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Smoking Flax, by Hallie Erminie Rives—A Project Gutenberg eBook
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<div>*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 68586 ***</div>
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<h1>SMOKING FLAX</h1>
<p class="center no-indent">BY</p>
<p class="ph3"><span class="smcap">Hallie Erminie Rives</span></p>
<p class="p6"> </p>
<div class="figcenter" style="width: 150px;">
<img src="images/i_logo.jpg" width="150" alt="Publishers Logo" /></div>
<p class="center no-indent p6"><i>SECOND EDITION</i></p>
<p class="ph3">F. TENNYSON NEELY</p>
<p class="center no-indent" >PUBLISHER</p>
<p class="center no-indent">LONDON    NEW YORK</p>
<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" />
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<p class="ph2 nobreak"><b>Neely’s Prismatic Library.</b></p>
<p class="center no-indent"><b>GILT TOP, 50 CENTS.</b></p>
<hr class="r5" />
<p>“I know of nothing in the book line that equals
Neely’s Prismatic Library for elegance and careful
selection. It sets a pace that others will not easily
equal and none surpass.”—<span class="smcap">E. A. Robinson.</span></p>
<p class="no-indent"><i>SOUR SAINTS AND SWEET SINNERS. By Carlos Martyn.</i></p>
<p class="no-indent"><i>SEVEN SMILES AND A FEW FIBS. By Thomas J. Vivian. With full-page
illustrations by well-known artists.</i></p>
<p class="no-indent"><i>A MODERN PROMETHEUS. By E. Phillips Oppenheim.</i></p>
<p class="no-indent"><i>THE SHACKLES OF FATE. By Max Nordau.</i></p>
<p class="no-indent"><i>A BACHELOR OF PARIS. By John W. Harding. With over 50 illustrations
by William Hofacher.</i></p>
<p class="no-indent"><i>MONTRESOR. By Loota.</i></p>
<p class="no-indent"><i>REVERIES OF A SPINSTER. By Helen Davies.</i></p>
<p class="no-indent"><i>THE ART MELODIOUS. By Louis Lombard.</i></p>
<p class="no-indent"><i>THE HONOR OF A PRINCESS. By F. Kimball Scribner.</i></p>
<p class="no-indent"><i>OBSERVATIONS OF A BACHELOR. By Louis Lombard.</i></p>
<p class="no-indent"><i>KINGS IN ADVERSITY. By E. S. Van Zile.</i></p>
<p class="no-indent"><i>NOBLE BLOOD AND A WEST POINT
PARALLEL. By Captain King.</i></p>
<p class="no-indent"><i>TRUMPETER FRED. By Captain King. Illustrated.</i></p>
<p class="no-indent"><i>FATHER STAFFORD. By Anthony Hope.</i></p>
<p class="no-indent"><i>THE KING IN YELLOW. By R. W. Chambers.</i></p>
<p class="no-indent"><i>IN THE QUARTER. By R. W. Chambers.</i></p>
<p class="no-indent"><i>A PROFESSIONAL LOVER. By Gyp.</i></p>
<p class="no-indent"><i>BIJOU’S COURTSHIPS. By Gyp. Illustrated.</i></p>
<p class="no-indent"><i>A CONSPIRACY OF THE CARBONARI. By Louise Muhlbach.</i></p>
<p class="no-indent"><i>SOAP BUBBLES. By Dr. Max Nordau.</i></p></div>
<p class="center no-indent">F. TENNYSON NEELY,<br />
<span class="smaller">PUBLISHER,<br />
NEW YORK, LONDON.</span></p>
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<p class="center no-indent">
<i>Copyrighted in the United States and<br />
Great Britain in MDCCCXCVII by<br />
F. Tennyson Neely.</i><br />
<br />
<i>All rights reserved.</i></p></div></div>
<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" />
<div class="chapter">
<p class="center no-indent">TO MY MOTHER AND THE SOUTH</p>
</div>
<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" />
<div class="chapter">
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_5">[Pg 5]</span></p>
<h2 class="nobreak" id="INTRODUCTION">INTRODUCTION.</h2>
</div>
<p>“Smoking Flax” is a story of the South
written by a young Kentucky woman. Undoubtedly
in the South its advent will be
saluted with enthusiastic bravos. What
will be the nature of its reception in the
North it is hazardous to predict. One
thing, however, can be confidently prophesied
for it everywhere—consideration.
This the subject and manner of its treatment
assures.</p>
<p>The methods of Judge Lynch viewed
from most standpoints are, without extenuation,
evil; from a few aspects they may
appear to be perhaps not wholly without
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_6">[Pg 6]</span>justification. Miss Rives, through the
medium of romance, presents the question
as seen from many sides, and then leaves
to the reader the responsibility of determining
“what is truth,” though where her
own sympathies lie she does not leave
much in doubt.</p>
<p>The authoress comes of an old Virginia
stock to whom the gift of narrative and
literary expression seem to be a birthright.
Since revolutionary days literature
has been more or less enriched by contributions
from successive members of the
family—the well known contemporary
novelist and the youthful author of this
book sharing at the present time the responsibility
of upholding the hereditary
traditions. It seems, therefore, happily
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_7">[Pg 7]</span>appropriate that Miss Rives should have
taken upon herself the task of placing
before the world southern views of the
problem of lynching, which, be it understood,
are far from unanimous. The subject
is handled with admirable tact, the
author steering clear alike from prudish
affectations of modesty and shocking details
of inartistic realism: and throughout
is maintained a judicial impartiality
infrequent in the treatment of such burning
questions.</p>
<p>Miss Rives will achieve distinction in
the South and at least notability elsewhere.</p>
<p class="right">H. F. G.</p>
<p class="left"><span class="smcap">Rochester</span>, N. Y.</p>
<p class="left2"><i>September 22nd, 97.</i></p>
<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" />
<div class="chapter">
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_9">[Pg 9]</span></p>
<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_I">CHAPTER I.</h2>
</div>
<p>The house faced the college campus and
was the only one in the block. This, in
Georgetown, implies a lawn of no small
dimensions; the place had neither gardener’s
house nor porter’s lodge—nothing
but that old home half hidden by ancient
elms. For many a year it had stood with
closed doors in the very heart of that
prosperous Kentucky town, presenting a
gloomy aspect and exercising for many a
singular attraction. Near the deep veranda
a great tree, whose boughs were no
longer held in check by trimming, had
thrust one of its branches through the
frontmost window. Dampness had attacked
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_10">[Pg 10]</span>everything. The upper balcony was
loosened, the roof warped, and lizards
sunned themselves on the wall.</p>
<p>As for the garden, long ago it had lapsed
into a chaotic state. The thistle and the
pale poppy grew in fragrant tangle with
the wild ivy and Virginia creeper, and
wilful weeds thrust their way across the
gravel walks.</p>
<p>Sadly old residents saw the place approaching
the last stages of decay—saw this
house, once the pride of the town, in its
decrepitude and loneliness the plaything
of the elements.</p>
<p>“A noble wreck! It must have a history
of some kind,” strangers would remark.</p>
<p>“Ah, that it has, and a sombre one it
is!” any man or woman living near would
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_11">[Pg 11]</span>have answered, as they recalled the history
of Richard Harding’s home. For the
fate of Richard Harding was a sad memory
to them. They remembered how he had
been the representative of a fine old family
and that much of his fortune had been
spent in beautifying this place, to make it
a fitting home for Catharine Field, his
bride.</p>
<p>She too had been of gentle birth and
held an important place in their memory
as one who brought with her to this rural
community the wider experience usual to
a young woman educated in Boston, who,
after a few seasons of social success in an
ultra fashionable set, has crowned her
many achievements by a brilliant marriage.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_12">[Pg 12]</span></p>
<p>Her husband adored her and showed his
devotion by humoring her extravagant
tastes and prodigal fancies. He detested
gayeties, yet complied with her slightest
wish for social pleasures.</p>
<p>Although it was generally agreed that
this young couple got on well together,
at the end of two years the husband had
to admit to himself that his efforts to render
his wife happy had not been entirely
successful. He saw that she fretted for her
northern life, was bored by everything
about her. She cherished a bitter resentment
for the slaveholders, vowing that it
was barbarous and inhuman to own human
beings as her husband and neighbors did.
Though expressing pity for the poor,
simple, dependent creatures, she did little<span class="pagenum" id="Page_13">[Pg 13]</span>
to make their tasks more healthful and
reasonable ones, or to render them more
capable and contented.</p>
<p>Her baby’s nurse was the one servant of
her household who met with gracious treatment
at her hands. This old slave came
to her endowed with the womanly virtues
of honor, self-respect and humility. But
in marveling at her on these accounts,
Mrs. Harding forgot that it was the former
mistress—her husband’s mother—that had
made her what she was.</p>
<p>At length the truth became clearly apparent
that she was an obstinate, intensely
prejudiced and very unreasonable woman,
who, having lived for a time at a centre
of fashionable intelligence in a city
of culture, supposed herself to be quite
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_14">[Pg 14]</span>beyond the reach of and entirely superior
to ordinary country folk. Eventually,
her morbid dissatisfaction became so extreme
that her husband yielded to her
importunities, closed the house, and with
her and their baby boy, went to live in
Boston.</p>
<p>This sacrifice he made quietly and uncomplainingly,
his closest friends not then
knowing how it wrenched his heart. A
year passed, then another, and at the end
of the third, the papers announced the
death of Richard Harding.</p>
<p>Though never again seeing his southern
home, where he had planned to live his
life in peace and useful happiness, it had
held to the end a most sacred place in his
memory—a memory which he truly hoped
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_15">[Pg 15]</span>would be transmittted to the heart and
mind of his son. It was his last wish that
the old homestead should remain as it
was—closed to strangers—that no living
being, unless of his own blood, should inhabit
that abode of love and sorrow, that
it be kept from the careless profanation
of aliens.</p>
<p>The world prophesied that his widow
would soon forget the wishes of the dead,
but as witness that she had thus far kept
faith, there stood the closed, abandoned
home, upon which Nature alone laid a
destroying hand.</p>
<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" />
<div class="chapter">
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_16">[Pg 16]</span></p>
<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_II">CHAPTER II.</h2>
</div>
<p>In process of time, hardly a brick was
to be seen in this old house that had not
grown purple with age and become
cloaked with moss and ivy. Antiquity
looked out from covering to foundation
stone. Only the flowers were young, and
flowers spring from a remote ancestry.
This house, inlaid in solitude, was as quiet
as some cloister hidden away within some
French forest.</p>
<p>One summer afternoon, the quiet was
broken by a group of college girls looking
for some new flower for their botanical
collection. But so full of youthful
spirits were they that they hardly saw
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_17">[Pg 17]</span>the valley lilies with stems so short
that they could scarcely bear up their
innocent, sweet eyes, distressed, and stare
like children in a crowd.</p>
<p>Among these girls was one whom the
most casual observer would have singled
out from her companions for a beauty
rare even in that land of beautiful women.
She had wandered off alone and found a
sleepy little primrose. As she freed the
blossom from its stem and held it in her
hand, a tide of thought surged up from
her memory and deepened the color of her
face. Quietly she dropped down upon the
grass and began turning the leaves of her
floral diary until she came to a similar
flower pressed between its pages.</p>
<p>In a corner was written: “Gathered in
the mountains on the 18th of August.”</p>
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_18">[Pg 18]</span></p>
<p>“How strange,” she thought, “to note
how late it was found there, while it
blooms so early here.”</p>
<p>Commonplace as that discovery seemed
to be, the face so radiant a moment before,
became thoughtfully drawn.</p>
<p>She looked at the name “E. Harding”
written below the dry, dead blossom, and
thought of the time when it had been written,
thence back to her first meeting with
its owner—one of those happy chances of
travel, which have all the charm of the
unexpected—as fresh in her memory as
though it had been but yesterday. That
summer had been one of those idyllic
periods which are lived so unconsciously
that their beauty is only realized in
memories. To become conscious of such
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_19">[Pg 19]</span>charm at the time would be to break the
spell which lies in the very ignorance of
its existence.</p>
<p>She, this ardent novice in learning,
fresh from graduating honors, and full of
unmanageable, new emotions did not comprehend
that the same youthful impetuosity
which had made the two fast friends
in so brief a time, had also made it possible
for a few heedless words even more
quickly to separate them. An older or
more experienced woman would have
missed the sudden bloom and escaped the
no less sudden storm.</p>
<p>“Primroses are his favorite flowers,”
she said half aloud, and a dainty little
smile lifted ever so slightly the corners
of her mouth as if there were pleasure in
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_20">[Pg 20]</span>the thought. Then she took up her pencil
and studiously began to jot down the
botanical notes concerning the primrose.
“Primrose, a biennial herb, from three
to six inches tall. The flower is regular,
symmetrical and four parted.”</p>
<p>A twig snapped. The girl looked up
quickly. “Welcome to my flowers,” said
a voice beside her, and a young man
smiled frankly, as he bowed and raised
his white straw hat.</p>
<p>“Mr. Harding!” she exclaimed, opening
her eyes in wonder and staring at him
with the prettiest face of astonishment.
Alarm had brought color to her cheeks,
while the level rays of the sun, which
forced her to screen her eyes with one
hand, clothed her figure in a broad belt
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_21">[Pg 21]</span>of gold. “How did you happen to be here?”</p>
<p>“I did not happen. Man comes not to
his place by accident.”</p>
<p>His answer, though given with a laugh,
had a touch of truth.</p>
<p>Through the bright excitement of her
eyes, a sudden gleam of archness flashed.</p>
<p>“Have you come to write us up, or
rather down?” she asked.</p>
<p>“I have come to help those who won’t
help themselves, but first let us make
peace, if such a thing be necessary between
us. Here is my offering,” and smilingly
he laid two fresh white roses in her hand.</p>
<p>She answered his smile with one of her
own as she thrust the long generous stems
through her waist belt; but she did not
thank him with words, and he was glad
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_22">[Pg 22]</span>that she did not. Just as he would have
spoken again, a number of girlish voices
called in chorus:</p>
<p>“Come, Dorothy, we are going now.”</p>
<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" />
<div class="chapter">
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_23">[Pg 23]</span></p>
<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_III">CHAPTER III.</h2>
</div>
<p>In the same year that Elliott Harding
was graduated from Princeton, he came
into possession of his estate, which he at
once began to share with his mother. Her
love of good living and luxury, her craving
for such elegancies as sumptuous
furniture, expensive bric-à-brac, and
stylish equipages had well nigh exhausted
her means, and she was now almost entirely
dependent upon a half-interest in
the small estate in Kentucky. Considering
that Elliott had a leaning towards the
learned professions and political and social
pursuits, added to a constitutional
abhorrence of a business career, his financial<span class="pagenum" id="Page_24">[Pg 24]</span>
condition was not altogether uncomfortable.
He longed to own a superb
library, a collection of books, great both
in number and quality, and, furthermore,
he wanted to complete his education by
travel abroad, followed by a year or two
of serious research in the South. He realized
how ill these aspirations mated with
the pleasure loving habits of his mother
and how impossible it would be for him
to realize his dreams, so long as his purse
remained the joint source of supply.</p>
<p>To many a young man the outlook would
have been deeply discouraging. To him
it was a means of developing the endurance
and the strength of will which were
among his distinguishing characteristics.</p>
<p>Nature had fashioned Elliott Harding
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_25">[Pg 25]</span>when in one of her kindly moods. She
had endowed him with many gifts; good
birth, sound health of body and mind, industry,
resolution and ambition. Besides
possessing these goodly qualifications, he
stood six feet in height, and in breadth of
shoulder, depth of chest, sturdiness of
legs and arms, he had few superiors. There
was, too, a nobility of proportion in his
forehead that indicated high breeding and
broad intellectuality, and his face was full
of force and refinement. His steel blue
eyes gleamed with a superb self-confidence.</p>
<p>By profession, Elliott Harding was a
lawyer; by instinct, a writer. He practiced
law for gain. He wrote because it
was his ruling passion. He was a man who
had been early taught to have faith in his
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_26">[Pg 26]</span>own destiny and to consider himself an
agent called by God to do a great work.
When he came to his southern home he
came with a purpose—a purpose which
he determined to carry out quietly but
with mighty earnestness. When he first
arrived in the town he was content to rest
unheralded, and his presence was not understood
by the villagers. Nearly every
morning now, he could be seen from the
opposite window of the college to enter
the old abandoned house and sit for hours
near the door, his head bowed, his fingers
busy with note-book and pencil.</p>
<p>For some weeks this proceeding had continued
with little variation. People noted
it with diverse conjectures. Old men and
women feared lest this man, whoever he
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_27">[Pg 27]</span>might be,—a real estate agent perhaps—would
bring about the restoration and sale
of the old Harding home. These old-time
friends, who had known and loved the
father, Richard Harding, through youth
and manhood, now rebelled against the
possible disregard of his last request, which
had become a heritage of the locality.
With anxiety they watched the maneuvers
of this mysterious individual and
drearily wondered what would result from
his stay.</p>
<p>To young Harding the anxiety he had
caused was unknown. Absorbed in his own
affairs, he was too much occupied to think
of the impression he was creating. His
whole thought was given to gleaning the
knowledge he required for the writing of
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_28">[Pg 28]</span>the book by which he hoped to permanently
mould southern opinion in conformity
with his own against what he
believed to be the shame of his native land.</p>
<p>It was an evening in the third month of
his residence in Georgetown. Elliott Harding
paused in his walk along the street
not quite decided which way to go.</p>
<p>“She writes me she has drawn a ten-day
draft for twenty-two hundred dollars,”
he said to himself. “How on earth can I
meet it? What shall I do about it? Let
me think it out.” And checking his steps,
which had begun to tend towards the
college, where a reception to which he
had been invited was being held, he took
a turn or two in the already darkening
street, and then started back to his
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_29">[Pg 29]</span>rooms. In his mind, step by step, he
traced out the possible consequences of
action in the matter, but long consideration
only confirmed his first impression
that it was too late now to change the course
of affairs so long existing.</p>
<p>“But how am I to meet this last demand?”
he questioned. “There is but one
way open to me,” he finally thought. “The
old home must go.”</p>
<p>He nervously walked on, repeating to
himself, “Mother! mother! I could never
do this for anyone but you.”</p>
<p>With the memory of his beloved father
so strong within him, it was difficult to
bring himself to face the inevitable with
composure. The turbulent working of his
heart contended against the resignation of
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_30">[Pg 30]</span>his brain, and, when for a moment he
felt resigned, then the memory of his dead
father’s wish would rise up and protest,
and the battle would have to be fought
over again.</p>
<p>But what he considered to be duty to the
living triumphed over what he held as
loyalty to the dead, so the next time he
went to the old homestead, “For Sale”
glared coldly and, he even imagined, reproachfully
at him. It was then that
Elliott realized the immensity of his sacrifice
and bowed his head in silent sorrow.</p>
<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" />
<div class="chapter">
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_31">[Pg 31]</span></p>
<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_IV">CHAPTER IV.</h2>
</div>
<p>After that one time, Elliott Harding determined
to face the inevitable and passed
into the house without seeming to see the
placard.</p>
<p>One day while sitting in his accustomed
writing place, which was the parlor, now
furnished with a table and office chair, a
man walked up the front steps. Elliott
had just finished writing the words “The
glimpses of light I have gained make the
darkness more apparent,” when the man
entered the doorway.</p>
<p>The stranger was a tall, lean individual
with iron gray beard curving out from under
the chin. Eyes dark, keen and deep set;
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_32">[Pg 32]</span>cheekbones as high as an Indian’s; hair
iron gray and thick around the base of
the skull, but thin and tangled over the
top of the head, formed a combination
striking and not unattractive. Though apparently
far past his prime, he appeared
to be as hearty and hale as if half the
years of his life were yet to come. After
gazing a moment at Elliott, he opened the
conversation by saying:</p>
<p>“Good morning! I suppose you are the
agent for this property?”</p>
<p>“I am, sir,” answered Elliott, courteously.
“Come in and have a seat,” offering
him his chair as he stood up and
leaned against the writing table.</p>
<p>“I have come to make a bid for this
place. I would like to buy it, if it is to be
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_33">[Pg 33]</span>had at a reasonable figure. It is not for
the land value alone that I want it,” he
went on, “it is the old home of my only
sister. Besides, for another and more
sacred reason, I never want it to pass out
of the family.”</p>
<p>“Your sister’s old home,” said Elliott,
without appearing to have heard the offer,
“then you are Mr. Field—Philip Field?”</p>
<p>“That is my name—and yours?”</p>
<p>“Elliott Field Harding.”</p>
<p>“My nephew?” questioned the elder.</p>
<p>“Your nephew, I suppose,” assented
Elliott.</p>
<p>“And you did not know you had an
uncle here?” the old man asked quickly.</p>
<p>“Well, I knew you were living somewhere
in the South, but was not certain
of the exact locality.”</p>
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_34">[Pg 34]</span></p>
<p>At this, the face of the visitor softened,
a strange glow leaping to life in his quiet
eyes.</p>
<p>“Your mother discarded me years ago
for marrying a Southern girl not—not exactly
up to her ideal, and I thought you
might not have known she had a cast-off
brother, whom she thought had shamed
his blood and name,” was the low spoken
comment.</p>
<p>Then, half-unconsciously he stammered,
“Catharine—your mother, is she well?”</p>
<p>“Quite well, I thank you,” said Elliott.</p>
<p>“Will she come here to—to see you?”</p>
<p>“Not likely, no; I don’t think she will
ever come South again,” was the contemplative
reply.</p>
<p>“Then she has not changed; she still
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_35">[Pg 35]</span>hates us here!” commented the other half
sadly.</p>
<p>“Well ‘hate’ is perhaps too strong a
word; but I think that her inflexible disapproval
of the social conditions here
will never alter. You know her character.
Her ideas are not easily changed and she
thinks little outside of Boston and Boston
ideals worthy of much consideration.”</p>
<p>“Poor, dear sister! I had hoped that
maternity and her early widowhood would
awake in her a sense of the vast duties and
responsibilities attached to her position as
a southern woman. How I have longed to
hear that she had learned the blessed lesson.”</p>
<p>To these words Elliott listened intently,
his breath coming quick with rebellious
mortification.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_36">[Pg 36]</span></p>
<p>“If she had learned that lesson I might
not now have to sacrifice the old home,”
said Elliott, somewhat impetuously.</p>
<p>“Sacrifice!” repeated the other, “and
did you care to hold it?”</p>
<p>“It was the dearest wish of my life to
do so,” was the reply.</p>
<p>Mr. Field gazed at the young man with
a look of admiration.</p>
<p>“Elliott, my nephew,” he fervently
said, holding out his hand as he spoke, “if
it will please you to call me friend as well
as uncle, I shall refuse neither the name
nor the duties.”</p>
<p>“Uncle Philip, I thank you and accept
your kindly offer,” and Elliott’s face
brightened. The furrow which care had
been ploughing between his brows the past
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_37">[Pg 37]</span>few days, smoothed itself out. Then in a
burst of confidence, he continued:</p>
<p>“It has long been my ambition to do
something with this place, worthy of the
memory of my father; but my mother is a
little extravagant, I am afraid, and I have
not as yet been able to carry out my wish.
She lately drew upon me for twenty-two
hundred dollars and it came at a time
when my only recourse was either to sell
the place or dishonor her paper.”</p>
<p>“Elliott, it is very pleasing to me that
you should speak thus frankly with me.
Let me help you. I will gladly lend you
the money so that you may not be forced
to sell. I am well-to-do and can afford to
help you.”</p>
<p>Elliott listened in pleased surprise. He
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_38">[Pg 38]</span>felt touched beyond expression, but emotion
irresistibly impelled him to seize
his uncle’s hand, to bend low and press his
lips upon it. This unexpected offer again
buoyed up the hope of his intense desire
to keep the homestead. For a time he
stared steadily at this friend, his whole
soul reflected upon his face.</p>
<p>Mr. Field eyed his nephew closely during
this silence and noted the evidence of
strength in the serious young face, and the
unmistakable air of a thinker it bore, and
rightly judged that here was one who had
given over play for work.</p>
<p>“The memory of your kind offer will
live with me forever,” said Elliott, his
voice full of deep feeling, breaking the
silence. “But I cannot accept your generosity.<span class="pagenum" id="Page_39">[Pg 39]</span>
I have no assurance that my labors
will be attended with success, and I
have a horror of starting out in debt.”</p>
<p>“Very well, my boy,” kindly spoke the
other, “that spirit will win. I will buy
the place, and it will still be in the family.”</p>
<p>“Thank you, uncle! You don’t know
how grateful I am for that.”</p>
<p>“And I am doubly pleased to be the
owner since meeting you,” interrupted
the elder. “This old heart of mine beats
warmly for your father. He was a good
man and I want to see the boy who bears
his name winning a way up to the level of
life which was once Richard’s. Yes, I
want to see you foremost amongst just and
honored men.”</p>
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_40">[Pg 40]</span></p>
<p>“Uncle Philip,” heartily spoke Elliott,
“for the sake of my father’s memory, I
hope to fulfill that hope.”</p>
<p>“Ah, yes, yes, you will, my boy!” The
old man arose to go and as he and Elliott
clasped hands in a hearty good-bye, he
added: “I shall be glad to see you at my
home, which is two miles south of here, or
at the Agricultural Bank of which I am
president. I am a widower, have no children,
and your presence in my home
would fill a void,” and as though not wishing
to trust himself further along the
mournful trend of thought, he hastily
withdrew.</p>
<p>As Elliott watched his uncle walking
down the gravelled path, his offer of friendship
took a tempting form. A week before,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_41">[Pg 41]</span>
he would have scornfully repelled
any such advances.</p>
<p>“Only to think of it!” Elliott soliloquized,
“an offer of sympathy and help
from this man for whom my mother, his
sister, has not one gleam of sympathy, or
even comprehension! It is strange that
he should be the first to come in when all
the world seems gone out.”</p>
<p>Thus, without further heralding and no
outward commercial negotiation, the old
Harding homestead passed quietly into
Mr. Field’s possession, and this matter
once settled, Elliott began in earnest the
practice of his profession. Accordingly,
his law card at once appeared in the local
papers and his “shingle” was hung out
beside another, bearing the name “John
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_42">[Pg 42]</span>Holmes, Attorney at Law,” at the door of
a building containing numerous small
offices.</p>
<p>Elliott knew his literary work was not
enough to satisfy his insistent appetite for
occupation, and for this reason, besides the
necessity of earning something toward his
modest expenses, he went into the practice
of law.</p>
<p>As Mr. Field felt he had been largely
instrumental in his nephew’s settling here,
he took an active interest in furthering
his success.</p>
<p>“That is Elliott Harding, my nephew,”
he would say, with an affectionate familiarity,
dashed with pride. “He is a most
worthy young man, deserving of your confidence,”
a commendation usually agreed
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_43">[Pg 43]</span>to, with the unspoken thought sometimes,
“and a very conceited one.”</p>
<p>Why does the world look with such disapproval
on self confidence? When a person
is endowed with a vigorous brain,
there is no better way for him to face the
world than to start out with a full respect
for his own talents, and unbounded faith
in the possibilities that lie within him.</p>
<p>Elliott Harding’s belief in himself was
not small, and the consciousness of his
ability led him to work diligently for
both honor and profit. He expected labor
and did not shrink from it. Very soon he
riveted the attention of a few, then of the
many, and it was not long before he rose
to a position of considerable importance
in the community and began to feel financial
ground more solid beneath his feet.</p>
<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" />
<div class="chapter">
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_44">[Pg 44]</span></p>
<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_V">CHAPTER V.</h2>
</div>
<p>It was a glorious morning in August,
when summer’s wide-set doors let in a torrent
of later bloom.</p>
<p>As early as ten o’clock the Riverside
road was thronged with all manner of conveyances,
moving toward the country,
bound for an out-of-door fête of the character
known in that region as a “bran-dance
and barbecue.” This country road,
prodigally overhung with the foliage of
trees in the very heyday of their southern
vigor is bounded on one side by goodly
acres of farmland, and on the other by the
Elkhorn, a historic river.</p>
<p>The neighboring farms were still to-day.
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_45">[Pg 45]</span>The light wind rustling the silken tassels
of the corn was all the sound that would
be heard until the morrow, unless, maybe,
the neighing of the young horses left behind.</p>
<p>From the topic of stock and farming,
called forth by what they saw in passing,
Elliott Harding and his uncle, as they rode
along, fell to discussing the grim details of
a murder and lynching that had but recently
taken place just over the boundary,
in Tennessee.</p>
<p>“What a tremendous problem is this
lynching evil,” said Elliott, looking keenly
at his uncle, who shook his head seriously
as he answered:</p>
<p>“It is a very grave question that confronts
us, and by far the less easier of settlement<span class="pagenum" id="Page_46">[Pg 46]</span>
because we are placed in the full
light of public observation, all our doings
heightened by its glare, and the passion of
the people aroused. It is not that we will,
but that we must lynch in these extreme
cases. There seems no other way, and that
is a poor enough one.”</p>
<p>“How many persons do you suppose have
lost their lives by lynch law in the south
during the past ten years?” asked Elliott.</p>
<p>“I should say at least a thousand,” replied
Mr. Field.</p>
<p>“Heavens! What a record!” exclaimed
Elliott, who became silent, a look of brooding
thoughtfulness taking the place of the
happy expression that had lighted up his
face. His uncle, noticing his preoccupation,
endeavored to distract his thoughts
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_47">[Pg 47]</span>by calling attention to the distant sound
of a big bass fiddle and a strong negro
voice that called out many times, “balance
all, swing yo par-d-ners.”</p>
<p>“I suppose on this festive occasion I
shall also hear some political aspirant
promising poor humanity unconditional
prosperity and deliverance from evil?”
asked Elliott, by way of inquiry as to
what other diversions might be expected.</p>
<p>“Oh, yes, Holmes and Feland, the candidates
for prosecuting attorney, are sure
to be on hand,” replied Mr. Field.</p>
<p>A little further on they came upon the
crowd gathered in the woods. On the
bough-roofed dancing ground the youths
were tripping with lissome maids, who,
with their filmy skirts a little lifted,
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_48">[Pg 48]</span>showed shapely ankles at every turn. The
lookers-on seemed witched with the rhythmic
motion and the sensuous music.
Old and young women, as well as men, the
well-to-do and the poor, were there. Neat,
nice-looking young people, with happy,
intelligent faces, kept time to the waltz
and the cotillion, which were the order of
the day. As the graceful figures animated
the arbor, far away in the depths of
the wood could be heard echoes of light-hearted
talk and happy laughter. The
very genius of frolic seemed to preside
over the gathering.</p>
<p>Elliott stood near one end of the arbor
and drew a long breath of pure delight at
this, to him, truly strange and delightful
pastoral. The mellow tints of nature’s
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_49">[Pg 49]</span>verdure, the soft languor of the warm
atmosphere, gave a happy turn to his
thoughts as he looked upon his first “bran-dance.”</p>
<p>“Come! finish this with me,” cried a
sturdy farmer boy.</p>
<p>“Do, dear mamma!” begged the gasping
maiden at her side, “I am so tired.
Do take a round with him.”</p>
<p>Thus appealed to, the stout, handsome
matron threw aside her palm-leaf fan and
held out her hands to the boy. Although
she had but reached that age when those of
the opposite sex are considered just in
their prime, she, being old enough to be
the mother of the twenty-year-old daughter
at her side, was considered too old to
be one of the dancers. But at the hearty
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_50">[Pg 50]</span>invitation she too became one of the
tripping throng and entered into the fun
with all the sweetness and spontaneity in
voice and gesture which made herself and
others forget how far her Spring was past.
The waltz now became a waltz indeed.
The musicians played faster and faster
and the girl clapped her hands as the
couple whirled round and round, as though
nothing on earth could stop them.</p>
<p>“Please let’s stop. I beg you to stop,
now!” cried the matron, panting for breath
but the enraptured youth paid no heed to
her pleadings, but swifter and swifter grew
his pace, wilder and wilder his gyrations,
till, fortunately for her, he encountered an
unexpected post and was brought to a sudden
halt. The waltz, too, had come to an end,
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_51">[Pg 51]</span>and the onlookers clapped their hands in
hearty applause. Even the veterans of
the community seemed to enjoy the spirit
of the sport. Elliott particularly noted
the rapt enjoyment of a group of old men
silver haired, ruddy skinned, keen eyed,
who once seen, remained penciled upon
the gazer’s memory—each head a worthy
sketch.</p>
<p>These patriarchs were bent with toil as
well as age, their hands were roughened
by labor, the Sunday broadcloth became
them less than the week-day short coat, yet
each figure had a dignity of its own. In one
aged man, with snow-white hair, Roman
nose and tawny, beardless face, the
staunch Southerner of old lived again.
Here was that calm and resolution betokening<span class="pagenum" id="Page_52">[Pg 52]</span>
the indomitable spirit, the unswerving
faith that led men to brave fire
and sword, ruin and desolation, rather
than surrender principle.</p>
<p>In strong relief were these sombre figures
of the group set forth by the light,
airy frocks and the young faces and graceful
forms of the pretty girls, with beflowered
hats coquettishly perched above
their heads, or swinging from their hands.
One could step easily from the verge of
the white holiday keeper to the confines of
the pleasure loving black. But it was a
great distance—like the crossing of a vast
continent—between the habitats of alien
races.</p>
<p>On the outskirts of the crowd, here and
there, under the friendly shade of some
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_53">[Pg 53]</span>wide spreading tree, could be seen a
darkey busily engaged in vending watermelons
and cool drinks. Coatless and hatless,
with shirt wide open at neck and
chest, and sleeves rolled elbow high, he
transferred the luscious fruit from his
wagon to the eager throng about him; while
he passed compliments without stint upon
the unbleached domestics who came to
“trade” with him, not forgetting to occasionally
lift his voice and proclaim the
superior quality of his stock, verifying
his assurances by taking capacious mouthfuls
from the severed melon lying on the
top of the load.</p>
<p>Without ceremony, the darkeys, male
and female, swarmed about the vender,
some seating themselves in picturesque
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_54">[Pg 54]</span>ease upon the ground in pairs and groups.
There were mulattos and octoroons of light
and darker shades, to the type of glossy
blackness, discussing last week’s church
“festival,” to-morrow’s funeral, the Methodists’
protracted meeting which begins
one Christmas and lasts till the next.</p>
<p>In astonishing quantities did the “culled
folks” stow away “red meat” and “white
meat,” and with juice trickling from the
corners of their mouths down over their
best raiment, gave ready ear to the vender’s
broad jokes and joined in his loud
laughter, showing, as only negroes can,
their ready appreciation of the feast and
holiday. Their hilarity kept up an undiminished
flow until the participants were
called to serve the midday meal for the
“white folks.”</p>
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_55">[Pg 55]</span></p>
<p>Hundreds partook of the delicious pig
which had been roasted whole, that meat
of which the poet wrote, “Send me, gods, a
whole hog barbecued.”</p>
<p>Animals spitted on pointed sticks sputtered
and fizzled over a hole in the
ground filled with live coals. Mindful attendants
shifted the appetizing viands from
side to side, seasoning them with salt, pepper,
vinegar or lemon as the case might
require, and when set forth, offered a
feast as close to primitive nature as the
trees under which it was served.</p>
<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" />
<div class="chapter">
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_56">[Pg 56]</span></p>
<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_VI">CHAPTER VI.</h2>
</div>
<p>Very soon after the feast was ended,
Elliott saw John Holmes and a party of
men coming toward him.</p>
<p>To a casual reader of the human countenance,
it would be evident at a first
glance that Holmes was a man of no small
worldly knowledge, and as he now appeared
with his companions one could discern
that this superiority was recognized
by them and that he held a certain position
of authority, in fact that he was a
man accustomed to rule rather than be
ruled.</p>
<p>As he approached Elliott, he addressed
him with a pleased smile, saying: “I am
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_57">[Pg 57]</span>glad to see you here, Mr. Harding. Maybe
you can help us out of a difficulty.”</p>
<p>“In what way?” asked Elliott, surprised.</p>
<p>“My political opponent was to have
been here and we were to briefly address
the people this afternoon, but, so far, he
has failed to put in an appearance. The
toiling folk have come here to-day, even
laying aside important work in some instances,
to hear a ‘speaking,’ and unless
they hear some sort of an address (they
are not particular about the subject) it
will be hard to bring them together again
when we need them more.</p>
<p>“I, as a representative of the committee,
request you to lend us a helping hand.
It is generally desired that you be the
orator upon this occasion.”</p>
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_58">[Pg 58]</span></p>
<p>“What! address this gathering offhand
and wholly unprepared? It would blight
my prospects forever with them,” laughed
Elliott.</p>
<p>“On the other hand, it would give you
an opportunity for a wider acquaintance
and perhaps elect you to the first office to
which you may yet aspire. Come! I will
take no excuse,” persisted Holmes, while
his companions seconded his insistence.</p>
<p>After considerable pressing, Elliott was
escorted to the platform, from which the
musicians had moved. Without delay
Holmes stepped to the front and in a loud,
clear voice which hushed the crowd,
said:</p>
<p>“Ladies and gentlemen, I have the honor
of introducing Mr. Elliott Harding, who
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_59">[Pg 59]</span>will speak in place of Mr. Feland, that
gentleman, for some reason or other, having
failed to put in an appearance.”</p>
<p>Amid a storm of cheers, Elliott arose,
straightening his eloquent shoulders as he
came forward. His blonde face was full
of eager life when he began.</p>
<p>“Ladies and gentlemen: The unexpected
compliment paid me by your committee
has given me the pleasure of addressing
you to-day. I accept the invitation the
more gladly inasmuch as it gives me the
opportunity of telling you that my heart,
linked to the South by birth, has retained
its old love in spite of absence and distance,
and brings me back to my own
place with a fonder and, if possible, a
greater and nobler pride in this Southland<span class="pagenum" id="Page_60">[Pg 60]</span>
of yours and mine. And, it <i>is</i> a land
to be proud of. More magnificent a country
God has never made. It has seen the
fierce harrowing of war. Gazing through
the past years my fancy sees the ruin that
has confronted the home-coming soldier—ashes
instead of homes, burnt stubble instead
of fences, the slaves on whose labor
he had long depended for the cultivation
of his fertile fields, with their bonds
cast off, meeting him as freemen. Without
money, provisions or even the ordinary
implements of husbandry, he at once began
the toilsome task of repairing his fallen
fortunes. Having converted his sword into
a plowshare, his spear into a pruning hook,
he lost no time, but manfully set to work
to restore his lost estate, and bring a measure<span class="pagenum" id="Page_61">[Pg 61]</span>
of comfort to the dear ones deprived
of their former luxuries.</p>
<p>“So it is to the soldier of the ‘Lost
Cause’ that all honor and praise must be
given for the present prosperity of the
land. And it becomes us as heirs of his
sacrifice and of the fruits of his toil, to
lend our every effort to the full garnering
of the harvest.</p>
<p>“As the giant West has sprung up from
the sap of the East, so must the South rise
up by strength drawn from the soil of the
North. What the South needs to-day more
than any other one thing is an influx of
intelligent laborers from the North. It
needs its sturdy folk of industrious habit,
economy and indomitable energy; it needs
a more profitable system of agriculture.
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_62">[Pg 62]</span>Accustomed as that people is to economy,
to frugality and to forcing existence out
of an unwilling soil, if only they could be
induced to come here in sufficient numbers,
the country would soon blossom into
mellow prosperity. And, my friends, I
want to see them coming—coming with
their capital to aid us in developing the
inexhaustible mineral resources of our
mines, the timber of our forests, to build
our mills and rear our infant manufactures
to the full stature of lusty manhood.
Our future with all its limitless possibilities—this
future which is to warm the great
breast of the business world toward us,
this future which shall shower upon us the
fullness of earth—is all with you.</p>
<p>“Therefore, with such a vista of promise
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_63">[Pg 63]</span>opening before our gaze, ill would it become
us to fail in our duty toward ourselves,
toward our country and toward
Him who giveth all. Thus it befits us to
lend every effort to the furtherance of this,
our future salvation. To those upon whose
coming so much depends, every inducement
must be offered. And be it remembered
that capital seeks its home in sections
wherein life and prosperity enjoy
the greatest security under the law. This
is a conclusion founded on the great law of
caution, upon which intelligent capital is
planted and reared. It becomes necessary,
then, to ask ourselves seriously, ‘Are we
making every effort to solidify peace and
order by the protection of life and the
supreme establishment of law?’</p>
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_64">[Pg 64]</span></p>
<p>“I need not answer this question. Circumstances
have done so for me. The electric
wire is still hot from flashing to the
furtherest corner of our Nation, in all its
revolting details, news of the recent
awful crime in our sister state.</p>
<p>“I am well aware that in touching upon
this point I am wounding the sensibilities
of a people who have been shadowed by
personal injury and embittered by a
natural race prejudice; but I feel that I
can speak the more boldly because I
touch the matter not as an alien whose
sympathies are foreign and whose theories
are theoretical chimeras, but as a southerner—one
whose interest is the stronger
because he is a southerner. My audience
may refuse to grant the justice of my
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_65">[Pg 65]</span>argument, but it must admit the truth of
the situation I outline. Whichever way
we turn the tremendous problem of the
lynching evil stares us in the face. It
baits us, it defies us, it shames us.</p>
<p>“Think of it! More than one thousand
human lives forfeited to Judge Lynch
form the South’s record for the past ten
years. What a horrible record! It seems
almost incredible that such lawlessness
can exist in communities supposed to be
civilized. Would to God it were but an
evil dream and that I could to-day assure
the world that this terrible condition is
but the unfounded imagining of a nightmared
mind.</p>
<p>“Lynching is a peculiarly revolting
form of murder, and to tolerate it is to
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_66">[Pg 66]</span>pave the way for anarchy and barbarism.
It cannot be truthfully denied that one
of the most potent factors militating
against the progress of this country is this
frequent resort to illegal execution, and
before we can realize the full benefits of
your natural inheritance, your laws—our
laws—must be impartially enforced, property
must be protected, and life sacredly
guarded by rigid legal enforcement,
backed by an elevated public conception
of duty.</p>
<p>“It is no greater crime for one man to
seize a brother man and take his life than
it is for a lawless multitude to do the same
act. The first, if there be any difference,
is less criminal than the latter for it, at
least often has the merit of individual
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_67">[Pg 67]</span>courage and the plea for revenge on
the ground of personal injury. But when
a man is deprived of his liberty by incarceration
in the jail and thus shorn of
his power of self protection, it is the acme
of dishonor and cowardice to wrest him
from the grasp of the law and deprive him
of his life upon evidence that possibly
might not convict him before a jury.</p>
<p>“I do not wish to be understood as saying
that brave and good men do not sometimes,
under strong excitement, participate
in this outrage against human rights
and organized society, for it is a fact that
such rebellions are not infrequently led
by the most prominent citizens, and, from
this very fact, it is the more to be deplored.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_68">[Pg 68]</span></p>
<p>“My friends, have you never thought to
what this practice may lead? Has the
frequency of mob violence no alarming
indications for you? Directed, as it more
often is, against our negro population, instead
of making better citizens of the depraved
and deterring them from crime,
it has a tendency to cultivate a race prejudice
and stir up the worst of human
passions. It is inculcating a disregard of
law because it ignores that greatest principle
of freedom—that every man is to be
considered innocent until proven to be
guilty by competent testimony.</p>
<p>“Judge Lynch is the enemy of law and
strikes at the very foundation of order and
civil government. His rule is causing
large classes to feel that the law of the
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_69">[Pg 69]</span>land affords them no protection. The
courts furnish an adequate remedy for
every wrong. One legal death on the
scaffold has a more salutary effect than
a score of mob executions. The former
teaches a proper dread of offended law,
leaves no unhealing wounds in the hearts
of the living, stirs up no revengeful impulses,
creates no feuds and causes no retaliatory
murders. What a field of home
mission stretches before us! We owe it to
the South to remove this blot on our good
name. Let us hasten the day when Judge
Lynch shall be spoken of with a shudder,
as a hideous memory.</p>
<p>“This pitiful people, our former slaves,
if instructed by intelligent ministers and
teachers, might be delivered from the
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_70">[Pg 70]</span>cramped mind, freed from the brutalized
spirit which causes these crimes among us.
They are naturally a religious people
and this principle, which seems to be
strong within them, under the guidance of
an earnest enlightened ministry, might
prove to be the key to the race problem
find open up a social and political reformation,
unequalled in modern times.</p>
<p>“Already the negro race is doing much
for its own advancement and good. To-day
there are thirty-five thousand negro
teachers in the elementary schools of the
South. Six hundred ministers of the gospel
have been educated in their own theological
halls. They own and edit more than
two hundred newspapers. They have
equipped and maintain more than three
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_71">[Pg 71]</span>hundred lawyers and four hundred doctors
and have accumulated property which is
estimated at more than two hundred and
fifty millions. I note this fact with pleasure.
It makes them better citizens by
holding a stake in their community. Let
us show our appreciation of what they
have already done by helping them to do
more.”</p>
<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" />
<div class="chapter">
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_72">[Pg 72]</span></p>
<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_VII">CHAPTER VII.</h2>
</div>
<p>The strange faces, the new scene, the
suddenness of the call had shaken Elliott’s
self-possession, and he breathed a sigh of
relief as he finished his speech.</p>
<p>The mayor and municipal council
crowded around him with outstretched
hands, foremost amongst them, an old man
with Roman features.</p>
<p>“I was interested in your speech, young
man,” said he, “but wait until this thing
strikes home before you condemn our
code.”</p>
<p>“You’re right, Mr. Carr, you’re right!”
cried several voices in chorus.</p>
<p>The old gentleman talked on during the
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_73">[Pg 73]</span>intervals of greetings and ended by inviting
young Harding to his home, where a
lawn party was to be held that night.</p>
<p>As the volume of general applause lessened,
the cry of “Holmes! Holmes!” was
kept up with an insistence which might
have induced a less capable man to respond.
Nor would the enthused throng be
quieted until John Holmes mounted the
platform.</p>
<p>“It had not been my purpose, ladies and
gentlemen,” said he, “to address you to-day
upon the subject touched upon by Mr.
Harding, but, since he has modestly lectured
us on our barbarity, I must say a
word in defense of the South and southerners.
He intimates that the curse of slavery
still rests upon the southern states. I wonder<span class="pagenum" id="Page_74">[Pg 74]</span>
if Mr. Harding knows whether or not
the curse of slave-trade, which to be accurate
is called ‘the sum of all villainies,’
really rests upon Great Britain, who was
the originator of the inhuman system and
not upon us southerners?</p>
<p>“The most careful statistics show that in
the beginning over 19,000,000 Africans were
imported into the British West Indies and
so severely were they dealt with that
when emancipation came, only a little over
600,000 were left to benefit by it. The
slave trade was fastened on the American
colonies by the greed of English kings,
who, over and over again, vetoed the restrictive
legislation of the Colonial Assemblies
on the ground that it interfered with
the just profits of their sea-faring subjects.
Is there no work for Nemesis here?</p>
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_75">[Pg 75]</span></p>
<p>“That the system of slavery, as it existed
in the southern states, was accompanied
by many cases of hardship and cruelty,
we freely admit; that its abolition is a
proper ground for sincere rejoicing, we
do not hesitate to affirm. But, it is nevertheless
true, that, looked at in a large way,
slavery was a lifting force to the negro
race during the whole period of its existence
here. The proof lies just here—when
the war of emancipation came, the
4,000,000 negroes in the southern states
stood on a higher level of civilization
than did any other equal number of people
of the same race anywhere on the
globe.</p>
<p>“As to the mental and moral advancement
of the negro, we have not done enough to
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_76">[Pg 76]</span>render us boastful or self-satisfied, but
enough to dull the shafts of the mistaken
or malicious who would convict us of
heathenish indifference to his elevation.
We have from childhood had a lively appreciation
of the debt we owe to the race.
Nobody owes them as much as we do;
nobody knows them as well; nobody’s
future is so involved in their destiny as
our own. Is it not natural that we should
help them in their pathetic struggle
against poverty, ignorance and degradation?</p>
<p>“Mr. Harding, in speaking of their progress,
intimates that these results have
been reached by their own unaided efforts.
The fact is that the elementary schools of
which he speaks are sustained almost entirely<span class="pagenum" id="Page_77">[Pg 77]</span>
by the southern white people, who,
in the midst of their own grinding poverty,
have taxed themselves to the extent
of $50,000,000 to educate the children of
their former slaves. The colored churches
of to-day are the legitimate fruit of the
faithful work done amongst the slaves
before the war by white missionaries.</p>
<p>“Two hundred and fifty millions is a
vast sum. Could a race gather and hold so
much in a commonwealth where its
rights are being trampled upon with impunity?
The question answers itself.
There is, in truth, no place on earth where
the common negro laborer has so good an
opportunity as between the Potomac and
Rio Grande. Here he is admitted to all
the trades, toils side by side with white
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_78">[Pg 78]</span>workmen, and is protected in person and
property so long as he justifies protection.</p>
<p>“As to the statement that one thousand
have been lynched in the past ten years,
doubtless Mr. Harding accepts without
further examination the crooked figures of
partisan newspapers. But, granting this
horrible record to be true, it must be acknowledged
that the man does something
to call forth such treatment. Along with
the telling of our alleged bloodthirstiness,
there should be related the frequency and
atrocity of his outrages against our homes.
The south willingly appeals to the judgment
of civilized mankind as to the truth
of her declaration that the objects of enlightened
government are as well secured
here as on any portion of the globe.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_79">[Pg 79]</span></p>
<p>“That Mr. Harding and his sympathizers
are actuated by excellent motives, I do
not mean to question.</p>
<p>“We are as mindful as others of the dangerous
tendency of resorting to lawlessness,
but strangers cannot understand the
situation as well as those who are personally
familiar with it and have suffered by
it. It is much to be regretted, of course,
that lynchings occur, but it is far more to
be regretted that there are so many occasions
for them. When the sanctity of
woman is violated, man, if man he be, cannot
but choose to avenge it. If the villain
did not commit the crime for which this
penalty is inflicted, then we would not be
inflamed to summary vengeance. The perpetrator
of this deed, the most heinous of
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_80">[Pg 80]</span>all crimes and to which death is often
added, need not complain when vengeance
is visited upon him in a swift and merciless
manner, according with the teaching
of his own villainy.</p>
<p>“Unquestionably it would be better if
judicial formalities could be duly observed,
but the law should make special provisions
for summary execution when such grave
offenses occur. Then, too, there is something
to be said for the peculiar indignation
which such cases incite. This anger is
the just indignation of a community
against a peculiarly vile class of criminal,
not against a race, as Mr. Harding
and others have grown to believe and to
set forth. That it has seemed a race question
with the south, has been because for
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_81">[Pg 81]</span>every negro in the north we have one
hundred here.</p>
<p>“Mid the stormy scenes a quarter of a
century ago, when the bugle called the
sons of the south to war, they went, leaving
their wives, mothers, children and
homes in the hands of the slaves who,
though their personal interests were on the
other side, were true to their trust, protected
the helpless women and children
and earned for them their support by the
sweat of their own brow, and with a patience
unparalleled left the question of
freedom to the arbitrament of war. Their
behavior under manifold temptations was
always kindly and respectful, and never
one raised an arm to molest the helpless. In
the drama of all humanity, there is not a
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_82">[Pg 82]</span>figure more pathetic or touching than the
figure of the slave, who followed his master
to the battle-field, marched, thirsted
and hungered with him, nursed, served
and cheered him—that master who was
fighting to keep him in slavery. This subject
comprises a whole vast field of its
own and if the history of it is ever written,
it will be written in the literature of
the south, for here alone lies the knowledge
and the love.</p>
<p>“Who has taught him to regard liberty as
a license? Who has sown this seed of animosity
in his mind? Until they who have
sown the seed of discord shall root up and
clear away the tares, the peace and prosperity
that might reign in this southern
land can be but a hope, a dream. It is
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_83">[Pg 83]</span>this rooting of the tares, and this more
surely than anything else, that will bring
nearer the union and perfect good fellowship
which is so greatly needed. Sound
common sense and sterling Americanism
can and will find a way to prosperity and
peace.”</p>
<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" />
<div class="chapter">
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_84">[Pg 84]</span></p>
<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_VIII">CHAPTER VIII.</h2>
</div>
<p>The sun had set; off beyond the glistening
green woodline, the sky was duskily
red. The air was full of that freshness of
twilight, which is so different from the
dew of morning.</p>
<p>Elliott left the bran-dance by a new road
which was plain and characterless until he
had passed through an unpretentious gate
and was driving along the old elm avenue,
a part of the Carr domain, which was undeniably
picturesque. Shortly the elm
branches came to an end and he entered a
park, indifferently cared for, according
to modern ideas, but well stocked with
timber of magnificent growth and of almost<span class="pagenum" id="Page_85">[Pg 85]</span>
every known native variety. Perhaps
the oaks dominated in number and
majesty, but they found worthy rivals in
the towering elms.</p>
<p>Neglect is very picturesque in its effect,
whether the thing neglected be a ruined
castle or an unkept tangle. The unpicturesque
things are those in which man’s
artificial selection reigns supreme.</p>
<p>Had Elliott’s order-loving mother been
with him, she would have observed that
this park was ill-maintained, and that she
would dearly love to have the thinning
out and regulating of its trees. Whereas,
to his less orderly fancy, it presented a
most agreeable appearance. There was
Nature’s charm wholly undisturbed by
man, and what perhaps added the finishing<span class="pagenum" id="Page_86">[Pg 86]</span>
touch to his satisfaction was the exceeding
number of maples, in the perfect
maturity of their growth. These straight
and goodly trees so screened the house
that he was very close before it could be
seen. Even at the instant and before he
had looked upon more than its gray stone
frontage almost smothered in Virginia
creepers, up to the very top of its rounded
gables, Elliott was pleased.</p>
<p>It was a secluded place. Its position
was, according to his taste, perfect. It
had the blended charm of simple, harmonious
form and venerable age. It faced
almost southeast, the proper aspect for a
country house, as it ensures morning
cheerfulness all the year round, and the
full advantage of whatever sunshine there
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_87">[Pg 87]</span>is in winter from dawn practically to
sundown and the exquisite effects of the
rising of the moon.</p>
<p>Low-growing lilies breathed seductive
fragrance, and the softness of the air permitted
the gay party assembled to indulge
in what would have been indiscretion in
a more northerly climate. Young girls
discarded their straw hats and danced
upon the smooth, green lawn, while elderly
chaperons could retire to the halls and
porches if they feared the chill night air.</p>
<p>As Elliott approached the moonlit crowd
of figures, Dorothy Carr came out to greet
him. A young woman, tall and slight,
with a figure lithe and graceful, made
more perfect by ardent exercise. A skin
which had never been permitted to lose
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_88">[Pg 88]</span>its infant softness, with lips as pure as
perfect health and lofty thoughts could
make them. Her blown gold hair was
lustrous and soft, and she carried herself
with the modesty of the gentlewoman.
Her blue eyes were dark, their brows
pencilled with delicate precision combining
a breadth that was both commanding
and sweet.</p>
<p>“I am delighted to see you again, Mr.
Harding,” Dorothy Carr said, graciously.</p>
<p>“And I am delighted to be here,” replied
Elliott, as he turned with his fair
hostess to a rude seat fixed about the bole
of an oak.</p>
<p>“It was upon your grounds that we last
met,” she added after a slight pause.</p>
<p>“Yes, and I have waited with some impatience<span class="pagenum" id="Page_89">[Pg 89]</span>
for an invitation here, which
came just to-day. You see how quickly I
accepted.”</p>
<p>“What a dainty reproof,” she said,
laughing. “But I have been away all the
summer or you should have been invited
here long ago.”</p>
<p>A few such commonplaces passed between
them, then Dorothy referred to Elliott’s
speech, which she had listened to with
interest.</p>
<p>“I was so suddenly called upon that I
did little justice to the subject, and it is
a subject of such grave responsibility.
But perhaps it is just as well that I did
not have time to present it more strongly
for it appears to have been already misunderstood,
and I hear that not a few
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_90">[Pg 90]</span>have branded me with all sorts of bad
names. I trust I have not fallen under
your condemnation.”</p>
<p>“Well, to be frank, I think you exhibited
a somewhat fanatical anxiety to lecture
people differently circumstanced,”
she answered gravely. “Yet I did not
condemn you. I hope you give me credit
for more liberality than that. You are
new to our land, and have much to grow
accustomed to. We should not expect you
at once to see this matter as we do,” was
the evasive reply.</p>
<p>“She certainly does not lack the courage
of her convictions,” he thought. Then
aloud:</p>
<p>“You evidently think I shall alter my
views?” this in his airily candid manner;
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_91">[Pg 91]</span>“I stated the true conditions of affairs,
just as I understand them.”</p>
<p>“There is the trouble. The true condition
is not as you and many others
understand it.”</p>
<p>“Then let us hope that I may fully comprehend
before a great while. I at least
intend to make the best of this opportunity,
for, as you may know, I have settled
permanently in Georgetown.”</p>
<p>She looked up with a beautiful aloofness
in her eyes. The brave mouth, with its full,
sensitive lips, was strong, yet delicate.</p>
<p>“I am glad to hear that, for then you
can hardly fail, sooner or later, to feel
as we do about the subject of your to-day’s
discussion. I hope to help you to think
kindly of your new home.”</p>
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_92">[Pg 92]</span></p>
<p>“Nothing could be more comforting than
this from you,” he assured her, with that
frank manner which suited well the fearless
expression of his face. “I am now delightfully
quartered with my kinsman,
Mr. Field, whose acres join yours, I believe;
so we shall be neighbors.”</p>
<p>Then they laughed. “We are really to
be neighbors after all our quarrel in the
mountains? Well!” she added, hospitably,
“a cover will always be laid for you at
our table, and you shall have due warning
of any entertainment that may take
place. It shall be my duty to see that you
are thoroughly won over to the South; to
her traditions as well as her pleasures.”</p>
<p>“But changing this flippant subject to
one of graver importance, just now; there
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_93">[Pg 93]</span>is one thing absolutely necessary for you
Kentuckians to learn before you win me.”
His face lighted with a charming smile.</p>
<p>“What is that?” she asked.</p>
<p>“You must first know how to make Manhattan
cocktails.”</p>
<p>She answered with a pretty pout, “I—we
can make them now; why shouldn’t we?
Doesn’t all the good whiskey you get up
North come from the bluegrass state?”</p>
<p>Amused at her loyalty, Elliott assented
willingly: “That is a fact. And I like
your whiskey,—a little of it—I like your
state—all of it—its bluegrass, its thoroughbreds,
and its women. But, you will pardon
me, there is something wanting in its
cocktails, perhaps—it’s the cherry!”</p>
<p>“A fault that can be easily remedied,
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_94">[Pg 94]</span>and—suppose we did succeed, would you
belong to us?”</p>
<p>“I’m afraid I would,” he agreed smilingly.</p>
<p>Here the music of the two-step stopped,
and Uncle Josh, the old negro fiddler,
famous the country over for calling the
figures of the dance, straightened himself
with dignity, and called loudly:</p>
<p>“Pardners for de las’ waltz ’fore supper!”</p>
<p>Dorothy could not keep the mirth from
her lips. Uncle Josh was not measuring
time by heartbeats but the cravings of
his stomach; his immortal soul was his immortal
appetite. However, whatever
motive inspired him to fix the supper
time, it proved efficacious, and partners
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_95">[Pg 95]</span>were soon chosen and the dancing began
again as vigorously as ever.</p>
<p>Dorothy and Elliott were not slow in
joining the other dancers and glided
through the dreamy measures which
Uncle Josh, despite his longing to eat,
drew forth sweetly from his old, worn
fiddle. He was the soul of melody and
had an eye to widening his range of selections
and his inimitable technique appreciating
the demands upon his art. When,
with an extra flourish, Uncle Josh eventually
brought the music to an end, Mr.
Carr, with his easy Southern manner,
courteously invited every one in to supper.
He led the way, accompanied by
Elliott Harding and Dorothy.</p>
<p>How pretty the dining-room looked! Its
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_96">[Pg 96]</span>half-light coming through soft low tones of
pink. Big rosy balls of sweet clover,
fresh from the home fields, were massed
in cream tinted vases, bunched over pictures
and trailed down in lovely confusion
about the window and straggling
over door frames. Upon the long table
stood tall candlesticks and candelabras
many prismed, with branching vines
twisted in and out in quaint fashion,
bearing tall candles tipped with pink
shades. From the centre of the ceiling to
each corner of the room first, then to
regular distances, were loosely stretched
chains of pink and white clovers. Large
bows of ribbon held these lengths in place
where they met the chair board. In each
corner close to the wall were jars which,
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_97">[Pg 97]</span>in their pretty pink dresses of crinkled
paper held in place by broad ribbon
sashes, would scarcely be recognized as
the old butter pots of our grandmothers’
days. From these jars grew tufts of rooted
clover. Even the old fireplace and broad
mantel were decked with these blossoms.</p>
<p>At each side of the table stood two glass
bowls filled with branches of clover leaves
only; one lot tied with pink ribbon, the
other with white. When supper was served
these bowls were passed around while
Dorothy repeated the pretty tradition of
the four-leaf clover. Then commenced the
merry hunt for the prize that only two
could win. Bright eyes and deft fingers
searched their leaves through.</p>
<p>While this went on, in the dining-room
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_98">[Pg 98]</span>just outside, under the moon and the
maples, near the kitchen door, was another
scene as joyous, if not so fair. At the head
of the musician’s banquetting board sat
Uncle Josh, hospitably helping each to
the good things Aunt Chloe had heaped
before them in accordance with the orders
of “her white folks.” She was considered
one of the most important members of the
Carr household, having been in the service
of the family for thirty years, being
a blend of nurse, cook and lady’s maid.</p>
<p>As Uncle Josh’s brown, eager hands
greedily grasped the mint julep, and held
it sparkling between him and the light,
with a broad smile on his beaming face,
he exultantly exclaimed:</p>
<p>“De Lawd love her soul, Miss Dor’thy,
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_99">[Pg 99]</span>nebber is ter fergit we all. Talk erbout
de stars! She’s ’way ’bove dem.”</p>
<p>While he and his companions drank mint
julep in token that his grateful sentiment
was recognized as a toast to the fine hostess,
the dining-room was ringing with laughter
and congratulations over Elliott Harding’s
victory, he having found one of the
four-leaved trophies.</p>
<p>“Where is its mate?” was the eager
question as nimble fingers and sharp eyes
searched over the little bunches right and
left again, anxious to find this potent
charm against evil. The search, however,
was vain. Some one asked if its loss meant
that Mr. Harding should live unwedded
for the rest of his days.</p>
<p>The evening closed with jokes of his
bachelorhood.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_100">[Pg 100]</span></p>
<p>By midnight the dining-room was still,
the table cleared, the only sign of what
had been was the floor with its scattered
leaves.</p>
<p>All tired out with the long hours of
gayety, Dorothy had hurried off to bed.
There was a little crushed four-leaved
clover fastened upon her nightgown as she
lay down to her sweet, mysterious, girlish
dreams.</p>
<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" />
<div class="chapter">
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_101">[Pg 101]</span></p>
<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_IX">CHAPTER IX.</h2>
</div>
<p>Dorothy’s father, Napoleon Carr, was a
man well known and greatly respected
throughout the south country where he
had always lived. His existence had been
a laborious one, for he had entered the
lists heavily handicapped in the matter of
education. Intellectual enjoyment, dimly
realized, had never been his; but he struggled
that his family might have a fairer
chance. Much of his comfortable income
of late years had been generously devoted
to the education of his daughter.</p>
<p>He had been happily wedded, though
long childless. At length, when Dorothy
was born it was at the price of her mother’s<span class="pagenum" id="Page_102">[Pg 102]</span>
life. This was a terrific blow to the
husband and father. He was inconsolable
with grief. The child was sent to a
kinsman for a few months, after which time
Mr. Carr felt that he must have her ever
with him. To him there was nothing so
absorbing as the tender care of Dorothy.
He was very prideful of her. He watched
her daily growth and then, all at once,
while he scarcely realized that the
twilight of childhood was passing, the
dawn came, and, like the rose vine by his
doorway, she burst into bloom.</p>
<p>With what a reverential pride he saw
her filling the vacant place, diffusing a
fragrance upon all around like the sweet,
wet smell of a rose.</p>
<p>He was a splendid horseman and crack
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_103">[Pg 103]</span>shot, and it had been one of his pleasures
to teach her to handle horse and gun.
Together they would ride and hunt, and
no day’s outing was perfect to him unless
Dorothy was by his side.</p>
<p>It was not surprising, therefore, to find
her a little boyish in her fondness for
sport. However, as she grew to womanhood,
she sometimes, from a fancy that it
was undignified, would decline to take
part in these sports. But when he had
started off alone with dogs and gun, the
sound of running feet behind him would
cause him to turn to find Dorothy with
penitent face before him. Then lovingly
encircling his neck with arms like stripped
willow boughs, the repentant words:
“I do want to go. I was only in fun,”
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_104">[Pg 104]</span>would be a preface to a long day of delight.</p>
<p>In time these little moods set him thinking,
and he began to realize that their
beautiful days of sporting comradeship
were in a measure over. How he wished
she might never outgrow this charm of
childhood.</p>
<p>Ah! those baby days, not far past! How
often of nights the father went to her bedroom,
just touching his child to find out if
the covering was right and that she slept
well. How many, many times had he
leaned over her sleeping form in the dim
night light, seeming to see a halo around
her head as he watched the dimpling smile
about her infant mouth, and, recalling the
old nurse saying, that when a baby smiles,
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_105">[Pg 105]</span>angels are whispering to it, took comfort
in the thought that maybe it was all
true, that the mother was soothing her
child to deeper slumber, and so, perhaps,
was also beside him. All unconsciously
she had slept, never hearing the prayer to
God that when the day should come when
she would leave him for the man of her
heart, death might claim his lone companionship.</p>
<p>How it hurt when the neighbors would
says “You have a grown daughter now,”
or “Dorothy is a full fledged woman.” It
was not until then that Mr. Carr had let
his daughter know that it would almost
break his heart if she should ever leave
him for another. But he made absolutely no
restrictions against her meeting young men.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_106">[Pg 106]</span></p>
<p>Of course this rare creature had sweethearts
not a few, for the neighboring boys
began to nourish a tender sentiment for
her before she was out of short dresses.
Her playmates were free of the house;
their coming was always welcome to her
and encouraged by her father though
this past year, when a new visitor had
found his way there, the father took particular
note of her manner toward this
possible suitor. The kind old eyes would
follow her with pathetic eagerness, not
reproaching or reproving, only always
questioning: “Is this to be the man who
shall open the new world’s doors for her;
who shall give her the first glimpse of that
wonderful joy called love?”</p>
<p>Yet so truly unselfish was her nature,—despite<span class="pagenum" id="Page_107">[Pg 107]</span>
the unlimited indulgences when,
visiting in congenial homes where she
was petted and admired, full of the intoxication
of the social triumphs, she had
out of the abundance of her heart exclaimed:
“Oh, I am so happy! happy! happy!”—there
was sure to follow a time of anxious
solicitude, when she asked herself, “But
how has it been with him—with dear old
father?”</p>
<p>It was so generous of him to spare so
much of her society; so good of him to
make her orphan way so smooth and fair.
She could read in his pictured face something
of the loneliness and the disappointments
he had borne; something of the
heartaches he must have suffered. All
this she recalled, the pleasure of it and
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_108">[Pg 108]</span>the pain of it, the pride and joy of it.
What a delight it was to make her visit
short, and surprise him by returning home
before he expected her.</p>
<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" />
<div class="chapter">
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_109">[Pg 109]</span></p>
<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_X">CHAPTER X.</h2>
</div>
<p>Time went swiftly. The seasons followed
each other without that fierceness
in them to which one is accustomed in the
North. The very frosts were gentle;
slowly and kindly they stripped the
green robes from tree and thicket, gave
ample warning to the robin, linnet and
ruby-throat before taking down the leafy
hangings and leaving their shelter open
to the chill rains of December. The wet
kine and horses turned away from the
North and stood in slanting rains with
bowed heads.</p>
<p>Christmas passed, and New Year. Pretty
soon spring was in the valleys, creeping
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_110">[Pg 110]</span>first for shelter shyly, in the pause of the
blustering wind that was blowing the last
remnants of old winter from the land.</p>
<p>There was a general spreading of dry
brush over the spaded farm country; then
the sweet, clean smell of its burning and
a misty veil of thin blue smoke hanging
everywhere throughout the clearing. As
soon as the fear of frost was gone, all the
air was a fount of freshness. The earth
smiled its gladness, and the laughing
waters prattled of the kindness of the
sun. When the dappled softness of the sky
gave some earnest of its mood, a brisk
south wind arose and the blessed rain
came driving cold, yet most refreshing.
At its ceasing, coy leaves peeped out, and
the bravest blossoms; the dogwoods, full-flowered,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_111">[Pg 111]</span>
quivered like white butterflies
poised to dream. In every wet place the
little frogs began to pipe to each other
their joy that spring was holding her
revel. The heart of the people was not
sluggish in its thankfulness to God, for if
there were no spring, no seed time, there
would be no harvest. Now summer was
all back again. Song birds awakening at
dawn made the woods merry carolling to
mates and younglings in the nests. All
nature was in glad, gay earnest. Busy
times, corn in blossom rustling in the
breeze, blackberries were ripe, morning-glories
under foot, the trumpet flower
flaring above some naked girdled tree.
Open meadows full of sun where the hot
bee sucks the clover, the grass tops gather
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_112">[Pg 112]</span>purple, and ox-eyed daisies thrive in wide
unshadowed acres.</p>
<p>“Just a year ago since I came to the
South,” mused Elliott Harding, as he
walked back and forth in his room, the
deep bay window of which overlooked a
lawn noticeably neat and having a representative
character of its own.</p>
<p>As a rule, South country places in
thickly settled regions are pronounced
unlovely at a glance, either by reason of
the plainness of their architecture or by
the too close proximity of other buildings.
Here was an exception for the outhouses
were numerous but in excellent repair
and red-tiled like the house itself. The
tiles were silvered here and there with
the growth and stains of unremoved lichens.<span class="pagenum" id="Page_113">[Pg 113]</span>
There was not an eye-sore anywhere
about this quiet home of Mr. Field.</p>
<p>Elliott’s intimates had expressed a pity
for him. Surely this quiet must dull his
nerves so used to spurring, and he find the
jog-trot of the days’ monotony an insupportable
experience. That Elliott belonged
to the world, loved it, none knew
better than himself. He had revelled in
its delights with the indifferent thought,
“Time enough for fireside happiness by-and-by.”
His interest in life had been
little more than that which a desire for
achievement occasions in an energetic
mind.</p>
<p>In spite of his past association, his
past carelessness, this moment found him
going over the most trivial event that had
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_114">[Pg 114]</span>the slightest connection with Dorothy
Carr. He tried to recall every word,
every look of hers. Often when he had
had a particularly hard day’s work, it
rested him to stop and take supper with
the Carrs. The sight of their home life
fascinated him. He had never known
happy family life; he had little conception
of what a pure, genial home might be.
The simple country customs, the common
interests so keenly shared, the home loyalty—all
these were new to him, and impressed
him forcibly. And how like one
of them he had got to feel walking in the
front hall often, hanging up his hat, and
reading the evening papers if the folks
were out, and sometimes when Aunt Chloe
told him where Dorothy had gone, he felt
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_115">[Pg 115]</span>the natural inclination to go in pursuit of
her. He remembered once finding her
ankle deep in the warm lush garden
grasses, pulling weeds out from her flowers,
and he had actually got down and
helped her. That was a very happy hour;
the freshness of the sweet air gave her unconventional
garb a genuine loveliness—gave
him a sense of manliness and mastery
which he had not felt in the old life.
How infinitely sweet she looked! Something
about her neatness, grace and order
typified to him that palladium of man’s
honor and woman’s affection—the home.
She appealed to the heart and that appeal
has no year, no period, no fashion.</p>
<p>Daylight was dying now; he looked
longingly towards the gray gables, the
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_116">[Pg 116]</span>only indication of the Carr homestead.
Afar beyond the range of woodland the
day’s great stirrup cup was growing
fuller. Up from the slow moving river
came a breath of cool air, and beyond the
landline quivered the green of its willows.
Dusk had fallen—the odorous dusk of the
Southland. In the distance somewhere
sounds of sweet voices of the negroes singing
in the summer dark, their music
mingling with the warm wind under the
stars. The night with its soft shadings
held him—he leaned long against the window
and listened.</p>
<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" />
<div class="chapter">
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_117">[Pg 117]</span></p>
<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_XI">CHAPTER XI.</h2>
</div>
<p>“Whar’s dat bucket? Whar’s dat bucket?
Here it is done sun up an’ my cows aint
milked yit!”</p>
<p>Aunt Chloe floundered round in a hurry,
peering among the butter bowls and pans
on the bench, in search of her milk bucket.</p>
<p>“I’se ransacked dis place an’ it kyant
be paraded,” she said, placing her hands
on her ample hips to pant and wonder.
Meanwhile she could hear the impatient
lowing of the cows and the hungry bleating
of the calves from their separate pens.
Presently her thick lips broadened into a
knowing smile.</p>
<p>“Laws ter gracious! If Miss Dorothy
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_118">[Pg 118]</span>aint kyard my las’ ling’rin basket an’
bucket to dem cherry trees. She ’lowed
to beat de birds dar. Do she spec me to
milk in my han’? I’m gwine down dar
an’ git dat.”</p>
<p>Here she broke off with a second laugh,
and with a natural affection in the midst
of her hilarity, which had its tender touch
with it.</p>
<p>“I’se lyin’! I’d do nuthin’ ob de sort.
If she’d wanted me ter climb dem trees
myself I’d done it even if I’d knowed I’d
fall out and bust my ole haid.”</p>
<p>Again Aunt Chloe looked about her for
something which would do service for a
milkpail. Out in the sun stood the big
cedar churn, just where she had placed it
the night before that it might catch the
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_119">[Pg 119]</span>fresh morning air and sunshine. At sight
of it she looked relieved.</p>
<p>“Well! dis here doan leak, and aint
milk got to go in it arter all?” So shouldering
the awkward substitute, she hurried
to the “cup pen” with the thought:
“Lemme make ’aste an’ git thro’, I’se
gwine ter he’p Miss Dorothy put up dem
brandy cherries.”</p>
<p>Down in the orchard Dorothy was picking
cherries to fill the last bucket whose
loss had caused Aunt Chloe’s mind such
vexation, and whose substitute—the churn—was
now causing her a vast deal more, as
the cow refused to recognize any new airs,
and so moved away from its vicinity as
fast as she set it beside her.</p>
<p>Presently Dorothy heard the sound of a
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_120">[Pg 120]</span>horse’s tread, at the same time a voice
called out:</p>
<p>“Oh, little boy, is this the road to
Georgetown?”</p>
<p>Elliott Harding had drawn in rein, and
was looking up through the leaves.</p>
<p>“How mean of you!” she stammered, her
face flushing. “What made you come this
way?”</p>
<p>He only laughed, and did not dare admit
that Aunt Chloe had been the traitor, but
got down, hitched his horse, and went
nearer. Dorothy was very lovely as she
stood there in the gently swaying tree,
one arm holding to a big limb, while the
other one was reaching out for a bunch of
cherries. Her white sunbonnet with its
long streamers swayed over her shoulders.
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_121">[Pg 121]</span>Her plenteous hair, inclined to float, had
come unplaited at the ends and fell in
shimmering gold waves about her blue
gingham dress. Nothing more fragrant with
innocent beauty had Elliott ever seen, as
her lithe, slim arms let loose their hold to
climb down. She was excited and trembling
as she put out her hands and took
both his strong ones that he might help her
to the ground.</p>
<p>“I suppose it is tomboyish to climb
trees,” she commenced, in a confused sort
of way. “But, the birds eat the cherries
almost as fast as they ripen, and I wanted
to save some nice ones for your cocktails.”</p>
<p>A look of embarrassment had been deepening
in Dorothy’s face. Her voice
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_122">[Pg 122]</span>sounded tearful, and looking at her he
saw that her lips quivered and her nostrils
dilated, and at once comprehended
that the frank confession was prompted
by embarrassment rather than gayety.
Remembering her diffidence at times with
him, he quickly reassured her, feeling
brutal for having chaffed her.</p>
<p>“It is all right to climb if you wish,”
he said. “I admire your spirit of independence
as well as your fearlessness. You
are a wholesome-minded girl; you will
never be tempted to do anything unbecoming.”</p>
<p>As he stood idly tapping the leaves with
his whip, a strange softening came over
him against which he strove. He wanted
to find some excuse to get on his horse and
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_123">[Pg 123]</span>ride away without another word. He
looked off toward the path along which he
had come. At the turn of it was Aunt
Chloe’s cabin, half hidden by a jungle of
vines and stalks of great sunflowers. Festoons
of white and purple morning-glories
ran over the windows to the sapling porch
around which a trellis of gourd vines
swung their long-necked, grotesque fruit.
Flaming hollyhocks and other bits of
brilliant bloom gave evidence of the warm
native taste that distinguished the negro of
the old regime. The sun flaring with
blinding brilliancy against the white-washed
fence made him turn back to the
shade where he could see only Dorothy’s
blue eyes, with just that mingling of love
and pain in them; the sweet mouth a little
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_124">[Pg 124]</span>tremulous, the color coming and going in
the soft cheeks.</p>
<p>“And a cocktail with the cherry will be
perfect.” He had almost forgotten to take
up the conversation where she had left off.
“But your dear labor has brought a questionable
reward. You will remember the
cherry was the one thing lacking to make
me yours?”</p>
<p>“Oh, yes!” her face lightening with a
sudden recollection. “Now you do belong
to us.”</p>
<p>“If ‘us’ means you, I grant you that I
have been fairly and squarely won.”</p>
<p>Dropping his whip, Elliott leaned over
and took Dorothy’s face between his hands
bringing it close to his own, their hearts
and lips together for one delicious moment.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_125">[Pg 125]</span></p>
<p>“Dorothy, we belong to each other,” he
said, gazing straight into her eyes.</p>
<p>She had been beautiful to him always,
but loveliest now with the look of love
thrilling her as he felt her tapering
wrists close around his neck.</p>
<p>“It seems as though I have loved you
all my life, Elliott.”</p>
<p>“Oh, if in loving me, the sweetness of
you, the youth, the happiness should be
wasted! Shall I always make you happy, I
often ask myself. I want to know this,
Dorothy, for I hope to make you my
wife.”</p>
<p>At the word “wife,” delicate vibrations
glided through her, deepening into pulsations
that were all a wonder and a wild
delight, throbbing with the vigor of love
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_126">[Pg 126]</span>and youth that drenched her soul with a
rapturous sense.</p>
<p>“Oh, Elliott! Elliott! You are mine.
All mine.”</p>
<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" />
<div class="chapter">
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_127">[Pg 127]</span></p>
<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_XII">CHAPTER XII.</h2>
</div>
<p>Happy weeks! Happy moons! uncounted
days of uncounted joys! For Elliott and
Dorothy the summer passed away in
blissful Arcadian fashion. She was to him
that most precious and sustaining of all
good influences—a woman gently wise and
kindly sympathetic, an influence such as
weans men by the beauty of purity from
committing grosser sins and elevates them
above low tastes and its objects by the
exquisite ineffable loftiness of soul, which
is the noblest attribute of pure womanhood.</p>
<p>There was a bond between these two, real
eternal, independent of themselves, made
not by man, but God.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_128">[Pg 128]</span></p>
<p>With the hope of sparing her father
sorrow over the fact that another shared
her affection, Dorothy did not at first tell
him of her engagement, and Elliott was
not unnaturally reticent about it, having
so often heard that Mr. Carr would feel
it a heavy blow to have his daughter leave
him alone.</p>
<p>September was now well advanced and
the equinoctial storms were bold and bitter
on the hills. Many trees succumbed to
their violence, broken branches filled the
roads and tall tree trunks showed their
wounds. The long blue grass looked like
the dishevelled fur of an animal that had
been rubbed the wrong way. There were
many runnels and washouts trending
riverward in the loose soil. By the time
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_129">[Pg 129]</span>the storm showed signs of abating, considerable
damage had been done. Many
barns, cabins and even houses were unroofed
or blown down. Among other victims
of the wind was Mr. Field, inasmuch
as the old homestead which he had
purchased of Elliott was one of the buildings
wrecked.</p>
<p>It happened that the morning after the
storm, Elliott was to drive into town with
Dorothy. As they passed along, they
noted here and there the havoc wrought.
Finally, as they approached the old Harding
place, they saw that the fury of the
storm had counted it among its playthings.
Elliott gazed lingeringly and sadly at the
wreck. Then he stopped the horses and
helping Dorothy out of the vehicle he
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_130">[Pg 130]</span>tied the team and together they went up
the pathway, looking often at each other
in mute sorrow. She felt that any words
of consolation would be out of place while
the first shock lasted, so kept silent, letting
her eyes tell of her sympathy. For
a time they stood and looked at the scene
of devastation, the ruins covered with abundant
ivy that gleamed and trembled in
the light of the sun. Then Elliott said
slowly:</p>
<p>“My father’s wish is now beyond the
reach of possible denial. Nature has
destroyed it, just as he wished it should
be done.”</p>
<p>Walking about, looking now at this, now
at that remnant of the wreck, he kept biting
his lips to keep back the tears, but
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_131">[Pg 131]</span>the sight was so like looking upon a loved
one dead, that he could not long keep
them back—hot tears came in a passionate
gush, and he must allow himself relief of
them.</p>
<p>Business successes eventually rendered
it possible for Elliott to gratify his
old ambition about the homestead and
thinking that the time for action had come
the next day, when his uncle dropped into
his office to talk over the storm and its
destroying of the old homestead, Elliott
suggested:</p>
<p>“Uncle Philip, I have a mind to buy
that lot from you. Would you sell it?”</p>
<p>“Why do you ask? Are you going to
get married?”</p>
<p>“If I can ever get the father’s blessing
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_132">[Pg 132]</span>of the woman I love, I am,” was Elliott’s
straightforward reply.</p>
<p>Mr. Field looked solemn. “I am afraid
no man will ever get his willing consent,
if you refer to Mr. Carr,” he remarked.</p>
<p>“Well, never mind, that has no connection
with this proposition. I have long
had a desire to do something to perpetuate
my father’s memory. Since fate has removed
the house, I have an idea of erecting
a building and presenting it as an institution
for the manual education of
colored children.”</p>
<p>The astonished look on Mr. Field’s face
gave place to one of admiration as Elliott
proceeded and he quickly interrupted:</p>
<p>“My dear boy, I am glad to say I have
anticipated you. The bank has in its
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_133">[Pg 133]</span>safe keeping a deed already made out in
your name. The property has always been
and now is yours to do with as you
please.”</p>
<p>“Uncle Philip, you overwhelm me with
surprise and gratitude,” exclaimed Elliott
grasping the old man’s hand firmly in his.
“You are too good to me.”</p>
<p>Mr. Field rested his face in his hand
and regarded his nephew with all the
fondness of a parent. After a pause,
Elliott continued:</p>
<p>“Since you have so greatly aided me by
giving me such a generous start, I will
myself erect the building, but together
we will make the gift of it in my father’s
name, and call it the ‘Richard Harding
Institute.’”</p>
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_134">[Pg 134]</span></p>
<p>Mr. Field showed the warmth of his appreciation
by grasping his nephew’s hand,
and together they discussed at length the
plan of the buildings.</p>
<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" />
<div class="chapter">
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_135">[Pg 135]</span></p>
<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_XIII">CHAPTER XIII.</h2>
</div>
<p>As Elliott drove briskly home that
evening, hope pointed enthusiastically
forward. The two ambitions he was about
to realize had long been interwoven with
the whole tenor of his existence. The possibility
of making a fitting memorial to
his father’s name had been unexpectedly
brought about, and following close upon
this good luck came the gratifying news
that the book he had been so long at work
upon had been favorably received by the
publishers, who were assured not only of
its literary merit, but of its commercial
value as well, since it dealt with the popular
side of the lynching evil, as viewed by
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_136">[Pg 136]</span>the outer world. His subject was at the
time attracting so much attention and causing
so many heated discussions, that he had
hardly dared to hope that his first attempt
in serious literature would meet with the
success of acceptance.</p>
<p>When he got home he found his uncle
looking over the manuscript which had
been returned to him for final review and
quietly took a seat beside him to listen to
his comments while awaiting the supper
hour.</p>
<p>Mr. Field laid the papers on his knee.</p>
<p>“This is very good, as a story. I can
truthfully say that I am more than pleased
with it from a literary standpoint. But
that alone is no reason for publishing.
This haste to rush into print is one of the
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_137">[Pg 137]</span>bad signs of the times. Your views as
herein expressed are more pardonable
than reasonable, for they are your inheritance
rather than your fault.”</p>
<p>“I have been conscientious, am I to blame
for that?”</p>
<p>“Who is to blame?” asked his uncle.
“First, your mother had something to do
with the forming of your opinions. She
had the training of your mind at that critical
age when the bend of the twig forms
the shape of the tree, and no doubt the
society in which you have been thrown
has helped to make you an agitator.”</p>
<p>“Society must then take the consequences
of its own handiwork. As for my
mother, I will say in her defense, that if
her teachings were not always the best, she
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_138">[Pg 138]</span>aimed toward what she considered a high
ideal.”</p>
<p>Mr. Field knew there was a deep sincerity,
an almost fanatical earnestness in
his nephew, and he respected him none
the less for it. He was at that critical
season of life in which the mind of man
is made up in nearly equal proportions of
depth and simplicity.</p>
<p>“I see your convictions are real, yet I
strongly advise you to give more time to
the matter and make further investigation
before you give your views to the world.”</p>
<p>“The more I search, the more I find that
condemns lynching.” Elliott spoke in a
deferential tone, for despite his own strong
convictions, the soundness of his uncle’s
views on other matters made him respect
his opinion of this.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_139">[Pg 139]</span></p>
<p>“I wish you would give over reading
those unprincipled authors, my boy, whose
aim is to excite the evil passions of the
multitude; and shut your ears to the extravagant
statements of people who make
tools of enthusiastic and imaginative
minds to further their own selfish ends.
An intelligent conservatism is one of the
needs of the day.”</p>
<p>“I am profoundly sorry that my work
is so objectionable to you. My publishers
tell me it is worth printing, and as
evidence of their assurance, they offer me
a good round sum, besides a royalty.”</p>
<p>“I grant the probabilities of the book
being a pecuniary success, but there are
other considerations. You must recollect
that all your prospects are centered in the
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_140">[Pg 140]</span>South, and now the affections of your
heart bind you here; therefore you should
give up all this bitter feeling against us.
As you know more of this race, you will
find that it is by no means as ill used as
you are taught to believe. I advise you
most earnestly, as you value your future
here, to suppress this book, which would
do the South a great injury and yourself
little credit.”</p>
<p>Mr. Field leaned wearily back on the
high armchair. He had swayed Elliott in
some things, but it was clear that in one
direction one would always be opposed to
that which the other advocated. They
could never agree, nor even affect a compromise.
The nephew was grieved, yet his
purpose was fixed, and he fed on the hope
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_141">[Pg 141]</span>of one day winning reconciliation through
fame if not conviction, and in reuniting
the sister and brother in the mutual pride
of his success.</p>
<p>With half a sigh Elliott began rearranging
the pages, when a finely written line
in an obscure corner of one page caught
his eye. Holding it toward the light he
read:</p>
<p>“Are you my country’s foe, and therefore
mine?”</p>
<p>At her urgent request, he had allowed
Dorothy to read the manuscript, and had
been happy in the thought that she had
returned it into his own hands without a
word of criticism. As he read this question,
he felt and appreciated both her love
for him and her loyalty to her people.
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_142">[Pg 142]</span>And, while she had not openly condemned
his work, he knew he had not her approval
of its sentiment. He felt a growing
knowledge that any success, no matter its
magnitude, would be hollow unless she
shared his rejoicings.</p>
<p>As soon as the quiet meal was done, he
set out for the Carr’s. Twilight was well
advanced. A white frost was on the stubble
fields and the stacked corn and the
crimson and russet foliage of the woodside
had the moist look of colors on a painter’s
palette.</p>
<p>At the window, Dorothy stood and
watched her sweetheart come. The same
constancy shone in her gentle face for him
as ever and her greeting was as warm as his
fondest anticipations could have pictured.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_143">[Pg 143]</span></p>
<p>“Have I displeased you? You do not
share a pride in my work, Dorothy?”</p>
<p>“Since you guess it,” she answered, “I
may be spared the pain of confessing.”</p>
<p>Elliott was silent for a time, but his expression
showed the deep disappointment
he felt.</p>
<p>At length in an undertone, he said:</p>
<p>“Don’t reproach me. Of course you have
not felt this as I feel it, being so differently
situated and looking at it from another
point of view.”</p>
<p>Seeing that he paused for her answer,
Dorothy replied: “I have considered all
this. But do you not see what a reflection
your clever plot is upon us, or what a
gross injustice it will do the South?”</p>
<p>“Cold facts may sound harsh, but you
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_144">[Pg 144]</span>will be all the better for your chastening.
The South will advance under it.”</p>
<p>“I wish I could believe it; the chances
are all against us. Why did you ever
want to take such a risk?” and the air of
the little, slender, determined maiden
marked the uncompromising rebel.</p>
<p>Elliott deliberately arose. His face was
earnest and full of a strange power.</p>
<p>“It hurts me to displease you, Dorothy,
but I must direct my own will and conscience.
To hold your respect and my
own, I must be a man,—not a compromise.”</p>
<p>There was such lofty sentiment in that
calm utterance from his heart that Dorothy,
acknowledging the strength of it,
could not resist the impulse of admiring
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_145">[Pg 145]</span>compassion and stifling any lingering
feeling of resentment, she quietly laid her
hand on his and looked into his face with
eyes that Fate must have purposed to be
wells of comfort to a grieving mind. At
her touch Elliott started, looked down
and met her soothing gaze.</p>
<p>“If it were not for our mistakes, failures
and disappointments, the love we
bear our treasures would soon perish for
lack of sustenance. It is the failures in
life that make one gentle and forgiving
with the weak and I almost believe it is
the failures of others that mostly endear
them to us. Do what you may, let it bring
what it will, all my love and sanction
goes with it,” she said softly.</p>
<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" />
<div class="chapter">
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_146">[Pg 146]</span></p>
<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_XIV">CHAPTER XIV.</h2>
</div>
<p>October days! The sumacs drabbled in
the summer’s blood flaunt boldly, and
green, gold and purple shades entrance the
eye. The mullein stands upon the brown
land a lonely sentinel. The thistle-down
floats ghost-like through the haze, and
silvery disks of a spider’s web swing twixt
the cornrows.</p>
<p>Sunday. Elliott remained at home
until late in the afternoon. While
he feared the result, he still held to his
fixed resolve to go that day and definitely
ascertain what was to come of his love for
Dorothy. He said to Mr. Field, as he
started off, “I shall not be back to supper—I<span class="pagenum" id="Page_147">[Pg 147]</span>
am going to see Mr. Carr.” His voice
was hopeful and his face wore a smile.</p>
<p>His nephew’s assumed hopefulness had
long been more painful to Mr. Field than
this despondency he sought to cover by it.
It was so unlike hopefulness, had in it
something so fierce in its determination—was
so hungry and eager, and yet carried
such a consciousness of being forced, that
it had long touched his heart.</p>
<p>Dorothy knew the object of this call,
and when her father came into the parlor
she withdrew, full of sweet alarm, and
left the two together. A tender glance, a
soft rustling of pretty garments, and
Elliott knew that he and her father were
alone. He had scarcely taken his chair,
when he began:</p>
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_148">[Pg 148]</span></p>
<p>“Mr. Carr, I have come upon the most
sacred and important duty of my life.”</p>
<p>“Draw your chair closer, I cannot see
you well,” said Mr. Carr. “I am growing
old and my sight is failing me.” And the
way his voice faded into silence was typical
of what he had said.</p>
<p>Elliott obeying his request, continued:</p>
<p>“I have had the honor of being received
in this house for some time—nearly two
years now, and I hope the topic on which
I am about to speak will not surprise you.”</p>
<p>“Is it about Dorothy?”</p>
<p>“It is. You evidently anticipate what
I would say, though you cannot realize
my hopes and fears. I love her truly,
Mr. Carr, and I want to make her my
wife.”</p>
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_149">[Pg 149]</span></p>
<p>“I knew it would come. But why not a
little later?” he said, pathetically.</p>
<p>It was so like a cry of pain, this appeal,
that it made Elliott’s heart ache and
hushed him into silence. After a little,
Mr. Carr said, solemnly:</p>
<p>“Go on!”</p>
<p>“I know, after seeing you together from
day to day, that between you and her there
is an affection so strong, so closely allied
to the circumstances in which it has been
nurtured, that it has few parallels. I
know that mingled with the love and duty
of a daughter who has become a woman,
there is yet in her heart all the love and
reliance of childhood itself. When she is
clinging to you the reliance of baby, girl
and woman in one is upon you. All this I
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_150">[Pg 150]</span>have known since first I met you in your
home life.”</p>
<p>With an air of perfect patience the old
man remained mute, keeping his eyes cast
down as though, in his habit of passive endurance,
it was all one to him if it never
came his turn to speak.</p>
<p>“Feeling that,” Elliott went on, “I have
waited as long as it is in the nature of man
to do. I have felt, and even now feel, that
perhaps to interpose my love between you
and her is to touch this hallowed association
with something not so good as itself,
but my life is empty without her, and I
must know now if you will entrust her to
my care.”</p>
<p>The old man’s breathing was a little
quickened as he asked, mournfully: “How
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_151">[Pg 151]</span>could I do without her? What would become
of me?”</p>
<p>“Do without her?” Elliott repeated.
“I do not mean to stand between you two—to
separate you. I only seek to share with
her her love for you, and to be as faithful
always as she has been; to add to hers a
son’s affection and care. I have no other
thought in my heart but to double with
Dorothy her privileges as your child, companion,
friend. If I harbored any thought
of separating her from you, I could not
now touch this honored hand.” He laid
his own upon the wrinkled one as he spoke.</p>
<p>Answering the touch for an instant only,
but not coldly, Mr. Carr lifted his eyes
with one grave look at Elliott, then gazed
anxiously toward the door. These last
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_152">[Pg 152]</span>words seemed to awaken his subdued lips.</p>
<p>“You speak so manfully, Mr. Harding,
that I feel I must treat your confidence
and sincerity in the same spirit.”</p>
<p>“With all my heart I thank you, Mr.
Carr, for I well understand that without
you I have no hope. She, I feel sure,
would not give it, nor would I ask her
hand without your consent.”</p>
<p>The old man spoke out plainly now.</p>
<p>“I am not much longer for this world, I
think, for I am very feeble, and of all the
living and dead world, this one soul—my
child—is left to me. The tie between us is
the only one that now remains unbroken,
therefore you cannot be surprised that its
breaking would crowd all my suffering
into the one act. But I believe you to be
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_153">[Pg 153]</span>a good man. I believe your object to be
purely and truthfully what you have
stated, and as a proof of my belief, I will
give her to you—with my blessing,” and
extending his hand, he allowed Elliott to
grasp it warmly.</p>
<p>“God bless you for this, Mr. Carr,” was
all that he could say.</p>
<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" />
<div class="chapter">
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_154">[Pg 154]</span></p>
<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_XV">CHAPTER XV.</h2>
</div>
<p>Elliott had had a succession of busy
months, when the case was called for the
notorious moonshiner, Burr Chester, who
had killed the sheriff while resisting arrest.
The Grand Jury had found a true
bill against him for murder in the first
degree and Elliott Harding had been engaged
to aid in the prosecution. It was no
common case to deal with, and he was
keenly conscious of this fact. After two
long weeks of incessant work, a verdict of
guilty was brought in, but as a last resort
to save his client’s neck, an appeal was
taken to the higher courts.</p>
<p>After this Elliott had gone home weak,
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_155">[Pg 155]</span>nervous and excited beyond natural tension.
He spent a restless night, and the
next morning was unexpectedly called to
Boston to attend to business that required
his immediate presence. He went over to
let Dorothy know of his plans. Under a
spell of sadness and impulse he said passionately:</p>
<p>“If I left, not knowing that a near day
was to bring me back to you I could not
bear it. Our wedding day is just three weeks
off, and from that time on you are to be
inseparably mine—mine forever!”</p>
<p>She clung to him quivering, tears, despite
her efforts to be strong, escaping
down her cheek. He held her to his heart
and soothed her back to something of the
calm she had lost.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_156">[Pg 156]</span></p>
<p>Just ten days he expected to be gone.</p>
<p>The intervening time busily passed in
preparations for the approaching wedding.
Besides that, Dorothy’s heart had feasted
upon the letters that had daily come on the
noon train out of the North. Each afternoon
since Elliott’s absence, she had been
to town for the mail, having no patience to
await its coming from the office by any
neighboring messenger who chanced to
pass that way.</p>
<p>To-day’s expected letter was to be the
last, for to-morrow Elliott would be with
her again.</p>
<p>Oh, Love! Love! life is sweet to all
mortals, but it was particularly sweet to
these two.</p>
<p>After receiving her letter Dorothy
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_157">[Pg 157]</span>started the short way home, singing lightly
some old love tune. In the deep forest
around her the faithful ring-dove poured
forth his anthem of abiding peace.</p>
<hr class="tb" />
<p>John Holmes, the staunch friend of the
family, had an engagement that evening
with the Carr’s; so he started out to overtake
Dorothy, hearing she had gone on
just ahead of him.</p>
<p>As he hurried along through the coming
night, the moon’s white beams fell deep
down in the beechen stems. Now and again
wood-folk wakened from their dreams
and carolled brokenly. The spirit of delicious
peace that pervaded the lowering
twilight enriched and beautified the
reverie that rendered the dreamer oblivious<span class="pagenum" id="Page_158">[Pg 158]</span>
to the present. His thoughts, his
hopes were far afield—wandering along
beckoning paths of the unexplored future.
The office of prosecuting attorney was only
the first step. He dreamed of Congress,
too.</p>
<p>“Why shouldn’t one do whatever one
wants to do?”</p>
<p>Thus he mused, when suddenly the sound
of crashing underbrush startled him into
consciousness of the present and a dark
outline dashed into the road just ahead
from out of the dense thicket that lay to
his left. Before he could collect his scattered
senses sufficiently to question or intercept
the excited runner, the man dodged
to one side, and sped along the road until
he passed out of sight around an angle of
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_159">[Pg 159]</span>the wood. Holmes called after him to
stop, but his command was not obeyed.</p>
<p>“What’s the matter?” he shouted after
the flying figure; but receiving no answer,
again he cried:</p>
<p>“Stop, I say.” And this time a reply
came in the shape of a faint groan from
near by in the wood. He dashed into the
darkness of the forest in the direction
from whence the sound had come, his
flesh quivering and his breath coming in
gasps as an overwhelming sense of apprehension
seized him.</p>
<p>At first the gloom was such that he could
see nothing distinctly and he groped his
way forward with difficulty. The moon
that for a moment had passed under a cloud
now again shone brightly out, filling all
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_160">[Pg 160]</span>the open spaces with a play of wavering
light. He forced himself into the thicket
from where he again heard a low sound—writhing,
twisting his way through the
thick, hindering stems, and there before
him, in a little opening, he saw what appeared
to be a prostrate human form.</p>
<p>He sprang toward it and drew the clinging
boughs aside to let the moonlight in.
Then he saw it was the figure of a woman.
Two ghastly gashes, edged with crimson,
stained the white flesh of her throat.</p>
<p>The awful meaning of the crime, as he
thought of the headlong haste of the flying
man, surged over Holmes. He quickly
knelt to gaze into her face and as he gazed
a terrible cry broke from his lips.</p>
<p>“Dorothy! Oh, my God!”</p>
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_161">[Pg 161]</span></p>
<p>Raising the light form in his arms, he
cried passionately on her name.</p>
<p>The wind sobbed a dirge in the bare
boughs above, but beside that, all the country-side
was still.</p>
<p>The girl hung heavy and limp in his arms
as he bore her to the road. She made no
answer to his cry—he felt blindly for a
pulse—a heart—but found none.</p>
<p>One short, sharp gasp convulsed her
breast as he gently laid her down—a faint
tremor passed over her frame, and she was
dead!</p>
<p>John Holmes looked into her face, distraught
with agony. The blood drummed
in his ears, his heart beat wildly; dazed
and bewildered, a moment he stood—the
power of action almost paralyzed. But he
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_162">[Pg 162]</span>felt that something must be done, and done
quickly.</p>
<p>With a superhuman effort he lifted the
dead girl and carried her toward her home.
When he reached the door, after what
seemed an eternity of travel, he waited,
struggling for composure. How could he
meet her father and break the news? Seeing
no one around he slipped quietly in
and laid the body upon a couch in the
room which so long had been her own.
When he entered the father’s room a deep
calm filled the place. There sat the old
man in his armchair, his head fallen to one
side in the unstudied attitude of slumber.
Upon his face there was more than a smile—a
radiance—his countenance was lit up
with a vague expression of content and
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_163">[Pg 163]</span>happiness. His white hairs added sweet
majesty to the cheerful light upon his face.
He slept peacefully—perhaps dreaming that
his child was well and would soon be home.</p>
<p>An inexpressible pity was in his voice
as John Holmes gently aroused the sleeper
and told him the mournful truth. He
would never forget that old face so full of
startled grief—that awful appeal to him—that
withered hand upraised to heaven.
Then darkness came before the dim old
eyes, when for a time all things were blotted
out of his remembrance.</p>
<p>The truth was so terrible that at first he
could not grasp it. The moan he uttered
was inarticulate and stifled. Gently John
Holmes led him tremblingly to the couch
where Dorothy lay—the blood still oozing
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_164">[Pg 164]</span>from her throat; the dew of agony yet
fresh on her brow, her dainty nostrils expanded
by their last convulsive effort to
retain the breath of life, appearing almost
to quiver.</p>
<p>A moment, motionless and staring, he
stood above her—dead!</p>
<p>Slowly awaking to the awful reality, he
threw his hands up with the vehemence of
despair and horror—then fell forward by
her side, saying by the motion of his lips,
“Dead!”</p>
<p>Slowly his speech returned, and he
reached out one hand.</p>
<p>“My boy, she is not dead. I feel her
heart in mine, I see her love for me in
her face. No! she is not dead!—not dead!”
his voice fell to a whispered groan.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_165">[Pg 165]</span></p>
<p>The other tried to stay his tears and to
reply, but he could only touch her cold,
bruised hand, hoping that he might grow
to a perfect understanding of the tragedy.</p>
<p>The father turned his head. His look
was full of supplicating agony. In a plaintive
and quivering voice he cried:</p>
<p>“My God! My God! My God!”</p>
<p>Presently John Holmes went away to
give the alarm. Returning later, he went
through the dreary house and darkened
the windows—the windows of the room
where the dead girl lay he darkened last.
He lifted her cold hand and held it to his
heart—and all the world seemed death and
silence, broken only by the father’s moaning.</p>
<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" />
<div class="chapter">
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_166">[Pg 166]</span></p>
<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_XVI">CHAPTER XVI.</h2>
</div>
<p>The news flashed over the country as if
by the lightning’s spark and by nine
o’clock the district was aroused to a state
of frenzied passion. From near and far
they gathered to the stricken home, till
in an hour a mob had assembled, vowing
torture and death to the fiend. A brief
questioning revealed the fact that the
Carrs’ cook had seen a negro man pass the
kitchen door about dusk, and he had asked
for a drink of water. She would know
him again, she said.</p>
<p>A fierce yell rent the silence as Holmes
told of the fleeing man and grim curses
filled the air, followed by the thunder of
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_167">[Pg 167]</span>hoofbeats as the horsemen dashed away in
pursuit. On they rode through the darkness,
galloping where the way was clear,
and everywhere and at all times urging
their horses to their utmost, every minute
pressing forward with increasing rage
and recklessness. Uphill, downhill the
searchers went, scouring every nook and
corner for miles around. Their panting
horses needed not to be urged. They
seemed to have caught the same fierce
spirit that inspired their riders, their
straining muscles and distended nostrils
telling of their eagerness and exertion.</p>
<p>The night was going, but the searchers
had as yet found no trace. If the earth
had opened and swallowed the one they
sought, the mystery of his disappearance
could have been greater.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_168">[Pg 168]</span></p>
<p>Shrewder than those of unthinking
haste, the sheriff permitted the excited
crowd to go ahead, that his plans would
not be interfered with. Then, with his
deputies and a bloodhound, he went to the
scene of the murder. There he found a
sprinkling of blood on the ground, and
the imprints of the heavy shoes in the
moist earth showed the direction which
the murderer had taken. He quickly
drew the hound’s nose to the trail and
cheered him on. The dark, savage beast
was wonderful at trailing, and had more
than once overtaken fleeing criminals.
He sniffed intelligently for a few minutes,
then gave an eager yelp and plunged
along the road, made an abrupt turn, then
struck down through a narrow hollow,
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_169">[Pg 169]</span>deep and dark. The men put spurs to
their horses and dashed after him, heedless
of the thorns that tore and reckless of
sharp blows from matted undergrowth
and low-lying boughs.</p>
<p>The hound, with his deep guide-note,
despite their efforts, was soon far ahead;
his lithe, long body close to the earth,
leaving no scent untouched.</p>
<p>The trail led through what is known as
“Robbers’ Hollow,” a ravine that runs in
a trough through the winding hills, whose
rugged sides looked jagged and terrible,
surrounded by a savage darkness full of
snares, where it was fearful to penetrate
and appalling to stay. In spite of all, they
hurried on faster and faster.</p>
<p>Far ahead the pilot note of the hound
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_170">[Pg 170]</span>called them on and they were well nigh
exhausted when they came upon him,
baying furiously at a cabin built on the
naked side of a hill, around which there
was not a tree or bush to shelter a man
from bullets, should the occupants resist
arrest. As the sheriff and his men arrived,
the hound flung his note in the air
and sent up a long howl, then dashed
against the door, which shook and strained
from the shock.</p>
<p>The sheriff called him to heel and placed
his men at corners of the cabin. He then
rapped on the door and repeated it half
a dozen times before there was a response.
Finally a man came to the front.</p>
<p>“Who wants me this time of night?” he
grumbled, in a deep, gruff voice, as he
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_171">[Pg 171]</span>stood in the doorway, his broad chest and
arms showing strongly dark in the light of
the lamp he held.</p>
<p>“I do,” answered the sheriff. “Do you
live here?”</p>
<p>“No, sir.”</p>
<p>“When did you come here, and from
where?”</p>
<p>“From the other side of Georgetown,
and I got here ’bout an hour before
dark.”</p>
<p>“Why, Mr. Cooley,” whispered a voice
at his elbow, “it was way arter dark.”</p>
<p>“Sh!” he stuttered, shuffling his feet
that the men might not hear anything else
she said.</p>
<p>“What is your name and occupation?”
resumed the sheriff, calmly.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_172">[Pg 172]</span></p>
<p>“Ephriam Cooley, and I teach school
ten miles north of Georgetown.”</p>
<p>His speech was not that of a common
negro, but of a lettered man, and seemed
strangely at variance with his bearded,
scowling face.</p>
<p>“Have you a knife? I would like to
borrow it, if you’ve got one?”</p>
<p>“No, sir, I left my knife in my other
pants’ pocket.”</p>
<p>“But you’ve got a razor, haven’t you?
Let me have it,” said the sheriff. “One
of our men broke his girth and unfortunately
we have no way of fixing it, as
there is not a knife in the crowd.”</p>
<p>There was a slight agitation in the
negro’s manner as he turned to find the
razor, or rather to pretend to search for
it. The sheriff pushed in after him.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_173">[Pg 173]</span></p>
<p>“Maybe I can help you find it?” he said,
as he picked up a coat from under one
corner of the rumpled bed. A razor
dropped to the floor. The negro made a
move toward it, but the sheriff’s foot held
it fast.</p>
<p>“You need not trouble yourself; I will
get it,” he said, as he stooped and raised
it. “Bloodstained? Why, what does this
mean?”</p>
<p>“I killed a dog,” the negro muttered,
his mouth parched with terror, his vicious
eyes shooting forth venomous flashes. “I’d
kill anybody’s dog before I’d let him bite
me. Was it your dog?” and he shrank
slightly away.</p>
<p>“No,” said the sheriff, “it was not mine,
but I am afraid you made a great mistake
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_174">[Pg 174]</span>in killing that dog! Come, get yourself
dressed and show it to me.”</p>
<p>“I threw him in the creek,” he said,
angrily.</p>
<p>“You are under arrest. Come, we are
going to take you to Georgetown.” The
sheriff caught him by the arm.</p>
<p>“What! for killing a dog, and a yellow
dog at that?” He scowled blackly and
fiercely. “I’m in hopes you won’t get me
into court about this matter. I am willing
to pay for it,” he said in a husky voice.</p>
<p>“Very likely you will be called upon to
pay—in full, but I will protect you to the
extent of my authority. Hurry up! we’ve
no time to lose. It is late and it’s going to
rain.”</p>
<p>The negro cast his eyes wildly about
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_175">[Pg 175]</span>him, the last mechanical resource of despair,
but saw nothing else to do.</p>
<p>Mounting the prisoner handcuffed behind
him, the sheriff was soon off for the
Scott county jail, one of the party being
sent ahead to have the Carr cook in waiting.
The negro had nothing to say, but
rode on in savage silence, his head dropped
forward on his breast.</p>
<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" />
<div class="chapter">
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_176">[Pg 176]</span></p>
<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_XVII">CHAPTER XVII.</h2>
</div>
<p>A storm was gathering and the sheriff
thought by hard riding he might reach the
nearest railway station before it broke.
He knew his prisoner’s life depended
upon his getting him to a place of safety
with all speed. The whole country was
alive with armed men.</p>
<p>Far off the ordnance of the sky boomed
as the battle of the elements began. The
lightning cut the clouds and soon the rain
came, a dark falling wall. As far as the
eye could bore into the darkness, only
one light could be seen. They dared not
take shelter under the roof of any man.
So the sheriff and his men rode on through
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_177">[Pg 177]</span>the storm, picking their way as best they
could.</p>
<p>Drenched and fagged, they reached the
station only to find that the Elkhorn trestle
had sustained some damage and in consequence
delayed the Georgetown train.
It would probably be three hours before
the wreck could be repaired.</p>
<p>The position of the sheriff was now
serious; he could not think of such folly
as remaining there at the mercy of the
telegraph wires; he must try to make the
trip by the river road and that, too, before
daybreak.</p>
<p>A pint of whiskey was brought from the
little corner saloon and the party determined
to start out again. The horses still
bearing marks of hard riding stood in
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_178">[Pg 178]</span>waiting. As they set off the rain ceased,
the clouds broke and the moon came out
brightly. Soon the sheriff thought he
heard the sound of a gun, the signal that
the searchers were on his track. They
quickened their pace.</p>
<p>“We are treed, I am afraid,” he said to
his companions, and he could almost see
the mob surrounding them, and their pitiless
joy after the humiliation of having
for awhile lost the trail.</p>
<p>The prisoner began to show signs of anxiety.
Every sound startled him and he
kept looking expectantly about. The
men urged their horses and rode on in a
state of nervous tension to the ford where
they must cross the river. It was away
out of its banks. They halted and there
was a moment’s silence.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_179">[Pg 179]</span></p>
<p>“She looks pretty high. What do you
say?” asked the sheriff of one of his
deputies.</p>
<p>The man shook his head forbiddingly.
To attempt to cross the river would be
running a frightful risk.</p>
<p>“There goes a gun again.”</p>
<p>It required no longer an effort of the
imagination to hear it. It was a fact and
with all the terror that reality possesses,
the prisoner shuddered, his restless eyeballs
full of fear rolling wildly.</p>
<p>The sheriff tried to collect his startled
thoughts and resist the strange certainty
which possessed him. His own frame felt
the shudder that convulsed the form behind
him.</p>
<p>“Well!” he asked, once more addressing
his deputy, “what say you?”</p>
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_180">[Pg 180]</span></p>
<p>“We’ll take the danger before us,” the
other answered and, touching their horses,
they plunged in. Half way across, the
sheriff convulsively seized his horse’s
neck for he could not swim. He was
struggling desperately against the waves,
clinging frantically around the neck of
his swimming horse, when he heard a cry:</p>
<p>“Great God, he’s gone!” and turning to
look behind him, he saw that the negro
had disappeared into the water. All eyes
turned toward the spot where the manacled
wretch had gone down.</p>
<p>The drowning man arose to the surface a
dizzy moment then sank again as quickly.
Not a cry, not a word could be heard.
The river went on booming heavily, its
hoarse roar rising to a deafening intensity.
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_181">[Pg 181]</span>The chief deputy, meanwhile, had managed
to slip from his horse and float down
stream, and with a violent swinging movement
he succeeded in thrusting one arm
between the negro’s handcuffed ones and
sustaining him, just as he rose for the last
time. Supporting him against his horse
an instant he tightened his hold, that he
might keep both heads above water. He
was taking desperate chances against
tremendous odds.</p>
<p>With an indescribable feeling, the sheriff
looked on but could render no assistance.
The swimmer fought hard, but,
after pulling some distance, it seemed
clear that he had miscalculated his
strength. Inch by inch, the two swept
downward, notwithstanding the almost
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_182">[Pg 182]</span>superhuman efforts of the desperate
deputy. Gradually his stroke became
more feeble and he saw the gap between
them and the bank grow wider, the lost
inches grew to feet, the feet to yards,
and finally with utter despair, he thought
the whole world had turned to water. He
felt terrified. Exhaustion could be distinguished
in all his limbs and his arms
felt miserably dragged. He was going,
not forward, but round and round, and
with dizziness came unconsciousness.</p>
<p>The next thing he remembered was an
awful stiffness in every joint and muscle,
a scent of whiskey, and the sheriff kneeling
beside him upon the wet ground, forcing
the warm liquid through his lips.
As he gazed about him, he slowly asked:</p>
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_183">[Pg 183]</span></p>
<p>“Did that d——d nigger die after all?”</p>
<p>The sheriff had not time to tell him that
the negro was safe, for the next minute
there came a volley of yells and sounds of
oaths with the dull thunder of rapidly advancing
hoofbeats, and before either
man could speak again, a party of armed
riders reined up in front of the ford.</p>
<p>“Stop! men, stop!” The sheriff’s voice
was heard eagerly hailing those on the
opposite side. “You will risk your lives
to try to cross here.”</p>
<p>The quivering negro, terrified by the
idea that the pursuers were upon them,
made an effort to rise.</p>
<p>“My God! don’t let them take me! Don’t
give me up!”</p>
<p>There was something savage and frenzied
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_184">[Pg 184]</span>in the accent that went with those words.
He clutched at the sheriff’s knees, his
eyes became wild and fixed and filled
with terror.</p>
<p>“We must have your prisoner,” someone
shouted. “Will you surrender him?”</p>
<p>“Not yet,” was the sheriff’s answer.
“I deliver him only to the law.”</p>
<p>“You’ll give him up!” cried a score of
determined voices.</p>
<p>“Never! Never!”</p>
<p>“Then we will fire on him!”</p>
<p>Like a flash, the sheriff jumped in front
of his prisoner. “Fire ahead,” he said.</p>
<p>The next instant, there were a number
of reports. All but one had fired in
the air.</p>
<p>“Cowards!” yelled the leader, “kill
’em all!”</p>
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_185">[Pg 185]</span></p>
<p>“Look here,” answered one, “that sheriff
lives neighbor to me.”</p>
<p>“We’re out for the nigger, not a white
man!” said another. “Wait boys, we’ll
get him yet!”</p>
<p>The sheriff calmly mounted, forming a
bar between the rifles and his prisoner
and rode away, leaving the mob to await
the fall of the stream. Half an hour later
they reached the jail.</p>
<p>“Chloe Carr,” the sheriff distinctly
pronounced her name, as he summoned the
negro cook, “did you ever see this man
before?”</p>
<p>“Yas, sah.”</p>
<p>“Will you tell me when and where?”</p>
<p>The prisoner made a desperate sign, his
fiendish face blazing with mingled rage
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_186">[Pg 186]</span>and terror. Wildly he shook his head.
“She lies!” he growled, with a sudden
threatening movement. “She never saw
me before.”</p>
<p>An animal-like snarl came from his
throat. His face was shining with sweat,
the veins of his neck were twisted and
knotted. His body shook with savage
fear, and the woman trembled.</p>
<p>She said excitedly: “He’s de one I saw
pass de do’ awhile befo’ Miss Dor’thy was
found dead. I give him a drink ov
water.”</p>
<p>The prisoner was in a frenzy now.
Fiercely he glared like a great black
beast, caged. The woman saw the officers
fairly carry him into the cell, but she felt
less fear than sorrow now, as her heart
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_187">[Pg 187]</span>was full of the memory of the girl she had
loved and had watched from the cradle-side.</p>
<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" />
<div class="chapter">
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_188">[Pg 188]</span></p>
<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_XVIII">CHAPTER XVIII.</h2>
</div>
<p>Elliott Harding was coming home—home
to Dorothy, and joy was so strong within
him that it almost touched the edge of
tears. The rising sun was trying hard to
struggle out of a bluish haze, as he stepped
from the train at Georgetown. Nodding
to a negro driver, he walked to the hack,
saying, “Drive me to my office, first, then
you may take me out to Mr. Carr’s.”</p>
<p>The negro cast a glance behind, and
stammered excitedly, as he mounted to the
seat:</p>
<p>“Boss, dey’s erbout to mob yo’ man—de
moonshiner dat you like ter got hung, I
reck’n. Dey’s done at de jail by now.”</p>
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_189">[Pg 189]</span></p>
<p>A mob! A multitude in passion! Anticipation
of the consequences flashed all
too plainly upon Elliott Harding. A
thrill shot through him! He leaped into
the back, and commanded:</p>
<p>“Drive to the jail with all your might.”</p>
<p>The negro’s white eyeballs rolled with
swift alarm. He seized the lines, laid on
the whip and shouted:</p>
<p>“Git up, git up.”</p>
<p>The horses dashed forward and turned
down the main street, the cumbrous wheels
tearing up the mud and flinging it to right
and left.</p>
<p>Elliott’s breath fluttered in his throat.
A fellow being—the man for whose conviction
he had pleaded was in personal peril.
In law he was against this poor wretch; in
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_190">[Pg 190]</span>humanity he was for him—humanity has no
distinctions. He saw but the slaughter!—the
struggle!—the united forces on the one
side; the lone desperation on the other.</p>
<p>The good horses were doing their best
now, and with a final lurch and swing
were pulling up at the jail. Elliott
bounded to his feet, rushed into the stirring
crowd, and pushed through the circle
that was moving toward the door.</p>
<p>Low mutterings, fierce as the roar of a
wounded lion, went forth as one man threw
up his clinched hand, from which dangled
a rope. As if impelled by a single spirit,
they raged against the jail doors, clamoring
at the oak.</p>
<p>“Hang him! hang him! Give us the
keys!”</p>
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_191">[Pg 191]</span></p>
<p>The terror stricken criminal heard and
cowered in his cell, his giant muscles quivering
in tense knots. He gathered himself
for the last struggle with a dogged fierceness
born of savage courage.</p>
<p>“Break down the doors!”</p>
<p>At this command there was a crash and
commotion below—and then silence. Suddenly
a man appeared facing them. He
held up his hand, and all recognized that
it was Elliott Harding.</p>
<p>“Fellow citizens,” he cried, his voice
ringing out over the gathering. “Don’t
do this thing! This man will die by the
hands of the law. Don’t stain yours!”</p>
<p>Directly there was a universal hush.
The crowd stood like stone before the calm
courage of this remarkable arraignment.
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_192">[Pg 192]</span>The men doubting their senses, gazed at
each other curiously, then they looked at
Elliott again. With indescribable speed
a spirit flew from mind to mind, seizing
them all alike. Then without a word,
silently, and as though abashed, they turned
away. Elliott was left alone, surprised at
his sudden triumph, gazing with a curious
stare at the frowning walls of the dingy
jail.</p>
<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" />
<div class="chapter">
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_193">[Pg 193]</span></p>
<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_XIX">CHAPTER XIX.</h2>
</div>
<p>A half hour before, Elliott had been in a
delicious reverie passing what were, perhaps
the sweetest moments of his life. He
had awakened early from a dream. He
had dreamed that he felt the touch of soft
fingers upon his cheek and the beating of
a loving heart against his, and the memory
of the ecstasy lingered like some charmed
spell. Dorothy was his very own—Dorothy,
crowned with the beauty which combined
all of the woman and all of the
angel. He saw nothing in the world save
her radiant face. He praised God for giving
him her love, and the hope of preserving
that nearest likeness on earth to heaven—a<span class="pagenum" id="Page_194">[Pg 194]</span>
home. This sweet foretokening of
life’s full, ripe completeness had filled his
heart.</p>
<p>Joyous, enraptured, young, he had
stepped upon the railway platform at
Georgetown. From such thoughts to the
vivid scene at the jail, was an abrupt and
wild plunge into a whirling abysm. His
mind was in a turmoil, and he felt the
need of cooling air and brisk movement to
regain his composure.</p>
<p>As he set out on foot for the Carr’s, the
sheriff, relieved from the anxiety of the
jail attack, overtook him. Laying hand
on his shoulder, he said earnestly:</p>
<p>“Mr. Harding, you are a credit to your
principles. I’m mightily obliged to you.
When you need a friend, I’m your man.
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_195">[Pg 195]</span>Nobody could have stopped that mob but
you.”</p>
<p>“I—why anyone else could have done so
as well.”</p>
<p>“No, because it was known that Miss
Carr and you was goin’ to be married
soon. They naturally thought you ought
to be the man to fix the scoundrel’s sentence.”</p>
<p>Elliott sprang round with such a start
that the sheriff shrank back instinctively.</p>
<p>“What!” he gasped, “you don’t mean—you
don’t mean—”</p>
<p>“My God!” said the sheriff. “Haven’t
you heard?”</p>
<p>“Heard, heard what, man? not Dorothy?
You can’t mean that it was Dorothy Carr—what—what—”</p>
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_196">[Pg 196]</span></p>
<p>He stopped, a thrill of terror froze his
blood.</p>
<p>“It’s true—too true! Mr. Harding, she
is dead!”</p>
<p>“You lie! You lie!” Elliott shrieked.</p>
<p>Then in a different tone, he huskily
whispered:</p>
<p>“Give me the keys, man, give me the
keys! Quick! Quick!”</p>
<p>It was all that the sheriff could do to
make him understand that the jailer had
the keys. A whirlwind of ungovernable
fury swept over him.</p>
<p>“Good God!” he panted, “The driver
said the mob was for the moonshiner!”
His senses reeled; staggering, he leaned
against a wall near by.</p>
<p>“What shall I do, my God! What shall
I do!”</p>
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_197">[Pg 197]</span></p>
<p>“I advise you to go first to her poor old
father. They say the shock has pretty
near killed him,” said the sheriff.</p>
<p>“You are right. I must go to him.”
Elliott’s face knit convulsively as he
spoke, crushing back the horror that almost
paralyzed him. Then the sheriff
proposed to get a buggy and drive him to
Mr. Carr’s. As they rode along silently,
all nature was still and peaceful—cruelly
peaceful it seemed to Elliott, as he sat with
his head inclined, his body shaken with
deep grief, his breast laboring hard.</p>
<p>They soon reached the hushed, dark
home. A long trail of blood lay in ruddy
streaks from the gateway to the door
where the white crape swayed so gently—so
gently.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_198">[Pg 198]</span></p>
<p>Elliott walked slowly and as if stunned.
He went into the house, turned and looked
about him.</p>
<p>The parlor door was slightly open. He
went in and began to walk the floor—the
resource of those who suffer. There are
instincts for all the crises of life—he felt
that he was not alone.</p>
<p>Nervously he unclasped and threw open
the window blind, then, turning, cast his
eyes sadly about him.</p>
<p>There sat the old father in a posture of
dejection, his eyes almost closed. Just
beyond lay his child! Clasping his hands
with an expression full of the most violent,
most gentle entreaty, Elliott uttered a
piercing cry!</p>
<p>“Dorothy! Dorothy, my little girl, come
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_199">[Pg 199]</span>back to me! Come back!” And with this
appeal he sank upon his knees with both
hands upon his eyes.</p>
<p>“Elliott! Elliott!”</p>
<p>He raised his head at length and looked
steadily at Mr. Carr—this venerable, manly
face, upon which God had imprinted goodness
and heroism.</p>
<p>“Yes, father,” and leaning forward he
embraced his white head. Drawing it to
his breast, his overcharged heart found
relief in tears.</p>
<p>The intense calm and silence of the
father’s beautiful, mute resignation finally
silenced him.</p>
<p>Rigid before the fire, as if it were a
charmed flame that was turning him old,
he sat, with the dark lines deepening in
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_200">[Pg 200]</span>his face; its stare becoming more and more
haggard; its surface turning whiter and
whiter, as if it were being overspread
with ashes—the very texture and color of
his hair appearing to change.</p>
<p>A sunbeam shot in and faltered over the
face of the girl asleep. This fair, white
bride, robed in her wedding gown.</p>
<p>Elliott got up and went to her side.
He turned away again, and dropped upon
the broad divan, utterly helpless, hopeless.
Here he lay face downward, with
his elbows on the cushions and his hands
clutching his chin, his sad eyes staring
steadily. He lay for hours gazing upon
her face, moving not from the first position
he had assumed. He took no heed of
time—time and he were separate that day.
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_201">[Pg 201]</span>He was neither hungry nor thirsty—only
sick at the heart which lay like lead in him.</p>
<p>By and by a long procession was seen
moving from the house. Six bearers deposited
their burden. Dorothy’s grave
had been made beside her mother’s in the
family burying ground, at the back of the
garden.</p>
<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" />
<div class="chapter">
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_202">[Pg 202]</span></p>
<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_XX">CHAPTER XX.</h2>
</div>
<p>The preliminary inquiry into the case
of Ephriam Cooley resulted in his being
held over to the next meeting of the Grand
Jury, which was yet some months away.</p>
<p>Mr. Carr was not left alone in his grief.
Elliott Harding gave up residence at his
uncle’s home and went to live with and
care for him.</p>
<p>Among the neighboring people, there prevailed
a respect for these two in their distress
which was full of gentleness and
delicacy. Men kept apart when they were
seen walking with slow steps on the street,
or stood in knots talking compassionately
among themselves.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_203">[Pg 203]</span></p>
<p>At length the day came when the Grand
Jury was in session. The absence of witnesses,
upon which the defense had relied
to argue the innocence of the accused,
caused the prisoner’s counsel no little uneasiness
as the hour for the opening of the
court drew near. As he paced restlessly
to and fro in the reserved space before
the bench, there was a look of anxiety on
his countenance and a frown upon his
brow.</p>
<p>When the hands of the big clock pointed
to nine, the judge ascended the bench and
took his seat. It was the signal for breathless
silence, and as if to emphasize this
silence, his honor rapped sharply with his
gavel upon the desk in front of him.</p>
<p>The clerk read the minutes of the preceding<span class="pagenum" id="Page_204">[Pg 204]</span>
day and took the volume over for
the judicial signature.</p>
<p>“The case of the State against Ephriam
Cooley,” called the clerk. “Are both
sides ready?”</p>
<p>The look of concern grew deeper on the
face of the defendant’s attorney. He asked
for a few minutes’ consultation with his
witnesses and retired into an ante-room.
Presently the door of this room opened
and the attorney reappeared. The expression
of anxiety and suspense had not left
his face.</p>
<p>“Your Honor,” he said, “the defense
must ask for a continuance. We had hoped
to be ready to proceed with the case without
delay or cost to the state, but a witness
whose testimony is essential and whom
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_205">[Pg 205]</span>the defense has spared no diligence to
secure, has failed to appear. Believing
that the just interests of our client will
suffer if we enter into trial without this
witness, we have decided to ask Your Honor
to continue the case until the next term.”</p>
<p>The audience could scarcely restrain its
impatience, and the judge found it necessary
to call for order before stating that
the postponement was granted.</p>
<p>The courtroom was soon cleared. Groups
of excited men gathered upon the street,
their looks indicating sullen anger and
desperate resolve. The bayonets of the
militia had been set bristling around the
jail and their gleam was all that kept the
crowds back.</p>
<p>Meanwhile, the strain upon Elliott Harding<span class="pagenum" id="Page_206">[Pg 206]</span>
was telling. He walked erect with
an effort and spent much of the time alone
in his office, with his head bowed upon the
desk, moaning in unutterable anguish.
His suffering had drained his very soul—he
could weep no more. Since the tragedy,
every hour, every day had been a lifetime
of misery. Fate had employed his bravest
deeds for the breaking of his stout
heart. Unheld, unhindered, he had long
chosen his road but now he was grasped with
sovereign indifference while there was
brought upon him punishment for the insufferable
egotism of his stubborn contentions.
This was the bitterest cup he was ever
called upon to drain, and he was never
the same after draining it. He was experiencing
perhaps what the earth experiences<span class="pagenum" id="Page_207">[Pg 207]</span>
when it is furrowed with the share
that the grain may be sown; it feels the
wound alone, the thrill of the germ and
the joy of the fruit are not yet come to
comfort it.</p>
<p>Mr. Carr was rapidly growing feeble.
He was quite shut in. But with every
fiber of the Carr endurance, he clung to
life, with every desire intensified into the
longing to live until the murderer’s trial
was ended. On this night he sat in a large
wooden rocker near the window, with a
pillow at his shoulders. His pathetic figure,
with its long attenuated frame, testified
to his rapid decline. The soft south
wind waved the white locks fringing his
temples. One shaking hand lay helplessly
on the arm of the chair, the other
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_208">[Pg 208]</span>held loose grasp of a remotely-dated
family monthly. His gray eyes, bright and
clear in spite of their fine, crape-like
setting of wrinkles, were absently turned
to the sky. They kindled as Elliott laid a
hand gently upon his shoulder.</p>
<p>“How is my dear father by now?”</p>
<p>“Pretty well,” he answered faintly—his
old reply.</p>
<p>“That’s good!” and Elliott tried to smile
as he sank wearily into a chair.</p>
<p>Mr. Carr, noticing how thinly his lips
fitted about his white, even teeth, asked,
“What have they done to my boy?”</p>
<p>“Done enough, father,” said Elliot,
starting up and revealing his haggard,
agitated face. “They have postponed the
trial.”</p>
<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" />
<div class="chapter">
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_209">[Pg 209]</span></p>
<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_XXI">CHAPTER XXI.</h2>
</div>
<p>The coming of October brought the next
term of court. What seemed an age had
at last terminated and Ephriam Cooley
was again brought to trial. His removal
from the prison to the courthouse was
without incident. The prisoner was
guarded in the most thorough manner
against possible molestation. The regular
police guards were reinforced by deputies
sworn in by the sheriff, and the vicinity
of the court had, in consequence, the appearance
of an armed camp.</p>
<p>Police were stationed at every approach
as well as in the hall and every preparation
had been made to quell instantly any
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_210">[Pg 210]</span>attempt at lawless interference with the
ordinary course of law.</p>
<p>When the doors opened, the waiting
crowd was allowed to enter and in a few
minutes all the available space within
the courtroom was densely packed.</p>
<p>The judge took his seat.</p>
<p>Ephriam Cooley entered between two
officers, handcuffed, his bold, insulting
eyes wearing a look of sullen defiance,
his unkempt beard lending more than ever
an animal look to his face.</p>
<p>The selection of the jury occupied the
greater portion of the morning, but at
length twelve citizens were impaneled and
listened to the reading of the indictment.</p>
<p>The temper of the people might be seen
in the burst of rage that swept over the
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_211">[Pg 211]</span>crowd when the atrocious deed was described.</p>
<p>Elliott Harding, with his usual aspect of
dignity, had schooled his face into a cold
passiveness, but though outwardly calm,
his pulse was throbbing with the fierceness
of fever beats. A stranger entering
the courtroom would never have selected
him from the group of men as the one
whose life had been crushed out by the
object of this trial.</p>
<p>When the reading was finished, the witnesses
for the state were called. The first
name which rang through the courtroom
was that of John Holmes. The prisoner
drew himself together and watched him
keenly as the oath was administered; his
face, despite its defiant mask, had a restless,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_212">[Pg 212]</span>
haunted look which sat strangely on
his hard, grim features.</p>
<p>Skillfully aided by questions from the
court, Holmes unfolded the whole awful
story of the first discovery of the dead
body of Dorothy Carr. Passing rapidly
over the painful details, the sheriff told
then of the man-hunt, of the finding of the
bloody razor as it had dropped from the
pocket of the prisoner’s coat.</p>
<p>The negro cook of the Carrs swore that
the prisoner was the man to whom she had
given a drink of water about half an hour
before her mistress had been brought
home.</p>
<p>Toward the close of the State’s evidence,
the chain binding the prisoner to the gallows
had become all but complete. In
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_213">[Pg 213]</span>the face of such evidence and in the atmosphere
of such bitter resentment, the
counsel appointed for his defense struggled
against overwhelming odds.</p>
<p>He contented himself with belittling the
value of circumstantial evidence adduced
by the prosecution, and presenting the
argument that the prisoner’s education
and his social position as a school teacher
attested to his inability to commit a crime
so revolting in its conception and so brutal
in its execution. He stated that the woman
at whose house the prisoner had been
arrested, had repeatedly said that he had
been at her house, some fifteen miles away
from the scene of the crime, at the very
hour the deed was said to have been committed,
that she would testify to that statement<span class="pagenum" id="Page_214">[Pg 214]</span>
here if she had not moved away and
could not now be located. Whatever effect
the counsel thus produced was more
than neutralized when the prisoner was
called to the stand for a specious denial.</p>
<p>The sinister fear with which the negro
peered about the courtroom, the affected
nonchalance and thinly veiled defiance of
his mumbled answers told damningly
against him. The passions of raging fear
and terror had driven from his low-browed
face every trace of intellectuality
or culture, leaving only the cunning
cruelty and ferocity of the animal. His
cross-examination left him without a vestige
of self control, and before it had well
finished, in a violent passion he poured
forth a volley of oaths, his huge frame
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_215">[Pg 215]</span>quivering as he burst into a raving,
shrieking arraignment of the white man,
in which he had to be almost throttled
into silence by the deputies.</p>
<p>When the prosecuting attorney arose to
review the case, there hung over the
courtroom the ominous hush that is significant
of but one thing. After a brief recital
of the details of the evidence, the
counsel appealed to the jury to do its
sworn duty.</p>
<p>The judge’s charge was a cool, impartial
exposition of the law as it applied to the
case. When finished, the jury arose amid
a general movement of relief upon the
part of the audience and as the twelve
men filed out, there was considerable excited
conversation, mingled with whispered<span class="pagenum" id="Page_216">[Pg 216]</span>
speculations as to how long they
would be out. Within the courtroom
proper, as soon as the jury had retired,
the Court instructed the sheriff to announce
a recess.</p>
<p>A half hour passed and there was a commotion
in the outer hall. The sheriff wore
an agitated air. Presently, one by one,
a half-dozen men walked inside the railing
and dropped carelessly into chairs.</p>
<p>The prisoner looked at his new companions
and evidently read aright their
mission. They were deputy sheriffs. Four
of them sat in chairs ranged behind the
prisoner and one sat at either side of
him.</p>
<p>Directly across the aisle sat Elliott
Harding, apparently cool and patient.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_217">[Pg 217]</span></p>
<p>Very soon it became generally known
that a verdict had been reached.</p>
<p>During the next five minutes, the rooms
filled rapidly. The sheriff rapped for
order and shouted:</p>
<p>“Let everyone within the courtroom
sit down.”</p>
<p>From that moment the stillness of death
prevailed. Every eye was turned toward
the prisoner. His fingers worked convulsively
and his whole body trembled.
But few seconds elapsed before the twelve
men slowly and gravely filed into their
places.</p>
<p>“Have you reached a verdict, gentlemen?”
asked the Court, as they lined up.</p>
<p>“We have, Your Honor,” answered the
foreman.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_218">[Pg 218]</span></p>
<p>The Court then announced: “I want
everyone to understand that the least attempt
at an expression of approval or disapproval
of this verdict, as it is read,
will be punished by a fine for contempt.
Mr. Clerk, read the verdict.”</p>
<p>The clerk obeyed. His voice was clear
and everyone heard: “We, the jury, agree
and find the defendant, Ephriam Cooley,
guilty of the murder of Dorothy Carr, and
fix his punishment at death.”</p>
<p>Elliott Harding quietly left the scene,
feeling already a lightening of the intolerable
load which had so long weighed
upon him.</p>
<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" />
<div class="chapter">
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_219">[Pg 219]</span></p>
<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_XXII">CHAPTER XXII.</h2>
</div>
<p>Mr. Carr, who had been slowly succumbing
to his great grief, was ill the closing
day of the trial. Dragging heavily through
an existence that was not life, he was but
a wraith of his former self. Waiting patiently,
submitting with lifted head to the
law’s justice. When he was told of the
doom of Cooley, he seemed hardly to hear
it, and he made no comment. It seemed
now as if little else of life remained
and yet occasional incoherent phrases
showed the signs of some duty neglected
and weighing heavily on the wandering
mind.</p>
<p>One morning, Elliott, seeing the longing
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_220">[Pg 220]</span>visibly reflected on the old man’s countenance,
asked:</p>
<p>“What is it, father? Is there anything I
can do?” And he laid his face to the
withered palm of the outstretched hand.
The sick man suddenly seemed to realize
that his reason was abandoning him, and
he made a supreme effort to collect his
ideas and frame them into coherent speech.</p>
<p>“Help me!” he said piteously. Then
turning his head toward the window
where he could see the grave so lately
made for Dorothy, his worn face quivered
and the big, slow tears ran down his furrowed
cheeks.</p>
<p>“Is it something of her you would
say?” Elliott inquired.</p>
<p>But the aged lips made no answer. For
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_221">[Pg 221]</span>a time Elliott sat beside him, silent. Suddenly
the old face lighted. Lifting up his
sorrowful eyes, he said:</p>
<p>“It has come, Elliott—my will! I have
left everything to you, and, don’t forget
Chloe.”</p>
<p>Then once again, the look of blank abstraction
spread over his features and he
sank into a state of collapse as if the effort
to think had exhausted his share of
vitality.</p>
<p>Elliott and his neighbors stood by and
saw him grow feebler, his breath fainter.
The old and eternal Mother Nature was
silently slipping her pitying arms around
her tired child. Presently the uncomplaining
eyes were to be dimmed and the
lips silenced forever. And as the end
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_222">[Pg 222]</span>came, peacefully and quietly, Elliott forgot
all—himself, his heartbreak, his
wrath, forgot everything in the realization
of the peace, the rest now possessing
this long tired soul.</p>
<p>The memory of the past swept over
him. He recalled all that Dorothy had
been to her father from the time when she
had first stretched out her baby arms to
him, all the little ways by which she had
brought back his youth and made his
house home, and his heart soft again.</p>
<p>Two days later, all that was mortal of
Napoleon Carr lay prone and cold in a
new grave. He himself had chosen the
spot between the two mounds, over which
the grass lay in long windrows above his
wife and child.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_223">[Pg 223]</span></p>
<p>Chloe was faithful to the end and was
there when death darkened the eyes of her
master.</p>
<p>She was given the home she then lived
in and ample provision for its maintenance.</p>
<p>The Carr homestead was closed and
Elliott went again to live with his uncle,
Mr. Field.</p>
<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" />
<div class="chapter">
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_224">[Pg 224]</span></p>
<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_XXIII">CHAPTER XXIII.</h2>
</div>
<p>The day set by the court, upon which
Ephriam Cooley was to pay the penalty
for the crime of which he had been adjudged
guilty, was the thirteenth of June.</p>
<p>Long before that time, the colored population
had been aroused to a lively interest
in their convicted brother. There was
a movement on foot to make a fight for his
life. The negroes had gained the idea that
the evidence of the woman at whose house
Cooley had been arrested, and who could
not be found to give evidence at the trial,
would have cleared him. It was now
rumored that she had been located away
up in the East Kentucky mountains, where
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_225">[Pg 225]</span>she had moved the year before. This story
flew like thistle-down in the wind. Negro
petitions were got up calling for mercy
and commutation and were poured in upon
the governor from all parts of the state.</p>
<p>Sometimes it was rumored that the governor
would commute the sentence to
penal servitude for life. Then the rumor
was contradicted, and so it went on. The
governor had an eye to his own reelection
and it was the current belief that he was
not averse to doing that which might
further the ends of his own ambition.</p>
<p>It was well on in June and up to this
time the governor had arrived at no decision,
or if he had, had given no indication
of it.</p>
<p>Elliott was almost prostrate, the prey
of a long drawn agony. This effort to
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_226">[Pg 226]</span>soften the sentence weighed upon his weak
nerves so that the phantom silence of his
nights had been peopled by visions. His
life became one oppression and a terror,
and rest a thing never to be his. Again
and again, amid the whirl of memory, he
pressed the sad accusing words, “Are you
my country’s foe and therefore mine?”
upon the inward wound, tasting, cherishing
the smart of them.</p>
<p>He no longer had opinions: his opinions
had become sympathies.</p>
<p>There had come a day when, in his room
alone, he took a pile of manuscript from
his desk and looked at it long and hard,
then held it to a blaze and watched it burn
to a charred tissue on the hearthstone.
It was his book.</p>
<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" />
<div class="chapter">
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_227">[Pg 227]</span></p>
<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_XXIV">CHAPTER XXIV.</h2>
</div>
<p>Tuesday, June the twenty-ninth, was an
Eastwind day and it had nearly ended
when Elliott Harding met the sheriff and
inquired:</p>
<p>“Any news from the governor?”</p>
<p>He shook his head as he answered: “And
none likely to come.” Taking out a silver
watch he added: “The hanging is set for
eleven o’clock to-morrow morning.
Umph! This is tough work.”</p>
<p>“I shall breathe more freely to-morrow,”
was Elliott’s comment, as he passed
on.</p>
<p>A little further down he met John
Holmes.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_228">[Pg 228]</span></p>
<p>“I was just going to your office,” said
Holmes almost tenderly.</p>
<p>Being near that place, they locked arms
and went silently together. When they
were seated, Holmes broke the silence.</p>
<p>“Has any reprieve come yet?” he said
abruptly as a man plunges into a critical
subject.</p>
<p>“No, I am glad to say!” and the lined
face that lifted to the other was worn,
the eyes strained and bloodshot.</p>
<p>“Holmes, I have been thinking of my
old views. God knows I have had time to
think and cause to think! I am appreciating
now the problem you of the South
could not solve.” His voice grew unsteady.</p>
<p>“Harding, I am sorry for you. You
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_229">[Pg 229]</span>have suffered greatly. It is useless to attempt
to convey in words what the South
has long endured, but I believe she is on
the point of struggling from beneath the
crushing burden that weighs her down.
A time will come when our southern governors
will order a special term of Superior
Court to try speedily a criminal
and invariably fix the death penalty for
the offense which is largely responsible
for lynching. How much graver, deeper,
more human now, must seem to you our
tragedies and our defense. We would indeed
welcome a worthier mode or the
day when there will be no such tragedies.”</p>
<hr class="tb" />
<p>That night as the sheriff and his family
sat in their lighted room, a man outside
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_230">[Pg 230]</span>kept patient tryst, every fiber of his being
directly concerned in the slightest
movement or sound.</p>
<p>As the night wore on and no one entered
the door, his soul illumined with hope and
seemed loosening itself from pain and
desire.</p>
<p>Presently there was a sound, a sight that
startled him. A messenger was at the door
holding a yellow slip. The sheriff came
out rubbing his eyes.</p>
<p>“What is it?” he asked sleepily.</p>
<p>“A reprieve! A reprieve!”</p>
<p>Holding it to the lamp in the hall, the
sheriff read:</p>
<p>“Sheriff of Scott County, Georgetown,
Ky.—Ephriam Cooley’s sentence commuted
to life imprisonment. Hurry prisoner
to Frankfort. ——, Governor.”</p>
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_231">[Pg 231]</span></p>
<p>The sheriff hastily pencilled an answer
and sent the boy speeding back.</p>
<p>“Hitch the horse!” he called to his man.</p>
<p>“Oh my God!” In that supreme cry,
hope quivered in its death throb. Elliott
Harding received the lance thrust of despair.
He stood defenseless: alone with
Destiny.</p>
<p>All was done quietly and swiftly. The
sleeping town knew nothing of the change.</p>
<p>As the midnight train whistled in the
distance, the sheriff with his handcuffed
prisoner stepped from behind his sweating
horse onto the empty platform. When
the iron monster, like a great strong
savior came rushing in, the criminal
looked as if he could have embraced it.
It was a thing of life to him.</p>
<p>One or maybe two drowsy travelers
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_232">[Pg 232]</span>shook themselves and scrambled to the
platform. The sheriff and his man lost no
time in seating themselves. The murderer
was within a hair’s breadth of safety.
The engine was ready to start. Snorting,
trembling, as if in frightened pain, she
moved off slowly, slowly.</p>
<p>There was a sudden rush and speeding
through the darkness; an unkempt figure,
running staggeringly as though in exhaustion,
leaped to the platform and pursued
the moving train. A sudden flash, a
sharp report, and Ephriam Cooley fell
back dead, shot through the heart.</p>
<p>By the time the train had drawn back
to the station, the platform was deserted;
only the shrouding mists of blue smoke
remained.</p>
<p class="center no-indent">THE END.</p>
<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" />
<div class="adblock"><div class="chapter">
<p class="ph2 nobreak"><b>Neely’s Tourist Library.</b></p>
</div>
<p class="center no-indent"><b>PRICE, — TEN CENTS.</b><br />
<i>Entered as second-class matter.</i></p>
<p>Mr. F. Tennyson Neely presents a new library
of unusual merit, containing standard works
published in a form that has never been equaled.
<span class="smcap">Neely’s Tourist Library</span> has jumped into popularity
from the start among travelers and all readers of fiction,
so that no shrewd dealer need hesitate about making a
heavy order and filling out a standing order for each
weekly issue, a list of which follows:</p>
<p class="no-indent"><b>THE WHITE COMPANY. By A. Conan Doyle.</b><br />
<b>THE DEEMSTER. By Hall Caine.</b><br />
<b>A ROMANCE OF TWO WORLDS. By Marie Corelli.</b><br />
<b>TREASURE ISLAND. By Robert L. Stevenson.</b><br />
<b>THE SIGN OF THE FOUR. By A. Conan Doyle.</b><br />
<b>KIDNAPPED. By Robert L. Stevenson.</b><br />
<b>THE BONDMAN. By Hall Caine.</b><br />
<b>MICAH CLARK. By A. Conan Doyle.</b><br />
<b>SPORT ROYAL. By Anthony Hope.</b><br />
<b>THE MAN IN BLACK. By Stanley J. Weyman.</b><br />
<b>UNCLE TOM’S CABIN. By Mrs. Stowe.</b><br />
<b>BEYOND THE CITY. By A. Conan Doyle.</b></p>
<p class="center no-indent">A NEW ISSUE EVERY WEEK.</p></div>
<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" />
<div class="adblock"><div class="chapter">
<p class="ph2 nobreak"><b>Neely’s Library of
Choice Literature.</b></p>
</div>
<p class="center no-indent"><b>Paper,—Fifty Cents.</b></p>
<p class="no-indent"><b>THE EMBASSY BALL.</b> By Virginia Rosalie Coxe.<br />
<b>TRUE TO THEMSELVES.</b> By Alex. J. C. Skene, M.D., LL.D.<br />
<b>THE RASCAL CLUB.</b> By Julius Chambers.
Fully Illustrated by J. P. Burns.<br />
<b>ISIDRA, THE PATRIOT DAUGHTER OF
MEXICO.</b> By Willis Steell.<br />
<b>THE MILLS OF GOD.</b> By Helen Davies.
Author of “Reveries of a Spinster.”<br />
<b>PETRONILLA, THE SISTER.</b>
By Emma Homan Thayer. Fully Illustrated.<br />
<b>URANIA.</b> By Camille Flammarion.
Profusely Illustrated with half-tone engravings.<br />
<b>A GARRISON TANGLE.</b> Capt. Chas. King.<br />
<b>FORT FRAYNE.</b> By Capt. Chas. King.<br />
<span class="styleb">
<b>A SON OF MARS.</b><br />
<b>A BAR SINISTER.</b><br />
<b>A GODDESS OF AFRICA.</b><br />
<b>MASKED IN MYSTERY.</b><br />
<b>HER RESCUE FROM THE TURKS.</b></span>
<span class="stylea">
<img style="height: 5.4em;
width: .75em;
text-align: left;
vertical-align: middle;
display: inline;"
alt="}"
src="images/bracket.jpg" /></span>
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and height and width will stretch as needed -->
<span class="stylec">
By St. George<br />
Rathborne,<br />
<span class="smaller">Author of<br />
Dr. Jack.</span></span><br />
<b>MARJORY MOORE’S LOVERS.</b> By Adeline Sergeant.<br />
<b>A BACHELOR OF PARIS.</b> J. W. Harding.
Fully Illustrated by William Hofaker.<br />
<b>BILL NYE’S REMARKS.</b> 150 Illustrations.</p>
</div>
<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" />
<div class="adblock"><div class="chapter">
<p class="ph2 nobreak"><b>Neely’s Library of
Choice Literature.</b></p>
</div>
<p>The following Copyrighted Novels, published at <b>50c.</b>
per copy, are now sold at <b>25c</b> each.</p>
<p class="no-indent"><b>MISS DEVEREUX OF THE MARIQUITA.</b> By R. H. Savage.<br />
<b>FACING THE FLAG.</b> By Jules Verne.<br />
<b>HOW WOMEN LOVE.</b> By Max Nordau.<br />
<b>IN THE OLD CHATEAU.</b> By Richard Henry Savage.<br />
<b>SOME WOMEN AND A MAN.</b> By William J. Locke.<br />
<b>A DAUGHTER OF JUDAS.</b> By Richard Henry Savage.<br />
<b>THE LAND OF PROMISE.</b> By Paul Bourget.<br />
<b>THE FLYING HALCYON.</b> By Richard Henry Savage.<br />
<b>THE CHARLATAN.</b> By R. Buchanan and Henry Murray.<br />
<b>THE PRINCESS OF ALASKA.</b> By Richard Henry Savage.<br />
<b>THE ANARCHIST.</b> By Richard Henry Savage.<br />
<b>A DAUGHTER OF THE KING.</b> By Alien.<br />
<b>FOR LIFE AND LOVE.</b> By Richard Henry Savage.<br />
<b>A MONK OF CRUTA.</b> By E. Phillips Oppenheim.<br />
<b>LIFE AND SERMONS OF DAVID SWING.</b><br />
<b>THE MASKED VENUS.</b> By Richard Henry Savage.<br />
<b>THE FALLEN RACE.</b> By Austyn Granville.<br />
<b>A YOUNG LADY TO MARRY, and other French Stories.</b><br />
<b>SWEET DANGER.</b> By Ella Wheeler Wilcox.<br />
<b>THE SPIDER OF TRUXILLO.</b> By Richard Henry Savage.<br />
<b>HAWAIIAN LIFE.</b> By Charles Warren Stoddard.<br />
<b>AFTER MANY YEARS—Poems.</b> By R. H. Savage.<br />
<b>IN THE DAY OF BATTLE.</b> By J. A. Steuart.<br />
<b>CAMPAIGNS OF CURIOSITY.</b> By E. L. Banks.</p></div>
<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" />
<div class="adblock"><div class="chapter">
<p class="ph2 nobreak"><b>Neely’s Popular Library.</b></p>
</div>
<p class="center no-indent"><b>Paper — Twenty-five Cents.</b></p>
<p class="no-indent"><b>IN STRANGE COMPANY. By Guy Boothby.</b>
(With full-page half-tone Illustrations.)<br />
<b>RENTED—A HUSBAND.</b> By Voisin.<br />
<b>THE NEW MAN AT ROSSMERE</b>
By Mrs. J. H. Walworth.<br />
<b>A WOMAN’S MISTAKE, or, ON A MARGIN.</b>
By Julius Chambers.<br />
<b>THE ONE TOO MANY.</b> By Mrs. Lynn Linton.<br />
<b>THE FAT AND THE THIN.</b> By Emile Zola.<br />
<b>AT MARKET VALUE.</b> By Grant Allen.<br />
<b>RACHEL DENE.</b> By Robert Buchanan.<br />
<b>THE MINOR CHORD.</b> By J. M. Chapple.<br />
<b>BOSS BART.</b> By J. M. Chapple.<br />
<b>THE GATES OF DAWN.</b> Fergus Hume.<br />
<b>NANCE, A KENTUCKY BELLE.</b> By Greene.<br />
<b>BITTER FRUITS.</b> By M. Caro. (Fully Illustrated.)<br />
<b>ARE MEN GAY DECEIVERS?</b>
By Mrs. Frank Leslie.<br />
<b>NYE AND RILEY’S WIT AND HUMOR.</b><br />
<b>BILL NYE’S SPARKS.</b><br />
<b>LOVE AFFAIRS OF A WORLDLY MAN.</b>
By Maibelle Justice.<br />
<b>LOVE LETTERS OF A WORLDLY WOMAN.</b>
By Mrs. W. K. Clifford.<br />
<b>WAS IT SUICIDE?</b> By Ella Wheeler Wilcox.<br />
<b>CLAUDEA’S ISLAND.</b> By Esme Stuart.<br />
<b>WEBSTER’S PRONOUNCING DICTIONARY.</b>
(Illustrated.) 350 Pages.<br />
<b>THE DISAPPEARANCE OF MR. DERWENT.</b>
By Thomas Cobb.<br />
<b>SACRIFICED LOVE.</b> By Alphonse Daudet.<br />
<b>THE MAHARAJAH’S GUEST.</b> By Indian Exile.<br />
<b>THE LAST OF THE VAN SLACKS.</b>
By Edward S. Van Zile.<br />
<b>MARK TWAIN, HIS LIFE AND WORK.</b><br />
<b>THE MAJOR IN WASHINGTON.</b><br />
<b>SOCIAL ETIQUETTE.</b> By Emily S. Bouton.</p></div>
<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" />
<div class="adblock"><div class="chapter">
<p class="ph2 nobreak"><b>Neely’s Popular Library.</b></p>
</div>
<p class="center no-indent"><b>Paper — Twenty-five Cents.</b></p>
<p class="no-indent"><b>ODD FOLKS.</b> By Opie Read.<br />
<b>A MOUNTAIN OF GOLD.</b> By Willis Steell.<br />
<b>ONE OF EARTH’S DAUGHTERS.</b> Ellen Roberts.<br />
<b>THE PASSING OF ALIX.</b> By Mrs. Marjorie Paul.<br />
<b>LUNAR CAUSTIC.</b> By Charles H. Robinson.<br />
<b>THE PALMETTO.</b> By F. S. Heffernan.<br />
<b>IMOLA.</b> By F. S. Heffernan.<br />
<b>UTOPIA.</b> By Frank Rosewater.<br />
<b>BLACK FRIDAY.</b> By Thomas B. Connery.<br />
<b>ALL THE DOG’S FAULT.</b> By Thos. B. Connery.<br />
<b>THE MALACHITE CROSS.</b> By Frank Norton.<br />
<b>A FASCINATING SINNER.</b> By Delta.<br />
<b>HYPNOTISM.</b> By Jules Claretie.<br />
<b>KERCHIEFS TO HUNT SOULS.</b> Amelia Fytche.<br />
<b>THE FORTUNES OF MARGARET WELD.</b>
By S. M. H. G.<br />
<b>A JOURNEY TO VENUS.</b> By G. W. Pope.<br />
<b>PAOLA CORLETTI.</b> By Alice Howard Hilton.<br />
<b>TWO STRANGE ADVENTURERS.</b> By Cornwallis.<br />
<b>MY SPANISH SWEETHEART.</b> By F. A. Ober.<br />
<b>THE CAPTAIN’S ROMANCE.</b> By Opie Read.<br />
<b>THE ADOPTED DAUGHTER.</b> By Fawcett.<br />
<b>TOM BROWN’S SCHOOL DAYS.</b> By Hughes.<br />
<b>KIDNAPPED.</b> By R. L. Stevenson.<br />
<b>MICAH CLARKE.</b> By A. Conan Doyle.<br />
<b>THE SIGN OF THE FOUR.</b> By Doyle.<br />
<b>SPORT ROYAL.</b> By Anthony Hope.<br />
<b>FATHER STAFFORD.</b> By Anthony Hope.<br />
<b>THE BONDMAN.</b> By Hall Caine.<br />
<b>THE MINISTER’S WEAK POINT.</b> By Maclure.<br />
<b>AT LOVE’S EXTREMES.</b> By Thompson.<br />
<b>BY RIGHT, NOT LAW.</b> By R. H. Sherard.<br />
<b>IN DARKEST ENGLAND.</b> By General Booth.<br />
<b>PEOPLE’S REFERENCE BOOK.</b><br />
<b>MARTHA WASHINGTON COOK BOOK.</b><br />
<b>HEALTH AND BEAUTY.</b> By Emily S. Bouton.</p></div>
<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" />
<div class="adblock"><div class="chapter">
<p class="ph2 nobreak">Neely’s Miscellaneous Books.</p>
</div>
<p class="center no-indent"><b>AMELIA E. BARR’S WORKS.</b></p>
<br />
<p class="no-indent"><b>THUS RUNS THE WORLD AWAY.</b> Cloth, $1.25.<br />
<b>WAS IT RIGHT TO FORGIVE?</b> Cloth, $1.25.</p>
<br />
<p class="center no-indent"><b>OPIE READ’S WORKS.</b></p>
<br />
<p class="no-indent"><b>ODD FOLKS.</b> Cloth, $1.00; paper, 25c.<br />
<b>THE CAPTAIN’S ROMANCE.</b> Cloth, $1.00; paper, 25c.</p>
<p class="center no-indent"><b>CAPT. CHARLES KING’S WORKS.</b></p>
<p class="no-indent"><b>FORT FRAYNE.</b> Cloth, $1.25; paper, 50c.<br />
<b>AN ARMY WIFE.</b> Cloth, $1.25. 32 full-page Illustrations.<br />
<b>A GARRISON TANGLE.</b> Cloth, $1.25; paper, 50c.<br />
<b>NOBLE BLOOD AND A WEST POINT PARALLEL.</b> 50c.<br />
<b>TRUMPETER FRED.</b> 50c. With full-page Illustrations.</p>
<p class="center no-indent"><b>MAX NORDAU’S WORKS.</b></p>
<p class="no-indent"><b>THE AILMENT OF THE CENTURY.</b> Cloth, $2.00.<br />
<b>THE SHACKLES OF FATE.</b> Gilt Top, 50c.<br />
<b>HOW WOMEN LOVE.</b> Cloth, $1.25.<br />
<b>THE RIGHT TO LOVE.</b> Cloth, $1.50.<br />
<b>THE COMEDY OF SENTIMENT.</b> Cloth, $1.50.<br />
<b>SOAP BUBBLES.</b> Gilt top, 50c.</p>
<p class="no-indent"><b>AN ALTRUIST.</b> By Ouida. Gilt top, $1.00.<br />
<b>CHEIRO’S LANGUAGE OF THE HAND.</b> Sixth Edition,
$2.50.<br />
<b>IF WE ONLY KNEW AND OTHER POEMS.</b> By Chairo.
Cloth, 50c.<br />
<b>THE BACHELOR AND THE CHAFING DISH.</b> By Deshler
Welsh. Illustrated. Cloth, $1.00.<br />
<b>THE LAND OF PROMISE.</b> By Paul Bourget. Fully illustrated.
Cloth, $1.00; paper, 25c.<br />
<b>NEELY’S HISTORY OF THE PARLIAMENT OF RELIGIONS.</b>
Over 1,000 pages, fully illustrated, $2.50.<br />
<b>DR. CARLIN’S RECEIPT BOOK AND HOUSEHOLD
PHYSICIAN.</b> Cloth, $1.00; paper, 50c.<br />
<b>LIFE AND SERMONS OF DAVID SWING.</b> Cloth, $1.50;
paper, 50c.<br />
<b>GIVING AND GETTING CREDIT.</b> By F. B. Goddard.
Cloth, $1.00.<br />
<b>THE ART OF SELLING.</b> By F. B. Goddard. 50c.<br />
<b>A JOURNEY TO VENUS.</b> By G. W. Pope. Cloth, $1.00;
paper, 25c.<br />
<b>KERCHIEFS TO HUNT SOULS.</b> By M. Amelia Fytche.
Cloth, $1.00; paper, 25c.<br />
<b>FACING THE FLAG.</b> By Jules Verne. Cloth, $1.00.<br />
<b>THAT EURASIAN.</b> By Aleph Bey. Cloth, $1.25.<br />
<b>CORNERSTONES OF CIVILIZATION.</b> Union College
Practical Lectures (Butterfield Course). $3.00.<br />
<b>WASHINGTON, OR THE REVOLUTION.</b> A drama, by
Ethan Allen. 2 vols. Cloth, $3.00; paper, $1.00.</p></div>
<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" />
<div class="adblock"><div class="chapter">
<p class="ph2 nobreak">Neely’s Latest Books.</p>
</div>
<p class="no-indent"><b>AN ALTRUIST.</b> By <span class="smcap">Ouida</span>. Gilt top, $1.00.<br />
<b>THUS RUNS THE WORLD AWAY.</b> <span class="smcap">Amelia E. Barr.</span>
Cloth, $1.25.<br />
<b>WAS IT RIGHT TO FORGIVE?</b> <span class="smcap">Amelia E. Barr.</span> Cloth,
$1.25.<br />
<b>A NEW STORY</b> by <span class="smcap">Capt. Chas. King.</span> Cloth, $1.25.<br />
<b>THE EMBASSY BALL.</b> By <span class="smcap">Virginia Rosalie Coxe</span>. Cloth,
$1.25; paper, 50c.<br />
<b>A MODERN PROMETHEUS.</b> By <span class="smcap">E. Phillips Oppenheim</span>.<br />
Illustrated by <span class="smcap">H. B. Mathews</span>. Cloth, gilt top, 50c.<br />
<b>SOUR SAINTS AND SWEET SINNERS.</b> By <span class="smcap">Carlos Martyn</span>.
Cloth, gilt top, $1.00.<br />
<b>SEVEN SMILES, AND A FEW FIBS.</b> By <span class="smcap">Thomas J. Vivian</span>,
with full-page illustrations by well-known artists.
Cloth, gilt top, 50c.<br />
<b>DAVENPORT’S CARTOONS.</b> By <span class="smcap">Homer Davenport</span>.<br />
<b>THE RASCAL CLUB.</b> By <span class="smcap">Julius Chambers</span>. Fully illustrated
by J. P. Burns. Cloth, $1.25; paper, 50c.<br />
<b>THE MILLS OF GOD.</b> By <span class="smcap">Helen Davies</span>, author of
“Reveries of a Spinster.” Cloth, $1.25; paper, 50c.<br />
<b>AMONG THE DUNES.</b> By <span class="smcap">Mrs. D. L. Rhone</span>. Cloth, $1.25.<br />
<b>THE AILMENT OF THE CENTURY.</b> <span class="smcap">Max Nordau</span>. Cloth, $2.<br />
<b>A SON OF MARS.</b> By <span class="smcap">St. George Rathborne</span>, author
of “Dr. Jack.” Cloth, $1.00; paper, 50c.<br />
<b>PETRONILLA, THE SISTER.</b> By <span class="smcap">Emma Homan Thayer</span>.
Fully Illustrated. Cloth, $1.25; paper, 50c.<br />
<b>SONGS OF THE WINGS.</b> <span class="smcap">Minnie Gilmore.</span> Cloth, $1.25.<br />
<b>URANIA.</b> By <span class="smcap">Camille Flammarion</span>. Profusely Illustrated.
Cloth, $1.25; paper, 50c.<br />
<b>A GUIDE TO PALMISTRY.</b> By <span class="smcap">Mrs. Eliza Easter-Henderson</span>.
Cloth. $1.00.<br />
<b>TRUE TO THEMSELVES.</b> A Psychological Study. By
<span class="smcap">Alex. J. C. Skene</span>, M.D., LL.D. Cloth, $1.25.<br />
<b>ODD FOLKS.</b> By <span class="smcap">Opie Read</span>. Cloth, $1.00.<br />
<b>LUNAR CAUSTIC.</b> By <span class="smcap">Charles H. Robinson</span>. Paper, 25c.<br />
<b>UTOPIA.</b> By <span class="smcap">Frank Rosewater</span>. Paper, 25c.<br />
<b>BLACK FRIDAY.</b> By <span class="smcap">Thomas B. Connery</span>. Paper, 25c.<br />
<b>ALL THE DOG’S FAULT.</b> BY <span class="smcap">Thos. B. Connery</span>. Paper, 25c.<br />
<b>THE MALACHITE CROSS.</b> By <span class="smcap">Frank Norton</span>. Paper, 25c.<br />
<b>ONE OF EARTH’S DAUGHTERS.</b> <span class="smcap">Ellen Roberts.</span> Paper, 25c.<br />
<b>THE PASSING OF ALIX.</b> <span class="smcap">Mrs. Marjorie Paul.</span> Paper, 25c.<br />
<b>A MOUNTAIN OF GOLD.</b> By <span class="smcap">Willis Steell</span>. Paper, 25c.<br />
<b>ISIDRA.</b> By <span class="smcap">Willis Steell</span>. Paper, 50c.</p></div>
<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" />
<div class="adblock"><div class="chapter">
<p class="ph2 nobreak">Neely’s Prismatic Library</p>
</div>
<p class="center no-indent">Gilt Top,—Fifty Cents.</p>
<p>“I KNOW OF NOTHING IN THE BOOK LINE THAT
EQUALS NEELY’S PRISMATIC LIBRARY FOR ELEGANCE
AND CAREFUL SELECTION. IT SETS A PACE THAT
OTHERS WILL NOT EASILY EQUAL, AND NONE SURPASS.”—<b>E.
A. ROBINSON.</b></p>
<p class="no-indent"><b>SEVEN SMILES, AND A FEW FIBS. By Thomas J.
Vivian</b>, with full-page illus. by well-known artists.</p>
<p class="no-indent"><b>A MODERN PROMETHEUS. By E. Phillips Oppenheim.
Illustrated by H. B. Mathews.</b></p>
<p class="no-indent"><b>THE SHACKLES OF FATE. By Max Nordau.</b></p>
<p class="no-indent"><b>SOAP BUBBLES. By Max Nordau.</b></p>
<p class="no-indent"><b>A BACHELOR OF PARIS. By John W. Harding.</b>
With over 50 illustrations by William Hofaker.</p>
<p class="no-indent"><b>MONTRESOR. By Loota.</b></p>
<p class="no-indent"><b>REVERIES OF A SPINSTER. By Helen Davies.</b></p>
<p class="no-indent"><b>THE ART MELODIOUS. By Louis Lombard.</b></p>
<p class="no-indent"><b>THE HONOR OF A PRINCESS. F. Kimball Scribner.</b></p>
<p class="no-indent"><b>OBSERVATIONS OF A BACHELOR. Louis Lombard.</b></p>
<p class="no-indent"><b>KINGS IN ADVERSITY. By E. S. Van Zile.</b></p>
<p class="no-indent"><b>NOBLE BLOOD AND A WEST POINT PARALLEL.
By Captain King and Ernest Von Wildenbruch.</b></p>
<p class="no-indent"><b>TRUMPETER FRED. By Captain King. Illustrated.</b></p>
<p class="no-indent"><b>FATHER STAFFORD. By Anthony Hope.</b></p>
<p class="no-indent"><b>THE KING IN YELLOW. By R. W. Chambers.</b></p>
<p class="no-indent"><b>IN THE QUARTER. By R. W. Chambers.</b></p>
<p class="no-indent"><b>A PROFESSIONAL LOVER. By Gyp.</b></p>
<p class="no-indent"><b>BIJOU’S COURTSHIPS. By Gyp.</b> Translated by
Katherine Berry di Zériga. Illustrated by H. B.
Axtell.</p>
<p class="no-indent"><b>A CONSPIRACY OF THE CARBONARI. By Louise Muhlbach.</b></p>
</div>
<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" />
<div class="chapter">
<div class="transnote">
<p class="ph2 nobreak"><span class="smcap">Transcriber’s Notes:</span></p>
<p>On page 34, Catherine has been changed to Catharine.</p>
<p>On page 37, aple has been changed to able.</p>
<p>On page 38, sierous has been changed to serious.</p>
<p>On page 59, unexpceted has been changed to unexpected.</p>
<p>On page 63, futherance has been changed to furtherance.</p>
<p>On page 83, fellow ship has been changed to fellowship.</p>
<p>On page 88, comanding has been changed to commanding.</p>
<p>On page 124, dolicious has been changed to delicious.</p>
<p>On page 184, a repetitive “the the” has been removed.</p>
<p>On page 202, a repetitive “and and” has been removed.</p>
<p>On page 205, dilligence has been changed to diligence.</p>
<p>On page 225, thistledown has been changed to thistle-down.</p>
<p>Minor silent changes have been made to regularize usage of
punctuation.</p>
<p>All other spelling, hyphenation and dialect have been
retained as typeset.</p></div></div>
<div>*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 68586 ***</div>
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