunteers in an excessively perilous service. He might have reduced -his losses still more if he had been willing to order his subordinates -at the several groups of pits to expose themselves as he did in the -interest of the men. But this he refused to do, on the ground that to -order it would be to exact more than even a soldier’s duty requires of -the bravest man. - -One of his sergeants—a boy of fifteen, who had won promotion by -gallantry—had indeed emulated his captain’s example in the hope of -sparing his men. But the second time he did it, a Hotchkiss shell -carried away his head and shoulders, and the world suffered loss. - -The hospital service, under such conditions, was terribly overtaxed, -and for relief the plantation houses were asked to receive and care for -such of the wounded as could in any wise be removed to their hospitable -shelter. Thus, presently, every half-starving family in the land was -caring for and feeding as best it could from three to a dozen wounded -men. - -At Wyanoke Dorothy had met this emergency by establishing a regular -hospital camp, in which she received and cared for not less than fifty -wounded officers and men. With the wise foresight that was part of her -mental make-up, and aided by Arthur’s advance perceptions of what this -terrible campaign was likely to bring forth, Dorothy had begun early -in the spring to prepare for the emergency. She had withdrawn a large -proportion of the field hands from the cultivation of crops, and set -them at work raising garden stuff instead. To the same end, she had -diverted to her gardens a large part of the stable fertiliser which was -ordinarily spread upon corn, wheat, or tobacco lands. She had said to -Arthur:— - -“There is nothing certain after this year except disaster. We must -meet disaster as bravely as we can, and leave the future to take care -of itself. I shall devote all our resources this year, outside the -poppy fields, to the production of food stuffs—vegetables, fowls, and -pigs—with which to feed the wounded who must presently come to us.” - -Thus it came about that Dorothy was able to care for fifty wounded men -at a time, when the mistresses of other plantations as great as Wyanoke -and Pocahontas found themselves sorely taxed in taking ten. And as -the wounded men were impatient to get back into the trenches as soon -as their injuries were endurably half healed, the ministry of mercy -at Wyanoke was brought to bear upon many hundreds of brave fellows -during that most terrible of summers, and the fame of Dorothy Brent -as an angel of mercy and kindness spread throughout the army, fairly -rivalling that of her mother—unknown as such—Madame Le Sud. Madame -Le Sud, defiant alike of weariness and danger, poured water down many -parched throats on Cemetery Hill at Petersburg, until at last a Minié -ball made an end of her ministry; and on that same day a dozen brave -fellows fell while carving her name on a rude boulder which marked the -place of her final sacrifice. The places of those who fell in this -service were promptly taken by others equally intent, at whatever cost, -upon marking for remembrance the spot on which that woman gave up her -life who had ministered so heroically to human suffering. - -All these things are only incidents illustrative of that heroism on the -part of women which the poet, if we had a poet, would seize upon as -the vital and essential story of the Confederate war. If that heroism -could be properly celebrated, it would make a literature worthy to -stand shoulder to shoulder with the hero-songs of old Homer himself. -But that story of woman’s love and woman’s sacrifice has never been -told and never will be, for the reason that there is none worthy to -tell it among those of us who survive of those who saw it and knew the -self-sacrificing absoluteness of its heroism. - -Into all this work of mercy Evelyn Byrd entered not only with -enthusiasm, but with the tireless energy of healthy youth and with a -queer sagacity—born, perhaps, of her strange life-experience—which -enabled her sometimes to double or quadruple the beneficent effects of -her work by the deftness of its doing. - -Her enthusiasm in the cause rather astonished Dorothy, at first. If -the girl had been brought up in Virginia, if her home had always been -there, if she had had a people of her own there, with a father and a -brother in the trenches, her devotion would have been natural enough. -But none of those reasons for her enthusiasm existed. She had probably -been born in Virginia, or at least of Virginian parentage, though even -that assumption rested upon no better foundation than the fact that -she bore a historic Virginian name. She had lived elsewhere during -her childhood and youth. She had come into the Southern country under -compulsion, and three fourths of the war was over before she came. So -far as she knew, she had no relatives in Virginia, and very certainly -she had none there whom she knew and loved. - -Yet she was passionate almost to madness in her Virginianism, and she -was self-sacrificing even beyond the standards of the other heroic -women around her. - - That she should enter passionately into any cause into which she - enters at all [wrote Dorothy to Arthur during one of his absences - at the front] is altogether natural. Her nature is passionate in an - extreme degree, and, good as her judgment is when it is cool, she - sends it about its business whenever it assumes to meddle with her - passionate impulses. She has certain well-fixed principles of conduct, - from which she never departs by so much as a hair’s breadth—chiefly, - I imagine, because they are principles which she has wrought out - in her mind without anybody’s teaching or anybody’s suggestion. - They are the final results of her own thinking. She regards them as - ultimates of truth. But subject to these, she is altogether a creature - of impulse. Even to save one she loves from great calamity, she - would not think of compromising the most trivial of her fundamental - principles; yet for the sake of one she loves, she would sacrifice - herself illimitably even upon the most trivial occasion. It is a - dangerous character to possess, but a most interesting one to study, - and certainly it is admirable. - -Arthur smiled lovingly as he read this analysis. “How little we know -ourselves!” he exclaimed, in thought. “If I had worked with pen and -paper for a month in an effort to describe Dorothy’s own character -fittingly, I couldn’t have done it so perfectly as she has done it in -describing the make-up of Evelyn. Yet she never for one moment suspects -the similarity. Just because the external circumstances are different -in the two cases, she is utterly blind to the parallel. It doesn’t -matter. It is far better to have such a character as Dorothy’s than to -try to create it—much better to have it than to know that she has it.” - -It is worthy of observation and remark that in his thinking about this -matter of character, and admiring and loving it, Arthur Brent connected -the subject altogether with Dorothy, not at all with Evelyn. - -That was because Arthur Brent was in love with his wife, and happy is -the man with whom such a love lingers and dominates after the honeymoon -is over! - -One day Dorothy and Evelyn talked of this matter of Evelyn’s enthusiasm -for the Confederate cause and her passionate devotion to those who had -received wounds in the service of it. It was Evelyn who started the -conversation. - -“The best thing about you, Dorothy,” she said, one morning while they -two were waiting for a decoction they were making to drip through the -filtering-paper, “is your devotion to Cousin Arthur.” Evelyn had come -to that stage of Virginian culture in which affection expressed itself -in the claiming of kinship where there was none. “It seems to me that -that is the way every woman should feel toward her husband, if he is -worthy of it, as Cousin Arthur is.” - -“Tell me your whole thought, Byrdie,” answered Dorothy, who had -fastened that pet name upon her companion. “It interests me.” - -“Well, you see I haven’t seen much of this sort of thing between -husbands and wives, though I am satisfied it ought to exist in -every marriage. I heard a woman lecture once on what she called the -‘Subjection of Women.’ She made me so angry that I wanted to answer -her—mere slip of a girl that I was—but they—well, I wasn’t let. That -isn’t good English, I know, but it is what I mean. The woman wanted to -strike the word ‘obey’ out of the marriage service, just as if the form -of a marriage ceremony had anything to do with a real marriage. As well -as I could make out her meaning, she wanted every woman to enter upon -wedlock with fixed bayonets, with her glove in the ring, and with a -challenge upon her lips. I don’t believe in any such marriage as that. -I regard it as an infamous degradation of a holy relation. It isn’t -marriage at all. It is a mere bargain, like a contract for supplies -or any other contract. You see, I had never seen a perfect marriage -like yours and Cousin Arthur’s at that time, but I had thought about -it, because I had seen the other kind. It was my idea that in a true -marriage the wife would obey for love, while for love the husband would -avoid commanding. I don’t think I can explain—but you understand me, -Dorothy—you must understand, because it is just so with you and Cousin -Arthur.” - -“Yes, I understand,” answered Dorothy. - -“Of course you do. You are never so happy as in doing whatever you -think Cousin Arthur would like you to do, and he never wants you to do -anything except what it pleases you to do. I reckon the whole thing may -be ciphered down to this: you love Cousin Arthur, and Cousin Arthur -loves you; each wants the other to be free and happy, and each acts as -is most likely to produce that result. I can’t think of any better way -than that.” - -“Neither can I,” answered Dorothy, with two glad tears glistening -on her cheeks; “and I am glad that you understand. I can’t imagine -anything that could be better for you than to think in that way. But -tell me, Byrdie, why you are so enthusiastic in our Southern cause and -in your ministry to our wounded soldiers?” - -“Because your cause is my cause. I haven’t any friends in the world but -you and Cousin Arthur, and—your friends.” - -Dorothy observed that the girl paused before adding “—and your -friends,” and Dorothy understood that the girl was thinking of Owen -Kilgariff. To Dorothy it meant much that she avoided all mention of -Kilgariff’s name. - -The girl had completely lost her mannerisms of speech in a very brief -while, a fact which Dorothy attributed to her rare gift of imitation. -Only once in a great while, when she was under excitement, did she -lapse into the peculiarities either of pronunciation or of construction -which had at first been so marked a characteristic of her utterance. -She read voraciously now, reading always, apparently, with minute -attention to language in her eager desire to learn. Her time for -reading was practically made time. That is to say, it consisted chiefly -of brief intervals between occupations. She was up every morning at -five o’clock, in order that she might go to the stables and personally -see to it that the horses and mules were properly fed and curried. - -“The negroes neglect them shamefully when I am not there in Cousin -Arthur’s place,” she said, “and it is cruel to neglect poor dumb beasts -that cannot provide for themselves or even utter a complaint.” - -As soon after seven as Dorothy’s nursery duties permitted, the two -mounted their horses and rode away for a half-intoxicating draught -of the air of a Virginia summer morning. Returning to a nine o’clock -“breakfast of rags,” as Dorothy called the scant, makeshift meal that -alone was possible to them in that time of stress, Evelyn went at once -to the laboratory. After setting matters going there, she mounted again -and rode away to the camp of the wounded soldiers to whose needs she -ministered with a skill and circumspection that had been born of her -peculiar experience in remote places. - -“The best medicine she brings us,” said one of the wounded men, one -day, “is her laugh.” And yet Evelyn rarely laughed at all. It was her -ever present smile and the general joyousness of her countenance that -the invalids interpreted as laughter. - -She always carried a light shot-gun with her, and she rarely returned -to the “gre’t house” without three or four squirrels for her own and -Dorothy’s dinner. Now and then she filled her bag with partridges—or -“quails,” as those most toothsome of game birds are generally, and -quite improperly, called at the North. When September came, she got an -occasional wild turkey also, her skill both in finding game and in the -use of her gun being unusually good. - -One day Dorothy challenged her on this point. - -“You are a sentimentalist on the subject of animals,” she said, “and -yet you are a huntswoman.” - -“But why not?” asked Evelyn, in astonishment at the implied question. -“In the summer, the wild creatures multiply enormously. When the winter -comes, they starve to death because there is not food enough. In the -fall, the woods are full of them; in the spring, there are very few. -Nine tenths of them must die in any case, and if my gun hastens the -death of one, it betters the chance of another to survive. I could -never deceive them, or persuade them to trust me and then betray their -trust. I don’t think I am a sentimentalist, Dorothy, and—” - -Just then Dorothy thought of something else and said it, and the -conversation was diverted into other channels. - -Nearly always Evelyn had a book with her, which she read at odd -moments, and quite always she had one book or more lying around the -house, each open at the place at which she had last read, and each -lying ready to her hand whenever a moment of leisure should come in her -very busy day. For besides her attendance upon the sick, she relieved -Dorothy of the greater part of her household duties, and was tireless -in her work in the laboratory. Her knowledge of chemistry was scant, of -course, but she had quickly and completely mastered the processes in -use in the laboratory, and her skill in drug manufacture was greater -than that of many persons more familiar with the technical part of that -work. - -She had from the first taken exclusive care of her own room, -peremptorily ordering all the maids to keep out of it. - -“A maid always reminds me,” she said to Dorothy, by way of offering -an explanation that did not explain; for she did not complete her -sentence. But so earnest was her objection that, even to the daily -polishing of the white ash floor with a pine needle rubbing, she did -everything within those precincts with her own hands. - -Dorothy let her have her way. It was Dorothy’s habit to let others do -as they pleased so long as their pleasing was harmless. - - - - -XVII - -A GUN-PIT CONFERENCE - - -FOR full half an hour after Arthur Brent came out of the covered -way and greeted his friend, Kilgariff’s bombardment and the enemy’s -vigorous response continued. Arthur Brent stood by his friend in the -midst of it all quite as if “the scream of shot, the burst of shell, -and the bellowing of the mortars” had been nothing more than a harmless -exhibition of “pyrotechny for our neighbour moon,” as Bailey phrases it -in _Festus_. - -It did not occur to Kilgariff to invite Doctor Brent to take refuge in -one of the bomb-proofs till the fierceness of the fire should be past. -It never did occur to Owen Kilgariff that a gentleman of education -and culture could think of shrinking from danger, even though, as in -this case, he had nothing to do with the war business immediately in -hand, but was, technically at least, a non-combatant. Indeed, that -gallant corps of doctors who constituted the medical field-service in -the Confederate army never did regard themselves as non-combatants, at -least so far as going into or keeping out of danger was concerned. They -fired no guns, indeed, but in all other ways they participated in the -field-fighting on quite equal terms with officers of the line. Wherever -their duty called them, wherever an errand of mercy demanded their -presence, they went without hesitation and stayed without flinching. -They performed the most delicate operations, where a moment’s -unsteadiness of hand must have cost a human life, while shells were -bursting about their heads and multitudinous bullets were whistling in -their ears. Sometimes their patients were blown out of their hands by a -cannon shot. Sometimes the doctors themselves went to their death while -performing operations on the battlefield. - -In one case a surgeon was shot unto death while holding an artery end. -But while waiting for the death that he knew must come within the brief -space of a few minutes, the gallant fellow held his forceps firmly and -directed his assistant how to tie the blood vessel. Then he gave up the -ghost, in the very act of thus saving a human life perhaps not worth a -hundredth part of his own. The heroism of war does not lie altogether -with those who make desperate charges or desperately receive them. - -Arthur Brent was high in rank in that medical corps, the cool courage -of whose members, if it could be adequately set forth, would constitute -as heroic a story as any that has ever been related in illustration of -daring and self-sacrifice, and he honoured his rank in his conduct. His -duty lay sometimes in the field, whither he went to organise and direct -the work of others, and sometimes in the laboratory, where no element -of danger existed. In either case he did his duty with never a thought -of self and never a question of the cost. - -On this occasion he stood upon the exposed mound of the magazine, -watching Kilgariff’s splendid work with the guns, until at last the -bombardment ceased as suddenly and as meaninglessly as it had begun; -for that was the way with bombardments on those lines. - -When at last the fire sank to its ordinary dead level of ceaseless -sharp-shooting, with only now and then a cannon shot to punctuate the -irregular rattle of the rifles, Kilgariff gave the order, “Cease -firing,” and the clamorous mortars were stilled. Then he turned to the -officers who had come to him for instruction, and said:— - -“Some of my men have been quick to learn and are now experts. If any of -you gentlemen desire it, I will send some of the best of them to you -now and then to help you instruct your cannoniers and your gunners. You -will yourselves impress upon the magazine men the importance of not -compressing the powder in measuring it. A very slight inattention at -that point often makes a difference of twenty-five or fifty yards in -the range, and so renders worthless and ineffective a shell which might -otherwise do its work well. If you need the services of any of my men -as tutors to your own, pray call upon me. Now good evening. I’m sorry -I cannot invite you to sup with me, but I really haven’t so much as a -hard-tack biscuit to offer you.” - -When the officers had gone, Kilgariff and Brent seated themselves on -top of the magazine mound and talked. - -“First of all,” said Arthur Brent, “I want to hear about the things -personal to yourself. You put them aside, in your letter, as of smaller -consequence than the matters, whatever they were, which related to -others. I do not so regard them. So tell me first of them.” - -“Oh, those things have pretty well settled themselves,” answered -Kilgariff, with a touch of disgust in his tone. “It was only that I -very much wanted to decline this captain’s commission, under which I -have been commanding sixty mortars and something like a battalion of -men here. General Early fairly forced the rank upon me, after Captain -Pollard lost his leg—” - -“By the way,” interrupted Doctor Brent, “Pollard is at Wyanoke -and convalescent. With his superb constitution and his lifelong -wholesomeness of living, his recovery has been rapid. He very much -wants to see you. He would like you to continue in command of his -battery—or would have liked it if you had not been transferred to -Petersburg. He is a major now, you know, promoted for gallantry and -good service, and when he returns to duty (which will be within a day -or two) he will have command of his battalion. Of course, your special -qualification for the work you are doing here forbids you to go back to -your battery. The chief of artillery would never permit that. But I’m -interrupting. Tell me what you set out to say.” - -“Well, it’s all simple enough. You know my reasons for wishing to be an -enlisted man rather than a commissioned officer. When I wrote to you, -I was acting as captain under General Early’s peremptory orders, but -the commission he had asked the authorities at Richmond to send me had -not yet come. I knew that if it should come while I was with Early, he -would never let me decline it. He would have refused even to forward my -declination through the regular channels. It was my hope to get myself -ordered to Petersburg before the commission could come. - -“In that case, I thought, I could decline it and take service in my own -non-commissioned rank as sergeant-major and special drill-master for -the mortar batteries. But the commission came, through Early, on the -day before I left the valley, and when I reported here for duty, asking -to have it cancelled, the chief of artillery peremptorily refused. -He took me to General Lee’s headquarters and there explained the -situation. General Lee settled the matter by saying that I could render -much better service with a commission than without one, and that he -‘desired’ me to act in the capacity to which I had been commissioned. -I had no choice but to yield to his wish, of course, so I took command -here as captain, and immediately all the fragments of batteries that -had been disintegrated during the campaign, and especially those whose -officers had been killed or captured, were turned over to me to be -converted into mortar men. - -“They number about two hundred and fifty men, some of whom are -non-commissioned officers, ranking all the way from corporal to -sergeant-major, so that it is impossible to handle the command -effectively under a single company organisation. I made a report on the -matter two days ago suggesting that the body be organised into a number -of small, compact companies, and that some major of artillery already -holding his commission be ordered to assume control of the whole. -To-day came my reply—about two hours ago. It was to the effect that -by recommendation of the chief of artillery, approved by General Lee, -I had been appointed lieutenant-colonel, in command of all the mortars -on this part of the line. I am instructed to organise this service -with a view to effectiveness, and to report only through the chief -of artillery, without the intervention of any colonel or brigadier or -major-general. I cannot refuse to obey such orders, given in aid of -effective service. I cannot even ask to be excused without offering an -affront to my superiors and seeming, at least, to shirk that service in -which they think I can make the best use of my capacities in behalf of -our cause. - -“So that matter has settled itself. I shall have two stars sewed upon -my collar to-night, and to-morrow morning I shall begin the work of -reorganising the mortar service. I shall encounter very black looks in -the countenances of some of the courteous captains whom you saw here -half an hour ago. They are men who care for military rank, as I do not, -and they will not be pleased to find themselves overslaughed by my -promotion. They will never believe that I wish, even more heartily than -they can, that some one of them had been set to do this duty, and that -I might have returned to the ranks. But a soldier must take what comes. -I must accept their black looks, and their jealousies, and perhaps even -the lasting enmity of some of them, precisely as I accept the fact of -the shells flung at me by the enemy.” - -At that moment a sergeant approached, and, saluting, said:— - -“Captain Kilgariff”—for Kilgariff had not yet announced his promotion -even to his men—“one of the men is hurt by a fragment of the shell -that burst over us half a minute ago. He seems badly wounded.” - -Instantly Kilgariff and Arthur Brent hurried to the pit where the -wounded man lay, and Doctor Brent dressed his wound, which was serious. -At his suggestion, Kilgariff ordered two of the men to carry the -stricken one to the rear through the covered way, and deliver him to -the surgeons of the nearest field-hospital. - -Just as the party started, a huge fifteen-inch mortar shell descended -from a great height, struck the apex of the earth mound that covered -the magazine, where ten minutes before the two friends had been sitting -in converse, and there instantly exploded with great violence. - -Kilgariff hastened to inspect. He found the magazine intact, so far, at -least, as its contents were concerned. There were more than a thousand -pounds of Dupont rifle powder there, secured in wooden boxes called -“monkeys,” and there were two thousand mortar shells there also, each -weighing twenty-four pounds, each terribly destructive, potentially at -least, and each loaded with a heavy charge of gunpowder. Fortunately -the explosion of the gigantic shell had not ignited the magazine. Had -it done so, neither a man nor a gun nor any trace of either would have -remained in all that circle of mortar pits, to tell the tale of their -occupancy. - -But practically all of the earth that had constituted the mound had -been blown completely away, and some of the timbers that had supported -it had been crushed till they had broken and fallen in. The man who -had been in charge of the magazine was found crushed to a pulp by the -falling of the timbers. - -When Kilgariff had fully explored, and discovered the extent of the -disaster, he swore. Pointing to the mangled body of the man who had -been caught in the ruin, he said to Arthur Brent:— - -“There was never a better man than Johnny Garrett. He had a wife and -four children up in Fauquier County. The wife is a widow now, and the -children are orphans, and Johnny Garrett is a shapeless mass of inert -human flesh, all because of the incapacity of an engineer, damn him! -I know the fellow—” But before continuing, Kilgariff turned to a -sergeant and said:— - -“Go at once to General Gracie’s headquarters, and say that -Lieutenant-colonel Kilgariff—be sure to say _Lieutenant-colonel -Kilgariff_—commanding the mortars, asks the instant attendance of a -capable engineer and at least twenty-five sappers and miners to repair -damages and guard against an imminent danger at Fort Lamkin. If General -Gracie cannot furnish the assistance needed, go to General Bushrod -Johnson’s headquarters and prefer a like request. Take a look first, -and you’ll understand how imperative it is to get help at once. There -lie a thousand pounds of rifle powder exposed to every spark that a -shell may fling into it; and there are two thousand loaded shells to -explode. Go quickly, and don’t return without the assistance required.” - -Ten minutes later came the sappers and miners, armed with picks, -shovels, axes, and the other tools of their trade. At their head was -the engineer officer, Captain Harbach, who had constructed the magazine -in the first place. - -Kilgariff was a cool, self-possessed person, who very rarely lost his -temper in any obvious fashion. But when he saw Harbach in command, he -had difficulty in controlling himself. Pointing to the ruined magazine, -he said:— - -“See one result of your carelessness and gross ignorance.” - -Then, pointing to the crushed and mangled body of Johnny Garrett, he -added:— - -“Look upon another result of your criminality in seeking a commission -in the engineers when you perfectly knew you had no adequate knowledge -of engineering. When you were constructing that magazine, I warned you -that your single tier of timbers under the earth was insufficient. -I reminded you of the importance of adequately protecting the vast -amount of powder that must be stored there. I begged you to use longer -timbers for the sake of greater elasticity, and to use three tiers of -them instead of one. Your rank at that time was older than my own, -and I could only give you advice, which you disregarded. You now have -before you abundant evidence of your own criminal ignorance, your own -criminal neglect of plain duty, your own criminal folly. For these I -shall prefer charges against you before this night ends, and I shall -press those charges with vigour enough to offset even the personal and -political influence that secured a commission for an incapable like -you.” - -Kilgariff was in a towering rage, and with the mangled body of Johnny -Garrett lying there before him for his text, he found it impossible to -restrain his speech; but to the very end, that speech was so far under -control that its tones, at least, gave no indication of the excitement -that inspired it. If the man speaking had been delivering a university -lecture, his voice and manner could scarcely have been under better -control. - -When he paused, Harbach broke in:— - -“Be careful of your words, Captain Kilgariff—” - -“Lieutenant-colonel Kilgariff, if you please; that is my present rank, -and I’ll trouble you to recognise it.” - -“Oh, well, Lieutenant-colonel Kilgariff, if that pleases you better. Be -careful of your words. You have already spoken some for which I shall -hold you responsible.” - -“Quite right,” answered Kilgariff. “I hold myself responsible, and I’ll -answer for my words in any way and at any time and to any extent that -you may desire. But meanwhile, and as your superior officer, I now -order you to set to work to render that magazine safe. As your superior -officer, I shall assume authority to direct your work and to insist -that it shall be done as I command. Let your men shovel away all that -remains of the earth mound and send your axe-men into the timber there -to cut seventy or eighty sticks, each twenty-three feet long and eight -inches in diameter.” - -The captain showed signs of standing on his dignity by refusing, but -Kilgariff promptly brought him to terms by saying:— - -“Whenever you want to call me to account, I shall respond—I’ll do it -in an hour hence, if you choose. But for the sake of the lives of some -hundreds of men, I am going to have this magazine securely constructed -within the briefest possible time. After that, I shall be very much at -your service. You may either set your men at work in the way I have -suggested, or you may return to your quarters, in which case I shall -assume command of your men and do the work myself. If you elect to -return to your quarters, I pledge you my honour as an officer that I -shall not make your desertion of duty at a critical moment the subject -of an additional charge in the court-martial proceedings that I shall -surely institute against you to-morrow morning.” - -Thus permitted, Captain Harbach retired through the covered way, and -Owen Kilgariff assumed command of the men he had left behind him. - -Within two hours, the magazine was reconstructed, and so strongly that -no danger remained of the kind that had threatened the lives of Owen -Kilgariff’s men. - -When all was done, Kilgariff turned again to Arthur Brent and said:— - -“Now let us resume our conversation.” - -“But what about this quarrel with Captain Harbach? He will surely -challenge you.” - -“Of course, and I shall accept. Never mind that. He may possibly shoot -me through the head or heart or lungs. The chance of that renders it -only the more imperative that you and I shall talk out our talk. I -have much to say to you that must be said before morning. Besides, I -must prepare my charges against Captain Harbach. It is a duty that I -owe to the service to expose the arrogant incapacity of such men as -he. Such incapacity imperils the lives of better men, by scores and -hundreds, every day. If I can do anything to purge the service of -such incapables—men whose fathers’ or friends’ influence has secured -commissions for them to assume duties which they are utterly incapable -of discharging properly or even with tolerable safety to the lives of -other men—it will be a greatly good achievement. Let us talk now of -something else.” - -Then he told Arthur about the papers that the man who called himself -Campbell had intrusted to his keeping. - -“The matter sorely embarrasses me,” he explained. “I don’t know -what I ought to do. Of course I am in no way bound by that fellow’s -half-spoken, half-suggested injunction not to give the papers to Evelyn -till she attains the age of twenty-one. I completely disregard that. -But there are other things to be thought of. My command here on the -lines is losing from twenty to thirty per cent of its personnel each -month. Nothing is more likely than that I shall turn up among the -‘killed in action’ some morning. If I keep the papers with me, they -are liable to fall into other and perhaps unfriendly hands at any -moment. As I have not the remotest notion of what is recorded in them, -of course I cannot even conjecture how much of harm that might work to -Evelyn. You perfectly understand that her welfare, her comfort, her -feelings, constitute the controlling consideration with me.” - -“Oh, yes, I understand that,” said Arthur. - -“Don’t jest, if you please,” broke in Kilgariff, with a note of offence -in his voice. - -“My dear fellow,” answered Arthur, with profound seriousness, “nothing -could be farther from my thought than jesting on a subject so serious. -I beg you to believe—” - -“I do. I believe you implicitly. But somehow this explosion, and poor -Johnny Garrett’s needless death, and my quarrel with that reckless -incapable, Harbach, have set my nerves on edge, so that I am querulous. -Forgive me, and let me go on. As to these papers, I want to do that -which is best for Evelyn; but I don’t know what is best, and I can’t -find out by questioning my own mind. You see, I not only do not know -what is in the papers, but I do not even know what circumstances -gave them birth, or what purpose of good or evil lies behind them, -or what distressing revelations they may make for her affliction. -The cold-blooded gambler, swindler, adventurer, cheat, who gave the -papers to me is—or was, for I don’t know whether he is now dead or -alive—capable of any atrocity. He admitted to me that he had cruelly -persecuted the girl, his daughter. It would not be inconsistent with -his character, I think, for him to send her from his deathbed a bundle -of papers that should needlessly afflict and torture her. He cherished -quite enough of enmity to me, I think, to make him happy in the -conviction that he had made me his unwilling and unwitting agent in -inflicting such wounds upon her spirit. - -“Thus I dare not give her the papers, nor dare I withhold them, lest -thereby I do her a wrong. Counsel me, my friend. Tell me what I should -do!” - -“Consult Dorothy,” answered Arthur. “Her judgment in such a case will -be immeasurably wiser than yours or mine, or both combined.” - -“Thank you. That is the best solution. I wonder I didn’t think of it -before. I will act upon it at once. I’ll send the papers to Dorothy by -your hand, and I’ll ask you also to bear her a letter in which I shall -beg for her judgment. That’s the end of one of my perplexities, for the -time being at least. Now let us talk of another thing that concerns -me very deeply. I am a pretty rich man, as you know. I own some real -estate in New York City. That will probably be confiscated when this -war comes to an end, as you and I clearly see that it must do very -soon. I own a good many stocks and bonds and other securities, which -cannot be so easily confiscated, inasmuch as they are in possession -of my bankers, who are like drums for tightness, and are besides my -very good friends. In addition to these things, the bulk of my fortune -is invested in Europe, where it cannot be confiscated at all. The -securities are held by the Liverpool branch of Frazer, Trenholm, and -Company, of Charleston, for my account, so that they are perfectly safe. - -“Now the only relatives I have in the world, so far as I know, are -my brother and his family. I have every reason for desiring that -none of them shall ever get a single cent from my estate. So much on -the negative side. Affirmatively, I very earnestly desire that every -dollar I have in the world shall go at my death to the one woman I -ever loved—Evelyn Byrd. - -“It may seem to you a simple and easy thing to arrange that, but it -is not so. Any will that I might make cutting off my relatives from -the inheritance of my property would be obstinately contested in the -courts.” - -“But upon what grounds?” - -“Oh, the lawyers can be trusted to find reasons ‘as plenty as -blackberries.’ For one thing, they could insist that I was a dead man -long before the date of my will.” - -“How do you mean?” - -“Why, when I escaped from Sing Sing, there were two other men with me. -As we swam out into the Hudson, the guards opened a vigorous fire upon -us. One of my companions was killed outright, his face being badly -mutilated by the bullets. The other was wounded and recaptured. He -positively identified the dead man’s body as mine. It was buried in my -name, and my death was officially recorded as a fact. So, you see, I am -officially a dead man, if ever my relatives have occasion to prove me -so. But apart from that, my estate, when I die, will be a sufficiently -large carcass to induce a great gathering of the buzzards about it. -With half a million dollars or more to fight over, the lawyers may be -trusted to find ample grounds for fighting.” - -“It seems a difficult problem to solve,” said Arthur, meditatively. “I -don’t see how you can manage it.” - -“Such matters are easy enough when one has friends, as I have, who may -be trusted implicitly. I have thought this matter out, and I think I -know how to handle the situation.” - -“Tell me your plan, if you wish.” - -“Of course I wish. My first thought was to give everything I have in -the world to Evelyn now, giving her deeds for the real estate and -absolute bills of sale for the securities. But of course I could not -do that. I could never gain her consent to such an arrangement without -first winning her love and making her my affianced bride.” - -“Do you think that would be impossible?” - -“I do not know—perhaps so. At any rate, it is out of the question.” - -“I confess I do not see why.” - -“I am a convicted criminal, you know—a fugitive from justice.” - -“No. You are officially dead. The courts of New York will not hold a -dead man to be a fugitive from justice. And morally you are nothing of -the kind. It was not justice, but infamous injustice, that condemned -you.” - -“However that may be, I can never ask Evelyn Byrd to be my wife, -to share the life of a man who might even possibly be sent back to -Sing Sing. I can never ask her to make of her children the sons and -daughters of a convicted criminal. I will not do that. So I have -thought out another plan. My second thought was to turn over all I -have to you in trust for Evelyn. When I am dead, she need not refuse -the gift. But there again is a difficulty. When this war ends in the -complete conquest of the South, as it soon must, political passion at -the North is well-nigh certain to find expression in acts of wholesale -confiscation, directed against men of wealth at the South, and men who -have served as officers in our army. They may, indeed, include all who -have served at all, even as privates. At any rate, you are an officer -of high rank, and between you and Dorothy you are one of the greatest -plantation owners in Virginia. You are pretty sure to be included in -whatever is done in this way. - -“It will not do, therefore, to make you my trustee for Evelyn. I must -have some non-combatant to serve in that capacity, and, with your -permission, I am going to ask Dorothy to accept the duty.” - -“You have my permission, certainly. But I see another danger. Suppose -anything should happen to Dorothy?—God forbid it! Suppose she should -die?” - -“I have thought of all that,” answered Kilgariff, “and I think I see a -way out. I shall ask Dorothy to select some friend, some woman whom she -can absolutely trust, to serve with her as a joint trustee, giving full -power to the survivor to carry out the trust in case of the death of -either of the two. I haven’t a doubt she knows such a woman.” - -“She does—two of them. There is Edmonia Bannister, one of God’s elect -in character, and there is Mrs. Baillie Pegram—she who was Agatha -Ronald. Either of them would serve the purpose perfectly.” - -“I’ll get Dorothy to ask both of them,” responded Kilgariff. “Then all -possible contingencies will be fully met and provided for. - -“Now for present concerns. If I can make a Confederate taper burn for -an hour, I’ll write my letter to Dorothy, to accompany the papers, and -to ask her to serve me in this matter of the trusteeship. I have a very -capable young lawyer under my command here as a sergeant. Early in -the morning I shall set him to work preparing the trust conveyances. -He is a rapid worker, and will have the documents ready by nightfall. -Then I’ll send them to Wyanoke by a courier. In the meanwhile I have -Captain Harbach on my hands. I’m afraid I must ask you to act for me -in that matter. While we have been talking, it has occurred to me that -when I prefer my charges against Captain Harbach, he will be placed -under arrest. In that position he would not be permitted to send me the -hostile message he threatened to-night. It would be extremely unfair -to him to place him in such a position. I want you to write to him, if -you will, as my friend. Say to him that in view of his expressed desire -to hold me responsible for words spoken to-night, and in order to give -him opportunity to do so without embarrassment, I shall postpone for -twenty-four hours, or for a longer time, if for any reason he cannot -conveniently act within twenty-four hours, the preferring of my -official charges against him. Ask him, please, to advise you of his -wishes in the matter in order that I may comply with them.” - -“You are a very cool hand, Kilgariff,” said Arthur, “and your courtesy -to an enemy is extreme.” - -“Oh, courtesy in such a case is a matter of course. Let me say to you, -now, that when I meet Captain Harbach on the field, I shall fire high -in the air. I have no desire to kill him or to inflict the smallest -hurt upon him. I am merely giving him the opportunity he desires to -kill me, by way of avenging himself upon me for the severe criticisms -I have made upon his character, his conduct, and his assumption of -functions that he is incapable of discharging with tolerable safety -to other men. Let me make this matter plainer to your mind, Arthur. I -do not at all believe in the duello. I think it barbarous in intent -and usually ridiculous in its conduct. But I had the best of good -reasons for saying what I did to Captain Harbach, and so I said it. -What I said was exceedingly offensive to him, and the only way he -knows of ‘vindicating’ himself is by challenging me to a duel. It -would be a gross injustice on my part to refuse to meet him, and to do -an injustice is to commit an immorality. So, of course, I shall meet -him. As I have no desire to do him other harm than to get him removed -from a position which he is incapable of filling with safety to others -and benefit to the service, I shall not think of shooting at him. But -I shall give him the privilege he craves of shooting at me. I really -don’t mind, you know, under the circumstances, except that in any case -I shall postpone his shooting at me till I can execute the documents -relating to my property.” - -“In view of your explanation,” answered Arthur, “I must decline to act -as your friend in this matter.” - -“But why?” - -“Because I will have no part nor lot in a murder. I detest duelling, -as you do; I regard it as a relic of feudalism which ought to give -place to something better in our enlightened and law-governed time. But -while it lasts, I am forced to consent to it, however unwillingly. I -recognise the fact that the right of the individual to make private war -on his own account is the only basis on which nations can logically -or even sanely claim the right to make public war. Nations are only -aggregations of individuals, and their rights are only the sum of -the rights previously possessed by the individuals composing them. -But while I feel in that way about duelling, I can have no part in a -contest in which I know in advance that one of the contestants is going -to shoot to kill, while the other is merely standing up to be shot at -and does not himself intend to make war at all.” - -“Very well,” answered Kilgariff. “I’ll get some one else to send the -letter.” - -He summoned an orderly and directed him to go to a neighbouring camp -and ask an officer there to call upon Lieutenant-colonel Kilgariff, -“concerning a purely personal matter, and not at all with reference to -any matter of service.” - -The officer, a fiery little fellow, responded at once to the summons, -and he promptly wrote—spelling it very badly—the message which -Kilgariff had asked Arthur to send. - -Half an hour later, the messenger who had borne the note returned with -it unopened. For explanation, he said:— - - -“Captain Harbach had his head blown off in the trenches just before -daylight this morning.” - - - - -XVIII - -EVELYN’S REVELATION - - -IT was during Arthur’s absence at Petersburg that Evelyn began talking -with Dorothy about herself. - -“It isn’t nice,” she said, as the two sat together in the porch one -day, “for me to have reserves and secrets with you, Dorothy.” - -“But why not? Every one is entitled to have reserves. Why should not -you?” - -“Oh, because—well, things are different with me. You are good to -me—nobody was ever so good to me. I am living here, and loving you and -letting you love me, and all the time you know nothing at all about me. -It isn’t fair. I hate unfairness.” - -“So do I,” answered Dorothy. “But this isn’t unfair. I never asked you -to tell me anything about yourself.” - -“That’s the worst of it. That’s what makes it so mean and ugly and -unfair for me to go on in this way. Why should you be so good to me -when you don’t know anything about me?” - -“Why, because, although I do not know your history, _I know you_. If it -is painful for you to tell me about yourself—” - -“It wouldn’t be painful,” the girl answered, with an absent, meditative -look in her eyes. But she added nothing to the sentence. She merely -caressed Dorothy’s hand. After a little silence, she suddenly asked:— - -“What’s a ‘parole,’ Dorothy?” - -Dorothy explained, but the explanation did not seem to satisfy. - -“What does it mean? How much does it include? How long does it last?” - -Dorothy again explained. Then Evelyn said:— - -“It was a parole I took. I don’t know what or how much it bound me not -to tell. I wish I could make that out.” - -“If you could tell me something about the circumstances,” answered the -older woman, “perhaps I could help you to find out. But you mustn’t -tell me anything unless you wish.” - -“I should like to tell you everything. You see, they were trying to -send me South, through the lines somehow. They said I was to be sent -to some relatives—but I reckon that wasn’t true. Anyhow, they wanted -to send me through the lines, and they had to get permission. So they -took me to a military man of some sort, and he took my parole. I had -to swear not to tell anything to the enemy, and after I had sworn that -I wouldn’t, he looked very sternly at me and told me I mustn’t forget -that I had taken an oath not to tell anything I knew.” - -Dorothy answered without hesitation that the parole referred only to -military matters, and not at all to things that related only to the -girl herself and her life. - -“But, Dorothy, I didn’t know anything about military affairs—how could -I? So I reckon they couldn’t have meant that.” - -“They could not know what information you might have, or what messages -some one might send through you. You may be entirely sure, dear, -that your oath meant nothing in the world beyond that. The military -authorities at the North care nothing about your private affairs or -how much you may talk of them. Still, you are not to tell anything -that you have doubts about. You are not to wound your own conscience. I -sometimes think our own consciences are all there is of Judgment Day. -You are always to remember that Arthur and I are perfectly satisfied -to take you for what you are, asking no questions as to the rest. We -are vain enough to think ourselves capable of forming our own judgment -concerning the character of a girl like you. We are not afraid of -making any mistake about that.” - -Evelyn did not reply. She sat still, continuing to caress Dorothy’s -hand. She was thinking in some troubled fashion, and Dorothy was wise -enough to let her go on thinking without interruption. - -After a while the girl suddenly dropped the hand, arose, and went out -upon the lawn. Her mare was grazing there, and Evelyn called the animal -to her. Leaping upon the unsaddled and unbridled mare, she started -off at a gallop. Presently she slipped off her low shoes, and in her -stocking feet stood erect upon the galloping animal’s back. With low, -almost muttered commands she directed the mare’s course, making her -leap a fence twice, while her rider sometimes stood erect, sometimes -knelt, and sometimes sat for a moment, only to rise again with as great -apparent ease as if she had been occupying a chair. - -Finally she brought her steed to a halt, leaped nimbly to the ground, -and resumed her slippers. She walked rapidly back to the porch, and, -with a look of positively painful earnestness in her face, demanded:— - -“Does _that_ make a difference? Does it alter your opinion? Do you -still believe in me?” - -Her tone was so eager, so intense, that it seemed almost angry. Dorothy -only answered:— - -“It makes no difference.” - -“You know what that means? You guess where I learned to do that?” - -“Yes.” - -“And still you do not cast me out? Still you do not command me to go -away?” - -“Not at all. Why should I?” - -“But why not? Most women of your class and in your position would send -me away.” - -“I am perhaps not like most women of my class and condition. At -any rate, as I told you a while ago, I _know you_, I trust you, I -believe in you. _You are you._ What else matters? Let me tell you a -little life-story. My mother was a musician, who performed in public. -Everybody about here scorned her for that. But she was the superior -of all of them. She was a woman of genius and strong character. She -hated shams and conventionalities, and she was a good woman. When the -war came, she set to work nursing the wounded. She was shot to death -a little while ago, and the soldiers loved her so that they rolled -a great boulder over her grave and carved a loving inscription upon -it with their own hands. Many of them were killed in doing that; but -whenever one fell, another took his place. Do you think, Evelyn, that -I, her daughter, could ever scorn a good woman like you, merely because -she was or had been an actor in a show? I tell you, Evelyn Byrd, I -_know_ you, and that is quite enough for me.” - -“Is it enough for Cousin Arthur?” - -“Yes, assuredly.” - -“And for—well, for others?” - -“If you mean Kilgariff, yes. If you mean the conventional people, no. -So you had better never say anything about it to them.” - -At Dorothy’s mention of Kilgariff’s name, Evelyn started as if -shocked. But quickly recovering herself, she said with passion in her -tones:— - -“You are the very best woman in the world, Dorothy. I shall not long -have any secrets from you.” - -The girl’s agitation was ungovernable. Emotionally she had passed -through a greater crisis than she had ever known before, and her nerves -were badly shaken. Without trying to utter the words that would not -rise to her quivering lips, she took refuge in the laboratory, where -she set to work with the impatience of one who must open a safety valve -of some kind, or suffer collapse. Most women of her age, similarly -agitated, would have gone to their chambers instead, and vented their -feelings in paroxysms of weeping. Evelyn Byrd was not given to tears. -Perhaps bitter experience had conquered that feminine tendency in her, -though very certainly it had not robbed her of her intense femininity -in any other way. - -When Dorothy joined her in the laboratory an hour later, the girl was -engaged in an operation so delicate that the tremor of a finger, the -jarring of a sharply closed door, or even a sudden breath of air would -have ruined the work. - -“Step lightly, please,” was all that she said. Dorothy saw that the -girl had completely mastered herself. - -And Dorothy admired and rejoiced. - - - - -XIX - -DOROTHY’S DECISION - - -KILGARIFF had not long to wait for Dorothy’s answer, nor was the reply -an uncertain one. It was not Dorothy’s habit to be uncertain of her own -mind, especially where any question of right and wrong was involved. -She never hesitated to do or advise the right as she saw it, and she -never on any account juggled with the truth or avoided it. - -So far as the trusteeship was concerned, she accepted the appointment -for herself and also for Edmonia Bannister and Agatha Pegram, both of -whom were within an hour’s ride of Wyanoke, as Agatha was staying for -a time at Edmonia’s home, Branton. Dorothy had gone to them at once on -receipt of Kilgariff’s letter, and both had consented to accept the -trust. - -That matter out of the way, Dorothy took up the other with that -directness of mind which made her always clear-sighted and well-nigh -unerring in judgment, at least where questions of conduct were -concerned. - - I am rather surprised, Kilgariff [she wrote], and not quite pleased - with you. Can you not see that you have no more right to let me read - Evelyn’s papers than to read them yourself? They are hers to do with - as she pleases, and neither you nor I may so much as read a line of - them without her voluntary consent. - - Neither, I think, have you any right to withhold them from her. They - are her property, and you must give them to her, as you would her - purse, had it come into your possession. The fact that these papers - may hurt her feelings in the reading has no bearing whatever on the - case. It is not your function to protect her against unpleasantness by - withholding from her anything to which she has a right, whether it be - property or information or anything else. You are not her father, or - her brother, or her husband, or even a man affianced to her—this last - mainly by your own fault, I think. It is just like a man to think that - he has a right to wrong a woman by way of protecting her and sparing - her feelings. - - Let me tell you that Evelyn Byrd stands in need of no such protection. - Little as I know of her life-experiences, that little is far more than - you know. She has suffered; she has known wrong and oppression; she - has had to work out for herself even the fundamental principles of - morality in conduct. Her experience has been such that it has made - her wonderfully strong, especially in the matter of endurance. She is - tender, loving, sensitive—yes, exquisitely sensitive—but she has a - self-control which amounts to stoicism—to positive heroism, I should - say, if that word were not a badly overworked one. - - Nevertheless, I have some fear that these papers may contain things - that it will be very painful for her to read, and I strongly - sympathise with your desire to spare her. I condemn only the method - you have wished to adopt. I must not examine the papers. I have no - right, and you can give me no right, to do that. Still less must I - think of deciding whether they are to be given to her or withheld. - That is a thing that decides itself. They are absolutely hers. You - must yourself place them in her hands. In doing so, you can make - whatever explanation or suggestions you please, and she can act upon - your suggestions or disregard them, as shall seem best to her. - - To do this thing properly, you must come to Wyanoke. There seems to - be no crisis impending at Petersburg just now, and you can easily get - leave for two or three days, particularly as the distance between - Wyanoke and Petersburg is so small. In case of need, you can return - to your post quickly. A good horse would make the journey in a very - brief time. If pressed, he could cover it in two hours, or three at - most. So come to Wyanoke with as little delay as may be, and do your - duty bravely. - -Kilgariff had no need to apply for a leave of absence. The wound in his -neck had been behaving badly for ten days past, and it was now very -angry indeed. Day by day a field-surgeon had treated it, to no effect. -So far from growing better, it had grown steadily worse. - -Under the night-and-day strain of his ceaseless war work, Kilgariff -had grown emaciated, and so far enfeebled as to add greatly to the -danger threatened by the wound’s condition. On the morning of the day -which brought him Dorothy’s letter, the surgeon had found his condition -alarming, and had said to him:— - -“Colonel, I have before advised you to go to a hospital and have this -wound treated. Now I must use my authority as your medical officer and -_order_ you to go at once. If I did not compel that, the service would -very soon lose a valuable officer.” - -“Must it be a hospital, Doctor?” asked Kilgariff. “May I not run up to -Wyanoke, instead, and get my friend Doctor Brent to treat me?” - -“Capital! Nothing could be better. Besides, the hospitals are full -to overflowing, and you’d get scant attention in most of them. Go to -Wyanoke by all means, but go at once. I’ll give you a written order to -go, and you can make it the basis of your application for sick leave. -Act at once, and I’ll go myself to headquarters to impress everybody -there with the urgency of the case and especially the necessity for -promptitude. You ought to have your leave granted by to-morrow morning.” - -It was granted in fact earlier than that, so that before nightfall -Kilgariff set out on a horse purchased from an officer of his -acquaintance, a horse lean almost to emaciation, but strong, wiry, -and full of spirit still. He was an animal in which blood did indeed -“tell,” a grandson of that most enduring of racers, Red Eye. - -“Give a good account of yourself, old fellow,” said Kilgariff to the -animal, caressingly, “and I promise you better rations at Wyanoke than -you have had for two months past.” - -Whether the horse understood the promise or not, he acted as if he -did, and with a long, swinging stride, left miles behind him rapidly. - -It was a little past midnight when the well-nigh exhausted officer -reached the hospitable plantation; but before going to the house, -he aroused the negro who slept on guard at the stables, and himself -remained there till the half-sleeping serving-man had thoroughly -groomed the animal and placed an abundance of corn and fodder in his -manger and rack. - -Then the way-worn traveller went to the house, entered by the never -closed front door, and made his way to a bedroom, without waking any -member of the family. - - - - -XX - -A MAN, A MAID, AND A HORSE - - -WHEN Evelyn went to the stables in the early morning, and found a -strange horse there, she could not learn how he came to be there, or -who had brought him. The negro man who had rubbed down the animal under -Kilgariff’s supervision during the night had already gone to the field, -and the stable boy who was now in attendance knew nothing of the matter. - -The horse gently whinnied a welcome as the girl entered, and his -appearance interested her. She bade the stable boy lead him out, -so that she might look him over, and his symmetry and muscularity -impressed her mightily. - -“Poor beastie!” she exclaimed, upon seeing his lean condition, “they -have treated you very badly. You haven’t had enough to eat in a month, -and you’ve been worked very hard at that. But you are strong and brave -and good-natured still, just as our poor, half-starved soldiers are. -You must be a soldier’s horse. Anyhow, you shall have a good breakfast. -Here, Ben, take this splendid fellow back to his stall and give him ten -ears of corn. Rub him down well, and when he has finished eating, turn -him into the clover field to graze. Poor fellow! I hope you’re going to -stay with us long enough to get sleek and strong again.” - -As was always the case when Evelyn caressed an animal, the horse seemed -to understand and to respond. He held out his head for a caress, and -poked his nose under her arm as if asking to be hugged. Finally he -lifted one of his hoofs and held it out. The girl grasped the pastern, -saying:— - -“So you’ve been taught to shake hands, have you? Well, you shall show -off your accomplishments as freely as you please. How do you do, sir? -I hope you have slept well! Now Ben has your breakfast ready, so I’ll -excuse you, and after breakfast you shall have a stroll in a beautiful -clover lot!” - -As she finished her playful little speech and turned her head, she was -startled to see Kilgariff standing near, looking and listening. - -“Oh, Mr. Kilgariff!” she exclaimed, in embarrassment, “I didn’t know -you were here. You must think me a silly girl to talk in that way with -a horse.” - -“Not at all,” he answered; “the horse seemed to like your caressing, -and as for me, I enjoyed seeing it more than I can say.” - -“Then you wanted to laugh at me.” - -“By no means. I was only admiring the gentleness and kindliness of your -winning ways. The thought that was uppermost in my mind was that I no -longer wondered at the fascination you seem to exercise over animals. -Your manner with them is such, and your voice is such, that they cannot -help loving you. Even a man would be helpless if you treated him so.” - -“Oh, but I could never do that—at least, well—I mean I could—” There -the speech broke down, simply because the girl, now flushing crimson, -knew not how to finish it. The thought that had suddenly come into her -mind she would not utter, and she could think of no other that she -might substitute for it. - -But her flushed face and embarrassment told Kilgariff something that -the girl herself did not yet know—something that sent a thrill of -gladness through him in the first moment, but filled him in the next -with regretful apprehension. He saw at once that that had happened -which he had intended should never happen. Unconsciously, or at least -subconsciously, Evelyn Byrd had come to think of him—or, more strictly -speaking, to feel toward him without thinking—in a way that signified -something more than friendship, something quite unrecognised by -herself. Instantly the questions arose in his mind: “What shall I do? -Is it too late to prevent this mischief, if I go away at once? If not, -how shall I avoid a further wrong? Shall I go away, leaving her to work -out her own salvation as best she can? Or shall I abandon my purpose -and suffer myself to win her love completely? And in that case how -shall I ever atone to her for the wrong I do her? I must in that case -deal honestly and truthfully with her, telling her all about myself, -so that she may know the worst. Perhaps then she will be repelled and -no longer feel even friendship for a man living under such disgrace as -mine. It will be painful for me to do that, but I must not consider my -own feelings. It is my duty to face these circumstances in the same -spirit in which I must face the dangers and hardships of war.” - -All this flashed through his mind in an instant, but, without working -out the problem to a conclusion, he set himself to relieve the -evident embarrassment of the girl—an embarrassment caused chiefly -by her consciousness that she had felt embarrassment and shown it. -He resolutely controlled himself in voice and manner and turned the -conversation into less dangerous channels. - -“You were startled at seeing me,” he said, “because you did not know -I was here. I came ‘like a thief in the night.’ I got here about -midnight, after a hard ride from Petersburg. I saw the horse groomed -and fed, and then went to the house and crept softly up the stairs to -the room I occupied when I was at Wyanoke before. I came to let Arthur -have a look at my wound—” - -“Oh, are you wounded again?” interrupted the girl, with a pained -eagerness over which a moment later she again flushed in shamed -embarrassment. - -“Oh, no. It is only that the old wound has been behaving badly, like a -petted child, because it has been neglected. But tell me,” he quickly -added, in order to turn the conversation away from personal themes, -“tell me how the quinine experiments get on. I’m deeply interested in -them, particularly the one with dog fennel. Does it yield results?” - -Evelyn was glad to have the subject thus changed, and she went eagerly -into particulars about the laboratory work, talking rapidly, as one is -apt to do who talks to occupy time and to shut off all reference to the -thing really in mind. - -Kilgariff’s half of the conversation was of like kind, and it was -additionally distracted from its ostensible purpose by the fact that -he was all the time trying to work out in his own mind the problem -presented by his discovery, and to determine what course he should -pursue under the embarrassing circumstances. All the while, the pair -were slowly walking toward the house. As they neared it, a clock was -heard within, striking six. It reminded Evelyn of something. - -“It is six o’clock,” she said, “and I must be off to the hospital camp -to see how my wounded soldiers have got through the night. I make my -first visit soon in the morning now, and Dorothy and I go together -later.” - -Turning to a negro boy, she bade him go to the stables and bring her -mare. - -Now it was very plainly Kilgariff’s duty to welcome this interruption, -which offered him three hours before the nine o’clock breakfast in -which to think out his problem and decide upon his course of action. -But a momentary impulse got the better of his discretion, so he said:— - - -“I will ride over there with you, if I may.” - -The girl was mistress of herself by this time, so she said:— - -“Certainly, if you wish. I shall be glad of your escort, if you are -strong enough to ride a mile.” - -She said it politely, but with a tone of cool indifference which led -Kilgariff to wish he had not asked the privilege. Then, calling to the -negro boy, who had already started on his errand, she bade him:— - -“Bring a horse for Colonel Kilgariff; not his own, but some other.” -This was the first time Evelyn had ever called Kilgariff by any -military title. “You see, Colonel, your splendid animal has been badly -overworked and underfed. I have promised him a restful morning in a -clover field, and it would be too bad to disappoint him, don’t you -think?” - -“Yes, certainly. Thank you for thinking of that. How completely you -seem to have schooled yourself to think of dumb animals as if they -were human beings! You even assume—playfully, of course—that the big -sorrel understood your promise about the clover field.” - -“Why should he not? Dumb animals understand a great deal more than -people think. Your sorrel understood, at any rate, that I regarded him -with affection and pity. That in itself was to him a promise of good -treatment, and just now good treatment means to him rest in a clover -field. So, while he may not have understood the exact meaning of the -words I used, he understood my promise. I am not so sure even about the -words. Animals understand our words oftener than we think.” - -“How do you mean? Would you mind giving me an illustration of your -thought?” - -“Oh, illustrations are plenty. But here are the horses. Let us mount -and be off. We can continue our talk as we ride. Are you really strong -enough?” - -The man answered that he was, and the two set off. - -When the horses had finished their first morning dash, Evelyn cried, -“Walk,” to them and they instantly slowed down to the indicated gait. - -“There!” said the girl. “That’s an illustration. The horses perfectly -understood what I meant when I bade them walk. I am told that cavalry -horses understand every word of command, and that, even when riderless, -they sometimes join in the evolutions and make no mistakes.” - -“That is true,” answered her companion. “I have seen them do it often. -Both in the cavalry and in the artillery we depend far more upon the -horses’ knowledge of the evolutions and the words of command, than upon -that of the men. They learn tactics more readily than the men do, and, -having once learned, they never make a mistake, while men often do.” - -“How then can you doubt that horses understand words?” - -“They understand words of command, but—” - -“Yes? Well? ‘But’ what?” - -“I really don’t know. The thought is so new to me that it seemed for -the moment a misinterpretation of the facts—that there must be some -other explanation.” - -“But what other explanation can there be?” - -“I don’t know. Indeed, I begin to see that there is no other possible. -Animals certainly do understand _some_ words. That is a fact, as you -have shown me, and one already within my own knowledge. I see no reason -to doubt that they understand many more than we are accustomed to -think. I wish you would write that book about them.” - -“I am writing it,” she answered; “but I don’t think I’ll ever -let anybody see it—at any rate, not now—not for a long time to -come—maybe not for ever.” - -As she ended, the pair reached the invalids’ camp, and the wounded men -gave Evelyn a greeting that astonished Kilgariff quite as much as it -pleased him. - -“The little lady! The little lady!” they shouted, while those of them -who could walk eagerly gathered about her, with welcome in their eyes -and voices. - -She briefly introduced Kilgariff, and together the two went the rounds -of those patients who were still unable to sit up. There were few -of these, but they must be the first attended to. After that, Evelyn -closely questioned each of the others concerning the condition of his -wounds, his sleep, his digestion, and everything else that Arthur -might wish to learn in preparation for his own rounds after breakfast. -Kilgariff was struck with the readiness Evelyn manifested in calling -each of the men by his name, and with the minuteness of her knowledge -of the special condition and the needs of each. - -“How do you remember it all so minutely?” he asked, as they walked -together from one side of the camp to the other. - -“Why, it is my duty to remember,” she replied, in a surprised tone, as -if that settled the whole matter. And in a woman of her character, it -did. - - - - -XXI - -EVELYN LIFTS A CORNER OF THE CURTAIN - - -DURING the return ride, Kilgariff carefully avoided all reference to -the real purpose of his visit to Wyanoke. He had come to dread that -subject, and in his present unsettled state of mind he feared it also. -It might at any moment bring on an emotional crisis, and prompt him to -do or say things that must afterward cause regret. He wished to think -the matter out—the matter of his future relations with this girl—and -to determine finally the course of conduct which this morning’s -discovery might require of him. - -He ought to have seized upon the opportunity for this that he had so -recklessly thrown away. He ought to have let Evelyn go to the invalid -camp alone, he remaining behind to think. But he had missed that -opportunity, and no other was likely to come to him. Certainly no other -so good could come. He must get through the matter of the papers on -this day, not only because the chances of war might compel him to -return to his post on the morrow, but because he might very probably -decide that it was his duty to take himself out of this girl’s life, -and, if that was to be, the sooner he should quit the house that held -her the better. - -Both Arthur and Dorothy were present to welcome him when he and Evelyn -returned to the house, so that there was no chance then to do his -thinking. Then Arthur decided to examine his wound before the breakfast -hour; and when he did so, he grew grave of face and manner. - -“I’m sorry to tell you, old fellow, that I must operate on your -neck to-day. Your wound is in a very dangerous condition indeed. It -should have been operated upon a week or ten days ago. You shall have -breakfast with us this morning, as you’ll need all your strength. Of -course I can’t chloroform you till your breakfast is digested, so I’ll -not operate till a little after noonday.” - -“You needn’t give me the chloroform at all,” answered Kilgariff. - -“But, my dear fellow, the pain will be—” - -“I’ll stand it.” - -“But the operation will be a very delicate one, so near to the carotid -artery that a mere flinch from the knife might end your life at once.” - -“I’ll not flinch,” said the resolute young man. - -“But what objection have you to an anæsthetic? Your heart and lungs are -in perfect condition. There’s not the slightest danger—” - -“Danger be hanged!” interrupted Kilgariff. “I am not thinking of danger -or caring about it. But chloroform always leaves me helplessly ill for -many days, and I mustn’t be ill or helpless just now. I am going back -to the lines to-morrow. One night’s sleep after your operation will put -me sufficiently in condition.” - -“But you’re not fit for duty.” - -“Fit or not fit, I am going.” - -“But it will kill you.” - -“That doesn’t signify in my case, you know.” - -“Listen to me, Owen Kilgariff. You have brooded over the unfortunate -circumstances of your life until you have grown morbid, particularly -since this wound has been sapping your vitality. You must brace -yourself up and take a healthier view of things. If you don’t, I -shall make you. Here you are imagining yourself disgraced at the very -time when others in high places are pressing honours upon you as the -well-earned reward of your superb conduct. It is all nonsense, I tell -you, and you must quit it; if not for your own sake, then for the sake -of us who love you and rejoice in your splendid manhood. Your present -attitude of mind is not to your credit. If you were not ill, it would -be positively discreditable to you.” - -“Wait a minute, Arthur. You are judging me without knowing all the -facts. I’ll tell you of them after breakfast. Then, before you operate, -I must talk with Evelyn about her papers. When that matter is disposed -of, you shall operate without an anæthetic, and I must return to my -duty on the lines.” - -“Your duty there is done. You’ve already taught those fellows how to -use mortars effectively. As to mere command, any other officer will -attend to that as well as you could. I must operate upon your neck, -and I will not do it without chloroform. Indeed, even from your own -point of view, there would be nothing gained by that, for after this -operation, whether done with or without an anæsthetic, you must not -only lie abed for some days to come, but be so braced and harnessed -that you cannot turn your head.” - -Arthur then explained to his patient, as one surgeon to another, the -exact nature of what it was necessary to do, and Kilgariff knew his -surgery too well not to understand how imperatively necessary it would -be for him to be kept perfectly still, so far as motion with his head -was concerned, for a considerable period afterward. - -“Very well,” Kilgariff responded. “Do as you will. But first I must -arrange the matter of the papers. I’ll do that during the forenoon. -Then I shall tell Dorothy the things I intended to tell you. There is -no need that I shall tell you, and it will be easier to tell Dorothy.” - -“As you please,” said Arthur, satisfied that he had carried his point. -“Now we must go to breakfast.” - -At the table, Kilgariff observed that, apart from the “coffee” made of -parched rye, neither Dorothy nor Evelyn took anything but fruit. There -was a cold ham on the table, and the customary loaf of hot bread, but -the two women partook of neither. When Kilgariff half suggested, half -asked, the reason for their abstemiousness, Dorothy replied:— - -“We Virginia women are saving for the army every ounce of food we can. -So far as possible, we eat nothing that can be converted into rations. -Arthur compels Evelyn and me to take a little meat and a little bread -or some potatoes for dinner. He thinks that necessary to our health. -But for the rest, we do very well on fruits, vegetables, and other -perishable things, don’t we, Byrdie?” - -“Oh, yes, indeed. For my own part, I like it. I have had other -experiences in living on a restricted diet. Once I had nothing to eat -for three or four months except meat, so in going without meat now I am -only bringing up the average.” - -Kilgariff looked up in surprise. - -“For three months or more you had no food but meat!” he exclaimed. “No -bread, no starchy food of any kind?” - -“Nothing whatever. There weren’t even roots or grass there to be -chewed. The Indians often live in that way. Never mind that. At another -time I lived for a month in winter almost exclusively on raw potatoes, -with only now and then a bit of salt beef.” - -“May I ask why you did not cook the potatoes? If it was winter, surely -you had fire.” - -“Oh, yes, plenty of it. But there was scurvy, and raw potatoes are best -for that.” - -“Are they? I never knew that.” - -“Oh, yes. But for eating their potatoes raw, the people in the -lumber-camps would never survive the winter. But I don’t want to talk -about those things. I didn’t mean to. Perhaps I’ll put them all into -another book that I’m writing just for Dorothy to read and nobody else -in all the world.” - -She looked at Dorothy as she spoke, and Dorothy understood. This was -the first she had heard of the proposed “book.” It was the first -reference Evelyn had made to their talk on the day when she had given -her hostess an exhibition of bareback riding. - -Kilgariff did not understand. Yet, taken in connection with other -things that Evelyn had said to him during his former stay at Wyanoke, -what she now said seemed at least to lift a little corner of the thick -curtain of reserve which shrouded her life-history. - -“She has lived,” he thought, “among the wildest of wild Indians, and -she has passed at least one winter in some northern lumber-camp. I -wonder why.” - -He was not destined as yet to get any reply to the question in his -mind. - - - - -XXII - -ALONE IN THE PORCH - - -WHEN Kilgariff asked Evelyn to go with him to the front porch, telling -her he had an important matter to discuss with her, she showed a -momentary embarrassment. She quickly controlled it, but not so quickly -that it escaped her companion’s recognition. - -This troubled him at the outset. This young woman had been until now -as frank and free with him as any child might have been. Her present -embarrassment, momentary as it was, impressed him the more strongly -because the scene at the stables in the early morning was still fresh -in his memory, and because he had observed that ever since that time -she had uniformly addressed him by his military title. - -All these things added to the difficulty of his present task, but it -was his habit to meet trouble of every kind half-way, to confront -difficulty with courage and not with any show of the shrinking there -might be in his mind. - -He plunged at once into the matter in hand. Ordinarily he would have -begun by addressing his companion as “Evelyn,” but for some reason -which he did not stop to analyse, he felt now that he ought not to -do so. Yet to address her in any other way, after having for so long -called her by her first name, would be too marked a suggestion of -reserve. So he avoided addressing her at all in any direct fashion. - -“I have asked you to give me this half-hour because I feel that I owe -you and myself a duty.” - -He had no sooner uttered that sentence than he felt that it was a -particularly bad beginning. In his own ears it sounded uncommonly like -the introduction to a declaration of love, and he was annoyed with -himself for his blundering. He began again, and tried to do so more -circumspectly. - -“I want to talk with you about a matter that touches your own happiness -very closely, and may indeed affect your entire life.” - -Another blundering sentence! Even more than the first it sounded -to him like the preface to a formal courtship, and, realising the -fact, Kilgariff made the matter worse by manifesting precisely such -embarrassment as a lover might feel when about to put his fortune to -the touch. - -Evelyn was quick to see his embarrassment, though she probably had no -clear idea of its cause, and she came to his relief by saying with a -well-controlled and perfectly placid intonation:— - -“I am deeply interested. I didn’t imagine myself a person of sufficient -consequence for anybody to have important business affairs to discuss -with me. Go on, please. What is it?” - -“A little while ago,” he began again, this time approaching the subject -with some directness, “I was summoned to meet a wounded Federal -officer, who believed himself to be dying. Probably he was right. I -do not know. However that may be, he believed that his end was near, -and I think he tried to tell the truth—an art in which he has not had -much practice in his evil life. I had known him for some years. He had -injured me as no other man in all the world ever did or ever can again. -There were many things that I wanted him to tell me about, and the -time was very short; for I had got at the house in which he lay wounded -only under escort of an armed force, and I knew that my escort could -not long hold the position. By the time I had finished questioning him -concerning the matters in which I was personally interested, the enemy -was upon us in superior force, and we were compelled to retire. Just -as I was quitting his bedside, he told me something that surprised and -shocked me—something that deeply concerned you.” - -“What was it, please?” asked the girl, now pale to the lips and -nervously twisting her fingers together. - -“I should not tell you that, I think; not now, at any rate. It would -only distress you and do no good. Perhaps it may not have been true.” - -“You must tell me that, or you must tell me nothing!” exclaimed the -girl, rising in a passion of excitement, and speaking as if utterance -involved painful effort. “Understand me, Colonel Kilgariff. I am not a -child, whose feelings must be spared by reservations and concealments. -I have not been much used to that sort of coddling, and I will not -submit to it. My life has been such as to teach me how to endure. You -have some things, you say, which you want to tell me—some things that -have somehow grown out of whatever it was that this man said to you. -Very well, I will not hear them, unless you can tell me all. I will not -listen to half-truths. I must hear all of this matter, or none of it. -You say it concerns me closely. I am entitled, therefore, to know all -of it, if I am to know any of it. You are free to tell me nothing, if -you choose. But if you tell me a part and keep back the rest, you wrong -me, and I will not submit to the wrong. I have endured enough of that -in my life.” - -She paused for a moment, and then resumed:— - -“Pardon me if I have seemed to speak angrily or resentfully to you. I -did not mean that. Such anger as I felt was aroused by bitter memories -of wrong, which were called up by your proposal to put me off with a -half-truth. Let me explain myself. You are doubtless thinking that I -myself have been practising reserve and concealment ever since I came -to Wyanoke. That is true, but it has been only because I have firmly -believed that I was oath-bound to do so; and at any rate I have not -told any half-truths. Whenever I have told anything, I have told -all of it. Another thing: I so hate concealments that at the first -moment after I learned that I might do so, I decided to tell Dorothy -everything that I myself know about my life. I feared to attempt that -orally, lest I should grow excited and break down; so I decided to -write out the whole story and give it to her. That is what I meant this -morning when I said I was writing a book for Dorothy alone to read. -After she has read it, it will be hers to do with as she pleases. It -will be an honest book, telling the whole truth and not half-truths.” - -Kilgariff did not interrupt this passionate speech. It revealed to him -a new and stronger side than he had imagined to exist in the nature of -the woman he loved. He rejoiced that she felt and thought as she did, -and he was not sorry that an error of judgment on his part had brought -forth this character-revealing outburst. He promptly told her so. - -“You are altogether right,” he said. “I apologise for my mistake, -but, frankly, I do not regret it. It has shown me the strength and -truthfulness of your nature with an emphasis that altogether pleases -me. I had miscalculated that strength, underestimating it. I sought to -spare your feelings, not knowing how brave you are to endure. I know -you better now, and the knowledge is altogether pleasing.” - -“Thank you sincerely. And you will be generous and forgive me?” - -As she said this, Evelyn resumed her familiar tone and manner of almost -childlike simplicity. - -“There is nothing whatever for me to forgive,” the man answered, in a -way that carried conviction of his perfect sincerity with it. “Let me -go on with my story.” - -“Please do.” - -“Just as I was hurrying to leave the wounded man and go to my guns, -which were already bellowing, he handed me a bundle of papers. He said -that he had a daughter who must be somewhere in the South, if she had -not been shot in passing through the lines. He begged me to find her, -if possible, and give the papers to her. When I asked him the name of -his daughter, he answered that it was Evelyn Byrd.” - -The girl was livid and trembling, but what passion it was that so shook -her Kilgariff could not make out. He paused, to give her time for -recovery. She slowly rose from the bench on which she was sitting, -and with a firm, elastic step walked out into the grounds, where her -mare was grazing. The animal abandoned the grass, and trotted up to her -mistress to be caressed. - -As the young woman stood there, stroking the mare’s nose, Kilgariff -thought it the most beautiful picture he had ever looked upon—the -lithe, slender girl, who carried herself with the grace of an athlete -not overtrained, caressing the beautiful mare and seeming to hold mute -but loving converse with a boundlessly loyal friend. - -“And how much it means!” he thought. “What a nature that woman has! And -what a life hers must have been so far!” - -Then came over him a great and loving longing to be himself the agent -of atonement to her for all the wrong that had vexed her young life, to -make her future so bright and joyous that her past should seem to her -only a troubled dream from which he had been privileged to waken her. -But with this longing came the bitter thought that this could never -be—that he was debarred by his own misfortunes from the privilege of -winning or seeking to win Evelyn Byrd’s love. - -Then arose again in his mind the questions of the early morning—the -question of duty, the question of the possibility of avoiding the wrong -he so dreaded to do. Was there yet time for him to take himself out -of Evelyn Byrd’s life? Or was it already too late? What and how much -did her embarrassment in his presence mean? Had she indeed already, -and all unconsciously, learned to return the great, passionate love he -felt for her? Had he blundered beyond remedy in making himself mean so -much to her? Could he now go away and leave her out of his life without -inflicting upon her even a greater wrong and a severer suffering than -that which his leaving would be meant to avert? If not, then what -should he do? What could he do? - -He felt himself in a blind alley from which there was no escape. -Unhappy indeed is the man who is confronted with a divided duty, a -problem of right and wrong which he feels himself powerless to solve. -In that hour Owen Kilgariff was more acutely unhappy than he had ever -been, even in the darkest period of his great calamity. - -Presently Evelyn returned to the porch and seated herself, quite as if -nothing had occurred out of the commonplace. - -“What was the man’s name?” she asked, with no sign of excitement or -emotion of any kind in her voice or manner. - -“He called himself Campbell, but he told me that it was an assumed -name, and not his own. I do not know his real name.” - -“Nor do I,” said the young woman, in the tone of one who is recalling -events of the past. “I never knew that. But go on, please. What else -did he tell you—what else that concerns me, I mean?” - -“Nothing. The enemy was upon us hotly, and I had no time for further -talk. Oh, yes, he did say that he had persecuted you ‘in a way’—that -was his phrase.” - -“I wonder what ‘in a way’ signified to him,” said the young woman, -with an intensity of bitterness in her tone, the like of which Owen -Kilgariff had never heard in the utterance of man or woman before. - -“Never mind that,” Evelyn said, an instant later, the look of agony -leaving her face as suddenly as it had appeared. “You have more to tell -me?” - -“Yes. I must make a confession of grave fault in myself, and ask your -forgiveness. The man, Campbell, your father, gave me a bundle of -papers, as I told you a little while ago, and I have been impertinently -asking myself ever since what I ought to do with them. It did not -occur to me then that there was no question for me to decide; that my -undoubted duty was simply to place the papers in your hands, as I now -do”—withdrawing the parcel from a pocket and placing it in her lap. -Dorothy had returned it to him for that purpose. He continued:— - -“I had not learned my lesson then. I still thought it my duty to guard -and protect you, as one guards and protects a child. I reasoned that -those papers very probably contained information or statements, true -or false, that would afflict you sorely, and I impertinently desired -to spare you the affliction. On the other hand, I realised that they -might contain, instead, information of the utmost consequence to you -and calculated to bring gladness rather than sorrow to your heart. In -my perplexity I turned to Dorothy for help. All of us who know Dorothy -do that, you know. I sent the papers to her, explaining my perplexity -concerning them. I asked her to examine them and determine whether or -not they should be given to you. - -“Then I learned my first lesson. Dorothy wrote to me, rebuking me with -severity for my presumption. She explained to me what I ought to have -understood for myself—that the question of what it was best to do with -the papers was not mine to decide, or hers; that I had no shadow of -right to ask her to read the documents, and she no possible right to -read them. She bade me come to Wyanoke and do my duty like a man. - -“That is the real reason I am here; for as to my wound, I should have -left that to take care of itself. If it had made an end of me, so much -the better.” - -“You have no right, I reckon, to say that,” interrupted Evelyn, “or to -think it, or to feel it. It is a suicidal thought, and quite unworthy -of a brave man.” - -“But my life is my own, and surely—” - -“Not altogether your own; perhaps not chiefly. It belongs in part to -those of us who—I mean to all who care for you, all to whom your death -would bring sorrow or to whom your living might be of benefit. Above -all it belongs to our country and our cause. You recognise that fact -in being a soldier. No; I reckon your life is not your own to do with -as you please. It is cowardly in you to think in that way, just as it -is cowardly for one to commit suicide because he is in trouble out of -which death seems the only way of escape, or the easiest way. So please -never let yourself think in that way again.” - -“I will try not to,” he replied, looking at his lecturer with -undisguised admiration. - -“Now, while I had, myself, no right to say whether or not you should -read those papers, and while it was not my privilege to protect you -against any distress they might bring to you, I still have a good deal -of apprehension lest their reading shall needlessly wound you. I am -going to make a suggestion, therefore, which I hope you will take in -good part.” - -“I am ashamed of myself,” answered Evelyn, “for making you feel in that -way. I am ashamed of what I said to you—though it was all true and -necessary—and of the way in which I said it. I wish I could explain -why I did it, why it hurt me so when you tried to conceal something -from me. My outbreak has hurt you, and almost humiliated you, I reckon, -and I don’t like to think of you being hurt and humiliated. It is good -and generous of you to try, as you have done, to spare me. Believe me -when I tell you that I feel it to have been so. I cannot explain, and -it vexes me that I must not. Won’t you believe that?” - -“I believe anything you say, and everything you say. Indeed, it is more -than belief that I feel when you tell me anything; it is a conviction -of actual and positive knowledge. And now I very much want you to -believe me when I say that it was not your ‘outbreak,’ as you call it, -that hurt and humiliated me. It was only my consciousness of my own -presumptuous impertinence that hurt. I have nothing to forgive in you; -and my own fault I cannot forgive.” - -There were tears in Evelyn’s eyes as the strong and generous man who -had been so careful of her said this, shielding her even now by taking -all blame upon himself, just as he had shielded her long before by -keeping his own person between her and the bullets that were raining -about them. For the moment the old childlike simplicity came into her -bearing. She advanced, took Kilgariff’s hand, and said:— - -“Let’s forget all about it, please. You have always been good to me.” - -Then the dignity came back, and, resuming her seat, she said:— - -“You were going to offer a suggestion. I should like to hear it. I am -sure it is meant for my advantage.” - -“It is only this: I have a haunting fear that your father—” - -“He was not my father,” the young woman broke in, speaking the words -quite as if they had borne no special significance. “But go on, please.” - -Kilgariff almost lost the thread of his thought in his astonishment at -this sudden statement. He went on:— - -“Well, then, the man Campbell, or whatever his real name was. I have -a haunting fear that he has prepared those papers for the purpose -of wounding and insulting you. He was capable of any malice, any -malignity, any atrocity. He may have put into these papers falsehoods -that you will be the better for not reading. On the other hand, the -papers may be innocent of any such purpose, and it may even be of -the utmost importance that you should know their contents. I venture -to suggest that you yourself do what I had no right to do; namely, -ask Dorothy to examine the packet and tell you whether or not it is -well for you to read the papers. You love her and trust her, and her -judgment is unfailing, I might almost say infallible. This is only a -suggestion, of course. I have no right to press it.” - -Evelyn sat silent, holding the packet in her hands and nervously -turning it over. At last she arose and took a few steps toward the -doorway. Then, turning about, she said:— - -“If it were necessary for any one to read the papers and advise me -concerning them, I should ask _you_, Colonel Kilgariff, to stand as -my friend and counsellor in the matter. But it is not necessary. _I -already know what is in the papers._” - -She turned instantly and entered the house, leaving Kilgariff alone in -the porch. - - - - -XXIII - -A LESSON FROM DOROTHY - - -FOR ten days after the surgical operation, Kilgariff lay abed, his -head, neck, and shoulders held rigidly immovable by a wooden framework -devised for that purpose. Otherwise than as regarded the wound, he -seemed perfectly well, and the wound itself healed satisfactorily under -Arthur Brent’s skilful treatment. - -In his constrained position it was impossible for the wounded man to -hold a book before his eyes, and so, to relieve the tedium of his -convalescence, Dorothy read to him for several hours each day. - -He had vaguely hoped, without formulating the thought, that Evelyn -would render him this service, as she had done during his first -illness. But this time she came not. Every day—until the success of -the operation was fully assured, she inquired anxiously concerning his -condition; but at no time did she visit him, or ask to do so. When at -last Arthur so far relaxed the mechanical restraints that Kilgariff was -able to sit below stairs in the porch when the weather permitted, and -before a “great, bearded fire” in the hallway if it were too cool out -of doors—for the autumn was now advanced—he was sorely disappointed -to learn that Evelyn was no longer at Wyanoke. She had somewhat -suddenly decided to stay at Branton, for a week or ten days, as the -guest of Edmonia Bannister. - -All this set Kilgariff thinking, and the thinking was by no means -comfortable. Did Evelyn’s course mean indifference on her part? It -would have given him some pain to believe that, but it would have -relieved him greatly. In that case, he might go away and never come -back, without fear of any harm to her or any wrong-doing on his own -account. In that case, the problem that so sorely vexed him would be -completely solved. - -Certainly that was the outcome of the matter which he was bound to -hope for. Yet the very suggestion that such might be the end of it all -distressed him more than he had thought that any possible solution of -the difficulty could do. - -But, in fact, Owen Kilgariff knew better. When he recalled what -had gone before, he could not doubt the interpretation of Evelyn’s -avoidance of him, and this thought troubled him even more than the -other. It brought back to him all the perplexities of that problem with -which he had been so hopelessly wrestling ever since that morning at -the stables. - -What should he do? What could he do? These questions were insistent, -and he could give no answer to them. At one moment his old thought of -a parity of disability came back to him—the thought that as she was -the daughter of a gambling adventurer, the obligation on his part not -to seek her love or win it might not be altogether binding. But then -flashed into his mind a memory of her words:— - -“He was not my father.” - -That excuse, then, no longer availed him. He could no longer—and yet, -and yet. The more he thought, the more difficult he found it to accept -the hopelessness of the case or make up his mind to take himself out of -Evelyn’s life. Yet that, he confidently believed, he would instantly do -if he could satisfy himself that it was not already too late for Evelyn -herself to welcome such an outcome. - -One morning he opened his mind to Dorothy on the subject, and got a -moral castigation for his pains. The gear that had restrained his -movements had been completely removed by that time, and Kilgariff was -contemplating an almost immediate return to his post on the lines at -Petersburg. - -“I am sorely troubled, Dorothy,” he began. “I am going away two or -three days hence, and I wish I could go without seeing Evelyn again.” - -“Oh, I can easily manage that,” answered she, with a composure and a -commonplaceness of tone which seemed inscrutable to her companion. She -took his remark quite as a matter of course, treating it as she might -had he merely said:— - -“I should like to leave my horse here.” - -It was not an easy conversational situation from which to find a way -out. Obviously it was for him to make the next remark, and he could not -think what it should be. Possibly Dorothy intended that he should be -perplexed. At any rate, she manifestly did not intend to help him out -of his difficulty. - -Presently he found the way out of it for himself—the only way that -Dorothy would have tolerated. That is to say, he became perfectly frank -with her. - -“I want to talk with you about that,” he said, “if I may. I am much -troubled; and while I have no right to call upon you for any sort of -help, I feel that it may clear my mind simply to tell you all about the -matter.” - -“I will listen with pleasure,” she said, quite coldly. - -Then he blurted out the whole story. He told her—as he need not have -done, for she was not a woman for nothing—of the intensity of his -love for Evelyn; of the purpose he had cherished to conceal his state -of mind from its object, and suffer in silence a love which he felt -himself honourably bound not to declare. Then, with some difficulty, -he told her of the scene at the stables, and of all that had followed: -he explained how these things had bred a fear in his mind that it was -already too late for him simply to go away, saying nothing. - -Dorothy did not help him in the least in the embarrassment he -necessarily felt in suggesting that perhaps the girl loved him already. -On the contrary, she sat silent during the recital; and when it was -ended she said, very coldly, and with a touch of severity in her -manner:— - -“If I correctly understand you, you are of opinion that Evelyn has -fallen in love with you without being asked. It is perhaps open to you -to cherish a belief of that kind, but is it quite fair to the young -woman concerned for you to make a statement of that kind to me—either -directly or by implication?” - -“Of course I didn’t mean that—” stammered Kilgariff; but, instead of -accepting his protest, Dorothy mercilessly thrust him through with -another question:— - -“Might I ask what you did mean, then?” - -Kilgariff did not answer at once. It was impossible to escape the -relentless logic of Dorothy’s question. It was equally impossible to -turn Dorothy by so much as a hair’s breadth away from the truth she -sought. Gentle as she was, forbearing as it was her nature to be, she -was utterly uncompromising in her love of truth. Moreover, in this -case she was disposed to be the more merciless in her insistence upon -the truth for the reason that Kilgariff had blunderingly offended the -dignity of her womanhood. She held his assumption concerning Evelyn’s -state of mind and heart to be an affront to her sex, and she was not -minded to let it pass without atonement. - -In his masculine way, Kilgariff had many of Dorothy’s qualities. He -shared her love of absolute truthfulness, and his courage was as -resolute as her own. He met her, therefore, on her own ground. After a -moment’s pause, he said:— - -“I suppose I did mean what you say; and yet I meant it less offensively -than you assume. I frankly acknowledge my fault in speaking to you of -the matter. I had no right to do that, even with you. I was betrayed -into it by the exceeding perplexity of the situation. I was wrong. I -ask your forgiveness.” - -“That is better,” responded Dorothy. “I fully believe you when you -say you did not mean to do an unmanly thing. For the rest, I cannot -see that your situation is at all a perplexing one, except as you -needlessly make it so.” - -“I confess I do not understand you,” replied Kilgariff, “and yet -I cannot explain my difficulty in understanding without in effect -repeating my error and emphasising it. I should be rejoiced to know -that there is no foundation for the fears that I have been entertaining -without any right to entertain them.” - -“Are you sure of that? Would you really rejoice to know that Evelyn -Byrd’s sentiments toward you are only those of friendship?” - -“I believe so. It would involve a good deal of distress to me, of -course; but I count the other consideration as supreme. It would -enable me to feel that I am privileged to go away from here carrying -my burdens on my own back and allowing no straw’s weight to fall upon -the shoulders of the only woman in the world that I ever loved or ever -shall.” - -Dorothy made no reply in words. Instead, she turned her great, brown -eyes full upon him and looked at him for the space of twenty seconds, -in a way that brought a flush to his face. Then, still making no direct -reply to anything he had uttered, she said:— - -“I am very greatly displeased with you, Owen Kilgariff. And I am very -greatly disappointed.” - -She rose to withdraw, but Kilgariff stopped her, and with eager -earnestness demanded:— - -“Why, Dorothy?” - -“I do not wish to explain.” - -“But you must. It is my right to demand that. If you go away after -saying that, and without explaining what you mean, you will do me a -grievous injustice—and you hate injustice.” - -“Perhaps I ought not to have said precisely what I did. I ought to have -remembered that you are morbid; that by your brooding you have wrought -yourself into a diseased condition of mind. When you recover, you will -understand clearly enough that it is every honest man’s privilege to -woo where his heart directs. He must woo honestly, of course, but the -honest wooing of a man is no wrong and no insult to a maid. Only a -morbid self-consciousness like your own could imagine otherwise.” - -“Then you would wish me to—” - -“I wish nothing in the case. I have said all that I shall say. If I -have spoken severely, it has been because I have little patience with -your diseased imaginings. I don’t think I like you very well just now.” - -She left him to think. - - - - -XXIV - -EVELYN’S BOOK - - -LATE that day, came a letter and a parcel from Evelyn to Dorothy. In -the letter the girl wrote:— - - I am going to stay here at Branton for two or three more days. That - is because I do not want to be with you while you are reading the - book I have written for you. Two or three days will be enough for the - reading. Then I am going back to Wyanoke. I have been over to the - hospital camp every morning, so I don’t need to tell you that I am - perfectly well. - - I am sending the book by the boy who is to carry this. Please read it - within two days, so that I may go home to Wyanoke. You know how much - I love you, so I needn’t put anything about that in this letter. But - Edmonia sends her love, and so does Mrs. Pegram. What a dear she is! - She wants me to call her ‘Agatha,’ and I’m beginning to do so. But I - would like it better if she would let me say ‘Cousin Agatha’ instead. - Somehow that seems more like what I feel. - - I reckon Colonel Kilgariff will be going back to Petersburg about now. - If he hasn’t gone yet, please give him my regards and good wishes. I - hope he won’t get himself wounded again. - -Dorothy faithfully delivered Evelyn’s peculiarly reserved message -to Kilgariff, whereupon the young gentleman declared his purpose of -returning to Petersburg on the third day following, that being the -earliest return that Arthur, as his surgeon, would permit. - -“But I shall call at Branton to see Evelyn first,” he added. This -brought a queer look into Dorothy’s eyes, but whether it was a look of -pleasure, or of regret, or of simple surprise, he could not make out. -“After all,” he thought, “it doesn’t matter. I have decided to take -this affair into my own hands. And they shall be strong hands too—not -weak and irresolute, as they have been hitherto.” - -Before opening the manuscript, Dorothy sent off a young negro to -Branton, with a little note to Evelyn, in which she wrote:— - - I shall not read a line of what you have written until I have told - you how much gratified I am that you have wanted in this way to tell - me about yourself. It means much to me that you wish to tell me - those things, whatever they may be, that concern you. Another thing I - want to say to you before reading your manuscript, and that is that - no matter what it may reveal, I shall love and cherish you just the - same. You remember what I said to you once—that I _know you_, and - that no fact or circumstance of the past can in the least alter my - feelings toward you. Be very sure of that. Now I am going to read your - manuscript. - -She began the task at once. This is what she read:— - - -EVELYN’S BOOK - -WRITTEN FOR DOROTHY AND NOBODY ELSE - - -Preface - -I AM going to tell you all about myself in this book, Dorothy—or at -least all that I know. I have wanted to tell you, ever since you began -being so good to me, and I began to love you. I reckon you won’t like -some of the things I must tell, but I can’t help that: I must tell -you all of them anyhow, because it is right that I should. I couldn’t -tell you so long as I thought I had sworn not to. Now that you have -explained to me about a parole, I am going to do it. But I am going to -put it in writing, because I can tell it better that way. And besides, -I might forget some things if I tried to tell them all with my tongue. -And there are some of the things which you may want to read about more -than once, so as to make up your mind about them. - -Now that is all of the preface. - - -Chapter the First - -I DON’T know where I was born. I reckon it must have been somewhere in -Virginia, because, when I first saw you and heard you speak, I felt as -if I had got back home again after a long stay away. Your voice and the -way you pronounced your words seemed so natural to me that I think the -people about me when I was a child must have talked in the same way. -You know how quickly I fell into the Virginia way of speaking. That was -because it all seemed so natural to me. - -So I think I must have been born in Virginia. At any rate I had a black -mammy. I remember her very well. She was very, very big—taller than a -tall man, and very broad across her back. I know that, because she used -to get down on the floor and let me ride on her back, making believe -she was a horse. - -Her name was Juliet. When I read about Romeo and Juliet years -afterward, I remember laughing at Shakespeare for not knowing that -Juliet was big and strong and black. That must have been while I was -still a little child, or I should have understood better. Besides, I -remember where I was when I read the play, and I know I was only a -little child when I was there. - -That is all I remember about my life in Virginia, if it was in Virginia -that I was born. There must have been other people besides Juliet -around me at that time, but I do not remember anything about them. -I cannot recall what kind of a house we lived in; but I do remember -playing on a beautiful lawn under big trees. And I recollect that there -were a great many squirrels there, just as there are in the trees in -your Wyanoke grounds. It is strange, isn’t it, that I should remember -the squirrels and not the people? But perhaps that is because I used to -feed the squirrels and play with them, and one day one of them bit me -painfully. I must have been treating it badly. - - -Chapter the Second - -THE next thing that I remember is being in a large city somewhere. We -lived in a hotel. My father and mother were with me, and a great many -men came to see my father, and talked with him about business things. -I didn’t know then, but I think now that my father was engaged in some -kind of speculation, and these men had something to do with it. At -any rate, my father was a speculator always, and I think he sometimes -gambled, for I heard some one say afterward that he would “gamble on -anything from the turn of a card to the wrecking of a railroad.” That -was long after, however, and I didn’t understand what the words meant. -I reckon I don’t quite understand even now, but at any rate I know -that my father was always busy; that he had something to do with a -water-works, and some railroads, and some steamboats, and some stores, -and many other things. Sometimes he seemed to have more money than he -knew what to do with, and sometimes he was very poor. My mother used to -cry a good deal, though I reckon my father never treated her badly, as -I never heard him scold her in any way. When she would cry, it seemed -to distress him terribly. He would go away, sometimes for days at a -time, and when he came back he would put a large pile of money in her -lap and beg her to cheer up and believe in him. - -I didn’t know at that time what my father’s name was. Everybody called -him “Jack,” and that was all I heard. I was a very little girl at that -time, and if I ever heard his full name in those days, I can’t remember -the fact. But I loved him very much. He was always very good to me, and -he laughed a great deal in a way that I liked. I didn’t like to see -my mother cry so much, so I loved my father far better than I did my -mother. - - -Chapter the Third - -THERE seems to be a gap in my memory at this point. I know I must have -been a very little girl at the time I have spoken of—only four or five -years old at most. The next thing I remember is that we landed from a -big ship that had big sails, and a good many people and a cow on the -top, and a great many pumps. - -My father wasn’t with us, and as I can’t remember thinking about his -absence, I suppose I hadn’t seen him for a long time. There were only -my mother and my grandmother, and me—or should I say “I”?—I don’t -know. - -I reckon I must have been six or seven years old then. - -When the ship landed, a man named Campbell met us at the landing. His -name wasn’t really Campbell, as I have since found out, but he was -called by that name. I remembered him in a vague way. He had been -one of those who came to see my father when we lived in the hotel. -My father called him his partner, and once, when my father suddenly -became very poor, he called Campbell a swindler and a scoundrel, and -said he had ruined all of us. I didn’t know at that time what the words -“swindler” and “scoundrel” meant, but from the way in which my father -spoke them I knew they were something very bad; so I hated Campbell. - -That was the only time I ever heard my father and mother quarrel. I -remember it, because it frightened me terribly. They seemed to be -quarrelling about Campbell. When my father called him by bad names, -my mother, as I now understand, seemed to defend him, and that made my -father angrier than ever. - -So, when Campbell met us at the ship and seemed so glad to see my -mother, I thought of my father, and I hated Campbell. I remembered the -names my father used to call him, though I still didn’t know what the -words meant. So, when Campbell tried to pet me, I resented it in my -childish fashion, saying:— - -“You’re a swindler, you know, and a scoundrel. I don’t want you to talk -to me.” - -He pretended to laugh, but I know now that he was very angry with me. - -Some time after that (I don’t know how long, but it was probably -not long) my mother and Campbell got married, out in a Western city -somewhere, and went away for a time, leaving me with my grandmother. - -I couldn’t understand it, and I said so. Just before they started away -on a train, my mother told me in the railroad station that Campbell was -my new papa, and that I must love him very much. I remember what I said -in reply. I asked:— - -“Is my father dead?” - -“Don’t talk about that, dear,” said my mother, trying to hush me. But I -asked the question again:— - -“Is my father dead?” - -“No, dear, but your father has gone away, and we’ll never see him -again. So you mustn’t think about him.” - -“Then you have two husbands at once,” I answered. “How can you have two -husbands at once?” - -She tried to explain it by telling me that my father was no longer her -husband, but I couldn’t understand. And, Dorothy, I don’t understand -it now. Of course I know now that my parents had been divorced, but -I don’t and can’t understand how a woman who has been a man’s wife -can make up her mind to be any other man’s wife so long as her first -husband lives. I suppose I was a very uncompromising little girl at -that time, and I was very apt to say what I thought about things -without any flinching from ugly truths. So, when they went on trying -to hush me by telling me that Campbell was now my papa, I flew into a -great rage. I took hold of my hair and tore out great locks of it. I -tried to tear off my clothes, and all the time I was saying things -that caused all the passengers in the station to gather about us; some -of them laughing, and some looking on very solemnly, as I shrieked:— - -“I won’t have him for my new papa! He’s a swindler and a scoundrel! My -papa told you so a long time ago! I hate him, and I’m going to hate you -now and for ever, amen!” - -I didn’t know what the words meant, but they had been strongly -impressed upon my memory by the vehemence with which my father had -uttered them long before. As for the final phrase, with the “amen” -at the end of it, I had heard it in church, and had somehow got the -impression that it was some kind of highly exalted curse. - -Campbell was angry almost beyond control. I think he would have liked -to kill me, and I think he would have done so but for all those people -standing by while I so bitterly vituperated him. As he could not do -that, he said angrily to my grandmother:— - -“Take her away! Take her away quick!” - -My grandmother then threw my little cloak over my head to suppress my -voice, and hurried me into a carriage. To some woman who drove with us -to our hotel, my grandmother said, thinking I would not understand:— - -“I’m seriously afraid the child is right.” - -I understood, and I liked my grandmother better than ever, after that. - - -Chapter the Fourth - -WHEN Campbell and my mother came back from their journey, he seemed -determined to placate me. He brought me many toys. Among them was a big -doll that could open and shut its eyes and cry. I did not utter a word -of thanks. I didn’t feel any gratitude or pleasure. I took the toys, -and dealt with them in my own way. A very bad man had been hanged in -the town a little while before, and I had heard the matter talked of -a great deal. So I got a string, tied it around the doll’s neck, and -proceeded to hang it to the limb of a tree in our yard. The rest of the -toys I threw into a little stream near our house. When all was done, -I returned to the house and marched into the drawing-room, where a -good many people had gathered to greet my mother and her new husband. -Everybody grew silent when I entered the room. They had all heard of -the scene I had made at the railroad station, and they now held their -breath to wait for what I might say or do. - -I walked straight up to Campbell and said, as loudly as I could:— - -“I have hanged that doll you gave me, and I’ve pitched the other things -into the creek. You’re a swindler and a scoundrel, and I hate you.” - -There was a great commotion, but I gave no heed to that or anything -else. Before anybody could think of what was best to be done, I turned -about and marched out of the room with all the dignity I could muster. - -I am not sorry or ashamed over these things, Dorothy. I think I was -right, and I am glad I did as I did. But that was the beginning of -trouble for me. - - -Chapter the Fifth - -WE were living then in Campbell’s big house, in some Western city. -It was a very fine and costly place, I reckon. A little bedroom had -been furnished for me, opening off the suite of rooms that Campbell -and my mother were to occupy. If it had been in anybody’s house but -Campbell’s, I should have loved that beautiful bedroom. As it was, I -hated it with all my soul. My grandmother and I had gone to the house -on the day before my mother’s return, and that night—the night before -they came back—I was put to bed in my room. I lay there with my eyes -wide open till I knew that everybody else in the house was asleep. Then -I slipped out of bed, crept downstairs, and out over the wet grass to a -kennel that had been assigned to my own big Saint Bernard dog, Prince. -I crept in, and slept beside the big, shaggy fellow till morning, when -a great outcry was raised because I was missing from my room. - -All the servants said my behaviour was due to my loneliness in the -great house. That wasn’t so. I was never lonely in my life, because -whenever I began to feel lonely I always called the fairy people to me, -and they were glad to come. I had created them in my own fancy, and -they loved me very much. But I wouldn’t invite them into that room or -that house. So I went to Prince, as my only other friend. - -But after my outbreak in the drawing-room, a servant was directed to -take me to my room and lock me in. I sat there in the window-seat for a -long time, wondering what would be done to me next, and wondering how I -was to escape from my prison; for I fully intended to escape, even if I -should find no other way than by leaping out of my second-story window. - -After a while, the door was opened and Campbell came in. I could see -that he was very angry, and I was particularly glad of that, because it -showed me that my words had hurt his feelings very much. That was what -I intended. - -He had a little switch in his hand, and, as he stood over me, glowering -in order to scare me before speaking, I saw it. I instantly seized a -heavy hair-brush that a maid kept to brush my thick hair with. - -“You mustn’t strike me.” That was all I said. - -“I’m going to teach you better manners,” he began. - -“You’d better not try,” I answered. “If you strike me, _I’ll kill -you_.” - -I meant that, Dorothy; and when, a minute later, he struck me with -the switch, meaning to give me a dozen blows, I reckon, I leaped at -him—slender, frail little child that I was—and with all the strength -my baby arm had, I struck him full in the face with the edge of the -heavy brush. I fully intended that the blow should brain him. It only -broke his nose, but it made him groan with pain. - -Now I want to be absolutely truthful with you, Dorothy. You mustn’t -excuse my attempt to kill that man, on the ground that I was a mere -child and did not know what I was doing. I was a mere child, of course, -but I knew what I was doing or trying to do, and I felt no sort of -regret afterward, when he had to send for a surgeon to mend his nose -bone, and had to lie abed for a fortnight with a fever. Or, rather, I -did feel regret; but it was only regret over the fact that I had done -so little. I had meant to kill him, and I was very sorry that I had not -succeeded. That is the fact, and you must know it. And more than that, -it is the fact, that even now, when I am a grown-up woman and have -thought out a code of morals for myself, I still cannot feel any regret -over what I did, except that I didn’t succeed in doing more. I would -do now what I tried to do then, if the situation could repeat itself. - -I don’t know what you will think about all this. But I don’t want you -to think about it without knowing that I am not sorry for it, but -justify it in my own mind. I am trying to be perfectly honest and -truthful with you; so that if you love me at all after reading my book, -it shall be with full knowledge of all that is worst in me. If you -don’t love me after you know all, I shall go away quickly and not pain -you with my presence. - -Now, Dorothy, I want you to stop reading this book and put it away for -a few hours—long enough for you to think about what I have written, -and make up your mind about this part of my story. After that, you can -read the rest of it and make up your mind about that. - - * * * * * - -Dorothy complied with this request. She laid the book aside for two -hours. Then she came back to the reading; but before beginning again, -she scribbled this paragraph at the bottom of the page last read:— - - I have taken two hours of recess from the reading. There was no need - of that. My whole soul sympathises with that poor, persecuted little - creature. So far from condemning her words or acts, I rejoice in them. - I approve them, absolutely and altogether. I see nothing to condemn, - nothing to excuse. - - DOROTHY. - - - - -XXV - -MORE OF EVELYN’S BOOK - - -WHEN Dorothy resumed her reading, her sympathies were keenly alive and -responsive. She had thought out the matter, and reached a definite -conclusion which entirely satisfied her conscience. - -“Ordinarily,” she thought, “I should think it excessively wrong to -sympathise with a desire to kill, or even to tolerate it in my mind. -But I see clearly that in that matter, as in most others, there are -questions of circumstance to be considered. Every human being has a -right to kill in self-defence. Both law and morals recognise that. In a -state of nature, I suppose, every man is constantly at war on his own -private account, and he has an entire right to make war in defence of -himself and his family. The only reason he hasn’t that right in a state -of civilisation is that society protects him, in return for his giving -up his right to make private war. But when society, as represented by -the state, refuses to protect him, or when the state cannot protect -him, he has his right of private war in full force again. - -“That was Evelyn’s case. She was a helpless child in the hands of a -brute. There was no way in which she could secure protection from any -wrong he might see fit to do her. So, when he came with evident intent -to do her harm, she had a perfect right, I think, to fight for herself -in any way she could. No human being is under obligation to submit to -an insult or a blow. - -“Besides—well, never mind that. I was thinking of the way in which -we all recognise killing in war as entirely legitimate. But that is a -large subject, which I haven’t thought out to the end as yet. For the -present purpose it is enough to know that Evelyn had a right to make -such war as she could—poor little mite of a girl that she was—upon -that brutal man. I should have done the same under like circumstances. -Yes; I heartily approve her conduct.” - -With that, Dorothy turned again to the manuscript, and read what -follows:— - - -Chapter the Sixth - -I HAD hurt Campbell very badly indeed. I had shattered the bridge of -his nose to bits, and there was a great commotion in the house—sending -for a lot of doctors, and all that. My mother thought of nothing but -staunching the blood and getting the doctors there. The servants were -all excited and running about bringing hot water and towels and so -forth, so that no attention was paid to me. - -I took advantage of the confusion. I put on a little cloak and my -sun-bonnet, and quietly slipped out through one of the back doors into -the grounds. Then I called my dog, Prince, to go with me, and in the -gloaming—for it was nearly nightfall—he and I waded across the little -creek that ran at the back of the place. The house stood at the extreme -edge of the little city, and there was no town on the farther side of -the creek. So Prince and I went on down the road, meeting nobody. - -My grandmother had left the town that day, to go back to her home -somewhere in the East, so I made up my mind to walk toward the East -every day till I should come to the village where she lived. I knew -the name of the village, but I didn’t know what State it was in or -how far away it might be; still, I hoped to find it after a while, by -inquiring of people. But I feared a search would be made for me, so I -decided not to reveal myself by making inquiries till I should be far -away from the town where Campbell and my mother lived. - -After walking along the road for what seemed to me many hours, Prince -and I climbed over a fence and went far into the woods. There we hid -ourselves in a clump of pawpaw bushes and went to sleep. - -When we woke, there was a heavy rain falling, and we were very, very -hungry. So we set out to find a road somewhere, so that we might come -to a house and ask for something to eat. But there didn’t seem to be -any end to the woods. We went on and on and on, without coming out -anywhere. I ate two pawpaws that I found on the bushes, but poor Prince -couldn’t eat pawpaws, so he had to go starving. - -At last we grew so tired that we stopped to rest, and I fell asleep. -When I waked, it was still raining hard, and my clothing was very wet, -and I was very cold, and it was nearly night again. So I told Prince -we must hurry, and find a house before it should grow dark. - -But when I tried to hurry, my feet wouldn’t do as I wanted them to. My -knees seemed to give way under me, and I grew very hot. My head ached -for the first time in my life, and my eyes bulged so that I couldn’t -see straight. Finally I seemed to forget who I was, or where I was -trying to go. Then I went to sleep. - -When I waked, I was lying in that bedroom in Campbell’s house, and a -nurse was sitting by me. I tried to get up, but couldn’t. So I went -off to sleep again, and when I waked once more, I understood that I -was very ill and had been so for a considerable time. I asked somebody -if Prince had been fed, and learned that he had. I never asked another -question about the matter, and to this day I do not know how long I lay -unconscious in the woods, or who found me there, or how, or anything -about it. - -I must have taken a good while to get well; for I remember how every -morning I planned to run away again the following night, and how before -night came I found myself still unable to do anything but lie in bed -and take my medicine. - -When at last I was able to sit in a rocking-chair for an hour or two -at a time, my mother undertook to chide me a little about my conduct. I -reckon she didn’t accomplish much, because she began at the wrong end -of the affair. - -“You hurt Mr. Campbell very badly,” she said. - -“Did I? I’m glad of that.” - -“You are a very wicked girl.” - -To that statement I made no reply. I accepted it as true, but I was not -sorry for it. Instead, I asked:— - -“Is he going to die?” - -“No. But he is very ill. That is to say, he is suffering a great deal -of pain.” - -“I’m glad of that.” - -“You terrible child! What am I to do with you?” - -“I don’t know. I’m going to run away again as soon as I can. You’d -better let me stay runaway.” - -Small as I was, I vaguely understood that my mother’s first care was -for the man Campbell, and that so far as I was concerned, she cared -only for the trouble she expected me to give her. If she had loved me a -little, if she had taken me into her lap and seemed a little bit sorry -for me, I reckon she might have had an easier time with me. But she did -nothing of that kind. Instead of that, she managed to make me feel that -she regarded me somewhat in the light of a criminal for whom she was -responsible. - -She set a watch upon me day and night, keeping me practically a -prisoner in my own room. That was because I had made the mistake of -telling her I meant to run away again. But even as a prisoner, I might -have been tractable if she had spoken kindly and lovingly to me when -she visited my room, which she did two or three times a day. Instead of -that, she always looked at me as one might at a desperate criminal, and -she talked to me of nothing but what she called my wickedness, saying -that it would break her heart. - -Even when I got well enough to go out, I was kept in my room until at -last the doctor positively ordered that I should be sent out of doors -every day. When that was done, a servant maid whom I particularly -disliked was sent with me, under orders never to let me out of her -sight for a moment. I was as completely a prisoner out of doors as in -the house. But out of doors I could sit down at the root of a tree, -shut my eyes, and bring my fairy friends to me. In that way I managed -to make myself happy for little spells, as I could not do in my room, -for I simply would not ask the fairy people to go to that horrible -place. - -But this relief was soon taken from me. The servant who watched me, -seeing me sit with my eyes shut, reported that I spent all the time -out of doors in sleep. She was directed by Campbell, who had assumed -control of my affairs, not to let me sit down at all out of doors. - -When this was reported to me, I simply refused to go out of doors -again, and I stuck to that resolution in spite of all commands and -threats. My health soon showed the results of confinement, and the -doctor, who was a friendly sort of man, but strongly prejudiced by the -bad things he had been told about me, did all he could to persuade me -to go out. I absolutely refused. Then my health grew still worse, and -finally the doctor insisted that I should be sent away somewhere. - -Before that could be arranged, something else happened to affect me. -I’ll tell you about that in another chapter. - - -Chapter the Seventh - -THE servant who acted as my keeper suddenly changed her manner toward -me about this time. She talked with me in a friendly way, and she sang -to me, trying to teach me to sing with her. I refused to do that, -because I was unhappy and did not feel like singing. But I rather liked -to hear her sing, as she had a pretty good voice. Still, in my childish -way, I distrusted the girl. I could not understand why she had been so -unkind to me before, if her present kindness was sincere. - -She begged me to go out of doors with her, and promised of her own -accord that I should sit down and shut my eyes whenever I pleased. -After a day or two, I so far yielded as to go out with her for an -hour and have a romp with Prince. But I resolutely refused, then or -on succeeding days, to sit down and shut my eyes, and call the fairy -people. I felt, somehow, that it would compromise my dignity to accept -surreptitiously and from a servant a privilege which was forbidden to -me by the servant’s master and mistress. - -Still, I went out for a little while every day. The girl called our -outings “larks,” which puzzled me a good deal, as I knew there were -no larks in the town. Finally, one brilliant moonlight night, as I -sat looking out of the window, the girl, as if moved by some sudden -impulse, said:— - -“Let’s go out for a lark in the moonlight. I’ll put your cloak and -bonnet on you, and it will do you good.” - -I consented, and we quickly made ourselves ready. Just after we had -got out of doors, I noticed that the girl had a satchel in her hand; -and when I questioned her about it, she said that she wanted to make -believe that we were two ladies going to travel; “and ladies always -have satchels when they travel,” she explained. - -We wandered about for a little while, and then the girl led the way to -the extreme corner of the grounds, a spot which could not be seen from -the house even in the daytime, because of the trees. There was a little -gate there, which opened into a road, and the girl proposed that we -should pass through it for some reason which I cannot now remember. - -We had walked only a little way beyond the gate when we came to a -carriage which was standing still, with a big man on the box and a -tall, slender man standing by the open door of the vehicle. When this -man turned his face toward me in the moonlight, I recognised him. He -was my father! He stooped and put his arms about me tenderly, laughing -a little, as he always had done when talking with me, but stopping the -laugh every moment or two to kiss me. Then he told me to get into the -carriage so that we might go for a drive. When I had got in, he gave -the servant girl some money, and said:— - -“If you keep your mouth shut and know nothing, there’ll be another -hundred for you. I shall know if you talk, and if you do there’ll be no -money for you. I’ll send the money, if you don’t talk, in two weeks, in -care of the bank.” - -Then we drove away in the moonlight, and I found presently that the -girl had put the satchel into the carriage. I learned the next morning -that it contained some of my clothes, and my combs and brushes. - -We travelled in the carriage for several hours, and then got on board a -railroad train, which took us to Chicago. - - -Chapter the Eighth - -WE hadn’t been many days in Chicago when one morning about daybreak my -father waked me and said that Campbell was after me, so that we must -hurry. My father had bought me a lot of things in Chicago—clothes -of many kinds, and a few books. I reckon he didn’t know much about -clothes or books—poor papa—for all the clothes were red, and the -books, as I now know, were intended for much older people than I was. -But he said that red was the prettiest colour, and as for the books, -the man that sold them had told him that they were “standard works.” -I remember that one of them was called _Burke’s Works_, and another -_Gibbon’s Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire_. I simply couldn’t like -_Burke’s Works_, but I reckon that was only because I didn’t know what -Mr. Burke was talking about. I reckon I didn’t understand Gibbon very -well, but I liked him, because he told some good stories, and because -his sentences were musical. I liked _Macaulay’s Miscellanies_ for the -same reason, and I liked _Macaulay’s History_ because it was so simple -that I could understand it. Best of all, I liked _Rasselas_, _The -Vicar of Wakefield_, _Robinson Crusoe_, and _The British Drama_, and -Shakespeare—at least, in parts. I liked to read about Parolles, and -the way he was tricked and his cowardice exposed. I identified him with -Campbell, and rejoiced when he got into trouble. I suppose that was -wicked, but I’m telling you all my thoughts, Dorothy, so that you may -know the whole truth about me and not be deceived. I liked Falstaff, -too. - -I liked _Rasselas_, because in his happy valley there was no man like -Campbell. And I liked _Robinson Crusoe_ for the same reason. Somehow I -liked to live with him on his island, because I knew that if Campbell -should land there, Robinson Crusoe would shoot him. - -But above all, I liked the _British Drama_, because it opened a new and -larger life to me than any that I had ever known. - -When my father waked me up on that morning, I hurriedly packed my books -and clothes into a trunk. There were very few underclothes, for my -father knew nothing about such things, but there were many red dresses -and red cloaks and red hats. And there were two fur coats—big enough -for a grown woman to wear. - -We got on board a train and travelled all day. Then we took another -train and travelled all night, till we came to the end of the railroad. -Then we got into a cart and travelled three or four days into the woods. - -Finally we came to a camp in the woods, where my father seemed to -be master of everything and everybody. There were Indians there and -half-breeds, and Canadian lumber-men, for it was a lumber-camp. There -was a Great Lake there, and many little lakes not far away. I reckon -the Great Lake was Lake Superior, but I don’t know for certain. - -There were no women in the camp except squaws and half-breeds. They -were pretty good people, but very dirty, so I could not live with them. -My father made the men build a little log house for him and me, and -he made them hew a bath-tub for me out of a big log. Then he hired a -half-breed girl to heat water every day and fill the tub for me to -bathe in. As for himself, he jumped into the lake every morning, even -when he had to make the men cut a hole in the ice for his use. - -I liked the lumber-camp life because I was free there, and because -there were big fires at night, like bonfires. One of them was just -before my door, and my father made an Indian boy keep it blazing all -night for me, so that I might see the light of it whenever I waked. I -used to sit by it and read my books, even when the snow was deep on the -ground; for by turning first one side and then the other to the fire I -could keep warm. And the Canadians and the half-breeds and the Indians -used to squat on the ground near me and beg me to read the books aloud -to them. As they all spoke French, and understood no word of English, -of course they didn’t understand what I read to them, but they liked -to hear me read, and it was sometimes hard to drive them away to their -beds, even when midnight came. - -They taught me French during the year I lived among them. You tell me -it is very bad French, and I reckon it is; but it was all they knew: -they did their best, and I reckon that is all that anybody can do. At -any rate, they were kind to me, and they taught me all the ways of the -birds and the animals. I tried to teach them to be kind to the birds -and the animals, after I began to understand the wild creatures; but -the camp people never would learn that. Their only idea of an animal -or a bird was to eat its flesh and sell its skin. - -There was a young priest there who knew better, and he ought to have -loved the birds and animals. But he used to talk about God’s having -given man dominion over the beasts and the birds, and that doctrine -perverted his mind, I think. He killed a pretty little chipmunk, one -day, to get its skin to stuff. That chipmunk was my friend. I had -taught it to climb up into my lap and eat out of my hand. He persuaded -it to climb into his lap, and then he betrayed its confidence and -killed it. I was very angry with him. I picked up an ox-whip and struck -him with it twice. I was only a little girl, but I had grown strong in -the outdoor life of the camp, and it doesn’t take much strength to make -an ox-whip hurt. - -There was great commotion in the camp when this occurred. The people -there were very religious in their way, but they seemed to me to -worship the priest rather than God. They didn’t mind sinning as much -as they pleased, because they knew that the priest would forgive their -sins on easy terms; but they thought that my act in striking the priest -with the ox-whip was a peculiarly heinous crime. Perhaps it was, but -I can’t even yet so look upon it. They regarded him as a “man of God”; -but if he was so, why did he deceive the poor little chipmunk, and -persuade it to trust him, and then kill it cruelly? Dorothy, I am not a -bit sorry, even now, that I chastised him with the ox-whip. - -[“Neither am I,” wrote Dorothy in the margin of the manuscript.] - -But the occurrence created a great disturbance in the camp, and so my -father had to take me away, for fear that the lumber-men would kill -me. Curious, isn’t it, that while they were so religious as to feel in -that way about the priest, who after all was only a man, they were yet -so wicked that they were ready to commit murder in revenge? But those -people were very ignorant and very superstitious. They thought some -terrible calamity would fall upon them if I were permitted to remain -in the camp. I think they cared more about that than they did about -the priest. Even those who had been kind to me, teaching me to ride -bareback and to shoot and to fish and to make baskets, and all the rest -of it, turned against me; so that my father had to stand by me with -his pistols cocked and ready in his hand, till he could get me out of -the camp. - - -Chapter the Ninth - -FROM that camp my father took me way up to Hudson’s Bay. We travelled -over the snow on sledges drawn by dogs, and I learned to know the dogs -as nobody else did. They were savage creatures, and would bite anybody -who came near them. But somehow they never bit me. They didn’t like to -be petted, but they let me pet them. I don’t know why this was so, but -it was so. - -We did not remain long at Hudson’s Bay—only a few weeks. After that, -we went somewhere—I don’t know where it was—where the whale-men came -ashore and rendered out the blubber they had got out at sea. - -You must remember that my father had many interests. He owned part of -the lumber-camp we had stayed in, he had a fur trade at Hudson’s Bay, -and he had an interest in some whaling-ships. Wherever we went, my -father seemed to be at home and to be master of the men about him. I -admired him greatly, and loved him very much. I wondered how my mother -could have left him and married Campbell. I am wondering over that even -yet. - -It was while we were at Hudson’s Bay that I began to understand -something about my father. He sat down with me one day (he didn’t often -sit down for more than a few minutes at a time, but on this occasion he -sat with me for nearly half a day) and explained things to me. - -“I want to tell you some things, little girl,” he said, “and I want you -to try to understand them. Above all, I want you to remember them. You -know sometimes I have a great deal of money, and sometimes I have none -at all. That is because my business is a risky one. Sometimes I make a -great deal of money out of it, and sometimes I lose a great deal. - -“Now, when your mother left me, I made up my mind to provide well for -her and you, so that no matter what else should happen, you and she -might never come to want. You see, I still loved your mother. I insured -my life for a large sum, and as I had plenty of money then, I paid -for the insurance cash down. You don’t understand about such things, -and it isn’t necessary that you should. But by insuring my life and -paying cash for the insurance, I made it certain that whenever I should -die, a rich insurance company would pay you a big sum of money; I had -purposely made it payable to you and not to your mother, because I knew -you would take care of your mother, while she could never take care of -anybody or anything. I also bought some bonds and stocks and put them -in your name, and placed them in a bank in New York. - -“Now, I want you to pay close attention and try to understand what -I tell you. Here are some papers that I want you to keep always by -you—always in your little satchel. Always have them by you when you go -to bed, and always lock them up by day. Take them with you wherever you -go. - -“This one is my will. It gives you everything that I may happen to own -when I die.” With that, he handed me the papers. - -“This one is the life-insurance policy. When I die, you, or whoever -is acting for you, will have to present that to the life-insurance -company, together with doctors’ certificates that I am really dead. -Then the company will pay you the money. - -“This one is a list of the securities—the bonds and stocks—that I -have deposited in your name in the Chemical Bank of New York. You see, -it is signed by the cashier of that bank. It is a receipt for the bonds -and stocks. So you must keep it very carefully. - -“Now, another thing you must remember: you can’t draw the money on my -life-insurance policy until I die; but you can get these bonds and -stocks at any time that you please, merely by presenting the receipt -and asking for them. So long as you are a little girl under age, you -couldn’t do this for yourself. Somebody must do it for you. You must be -very careful whom you select for that purpose.” - -Then he gave me the names and addresses of several gentlemen, who, he -said, were his friends and honest men, and advised me to apply to them -to act for me if I ever had occasion to do anything of the kind. Then -he went on to say: - -“The scoundrel, Campbell, knows that you own all this, besides some -houses and lands (here’s a memorandum of them) which I have deeded -to you. In the hope of getting hold of your property, he, as your -stepfather, has had himself appointed your guardian. It is a shame -that the courts allow that, but he owns a judge or two, and he has -managed to get it done. That is why he is following us and trying to -get hold of you. He doesn’t know what your property is, or where, and -he thinks you will have these papers. So, if he can get hold of you, he -thinks he can get hold of the property also. If I can manage to get you -to New York, I’ll take the papers out of your hands and place them in -charge of some men there whom I can trust. But as I may fail in that, -and as something may happen to me, I want you to have the papers. - -“I am pretty well off just now, but my business is very uncertain. When -I die, I may be very rich, or I may ‘go broke’ any day between now and -then. That is why I have put this property into your hands while I have -it. I am a reckless fellow. I ‘take the very longest chances’ sometimes -in my business enterprises. Sometimes I suddenly lose pretty nearly -everything I have in the world, and I might die just at such a time. So -I have provided for you in any case. - -“If I can get to New York with you, I am going to hide you completely -from that man, Campbell. There is an excellent gentlewoman there in -whose hands I intend to put you. She is a woman to be trusted, and she -is rather poor, so she will be glad to take charge of you and keep you -out of Campbell’s way, damn him! Pardon me, dear! I didn’t mean to -swear in your presence. I only mean that I can give that lady plenty of -money, and she can take you wherever she thinks you will be safe.” - -“But I had much rather stay with you, Father,” I answered, with tears -in my eyes. - -“Yes, I know. And God knows,” he said, “that I had rather have you with -me. But everything is a gamble with me. I have many enemies, child, and -some one of them may make an end of me any day. The other way will be -safest for you.” - -“I don’t care for myself,” I answered. “I only care for you, and to be -with you. I’ll take the risks, and if any of your enemies ever makes an -end of you, as you say, I want to be there to wreak vengeance. You know -I can shoot as straight as any man alive, whether with a pistol or a -rifle or a shot-gun.” - -“You dear child!” he responded, “I know all that. And that is why I -want to house you safely. You have it in you to be as reckless as your -dad is, and I don’t intend that you shall have occasion or opportunity.” - -How I did love my father! I don’t believe he was ever bad, Dorothy, -though they said he was. People who liked him used to say he was -“uncommonly quick on trigger”; people who hated him called him a -desperado. I call him my father, and I love his memory, for he is dead -now, as you will hear later. - -But I was anxious to remember all that he had told me, and to make no -mistake about it. I had taught myself how to write, during my stay at -the lumber-camp and on Hudson’s Bay, so I got some old blank books from -the agency, books which had been partly written in by a clerk who made -his lines so hairlike that I could write all over them and yet make my -writing quite legible. In these I wrote all that my father had said, -just as he had said it, meaning to commit it to memory if I had got it -right. When it was done, I took it to him and he read it. He laughed -when he came to the swear word, and said:— - -“You might have omitted that. Still, I’m glad you didn’t, because it -shows how bravely truthful you are, and I love that in you better than -anything else.” - -I have always remembered that, Dorothy. I don’t know how far those who -have left us know what we do; but I always think that if my father -knows, he will be glad to have me perfectly truthful, and I love him so -much that I would make any sacrifice to make him glad. - -After he had read over what I had written, and had corrected a word -here and there, I set to work to commit it to memory, so that I should -never forget a line or a word of it. That is how it comes about that I -am able to report it all to you exactly. - -Now I know you are tired, so I am going to begin a new chapter, and you -can rest as long as you like before reading it. - - - - -XXVI - -EVELYN’S BOOK, CONTINUED - - -IT was Dorothy’s habit when reading a book to stop for an hour now and -then, and devote that space to careful thinking. She explained her -practice to Arthur one day, saying:— - -“If a book be interesting, it is apt to dominate the mind, and -sometimes to mislead the judgment. I think it well to suspend the -reading now and then, and give myself a chance to shake off the glamour -of the narrative, and to think out for myself what it means and to what -it tends. One must do that, indeed, if one doesn’t want to surrender -himself or herself completely to the dominance of an author’s thought, -but chooses instead to do his or her own thinking.” - -So Dorothy took an hour or two for thinking before going on with the -reading of Evelyn’s book. Evelyn knew her habit, and she had recognised -it by changing chapters at this point. - -When Dorothy took up the pages again, she read as follows:— - - -Chapter the Tenth - -WE stayed a long time among the whaling people, and they taught me many -things. I learned from them how to tie all sorts of knots, and how to -catch sea fish, and how to row, and best of all, how to sail a boat. - -They were a curious kind of men. They swore all the time, in almost -every sentence. But their swearing didn’t mean anything, and so it -didn’t shock me in the least. They were not at all angry when they -swore. They swore, I think, merely because they hadn’t any adjectives -with which to express their thoughts. They called me a “damned nice -gal,” and they meant it for a compliment. In the same way, they spoke -of a tangle in a fish-line as “a damned ugly snarl,” or of a fish as -“a damned big catch.” I suppose one might cure them of swearing by -teaching them some adjectives. But nobody ever took the trouble to do -that. - -They were good fellows—strong and brave, and wonderfully enduring. -When I went out fishing with them, and the tide was out on our return, -so that we couldn’t come up to a pier, one of them would jump overboard -in the mud, pick me up, swing me to his broad shoulders, and carry me -ashore dry-shod, without seeming to think anything of it. - -One day we had a storm while I was out in a fishing-boat. As soon as -it came on, all the boats came to the side of ours, though it was -dangerous to do so, just to make sure of my safety. The boat I was in -was swamped, and I was spilled overboard. But I was no sooner in the -angry sea than I was grabbed by the arms of a stout young fellow who -gallantly bore me toward a little sloop that lay at hand. A mast broke -off and fell. It hit the poor fellow, and, finding himself unable to do -any more, he called to a comrade to take me, and he sank in the water -and was drowned. He didn’t seem to care for himself at all, but only -to save me, and all the rest of them seemed to think that that was a -matter of course. I got my father to give me some money, and I hired a -stone-cutter to put up a monument over the poor fellow’s grave; for we -recovered his body, with both arms broken by the blow from the falling -mast. There are lots of heroes, Dorothy, who are never engaged in wars. - -At last my father took me away from the whaling town, and we went to -New York in a little schooner. It took us a long time, because the -winds were adverse, but we got there after a while, and went to a -hotel. It was the Astor House, I think, and it had a beautiful little -park nearly in front of it. I don’t think that is of any consequence, -but, you see, I am trying to tell you everything. You can skip anything -you don’t care for. - -[“I’m not skipping anything,” wrote Dorothy in the margin.] - -As soon as we were settled at the hotel, my father sent for the -gentlewoman he had spoken about, and placed me in her care. Then -something happened that I never understood. Before my father could -take the papers from me and place them in the hands of the gentleman -he intended to leave them with, he was somehow compelled to leave the -city. He went away suddenly after midnight, and I never saw him again. -I still kept the papers after he left New York so suddenly. - -The lady was greatly excited when my father’s note came to her, saying -that he had gone away, and she seemed to fear some danger for me. So, -between midnight and morning, she packed our things, and we went to a -boarding-house away up-town. Even there she didn’t feel safe, and so, -within a day or so, we went on board a canal boat, and went up the -river, and then along the canal for many days. - -I asked the lady (Mrs. Dennison was her name) why we hadn’t taken a -railroad train instead, so as to travel faster. She answered: “They -were watching all the trains, dear, and would have caught you if we had -tried to take one. They didn’t think of canal boats, because nobody -travels by them in these days.” - -After we had travelled by canal boat for several days (a week or more, -I think), we left the boat at a very little village, and went away -across country to a little house in a sparsely settled district. There -Mrs. Dennison and I lived quite alone for more than a year. It was a -very happy year, except that I couldn’t see my father, and except for -another thing. Mrs. Dennison made me wear a boy’s clothes and call -myself by a false name, “Charlie Dennison.” She did that to prevent -Campbell from finding me. I suppose it really didn’t matter much, but -somehow I didn’t like the thought of wearing a disguise and going by an -assumed name. - -Of course, as a boy, I couldn’t go much with the few girls there were -in the neighbourhood, and at the same time, being in fact a girl, I -couldn’t go out and associate with the boys. So my only companion -was Mrs. Dennison. We lived together in a tiny bit of a house that -belonged to her, and she was the only real teacher I ever had. I reckon -she didn’t know much about books. At any rate, she didn’t care about -them. But she let me read mine as much as I pleased, and she taught -me how to do all sorts of household things. Especially she taught me -to do needlework, and as I used to do it in our little porch in the -summertime, the boys thought it strange for a boy to use a needle, so -they used to call me “Miss Charlotte” and gibe and jeer at me a good -deal. But I didn’t mind, particularly as there was a woodland near our -house, so that I could see a great deal of my birds and squirrels. -It was then, too, that I made acquaintance with many insects and -bugs—pinch-bugs, ants, yellow-jackets, and a lot more. You can’t -imagine how greatly interested I became in studying the ways of these -creatures. They all have characters of their own; and when one really -becomes acquainted with them, they are vastly more interesting than -commonplace people are. - - -Chapter the Eleventh - -AFTER we had lived for more than a year in the little cottage, Mrs. -Dennison one day told me we must go away quickly, and we left within an -hour. She let me put my girl’s clothes on before we started. - -“They have found out that you are disguised as a boy,” she explained, -“and when they set out to find us again, they’ll probably look for a -lady and a boy. So, by wearing girl’s clothes again, you’ll have a -better chance to escape their clutches.” - -I was getting to be a pretty big girl by that time, and so I had been -ashamed of wearing boy’s clothes for some time past. But when I put on -my gowns again, they made me still more ashamed, because they were so -short. - -So, as soon as we got to a place where we could stop for a few days, -Mrs. Dennison sent for two dressmakers to fashion some new gowns for -me, and I really looked quite like another person when I put them on. - -That must have been about four years ago. According to what I was -afterward told, I was then thirteen years old. I know now that I was -fifteen. But I’ll tell you all about that further on. - -All this while, Mrs. Dennison was receiving money from my father at -regular intervals, and there was plenty of it. But it never came -directly from my father. It came from a bank, with a very formal note -saying that the money was sent “by order of Mr. Jackson Byrd,” and -asking Mrs. Dennison to sign and return a receipt for it. My father -sent us no letters and no messages. This troubled me very much when I -got to thinking about it. And that made me very unhappy, for I loved -my father dearly, and I remembered how happy I had been with him. But -after thinking more about it, I saw that he hadn’t forgotten his little -girl and hadn’t quit caring about her, because if he had, the money -wouldn’t have come so regularly. - -Still, that troubled me more than ever, because it must mean that -my father was in some kind of difficulty, that he could not send any -letters to us. I learned afterward that this was so, but Mrs. Dennison -would never tell me anything about it. - -We were moving about a good deal at this time, generally starting -suddenly—sometimes so suddenly as to leave many of our things behind. -But I always carried the little satchel that contained the papers my -father had given me. - -At last, one day when we left the train at Chicago and entered a -carriage to drive to a little hotel that we were to live at, a man -came to the carriage door and handed Mrs. Dennison a paper. He said -something which I did not understand, and Mrs. Dennison kissed me and -got out of the carriage. The man got in, and ordered the carriage -to drive away with us, leaving Mrs. Dennison standing there on the -sidewalk. - -I was terribly scared, and wanted to jump out. I tried to open the -doors, but the man had placed his hands on the two latches, so that I -couldn’t move them. I felt like shrieking, but I decided that it was -best to control myself, keep my wits about me, and be ready to deal -with the situation wisely, as soon as I should find out what it really -was. So, summoning all my self-control, I entered into conversation -with the man who sat on the front seat opposite me. - -“Do you mind telling me,” I asked, “why you have kidnapped me in this -fashion?” - -“It ain’t kidnapping, young lady, an’ it ain’t anything else irregular. -You see, I had a warrant. I’m a court officer, an’ I does what the -court orders an’ nothin’ else.” - -“Then a court ordered you to seize me?” I asked. - -“Ya’as ’m,” he answered. - -“But on what ground?” - -“‘Tain’t my business to know that, Miss, an’ as a matter of fac’ I -don’t know it. All I know is, I was give a warrant an’ tole to serve -it, an’ bring you to the court. Don’t you worry about a-payin’ of the -cabman. I’ll ten’ to all that.” - -“But what do they want with me in court?” I asked insistently. - -“Dunno, Miss.” - -“But who is it that wants me?” - -“Dunno, Miss, only the warrant head said, ‘Campbell vee ess Byrd and -Dennison.’” - -“But what right have they to bother me in this way? Am I not a free -person? Haven’t I a right—” - -“Dunno, Miss, ’tain’t my business to know. But I suppose you’re a -gal under age, and I suppose gals under age ain’t got no rights in -pertic’lar, leastways in opposition to their gardeens.” - -By this time, we had arrived at the courthouse, and I was taken before -the judge. I remember thinking that if I should displease him in any -way, he could order me hanged. I know better now, but I thought so -then; so I made up my mind to be very nice to the judge. - -Campbell was there, and he had a lawyer with him. The lawyer told the -judge that Campbell was—something in Latin—_loco parentis_, I think -it was. Anyhow, it meant stepfather, or something like that. He said -the courts in his State had made him my guardian; that I possessed -valuable property; that I had been abducted by my father, who was a -dissolute person, now serving out a sentence in the State’s prison for -some crime. He gave the judge a lot of papers to prove all this. - -I was so shocked and distressed to hear that my father was in prison, -that for a while I couldn’t speak. At last I controlled myself and -said to the judge:— - -“I love my father. If he has been sent to prison, it was that -man”—pointing to Campbell—“who got him sent there. My father is good -and kind, and I love him. Campbell is wicked and cruel, and I hate -him. Look at his flat nose! That’s where I smashed it with a heavy -hair-brush when he tried to whip me for telling the truth about him. I -don’t want to go with him. I want to go back to Mrs. Dennison, till my -father can come after me. Please, Judge, let me do that.” - -The judge asked Campbell’s lawyer how old I was, and he answered:— - -“Thirteen years old, your Honour.” - -Then the judge said:— - -“She seems older. If she were fourteen, I should be bound by the law -to let her choose her own guardian for so long at least as she shall -remain in Illinois. But as the papers in the case seem to show that -her age is only thirteen, I am bound to recognise the guardianship -established by the courts of another State. I must remand the girl to -the custody of her guardian, Mr. Campbell.” - -Then, seeing in how desperate a strait I was, I summoned all my -courage. I rose to my feet and faced the judge. I said:— - -“But, please, Mr. Judge, this isn’t fair. That man Campbell hates me, -and I hate him. Isn’t it better to send me to somebody else? Besides -that, he has a lawyer, and I haven’t one. Can’t I hire a lawyer to -speak for me? I’ve got two dollars in my pocketbook to pay him with.” - -Everybody laughed when I said that. You see, I had no idea what the -price of lawyers was. But just then an old gentleman arose and said to -the judge:— - -“If it please the court, I will appear as counsel for this persecuted -girl. I have listened to these proceedings with indignation and horror. -It is perfectly clear to my mind that this is a case of kidnapping -under the forms of the law.” - -There the judge interrupted him, saying:— - -“The court will permit no reflections upon its proceedings.” - -Then my lawyer answered:— - -“I have cast no reflections upon the court. My challenge is to the -integrity and good faith of this man, Campbell. I do not know the -facts that lie behind this proceeding. I am going to ask the court -for an adjournment, in order to find them out. It is obvious that this -young girl—helpless and friendless here—looks not only unwillingly, -but with positive horror, upon the prospect of being placed again in -Campbell’s charge. Morally, and I think legally, she has a right to be -heard in that behalf, to have the facts competently explored and fully -presented to the court. To that end, I ask that the matter be adjourned -for one week, and that the young girl be paroled, in the meanwhile, in -the custody of her counsel.” - -Then the dear old gentleman, whom everybody seemed to regard with -special reverence, took his seat by my side, and held my hand in his. -Campbell’s lawyer made a speech to the judge, and when he had finished, -the judge said that my lawyer’s request was denied. He explained the -matter in a way that I did not understand. It seemed to anger the old -lawyer who had taken my case. He rose and said, as nearly as I can -remember:— - -“Your Honour’s denial of my motion is a denial of justice. This young -girl, my client, is a minor child, utterly defenceless here except in -so far as I have volunteered my services to defend her. But she is -an American citizen, and as such is entitled to be heard in her own -behalf. In this court she cannot get a hearing, for the reason that -this court has corruptly prejudged the case, as it corruptly prejudges -every case in which money or influence can be brought to bear.” - -By this time the judge was pounding with his mallet, and the whole -court-room was in an uproar. But, raising his voice, my dear old lawyer -continued:— - -“If justice were done, you, sir, would be dragged from the bench that -you dishonour by sitting upon it. Oh, I know, you can send me to jail -for speaking these truths in your presence. I trust you will try that. -If, by any martyrdom of mine, I can bring the corruption of such judges -as you are to the knowledge and attention of this community, I shall -feel that my work is well done. In the meantime I shall set another to -secure for this helpless girl a writ of habeas corpus which shall get -for her, in another and more righteous court, the fair hearing which -you insolently and criminally deny to her here. Now send me to jail -in punishment of the immeasurable contempt I feel for a court where -justice is betrayed for money, and where human rights are bartered away -for a price.” - -The judge was very angry, and a lot of men surrounded my old lawyer. -But what happened afterward I have never known. For no sooner was I -put in Campbell’s charge than I was hurried to a train, and the next -morning I heard him say to one of the men he had with him:— - -“We are out of Illinois now; we’ve beaten that writ of habeas corpus.” - -Then he turned to me and said:— - -“If you care for your own comfort, you will recognise me as your -guardian, and behave yourself accordingly.” - -I reckon you must be tired reading by this time, Dorothy, so you are -to take a rest here, and I’ll write the remainder of my story in other -chapters. I’m afraid I’m making my story tedious; but I’ve fully made -up my mind to tell it all, because I don’t know what you will care -for in it, and what will seem unimportant to you. If I try to shorten -it by leaving out anything, the thing I leave out may happen to be -precisely the thing that would change your opinion of me. I want to -deal absolutely honestly with you; so I am telling you everything I -remember. - - - - -XXVII - -KILGARIFF’S PERPLEXITY - - -DURING the two days that Dorothy had thus far given to the reading of -Evelyn’s book, Kilgariff had been chafing impatiently. He wanted to go -back to Petersburg and active duty, and he wanted, before doing so, to -ride over to Branton and “talk it out with Evelyn,” as he formulated -his thoughts in his own mind. - -He could do neither, for the reason that his wound began to trouble -him again, and Arthur Brent, upon examining it, condemned him to spend -another week or ten days in the house. - -So far as “talking it out with Evelyn” was concerned, it was perhaps -fortunate that he was compelled to submit to an enforced delay. For -he really did not know what he was to say to Evelyn; and the more he -thought about the matter, the more he did not know. - -The question was indeed a very perplexing one. How should he even -begin the proposed conversation? Should he begin by abruptly telling -Evelyn that he loved her, but that there were reasons why he did not -want her to give him love in return? That was not the way in which a -woman had a right to expect to be wooed. It would be a direct affront -to her womanly and maidenly pride, which she would promptly, and -bitterly, and quite properly, resent. Moreover, by arousing her anger -and resentment, it would utterly defeat his purpose, which was to find -out his own duty by finding out how far Evelyn had already learned to -think of him as a possible lover. - -Should he, then, ask her that question, in her own singularly direct -and truthful way of dealing? - -That would be to affront and wound her by the assumption that she had -given her love unasked. - -Should he begin by explaining to her the circumstances which prompted -him to shrink from wooing her, and then offer her his love if she -wanted it? - -Nothing could be more preposterous than that. - -Should he simply pay her his addresses, ask her for her love, and -then, if she should give it, proceed to explain to her the reasons why -she should not have permitted herself to love such a man as he? - -That question also promptly answered itself in the negative, with -emphasis. - -What, then, should he do? - -Clearly it would be better to await Evelyn’s return to Wyanoke, and -trust to good luck to open some possible way. At any rate, he might -there approach the subject in indirect ways; while if he could have -ridden over to Branton for the express purpose of having a conference -with her, no such indirection would have been possible. His very going -to her there would have been a declaration of some purpose which he -must promptly explain. - -Obviously, therefore, it was better that he should not go to Branton, -but should await such opportunity as good fortune might give him after -Evelyn’s return to Wyanoke. But that necessity postponed the outcome, -and Kilgariff was in a mood to be impatient of delay, particularly as -every hour consciously intensified his own love, and rendered him less -and less capable of saying nay to his passion. - -With her woman’s quickness of perception, Dorothy shrewdly guessed -what was going on in his mind, and she rejoiced in it. But she made -no reference to the matter, even in the most remotely indirect way. -She simply went about her tasks with a pleased and amused smile on her -face. - - - - -XXVIII - -EVELYN’S BOOK, CONCLUDED - - -WHEN Dorothy took up Evelyn’s manuscript again, it was nine o’clock in -the evening of the second day, and, moved by her eagerness to follow -the story, even more than by her conscientious desire to finish it -before the author’s return on the morrow, she read late into the night. -But she had sent Evelyn a note in the late afternoon, in which she had -written:— - - My Evelyn is not to fail in her promise to come back to me to-morrow. - I have not yet completed the reading of the manuscript, though I hope - to do so to-night, if a late vigil shall enable me to accomplish that - purpose. I have asked Arthur to let me sleep in the nursery to-night, - if I finish the reading in time to sleep at all. So I can sit up as - late as I please without fear of disturbing him. Poor fellow, he - is working too hard and thinking too hard even for his magnificent - strength. - - But whether I finish your manuscript to-night or not, Evelyn dear, I - have read enough of it to know that your life-story only confirms the - judgment I had formed of your character, and draws you nearer to my - sympathies. So come home in the morning, and don’t disappoint me. - -When she took up the manuscript again, this is what she read:— - - -Chapter the Twelfth - -WE travelled by the railroad as far as it went. Then we had to get into -a big wagon, drawn by six mules. - -The country we passed through was wild, and quite uninhabited, I think. -At any rate, we saw no houses, and no people except now and then a -little party of Indians. There were no roads, only dim trails, and -there were no bridges, so that it sometimes took us three or four days -to get across a river. - -We carried all our provisions in the wagon, and when we stopped for the -night we cooked our suppers by great big fires, built out of doors. It -was usually about nightfall when we pitched our camp, and so long as -our way lay through the woods, I used to lie awake for hours every -night, looking up and watching the light from the camp-fire as it -played hide and seek among the great trees. When at last we got out of -the woods and began travelling over a vast prairie, the camping was -far less pleasant, particularly when a norther blew, making it bitter -cold. Still, I insisted on sleeping out of doors, although Campbell -had fitted up a cosy little bedroom for me in the big wagon. That was -because it was Campbell’s wagon. Out of doors I felt a sort of freedom, -while if I even looked into the wagon I realised that I was that man’s -prisoner. - -He was trying to be good to me then. That is to say, he was trying to -make me think him kind and to make me like him. Among other things, -he gave me a horse to ride on. He had intended at first that I should -travel in the wagon, but I would not do that. I preferred to walk, -instead. So, after the second day, when we met a party of Indians, he -bought a horse of them and gave it to me to ride. It was a vicious -brute, bent upon breaking my neck, but I knew how to ride, and within a -day or two I had taught the animal to like me a little, and to obey me -altogether. I had no saddle, of course, but I never did like a saddle, -and I don’t, even now, as you know. So I got one of the men to strap a -blanket on my horse’s back with a surcingle, and I rode upon that. - -The men who drove our mules were very rough fellows, but they soon got -to liking me. I suppose that was because I knew how to ride and wasn’t -afraid of anything. However that may be, they seemed to like me. They -would do their best to make me comfortable, giving me the best they -could get to eat—birds, squirrels, and the like—and always making for -me a pallet of dry grass or leaves to sleep upon. - -Finally, one evening, when Campbell had gone away from the camp for -some purpose or other, one of the rough men came to me and said:— - -“Little Missy”—that is what they always called me—“little Missy, you -don’t like Campbell an’ you want to get away from him. Now he’s pretty -quick on trigger, but I’m a bit quicker’n he is, an’ anyhow I’ll take -the chances for you. Ef you say the word, I’ll pick a quarrel with -him an’ kill him in fair fight. Then my pards an’ me’ll take you to -some civilised town an’ leave you there, so’s you kin git back to your -friends. Only say the word, an’ I’ll git him ready for his funeral -afore mornin’.” - -Of course this horrified me, particularly the indifference with which -the man thought of murder. I told him he must never think of doing -anything of the kind, and asked him to promise me. - -“It’s jest as you says, little Missy,” he answered. “Only me an’ my -pards wants you to know how ready we are to do you any little favour -like that ef you want it done.” - -That night I couldn’t sleep. I lay all night looking up at the stars -and thinking with horror of the light way in which this man had -proposed to commit a murder for me. Then the thought came to me that -I had myself tried to kill Campbell once with a hair-brush, and for a -while I felt that after all I was no better than these murderous men. -But, after thinking the thing out, I saw that the two cases were quite -different. I had hit Campbell in self-defence, and I could not even yet -feel sorry that I had wanted to kill him. - - -Chapter the Thirteenth - -CAMPBELL was living, at that time, in a little town somewhere in Texas, -and we got there after two or three weeks. - -It was a dismal-looking place. All the houses were built of rough -boards, set upon end, and most of them were saloons. Campbell’s -house was like all the rest, and when I asked my mother why he lived -in so small a house, and what he had done with the fine one that I -remembered, she told me he had lost most of his money. - -Almost immediately after I got to his house, Campbell took me before -a sort of judge who had two pistols and a knife in his belt. Campbell -told the judge that he wanted to adopt me as his daughter. When the -judge asked him how old I was, he said I was thirteen, and then the -judge said that my consent to his adoption of me was not necessary. - -The reason he said that was because I had told him that I didn’t -want to be Campbell’s daughter. The judge signed the papers, and -told me that Campbell was my father now, and that I must obey him in -everything. Campbell told me that my name would hereafter be Evelyn -Byrd Campbell. I supposed then that he was telling the truth. - -When he got home that evening, he had been drinking heavily, and -he seemed particularly happy. He told my mother that he had “fixed -things,” so that they wouldn’t be poor any longer. He said he was going -to buy a big ranch and raise horses. - -That night when I went to my bed, I found that somebody had broken -into my closet and taken the satchel in which I kept my papers. When I -raised an alarm, Campbell told me he had taken the papers and put them -in a secure place, lest I should lose them. He said he was my father -now, and that it was his duty to take care of my property. - -I was terribly angry—so angry that if the teamster who had offered to -kill Campbell for me had been there, I think I should have asked him -to get my papers for me, although I knew that he would probably kill -Campbell in doing so. But the teamster was gone from the town, and I -was helpless. - -Campbell and my mother did not get on together very well at this time. -They never exactly quarrelled, at least in my presence, but I think -that was because my mother regarded quarrelling as vulgar. She was a -refined woman, or had been. She seemed now to be very unhappy, and I -was sorry for her, though I could not love her. I never had loved her -since she had married Campbell while her real husband, my father, was -still living. One day I asked her if she didn’t think she had made a -mistake in doing that, and if she didn’t think it wrong and wicked and -vulgar for a woman to have two husbands alive at the same time. She -rebuked me severely for what she called my insolence, and bade me never -mention that subject again. I never did—to her. - - -Chapter the Fourteenth - -VERY soon after this, Campbell bought a large ranch, as he said he -would do, and we moved away from the town to live on the ranch. - -I know now that he bought it with my money. When he had me made his -daughter, and got hold of my papers, the law somehow allowed him to -sell the stocks and bonds my father had given me, and he did so. I -never knew this until a very little time ago—since I have been at -Wyanoke. I’ll tell you about that in the proper place. - -There were many horses on the ranch, and I spent nearly all my time -riding them bareback and teaching them little tricks. It was the only -thing I could do to amuse myself; for I did not like to be with my -mother, and I hated the very sight of Campbell. - -I had already learned to ride standing on the back of a horse, and I -decided to learn all about that sort of riding. I enjoyed the danger -involved in it, for one thing, especially when I learned to ride two -horses at once in that way. But I did not practise these things for -the sake of the excitement alone. I had a plan to carry out. I had -determined to run away with the first circus that should come to that -part of the country. I thought that if I could learn to be a really -good bareback rider, the circus people would be glad to take me with -them, and in that way I should get away from Campbell. - -So I practised my riding every day, growing steadily surer of myself -and more expert. I practised jumping through hoops, too—forward -and backward—and standing on my hands on horseback, and throwing -somersaults. - -At last a circus came to the town twelve miles from the ranch, and -Campbell offered to take me to see it. He was in one of his placative -moods just then, and thought he would please me by this. But I declined -the invitation. I did that because I meant to run away and join that -circus, and I wanted him to think I cared nothing about a circus, so -that he shouldn’t look for me among the show people. I still had the -horse he had bought from the Indians and given to me, so that I could -take that without being accused of horse-stealing. The horse was a -tough, wiry fellow, who liked nothing so much as to run with all his -might. I think he could have travelled at half-speed for twenty or -thirty miles without growing tired. - -One night, while the circus was in the town, I mounted my horse just -after dark and set off for a ride. As I often rode for half the night, -I knew Campbell would think nothing of my doing this. As soon as I was -well away from the house, I turned into the road that led to the town, -and put my horse—Little Chief—at a rapid gallop. Within less than two -hours, I reached the town. Just before getting there, I turned Little -Chief loose, set his head toward the ranch, and bade him “scamper.” I -had taught him always to go to his stable as quickly as possible when -I said that word “scamper” to him. This time I had removed the blanket -from his back and the bridle from his head. I knew, therefore, he would -be found in his stall next morning with nothing on him to show that he -had been ridden. - -As soon as Little Chief had started on his scamper, I turned and walked -into the town. The circus performance was not quite over, so I went to -the door of the big tent and told the man there that I wanted to see -the proprietor of the show on important business. I hadn’t a cent of -money, so I didn’t expect to go in. But the man at the door politely -invited me to enter and see the end of the show. For a moment I thought -of accepting his invitation, but then I remembered that all the -ranch-men for twenty miles round would be there, and that they all knew -me by sight as “that wild gal of Campbell’s.” I didn’t want any of them -to see me at the circus, lest they should tell of it when the search -for me began. So I told the man that I would not go in, and asked him -where and how I could see the owner of the show after the performance. -He called a man and told him to take me to “the Lady Superior, in the -dressing-tent.” I found out presently that all the people in the circus -called the manager’s wife by that name, and the manager they called -“the Grand Panjandrum.” In fact, they had a nickname of some sort for -every one in authority. - -The Lady Superior received me as a queen might. She had just been -riding around the ring in a red and gold chariot drawn by six white -horses, and playing Cleopatra in what they called “the magnificent -and gorgeous historical panorama of human splendour.” As Cleopatra, -Napoleon, Alexander the Great, George Washington, Genghis Khan, Julius -Cæsar, and a great many others took part in the spectacle, the people -in the audience must have got their notions of history considerably -mixed up, but at any rate the Lady Superior always seemed to enjoy her -part, and particularly her gorgeous raiment. I had a hard time trying -not to laugh in her face when I was first presented to her on that -night. She was still dressed in her robe of flaming, high-coloured -silk, trimmed with ermine and spangles, with her crown still on her -head, and she was almost greedily eating a dish of beef à la mode with -roast onions. But in spite of her gorgeous apparel and her defective -grammar, she proved to be a good-natured creature, and she received me -very kindly. - -I told her what I could do as a bareback rider, and she took me to her -hotel in her carriage as soon as she had put on some plain clothes. -I told her that I didn’t want anybody in that town to see me, so she -drove up to a back door of the little tavern and smuggled me into -her room. I remember that the tavern was a little two-story, wooden -building, with the inside partition walls made of rough boards set on -end so loosely that one could see through the cracks into the next -room. But it was called the Transcontinental Hotel, and the painter had -found some difficulty in getting the big name into one line across the -narrow front of the building. - -In her room the Lady Superior gave me some supper, she eating with me -as heartily as if she had not had a dish of beef à la mode with roast -onions less than half an hour before. She explained to me that the -circus people never take their supper till after the performance. - -“It makes ’em lazy and not up to their work,” she said. - -When her husband, the Grand Panjandrum, came in, she introduced me to -him and told him about my accomplishments. - -He slapped his thigh with his palm and exclaimed:— - -“That’s superb! We’ve just lost Mademoiselle Fifine, our ‘matchless -female equestrienne,’ and as we have advertised her everywhere, the -audiences are threatening to shoot me every time I go into the ring -as clown. You see, audiences don’t like to be disappointed. I’ll let -you show me your paces in the morning, and if you can do the stunts, I -shall engage you, and you shall appear as Mademoiselle Fifine to-morrow -afternoon and evening.” - -I objected that I mustn’t be seen in that town, lest I be recognised, -whereupon he broke into a laugh and exclaimed:— - -“Recognised! Why, your own mother won’t know you when the dresser gets -you into Mademoiselle Fifine’s finery, and daubs your face with grease -paint, and plasters it with powder. Bridget’s clothes will just fit -you.” - -“Who is Bridget?” I asked, as I had not heard of that person before. -The manager laughed, and answered:— - -“Bridget? Why, she was Mademoiselle Fifine, you know. She wasn’t well -up to the business, but she was plucky and took risks, so she got -a very bad fall that broke her up, and she had to quit and go to a -hospital. She was a good girl, and I am paying her expenses. If she -don’t die of her injuries, I’ll pay her board somewhere as long as she -lives. For she will never ride again.” - -Then a sudden thought occurred to the Grand Panjandrum. - -“Tell you what, Sis,” he said. “Why can’t we drive down to the tent, -and you let me see you ride a little to-night? You see, it will be a -sort of life insurance to me; for if we give the show again without -Fifine in it, some o’ them wild Texans will shoot me, like as not. If -you can do the trick, I’ll get a printer to work, and early in the -morning we’ll come out with a flaming announcement of ‘The Return of -Mademoiselle Fifine, the Matchless Equestrienne of the Universe,’ and -you can go into the ring at the afternoon performance.” - -I didn’t like the lies he intended to tell, and I said so. I wanted -him to give me some other ring name, but he said that all his big, -coloured posters had Mademoiselle’s name on them, with coloured -pictures of her on horseback, and that he couldn’t afford to throw the -posters away, even if there had been any printers in Texas who could -make new ones, as there were not. - -“Besides,” he added, “you’ll be Mademoiselle Fifine, just as much as -Bridget was. Everybody knows that the name is fictitious. All they want -is to see good riding, and if you can’t ride as well as poor Bridget -did, I couldn’t think of engaging you.” - -I had to consent, and indeed I saw that there was really no deception -to be practised. So the Grand Panjandrum and the Lady Superior and I -sent for the carriage and drove back to the circus tent, which was dark -now, except for the dim light of a few watchmen’s lanterns. I went to -the dressing-room and put on some of Fifine’s riding-clothes—not those -she wore in the presence of the audience, but a plain practice gown of -black. Meanwhile the manager had made the men light up a little and -bring out some horses. - -I mounted and rode a little, doing my very best, though I was -extremely nervous for fear that I should not prove to be acceptable. -I suppose I rode a good deal better than Bridget had done, for -the manager, his wife, and all the men in the ring seemed greatly -delighted. I ended by throwing some somersaults, and that set them -almost wild. The manager engaged me on the spot, making me sign the -contract in the dressing-room tent before I had changed my clothing. -Then he hurried me back to the tavern, registered me as Mademoiselle -Fifine, writing the name in a big hand all across the page, and ordered -me to bed. - -“You mustn’t be nervous at your first performance,” he said; “so you -must get plenty of sleep.” - -When it came time to go to the circus, I was surprised to find that a -special carriage, drawn by two large, white horses with long, flowing -tails, had been provided for me. I learned afterward that this was -one of the Grand Panjandrum’s devices for advertising his “matchless -equestrienne.” It gave the people the impression that Mademoiselle -Fifine was a person of so much consequence that she must be treated -like a queen, and it led to many wild, exaggerated stories of the -royal salary the manager had to pay in order to secure so distinguished -an “artiste.” It was popularly believed that “ten thousand a year -wouldn’t touch her”; that she had her own carriage and coachman and -footman and maid, and always the finest rooms in the hotel. My salary, -in fact, was fifty dollars a month, and the “coachman” was one of the -ring attendants. But I did have the best rooms in all the hotels. The -Grand Panjandrum insisted upon that, and he did it rather noisily, too, -complaining that the hotels really had no rooms fit for such a person -to live in. All this was advertising, of course, but at any rate I was -made as comfortable as could be. - -I succeeded very well indeed in the bareback riding, and at my -suggestion the manager sent an agent to Campbell’s ranch and bought -the five or six horses there that I had trained. I soon drilled them -to perform little acts in the ring which seemed to please the public. -For this the manager added ten dollars a month to my salary. He and his -wife were always very good to me, but some of the actors in the circus -seemed jealous of the attention shown me and of the applause I got. I -was already miserable, because I hated the business and especially my -own part of it. - -The whole thing seemed to me vulgar, and the people I had to associate -with were very coarse. But what could I do? Anything was better than -being Campbell’s daughter, and the circus gave me a living at the least. - - -Chapter the Fifteenth - -I DID not remain long with the circus—not more than four or five -months, I think—before Campbell found out where I was and came after -me. If the manager had been a man of any courage, I should have refused -to go with Campbell. But when Campbell threatened him with all sorts -of lawsuits and prosecutions, he agreed to discharge me. Even then I -should not have gone with Campbell if I could have got the money due -me for my riding. But after the first month the manager had paid me -almost nothing, on the plea of bad business (though his tent was always -packed), and as he was paying all my expenses except for my plain -clothes, I hadn’t pressed him for the money. He owed me nearly two -hundred dollars when Campbell came, and I asked him for it, meaning to -run away and find some other employment. But Campbell told him he was -my father and my guardian, and that the money must be paid to him and -not to me. The manager weakly yielded, and so I hadn’t enough money -even to pay a railroad fare. - -Under the circumstances, there was nothing for me to do but go with -Campbell. He had sold the ranch, and was now keeping a big wholesale -store in the city of Austin. He had built a very big house, and had a -great many negro servants in it. Soon after I got to Austin, Campbell’s -store was burned, and I thought at first that he was ruined. But he -seemed richer after that than ever. My mother told me it was the -insurance money, and a good many people used to think he had burned the -store himself. There was a lawsuit about it, but Campbell won. - -One day I concluded to have a talk with him. I asked him why he wanted -to keep me with him, and why he wouldn’t give me the money I had earned -in the circus, and let me go away. - -He laughed at me, and told me it was because he didn’t choose to have -his daughter riding in a circus. So I got no satisfaction out of him -then. But in the letter he sent me in the bundle of papers that -Colonel Kilgariff brought me, he explained the matter. It was because -he feared I would get somebody else to be my guardian, and any new -guardian would come upon him for the stocks and bonds my father had -given me. Campbell had sold all of them that he could, and was using -the money himself. - -After a while, Campbell became interested in some kind of business—I -don’t know what—out in Arizona; and when he had to go out there to -stay for several months, he broke up his house in Austin, and took -my mother and me with him. We lived in tents on the journey, and -Campbell grew very uneasy after a time, because there were reports of -a threatened Indian war. Still, we travelled on, until at last we got -among the Indians themselves. They were very angry about something, -but Campbell seemed to know how to deal with them, in some measure at -least. But presently the war broke out in earnest, and Campbell told my -mother he was completely ruined, as he had put all his money into the -business, and this Indian war had destroyed it. - -One day he had a parley with a big Indian chief, and that night he -took my mother and went away somewhere, leaving me in the tent alone. -About midnight a band of Indians came to the tent, howling like so many -demons. They took me and carried me away on one of their horses. - -I was greatly frightened, but I pretended not to be, and the Indians -liked me for that. They always like people who are not afraid. They -treated me well—or at any rate they did me no harm—but they carried -me away to their camp, where all their squaws and children were; for -they were on the war-path now, and Indians always take their families -with them when they go to war. - -When I found that they were not disposed to treat me badly I was almost -glad they had captured me; for at least they had taken me away from -Campbell, and I liked them much better than I did him. - -In the letter Campbell sent me by Colonel Kilgariff, he told me that -he had himself planned my capture by the Indians. He had arranged it -with the chief when he had the parley with him; and when he went away -with my mother, leaving me in the tent alone, he knew the Indians -were to catch me that night. He wanted them to get me because then I -couldn’t get another guardian, and he thought I could never come back -to trouble him about my money when I grew up. I don’t know why he wrote -all these things to me, except that he was dying and wanted me to know -the whole story. He sent me back all my papers, so that I might some -day get what was left of the property my father had given me. Among -other things, he told me that my father was dead, and that he himself -had killed him in a fight. - - -Chapter the Sixteenth - -I STAYED with the Indians for several months—as long as the war -lasted. It was then that I lived on buffalo meat alone, with no other -food. Finally the soldiers conquered the Indians and forced them to go -back on their reservation. Then Campbell came to see if I was still -alive, and, finding me, he took me with him to New York, where he was -practising law and doing something in a bank. That lasted a year or so. -Nothing ever lasted long with Campbell. But when he left New York and -went to Missouri to live, he seemed to have plenty of money again. - -Soon afterward, this war came on, and Campbell raised a company, got -himself appointed its captain, and went into the Confederate service. -After a while, he came home on a leave of absence. He and my mother had -been on very bad terms for a long time, and things seemed worse than -ever. - -One day, when he had been drinking a good deal, he insulted my mother -frightfully, and she turned upon him at last, saying she intended -to expose his rascalities and “bring him to book”—that was her -phrase—for embezzling my property. - -Dorothy, I can’t tell you all about that scene. I was so shocked and -frightened that it gives me a nightmare even now to recall it. Campbell -_killed my mother by choking her to death in my presence_! - -As I was the only person who saw him do it, I think he would have -killed me, too, if I had not run from him. As it was, he followed me -presently, and with a pistol in his hand told me I must go with him, -adding that if I ever told anybody what had happened he would kill me. - -He took off his uniform and put on a suit of citizen’s clothing. Then -he made me mount a horse, he mounting another, and we rode all night. -In the morning we were in a Federal camp. - -I don’t know what Campbell told the Federal officers, but he satisfied -them somehow, and, taking me with him, he went East. He put me in -charge of a very ugly old woman and her daughter, somewhere up in the -mountains of Pennsylvania, not near any town or even village. Then he -went away, and for three years I lived with those people, practically -a prisoner. They never for a moment let me out of their sight, and at -night I had to sleep in an upper room, a kind of loft, which had no -window and no door—nothing but a trap-door over the stairs. Every -night the younger woman closed the trap-door, fastening it below. The -two women slept in the room beneath. - -If I could have got away, I should have gone, even if I had been -obliged to go into the woods and starve. For the women treated me -horribly, and I could not forget the scene when my mother was killed. -I thought of her always as she lay there on the floor, dead, with her -face purple and—I can’t write about that. - -Once I tried to escape. By hard work I made a hole in the roof above -me, one night, and tried to climb up to it. But I missed my hold and -fell heavily to the floor. That brought the two women up the stairs, -and after that they took away every stitch of my clothing every night -before I went to bed, not leaving me even a nightgown. So I made no -further efforts to escape. - -But I set to work in another way. I had learned that Campbell was now -an officer in the Federal army, and I managed to find out how to reach -him with a letter, so I wrote to him. I told him I intended to have him -hanged for killing my mother, and that it didn’t matter how long he -kept me in the mountains; that some time or other, sooner or later, I -should get free; and that whenever that time came, I meant to go to a -lawyer and tell him all about the crime. - -I knew that this would make Campbell uneasy. I thought it not -improbable that he would come up into the mountains and kill me, though -I thought he might be afraid to do that. You see, when he killed my -mother there was nobody but me to tell about it, and he knew he could -go to the other side in the war and not be followed; while if he should -do anything to me up there in the Pennsylvania mountains, everybody -would know of it. For in that country everybody knew when a stranger -came into the neighbourhood, and when he went away again. So I thought -Campbell would be afraid to kill me there. I thought my letter would -frighten him, and that he would take me away from that place. That was -what I wanted. I thought that if I were taken to any other place, I -should have a better chance of escaping. - - -Chapter the Seventeenth - -THAT was not long before you saw me, Dorothy, and it turned out as -I had expected. Campbell grew alarmed. He ordered the two women to -bring me to him in Washington. When I got there, he told me that I had -relatives in Virginia who wanted me to come to them, and that he had -arranged to send me through the lines under a flag of truce. I know now -that he was not telling me the truth, but I believed him then, and I -was ready to do anything and go anywhere if only I could get out of his -clutches. - -He took me into another room, where an officer was writing, and there -they made me swear to a parole. Then Campbell took me down to the -Rapidan, and we went into that house from which Colonel Kilgariff -rescued me. Campbell said that the flag of truce would start from -there, but that we must wait there for the soldiers in charge of it to -come. - -When the shells struck the house and set it on fire, Campbell took me -to the cellar and left me there, saying that he would be back in a few -minutes, and that there was no danger in the cellar. I know now what -his intention was. He expected me to be burned to death there in the -cellar, and it would have happened that way, but for Colonel Kilgariff. - -There, Dorothy, dear: now you know all about me that I know about -myself. - -_The End of Evelyn’s Book._ - - - - -XXIX - -EVELYN’S VIGIL - - -EVELYN BYRD’S exceeding truthfulness of mind and soul made her a -transparent person for loving eyes to look through, and Edmonia -Bannister’s eyes were very loving ones for her. - -When she went to Branton for her ten days’ visit, Evelyn herself -scarcely knew why she wished thus to separate herself from Kilgariff; -but she went with a subconscious determination to avoid all mention of -his name. She could hardly have adopted a surer means of revealing her -state of mind to so wise and so experienced a woman as Edmonia. - -After much thought upon the subject, Edmonia sent a little note to -Dorothy. In it she wrote:— - - You have never said a word to me on the subject, Dorothy, but I - am certain that you know what the situation is between Evelyn and - Kilgariff. So do I, now, and I am not satisfied to have it so. - - Unless you peremptorily forbid, I am going to bring on a crisis - between those two. I am going to tell Evelyn what Kilgariff has done - for her in the matter of this trust fund. When she knows that, there - will be a scene of some sort between them, and I think we may trust - love and human nature to bring it to a happy conclusion. - - If you will recall what occurred when the trust papers were executed - and given to us three, you will remember that no promise of secrecy - was exacted of us. It is true we quite understood that we were to say - nothing to Evelyn about the matter until the proper time should come; - but we three are sole judges as to what is the proper time, and Agatha - and I are both of the opinion that the proper time is now. Unless you - interpose your veto, therefore, I shall act upon that opinion, making - myself spokeswoman for the trio. - - Please send me a line in a hurry. - -To this Dorothy replied by the messenger who had brought the note. She -wrote but a single sentence, and that was a Biblical quotation. She -wrote:— - - Now is the accepted time: behold, now is the day of salvation. - -On the evening before the day appointed for Evelyn’s return to -Wyanoke, Dorothy received a second note from Edmonia, saying:— - - I don’t know whether we have done wisely or otherwise. For once Evelyn - is inscrutable. We have told her of Kilgariff’s splendid generosity, - and we can’t make out how she takes it. She has grown very silent and - somewhat nervous. She is under a severe emotional strain of some kind, - but of what kind we do not know. A storm of some sort is brewing, and - we must simply wait to learn what its character is to be. - - Evelyn is proud and exceedingly sensitive, as we know. And there - is a touch of the savage in her—or rather the potentiality of the - savage—and in a case where she feels so strongly, it may result in an - outbreak of savage anger and resentment. - - We needn’t worry, however, I think. Even such an outbreak would in all - probability turn out well. Every storm passes, you know; and when the - clouds clear away, the skies are all the bluer for it. When a man and - a woman love each other and don’t know it, or don’t let each other - know it, any sort of crisis, any sort of emotional collision, is apt - to bring about a favourable result. - -Evelyn spent that evening in her room, writing incessantly, far into -the night. - -She wrote a letter to Kilgariff. When she read it over, she tore it up. - -“It reads as if I were angry,” she said to herself, “and anger is not -exactly what I feel. I wonder what I do feel.” - -Then she wrote another letter to Kilgariff, and put it aside, meaning -to read it after a while. In the meantime she wrote long and lovingly -to Dorothy, telling her she had decided not to return to Wyanoke, but -to go to Petersburg instead, and help in nursing the soldiers. - -When she had read that letter over, she was wholly unsatisfied with -it. Written words are apt to mean so much more or so much less than is -intended. She put it aside and took up the one to Kilgariff. As she -read it, it seemed even more unsatisfactory than the first. - -“It is too humble in parts, and too proud in parts,” she thought. - -Again she set to work and wrote both letters once more. The result was -worse than before. The letters seemed to ring with a false note, and -above all things she was determined to meet this crisis in her life -with absolute truth and candour. Besides, she not only wanted to utter -her thought to Kilgariff—she wanted to hear what he might have to say -in reply, and she wanted to see his face as he spoke, reading there far -more important things than any that he could put into a letter. - -Suddenly she realised that she was very cold. The weather was growing -severe now, and in her preoccupation she had neglected her fire until -it had burned down to a mass of slowly expiring coals. - -Then she recovered her courage. - -“I have been trying the cowardly way,” she said aloud, but speaking -only to herself. “I must face these things bravely. I’ve been planning -to run away again, and I will not do that. I’ve been running away all -my life. I’ll never run away again. I’ll go to Wyanoke in the morning.” - -With that, she gathered all the sheets on which she had written and -dropped them upon the few coals which remained alive. The paper -smouldered and smoked for a time. Then it broke into a flame and was -quickly consumed. - -The girl prepared herself for bed, with a degree of composure which -she had not been able to command at any time since the knowledge of -Kilgariff’s act had come to her. When she blew out her candle and -opened the window, a gust of snow was blown into her face, and she -heard the howling of the tempest without. - -“It is the first storm of the winter,” she thought, as she drew the -draperies about her. “How those poor fellows must be suffering down -there in the trenches at Petersburg to-night—half clad, and less than -half fed!” Then, as she was sinking into sleep, she thought:— - -“I’m glad Mr. Kilgariff is not there to-night.” - -The thought startled her into wakefulness again, and during the -remaining hours of the night she lay sleeplessly thinking, thinking, -thinking. - - - - -XXX - -BEFORE A HICKORY FIRE - - -EVELYN’S thinking accomplished its purpose. At the end of it she -understood herself, or thought she did. And when she returned to -Wyanoke the next morning, she thought she knew precisely what she was -going to say to Kilgariff. But who of us ever knows what we will say -in converse that involves emotion? Who of us can know what response -his utterance will draw forth from the other, or how far the original -intent may be turned into another by that response? - -At any rate, Evelyn knew that she intended to ask Colonel Kilgariff for -an interview, and so far she carried out her purpose. - -They were left alone in the great drawing-room at Wyanoke, where -hickory logs were merrily blazing in the cavernous fireplace, quite as -if there had been no war to desolate the land, and no man and woman -there with matters of grave import to discuss. - -Evelyn began the conference abruptly, as soon as Kilgariff entered and -took a seat. - -“I have heard,” she began, “of what you have done—of your great -generosity toward me. Of course I cannot permit that. You must cancel -those papers at once—to-day. I cannot sleep while they exist.” - -“Who told you of the matter?” Kilgariff asked in reply. - -“Edmonia, with Dorothy’s permission and Mrs. Pegram’s.” - -“They should not have told you. I meant that you should not know till -I am dead, unless—unless I should live longer than I expect, and you -should fall into need when the war ends.” - -“But what right had you to treat me so? Do you think me a beggar, that -I should accept a gift of money? Why did you do it?” - -The girl was standing now and confronting him, in manifest anger. - -Curiously enough, he did not seem to mind the anger. He had completely -mastered himself, and knew perfectly what he was to say. He answered:— - -“I did this because I love you, Evelyn, and because I cannot provide -for your future in any ordinary way.” - -Seeing that she was about to make some reply, he quickly forestalled -it, saying:— - -“Please let me continue. Please do not speak yet. Let me explain.” - -The girl was still standing, but the look of anger in her face had -given way to another expression—one more complex and less easily -interpreted. There was some pleasure in it, and some apprehension, -together with great astonishment. - -“Go on,” she said. - -“Only on even terms,” he answered, rising and standing in front of -her. “What I have to say to you must be said with my eyes looking into -yours. Now listen. By reason of a quite absurd convention, a young -woman may not receive gifts of value, and especially of money, from a -young man not her husband; yet she may freely take such gifts if they -come to her by his will, after he is dead. - -“There are circumstances which render it impossible for me to leave my -possessions to you by will. Any will that I might make to that effect -would be contested and broken by those for whom I care so little that -I would rather sink everything I have in the world in the Atlantic -Ocean than let them inherit a dollar of it. - -“There are also reasons which forbid me to ask you to be my wife—at -least until I shall have laid those reasons before you.” - -Evelyn was pale and trembling. Kilgariff saw that it was difficult for -her to stand, so, taking her hand, he said:— - -“Let us sit; I have a long story to tell.” Whether purposely or not, he -continued to hold her hand after they were seated. Whether consciously -or not, she permitted him to do so, without protest. He went on:— - -“There was only one other way to accomplish my purpose. It was and -still is my wish that everything I have in the world shall be yours -when I die. You are the woman I love, and though I have no right to -say so to you now, my love for you is the one supreme passion of my -life—the first, the last, the only one. Pardon me for saying that, and -please forget it, at least for the present. I have relatives, but they -are worse than dead to me, as you shall hear presently. I would rather -destroy everything I have by fire or flood than allow one cent of it to -pass into their unworthy hands. Enough of that. Let me go on. - -“There was only one way in which I could carry out my purpose, and that -was the one I adopted. I could not consult you about it or ask your -permission, for that would have been indeed to affront you in precisely -the way in which you now tell me I have affronted you. It would have -been to ask you to accept a money gift at my hands while I yet lived. -I intended, instead, to give you all I possess, only after my death -and in effect by my will or its equivalent. I did not intend you to be -embarrassed by any knowledge of my act, until a bullet or shell should -have laid me low. Now I want you to speak, please. I want you to say -that you understand, and that you forgive me.” - -“I understand,” she said; “there is nothing to forgive; but now that I -know your purpose, I cannot permit it. You must cancel those papers.” - -“Does it make no difference that I have told you I love you, and that I -should entreat you to be my wife if I were free to do so?” - -“I do not see,” she replied, “that that makes a difference.” - -“Do not decide the matter now, wait!” he half entreated, half -commanded. “Let me finish what I have to say. Let me tell you why I -must do this thing. Wait!” - -He paused for a moment, as if collecting his thoughts. Then he told -her his life-story, omitting nothing, concealing nothing, palliating -nothing. That done, he went on:— - -“You understand now why I was driven to the course I have adopted -with you. You understand that as an honourable man I could not ask -you for love, leaving you in ignorance of the fact that I am under a -conviction of felony. My sentence is at an end, of course, and I cannot -be rearrested, inasmuch as I am officially adjudged to be dead. But -that makes no difference in my duty. I could not honourably reveal my -love to you until you should know the facts. I do not now ask you to -accept my wrecked life and to forget the facts that have wrecked it. -I have no right to ask so great a sacrifice at your hands. I ask only -that you shall permit me to regard you as the woman I love, the woman -I should have sought to make my wife if I had been worthy. I ask your -permission so to arrange my affairs, or so to leave them as already -arranged, that at my death all that I have will pass into your hands. -You can never know or dream or imagine how I love you, Evelyn. Surely -it is only a little thing that I ask of you.” - -As he delivered this passionate utterance, Kilgariff threw his arm -around the girl’s waist, and for a moment held her closely. She let her -head rest upon his shoulder, and did not resist or resent his impulse -when he kissed her reverently upon the forehead. - -But an instant later, she suddenly realised the situation, and quickly -sprang to her feet, he rising with her and facing her with strained -nerves and eyes fixed upon her own, sternly but caressingly. - -Evelyn Byrd was not given to tears, and for that reason the drops that -now trickled down her cheeks had far more meaning to Kilgariff than a -woman’s tears sometimes have for a man. - -For a time, she looked him full in the face, not attempting to conceal -her tears even by brushing them away. She simply let them flow, as an -honest expression of her emotion. - -Finally she so far composed herself as to speak. - -“Owen Kilgariff,” she said—it was the first time she had ever so -addressed him—“Owen Kilgariff, you have dealt honestly with me; I want -to deal honestly with you. If I were worthy of your love, I should -rejoice in it. As it is, this is the greatest calamity of my life. You -do not know—but you shall. There are reasons that forbid me to accept -the love you have offered—peremptory reasons. You shall know them -quickly.” - -With that she glided out of the room, and Owen Kilgariff was left -alone. - - - - -XXXI - -THE LAST FLIGHT OF EVELYN - - -EVELYN went for a few minutes to her room. There she bathed her eyes; -for like all women, she was ashamed of the tears that did her honour by -attesting the tender intensity of her womanhood. - -That done, she went to the laboratory, where she found Dorothy at work. -To her she said:— - -“Please let me have my book. I want Mr. Kilgariff to read it.” - -Dorothy asked no explanation. She needed none. She went at once and -fetched the manuscript. Evelyn took it and returned to the parlour, -where she placed it in Kilgariff’s hands. - -“Please read that, carefully,” she said. “Then you will understand.” - -“If you mean,” he replied, “that anything this manuscript may reveal -concerning your past life can lessen my love for you, you are utterly -wrong, and the reading is unnecessary. If you wish only that I shall -know you better, and more perfectly understand the influences that -have made you the woman you are, I shall be glad to read every line and -word that you have written.” - -“Please read it.” That was all she said, and she instantly left the -room. - -Five minutes later she told Dorothy she wanted the carriage. - -“I want to go to Warlock,” she said, “on a little visit to Mrs. Pegram. -Oh, Dorothy! you understand.” - -“Yes, dear,” answered Dorothy, “I understand. It is rather late to -start to Warlock. It is a thirty-mile drive. But I’ll give you Dick for -your coachman, and there is a moon. Dick is quite a military man now, -and he knows what a forced march means. He’ll get you to Warlock in -time for a late supper.” - -Dick drove like a son of Jehu. After the manner of the family negro in -Virginia, he shrewdly conjectured what was in the wind; and when he put -up his horses at Warlock before even the regular supper was served, he -said to the stableman:— - -“I reckon mebbe Mas’ Owen Kilgariff’ll want stablin’ here for a good -horse to-morrow, an’ purty soon in de mawnin’ at dat.” - - - - -XXXII - -THE END OF IT ALL - - -DICK was right. Kilgariff read nearly all night, and finished Evelyn’s -book in the small hours of the morning. Then he slept more calmly than -he had done at any time during recent weeks. - -At six o’clock he went to the kitchen and negotiated with Aunt Kizzey, -the cook, for an immediate cup of coffee. Then he mounted the war-horse -that had brought him to Wyanoke—sleek and strong, now, and full of -gallop—and set off for Warlock plantation. - -When he got there, the nine o’clock breakfast was just ready, but he -had luckily met Evelyn in a strip of woodland, where she was walking in -spite of the snow that lay ankle-deep upon the ground. Dismounting, he -said to her:— - -“I have read your book from beginning to end, Evelyn. I have come now -for your answer to my question.” - -“What question?” she asked, less frankly than was her custom. - -“Will you be my wife?” - -“Yes—gladly,” she said, “if my story makes no difference.” - -“It makes a great difference,” he responded. “It tells me, as nothing -else could, what a woman you are. It intensifies my love, and my -resolution to make all the rest of your life an atonement to you for -the suffering you have endured.” - -The next day Evelyn cut short her visit to Warlock and returned to -Wyanoke. At the same time Kilgariff went back to Petersburg to bear his -part in the closing scenes of the greatest war of all time. - -Grant was already in possession of the Weldon Railroad. With his -limitless numbers, he had been able to stretch his line southward -and westward until his advance threatened the cutting off of the two -other railroads that constituted Richmond’s only remaining lines -of communication southward. Lee’s small force, without hope of -reinforcement, had been stretched out into a line so long and so thin -that at many points the men holding the works stood fully a dozen yards -apart. - -Still, they held on with a grim determination that no circumstance -could conquer. - -They perfectly knew that the end was approaching. They perfectly knew -that that end could mean nothing to them but disaster. Nevertheless, -they stood to their guns and stubbornly resisted every force hurled -against them. With heroic cheerfulness, they fought on, never asking -themselves to what purpose. Throughout the winter they suffered -starvation and cold; for food was scarce, and of clothing there was -none. - -Surely the spectacle was one in contemplation of which the angels might -have paused in admiration. Surely the heroism of those devoted men was -an exhibition of all that is best in the American character, a display -of courage which should be for ever cherished in the memory of all -American men. - -When the spring came, and the roads hardened, Grant delivered the final -blow. Sherman had cut the Confederacy in two by his march to the sea, -and was now, in overwhelming force, pushing his way northward again, -with intent to unite his army with Grant’s for Lee’s destruction. - -Then Grant concentrated a great army on his left and struck a crushing -blow. Lee withdrew from Richmond and Petersburg, and made a desperate -endeavour to retreat to some new line of defence farther south. - -The effort was foredoomed to failure. It ended in the surrender at -Appomattox of a little fragment of that heroic Army of Northern -Virginia which had for so long stood its ground against overwhelming -odds, and so manfully endured hunger and cold and every other form of -suffering that may befall the soldier. - -It was during that last retreat that Kilgariff and Evelyn met for the -first time since they had plighted troth, and for the last time as mere -man and woman, not husband and wife. - -Kilgariff, a brigadier-general now, had been ordered to take command -of the guns defending the rear. By night and by day he was always in -action. But when the line of march passed near to Wyanoke, he sent a -messenger to Evelyn, bearing a note scrawled upon a scrap of paper -which he held against his saddle-tree, in lieu of a desk. In the note -he wrote simply:— - - Come to me, wherever I am to be found. I want you to be my wife before - I die. You have courage. Come to me—we’ll be married in battle, and - the guns shall play the wedding march. - -Evelyn responded to the summons, and these two were made one upon the -battlefield, with bullets flying about their heads and rifle shells -applauding. - -The ceremony ended, Evelyn rode away to Wyanoke to await the end. A -week later Owen Kilgariff joined her there. - -“We are beginning life anew,” he said, “and together.” - -“Yes,” she answered, “and at last I have nothing to fear.” - - - THE END - - - - - _NEW POPULAR EDITIONS OF_ - - MARY JOHNSTON’S NOVELS - - -TO HAVE AND TO HOLD - -It was something new and startling to see an author’s first novel sell -up into the hundreds of thousands, as did this one. 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