The Crisis — Complete

by Winston Churchill

  CHAPTER XV. MAN OF SORROW

  The train was late--very late. It was Virginia who first caught sightof the new dome of the Capitol through the slanting rain, but she merelypressed her lips together and said nothing. In the dingy brick stationof the Baltimore and Ohio Railroad more than one person paused to lookafter them, and a kind-hearted lady who had been in the car kissed thegirl good-by.

  "You think that you can find your uncle's house, my dear?" she asked,glancing at Virginia with concern. Through all of that long journey shehad worn a look apart. "Do you think you can find your uncle's house?"

  Virginia started. And then she smiled as she looked at the honest,alert, and squarely built gentleman beside her.

  "Captain Brent can, Mrs. Ware," she said. "He can find anything."

  Whereupon the kind lady gave the Captain her hand. "You look as if youcould, Captain," said she. "Remember, if General Carvel is out of town,you promised to bring her to me."

  "Yes, ma'am," said Captain Lige, "and so I shall."

  "Kerridge, kerridge! Right dis-a-way! No sah, dat ain't de kerridgeyou wants. Dat's it, lady, you'se lookin at it. Kerridge, kerridge,kerridge!"

  Virginia tried bravely to smile, but she was very near to tears as shestood on the uneven pavement and looked at the scrawny horses standingpatiently in the steady downpour. All sorts of people were comingand going, army officers and navy officers and citizens of states andterritories, driving up and driving away.

  And this was Washington!

  She was thinking then of the multitude who came here with achinghearts,--with heavier hearts than was hers that day. How many of thethrong hurrying by would not flee, if they could, back to the peacefulhomes they had left? But perhaps those homes were gone now. Destroyed,like her own, by the war. Women with children at their breasts, andmothers bowed with sorrow, had sought this city in their agony. Youngmen and old had come hither, striving to keep back the thoughts of dearones left behind, whom they might never see again. And by the thousandsand tens of thousands they had passed from here to the places of bloodbeyond.

  "Kerridge, sah! Kerridge!"

  "Do you know where General Daniel Carvel lives?"

  "Yes, sah, reckon I does. I Street, sah. Jump right in, sah."

  Virginia sank back on the stuffy cushions of the rattle-trap, and thensat upright again and stared out of the window at the dismal scene. Theywere splashing through a sea of mud. Ever since they had left St. Louis,Captain Lige had done his best to cheer her, and he did not intend todesist now.

  "This beats all," he cried. "So this is Washington, Why, it don'tcompare to St. Louis, except we haven't got the White House and theCapitol. Jinny, it would take a scow to get across the street, and wedon't have ramshackly stores and nigger cabins bang up against fineHouses like that. This is ragged. That's what it is, ragged. We don'thave any dirty pickaninnies dodging among the horses in our residencestreets. I declare, Jinny, if those aren't pigs!"

  Virginia laughed. She could not help it.

  "Poor Lige!" she said. "I hope Uncle Daniel has some breakfast for you.You've had a good deal to put up with on this trip."

  "Lordy, Jinny," said the Captain, "I'd put up with a good deal more thanthis for the sake of going anywhere with you."

  "Even to such a doleful place as this?" she sighed.

  "This is all right, if the sun'll only come out and dry things up andlet us see the green on those trees," he said, "Lordy, how I do love tosee the spring green in the sunlight!"

  She put out her hand over his.

  "Lige," she said, "you know you're just trying to keep up my spirits.You've been doing that ever since we left home."

  "No such thing," he replied with vehemence. "There's nothing for you tobe cast down about."

  "Oh, but there is!" she cried. "Suppose I can't make your BlackRepublican President pardon Clarence!"

  "Pooh!" said the Captain, squeezing her hand and trying to appearunconcerned. "Your Uncle Daniel knows Mr. Lincoln. He'll have thatarranged."

  Just then the rattletrap pulled up at the sidewalk, the wheels of thenear side in four inches of mud, and the Captain leaped out and spreadthe umbrella. They were in front of a rather imposing house of brick,flanked on one side by a house just like it, and on the other by aseries of dreary vacant lots where the rain had collected in pools. Theyclimbed the steps and rang the bell. In due time the door was opened bya smiling yellow butler in black.

  "Does General Carvel live here?"

  "Yas, miss, But he ain't to home now. Done gone to New York."

  "Oh," faltered Virginia. "Didn't he get my telegram day beforeyesterday? I sent it to the War Department."

  "He's done gone since Saturday, miss." And then, evidently impressed bythe young lady's looks, he added hospitably, "Kin I do anything fo' you,miss?"

  "I'm his niece, Miss Virginia Carvel, and this is Captain Brent."

  The yellow butler's face lighted up.

  "Come right in, Miss Jinny, Done heerd de General speak of youoften--yas'm. De General'll be to home dis a'ternoon, suah. 'Twill dohim good ter see you, Miss Jinny. He's been mighty lonesome. Walk rightin, Cap'n, and make yo'selves at home. Lizbeth--Lizbeth!"

  A yellow maid came running down the stairs. "Heah's Miss Jinny."

  "Lan' of goodness!" cried Lizbeth. "I knows Miss Jinny. Done seed her atCalve't House. How is you, Miss Jinny?"

  "Very well, Lizbeth," said Virginia, listlessly sitting down on the hallsofa. "Can you give us some breakfast?"

  "Yas'm," said Lizbeth, "jes' reckon we kin." She ushered them into awalnut dining room, big and high and sombre, with plush-bottomed chairsplaced about--walnut also; for that was the fashion in those days.But the Captain had no sooner seated himself than he shot up again andstarted out.

  "Where are you going, Lige?"

  "To pay off the carriage driver," he said.

  "Let him wait," said Virginia. "I'm going to the White House in a littlewhile."

  "What--what for?" he gasped.

  "To see your Black Republican President," she replied, with alarmingcalmness.

  "Now, Jinny," he cried, in excited appeal, "don't go doin' any such fooltrick as that. Your Uncle Dan'l will be here this afternoon. Heknows the President. And then the thing'll be fixed all right, and nomistake."

  Her reply was in the same tone--almost a monotone--which she had usedfor three days. It made the Captain very uneasy, for he knew when shespoke in that way that her will was in it.

  "And to lose that time," she answered, "may be to have him shot."

  "But you can't get to the President without credentials," he objected.

  "What," she flashed, "hasn't any one a right to see the President? Youmean to say that he will not see a woman in trouble? Then all thesepretty stories I hear of him are false. They are made up by theYankees."

  Poor Captain Lige! He had some notion of the multitude of calls upon Mr.Lincoln, especially at that time. But he could not, he dared not,remind her of the principal reason for this,--Lee's surrender and theapproaching end of the war. And then the Captain had never seen Mr.Lincoln. In the distant valley of the Mississippi he had only heard ofthe President very conflicting things. He had heard him criticised andreviled and praised, just as is every man who goes to the White House,be he saint or sinner. And, during an administration, no man at adistance may come at a President's true character and worth. The Captainhad seen Lincoln caricatured vilely. And again he had read and heard thepleasant anecdotes of which Virginia had spoken, until he did not knowwhat to believe.

  As for Virginia, he knew her partisanship to, and undying love for, theSouth; he knew the class prejudice which was bound to assert itself, andhe had seen enough in the girl's demeanor to fear that she was going todemand rather than implore. She did not come of a race that was wont tobend the knee.

  "Well, well," he said despairingly, "you must eat some breakfast first,Jinny."

  She waited with an ominous calmness until it was brought in, and thenshe took a part of a roll and
some coffee.

  "This won't do," exclaimed the Captain. "Why, why, that won't get youhalfway to Mr. Lincoln."

  She shook her head, half smiling.

  "You must eat enough, Lige," she said.

  He was finished in an incredibly short time, and amid the protestationsof Lizbeth and the yellow butler they got into the carriage again, andsplashed and rattled toward the White House. Once Virginia glanced out,and catching sight of the bedraggled flags on the houses in honor ofLee's surrender, a look of pain crossed her face. The Captain could notrepress a note of warning.

  "Jinny," said he, "I have an idea that you'll find the President a gooddeal of a man. Now if you're allowed to see him, don't get him mad,Jinny, whatever you do."

  Virginia stared straight ahead.

  "If he is something of a man, Lige, he will not lose his temper with awoman."

  Captain Lige subsided. And just then they came in sight of the house ofthe Presidents, with its beautiful portico and its broad wings. And theyturned in under the dripping trees of the grounds. A carriage with ablack coachman and footman was ahead of them, and they saw two statelygentlemen descend from it and pass the guard at the door. Then theirturn came. The Captain helped her out in his best manner, and gave somemoney to the driver.

  "I reckon he needn't wait for us this time, Jinny," said be. She shookher head and went in, he following, and they were directed to theanteroom of the President's office on the second floor. There weremany people in the corridors, and one or two young officers in blue whostared at her. She passed them with her head high.

  But her spirits sank when they came to the anteroom. It was full of allsorts of people. Politicians, both prosperous and seedy, full faced andkeen faced, seeking office; women, officers, and a one-armed soldiersitting in the corner. He was among the men who offered Virginia theirseats, and the only one whom she thanked. But she walked directly to thedoorkeeper at the end of the room. Captain Lige was beside her.

  "Can we see the President?" he asked.

  "Have you got an appointment?" said the old man.

  "No."

  "Then you'll have to wait your turn, sir," he said, shaking his head andlooking at Virginia. And he added. "It's slow work waiting your turn,there's so many governors and generals and senators, although thesession's over. It's a busy time, miss."

  Virginia went very close to him.

  "Oh, can't you do something?" she said. And added, with an inspiration,"I must see him. It's a matter of life and death."

  She saw instantly, with a woman's instinct, that these words had hadtheir effect. The old man glanced at her again, as if demurring.

  "You're sure, miss, it's life and death?" he said.

  "Oh, why should I say so if it were not?" she cried.

  "The orders are very strict," he said. "But the President told me togive precedence to cases when a life is in question. Just you wait aminute, miss, until Governor Doddridge comes out, and I'll see what Ican do for you. Give me your name, please, miss."

  She remained standing where she was. In a little while the heavy dooropened, and a portly, rubicund man came out with a smile on his face.He broke into a laugh, when halfway across the room, as if the memory ofwhat he had heard were too much for his gravity. The doorkeeper slippedinto the room, and there was a silent, anxious interval. Then he cameout again.

  "The President will see you, miss."

  Captain Lige started forward with her, but she restrained him.

  "Wait for me here, Lige," she said.

  She swept in alone, and the door closed softly after her. The room wasa big one, and there were maps on the table, with pins sticking in them.She saw that much, and then--!

  Could this fantastically tall, stooping figure before her be that of thePresident of the United States? She stopped, as from the shock he gaveher. The lean, yellow face with the mask-like lines all up and down,the unkempt, tousled hair, the beard--why, he was a hundred times moreridiculous than his caricatures. He might have stood for many of thepoor white trash farmers she had seen in Kentucky--save for the longblack coat.

  "Is--is this Mr. Lincoln?" she asked, her breath taken away.

  He bowed and smiled down at her. Somehow that smile changed his face alittle.

  "I guess I'll have to own up," he answered.

  "My name is Virginia Carvel," she said. "I have come all the way fromSt. Louis to see you."

  "Miss Carvel," said the President, looking at her intently, "I haverarely been so flattered in my life. I--I hope I have not disappointedyou."

  Virginia was justly angry.

  "Oh, you haven't," she cried, her eyes flashing, "because I am what youwould call a Rebel."

  The mirth in the dark corners of his eyes disturbed her more and more.And then she saw that the President was laughing.

  "And have you a better name for it, Miss Carvel?" he asked. "Because Iam searching for a better name--just now."

  She was silent--sternly silent. And she tapped her foot on the carpet.What manner of man was this? "Won't you sit down?" said the President,kindly. "You must be tired after your journey." And he put forth achair.

  "No, thank you," said Virginia; "I think that I can say what I have cometo say better standing."

  "Well," said Mr. Lincoln, "that's not strange. I'm that way, too. Thewords seem to come out better. That reminds me of a story they tellabout General Buck Tanner. Ever heard of Buck, Miss Carvel? No? Well,Buck was a character. He got his title in the Mormon war. One day theboys asked him over to the square to make a speech. The General was alittle uneasy.

  "'I'm all right when I get standing up, Liza,' he said to his wife. Thenthe words come right along. Only trouble is they come too cussed fast.How'm I going to stop 'em when I want to?'

  "'Well, I du declare, Buck,' said she, 'I gave you credit for somesense. All you've got to do is to set down. That'll end it, I reckon.'

  "So the General went over to the square and talked for about an hourand a half, and then a Chicago man shouted to him to dry up. The Generallooked pained.

  "'Boys,' said he, 'it's jest every bit as bad for me as it is for you.You'll have to hand up a chair, boys, because I'm never going to getshet of this goldarned speech any anther way.'"

  Mr. Lincoln had told this so comically that Virginia was forced tolaugh, and she immediately hated herself. A man who could joke at sucha time certainly could not feel the cares and responsibilities of hisoffice. He should have been a comedian. And yet this was the Presidentwho had conducted the war, whose generals had conquered the Confederacy.And she was come to ask him a favor. Virginia swallowed her pride.

  "Mr. Lincoln," she began, "I have come to talk to you about my cousin,Colonel Clarence Colfax."

  "I shall be happy to talk to you about your cousin, Colonel Colfax, MissCarvel. Is he your third or fourth cousin?"

  "He is my first cousin," she retorted.

  "Is he in the city?" asked Mr. Lincoln, innocently. "Why didn't he comewith you?"

  "Oh, haven't you heard?" she cried. "He is Clarence Colfax, of St.Louis, now a Colonel in the army of the Confederate States."

  "Which army?" asked Mr. Lincoln. Virginia tossed her head inexasperation.

  "In General Joseph Johnston's army," she replied, trying to be patient."But now," she gulped, "now he has been arrested as a spy by GeneralSherman's army."

  "That's too bad," answered Mr. Lincoln.

  "And--and they are going to shoot him."

  "That's worse," said Mr. Lincoln, gravely. "But I expect he deservesit."

  "Oh, no, he doesn't," she cried. "You don't know how brave he is! Hefloated down the Mississippi on a log, out of Vicksburg, and broughtback thousands and thousands of percussion caps. He rowed across theriver when the Yankee fleet was going down, and set fire to De Soto sothat they could see to shoot."

  "Well," said Mr. Lincoln, "that's a good starter." Then he lookedthoughtful.

  "Miss Carvel," said he, "that argument reminds me of a story about a manI used to know in the old da
ys in Illinois. His name was McNeil, and hewas a lawyer.

  "One day he was defending a prisoner for assault and battery beforeJudge Drake.

  "'Judge, says McNeil, 'you oughtn't to lock this man up. It was a fairfight, and he's the best man in the state in a fair fight. And, what'smore, he's never been licked in a fair fight in his life.'

  "'And if your honor does lock me up,' the prisoner put in, 'I'll giveyour honor a thunderin' big lickin' when I get out.'

  "The Judge took off his coat.

  "'Gentlemen,' said he, 'it's a powerful queer argument, but the Courtwill admit it on its merits. The prisoner will please to step out on thegrass.'"

  This time Virginia contrived merely to smile. She was striving againstsomething, she knew not what. Her breath was coming deeply, and she wasdangerously near to tears. Why? She could not tell. She had come intothis man's presence despising herself for having to ask him a favor.The sight of his face she had ridiculed. Now she could not look into itwithout an odd sensation. What was in it? Sorrow? Yes, that was nearestit.

  What had the man done? Told her a few funny stories--given quizzicalanswers to some of her questions. Quizzical, yes; but she could not besure then there was not wisdom in them, and that humiliated her. She hadnever conceived of such a man. And, be it added gratuitously, Virginiadeemed herself something of an adept in dealing with men.

  "And now," said Mr. Lincoln, "to continue for the defence, I believethat Colonel Colfax first distinguished himself at the time of CampJackson, when of all the prisoners he refused to accept a parole."

  Startled, she looked up at him swiftly, and then down again. "Yes,"she answered, "yes. But oh, Mr. Lincoln, please don't hold that againsthim."

  If she could only have seen his face then. But her lashes were dropped.

  "My dear young lady," replied the President, "I honor him for it. I wasmerely elaborating the argument which you have begun. On the other hand,it is a pity that he should have taken off that uniform which he adornedand attempted to enter General Sherman's lines as a civilian,--as aspy."

  He had spoken these last words very gently, but she was too excited toheed his gentleness. She drew herself up, a gleam in her eyes like thecrest of a blue wave in a storm.

  "A spy!" she cried; "it takes more courage to be a spy than anythingelse in war. Then he will be shot. You are not content in, the Northwith what you have gained. You are not content with depriving us ofour rights, and our fortunes, with forcing us back to an allegiance wedespise. You are not content with humiliating our generals and puttinginnocent men in prisons. But now I suppose you will shoot us all. Andall this mercy that I have heard about means nothing--nothing--"

  Why did she falter and stop?

  "Miss Carvel," said the President, "I am afraid from what I have heardjust now, that it means nothing." Oh, the sadness of that voice,--theineffable sadness,--the sadness and the woe of a great nation! And thesorrow in those eyes, the sorrow of a heavy cross borne meekly,--howheavy none will ever know. The pain of a crown of thorns worn for aworld that did not understand. No wonder Virginia faltered andwas silent. She looked at Abraham Lincoln standing there, bent andsorrowful, and it was as if a light had fallen upon him. But strangestof all in that strange moment was that she felt his strength. It was thesame strength she had felt in Stephen Brice. This was the thought thatcame to her.

  Slowly she walked to the window and looked out across the green groundswhere the wind was shaking the wet trees, past the unfinished monumentto the Father of her country, and across the broad Potomac to Alexandriain the hazy distance. The rain beat upon the panes, and then she knewthat she was crying softly to herself. She had met a force that shecould not conquer, she had looked upon a sorrow that she could notfathom, albeit she had known sorrow.

  Presently she felt him near. She turned and looked through her tearsat his face that was all compassion. And now she was unashamed. He hadplaced a chair behind her.

  "Sit down, Virginia," he said. Even the name fell from him naturally.

  She obeyed him then like a child. He remained standing.

  "Tell me about your cousin," he said; "are you going to marry him?"

  She hung an instant on her answer. Would that save Clarence? But inthat moment she could not have spoken anything but the truth to save hersoul.

  "No, Mr. Lincoln," she said; "I was--but I did not love him. I--I thinkthat was one reason why he was so reckless."

  Mr. Lincoln smiled.

  "The officer who happened to see Colonel Colfax captured is now inWashington. When your name was given to me, I sent for him. Perhaps heis in the anteroom now. I should like to tell you, first of all, thatthis officer defended your cousin and asked me to pardon him."

  "He defended him! He asked you to pardon him! Who is he?" she exclaimed.

  Again Mr. Lincoln smiled. He strode to the bell-cord, and spoke a fewwords to the usher who answered his ring.

  The usher went out. Then the door opened, and a young officer, spare,erect, came quickly into the room, and bowed respectfully to thePresident. But Mr. Lincoln's eyes were not on him. They were on thegirl. He saw her head lifted, timidly. He saw her lips part and thecolor come flooding into her face. But she did not rise.

  The President sighed But the light in her eyes was reflected in his own.It has been truly said that Abraham Lincoln knew the human heart.

  The officer still stood facing the President, the girl staring at hisprofile. The door closed behind him. "Major Brice," said Mr. Lincoln,"when you asked me to pardon Colonel Colfax, I believe that you told mehe was inside his own skirmish lines when he was captured."

  "Yes, sir, he was."

  Suddenly Stephen turned, as if impelled by the President's gaze, and sohis eyes met Virginia's. He forgot time and place,--for the while eventhis man whom he revered above all men. He saw her hand tighten on thearm of her chair. He took a step toward her, and stopped. Mr. Lincolnwas speaking again.

  "He put in a plea, a lawyer's plea, wholly unworthy of him, MissVirginia. He asked me to let your cousin off on a technicality. What doyou think of that?"

  "Oh!" said Virginia. Just the exclamation escaped her--nothing more. Thecrimson that had betrayed her deepened on her cheeks. Slowly the eyesshe had yielded to Stephen came back again and rested on the President.And now her wonder was that an ugly man could be so beautiful.

  "I wish it understood, Mr. Lawyer," the President continued, "that Iam not letting off Colonel Colfax on a technicality. I am sparing hislife," he said slowly, "because the time for which we have been waitingand longing for four years is now at hand--the time to be merciful. Letus all thank God for it."

  Virginia had risen now. She crossed the room, her head lifted, her heartlifted, to where this man of sorrows stood smiling down at her.

  "Mr. Lincoln," she faltered, "I did not know you when I came here. Ishould have known you, for I had heard him--I had heard Major Bricepraise you. Oh," she cried, "how I wish that every man and woman andchild in the South might come here and see you as I have seen youto-day. I think--I think that some of their bitterness might be takenaway."

  Abraham Lincoln laid his hands upon the girl. And Stephen, watching,knew that he was looking upon a benediction.

  "Virginia," said Mr. Lincoln, "I have not suffered by the South, I havesuffered with the South. Your sorrow has been my sorrow, and your painhas been my pain. What you have lost, I have lost. And what you havegained," he added sublimely, "I have gained."

  He led her gently to the window. The clouds were flying before the wind,and a patch of blue sky shone above the Potomac. With his long arm hepointed across the river to the southeast, and as if by a miracle ashaft of sunlight fell on the white houses of Alexandria.

  "In the first days of the war," he said, "a flag flew there in sight ofthe place where George Washington lived and died. I used to watchthat flag, and thank God that Washington had not lived to see it. Andsometimes, sometimes I wondered if God had allowed it to be put in ironyjust there." His voice seemed to catc
h. "That was wrong," he continued."I should have known that this was our punishment--that the sight ofit was my punishment. Before we could become the great nation He hasdestined us to be, our sins must be wiped out in blood. You loved thatflag, Virginia. You love it still.

  "I say in all sincerity, may you always love it. May the day come whenthis Nation, North and South, may look back upon it with reverence.Thousands upon thousands of brave Americans have died under it for whatthey believed was right. But may the day come again when you will lovethat flag you see there now--Washington's flag--better still."

  He stopped, and the tears were wet upon Virginia's lashes. She could nothave spoken then.

  Mr. Lincoln went over to his desk and sat down before it. Then he beganto write, slouched forward, one knee resting on the floor, his lipsmoving at the same time. When he got up again he seemed taller thanever.

  "There!" he said, "I guess that will fix it. I'll have that sent toSherman. I have already spoken to him about the matter."

  They did not thank him. It was beyond them both. He turned to Stephenwith that quizzical look on his face he had so often seen him wear.

  "Steve," he said, "I'll tell you a story. The other night Harlan washere making a speech to a crowd out of the window, and my boy Tad wassitting behind him.

  "'What shall we do with the Rebels?' said Harlan to the crowd.

  "'Hang 'em!' cried the people. "'No,' says Tad, 'hang on to 'em.'

  "And the boy was right. That is what we intend to do,--hang on to 'em.And, Steve," said Mr. Lincoln, putting his hand again on Virginia'sshoulder, "if you have the sense I think you have, you'll hang on, too."

  For an instant he stood smiling at their blushes,--he to whom the powerwas given to set apart his cares and his troubles and partake of thehappiness of others. For of such was his happiness.

  Then the President drew out his watch. "Bless me!" he said, "I am tenminutes behind my appointment at the Department. Miss Virginia, you maycare to thank the Major for the little service he has done you. You cando so undisturbed here. Make yourselves at home."

  As he opened the door he paused and looked back at them. The smilepassed from his face, and an ineffable expression of longing--longingand tenderness--came upon it.

  Then he was gone.

  For a space, while his spell was upon them, they did not stir. ThenStephen sought her eyes that had been so long denied him. They werenot denied him now. It was Virginia who first found her voice, and shecalled him by his name.

  "Oh, Stephen," she said, "how sad he looked!"

  He was close to her, at her side. And he answered her in the earnesttone which she knew so well.

  "Virginia, if I could have had what I most wished for in the world, Ishould have asked that you should know Abraham Lincoln."

  Then she dropped her eyes, and her breath came quickly.

  "I--I might have known," she answered, "I might have known what he was.I had heard you talk of him. I had seen him in you, and I did not know.Do you remember that day when we were in the summer-house together atGlencoe, long ago? When you had come back from seeing him?"

  "As yesterday," he said.

  "You were changed then," she said bravely. "I saw it. Now I understand.It was because you had seen Mr. Lincoln."

  "When I saw him," said Stephen, reverently, "I knew how little andnarrow I was."

  Then, overcome by the incense of her presence, he drew her to him untilher heart beat against his own. She did not resist, but lifted her faceto him, and he kissed her.

  "You love me, Virginia!" he cried.

  "Yes, Stephen," she answered, low, more wonderful in her surrender thanever before. "Yes--dear." Then she hid her face against his blue coat."I--I cannot help it. Oh, Stephen, how I have struggled against it!How I have tried to hate you, and couldn't. No, I couldn't. I tried toinsult you, I did insult you. And when I saw how splendidly you bore it,I used to cry." He kissed her brown hair.

  "I loved you through it all," he said.

  "Virginia!"

  "Yes, dearest."

  "Virginia, did you dream of me?"

  She raised her head quickly, and awe was in her eyes. "How did youknow?"

  "Because I dreamed of you," he answered. "And those dreams used to lingerwith me half the day as I went about my work. I used to think of them asI sat in the saddle on the march."

  "I, too, treasured them," she said. "And I hated myself for doing it."

  "Virginia, will you marry me?"

  "Yes."

  "To-morrow?"

  "Yes, dear, to-morrow." Faintly, "I have no one but you--now."

  Once more he drew her to him, and she gloried in his strength.

  "God help me to cherish you, dear," he said, "and guard you well."

  She drew away from him, gently, and turned toward the window.

  "See, Stephen," she cried, "the sun has come out at last."

  For a while they were silent, looking out; the drops glistened on bladeand leaf, and the joyous new green of the earth entered into theirhearts.

  CHAPTER XVI. ANNAPOLIS

  IT was Virginia's wish, and was therefore sacred. As for Stephen, helittle cared whither they went. And so they found themselves on thatbright afternoon in mid-April under the great trees that arch theunpaved streets of old Annapolis.

  They stopped by direction at a gate, and behind it was a green clusterof lilac bushes, which lined the walk to the big plum-colored housewhich Lionel Carvel had built. Virginia remembered that down this walkon a certain day in June, a hundred years agone, Richard Carvel had ledDorothy Manners.

  They climbed the steps, tottering now with age and disuse, and Virginiaplayfully raised the big brass knocker, brown now, that Scipio had beenwont to polish until it shone. Stephen took from his pocket the clumsykey that General Carvel had given him, and turned it in the rusty lock.The door swung open, and Virginia stood in the hall of her ancestors.

  It was musty and damp this day as the day when Richard had come backfrom England and found it vacant and his grandfather dead. But there,at the parting of the stairs, was the triple-arched window which he haddescribed. Through it the yellow afternoon light was flooding now, evenas then, checkered by the branches in their first fringe of green. Butthe tall clock which Lionel Carvel used to wind was at Calvert House,with many another treasure.

  They went up the stairs, and reverently they walked over the barefloors, their footfalls echoing through the silent house. A score ofscenes in her great-grandfather's life came to Virginia. Here was theroom--the cornet one at the back of the main building, which looked outover the deserted garden--that had been Richard's mother's. She recalledhow he had stolen into it on that summer's day after his return, and hadflung open the shutters. They were open now, for their locks were off.The prie-dieu was gone, and the dresser. But the high bed was there,stripped of its poppy counterpane and white curtains; and the steps bywhich she had entered it.

  And next they went into the great square room that had been LionelCarvel's, and there, too, was the roomy bed on which the old gentlemanhad lain with the gout, while Richard read to him from the Spectator.One side of it looked out on the trees in Freshwater Lane; and the otheracross the roof of the low house opposite to where the sun danced on theblue and white waters of the Chesapeake.

  "Honey," said Virginia, as they stood in the deep recess of the window,"wouldn't it be nice if we could live here always, away from the world?Just we two! But you would never be content to do that," she said,smiling reproachfully. "You are the kind of man who must be in the midstof things. In a little while you will have far more besides me to thinkabout."

  He was quick to catch the note of sadness in her voice. And he drew herto him.

  "We all have our duty to perform in the world, dear," he answered. "Itcannot be all pleasure."

  "You--you Puritan!" she cried. "To think that I should have married aPuritan! What would my great-great-great-great-grandfather say, who wassuch a stanch Royalist? Why, I think I can see him frowning at m
e now,from the door, in his blue velvet goat and silverlaced waistcoat."

  "He was well punished," retorted Stephen, "his own grandson was a Whig,and seems to have married a woman of spirit."

  "She had spirit," said Virginia. "I am sure that she did not allow mygreat-grandfather to kiss her--unless she wanted to."

  And she looked up at him, half smiling, half pouting; altogetherbewitching.

  "From what I hear of him, he was something of a man," said Stephen."Perhaps he did it anyway."

  "I am glad that Marlborough Street isn't a crowded thoroughfare," saidVirginia.

  When they had seen the dining room, with its carved mantel and silverdoor-knobs, and the ballroom in the wing, they came out, and Stephenlocked the door again. They walked around the house, and stood lookingdown the terraces,--once stately, but crumbled now,--where Dorothy haddanced on the green on Richard's birthday. Beyond and below was thespring-house, and there was the place where the brook dived under theruined wall,--where Dorothy had wound into her hair the lilies of thevalley before she sailed for London.

  The remains of a wall that had once held a balustrade marked theoutlines of the formal garden. The trim hedges, for seventy yearsneglected, had grown incontinent. The garden itself was full of wildgreen things coming up through the brown of last season's growth. Butin the grass the blue violets nestled, and Virginia picked some of theseand put them in Stephen's coat.

  "You must keep them always," she said, "because we got them here."

  They spied a seat beside a hoary trunk. There on many a spring dayLionel Carvel had sat reading his Gazette. And there they rested now.The sun hung low over the old-world gables in the street beyond thewall, and in the level rays was an apple tree dazzling white, like abride. The sweet fragrance which the day draws from the earth lingeredin the air.

  It was Virginia who broke the silence.

  "Stephen, do you remember that fearful afternoon of the panic, when youcame over from Anne Brinsmade's to reassure me?"

  "Yes, dear," he said. "But what made you think of it now?"

  She did not answer him directly.

  "I believed what you said, Stephen. But you were so strong, so calm,so sure of yourself. I think that made me angry when I thought howridiculous I must have been."

  He pressed her hand.

  "You were not ridiculous, Jinny." She laughed.

  "I was not as ridiculous as Mr. Cluyme with his bronze clock. But doyou know what I had under my arm--what I was saving of all the things Iowned?"

  "No," he answered; "but I have often wondered." She blushed.

  "This house--this place made me think of it. It was Dorothy Manners'sgown, and her necklace. I could not leave them. They were all theremembrance I had of that night at Mr. Brinsmade's gate, when we came sonear to each other."

  "Virginia," he said, "some force that we cannot understand has broughtus together, some force that we could not hinder. It is foolish for meto say so, but on that day of the slave auction, when I first saw you,I had a premonition about you that I have never admitted until now, evento myself."

  She started.

  "Why, Stephen," she cried, "I felt the same way!"

  "And then," he continued quickly, "it was strange that I should havegone to Judge Whipple, who was an intimate of your father's--such asingular intimate. And then came your party, and Glencoe, and thatcurious incident at the Fair."

  "When I was talking to the Prince, and looked up and saw you among allthose people."

  He laughed.

  "That was the most uncomfortable of all, for me."

  "Stephen," she said, stirring the leaves at her feet, "you might havetaken me in your arms the night Judge Whipple died--if you had wantedto. But you were strong enough to resist. I love you all the more forthat."

  Again she said:-- "It was through your mother, dearest, that we weremost strongly drawn together. I worshipped her from the day I saw her inthe hospital. I believe that was the beginning of my charity toward theNorth."

  "My mother would have chosen you above all women, Virginia," heanswered.

  In the morning came to them the news of Abraham Lincoln's death. And thesame thought was in both their hearts, who had known him as it was givento few to know him. How he had lived in sorrow; how he had died a martyron the very day of Christ's death upon the cross. And they believed thatAbraham Lincoln gave his life for his country even as Christ gave hisfor the world.

  And so must we believe that God has reserved for this Nation a destinyhigh upon the earth.

  Many years afterward Stephen Brice read again to his wife those sublimeclosing words of the second inaugural:--

  "With malice toward none, with charity for all, with firmness in the right as God gives us to see the right, let us strive on to finish the work we are in, to bind up the nation's wounds, to care for him who shall have borne the battle, and for his widow and his children --to do all which may achieve and cherish a just and lasting peace among ourselves and with all nations."

  AFTERWORD

  The author has chosen St. Louis for the principal scene of this storyfor many reasons. Grant and Sherman were living there before the CivilWar, and Abraham Lincoln was an unknown lawyer in the neighboringstate of Illinois. It has been one of the aims of this book to show theremarkable contrasts in the lives of these great men who came out of theWest. This old city of St. Louis, which was founded by Laclede in 1765,likewise became the principal meeting-place of two great streams ofemigration which had been separated, more or less, since Cromwell's day.To be sure, they were not all Cavaliers who settled in the tidewaterColonies. There were Puritan settlements in both Maryland and Virginia.But the life in the Southern states took on the more liberal tinge whichhad characterized that of the Royalists, even to the extent of affectingthe Scotch Calvinists, while the asceticism of the Roundheads was thekeynote of the Puritan character in New England. When this great countryof ours began to develop, the streams moved westward; one over whatbecame the plain states of Ohio and Indiana and Illinois, and the otheracross the Blue Ridge Mountains into Kentucky and Tennessee. They mixedalong the line of the Ohio River. They met at St. Louis, and, fartherwest, in Kansas.

  Nor can the German element in St. Louis be ignored. The part played bythis people in the Civil War is a matter of history. The scope of thisbook has not permitted the author to introduce the peasantry and tradingclasses which formed the mass in this movement. But Richter, the typeof the university-bred revolutionist which emigrated after '48, is drawnmore or less from life. And the duel described actually took place inBerlin.

  St. Louis is the author's birthplace, and his home, the home of thosefriends whom he has known from childhood and who have always treated himwith unfaltering kindness. He begs that they will believe him when hesays that only such characters as he loves are reminiscent of thosehe has known there. The city has a large population,--large enough toinclude all the types that are to be found in the middle West.

  One word more. This book is written of a time when feeling ran high.It has been necessary to put strong speech into the mouths of thecharacters. The breach that threatened our country's existence is healednow. There is no side but Abraham Lincoln's side. And this side, withall reverence and patriotism, the author has tried to take.

  Abraham Lincoln loved the South as well as the North.

  ETEXT EDITOR'S BOOKMARKS:

  Behind that door was the future: so he opened it fearfully Being caught was the unpardonable crime Believe in others having a hard time Freedom meant only the liberty to earn their own living Humiliation and not conscience which makes the sting Most dangerous of gifts, the seeing of two sides of a quarrel Naturally she took preoccupation for indifference Principle in law not to volunteer information Read a patent medicine circular and shudder with seven diseases She could pass over, but never forgive what her aunt had said Silence--goad to indiscretion Simple men who command by force of character So much for Democracy
when it becomes a catchword They have to print something To be great is to be misunderstood