What answer? [A novel]

S. 6. & E. L. ELBERT

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Digitized by the Internet Archive
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http://archive.org/details/whatansweranovelOOdick

WHAT ANSWER?

BY

ANNA E. DICKINSON

BOSTON:

TICKNOR AND FIELDS.

1868.

Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1868, by

ANNA E. DICKINSON,

in the Clerk's Office of the District Court for the Eastern District of
Pennsylvania.

University Press : Welch, Bigelow, & Co..
Cambridge.

WHAT ANSWER?

CHAPTER I.

" In flower of youth and beauty's pride."

Drydejt.

A CROWDED New York street, — Fifth Avenue
at the height of the afternoon ; a gallant and
brilliant throng. Looking over the glittering array,
the purple and fine linen, the sweeping robes, the ex-
quisite equipages, the stately houses ; the faces, delicate
and refined, proud, self-satisfied, that gazed out from
their windows on the street, or that glanced from the
street to the windows, or at one another, — looking
over all this, being a part of it, one might well say,
" This is existence, and beside it there is none other.
Let us dress, dine, and be merry ! Life is good, and
love is sweet, and both shall endure ! Let us forget
that hunger and sin, sorrow and self-sacrifice, want,
struggle, and pain, have place in the world." Yet, even
with the words, " poverty, frost-nipped in a summer
suit," here and there hurried by ; and once and again
through the restless tide the sorrowful procession of
the tomb made way.

2 What A?iswerf

More than one eye was lifted, and many a pleasant
greeting passed between these selected few who filled
the street and a young man who lounged by one of
the overlooking windows ; and many a comment was
uttered upon him when the greeting was made : —

" A most eligible parti ! "

" Handsome as a god ! "

" O, immensely rich, I assure you ! "

" Is lit he a beauty ! "

" Pity he was n't born poor ! "

« Why ? "

" O, because they say he carried off all the honors
at college and law-school, and is altogether overstocked
with brains for a man who has no need to use them."

"Will he practise?"

" Doubtful. Why should he ?

" Ambition, power, — gratify one, gain the other."

"Nonsense! He '11 probably go abroad and travel
for a while, come back, marry, and enjoy life."

" He does that now, I fancy."

" Looks so."

And indeed he did. There was not only vigor and
manly beauty, splendid in its present, but the "possi-
bility of more to be in the full process of his ripening
days," — a form alert and elegant, which had not yet
all of a man's muscle and strength ; a face delicate,
yet strong, — refined, yet full of latent power \ a mass

What Answer? 3

of rippling hair like burnished gold, flung back on the
one side, sweeping low across brow and cheek on the
other ; eyes

" Of a deep, soft, lucent hue, —
Eyes too expressive to be blue,
Too lovely to be gray."

People involuntarily thought of the pink and flower
of chivalry as they looked at him, or imagined, in
some indistinct fashion, that they heard the old songs
of Percy and Douglas, or the later lays of the cava-
liers, as they heard his voice, — a voice that was just
now humming one of these same lays : —

" Then mounte ! then mounte, brave gallants, all,
And don your helmes amaine ;
Death's couriers, Fame and Honor, call
Us to the field againe."

" Stuff ! " he cried impatiently, looking wistfully at
the men's faces going by, — " stuff ! We look like gal-
lants to ride a tilt at the world, and die for Honor and
Fame, — we ! "

" I thank God, Willie, you are not called upon for
any such sacrifice."

" Ah, little mother, well you may ! " he answered,
smiling, and taking her hand, — " well you may, for I
am afraid I should fall dreadfully short when the time
came ; and then how ashamed you 'd be of your big
boy, who took his ease at home, with the great drums

4 What Answer?

beating and the trumpets blowing outside. And yet
— I should like to be tried ! "

" See, mother ! " he broke out again, — " see what a
life it is, getting and spending, living handsomely and
doing the proper thing towards society, and all that, —
rubbing through the world in the old hereditary way ;
though I need n't growl at it, for I enjoy it enough,
and find it a pleasant enough way, Heaven knows.
Lazy idler ! enjoying the sunshine with the rest
Heigh-ho ! "

" You have your profession, Willie. There 's work
there, and opportunity sufficient to help others and do
for yourself."

" Ay, and I '11 do it ! But there is so much that is
poor and mean, and base and tricky, in it all, — so
much to disgust and tire one, — all the time, day after
day, for years. Now if it were only a huge giant that
stands in your way, you could out rapier and have at
him at once, and there an end, — laid out or trium-
phant. That 's worth' while ! "

" O youth, eager and beautiful," thought the mother
who listened, " that in this phase is so alike the world
over, — so impatient to do, so ready to brave encoun-
ters, so willing to dare and die ! May the doing be
faithful, and the encounters be patiently as well as
bravely fought, and the fancy of heroic death be a
reality of noble and earnest life. God grant it !
Amen."

What Answer? 5

"Meanwhile," said the gay voice, — "meanwhile it 's
a pleasant world ; let us enjoy it ! and as to do this
is within the compass of a man's wit, therefore will
I attempt the doing."

While he was talking he had once more come to
the window, and, looking out, fastened his eyes un-
consciously but intently upon the face of a young girl
who was slowly passing by, — : unconsciously, yet so
intently that, as if suddenly magnetized, a flicker of
feeling went over it ; the mouth, set with a steady
sweetness, quivered a little ; the eyes — dark, beauti-
ful eyes — were lifted to his an instant, that was all.
The mother beside him did not see ; but she heard
a long breath, almost a sigh, break from him as he
started, then flashed out of the room, snatching his
hat in the hall, and so on to the street, and away.

Away after her, through block after block, across
the crowded avenue to Broadway. " Who is she ?
where did she come from ? / never saw her before.
I wonder if Mrs. Russell knows her, or Clara, or
anybody ! I will know where she lives, or where she
is going at least, — that will be some clew ! There !
she is stopping that stage. I '11 help her in ! no, I
won't, — she will think I am chasing her. Nonsense !
do you suppose she saw you at the window ? Of
course ! No, she did n't ; don't be a fool ! There ! I'll
get into the next stage. Now I '11 keep watch of that,

6 What Answer?

and she '11 not know. So — all right ! Go ahead,
driver." And happy with some new happiness, eager,
bright, the handsome young fellow sat watching that
other stage, and the stylish little lace bonnet that was
all he could see of his magnet, through the intermi-
nable journey down Broadway.

How clear the air seemed ! and the sun, how
splendidly it shone ! and what a glad look was upon
all the people's faces ! He felt like breaking out into
gay little snatches of song, and moved his foot to the
waltz measure that beat time in his brain till the irate
old gentleman opposite, whom nature had made of a
sour complexion and art assisted to corns, broke out
with an angry exclamation. That drew his attention
for a moment. A slackening of speed, a halt, and
the stage was wedged in one of the inextricable
"jams" on Broadway. Vain the search for her stage
then ; looking over the backs of the poor, tired horses,
or from the sidewalk, — here, there, at this one and
that one, — all for naught ! Stage and passenger,
eyes, little lace bonnet, and all, had vanished away,
as William Surrey confessed, and confessed with re-
luctance and discontent.

" No matter ! " he said presently, — " no matter ! I
shall see her again. I know it ! I feel it ! It is writ-
ten in the book of the Fates ! So now I shall content
me with something " — that looks like her he did not

What Answer* 7

say definitely, but felt it none the less, as, going
over to the flower-basket near by, he picked out a little
nosegay of mignonette and geranium, with a tea-rose-
bud in its centre, and pinned it at his button-hole.
" Delicate and fine ! " he thought, — " delicate and
fine ! " and with the repetition he looked from it down
the long street after the interminable line of stages ;
and somehow the faint, sweet perfume, and the fair
flower, and the dainty lace bonnet, were mingled in
wild and charming confusion in his brain, till he shook
himself, and laughed at himself, and quoted Shakespeare
to excuse himself, — " A mad world, my masters !"' —
seeing this poor old earth of ours, as people always do,
through their own eyes.

" God bless' ye ! and long life to yer honor! and may
the blessed Virgin give ye the desire of yer heart ! "
called the Irishwoman after him, as he put back the
change in her hand and went gayly up the street.
" Sure, he ?s somebody's darlint, the beauty ! the saints
preserve him ! " she said, as she looked from the gold
piece in her palm to the fair, sunny head, watching it
till it was lost in the crowd from her grateful eyes.

Evidently this young man was a favorite, for, as fa 2
passed along, many a face, worn by business and care,
brightened as he smiled and spoke ; many a counte-
nance stamped with the trade-mark, preoccupied and
hard, relaxed in a kindly recognition as he bowed and

8 What Answer?

went by ; and more than one found time, even in that
busy whirl, to glance for a moment after him, or to re-
member him with a pleasant feeling, at least till the
pavement had been crossed on which they met, — - a
long space at that hour of the day, and with so much
more important matters — Bull and Bear, rise and fall,
stock and account — claiming their attention.

Evidently a favorite, for, turning off into one of the
side streets, coming into his father's huge foundry, faces
heated and dusty, tired, stained, and smoke-begrimed,
glanced up from their work, from forge and fire and
engine, with an expression that invited a look or word,
— and look and word were both ready.

"The boss is out, sir," said one of the foremen,
" and if you please, and have got the time to spare, I 'd
like to have a word with you before he comes in."

"All right, Jim ! say your say."

" Well, sir, you '11 likely think I 'm sticking my nose
into what does n't concern me. 'T ain't a very nice
thing I 've got to say, but if I don't say it I don't know
who in thunder will ; and, as it 's my private opinion
that somebody ought to, I '11 just pitch in."

" Very good ; pitch in."

" Very good it is then. Only it ain't. Very bad,
more like. It 's a nasty mess, and no mistake ! and
there 's the cause of it ! " pointing his brawny hand
towards the door, upon which was marked, "Office.

What Answer? 9

Private," and sniffing as though he smelt something
bad in the air.

" You don't mean my father ! " flame shooting from
the clear eyes.

" Be damned if I do. Beg pardon. Of course I
don't. I mean the fellow as is perched up on a high
stool in that there office, this very minute, poking into
his books."

" Franklin ? "

" You 've hit it. Franklin, — Abe Franklin, — that 's
the ticket."

" What 's the matter with him ? what has he done ? "

" Done ? nothing ! not as I know of, anyway, except
what 's right and proper. 'T ain't what he 's done or 's
like to do. It 's what he is."

" And what may that be ? "

" Well, he 's a nigger ! there 's the long and short of
it. Nobody here 'd object to his working in this place,
providing he was a runner, or an errand-boy, or any-
thing that it 's right and proper for a nigger to be ; but
to have him sitting in that office, writing letters for the
boss, and going over the books, and superintending
the accounts of the fellows, so that he knows just what
they get on Saturday nights, and being as fine as a fid-
dle, is what the boys won't stand ; and they swear
they '11 leave, every man of 'em, unless he has his walk-
ing papers, — double-quick too."

10 What Answer?

" Very well ; let them. There are other workmen,
good as they, in this city of New York."

" Hold on, sir ! let me say my say first. There are
seven hundred men working in this place : the most of
'em have worked here a long while. Good work,
good pay. There ain't a man of 'em but likes Mr. Sur-
rey, and would be sorry to lose the place ; so, if they
won't bear it, there ain't any that will. Wait a bit ! I
ain't through yet."

"Go on," — quietly enough spoken, but the mouth
shook under its silky fringe, and a fiery spot burned
on either cheek

"All right. Well, sir, I know all about Franklin.
He 's a bright one, smart enough to stock a lot of us
with brains and have some to spare ; he don't inter-
fere with us, and does his work well, too, I reckon, —
though that 's neither here nor ' there, nor none of our
business if the boss is satisfied ; and he looks like a
gentleman, and acts like one, there 's no denying that !
and as for his skin, — well ! " a smile breaking over his
good-looking face, " his skin 's quite as white as mine
now, anyway," smearing his red-flannel arm over his
grimy phiz ; " but then, sir, it won't rub off. He 's a
nigger, and there 's no getting round it.

" All right, sir ! give you your chance directly.
Don't speak yet, — ain't through, if you please. Well,
sir, it 's agen nature, — you may talk agen it, and

What Answer? n

work agen it, and fight agen it till all 's blue, and
what good '11 it do ? You can't get an Irishman, and,
what 's more, a free-born American citizen, to put him-
self on a level with a nigger, — not by no manner of
means. No, sir ; you can turn out the whole lot, and
get another after it, and another after that, and so on
to the end of the chapter, and you can't find men
among 'em all that '11 stay and have him strutting
through 'em, up to his stool and his books, grand as
a peacock."

" Would they work with him ? "

" At the same engines, and the like, do you mean ? "

" Yes."

" Nary time, so 't ain't likely they '11 work under
him. Now, sir, you see I know what I 'm saying, and
I 'm saying it to you, Mr. Surrey, and not to your
father, because he won't take a word from me nor
nobody else, — and here -s just the case. Now I ain't
bullying, you understand, and I say it because some-
body else 'd say it, if I did n't, uglier and rougher.
Abe Franklin '11 have to go out of this shop in precious
short order, or every man here '11 bolt next Saturday
night. There ! now I 've done, sir, and you can fire
away."

But as he showed no signs of " firing away," and
stood still, pondering, Jim broke out again : —

" Beg pardon, sir. If I 've said anything you don't

12 What Answer?

like, sorry for it. It 's because Mr. Surrey is so good
an employer, and, if you '11 let me say so, because I
like you so well," glancing over him admiringly, — " for,
you see, a good engineer takes to a clean-built ma-
chine wherever he sees it, — it's just because of
this I thought it was better to tell you, and get
you to tell the boss, and to save any row ; for
I 'd hate mortally to have it in this shop where
I 've worked, man and boy, so many years. Will
you please to speak to him, sir ? and I hope you
understand."

" Thank you, Jim. Yes, I understand ; and I '11
speak to him." .

Was it that the sun was going down, or that some
clouds were in the sky, or had the air of the shop
oppressed him ? Whatever it was, as he came out he
walked with a slower step from which some of the
spring had gone, and the people's faces looked not so
happy ; and, glancing down at his rosebud, he saw
that its fair petals had been soiled by the smoke and
grime in which he had been standing ; and, while he
looked, a dead march came solemnly sounding up the
street, and a soldier's funeral went by, — rare enough,
in that autumn of i860, to draw a curious crowd on
either side ; rare enough to make him pause and sur-
vey it ; and as the line turned into another street, and
the music came softened to his ear, he once more

What Answer? 13

hummed the words of the song which had been haunt-
ing him all the day : —

" Then mounte ! then mounte, brave gallants, all,
And don your helmes amaine ;
Death's couriers, Fame and Honor, call
Us to the field againe," —

sang them to himself, but not with the gay, bright
spirit of the morning. Then he seemed to see the
cavaliers, brilliant and brave, riding out to the en-
counter. Now, in the same dim and fanciful way,

he beheld them stretched, still and dead, upon the
plain.

CHAPTER II.

" Thou — drugging pain by patience."

Arnold.

ACES cleaned, and fluting and ruffling done
■* — ' here," — that was what the little sign swing-
ing outside the little green door said. And, coming
under it into the cosey little rooms, you felt this was
just the place in which to leave things soiled and torn,
and come back to find them, by some mysterious pro-
cess, immaculate and whole.

Two rooms, with folding-doors between, in which
through the day stood a counter, cut up on the one
side into divers pigeon-holes filled with small boxes
and bundles, carefully pinned and labelled, — owner's
name, time left, time to be called for, money due ;
neat and nice as a new pin, as every one said who
had any dealings there.

The counter was pushed back now, as always after
seven o'clock, for the people who came in the evening
were few ; and then, when that was out of the way,
it seemed more home-like and less shoppy, as Mrs.
Franklin said every night, as she straightened things
out, and peered through the window or looked from

What Answer? 15

the front door, and wondered if " Abram were n't later
than usual," though she knew right well he was punc-
tual as clock-work, — good clock-work too, — when
he was going to his toil or hurrying back to his home.
Pleasant little rooms, with the cleanest and bright-
est of rag carpets on the floor ; a paper on the walls,
cheap enough, but gay with scarlet rosebuds and
green leaves, rivalled by the vines and berries on the
pretty chintz curtains ; chairs of a dozen ages and
patterns, but all of them with open, inviting counte-
nances and a hospitable air ; a wood fire that looked
like a wood fire crackling and sparkling on the
hearth, shining and dancing over the ceiling and the
floor and the walls, cutting queer capers with the big
rocking-chair, — which turned into a giant with long
arms, — and with the little figures on the mantel-shelf,
and the books in their cases, softening and glorifying
the two grand faces hanging in their frames opposite,
and giving just light enough below them to let you
read " John Brown " and " Phillips," if you had any
occasion to read, and did not know those whom the
world knows ; and first and last, and through all,
as if it loved her, and was loath to part with her for
a moment, whether she poked the flame, or straight-
ened a chair, or went out towards the little kitchen to
lift a lid and smell a most savory stew, or came back
to the supper-table to arrange and rearrange what was

1 6 What Answer?

already faultless in its cleanliness and simplicity,
wherever she went and whatever she did, this fire-
light fell warm about a woman, large and comfort-
able and handsome, with a motherly look to her per-
son, and an expression that was all kindness in her
comely face and dark, soft eyes, — eyes and face and
form, though, that might as well have had " Pariah "
written all over them, and "leper" stamped on their
front, for any good, or beauty, or grace, that people
could find in them ; for the comely face was a dark
face, and the voice, singing an old Methodist hymn,
was no Anglo-Saxon treble, but an Anglo- African
voice, rich and mellow, with the touch of pathos or
sorrow always heard in these tones.

" There !" she said, "there he is ! " as a step, hasty,
yet halting, was heard on the pavement ; and, turning
up the light, she ran quickly to open the door, which,
to be sure, was unfastened, and to give the greeting to
her "boy," which, through many a year, had never
been omitted.

Her boy, — you would have known that as soon as
you saw him, — the same eyes, same face, the same
kindly look; but the face was thinner and finer, and
the brow was a student's brow, full of thought and spec-
ulation ; and, looking from her hearty, vigorous form,
you saw that his was slight to attenuation.

" Sit down, sonny, sit down and rest. There ! how

What Answer* ly

tired you look ! " bustling round him, smoothing his
thin face and rough hair. " Now don't do that ! let
your old mother do it ! " It pleased her to call her-
self old, though she was but just in her prime. " You 've
done enough for one day, I 'm sure, waiting on other
people, and walking with your poor lame foot till you 're
allbut beat out. You be quiet now, and let somebody
else wait on you." And, going down on her knees, she
took up the lame foot, and began to unlace the cork-
soled, high-cut shoe, and, drawing it out, you saw that it
was shrunken and small, and that the leg was shorter
than its fellow.

" Poor little foot ! " rubbing it tenderly, smoothing
the stocking over it, and chafing it to bring warmth and
life to its surface. Her "baby," she called it, for it
was no bigger than when he was a little fellow. " Poor,
tired foot ! ain't it a dreadful long walk, sonny ? '!

" Pretty long, mother ; but I 'd take twice that to do
such work at the end."

"Yes, indeed, it's good work, and Mr. Surrey's
a good man, and a kind one, that 's sure ! I only wish
some others had a little of his spirit. Such a shame to
have you dragging all the way up here, when any dirty
fellow that wants to can ride. I don't mind for myself
so much, for I can walk about spry enough yet, and
don't thank them for their old omnibuses nor cars ; but
it 's too bad for you, so it is, — too bad ! "

1 8 What Answer?

"Never mind, mother! keep a brave heart. 'There's
a good time coming soon, a good time coming ! ' as I
heard Mr. Hutchinson sing the other night, — and it's
true as gospel."

" Maybe it is, sonny ! " dubiously, " but I don't see it,
— not a sign of it, — no indeed, not one! It gets
worse and worse all the time, and it takes a deal of
faith to hold on ; but the good Lord knows best, and
it '11 be right after a while, anyhow ! And now that 's
straight ! " pulling a soft slipper on the lame foot, and
putting its mate by his side ; then going off to pour
out the tea, and dish up the stew, and add a touch or
two to the appetizing supper-table.

" It 's as good as a feast," — taking a bite out of her
nice home-made bread, — " better 'n a feast, to think of
you in that place ; and I can't scarcely realize it yet
It seems too fine to be true."

" That 's the way I 've felt all the month, mother ! It
has been just like a dream to me, and I keep thinking
surely I 'm asleep and will waken to find this is just an
air-castle I 've been building, or ' a vision of the night,'
as the good book says."

"Well, it's a blessed vision, sure enough! and I
hope to the good Lord it '11 last ; — but you won't if
you make a vision of your supper in that way. You
just eat, Abram! and have done your talking till you're
through, if you can't do both at once. Talking 's good,

What Answer? 19

but eating 's better when you 're hungry ; and it 's my
opinion you ought to be hungry, if you ain't."

So the teacups were filled and emptied, and the
spoons clattered, and the stew was eaten, and the
baked potatoes devoured, and the bread-and-butter
assaulted vigorously, and general havoc made with the
good things and substantial things before and between
them ; and then, this duty faithfully performed, the
wreck speedily vanished away; and cups and forks,
spoons and plates, knives and dishes, cleaned and
cupboarded, Mrs. Franklin came, and, drawing away
the book over wThich he was poring, said, while she
smoothed face and hair once more, " Come, Abram,
what is it ? "

" What 's what, mother ? " with a little laugh.

" Something ails you, sonny. That 's plain enough.
I know when anything 's gone wrong with ye, sure,
and something 's gone wrong to-day."

" O mother ! you worry about me too much, in-
deed you do. If I'm a little tired or out of sorts, —
which I have n 't any right to be, not here, — or
quiet, or anything, you think somebody 's been hurt-
ing me, or abusing me, or that everything 's gone
wrong with me,. when I do well enough all the
time."

" Now, Abram, you can't deceive me, — not that
way. My eyes is mother's eyes, and they see plain

20 What Answer?

enough, where you 're concerned, without spectacles.
Who 's been putting on you to-day ? Somebody. You
don't carry that down look in your face and your eyes
for nothing, I found that out long ago, and you 've
got it on to-night."

" O mother ! "

" Don't you ' O mother ' me ! I ain't going to be
put off in that way, Abram, an' you need n't think it.
Has Mr. Surrey been saying anything hard to you ? "

" No, indeed, mother ; you need n't ask that."

" Nor none of the foremen ? "

" None."

" Has Snipe been round ? "

" Has n't been near the office since Mr. Surrey dis-
missed him."

" Met him anywhere ? "

" Nein ! " laughing, " I have n't laid eyes on
him."

" Well, the men have been saying or doing some-
thing then."

" N-no ; why, what an inquisitor it is ! " m

" ' N-no.' You don't say that full and plain, Abram.
Something has been going wrong with the men. Now
what is it ? Come, out with it."

" Well, mother, if you will know, you will, I sup-
pose ; and, as you never get tired of the story, I '11
go over the whole tale!

What Answer? 21

" So long as I was Mr. Surrey's office-boy, to make
his fires, and sweep and dust, and keep things in
order, the men were all good enough to me after their
fashion \ and if some of them growled because they
thought he favored me, Mr. Given, or some one said,
1 O, you know his mother was a servant of Mrs. Sur-
rey for no end of years, and of course Mr. Surrey has
a kind of interest in him ' ; and that put everything
straight again.

" Well ! you know how good Mr. Willie has been to
me ever since we were little boys in the same house, —
he in the parlor and I in the kitchen ; the books he 's
given me, and the chances he 's made me, and the way
he 's put me in of learning and knowing. And he 's
been twice as kind to me ever since I refused that
offer of his."

" Yes, I know, but tell me about it again."

" Well, Mr. Surrey sent me up to the house one day,
just while Mr. Willie was at home from college, and
he stopped me and had a talk with me, and asked
me in his pleasant way, not as if I were a ' nigger,' but
just as he 'd talk to one of his mates, ever so many
questions about myself and my studies and my plans ;
and I told him what I wanted, — how hard you
worked, and how I hoped to fit myself to go into
some little business of my own, not a barber-shop, or
any such thing, but something that 'd support you

22 What Answer?

and keep you like a lady after while, and that would
help me and my people at the same time. For, of
course," I said, " every one of us that does anything
more than the world expects us to do, or better, makes
the world think so much the more and better of us
all."

" What did he say to that ? "

" I wish you 'd seen him ! He pushed back that
beautiful hair of his, and his eyes shone, and his
mouth trembled, though I could see he tried hard to
hold it still, and put up his hand to cover it ; and he
said, in a solemn sort of way, ' Franklin, you 've opened
a window for me, and I sha' n't forget what I see through
it to-day.' And then he offered to set me up in some
business at once, and urged hard when I declined."

" Say it all over again, sonny ; what was it you told
him ? "

" I said that would do well enough for a white
man ; that he could help, and the white man be helped,
just as people were being and doing all the time, and
no one would think a thought about it. But, sir," I
said, " everybody says we can do nothing alone ; that
we 're a poor, shiftless set ; and it will be just one of
the master race helping a nigger to climb and to
stand where he could n't climb or stand alone, and
I 'd rather fight my battle alone."

" Yes, yes ! well, go on, go on. I like to hear what
fallowed."

What Answer f 23

"Well, there was just a word or two more, and
then he put out his hand and shook mine, and said
good by. It was the first time I ever shook hands
with a white gentleman. Some white hands have
shaken mine, but they always made me feel that they
were white and that mine was black, and that it was a
condescension. I felt that, when they did n't mean I
should. But there was nothing between us. I did n't
think of his skin, and, for once in my life, I quite for-
got I was black, and did n't remember it again till I
got out on the street and heard a dirty little ragamuffin
cry, ' Hi ! hi ! don't that nagur think himself foine ? '
I suspect, in spite of my lameness, I had been holding
up my head and walking like a man."

In spite of his lameness he was holding up his
head and walking like a man now ; up and down
and across the little room, trembling, excited, the
words rushing in an eager flow from his mouth. His
mother sat quietly rocking herself and knitting. She
knew in this mood there was nothing to be said to
him ; and, indeed, what had she to say save that which
would add fuel to the flame ?

" Well ! " — a long sigh, — " after that Mr. Surrey
doubled my wages, and was kinder to me than ever,
and watched me, as I saw, quite closely ; and that was
the way he found out about Mr. Snipe.

" You see Mr. Snipe had been very careless about

24 What Answer?

keeping the books ; would come down late in the
mornings, just before Mr. Surrey came in, and go
away early in the afternoons, as soon as he had left.
Of course the books got behindhand every month,
and Mr. Snipe did n't want to stay and work over-
hours to make them up. One day he found out, by
something I said, that I understood book-keeping,
and tried me, and then got me to take them home at
night and go over them. I did n't know then how
bad he was-doing, and that I had no business to shield
him, and all went smooth enough till the day I was
too sick to get down to the office, and two of the
books were at home. Then Mr. Surrey discovered
the whole thing. There was a great row, it seems ;
and Mr. Surrey examined the books, and found, as he
was pleased to say, that "I 'd kept them in first-rate
style ; so he dismissed Mr. Snipe on the spot, with
six months' pay, — for you know he never does any-
thing by halves, — and put me in his place.

" The men don't like it, I know, and have n't liked
it, but of course they can't say anything to him, and
they have n't said anything to me ; but I 've seen all
along that they looked at me with no friendly eyes, and
for the last day or two I 've heard a word here and
there which makes me think there 's trouble brewing,
— bad enough, I 'm afraid ; maybe to the losing of my
place, though Mr. Surrey has said nothing about it to
me."

What Answer? 25

Just here the little green door opened, and the fore-
man whom we have before seen — James Given as the
register had him entered, Jim Given as every one
knew him — came in ; no longer with grimy face and
flannel sleeves, but brave in all his Sunday finery, and
as handsome a b'hoy, they said, at his engine-house,
as any that ran with the machine ; having on his arm
a young lady whom he apostrophized as Sallie, as hand-
some and brave as he.

" Evening," — a nod of the head accompanying.
" Miss Howard's traps done ? "

" I wish you would n't say ' traps,' Jim," corrected
Sallie, sotto voce : " it 's not proper. It 's for a collar and
pair of cuffs, Mrs. Franklin," she added aloud, putting
down a little check.

" Not proper ! goodness gracious me ! there spoke
Snipe ! Come, Sallie, you 've pranced round with that
stuck-up jackanapes till you 're getting spoiled entirely,
so you are, and I scarcely know you. Not proper,
— O my ! "

" Spoiled, am I ? Thank you, sir, for the compliment !
And you don't know me at all, — don't you ? Very well,
then I '11 say good night, and leave ; for it would n't be
proper to take a young lady you don't know to the thea-
tre, — now, would it ? Good by ! " — making for the
door.

" Now don't, Sallie, please."
2

26 What Answer?

"Don't what?"

" Don't talk that way."

" Don't yourself, more like. You 're just as cross as
cross can be, and disagreeable, and hateful, — all be-
cause I happen to know there 's some other man in, the
world besides yourself, and smile at him now and then.
' Don't,' indeed ! "

" Come, Sallie, you 're too hard on a fellow. It 's
your own fault, you know well enough, if you will be
so handsome. Now, if you were an ugly old girl, or I
was certain of you, I should n't feel so bad, nor act so
neither. But-when there 's a lot of hungry chaps round,
all gaping to gobble you up, and even poor little Snipes
trying to peck and bite at you, and you won't say ' yes '
nor ' no ' to me, how do you expect a man to keep
cool ? Can't do it, nohow, and you need n't ask it.
Human nature 's human nature, I suppose, and mine
ain't a quiet nor a patient one, not by no manner of
means. Come, Sallie, own up ; you would n't like me
so well as I hope you do if it was, — now, would you ? "

Mrs. Franklin smiled, though she had heard not a
word of the lovers' quarrel, as she put a pin in the back
of the ruffled collar which Sallie had come to reclaim.
A quarrel it had evidently been, and as evidently the
lady was mollified, for she said, " D^on't be absurd, Jim ! "
and Jim laughed and responded, "All right, Sallie,
you 're an angel ! But come, we must hurry, or the

What Answer 1 27

curtain '11 be up," — and away went the dashing and
handsome couple.

Abram, shutting in the shutters, and fastening the
door, sat down to a quiet evening's reading, while his
mother knitted and sewed, — an evening the likeness
of a thousand others of which they never tired ; for
this mother and son, to whom fate had dealt so hard a
measure, upon whom the world had so persistently
frowned, were more to each other than most mothers
and sons whose lines had fallen in pleasanter places,
— compensation, as Mr. Emerson says, being the law
of existence the world over.

CHAPTER III.

" Every one has his day, from which he dates."

Old Proverb.

" "X/DU see, Surrey, the school is something extra,

J- and the performances, and it will please Clara
no end ; so I thought I 'd run over, and inveigled
you into going along for fear it should be stupid, and I
would need some recreation."

" Which I am to afford ? "

"Verily."

" As clown or grindstone ? — to make laugh, or
sharpen your wits upon ? "

" Far be it from me to dictate. Whichever suits
your character best. On the whole, I think the last
would be the most appropriate ; the first I can swear
would n't ! "

" Ponrquoi ? "

" O, a woman's reason, — because ! "

" Because why ? Am I cross ? "

" Not exactly."

" Rough ? "

" As usual, — like a May breeze."

" Cynical ? "

What Answer? 29

" As Epicurus."

" Irritable ? "

" ' A countenance [and manner] more in sorrow than
in anger.' Something 's wrong with you • who is she ? "

" She ! "

" Ay, — she. That was a wise Eastern king who
put at the bottom of every trouble and mischief a
woman."

" Fine estimate."

" Correct one. Evidently he had studied the genus
thoroughly, and had a poor opinion of it."

" No wonder."

" Amazing ! you say ' no wonder ' ! Astounding
words ! speak them again. "

" No wonder, — seeing that he had a mother, and
that she had such a son. He must needs have been a
bad fellow or a fool to have originated so base a phi-
losophy, and how then could he respect the source of
such a stream as himself? "

" Sir Launcelot, — squire of dames ! "

" Not Sir Launcelot, but squire of dames, I hope."

" There you go again ! Now I shall query once more,
who is she ? "

" No woman."

" No ? "

"No, though by your smiling you would seem to
say so ! "

30 What Answer f

" Nay, I believe you, and am vastly relieved in the
believing. Take advice from ten years of superior age,
and fifty of experience, and have naught to do with
them. Dost hear ? "

" I do."

" And will heed ? "

" Which ? — the words or the acts of my counsellor ?
who, of a surety, preaches wisely and does foolishly, or
who does wisely and preaches foolishly ; for preaching
and practice do not agree."

" Nay, man, thou art unreasonable ; to perform
either well is beyond the capacity of most humans,
and I desire not to be blessed above my betters.
Then let my rash deeds and my prudent words both
be teachers unto thee. But if it be true that no woman
is responsible for your grave, countenance this morn-
ing, then am I wasting words, and will return to our
muttons. What ails you ? "

" I am belligerent."

" I see, — that means quarrelsome."

"And hopeless."

" Bad, — very ! belligerent and hopeless ! When you
go into a fight always expect to win ; the thought is
half the victory."

" Suppose you are an atom against the universe ? "

" Don't fight, succumb. There 's a proverb, — a
wise one, — Napoleon's, ' God is on the side of the
strongest battalions.' "

What Answer? 31

" A lie, — exploded at Waterloo. There 's another
proverb, 'One on the side of God is a majority.'
How about that ? "

" Transcendental humbug."

" A truth demonstrated at Wittenberg."

" Are you aching for the martyr's palm ? "

" I am afraid not. On the whole, I think I'd rather
enjoy life than quarrel with it. But " — with a sudden
blaze — "I feel to-day like fighting the world."

" Hey, presto ! what now, young 'un ? "

" I don't wonder you stare ! " — a little laugh.
" I'm talking like a fool, and, for aught I know,
feeling like one, aching to fight, and knowing that I
might as well quarrel with the winds, or stab that
water as it flows by."

" As with what ? "

" The fellow I've just been getting a good look at."

" What manner of fellow ? "

" Ignorant, selfish, brutal, devilish."

" Tremendous ! why don't you bind him over to
keep the peace ? "

" Because he is like the judge of old time, neither
fears God nor respects his image, — when his image is
carved in ebony, and not ivory."

" What do you call this fellow ? "

"Public Opinion."

" This big fellow is abusing and devouring a poor
little chap, eh ? and the chap 's black ? "

32 What Answer f

« True."

" And sometimes the giant is a gentleman in purple
and fine linen, otherwise broadcloth ; and sometimes
in hodden gray, otherwise homespun or slop-shop ; and
sometimes he cuts the poor little chap with a silver
knife, which is rhetoric, and sometimes with a wooden
spoon, which is raw-hide. Am I stating it all cor-
rectly ? "

" All correctly."

" And you 've been watching this operation when
you had better have been minding your own business,
and getting excited when you had better have kept
cool, and now want to rush into the fight, drums
beating and colors flying, to the rescue of the small
one. Don't deny it, — it 's all written out in your
eyes."

" I sha' n't deny it, except about the business and
the keeping cool. It 's any gentleman's business to in-
terfere between a bully and a weakling that he 's abus-
ing ; and his blood must be water that does not boil
while he ' watches the operation ' as you say, and goes
in."

" To get well pommelled for his pains, and do no
good to any one, himself included. Let the weakling
alone. A fellow that can't save himself is not worth
saving. If he can't swim nor walk, let him drop under
or go to the wall ; that 's my theory."

What Answer? 33

" Anglo-Saxon theory — arid practice."

" Good theory, excellent practice, — in the main.
What special phase of it has been disturbing your
equanimity ? "

" You know the Franklins ? "

"Of course : Aunt Mina's son — what 's his name ? —
is a sort of protege of yours, I believe : what of him ? "

" He is cleanly ? "

"A nice question. Doubtless."

" Respectable ? "

" What are you driving at ? "

" Intelligent ? "

" Most true."

" Ambitious ? "

" Or his looks belie him."

" Faithful, trusty, active, helpful, in every way de-
voted to my father's service and his work."

"With Sancho, I believe it all because your worship
says so."

" Well, this man has just been discharged from my
father's employ because seven hundred and forty-two
other men gave notice to quit if he remained."

" The reason ? "

" His skin."

" The reason is not ' so deep as a well, nor so wide
as a church-door, but it is enough.' Of course they
would n't work with him, and my uncle Surrey, begging
2* c

34 What Answer?

your pardon, should not have attempted anything so
Quixotic."

" His skin covering so many excellent qualities,
and these qualities gaining recognition, — that was the
cause. They worked with him so long as he was a
servant of servants : so soon as he demonstrated that
he could strike out strongly and swim, they knocked
him under ; and, proving that he could walk alone,
they ran hastily to shove him to the wall."

" What ! quoting my own words against me ? "

" Anglo-Saxon says we are the masters : we monopo-
lize the strength and courage, the beauty, intelligence,
power. These creatures, — what are they? poor,
worthless, lazy, ignorant, good for nothing but to be
used as machines, to obey. When lo ! one of these
dumb machines suddenly starts forth with a man's
face ; this creature no longer obeys, but evinces a
right to command ; and Anglo-Saxon speedily breaks
him in pieces."

" Come, Willie, I hope you 're not going to assert
these people our equals, — that would be too much."

" They have no intelligence, Anglo-Saxon declares,
— then refuses them schools, while he takes of their
money to help educate his own sons. They have no
ambition, — then closes upon them every door of hon-
orable advancement, and cries through the key-hole,
Serve, or starve. They cannot stand alone, they have

What Answer? 35

no faculty for rising, — then, if one of them finds
foothold, the ground is undermined beneath him. If
a head is seen above the crowd, the ladder is jerked
away, and he is trampled into the dust where he is
fallen. If he stays in the position to which Anglo-
Saxon assigns him, he is a worthless nigger ; if he
protests against it, he is an insolent nigger; if he rises
above it, he is a nigger not to be tolerated at all, — to
be crushed and buried speedily."

" Now, Willie, ' no more of this, an thou lovest me.'
I came not out to-day to listen to an abolition ha-
rangue, nor a moral homily, but to have a good time,
to be civil and merry withal, if you will allow it. Of
course you don't like Franklin's discharge, and of
course you have done something to compensate him.
I know — you have found him another place. No, —
you could n't do that ? "

"No, I could n't."

"Well, you 've settled him somewhere, — confess."

" He has some work for the present ; some copying
for me, and translating, for this unfortunate is a scholar,
you know."

" Very good ; then let it rest. Granted the poor
devils have a bad time of it, you 're not bound to sacri-
fice yourself for them. If you go on at this pace,
you'll bring up with the long-haired, bloomer reformers,
and then — God help you. No, you need n't say

36 What Answer f

another word, — I sha' n't listen, — not one ; so. Here
we are ! school yonder, — well situated ? "

" Capitally."

"Fine day."

"Very."

" Clara will be charmed to see you."

" You flatter me. I hope so."

" There, now you talk rationally. Don't relapse.
We will go up and hear the pretty creatures read
their little pieces, and sing their little songs, and see
them take their nice blue-ribboned diplomas, and fall
in love with their dear little faces, and flirt a bit this
evening, and to-morrow I shall take Ma'm'selle Clara
home to Mamma Russell, and you may go your ways."

" The programme is satisfactory."

" Good. Come on then." .

All Commencement days, at college or young ladies'
school, if not twin brothers and sisters, are at least
first cousins, with a strong family likeness. Who that
has passed through one, or witnessed one, needs any
description thereof to furbish up its memories. This
of Professor Hale's belonged to the great tribe, and its
form and features were of the old established type.
The young ladies were charming ; plenty of white
gowns, plenty of flowers, plenty of smiles, blushes, tre-
mors, hopes, and fears ; little songs, little pieces, little
addresses, to be sung, to be played, to be read, just as

What Answer? 27

Tom Russell had foreshadowed, and proving to
be —

" Just the least of a bore ! " as he added after listen-
ing awhile ; " don't you think so, Surrey ? "

"Hush! don't talk."

Tom stared ; then followed his cousin's eye, fixed
immovably upon one little spot on the platform. " By
Jove ! " he cried, " what a beauty ! As Father Dryden
would say, ' this is the porcelain clay of humankind.'
No wonder you look. Who is she, — do you know ? "

" No."

" No ! short, clear, and decisive. Don't devour her,
Will. Remember the sermon I preached you an hour
ago. Come, look at this," — thrusting a programme
into his face, — " and stop staring. Why, boy, she has
bewitched you, — or inspired you," - — surveying him
sharply.

And indeed it would seem so. Eyes, mouth, face,
instinct with some subtle and thrilling emotion. As
gay Tom Russell looked, he involuntarily stretched out
his hand, as one would put it between another and
some danger of which that other is unaware, and re-
membered what he had once said in talking of him, —
" If Will Surrey's time does come, I hope the girl will
be all right in every way, for he '11 plunge headlong,
and love like distraction itself, — no half-way ; it will
be a life-and-death affair for him." " Come, I must
break in on this."

38 What Answer?

" Surrey ! "

"Yes."

" There's a pretty girl."

No answer.

" There ! over yonder. Third seat, second row.
See her ? Pretty ? "

" Very pretty."

"Miss — Miss — what's her name? O, Miss Perry
played that last thing very well for a school-girl, eh?"

"Very well."

" Admirable room this, for hearing ; rare quality
with chapels and halls ; architects in planning gener-
ally tax ingenuity how to confuse sound. Now these
girls don't make a great noise, yet you can distinguish
every word, — can't you ? "

No response.

" I say, can't you ? "

"Every word."

Tom drew a long breath.

" Professor Hale 's a sensible old fellow ; I like the
way he conducts this school." (Mem. Tom didn't
know a thing about it.) "Carries it on excellently."
A pause.

Silence.

" Fine-looking, too. A man's physique has a deal
to do with his success in the world. If he carries a
letter of recommendation in his face, people take him

What Answer? 39

on trust to begin with ; and if he 's a big fellow, like
the Professor yonder, he imposes on folks awfully ;
they pop down on their knees to him, and clear the
track for him, as if he had a right to it all. Bless me !
I never thought of that before, — it's the reason you
and I have got on so swimmingly, — is it not, now ?
Certainly. You think so ? Of course."

" Of course," — sedately and gravely spoken.

Tom groaned, for, with a face kind and bright, he
was yet no beauty ; while if Surrey had one crowning
gift in this day of fast youths and self-satisfied Young
America, it was that of modesty with regard to him-
self and any gifts and graces nature had blessed him
withal.

" Clara has a nice voice."

" Very nice."

" She is to sing, do you know ? "

" I know."

" Do you know when ? " '

No reply.

" She sings the next piece. Are you ready to lis-
ten ? "

" Ready."

" Good Lord ! " cried Tom, in despair, " the fellow
has lost his wits. He has turned parrot ; he has- done
nothing but repeat my words for me since he sat here.
He 's an echo."

40 What Answer •?

" Echo of nothingness ? " queried the parrot, smil-
ingly.

"Ah, you've come to yourself, have you? Capi-
tal ! now stay awake. There 's Clara to sing directly,
and you are to cheer her, and look as if you enjoyed
it, and throw her that bouquet when I tell you, and let
her think it 's a fine thing she has been doing ; for
this is a tremendous affair to her, poor child, of
course."

" How bright and happy she is ! You will laugh
at me, Tom, and indeed I don't know what has come
over me, but .somehow I feel quite sad, looking at
those girls, and wondering what fate and time have
in store for them."

" Sunshine and bright hours."

" The day cometh, and also the night," — broke in
the clear voice that was reading a selection from the
Scriptures.

Tom started, and Willie took from his button-hole
just such a little nosegay as that he had bought on
Broadway a fortnight before, — a geranium leaf, a bit
of mignonette, and a delicate tea-rosebud, and, seeing
it was drooping, laid it carefully upon the programme
on his knee. " I don't want that to fade," he thought
as he put it down, while he looked across the platform
at the same face which he had so eagerly pursued
through a labyrinth of carriages, stages, and people,
and lost at last.

What Answer? 41

"There! Clara is talking to. your beauty. I won-
der if she is to sing, or do anything. If she does, it
will be something dainty and fine, I '11 wager. Hel-
loa ! there 's Clara up, — now for it."

Clara's bright little voice suited her bright little face,
— like her brother's, only a great deal prettier, — and
the young men enjoyed both, aside from brotherly and
cousinly feeling, cheered her " to the echo " as Willie
said, threw their bouquets, — great, gorgeous things
they had brought from the city to please her, — and
wished there was more of it all when it was through.

" What next ? " said Willie.

" Heaven preserve us ! your favorite subject. Who
would expect to tumble on such a theme here ? —
' Slavery ; by Francesca Ercildoune.' Odd name, —
and, by Jove ! it 's the beauty herself."

They both leaned forward eagerly as she came from
her seat ; slender, shapely, every fibre fine and exqui-
site, no coarse graining from the dainty head to the
dainty foot ; the face, clear olive, delicate and beauti-
ful, —

" The mouth with steady sweetness set,

And eyes conveying unaware
The distant hint of some regret
That harbored there," —

eyes deep, tender, and pathetic.

"What's this ? " said Tom. "Queer. It gives me
a heartache to look at her."

42 What Answer?

" A woman for whom to fight the world, or lose the
world, and be compensated a million-fold if you died
at her feet," thought Surrey, and said nothing.

"What a strange subject for her to select! " broke
in Tom.

It was a strange one for the time and place, and she
had been besought to drop it, and take another ; but it
should be that or nothing, she asserted, — so she was
left to her own device.

Oddly treated, too. Tom thought it would be a
pretty lady-like essay, and said so ; then sat astound-
ed at what he saw and heard. Her face — this school-
girl's face — grew pallid, her eyes mournful, her
voice and manner sublime, as she summoned this
monster to the bar of God's justice and the humanity
of the world ; as she arraigned it ; as she brought wit-
ness after witness to testify against it ; as she proved its
horrible atrocities and monstrous barbarities ; as she
went on to the close, and, lifting hand and face and
voice together, thrilled out, " I look backward into
the dim, distant past, but it is one night of oppression
and despair ; I turn to the present, but I hear naught
save the mother's broken-hearted shriek, the infant's
wail, the groan wrung from the strong man in agony ;
I look forward into the future, but the night grows
darker, the shadows deeper and longer, the tempest
wilder, and involuntarily I cry out, ' How long, O
God, how long?'"

What Answer? 43

" Heavens ! what an actress she would make ! " said
somebody before them.

" That 's genius," said somebody behind them ;
"but what a subject to waste it upon ! "

" Very bad taste, I must say, to talk about such a
thing here," said somebody beside them. " However,
one can excuse a great deal to beauty like that."

Surrey sat still, and felt as though he were on fire,
filled with an insane desire to seize her in one arm
like a knight of old, and hew his way through these
beings, and out of this place, into some solitary spot
where he could seat her and kneel at her feet, and die
there if she refused to take him up ; filled with all
the sweet, extravagant, delicious pain that thrills the
heart, full of passion and purity, of a young man who
begins to love the first, overwhelming, only love of a
lifetime.

CHAPTER IV.

" 'Tis an old tale, and often told."

Sir Walter Scott.

THAT evening some people who were near them
were talking about it, and that made Tom ask
Clara if her friend was in the habit of doing startling
things.

"Should you think so to look at her now?" queried
Clara, looking across the room to where Miss Ercil-
doune stood.

" Indeed I should n't," Tom replied ; and indeed
no one would who saw her then. " She 's as sweet as
a sugar-plum," he added, as he continued to look.
" What does she mean by getting off such rampant dis-
courses ? She never wrote them herself, — don't tell
me; at least somebody else put her up to it, — that
strong-minded-looking teacher over yonder, for in-
stance. She looks capable of anything, and something
worse, in the denouncing way ; poor little beauty was
her cat's-paw this morning."

" O Tom, how you talk ! She is nobody's cat's-
paw. I can tell you she does her own thinking and
acting too. If you'd just go and do something hateful,

What Answer? 45

or impose on somebody, — one of the waiters, for in-
stance, — you'd see her blaze up, fast enough."

" Ah ! philanthropic ? "

Clara looked puzzled. " I don't know ; we have
some girls here who are all the time talking about
benevolence, and charity, and the like, and they have
a little sewing-circle to make up things to be sold for
the church mission, or something, — I don't know
just what ; but Francesca won't go near it."

" Democratic, then, maybe."

" No, she is n't, not a bit. She 's a thorough little
aristocrat : so exclusive she has nothing to say to the
most of us. I wonder she ever took me for a friend,
though I do love her dearly."

Tom looked down at his bright little sister, and
thought the wonder was not a very great one, but
did n't say so ; reserving his gallantries for somebody
else's sister.

" You seem greatly taken with her, Tom."

" I own the soft impeachment."

" Well, you '11 have a fair chance, for she 's coming
home with me. I wrote to mamma, and she says,
bring her by all means, — and Mr. Ercildoune gives
his consent; so it is all settled."

" Mr. Ercildoune ! is there no Mrs. E. ?"

" None, — her mother died long ago ; and her father
has not been here, so I can't tell you anything about

46 What Answer?

him. There : do you see that elegant-looking lady-
talking with Professor Hale ? that is her aunt, Mrs.
Lancaster. She is English, and is here only on a
visit. She wants to take Francesca home with her in
the spring, but I hope she won't."

« Why, what is it to you ? "

" I am afraid she will stay, and then I shall never
see her any more."

" And why stay ? do you fancy England so very
fascinating ? "

" No, it is not that ; but Francesca don't like
America; she 's forever saying something witty and
sharp about our ' democratic institutions,' as she calls
them ; and, if you had looked this morning, you 'd
have seen that she did n't sing The Star-Spangled
Banner with the rest of us. Her voice is splendid,
and Professor Hale wanted her to lead, as she often
does, but she would n't sing that, she said, — no, not
for anything ; and though we all begged, she refused,
— flat."

u Shocking ! what total depravity ! I wonder is
she converting Surrey to her heresies."

No, she was n't ; not unless silence is more potent
than words ; for after they had danced together Surrey
brought her to one of the great windows facing to-
wards the sea, and, leaning over her chair, there was
stillness between them as their eyes went out into the
night.

What Answer? 47

A wild night ! great clouds drifted across the moon,
which shone out anon, with light intensified, defining
the stripped trees and desolate landscape, and then
the beach, and

" Marked with spray
The sunken reefs, and far away
The unquiet, bright Atlantic plain,"

while through all sounded incessantly the mournful
roar of buffeting wind and surging tide ; and whether
it was the scene, or the solemn undertone of the sea,
the dance music, which a little while before had been
so gay, sounded like a wail.

How could it be otherwise? Passion is akin to pain.
Love never yet penetrated an intense nature and
made the heart light ; sentiment has its smiles, its
blushes, its brightness, its words of fancy and feeling,
readily and at will ; but when the internal sub-soiling
is broken up, the heart swells with a steady and tre-
mendous pressure till the breast feels like bursting ;
the lips are dumb, or open only to speak upon indif-
ferent themes. Flowers may be played with, but one
never yet cared to toy with flame.

There are souls that are created for one another in
the eternities, hearts that are predestined each to
each, from the absolute necessities of their nature ;
and when this man and this woman come face to face,
these hearts throb and are one ; these souls recognize

48 What Answer?

" my master ! " " my mistress ! " at the first glance,
without words uttered or vows pronounced.

These two young lives, so fresh, so beautiful ; these
beings, in many things such antipodes, so utterly dis-
similar in person, so unlike, yet like ; their whole ac-
quaintance a glance on a crowded street and these few
hours of meeting, — looked into one another's eyes,
and felt their whole nature set each to each, as the
vast tide " of the bright, rocking ocean sets to shore
at the full moon."

These things are possible. Friendship is excellent,
and friendship may be called love ; but it is not love.
It may be more enduring and placidly satisfying in the
end ; it may be better, and wiser, and more prudent,
for acquaintance to beget esteem, and. esteem regard,
and regard affection, and affection an interchange of
peaceful vows : the result, a well-ordered life and home.
All this is admirable, no doubt ; an owl is a bird when
you can get no other ; but the love born of a moment,
yet born of eternity, which comes but once in a life-
time, and to not one in a thousand lives, unquestion-
ing, unthinking, investigating nothing, proving nothing,
sufficient unto itself, — ah, that is divine ; and this
divine ecstasy filled these two souls.

Unconsciously. They did not define nor compre-
hend. They listened to the sea where they sat, and
felt tears start to their eyes, yet knew not why. They

What Answer •? 49

were silent, and thought they talked ; or spoke, and
said nothing. They danced ; and as he held her hand
and uttered a few words, almost whispered, the words
sounded to the listening ear like a part of the music to
which they kept time. They saw a multitude of peo-
ple, and exchanged the compliments of the evening,
yet these people made no more impression upon their
thoughts than gossamer would have made upon their
hands.

" Come, Francesca ! " said Clara Russell, breaking
in upon this, "it is not fair for you to monopolize my
cousin Will, who is the handsomest man in the room ;
and it is n't fair for Will to keep you all to himself
in this fashion. Here is Tom, ready to scratch out his
eyes with vexation because you won't dance with him ;
and here am I, dying to waltz with somebody who
knows my step, — to say nothing of innumerable young
ladies and gentlemen who have been casting indignant
and beseeching glances this way : so, sir, face about,
march ! " and away the gay girl went with her prize,
leaving Francesca to the tender mercies of half a dozen
young men who crowded eagerly round her, and from
whom Tom carried her off with triumph and rejoicing.

The evening was over at last, and they were going
away. Tom had said good night.

" You are to be in New York, at my uncle's, Clara
tells me."

3 r>

50 What Answer?

" It is true."

" I may see you there ? "

For answer she put out her hand. He took it as he
would have taken a delicate flower, laid his other hand
softly,, yet closely, over it, and, without any adieu
spoken, went away.

" Tom always declared Willie was a little queer, and
I 'm sure I begin to think so," said Clara, as she kissed
her friend and departed to her room.

CHAPTER V.

" A breathing sigh, a sigh for answer,
A little talking of outward things."

Jean Ingelow.

AH, the weeks that followed ! People ate and
drank and slept, lived and loved and hated,
were born and died, — the same world that it had
been a little while before, yet not the same to them, —
never to seem quite the same again. A little cloud
had fallen between them and it, and changed to their
eyes all its proportions and hues.

They were incessantly together, riding, or driving,
or walking, looking at pictures, dancing at parties,
listening to opera or play.

" It seems to me Will is going it at a pretty tremen-
dous pace somewhere," said Mr. Surrey to his wife,
one morning, after this had endured for a space. " It
would be well to look into it, and to know something
of this girl."

"You are right," she replied. "Yet I have such
absolute faith in Willie's fine taste and sense that I
feel no anxiety."

" Nor I ; yet I shall investigate a bit to-night at
Augusta's."

52 What Answer?

" Clara tells me that when Miss Ercildoune under-
stood it was to be a great party, she insisted on ending
her visit, or, at least, staying for a while with her aunt,
but they would not hear of it."

" Mrs. Lancaster goes back to England soon ? "

"Very soon."

"Does. any one know aught of Miss Ercildoune's
family save that Mrs. Lancaster is her aunt ?"

"If 'any one' means me, I understand her father
to be a gentleman of elegant leisure, — his home near
Philadelphia-; a widower, with one other child, — a
son, I believe ; that his wife was English, married
abroad ; that Mrs. Lancaster comes here with the best
of letters, and, for herself, is most evidently a lady."

" Good. Now I shall take a survey of the young
lady herself."

When night came, and with it a crowd to Mrs.
Russell's rooms, the opportunity offered for the survey,
and it was made scrutinizingly. Surrey was an only
son, a well-beloved one, and what concerned him was
investigated with utmost care.

Scrutinizingly and satisfactorily. They were dan-
cing, his sunny head bent till it almost touched the
silky blackness of her hair. " Saxon and Norman,"
said somebody near who was watching them ; " what a
delicious contrast ! "

"They make an exquisite picture," thought the

What Answer? 53

mother, as she looked with delight and dread : delight
at the beauty ; dread that fills the soul of any mother
when she feels that she no longer holds her boy, —
that his life has another keeper, — and queries, " What
of the keeper ? "

" Well ? " she said, looking up at her husband.

" Well," he answered, with a tone that meant,
well. " She 's thorough-bred. Democratic or not, I
will always insist, blood tells. Look at her : no one
needs to ask who she is. I 'd take her on trust with-
out a word."

" So, then, you are not her critic, but her admirer."

" Ah, my dear, criticism is lost in admiration, and I
am glad to find it so."

" And I. Willie saw with our eyes, as a boy ; it is
fortunate that we can see with his eyes, as a man."

So, without any words spoken, after that night, both
Mr. and Mrs. Surrey took this young girl into their
hearts as they hoped soon to take her into their lives,
and called her "daughter" in their thought, as a pleas-
ant preparation for the uttered word by and by.

Thus the weeks fled. No word had passed be-
tween these two to which the world might not have
listened. Whatever language their hearts and their
eyes spoke had not been interpreted by their lips.
He had not yet touched her hand save as it met his,
gloved or formal, or as it rested on his arm ; and yet,

54 What Answer?

as one walking through the dusk and stillness of a sum-
mer night feels a flower or falling leaf brush his cheek,
and starts, shivering as from the touch of a disem-
bodied soul, so this slight outward touch thrilled his
inmost being ; this hand, meeting his for an instant,
shook his soul.

Indefinite and undefined, — there was no thought
beyond the moment ; no wish to take this young girl
into his arms and to call her "wife" had shaped itself
in his brain. It was enough for both that they were
in one another's presence, that they breathed the same
air, that they could see each other as they raised their
eyes, and exchange a word, a look, a smile. What-
ever storm of emotion the future might hold for them
was not manifest in this sunny and delightful present.

Upon one subject alone did they disagree with feel-
ing, — in other matters their very dissimilarity proving
an added charm. This was a curious question to
come between lovers. All his life Surrey had been
a devotee of his country and its flag. While he was
a boy Kossuth had come to these shores, and he
yet remembered how he had cheered himself hoarse
with pride and delight, as the eloquent voice and
impassioned lips of the great Magyar sounded the
praise of America, as the " refuge of the oppressed and
the hope of the world." He yet remembered how
when the hand, every gesture of which was instinct

What Answer? 55

with power, was lifted to the flag, — the flag, stainless,
spotless, without blemish or flaw ; the flag which was
" fair as the sun, clear as the moon," and to the op-
pressors of the earth " terrible as an army with ban-
ners," — he yet remembered how, as this emblem of
liberty was thus apostrophized and saluted,, the tears
had rushed to his boyish eyes, and his voice had said
for his heart, " Thank God, I am an American ! "

One day he made some such remark to her. She
answered, "I, too, am an American, but I do not
thank God for it."

At another time he said, as some emigrants passed
them in the street, "What a sense of pride it gives
one in one's country, to see her so stretch out her
arms to help and embrace the outcast and suffering of
the whole world ! "

She smiled — bitterly, he thought ; and replied,
" O just and magnanimous country, to feed and
clothe the stranger from without, while she outrages
and destroys her children within ! "

" You do not love America," he said.

" I do not love America," she responded.

" And yet it is a wonderful country."

" Ay," briefly, almost satirically, " a wonderful
country, indeed ! "

" Still you stay here, live here."

" Yes, it is my country. Whatever I think of it, I

$6 What Answer?

will not be driven away from it ; it is my right to re-
main."

" Her right to remain ? " he thought ; " what does
she mean by that ? she speaks as though conscience
were involved in the thing. No matter ; let us talk of
something pleasanter."

One day she gave him a clew. They were looking
at the picture of a great statesman, — a man as famous
for the grandeur of face and form as for the power
and splendor of his intellect.

" Unequalled ! unapproachable ! " exclaimed Surrey,
at last.

" I have seen its equal," she answered, very quietly,
yet with a shiver of excitement in the tones.

"When? where? how? I will take a journey to
look at him. Who is he ? where did he grow ? "

For response she put her hand into the pocket of
her gown, and took out a velvet case. What could
there be in that little blue thing to cause such emo-
tion ? As Surrey saw it in her hand, he grew hot, then
cold, then fiery hot again. In an instant by this chill,
this heat, this pain, his heart was laid bare to his own
inspection. In an instant he knew that his arms would
be empty did they hold a universe in which Francesca
Ercildoune had no part, and that with her head on his
heart the world might lapse from him unheeded ; and,
with this knowledge, she held tenderly and caressingly,
as he saw, another man's picture in her hand.

What Answer? 57

His own so shook that he could scarcely take the
case from her, to open it; but, opened, his eyes de-
voured what was under them.

A half-length, — the face and physique superb. Of
what color were the hair and eyes the neutral tints of
the picture gave no hint ; the brow princely, breaking
the perfect oval of the face ; eyes piercing and full ;
the features rounded, yet clearly cut ; the mouth with
a curious combination of sadness and disdain. The
face was not young, yet it was so instinct with magnifi-
cent vitality that even the picture impressed one more
powerfully than most living men, and one involuntarily
exclaimed on beholding it, " This man can never grow
old, and death must here forego its claim ! "

Looking up from it with no admiration to express
for the face, he saw Francesca's smiling on it with
a sort of adoration, as she, reclaiming her property,
said, —

" My father's old friends have a great deal of enjoy-
ment, and amusement too, from his beauty. One of
them was the other day telling me of the excessive ad-
miration people had always shown, and laughingly
insisted that when papa wa^ a young man, and ap-
peared in public, in London or Paris, it was between
two police officers to keep off the admiring crowd \
and," laughing a gay little laugh herself, " of course I
believed him ! why should n't I ? "
3*

58 What Answer?

He was looking at the picture again. " What an
air of command he has ! "

" Yes. I remember hearing that when Daniel Web-
ster was in London, and walked unattended through
the streets, the coal-heavers and workmen took off
their hats and stood bareheaded till he had gone by,
thinking it was royalty that passed. I think they
would do the same for papa."

" If he looks like a king, I know somebody who
looks like a princess," thought the happy young fellow,
gazing down upon the proud, dainty figure by his side ;
but he smiled as he said, " What a little aristocrat you
are, Miss Ercildoune ! what a pity you were born a
Yankee ! "

" I am not a Yankee, Mr. "Surrey," replied the little
aristocrat, " if to be a Yankee is to be a native of
America. I was born on the sea."

" And your mother, I know, was English."

"Yes, she was English."

" Is it rude to ask if your father was the same ? "

"No !" she answered emphatically, "my papa is a
Virginian, — a Virginia gentleman," — the last word
spoken with an untransferable accent, — " there are
few enough of them."

" So, so ! " thought Willie, " here my riddle is read.
Southern — Virginia — gentleman. No wonder she
has no love to spend on country or flag ; no wonder

What Answer? 59

we could n't agree. And yet it can't be that, — what
were the first words I ever heard from her mouth ? "
and, remembering that terrible denunciation of the
" peculiar institution " of Virginia and of the South,
he found himself puzzled the more.

Just then there came into the picture-gallery, where
they were wasting a pleasant morning, a young man to
whom Surrey gave the slightest of recognitions, — well-
dressed, booted, and gloved, yet lacking the nameless
something which marks the gentleman. His glance,
as it rested on Surrey, held no love, and, indeed, was
rather malignant.

"That fellow," said Surrey, indicating him, "has a
queer story connected with him. He was discharged
from my father's employ to give place to a man who
could do his work better ; and the strange part of
it" — he watched her with an amused smile to see
what effect the announcement would have upon her
Virginia ladyship — " is that number two is a black
man."

A sudden heat flushed her cheeks : " Do you tell
me your father made room for a black man in his em-
ploy, and at the expense of a white one ? "

" It is even so."

" Is he there now ? "

Surrey's beautiful Saxon face crimsoned. " No : he
is not," he said reluctantly.

60 What Answer?

" Ah ! did he, this black man, — did he not do his
work well ? "

"Admirably."

" Is it allowable, then, to ask why he was dis-
carded ? "

" It is allowable, surely. He was dismissed because
the choice lay between him and seven hundred men."

" And you " — her face was very pale now, the flush
all gone out of it — " you have nothing to do with
your father's works, but you are his son, — did you do
naught ? protest, for instance ? "

"I protested — and yielded. The contest would
have been not merely with seven hundred men, but
with every machinist in the city. Justice versus preju-
dice, and prejudice had it ; 'as, indeed, I suppose it
will for a good many generations to come : invincible
it appears to be in the American mind."

" Invincible ! is it so ? " She paused over the words,
scrutinizing him meanwhile with an unconscious inten-
sity. " And this black man, — what of him ? He was
flung out to starve and die ; a proper fate, surely, for
his presumption. Poor fool ! how did he dare to think
he could compete with his masters ! You know noth-
ing of him ? "

Surely he must be mistaken. What could this black
man, or this matter, be to her ? yet as he listened her
voice sounded to his ear like that of one in mortal

What Answer? 6 1

pain. What held him silent ? Why did he not tell her,
why did he not in some way make her comprehend,
that he, delicate exclusive, and patrician, as the peo-
ple of his set thought him, had gone to this man, had
lifted him from his sorrow and despondency to courage
and hope once more ; had found him work \ would see
that the place he strove to fill in the world should be
filled, could any help of his secure that end. Why did
the modesty which was a part of him, and the high-
bred reserve which shrank from letting his own mother
know of the good deeds his life wrought, hold him
silent now ?

In that silence something fell between them. "What
was it? But a moment, yet in that little space it
seemed to him as though continents divided them, and
seas rolled between. " Francesca ! " he cried, under
his breath, — he had never before called her by her
Christian name, — " Francesca ! " and stretched out his
hand towards her, as a drowning man stretches forth
his hand to life.

" This room is stifling ! " she said for answer ; and
her voice, dulled and unnatural, seemed to his strange-
ly confused senses as though it came from a far dis-
tance, — "I am suffering : shall we go out to the
air?"

CHAPTER VI.

" But more than loss about me clings."

Jean Ingelow.

" "XT O ! no, I am mad to think it ! I must have
•L * been dreaming ! what could there have been
in that talk to have such an effect as I have conjured
up ? She pitied Franklin ! yes, she pities every one
whom she thinks suffering or wronged. Dear little
tender heart ! of course it was the room, — did n't she
say she was ill ? it must have been awful ; the heat
and the closeness got into my head, — that 's it. Bad
air is as bad as whiskey on a man's brain. What a
fool I made of myself! not even answering her ques-
tions. What did she think of me ? Well."

Surrey in despair pushed away the book over which
he had been bending all the afternoon, seeing for every
word Francesca, and on every page an image of her
face. "I '11 smoke myself into some sort of decent
quiet, before I go up town, at least " ; and taking his
huge meerschaum, settling himself sedately, began his
quieting operation with appalling energy. The soft
rings, gray and delicate, taking curious and airy shapes,
floated out and filled the room ; but they were not

What Answer? 63

soothing shapes, nor ministering spirits of comfort.
They seemed filmy garments, and from their midst faces
beautiful, yet faint and dim, looked at him, all of them
like unto her face ; but when he dropped his pipe and
bent forward, the wreaths of smoke fell into lines that
made the faces appear sad and bathed in tears, and
the images faded from his sight.

As the last one, with its visionary arms outstretched
towards him, receded from him, and disappeared, he
thought, "That is Francesca's spirit, bidding me an
eternal adieu " — and, with the foolish thought, in spite
of its foolishness, he shivered and stretched out his
arms in return.

" Of a verity," he then cried, " if nature failed to
make me an idiot, I am doing my best to consummate
that end, and become one of free choice. What folly
possesses me ? I will dissipate it at once, — I will see
her in bodily shape, — that will put an end to such
fancies," — starting up, and beginning to pull on his
gloves.
. " No ! no, that will not do," — pulling them off again.
" She will think I am an uneasy ghost that pursues her.
I must wait till this evening, but ah, what an age
till evening ! "

Fortunately, all ages, even lovers' ages, have an end.
The evening came ; he was at the Fifth Avenue, — his
card sent up, — his feet impatiently travelling to and

64 What Answer?

fro upon the parlor carpet, — his heart beating with
happiness and expectancy. A shadow darkened the
door ; he flew to meet the substance, — not a sweet
face and graceful form, but a servant, big and common-
place, bringing him his own card and the announce-
ment, "The ladies is both out, sir."

" Impossible ! take it up again."

He said " impossible " because Francesca had that
morning told him she would be at home in the evening.

" All right, sir ; but it 's no use, for there 's nobody
there, I know " ; and he vanished for a second at-
tempt, unsuccessful as the first. Surrey went to the
office, still determinedly incredulous.

"Are Mrs. Lancaster and Miss Ercildoune not in?"

" No, sir ; both out. Keys here," — showing them.
" Left for one of the five-o'clock trains ; rooms not
given up ; said they would be back in a few days."

" From what depot did they leave ? "

" Don't know, sir. They did n't go in the coach ;
had a carriage, or I could tell you."

" But they left a note, perhaps, — or some mes-
sage ? "

" Nothing at all, sir ; not a word, nor a scrap. Can
I serve you in any way further ? "

" Thanks ! not at all. Good evening."

" Good evening, sir."

That was all. What did it mean ? — to vanish with-

What Answer? 65

out a sign ! an engagement for the evening, and not a
line left in explanation or excuse ! It was not like her.
There must be something wrong, some mystery. He
tormented himself with a thousand fancies and fears
over what, he confessed, was probably a mere acci-
dent; wisely determined to do so no longer, — but
did, spite of such excellent resolutions and intent.

This took place on the evening of Saturday, the
13th of April, 186 1. The events of the next few
days doubtless augmented his anxiety and unhappi
ness. Sunday followed, — a day filled not with a Sab-
bath calm, but with the stillness felt in nature before
some awful convulsion ; the silence preceding earth-
quake, volcano, or blasting storm ; a quiet broken
from Maine to the Pacific slope when the next day
shone, and men roused themselves from the sleep of a
night to the duty of a day, from the sleep of genera-
tions, fast merging into death, at the trumpet-call to
arms, — a cry which sounded through every State
and every household in the land, which, more pow-
erful than the old songs of Percy and Douglas,
" brought children from their play, and old men from
their chimney-corners,' ' to emulate humanity in its
strength and prime, and contest with it the opportunity
to fight and die in a deathless cause.

A cry which said, " There are wrongs to be redressed
already long enough endured, — wrongs against the

66 What Answer?

flag of the nation, against the integrity of the Union,
against the life of the republic ; wrongs against the
cause of order, of law, of good government, against
right, and justice, and liberty, against humanity and
the world ; not merely in the present, but in the great
future, its countless ages and its generations yet un-
born."

To this cry there sounded one universal response,
as men dropped their work at loom, or forge, or wheel,
in counting-room, bank, and merchant's store, in pul-
pit, office, or platform, and with one accord rushed to
arms, to save these rights so frightfully and arrogantly
assailed.

One voice that went to swell this chorus was Sur-
rey's ; one hand quick to grasp rifle and cartridge-box,
one soul eager to fling its body into the breach at this
majestic call, was his. He felt to the full all the
divine frenzy and passion of those first days of the
war, days unequalled in the history of nations and of
the world. All the elegant dilettanteism, the delicious
idleness, the luxurious ease, fell away, and were as
though they had never been. All the airy dreams of
a renewed chivalrous age, of courage, of heroism,
of sublime daring and self-sacrifice, took substance
and shape, and were for him no longer visions of the
night, but realities of the day.

Still, while flags waved, drums beat, and cannon

What Answer? 67

thundered ; while friends said, " Go ! " the world stood
ready to cheer him on, and fame and honor and
greater things than these beckoned him to come ; while
he felt the whirl and excitement of it all, — his heart
cried ceaselessly, "Only let me see her — once — if
but for a moment, before I go ! " It was so little he
asked of fate, yet too much to be granted.

In vain he went every day, and many times a day,
in the brief space left him, to her hotel. In vain he
once more questioned clerk and servants ; in vain
haunted the house of his aunt, with the dim hope that
Clara might hear from her, or that in some undefined
way he might learn of her whereabouts, and so accom-
plish his desire.

But the days passed, too slowly for the ardent
young patriot, all too rapidly for the unhappy lover.
Friday came. Early in the day multitudes of people
began to collect in the street, growing in numbers
and enthusiasm as the hours wore on, till, in the after-
noon, the splendid thoroughfare of New York from
Fourth Street down to the Cortlandt Ferry — a stretch
of miles — was a solid mass of humanity ; thousands
and tens of thousands, doubled, quadrupled, and mul-
tiplied again.

Through the morning this crowd in squads and com-
panies traversed the streets, collected on the corners,
congregating chiefly about the armory of their pet

6$ What Answer?

regiment, the Seventh, on Lafayette Square, — one
great mass gazing unweariedly at its windows and
walls, then moving on to be replaced by another of
the like kind, which, having gone through the same
performance, gave way in turn to yet others, eager to
take its place.

So the fever burned ; the excitement continued and
augmented till, towards three o'clock in the afternoon,
the mighty throng stood still, and waited. It was no
ordinary multitude ; the wealth, refinement, fashion,
the greatness and goodness of a vast city were there,
pressed close against its coarser and darker and
homelier elements. Men and women stood alike in
the crowd, dainty patrician and toil-stained laborer,
all thrilled by a common emotion, all vivified — if in
unequal degree — by the same sublime enthusiasm.
Overhead, from every window and doorway and house-
top, in every space and spot that could sustain one, on
ropes, on staffs, in human hands, waved, and curled,
and floated, flags that were in multitude like the swells
of the sea ; silk, and bunting, and painted calico, from
the great banner spreading its folds with an indescrib-
able majesty, to the tiny toy shaken in a baby hand.
Under all this glad and gay and splendid show, the
faces seemed, perhaps by contrast, not sad, but grave;
not sorrowful, but intense, and luminously solemn.

Gradually the men of the Seventh marched out of

What Answer? 69

their armory. Hands had been wrung, adieus said,
last fond embraces and farewells given. The regiment
formed in the open square, the crowd about it so
dense as to seem stifling, the windows of its building
filled with the sweetest and finest and fairest of faces,
— the mothers, wives, and sweethearts of these young
splendid fellows just ready to march away.

Surrey from his station gazed and gazed at the win-
dow where stood his mother, so well beloved, his re-
lations and friends, many of them near and dear to
him, — some of them with clear, bright eyes that
turned from the forms of brothers in the ranks to seek
his, and linger upon it wistfully and tenderly ; yet
looking at all these, even his mother, he looked be-
yond, as though in the empty space a face would
appear, eyes would meet his, arms be stretched to-
wards him, lips whisper a fond adieu, as he, breaking
from the ranks, would take her to his embrace, and
speak, at the same time, his love and farewell. A
fruitless longing.

Four o'clock struck over the great city, and the line
moved out of the square, through Fourth Street, to
Broadway. Then began a march, which whoso wit-
nessed, though but a little child, will remember to his
dying day, the story of which he will repeat to his chil-
dren, and his children's children, and, these dead, it
will be read by eyes that shall shine centuries hence, as

7<D What Answer f

one of the most memorable scenes in the great strug-
gle for freedom.

Hands were stretched forth to touch the cloth of
their uniforms, and. kiss&d when they were drawn
back. Mothers held up their little children to gain
inspiration for a lifetime. A roar of voices, continu-
ous, unbroken, rent the skies ; while, through the deaf-
ening cheers, men and women, with eyes blinded by
tears, repeated, a million times, " God bless — God
bless and keep them ! " And so, down the magnificent
avenue, through the countless, shouting multitude,
through the whirlwind of enthusiasm and adoration,
under the glorious sweep of flags, the grand regiment
moved from the beginning of its march to its close,
— till it was swept away towards the capital, around
which were soon to roll such bloody waves of death.

Meanwhile, where was Miss Ercildoune? Surrey
had thought her behavior strange the last morning
they spent together. How much stranger, how un-
accountable, indeed, would it have seemed to him,
could he have seen her through the afternoon follow-
ing!

" What is wrong with you ? are you ill, Francesca ? "
her aunt had inquired as she came in, pulling off her
hat with the air of one stifling, and throwing herself
into a chair.

" 111 ! O no!" — with a quick laugh, — " what

What Answer? yi

could have made you think so ? I am quite well,
thank you ; but I will go to my room for a little while
and rest. I think I am tired."

" Do, dear, for I want you to take a trip up the
Hudson this afternoon. I have to see some English
people who are living at a little village a score of
miles out of town, and then I must go on to Albany
before I take you home. It will be pleasant at Tan-
gle wood over the Sabbath, — unless you have some en-
gagements to keep you here ? "

" O Aunt Alice, how glad I am ! I was going
home this afternoon without you. I thought you
would come when you were ready ; but this will do
just as well, — anything to get out of town."

" Anything to get out of town ? why, Francesca, is
it so hateful to you ? ' Going home ! and this do almost
as well ! ' — what does the child mean ? is she the least
little bit mad ? I 'm afraid so. She evidently needs
some fresh country air, and rest from excitement.
Go, dear, and take your nap, and refresh yourself be-
fore five o'clock ; that is the time we leave."

As the door closed between them, she shook her
head dubiously. " ' Going home this afternoon ! '
what does that signify ? Has she been quarrelling
with that young lover of hers, or refusing him ? I
should not care to ask any questions till she herself
speaks ; but I fear me something is wrong."

72 What Answer?

She would not have feared, but been certain, could
she have looked then and there into the next room
She would have seen that the trouble was something
deeper than she dreamed. Francesca was sitting, her
hands supporting an aching head, her large eyes
fixed mournfully and immovably upon something
which she seemed to contemplate with a relentless
earnestness, as though forcing herself to a distressing
task. What was this something ? An image, a shadow
in the air$ which she had not evoked from the empty
atmosphere, but from the depths of her own nature
and soul, — the life and fate of a young girl. Her-
self! what cause, then, for mournful scrutiny? She,
so young, so brilliant, so beautiful, upon whom fate
had so kindly smiled, admired by many, tenderly and
passionately loved by at least one heart, — surely it
was a delightful picture to contemplate, — this life
and its future ; a picture to bring smiles to the lips,
rather than tears to the eyes.

Though, in fact, there were none dimming hers, — -
hot, dry eyes, full of fever and pain. What visions
passed before them ? what shadows of the life she in-
spected darkened them ? what sunshine now and then
fell upon it, reflecting itself in them, as she leaned for-
ward to scan these bright spots, holding them in her
gaze after other and gloomier ones had taken their
places, as one leans forth from window or doorway to

What Answer? 73

behold, long as possible, the vanishing form of some
dear friend.

Looking at these, she cried out, " Fool ! to have
been so happy, and not to have known what the happi-
ness meant, and that it was not for me, — never for me !
to have walked to the verge of an abyss, — to have
plunged in, thinking the path led to heaven. Heaven
for me ! ah, — I forgot, — I forgot. I let an uncon-
scious bliss seize me, possess me, exclude memory
and thought, — lived in it as though it would endure
forever."

She got up and moved restlessly to and fro across
the room, but presently came back to the seat she had
abandoned, and to the inspection which, while it tor-
tured her, she yet evidently compelled herself to
pursue.

" Come," she then said, " let us ask ourself some
questions, constitute ourself confessor and penitent,
and see what the result will prove."

" Did you think fate would be more merciful to you
than to others ? "

" No, I thought nothing about fate."

" Did you suppose that he loved you sufficiently to
destroy l an invincible barrier ' ? "

" I did not think of his love. I remembered no
barrier. I only knew I was in heaven, and cared for
naught beyond."
4

74 What Answer?

" Do you see the barrier now ? "
"I do, — Ida"

" Did he help you to behold it ; to discover, or to
remember it ? did he, or did he not ? "

" He did. Too true, — he did."

" Does he love you ? "

"I — how should I know ? his looks, his acts — I
never thought — O Willie, Willie!" — her voice going
out in a little gasping sob.

" Come, — none of that. No sentiment, — face the
facts. Think over all that was said, every word.
Have you done so ? "

" I have, — every word."

"Well?"

" Ah, stop torturing me. Do not ask me any more
questions. I am going away, • — flying like a coward.
I will not tempt further suffering. And yet — once
more — only once ? could that do harm ? Ah, God,
my God, be merciful ! " she cried, clasping her hands
and lifting them above her bowed head. Then re-
membering, in the midst of her anguish, some words
she had been reading that morning, she repeated them
with a bitter emphasis, — " What can wringing of the
hands do, that which is ordained to alter ? " As she
did so she tore asunder her clasped hands, to drop
them clinched by her side, — the gesture of despair
substituted for that of hope.

What Answer? 75

" It is not Heaven I am to besiege ! " she exclaimed.
"Will I never learn that? Its justice cannot overcome
the injustice of man. My God ! " she cried then, with
a sudden, terrible energy, " our punishment should be
light, our rest sure, our paradise safe, at the end, since
we have to make now such awful atonement ; since
men compel us to endure the pangs of purgatory, the
tortures of hell, here upon earth."

After that she sat for a long while silent, evidently
revolving a thousand thoughts of every shape and hue,
judging from the myriads of lights and shadows that
flitted over her face. At last, rousing herself, she
perceived that she had no more time to spend in this
sorrowful employment, — that she must prepare to go
away from him, as her heart said, forever. " Forever ! "
it repeated. " This, then, is the close of it all, — the
miserable end ! " With that thought she shut her
slender hand, and struck it down hard, the blood al-
most starting from the driven nails and bruised flesh,
unheeding ; though a little space thereafter she smiled,
beholding it, and muttered, " So — the drop of savage
blood is telling at last ! "

Presently she was gone. It was a pleasant spot to
which her aunt took her, — one of the pretty little vil-
lages scattered up and down the long sweep of the
Hudson. Pleasant people they were too, — these
English friends of Mrs. Lancaster, — who made her

7 6 What Answer?

welcome, but did not intrude upon the solitude which
they saw she desired.

Sabbath morning they all went to the little chapel,
and left her, as she wished, alone. Being so alone,
after hearing their adieus, she went up to her room
and sat down to devote herself once again to sorrowful
contemplation, — not because she would, but because
she must.

Poor girl ! the bright spring sunshine streamed over
her where she sat ; — not a cloud in the sky, not a
dimming of mist or vapor on all the hills, and the
broad river-sweep which, placid and beautiful, rolled
along ; the cattle far off on the brown fields rubbed
their silky sides softly together, and gazed through the
clear atmosphere with a lazy content, as though they
saw the waving of green grass, and heard the rustle of
wind in the thick boughs, so soon to bear their leafy
burden. Stillness everywhere, — the blessed calm that
even nature seems to feel on a sunny Sabbath morn.
Stillness scarcely broken by the voices, mellowed and
softened ere they reached her ear, chanting in the
village church, to some sweet and solemn music, words
spoken in infinite tenderness long ago, and which,
through all the centuries, come with healing balm to
many a sore and saddened heart : " Come unto me,"
the voices sang, — "come unto me, all ye that labor
and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest."

What Answer? 77

" Ah, rest," she murmured while she listened, —
"rest" ; and with the repetition of the word the fever
died out of her eyes, leaving them rilled with such a
look, more pitiful than any tears, as would have
made a kind heart ache even to look at them ; while
her figure, alert and proud no longer, bent on the win-
dow ledge in such lonely and weary fashion that a
strong arm would have involuntarily stretched out to
shield it from any hardness or blow that might threat-
en, though the owner thereof were a stranger.

There was something indescribably appealing and
pathetic in her whole look and air. Outside the win-
dow stood a slender little bird which had fluttered
there, spent and worn, and did not try to flit away any
further. Too early had it flown from its southern
abode ; too early abandoned the warm airs, the flowers
and leafage, of a more hospitable region, to find its way
to a northern home ; too early ventured into a rigor-
ous clime ; and now, shivering, faint, near to death,
drooped its wings and hung its weary head, waiting for
the end of its brief life to come.

Francesca, looking up with woful eyes, beheld it,
and, opening the window, softly took it in. " Poor
birdie ! " she whispered, striving to warm it in her gentle
hand and against her delicate cheek, — " poor little wan-
derer ! — didst thou think to find thy mate, and build
thy tiny nest, and be a happy mother through the long

78 What Answer?

bright summer-time ? Ah, my pet, what a sad close is
this to all these pleasant dreams ! "

The frail little creature could not eat even the bits
of crumbs which she put into its mouth, nor taste a
drop of water. All her soothing caresses failed to
bring warmth and life to the tiny frame that presently
stretched itself out, dead, — all its sweet songs sung,
its brief, bright existence ended forever. " Ah, my
little birdie, it is all over," whispered Francesca, as she
laid it softly down, and unconsciously lifted her hand
to her own head with a self-pitying gesture that was
sorrowful to behold.

"Like me," she did not say; yet a penetrating
eye looking at them — the slight bird lying dead, its
brilliant plumage already dimmed, the young girl
gazing at it — would perceive that alike these two
were fitted for the warmth and sunshine, would per-
ceive that both had been thwarted and defrauded of
their fair inheritance, would perceive that one lay
spent and dead in its early spring. What of the
other ?

" Aunt Alice," said Francesca a few days after that,
" can you go to New York this afternoon or to-morrow
morning ? "

" Certainly, dear. I purposed returning to-day or
early in the morning to see the Seventh march away.
Of course you would like to be there."

What Answer? 79

"Yes." She spoke slowly, and with seeming indif-
ference. It was because she could scarcely control
her voice to speak at all. " I should like to be there."

Francesca knew, what her aunt did not, that
Surrey was a member of the Seventh, and that he
would march away with it to danger, — perhaps to
death.

So they were there, in a window overlooking the
great avenue, — Mrs. Lancaster, foreigner though she
was, thrilled to the heart's core by the magnificent pa-
geant ; Francesca straining her eyes up the long street,
through the vast sea of faces, to fasten them upon just
one face that she knew would presently appear in the
throng.

" Ah, heavens ! " cried Mrs. Lancaster, " what a
sight ! look at those young men ; they are the choice
and fine of the city. See, see ! there is Hunter, and
Winthrop, and Pursuivant, and Mortimer, and Shaw,
and Russell, and, yes — no — it is, over there — your
friend, Surrey, himself. Did you know, Francesca ? "

Francesca did not reply. Mrs. Lancaster turned to
see her lying white and cold in her chair. Endurance
had failed at last.

CHAPTER VII.

"The plain, unvarnished tale of my whole course of love."

Shakespeare.

"TT 7HAT a handsome girl that is who always
" * waits on us ! " Francesca had once said to
Clara Russell, as they came out of Hyacinth's with
some dainty laces in their hands.

" Very," Clara had answered.

The handsome girl was Sallie.

At another time Francesca, admiring some particu-
lar specimen of the pomps and vanities with which
the store was crowded, was about carrying it away, but
first experimented as to its fit.

" O dear ! " she cried, in dismay, " it is too short,
and " — rummaging through the box — " there is not
another like it, and it is the only one I want."

" How provoking ! " sympathized Clara.

" I could very easily alter that," said Sallie, who was
behind the counter; " I make these up for the shop, and
I '11 be glad to fix this for you, if you like it so much."

" Thanks. You are very kind. Can you send it up
to-morrow ? "

" This evening, if you wish it."

What Answer? Si

" Very good \ I shall be your debtor."

" Well ! " exclaimed Clara, as they turned away,
" this is the first time in all my shopping I ever found
a girl ready to put herself out to serve one. They
usually act as if they were conferring the most over-
whelming favor by condescending to wait upon you at
all."

" Why, Clara, I 'm sure I always find them civil."

" I know they seem devoted to you. I wonder why.
Oh ! " — laughing and looking at her friend with hon-
est admiration, — " it must be because you are so
pretty."

" Excellent, — how discerning you are ! " smiled
Francesca, in return.

If Clara had had a little more discernment, she
would have discovered that what wrought this miracle
wTas a friendly courtesy, that never failed to either
equal or subordinate.

Six weeks after the Seventh had marched out of
New York. Francesca, sitting in her aunt's room, was
roused from evidently painful thought by the entrance
of a servant, who announced, " If you please, a young
woman to see you."

"Name?"

" She gave none, miss."

" Send her up."

Sallie came in. " Bird of Paradise " Francesca had
4* F

82 What Answer?

called her more than once, she was so dashing and
handsome ; but the title would scarcely fit now, for she
looked poor, and sad, and wofully dispirited.

" Ah, Miss Sallie, is it you ? Good morning."

" Good morning, Miss Ercildoune." She stood, and
looked as though she had something important to say.
Presently Francesca had drawn it from her, — a little
story of her own sorrows and troubles.

" The reason I have come to you, Miss Ercildoune,
when you are so nearly a stranger, is because you
have always been so kind and pleasant to me when I
waited on you at the store, and I thought you 'd any-
way listen to what I have to say."

" Speak on, Sallie."

" I 've been at Hyacinth's now, over four years, ever
since I left school. It 's a good place, and they paid
me well, but I had to keep two people out of it, my
little brother Frank and myself; Frank and I are
orphans. And I 'm very fond of dress ; I may as well
confess that at once. So the consequence is, I
have n't saved a cent against a rainy day. " Well,"
blushing scarlet, "I had a lover, — the best heart that
ever beat, — but I liked to flirt, and plague him a
little, and make him jealous ; and at last he got dread-
fully so about a young gentleman, — a Mr. Snipe, who
was very attentive to me, — and talked to me about it
in a way I did n't like. That made me worse. I don't

What Answer? 83

know what possessed me ; but after that I went out
with Mr. Snipe a great deal more, to the theatre and
the like, and let him spend his money on me, and get
things for me, as freely as he chose. I did n't mean
any harm, indeed I did n't, — but I liked to go about
and have a good time ; and then it made Jim show
how much he cared for me, which, you see, was a
great thing to me ; and so this went on for a while, till
Jim gave me a real lecture, and I got angry and
would n't listen to anything he had to say, and sent
him away in a huff" — here she choked — " to fight ;
to the war ; and O dear ! O dear ! " breaking down
utterly, and hiding her face in her shawl, " he '11 be
killed, — I know he will ; and oh ! what shall I do ?
My heart will break, I am sure."

Francesca came and stood by her side, put her
hand gently on her shoulder, and stroked her beautiful
hair. " Poor girl ! " she said, softly, " poor girl ! "
and then, so low that even Sallie could not hear,
" You suffer, too : do we all suffer, then ? "

Presently Sallie looked up, and continued : " Up to
that time, Mr. Snipe had n't said anything to me, ex-
cept that he admired me very much, and that I was
pretty, too pretty to work so hard, and that I ought to
live like a lady, and a good deal more of that kind of
talk that I was silly enough to listen to ; but when he
found Jim was gone, first, he made fun of him for

84 What Answer?

1 being such a great fool as to go and be shot at for
nothing/ and then he — O Miss Ercildoune, I can't
tell you what he said ; it makes me choke just to
think of it. How dared he ? what had I done that he
should believe me such a thing as that ? I don't know
what words I used when I did find them, and I don't
care, but they must have stung. I can't tell you how
he looked, but it was dreadful ; and he said, ' I '11
bring down that proud spirit of yours yet, my lady.
I 'm not through with you, — don't think it, — not by a
good deal ' ; and then he made me a fine bow, and
laughed, and went out of the room.

" The next day Mr. Dodd — that 's one of our firm
— gave me a week's notice to quit : t work was slack,'
he said, ' and they did n't want so many girls.' But
I 'm just as sure as sure can be that Mr. Snipe 's at the
bottom of it, for I 've been at the store, as I told you,
four years and more, and they always reckoned me
one of their best hands, and Mr. Dodd and Mr. Snipe
are great friends. Since then I 've done nothing but
try to get work. I must have been into a thousand
stores, but it's true work is slack ; there 's not a thing
been doing since the war commenced, and I can't get
any place. I 've been to Miss Russell and some of
the ladies who used to come to the store, to see
if they 'd give me some fine sewing ; but they had n't
any for me, and I don't know what in the world to do,

What Answer? 85

for I understand nothing very well but to sew, and to
stand in a store. I Ve spent all my money, what
little I had, and — and — I 've even sold some of my
clothes, and I can't go on this way much longer. I
have n't a relative in the world ; nor a home, except in
a boarding-house \ and the girls I know all treat me
cool, as though I had done something bad, because
I 've lost my place, I suppose, and am poor.

" All along, at times, Mr. Snipe has been sending
me things, — bouquets, and baskets of fruit, and some-
times a note, and, though I won't speak to him when
I meet him on the street, he always smiles and bows
as if he were intimate ; and last night, when I was
coming home, tired enough from my long search, he
passed me and said, with such a look, ' You 've gone
down a peg or two, have n't you, Sallie ? Come, I
guess we '11 be friends again before long.' You think
it 's queer I 'm telling you all this. I can't help it \
there 's something about you that draws it all out of
me. I came to ask you for work, and here I 've been
talking all this while about myself. You must excuse
me ; I don't think I would have said so much, if you
had n't looked so kind and so interested " ; and so she
had, — kind as kind could be, and interested as though
the girl who talked had been her own sister.

" I am glad you came, Sallie, and glad that you
told me all this, if it has been any relief to you. You

86 What Answer?

may be sure I will do what I can for you, but I am
afraid that will not be a great deal, here ; for I am
a stranger in New York, and know very few people.
Perhaps — Would you go away from here ? "

" Would I ? — O would n't I ? and be glad of the
chance. I 'd give anything to go where I could n't
get sight or sound of that horrid Snipe. Can't I go
with you, Miss Ercildoune ? "

" I have no counter behind which to station you,"
said Francesca, smiling.

" No, I know, — of course ; but " — looking at the
daintily arrayed figure — " you have plenty of elegant
things to make, and I can do pretty much anything
with my needle, if you 'd like to trust me with some
work. And then — I 'm ashamed to ask so much of
you, but a few words from you to your friends, I 'm
sure, would send me all that I could do, and more."

" You think so ? " Miss Ercildoune inquired, with a
curious intonation to her voice, and the strangest ex-
pression darkening her face. " Very well, it shall be
tried."

Sallie was nonplussed by the tone and look, but she
comprehended the closing words fully and with delight.
" You will take me with you," she cried. " O, how
good, how kind you are ! how shall I ever be able to
thank you ? "

" Don't thank me at all," said Miss Ercildoune, " at

What Answer? 87

least not now. Wait till I have done something to
deserve your gratitude."

But Sallie was not to be silenced in any such
fashion, and said her say with warmth and meaning ;
then, after some further talk about time and plans,
went away carrying a bit of work which Miss Ercil-
doune had found, or made, for her, and for which she
had paid in advance.

"God bless her!" thought Sallie ; "how nice and
how thoughtful she is ! Most ladies, if they 'd done
anything for me, would have given me some money
and made a beggar of me, and I should have felt as
mean as dish-water. But now" — she patted her lit-
tle bundle and walked down the street, elated and
happy.

Francesca watched her out of the door with eyes
that presently filled with tears. " Poor girl ! " she
whispered ; " poor Sallie ! her lover has gone to the
wars with a shadow between them. Ah, that must
not be ; I must try to bring them together again, if
he loves her dearly and truly. He might die," — she
shuddered at that, — " die, as other men die, in the
heat and flame of battle. My God ! my God ! how
shall I bear it ? Dead ! and without a word ! Gone,
and he will never know how well I love him ! O Wil-
lie, Willie ! my life, my love, my darling, come back,
come back to me."

88 What Answer?

Vain cry ! — he cannot hear. Vain lifting of an
agonized face, beautiful in its agony ! — he cannot see.
Vain stretching forth of longing hands and empty
arms ! — he is not there to take them to his embrace.
Carry thy burden as others have carried it before
thee, and learn what multitudes, in times past and in
time present, have learned, — the lesson of endurance
when happiness is denied, and of patience and silence
when joy has been withheld. Go thou thy way, sor-
rowful and suffering soul, alone ; and if thy own
heart bleeds, strive thou to soothe its pangs, by medi-
cining the wounds and healing the hurts of another.

A few days thereafter, when Miss Ercildoune went
over to Philadelphia, Sallie and Frank bore her com-
pany. She had become as thoroughly interested in
them as though she had known and cared for them
for a long while ; and as she was one who was
incapable of doing in an imperfect or partial way
aught she attempted, and whose friendship never
stopped short with pleasant sounding words, this in-
terest had already bloomed beautifully, and was fast
ripening into solid fruit.

She had written in advance to desire that certain
preparations should be made for her proteges, — prepara
tions which had been faithfully attended to ; and thus,
reaching a strange city, they felt themselves not stran-
gers, since they had a home ready to receive them, and
this excellent friend by their side.

What Answer? 89

The home consisted of two rooms, neat, cheerful,
high up, — " the airier and healthier for that," as
Sallie decided when she saw them.

" I believe everything is in order," said the good-
natured-looking old lady, the mistress of the establish-
ment. " My lodgers are all gentlemen who take their
meals out, and I shall be glad of some company. Any
one whom Friend Comstock recommends will be all
right, I know."

As Mrs. Healey's style of designation indicated,
Friend Comstock was a Quakeress, well known, greatly
esteemed, an old friend of Miss Ercildoune, and of
Miss Ercildoune's father. She it was to whom Fran-
cesca had written, and who had found . this domicile
for the wanderers, and who at the outset furnished
Sallie with an abundance of fine and dainty sewing.
Indeed, without giving the matter special thought, she
was surprised to discover that, with one or two excep-
tions, the people Miss Ercildoune sent her were of the
peaceful and quiet sect. This bird of brilliant plu-
mage seemed ill assorted with the sober-hued flock.

She found in this same bird a helper in more ways
than one. It was not alone that she gave her employ-
ment and paid her well, nor that she sent her others
able and willing to do the same. She found Frankie
a good school, and saw him properly installed. She
never came to them empty-handed ; through the long.

90 What Answer?

hot summer-time she brought them fruit and flowers
from her home out of town ; and when she came not
herself, if the carriage was in the city it stopped with
these same delightful burdens. Sallie declared her an
angel, and Frank, with his mouth stuffed full, stood
ready to echo the assertion.

So the heated term wore away, — before it ended,
telling heavily on Sallie. Her anxiety about Jim, her
close confinement and constant work, the fever every-
where in the spiritual air through that first terrible
summer of the war, bore her down.

" You need rest," said Miss Ercildoune to her one
day, looking at her with kindly solicitude, — " rest, and
change, and fresh air, and freedom from care. I can't
give you the last, but I can the first if you will accept
them. You need some country living."

" O Miss Ercildoune, will you let me do your
work at your own home ? I know it would do me
good just to be under the same roof with you, and then
I should have all the things you speak of combined
and another one added. If you only will ! "

This was not the plan Francesca had proposed to
herself. She had intended sending Sallie away to some
pleasant country or seaside place, till she was refreshed
and ready to come to her work once more. Sallie
did not know what to make of the expression of the
face that watched her, nor of the exclamation, " Why

What Answer? 91

not? let me try her." But she had not long to con-
sider, for Miss Ercildoune added, " Be it so. I will
send in for you to-morrow, and you shall stay till you
are . better and stronger, or — till you please to come
home," — the last words spoken in a bitter and sor-
rowful tone.

The next day Sallie found her way to the superb
home of her employer. Superb it was, in every sense.
Never before had she been in such a delightful re-
gion, never before realized how absolutely perfect
breeding sets at ease all who come within the charm
of its magic sphere, — employed, acquaintance, or
friend.

There was a shadow, however, in this house, — a
shadow, the premonition of which she had seen more
than once on the face of its mistress ere she ever beheld
her home ; a shadow to which, for a few days, she had no
clew, but which was suddenly explained by the arrival
of the master of this beautiful habitation ; a shadow
from which most people would have fled as from the
breath of a pestilence, or the shade of the tomb ; nay,
one from which, but a few short months before, Sallie
herself would have sped with feet from which she would
have shaken the very dust of the threshold when she
was beyond its doors, — but not now. Now, as she
beheld it, she sat still to survey it, with surprise that
deepened into indignation and compassion, that many

92 What Answer?'

a time filled her eyes with tears, and brought an added
expression of respect to her voice when she spoke to
these people who seemed to have all the good things
that this world can offer, upon whom fortune had ex-
pended her treasures, yet — -

Whatever it was, Sallie came from that home with
many an old senseless prejudice destroyed forever, with
a new thought implanted in her soul, the blossoming
of which was a noxious vapor in the nostrils of some
who were compelled to inhale it, but as a sweet-smell-
ing savor to more than one weary wayfarer, and
to that God to whom the darkness and the light are
alike, and who, we are told by His own word, is no
respecter of persons.

" Poor, dear Miss Ercildoune ! " half sobbed, half
scolded Sallie, as she sat at her work, blooming and,
fresh, the day after her return. " What a tangled
thread it is, to be sure," jerking at her knotty needle-
ful. " Well, I know what I '11 do, — I '11 treat her as
if she was a queen born and crowned, just so long as
I have anything to do with her, — so I will." And
she did.

CHAPTER VIII.

" For hearts of truest mettle
Absence doth join, and time doth settle."

Anonymous.

IT were a vain endeavor to attempt the telling of
what filled the heart and soul of Surrey, as he
marched away that day from New York, and through
the days and weeks and months that followed. Fired
by a sublime enthusiasm for his country ; thirsting to
drink of any cup her hand might present, that thus he
might display his absolute devotion to her cause ; burn-
ing with indignation at the wrongs she had suffered ;
thrilled with an adoring love for the idea she embod-
ied ; eager to make manifest this love at whatever cost
of pain and sorrow and suffering to himself, — through
all this the man never once was steeped in forgetful-
ness in the soldier ; the divine passion of patriotism
never once dulled the ache, or satisfied the desire, or
answered the prayer, or filled the longing heart, that
through the day marches and the night watches cried,
and would not be appeased, for his darling.

" Surely," he thought as he went down Broadway,
as he reflected, as he considered the matter a thousand
times thereafter, — " surely I was a fool not to have

94 What Answer?

spoken to her then ; not to have seen her, have de-
vised, have forced some way to reach her ; not to
have met her face to face, and told her all the love
with which she had filled my heart and possessed my
soul. And then to have been such a coward when I
did write to her, to have so said a say which was noth-
ing " ; and he groaned impatiently as he thought of
the scene in his room and the letter which was its final
result.

How he had written once, and again, and yet
again, letters short and long, letters short and burn-
ing, or lengthy and filled almost to the final line
with delicate fancies and airy sentiment, ere he ven-
tured to tell that of which all this was but the pre-
lude ; how, at the conclusion of each attempt, he had
watched these luminous effusions blaze and burn as
he regularly committed them to the flames ; how he
found it difficult to decide which he enjoyed the most,
— writing them out, or seeing them burn ; how at last
he had put upon paper some such words as these : —

" After these delightful weeks and months of inter-
course, I am to go away from you, then, without a
single word of parting, or a solitary sentence of adieu.
Need I tell you how this pains me ? I have in vain
besieged the house that has held you ; in vain made a
thousand inquiries, a thousand efforts to discover your
retreat and to reach your side, that I might once more

What Answer? 95

see your face and take your hand ere I went from the
sight and touch of both, perchance forever. This I find
may not be. The hour strikes, and in a little space I
shall march away from the city to which my heart clings
with infinite fondness, since it is filled with associa-
tions of you. I have again and again striven to write
that which will be worthy the eyes that are to read,
and striven in vain. 'T is a fine art to which I do not
pretend. Then, in homely phrase, good by. Give
me thy spiritual hand, and keep me, if thou wilt, in
thy gentle remembrance. Adieu ! a kind adieu, my
friend ; may the brighter stars smile on thee, and the
better angels guard thy footsteps wherever thou mayst
wander, keep thy heart and spirit bright, and let thy
thoughts turn kindly back to me, I pray, very, very of-
ten. And so, once more, farewell."

Remembering all this, thinking what he would do
and say were the doing and saying yet possible in an
untried future, the time sped by. He waited and
waited in vain. He looked, yet was gratified by no
sight for which his eyes longed. He hoped, till hope
gave place to despondency and almost despair : not a
word came to him, not a line of answer or remem-
brance. This long silence was all the more intolera-
ble, since the time that intervened did but the more
vividly stamp upon his memory the delights of the
past, and color with softer and more exquisite tints

g6 What Answer f

the recollection of vanished hours, — hours spent in
galloping gayly by her side in the early morning, or
idly and deliciously lounged away in picture-galleries
or concert-rooms, or in a conversation carried on in
some curious and subtle shape between two hearts and
spirits with the help of very few uttered words ; hours
in which he had whirled her through many a fairy
maze and turn of captivating dance-music, or in some
less heated and crowded room, or cool conservatory,
listened to the voice of the siren who walked by his
side, "while the sweet wind did gently kiss the flowers
and make no noise," and the strains of " flute, violin,
bassoon," and the sounds. of the "dancers dancing in
tune," coming to them on the still air of night, seemed
like the sounds from another and a far-off world, —
listened, listened, listened, while his silver-tongued
enchantress builded castles in the air, or beguiled
his thought, enthralled his heart, his soul and fancy,
through many a golden hour.

Thinking of all this, his heart well found expression
for its feelings in the half-pleasing, half-sorrowful lines
which almost unconsciously repeated themselves again
and again in his brain : —

" Still o'er those scenes my memory wakes,
And fondly broods with miser care ;
Time but the impression deeper makes,
As streams their channels deeper wear."

What Answer? 97

Thinking of all this, he took comfort in spite of his
trouble. " Perhaps," he said to himself, " he was mis-
taken. Perhaps " — O happy thought ! — "it was but
make-believe displeasure which had so tortured him.
Perhaps — yes, he would believe it — she had never
received his letter ; they had been careless, they had
failed to give it her or to send it aright He would
write her once again, in language which would relieve
his heart, and which she must comprehend. He
loved her ; perhaps, ah, perhaps she loved him a little
in return : he would believe so till he was undeceived,
and be infinitely happy in the belief.

Is it not wondrous how even the tiniest grain of
love will permeate the saddest and sorest recesses
of the heart, and instantly cause it to pulsate with
thoughts and emotions the sweetest and dearest in
life ? O Love, thou sweet, thou young and rose
lipped cherubim, how does thy smile illuminate the
universe ! how does thy slightest touch electrify the
soul ! how gently and tenderly dost thou lead us up to
heaven !

With Surrey, to decide was to act. The second let-
ter, full of sweetest yet intensest love, — his heart laid
bare to her, — was written ; was sent, enclosed in one
to his aunt. Tom was away in another section, fight-
ing manfully for the dear old flag, or the precious mis-
sive would have been intrusted to his care. He sent
5 e

98 What Answer?

it thus that it might reach her sooner. Now that he
had a fresh hope, he could not wait to write for her
address, and forward it himself to her hands ; he
must adopt the speediest method of putting it in her
possession.

In a little space came answer from Mrs. Russell,
enclosing the letter he had sent : a kindly epistle it
was. He was a sort of idol with this same aunt, so
she had put many things on paper that were steeped
in gentleness and affection ere she said at the end, " I
re-enclose your letter. I have seen Miss Ercildoune.
She restores it to you ; she implores you never to
write her again, — to forget her. I add my entreaties
to hers. She begs of me to beseech you not to try
her by any further appeals, as she will but return them
unopened." That was all.

What could it mean ? He loved her so absolutely,
he had such exalted faith in her kindness, her gentle-
ness, her fairness and superiority, — in her, — that he
could not believe she would so thrust back his love,
purely and chivalrously offered, with something that
seemed like ignominy, unless she had a sufficient rea-
son — or one she deemed such — for treating so
cruelly him and the offering he laid at her feet.

But she had spoken. It was for him, then, when
she bade silence, to keep it ; when she refused his gift,
to refrain from thrusting it upon her attention and

What Answer f 99

heart. But ah, the silence and the refraining ! Ah,
the time — the weary, sore, intolerable time — that
followed ! Summer, and autumn, and winter, and the
seasons repeated once again, he tramped across the
soil of Virginia, already wet with rebel and patriot
blood ; he felt the shame and agony of Bull Run ; he
was in the night struggle at Ball's Bluff, where those
wondrous Harvard boys found it " sweet to die for
their country," and discovered, for them, "death to be
but one step onward in life." He lay in camp, chaf-
ing with impatience and indignation as the long
months wore away, and the thousands of graves
about Washington, filled by disease and inaction,
made "all quiet along the Potomac." He went down
to Yorktown ; was in the sweat and fury of the seven
days' fight ; away in the far South, where fever and pes-
tilence stood guard to seize those who were spared by
the bullet and bayonet ; and on many a field well lost
or won. Through it all, marching or fighting, sick,
wounded thrice and again ; praised, admired, heroic,
promoted, — from private soldier to general, — through
two years and more of such fiery experience, no part
of the tender love was burned away, tarnished, or
dimmed.

Sometimes, indeed, he even smiled at himself for
the constant thought, and felt that he must certainly
be demented on this one point at least, since it

ioo What Answer?

colored every impression of his life, and, in some
shape, thrust itself upon him at the most unseemly
and foreign times.

One evening, when the mail for the division came
in, looking over the pile of letters, his eye was caught
by one addressed to James Given. The name was fa
miliar, — that of his father's old foreman, whom he knew
to be somewhere in the army ; doubtless the same man.
Unquestionably, he thought, that was the reason he
was so attracted to it ; but why he should take up the
delicate little missive, scan it again and again, hold it
in his hand with the same touch with which he would
have pressed a rare flower, and lay it down as reluc-
tantly as he would have yielded a known and visible
treasure, — that was the mystery. He had never seen
Francesca's writing, but he stood possessed, almost
assured, of the belief that this letter was penned by
her hand ; and at last parted with it slowly and un-
willingly, as though it were the dear hand of which he
mused ; then took himself to task for this boyish
weakness and folly. Nevertheless, he went in pursuit
of Jim, not to question him, — he was too thorough a
gentleman for that, — but led on partly by his desire
to see a familiar face, partly by this folly, as he called
it with a sort of amused disdain.

Folly, however, it was not, save in such measure as
the subtle telegraphings between spirit and spirit can

What Answer? 101

be thus called. Unjustly so called they are, con-
stantly ; it being the habit of most people to denounce
as heresy or ridicule as madness things too high for
their sight or too deep for their comprehension. As
these people would say, " oddly enough," or " by an
extraordinary coincidence," this very letter was from
Miss Ercildoune, — a letter which she wrote as she pur-
posed, and as she well knew how to write, in behalf of
Sallie. It was ostensibly on quite another theme ;
asking some information in regard to a comrade, but
so cunningly devised and executed as to tell him in few
words, and unsuspiciously, some news of Sallie, — news
which she knew would delight his heart, and overthrow
the little barrier which had stood between them, mak-
ing both miserable, but which he would not, and she
could not, clamber over or destroy. It did its work
effectually, and made two hearts thoroughly happy, —
this letter which had so strangely bewitched Surrey ;
which, in his heart, spite of the ridicule of his reason,
he was so sure was hers ; and which, indeed, was
hers, though he knew not that till long afterward.

" So," he thought, as he went through the camp,
" Given is here, and near. I shall be glad to see a
face from home, whatever kind of a face it may be,
and Given's is a good one ; it will be a pleasant re-
membrancer."

" Whither away ? " called a voice behind him.

102 What Answer?

" To the 29th," he answered the questioner, one of
his officers and friends, who, coming up, took his arm,
" in pursuit of a man."
'What 's his name ? "

' Given. — christened James. What are you laugh-
ing at ? do you know him ? "

" No, I don't know him, but I 've heard some fun-
ny stories about him j he 's a queer stick, I should
think." "

" Something in that way. — Helloa! Brooks, back
again ? " to a fine, frank-looking young fellow, — " and
were you successful ? "

" Yes, to both your questions. In addition I '11 say,
for your rejoicing, that I give in, cave, subside, have
nothing more to say against your pet theory, — from
this moment swear myself a rank abolitionist, or
anything else you please, now and forever, — so help
me all ye black gods and goddesses!"

"Phew! what 's all this ?" cried Whittlesly, from
the other side of his Colonel ; " what are you driving
at ? I '11 defy anybody to make head or tail of that
answer."

"Surrey understands."

" Not I ; your riddle 's too much for me."
•" Did n't you go in pursuit of a dead man ? " queried
Whittlesly.

"Just that."

What Answer? 103

" Did the dead man convert you? "

" No, Colonel, not precisely. And yet yes, too ;
that is, I suppose I should n't have been converted if
he had n't died, and I gone in search of him."

" I believe it ; you 're such an obstinate case that
you need one raised from the dead to have any effect
on you."

" Obstinate ! O, hear the pig-headed fellow talk !
You 're a beauty to discourse on that point, are n't
you ! "

Surrey laughed, and stopped at the call of one of
his men, who hailed him as he went by. Evidently a
favorite here as in New York, in camp as at home ;
for in a moment he was surrounded by the men, who
crowded about him, each with a question, or remark,
to draw special attention to himself, and a word or
smile from his commander. Whatever complaint they
had to enter, or petition to make, or favor to beg, or
wish to urge, whatever help they wanted or information
they desired, was brought to him to solve or to grant,
and — never being repulsed by their officer — they
speedily knew and loved their friend. Thus it was
that the two men standing at a little distance, watch-
ing the proceeding, were greatly amused at the motley
drafts made upon his attention in the shape of tents,
shoes, coats, letters to be sent or received, books bor-
rowed and lent, a man sick, or a chicken captured.

104 What Answer?

They brought their interests and cares to him, — these
big, brown fellows, — as though they were children, and
he a parent well beloved.

" One might think him the father of the regiment,"
said Brooks, with a smile.

" The mother, more like : it must be the woman
element in him these fellows feel and love so."

" Perhaps ; but it would have another effect on them,
if, for instance, he did n't carry that sabre-slash on his
hand. They 've seen him under steel and fire, and
know where he 's led them."

" What is this you were joking about with him, a
while ago ? "

" What ! about turning abolitionist ? "

" Precisely."

" O, you know he 's rampant on the slavery ques-
tion. I believe it 's the only thing he ever loses his
temper over, and he has lost it with me more than
once. I 've always been a rank heretic with regard to
Cuffee, and the result was, we disagreed."

"Yes, I know. But what connection has that
with your expedition ? "

"Just what I want to know," added Surrey, coming
up at the moment.

" Ah ! you 're in time to hear the confession, are
you ? "

" ' An honest confession — ' You know what the
wise man says."

What Answer? 105

" Come, don't flatter yourself we will think you so
because you quote him. Be quiet, both of you, and
let me go on to tell my tale."

" Attention ! "

"'Proceed ! "

"Thus, then. You understand what my errand
was?"

" Not exactly ; Lieutenant Hunt was drowned
somewhere, was n't he ? "

" Yes : fell overboard from a tug ; the men on board
tried to save him, and then to recover his body, and
could n't do either. Some of his people came down
here in pursuit of it, and I was detailed with a squad
to help them in their search.

"Well, the naval officers gave us every facility in
their power ; the river was dragged twice over, and the
woods along-shore ransacked, hoping it might have
been washed in and, maybe, buried ; but there was n't
sight or trace of it. While we were hunting round we
stumbled on a couple of darkies, who told us, after a
bit of questioning, that darky number three, some-
where about, had found the body of a Federal officer
on the river bank, and buried it. On that hint we
acted, posted over to the fellow's shanty, and found,
not him, but his wife, who was ready enough to tell us
all she knew. She showed us some traps of the buried
officer, among them a pair of spurs, which his brother
5*

106 What Answer?

recognized directly. When she was quite sure that we
were all correct, and that the thing had fallen into the
right hands, she fished out of some safe corner his
wallet, with fifty-seven dollars in it. I confess I stared,
for they were slaves, both of them, and evidently poor
as Job's turkey, and it has always been one of my
theories that a nigger invariably steals when he gets
a chance. However, I was n't going to give in at
that."

" Of course you were n't," said the Colonel. " Did
you ever read about the man who was told that the
facts did not sustain his theory, and of his sublime
answer ? ' Very well,' said he, ' so much the worse for
the facts ! ' "

" Come, Colonel, you talk too much. How am I
ever to get on with my narrative, if you keep interrupt-
ing me in this style ? Be quiet."

"Word of command. Quiet. Quiet it is. Con-
tinue."

" No, I said, of course they expect some reward, —
that 's it."

" What an ass you must be ! " broke in Whittlesly.
" Had n't you sense enough to see they could keep the
whole of it, and nobody the wiser ? and of course they
could n't have supposed any one was coming after it,
— could they ? "

" How am I to know what they thought ? If you

What Answer? 107

doa't stop your comments, I '11 stop the story ; take
your choice."

"All right : go ahead."

" While I was considering the case, in came the
master of the mansion, — a thin, stooped, tired-looking
little fellow, — i Sam,' he told us, was his name ; then
proceeded to narrate how he had found the body, and
knew the uniform, and was kind and tender with it be-
cause of its dress, ' for you see, sah, we darkies is all
Union folks ' ; how he had brought it up in the night,
for fear of his Secesh master, and made a coffin for it,
and buried it decently. After that he took us out to a
little spot of fresh earth, covered with leaves and twigs,
and, digging down, we came to a rough pine box made
as well as the poor fellow knew how to put it together.
Opening it, we found all that was left of poor Hunt,
respectably clad in a coarse, clean white garment
which Sam's wife had made as nicely as she could out
of her one pair of sheets. c It wa' n't much,' said the
good soul, with tears in her eyes, ' it wa' n't much we's
could do for him, but I washed him, and dressed him,
peart as I could, and Sam and me, we buried him.
We wished, both on us, that we could have done heaps
more for him, but we did all that we could,' — which,
indeed, was plain enough to be seen.

"Before we went away, Sam brought from a little
hole, which he burrowed in the floor of his cabin, a

108 What Answer?

something, done up in dirty old rags ; and when we
opened it, what under the heavens do you suppose we
found ? You '11 never guess. Three hundred dollars
in bank-bills, and some important papers, which he had
taken and hid, — concealed them even from his wife,
because, he said, the guerillas often came round, and
they might frighten her into giving them up if she
knew they were there.

" I collapsed at that, and stood with open mouth,
watching for the next proceeding. I knew there was
to be some more of it, and there was. Hunt's brother
offered back half the money ; offered 'it! why, he tried
to force it on the fellow, and could n't. His master
would n't let him buy himself and his wife, — I sus-
pect, out of sheer cussedness, — and he had n't any
other use for money, he said. Besides, he did n't want
to take, and would n't take, anything that looked like
pay for doing aught for a ' Linkum sojer,' alive or dead.

" ' They 'se going to make us all free, sometime,' he
said, ' that 's enough. Don't look like it, jest yet, I
knows ; but I lives in faith ; it '11 come byumby.'
When the fellow said that, I declare to you, Surrey,
I felt like hiding my face. At last I began to compre-
hend what your indignation meant against the order
forbidding slaves coming into our lines, and command-
ing their return when they succeed in entering. Just
then we all seemed to me meaner than dirt."

What Answer? 109

" As we are ; and, as dirt, deserve to be trampled
underfoot, beaten, defeated, till we 're ready to stand up
and fight like men in this struggle."

" Amen to that, Colonel," added Whittlesly.

" Well, I 'm pretty nearly ready to say so myself,"
finished Brooks, half reluctantly.

CHAPTER IX.

"The best-laid schemes o' mice and men
Gang aft agley."

Burns.

THEY .did n't find Jim in the camp of his regi-
ment, so went up to head-quarters to institute
inquiries.

" Given ? " a little thought and investigation. " Oh !
Given is out on picket duty."

" Whereabouts ? "

The direction indicated. "Thanks! we'll find him."
Having commenced the search, Surrey was determined
to end it ere he turned back, and his two friends bore
him company. As they came down the road, they
saw in the distance a great stalwart fellow, red-shirted
and conspicuous, evidently absorbed in some singular
task, — what they did not perceive, till, coming to
closer quarters, they discovered, perched by his side, a
tin cup filled with soap-suds, a pipe in his mouth, and
that by the help of the two he was regaling himself
with the pastime of blowing bubbles.

" I '11 wager that's Jim," said Surrey, before he saw
his face.

" It 's like him, certainly : from what I Ve heard of

What Answer? hi

him, I think he would die outright if he could n't
amuse himself in some shape."

"Why, the fellow must be a curiosity worth coming
here to see."

" Pretty nearly."

Surrey walked on a little in advance, and tapped
him on the shoulder. Down came the pipe, up went
the hand in a respectful military salute, but before it
was finished he saw who was before him.

" Wow ! " he exclaimed, " if it ain't Mr. Willie Sur-
rey. My! ain't I glad to see you? How do you do ?
The sight of you is as good as a month's pay."

" Come, Given, don't stun me with compliments,"
cried Surrey, laughing and putting out his hand to
grasp the big, red paw that came to meet it, and
shake it heartily. " If I 'd known you were over here,
I 'd have found you before, though my regiment has n't
been down here long."

Jim at that looked sharply at the " eagles," and then
over the alert, graceful person, finishing his inspection
with an approving nod, and the emphatic declaration,
" Well, if I know what's what, and I rayther reckon I
do, you 're about the right rigger for an officer, and on
the whole I 'd sooner pull off my cap to you than any
other fellow I've seen round," — bringing his hand
once more to the salute.

" Why, Jim, you have turned courtier ; army life is

112 What Answer?

spoiling you," protested the inspected one ; protest-
ing,— yet pleased, as any one might have been, at
the evidently sincere admiration.

"Nary time," Jim strenuously denied; and, these
little courtesies being ended, they talked about enlist-
ment, and home, and camp, and a score of things that
interested officer and man alike. In the midst of the
confab a dust was seen up the road, coming nearer,
and presently out of it appeared a family carriage
somewhat dilapidated and worse for wear, but still
quite magnificent ; enthroned on the back seat a full-
blown F. F. V, with rather more than the ordinary
measure of superciliousness belonging to his race ;
driven, of course, by his colored servant. Jim made
for the middle of the road, and, holding his bayonet in
such wise as to threaten at one charge horse, negro,
and chivalry, roared out, " Tickets ! "

At such an extraordinary and unceremonious de-
mand the knight flushed angrily, frowned, made an
expressive gesture with his lips and his nose which
suggestively indicated that there was something offen-
sive in the air between the wind and his gentility,
ending the pantomime by finding a pass and handing
it over to his " nigger," then — not deigning to speak
— motioned him and it to the threatening figure. As
this black man came forward, Brooks, looking at him
a moment, cried excitedly, " By Jove ! it's Sam."

What Answer f 113

"No? Hunt's Sam?"

"Yes, the very same; and I suppose that's his
cantankerous old master."

Surrey ran forward to Jim, for the three had fallen
back when the carriage came near, and said a few
sentences to him quickly and earnestly.

"All right, Colonel ! just as you please," he replied.
"You leave it to me ; I '11 fix him." Then, turning to
Sam, who stood waiting, demanded, "Well, have you
got it ? "

"Yes, massa."

" Fork over," — and looking at it a moment pro-
nounced " All right ! Move on ! " elucidating the
remark by a jerk at the coat-collar of the unsuspecting
Sam, which sent him whirling up the road at a fine but
uncomfortable rate of speed.

" Now, sir, what do you want ? " addressing the as-
tounded chevalier, who sat speechlessly observant of
this unlooked-for proceeding.

" Want ? " cried the irate Virginian, his anger loos-
ening his tongue, " want ? I want to go on, of course ;
that was my pass."

" Was it now ? I want to know ! that 's singular !
Why did n't you offer it yourself then ? "

" Because I thought my nigger a fitter person to
parley with a Lincoln vandal," loftily responded his
eminence.

H

114 What Answer?

"That's kind of you, I 'm sure. Sorry I can't
oblige you in return, — very; but you'll just have to
turn tail and drive back again. That bit of paper
says ' Pass the bearer,' and the bearer 's already
passed. You can't get two men through this picket on
one man's pass, not if one is a nigger and t'other a
skunk ; so, sir, face about, march ! "

This was an unprepared-for dilemma. Mr. V.
looked at the face of the " Lincoln vandal," but saw
there no sign of relenting ; then into the distance
whither he was anxiously desirous to tend ; glanced
reflectively at the bayonet in the centre and the nar-
row space on either side the road ; and finally called
to his black man to come back.

Sam approached with reluctance, and fell back with
alacrity when the glittering steel was brandished to-
wards his own breast.

"Where 's your pass, sirrah ? " demanded Jim, with
asperity.

" Here, massa, " said the chattel, presenting the
same one which had already been examined,

"Won't do," said Jim. "Can't come that game
over this child. That passes you to Fairfax, — can't
get any one from Fairfax on that ticket. Come,"
flourishing the shooting-stick once more, " move
along " ; which Sam proceeded to do with extraordi-
nary readiness.

What Answer? 115

" Now, sir," turning to the again speechless cheva-
lier, " if you stay here any longer, I shall take you un-
der arrest to head-quarters : consequently, you 'd bet-
ter accept the advice of a disinterested friend, and
make tracks, lively."

By this time the scion of a latter-day chivalry
seemed to comprehend the situation, seized his lines,
wheeled about, and went off at a spanking trot over
the " sacred soil," — Jim shouting after him, " I say,
Mr. F. F. V., if you meet any 'Lincoln vandals,' just
give them my respects, will you ? " to which as the
knight gave no answer, we are left in doubt to this
day whether Given's commission was ever executed.

" There ! my mmd 's relieved on that point," an-
nounced Jim, wiping his face with one hand and shak-
ing the other after the retreating dust. " Mean old
scoot ! I '11 teach him to insult one of our boys, —
' Lincoln vandals ' indeed ! I 'd like to have whanged
him ! " with a final shake and a final explosion, cool-
ing off as rapidly as he had heated, and continuing
the interrupted conversation with recovered temper
and sang froid.

He was delighted at meeting Surrey, and Surrey
was equally glad to see once more his old favorite,
for Jim and he had been great friends when he was a
little boy and had watched the big boy at work in his
father's foundry, — a favoritism which, spite of years

n6 What Answer?

and changes, and wide distinctions of social position,
had never altered nor cooled, and which showed itself
now in many a pleasant shape and fashion so long as
they were near together.

They aided and abetted one another in more ways
than one. Jim at Surrey's request, and by a plan of
his proposing, succeeded in getting Sam's wife away
from her home, — not from any liking for the expedi-
tion, or interest in either of the " niggers," as he stoutly
asserted, but solely to please the Colonel. If that,
indeed, were his only purpose, he succeeded to a
charm, for when Surrey saw the two re-united, safe
from the awful clutch of slavery, supplied with ample
means for the journey and the settlement thereafter,
and on their way to a good Northern home, he was
more than pleased, — he was rejoiced, and said,
" Thank God ! " with all his heart, and reverently, as
he watched them away.

Before the summer ended Jim was down with what
he called " a scratch " ; a pretty ugly wound, the sur-
geon thought it, and the Colonel remembered and
looked after him with unflagging interest and zeal.
Many a book and paper, many a cooling drink and bit
of fruit delicious to the parched throat and fevered lips,
found their way to the little table by his side. Surrey
was never too busy by reason of his duties, or among
his own sick and wounded men, to find time for a chat,

I

What Answer? 117

or a scrap of reading, or to write a letter for the pros-
trate and helpless fellow, who suffered without com-
plaining, as, indeed, they did all about him, only
relieving himself now and then by a suppressed growl.

And so, with occasional episodes of individual inter-
est, with marches and fightings, with extremes of heat
and cold, of triumph and defeat, the long months wore
away. These men were soldiers, each in his place in
the great war with the record of which all the world is
familiar, a tale written in blood, and flame, and tears,
— terrible, yet heroic ; ghastly, yet sublime. As
soldiers in such a conflict, they did their duty and
noble endeavor, — Jim, a nameless private in the
ranks, — Surrey, not braver perchance, but so conspic-
uous with all the elements which fit for splendid com-
mand, so fortunate in opportunities for their display, so
eminent in seizing them and using them to their fullest
extent, regardless of danger and death, as to make his
name known and honored by all who watched the
progress of the fight, read its record with interest, and
knew its heroes and leaders with pride and love.

In the winter of '63 Jim's regiment was ordered
away to South Carolina • and he who at parting
looked with keen regret on the face of the man who
had been so faithful and well tried a friend, would
have looked upon it with something deeper and sad-
der, could he at the same time have gazed a little way

Ii8 What Answer?

into the future, and seen what it held in store for
him.

Four months after he marched away, Surrey's bri-
gade was in that awful fight and carnage of Chancel-
lorsville, where men fought like gods to counteract the
blunders, and retrieve the disaster, induced by a stunned
and helpless brain. There was he stricken down,
at the head of his command, covered with dust and
smoke ; . twice wounded, yet refusing to leave the
field, — his head bound with a handkerchief, his eyes
blazing like stars beneath its stained folds, his voice
cheering on his men ; three horses shot under him ; on
foot then ; contending for every inch of the ground he
was compelled to yield ; giving way only as he was
forced at the point of the bayonet ; his men eager to
emulate him, to follow him into the jaws of death, to
fall by his side, — thus was he prostrated ; not dead,
as they thought and feared when they seized him and
bore him at last from the field, but insensible, bleed-
ing with frightful abundance, his right arm shattered
to fragments ; not dead, yet at death's door — and
looking in.

May blossoms had dropped, and June harvests were
ripe on all the fields, ere he could take advantage
of the unsolicited leave, and go home. Home — for
which his heart longed !

He was not, however, in too great haste to stop by

What Answer f 119

the way, to pause in Washington, and do what he had
sooner intended to accomplish, — solicit, as a special
favor to himself, as an honor justly won by the man
for whom he entreated it, a promotion for Jim. " It
is impossible now," he was informed, "but the case
should be noted and remembered. If anything could
certainly secure the man an advance, it was the advo-
cacy of General Surrey " ; and so, not quite content,
but still satisfied that Jim's time was in the near fu-
ture, he went on his way.

As the cars approached Philadelphia his heart beat
so fast that it almost stifled him, and he leaned
against the window heavily for air and support. It
was useless to reason with himself, vain to call good
judgment to his counsels and summon wisdom to his
aid. This was her home. Somewhere in this city to
which he was so rapidly hastening, she was moving
up and down, had her being, was living and loving.
After these long years his eyes so ached to see her, his
heart was so hungry for her presence, that it seemed
to him as though the sheer longing would call her out
of her retreat, on to the streets through which he
must pass, across his path, into the sight of his eyes
and reach of his hand. He had thought that he felt
all this before. He found, as the space diminished
between them, — ■ as, perchance, she was but a stone's
throw from his side, — that the pain, and the longing,

120 What Answer?

and the intolerable desire to behold her once again,
increased a hundred-fold.

Eager as he had been a little while before to reach
his home, he was content to remain quietly here now.
He laughed at himself as he stepped into a carriage,
and, tired as he was, — for his amputated arm, not yet
thoroughly healed, made him weak and worn, — drove
through all the afternoon and evening, across miles
and miles of heated, wearisome stones, possessed by
the idea that somewhere, somehow, he should see her,
he would find her before his quest was done.

After that last painful rebuff, he did not dare to go
to her home, could he find it, till he had secured from
her, in some fashion, a word or sign. " This," he
said, " is certainly doubly absurd, since she does not
live in the city ; but she is here to-day, I know, — she
must be here " ; and persisted in his endeavor, — per-
sisted, naturally, in vain ; and went to bed, at last,
exhausted ; determined that to-morrow should find him
on his journey farther north, whatever wish might plead
for delay, yet with a final cry for her from the depths
of his soul, as he stretched out his solitary arm, ere
sinking to restless sleep, and dreams of battle and
death — sleep unrefreshing, and dreams ilk-omened; as
he thought, again and again, rousing himself from their
hold, and looking out to the night, impatient for the
break of clay.

What Answer f 12 1

When day broke he was unable to rise with its
dawn. The effect of all this tension on his already
overtaxed nerves was to induce a fever in the unhealed
arm, which, though not painful, was yet sufficient to
hold him close prisoner for several days ; a delay
which chafed him, and which filled his family at home
with an intolerable anxiety, not that they knew its
cause, — that would have been a relief, — but that they
conjectured another, to them infinitely worse than sick-
ness or suffering, bad and sorrowful as were these.

CHAPTER X.

" Gentlemen, let not prejudice prepossess you."

Izaak Walton.

CAR No. 14, Fifth Street line, Philadelphia, was
crowded. Travelling bags, shawls, and dusters
marked that people were making for the 1 1 a. m. New
York train, Kensington depot. One pleasant-looking
old gentleman whose face shone under a broad brim,
and whose cleanly drabs were brought into distasteful
proximity with the garments of a drunken coal-heaver,
after a vain effort to edge away, relieved his mind by
turning to his neighbor with the statement, " Consis-
tency is a jewel."

"Undoubtedly true, Mr. Greenleaf," answered the
neighbor, " but what caused the remark ? "

" That," — looking with mild disgust at the dirty and
ragged leg sitting by his own. " Here 's this filthy
fellow, a nuisance to everybody near him, can ride in
these cars, and a nice, respectable colored person
can't. So I could n't help thinking, and saying, that
consistency is a jewel."

" Well, it 's a shame, — that 's a fact ; but of course
nobody can interfere if the companies don't choose to
let them ride ; it 's their concern, not ours."

What Answer? 123

" There 's a fine specimen now, out there on the
sidewalk." The fine specimen was a large, powerfully
made man, black as ebony, dressed in army blouse
and trousers, one leg gone, — evidently very tired, for
he leaned heavily on his crutches. The conductor, a
kindly-faced young fellow, pulled the strap, and helped
him on to the platform with a peremptory " Move up
front, there ! " to the people standing inside.

" Why ! " exclaimed the old Friend, — " do my eyes
deceive me?" Then getting up, and taking the man
by the arm, he seated him in his own place : " Thou
art less able to stand than I."

Tears rushed to his eyes as he said, " Thank you,
sir ! you are too kind." Evidently he was weak, and
as evidently unaccustomed to find any one " too kind."

" Thee has on the army blue ; has thee been fighting
any?"

" Yes, sir ! " he answered, promptly.

" I did n't know black men were in the army ; yet
thee has lost a leg. Where did that go ? "

" At Newbern, sir."

" At Newbern, — ah ! long ago ? and how did it
happen ? "

" Fourteenth of March, sir. There was a land fight,
and the gunboats came up to the rescue. Some of us
black men were upon board a little schooner that
carried one gun. ' T was n't a great deal we could do

124 What Answer?

with that, but we did the best we could ; and got well
peppered in return. This is what it did for. me," —
looking down at the stump.

" I guess thee is sorry now that thee did n't keep
out of it, is n't thee ? "

"No, sir j no indeed, sir. If I had five hundred legs
and fifty lives, I 'd be glad to give them all in such a
war as this."

Here somebody got out ; the old Friend sat down ;
and the coal-heaver, roused by the stir, lifted himself
from his drunken sleep, and, looking round, saw who
was beside him.

A vile oath, an angry stare from his bloodshot eyes.

" Ye , what are ye doin' here ? out wid ye,

quick ! "

" What 's the matter ? " queried the conductor, who
was collecting somebody's fare.

" The matther, is it ? matther enough ! what 's this
nasty nagur doin' here ? Put him out, can't ye ? "

The conductor took no notice.

" Conductor ! " spoke up a well-dressed man, with
the air and manner of a gentleman, " what does that
card say ? "

The conductor looked at the card indicated, upon
which was printed " Colored people not allowed in this
car," legible enough to require less study than he saw
fit to give it. " Well ! " he said.

What Answer f 125

" Well," was the answer, — " your duty is plain. Put
that fellow out."

The conductor hesitated, — looked round the car.
Nobody spoke.

" I 'm sorry, my man ! I hoped there would be no
objection when I let you in ; but our orders are strict,
and, as the passengers ain't willing, you'll have to
get off," — jerking angrily at the bell.

As the car slackened speed, a young officer, whom
nobody noticed, got on.

There was a moment's pause as the black man gath-
ered up his crutches, and raised himself painfully.
" Stop ! " cried a thrilling and passionate voice, —
" stand still ! Of what stuff are you made to sit here
and see a man, mangled and maimed in your cause
and for your defence, insulted and outraged at the bid-
ding of a drunken boor and a cowardly traitor ? " The
voice, the beautiful face, the intensity burning through
both, electrified every soul to which she appealed.
Hands were stretched out to draw back the crippled
soldier ; eyes that a moment before were turned away
looked kindly at him ; a Babel of voices broke out,
"No, no," "let him stay," "it's a shame," "let
him alone, conductor," " we ain't so bad as that,"
with more of the same kind ; those who chose not to
join in the chorus discreetly held their peace, and
made no attempt to sing out of time and tune.

126 What Answer?

The car started again. The gentleman, furious at
the turn of the tide, cried out, " Ho, ho ! here 's a
pretty preacher of the gospel of equality ! why, ladies
and gentlemen, this high-flyer, who presumes to lec-
ture us, is nothing but a"

The sentence was cut short in mid-career, the inso-
lent sneer dashed out of his face, — face and form
prone on the floor of the car, — while over him bent
and blazed the young officer, whose entrance^ a little
while before, nobody had heeded.

Spurning the prostrate body at his feet, he turned
to Francesca, for it was she, and stretched out his
hand, — his left hand, — -his only one. It was time ;
all the heat, and passion, and color, had died out, and
she stood there shivering, a look of suffering in her
face.

" Miss Ercildoune ! you are ill, — you need the air,
— allow me ! " drawing her hand through his arm, and •
taking her out with infinite deference and care.

" Thank you ! a moment's faintness, — it is over
now," as they reached the sidewalk.

" No, no, you are too ill to walk, — let me get you a
carriage."

Hailing one that was passing by, he put her in, his
hand lingering on hers, lingering on the folds of her
dress as he bent to arrange it ; his eyes clinging to her
face with a passionate, woful tenderness. " It is two

What Answer? 127

years since I saw you, since I have heard from you,"
he said, his voice hoarse with the effort to speak
quietly.

"Yes," she answered, " it is two years." Stooping
her head to write upon a card, her lips moved as if
they said something, — something that seemed like
" I must ! only once ! " but of course that could not
be. " It is my address," she then said, putting the
card in his hand. " I shall be happy to see you in
my own home."

" This afternoon ? " eagerly.

She hesitated. " Whenever you may call. I thank
you again, — and good morning."

Meanwhile the car had moved on its course : out-
wardly, peaceful enough ; inwardly, full of commotion.
The conservative gentleman, gathering himself up from
his prone estate, white with passion and chagrin, saw
about him everywhere looks of scorn, and smiles of
derision and contempt, and fled incontinently from
the sight.

His coal-heaving confrere, left to do battle alone,
came to the charge valiant and unterrified. Another
outbreak of blasphemy and obscenity were the weap-
ons of assault ; the ladies looked shocked, the gentle-
men indignant and disgusted.

" Friend," called the non-resistant broad-brim, beck-
oning peremptorily to the conductor, — " friend, come
here."

128 What Answer 1

The conductor came.

" If colored persons are not permitted to ride, I
suppose it is equally against the rules of the company
to allow nuisances in their cars. Is n't it ? "

" You are right, sir," assented the conductor, up-
on whose face a smile of comprehension began to
beam.

" Well, I don't know what thee thinks, or what
these other people think, but I know of no worse nui-
sance than a filthy, blasphemous drunkard. There he
sits, — remove him."

There was a perfect shout of laughter and delight ;
and before the irate " citizen " comprehended what
was intended, or could throw himself into a pugilistic
attitude, he was seized, sans ceremony, and ignomin-
iously pushed and hustled from the car ; the people
therein, black soldier and all, drawing a long breath
of relief, and going on their way rejoicing. Every-
body's eyes were brighter; hearts beat faster, blood
moved more quickly ; everybody felt a sense of ela-
tion, and a kindness towards their neighbor and all
the world. A cruel and senseless prejudice had been
lost in an impulse, generous and just ; and for a mo-
ment the sentiment which exalted their humanity, viv-
ified and gladdened their souls.

CHAPTER XI.

" The future seemed barred
By the corpse of a dead hope."

Owen Meredith.

SO, then, after these long years he had seen her
again. Having seen her, he wondered how he
had lived without her. If the wearisome months
seemed endless in passing, the morning hours were an
eternity. " This afternoon ? " he had said. " Be it so,"
she had answered. He did not dare to go till then.

Thinking over the scene of the morning, he scarcely
dared go at all. She had not offered her hand ; she
had expressed no pleasure, either by look or word, at
meeting him again. He had forced her to say,
" Come " : she could do no less when he had just in-
terfered to save her insult, and had begged the boon.

" Insult ! " his arm ached to strike another blow, as
he remembered the sentence it had cut short. Of
course the fellow had been drinking, but outrage of
her was intolerable, whatever madness prompted it.
The very sun must shine more brightly, and the wind
blow softly, when she passed by. Ah me ! were the
whole world what an ardent lover prays for his mistress,
there were no need of death to enjoy the bliss of
heaven.

6* i

130 What Answer?

What could he say ? what do ? how find words
to speak the measured feelings of a friend ? how con-
trol the beatings of his heart, the passion of his soul,
that no sign should escape to wound or offend her?
She had bade him to silence : was he sufficiently
master of himself to strike the lighter keys without
sounding some deep chords that would jar upon her
ear?

He tried to picture the scene of their second meet-
ing. He repeated again and again her formal title,
Miss Ercildoune, that he might familiarize his tongue
and his ear to the sound, and not be on the instant
betrayed into calling the name which he so often ut-
tered in his thoughts. He said over some civil, kindly
words of greeting, and endeavored to call up, and ar-
range in order, a theme upon which he should con-
verse. " I shall not dare to be silent," he thought,
" for if I am, my silence will tell the tale ; and if that
do not, she will hear it from the throbbings of my
heart. I don't know though," — he laughed a little, as
he spoke aloud, — bitterly it would have been, had his
voice been capable of bitterness, — " perhaps she will
think Lie organism of the poor thing has become
diseased in camp and fightings," — putting his hand
up to his throat and holding the swollen veins, where
the blood was beating furiously.

Presently he went down stairs and out to the street,

What Answer? 131

in pursuit of some cut flowers which he found in a lit-
tle cellar, a stone's throw from his hotel, — a fresh,
damp little cellar, which smelt, he could not help
thinking, like a grave. Coming out to the sunshine,
he shook himself with disgust. " Faugh ! " he thought,
" what sick fancies and sentimental nonsense possess
me ? I am growing unwholesome. My dreams of the
other night have come back to torment me in the day.
These must put them to flight.

The fancy which had sent him in pursuit of these
flowers he confessed to be a childish one, but none
the less soothing for that. He had remembered that
the first day he beheld her a nosegay had decorated
his button-hole ; a fair, sweet-scented thing which
seemed, in some subtle way, like her. He wanted
now just such another, — some mignonette, and gera-
nium, and a single tea-rosebud. Here they were, —
the very counterparts of those which he had worn on a
brighter and happier day. How like they were ! how
changed was he ! In some moods he would have
smiled at this bit of girlish folly as he fastened the lit-
tle thing over his heart ; now, something sounded in
his throat that was pitifully like a sob. Don't smile at
him ! he was so young j so impassioned, yet gentle ;
and then he loved so utterly with the whole of his
great, sore heart.

By and by the time came to go, and eager, yet

132 What Answer?

fearful, he went. It was a fresh, beautiful day in early
June ; and when the city, with its heat, and dust, and
noise, was left behind, and all the leafy greenness —
the soothing quiet of country sights and country
sounds — met his ear and eye, a curious peace took
possession of his soul. It was less the whisper of
hope than the calm of assured reality. For the mo-
ment, unreasonable as it seemed, something made him
blissfully sure of her love, spite of the rebuffs and
coldness she had compelled him to endure.

" This is the place, sir ! " suddenly called his driver,
stopping the horses in front of a stately avenue of
trees, and jumping down to open the gates.

"You need not drive in; you may wait here."

This, then, was her home. He took in the exqui-
site beauty of the place with a keen pleasure. It was
right that all things sweet and fine should be about
her ; he had before known that they were, but it de-
lighted him to see them with his own eyes. Walking
slowly towards the house, — slowly, for he was both
impelled and retarded by the conflicting feelings that
mastered him, — he heard her voice at a little distance,
singing ; and directly she came out of a by-path, and
faced him. He need not have feared the meeting ;
at least, any display of emotion ; she gave no oppor-
tunity for any such thing.

A frankly extended hand, — an easy " Good after-

What Answer! 133

noon, Mr. Surrey!" That was all. It was a cool,
beautiful room into which she ushered him ; a room
filled with an atmosphere of peace, but which was any
thing but peaceful to him. He was restless, nervous ;
eager and excited, or absent and still. He deter-
mined to master his emotion, and give no outward
sign of the tempest raging within.

At the instant of this conclusion his eye was caught
by an exquisite portrait miniature upon an easel near
him. Bending over it, taking it into his hands, his
eyes went to and fro from the pictured face to the hu-
man one, tracing the likeness in each. Marking his
interest, Francesca said, " It is my mother."

" If the eyes were dark, this would be your veritable
image."

" Or, if mine were blue, I should be a portrait of
mamma, which would be better."

" Better ? "

" Yes." She was looking at the picture with weary
eyes, which he could not see. " I had rather be the
shadow of her than the reality of myself : an absurd
fancy ! " she added, with a smile, suddenly remember-
ing herself.

" I would it were true ! " he exclaimed.

She looked a surprised inquiry. His thought was,
" for then I should steal you, and wear you always on
my heart." But of course he could speak no such

134 What Answer?

lover's nonsense ; so he said, " Because of the fitness
of things ; you wished to be a shadow, which' is im-
material, and hence of the substance of angels."

Truly he was improving. His effort to betray no
love had led him into a ridiculous compliment.
" What an idiot she will think me to say anything so
silly ! " he reflected ; while Francesca was thinking,
" He has ceased to love me, or he would not resort to
flattery. It is well ! " but the pang that shot through
her heart belied the closing thought, and, glancing at
him, the first was denied by the unconscious expression
of his eyes. Seeing that, she directly took alarm, and
commenced to talk upon a score of indifferent themes.

He had never seen her in such a mood : gay, witty,
brilliant, — full of a restless sparkle and fire ; she
would not speak an earnest word, nor hear one. She
flung about bon-mots, and chatted airy persiflage till
his heart ached. At another time, in another condition,
he would have been delighted, dazzled, at this strange
display ; but not now. ^

In some careless fashion the war had been alluded
to, and she spoke of Chancellorsville. " It was there
you were last wounded ? "

" Yes," he answered, not even looking down at the
empty sleeve.

" It was there you lost your arm ? "

" Yes," he answered again, " I am sorry it was my
sword-arm."

What Answer f 135

" It was frightful," — holding her breath. " Do
you know you were reported mortally wounded ?
worse ? "

" I have heard that I was sent up with the slain,"
he replied, half-smiling.

" It is true. I looked for your name in the columns
of ' wounded ' and ' missing,' and read it at last in
the list of 'killed.'"

" For the sake of old times, I trust you were a little
sorry to so read it," he said, sadly, for the tone hurt
him.

" Sorry ? yes, I was sorry. Who, indeed, of your
friends would not be ? "

" Who, indeed ? " he repeated : " I am afraid the
one whose regret I should most desire would sorrow
the least."

" It is very like," she answered, with seeming care-
lessness, — " disappointment is the rule of life."

This would not do. He was getting upon danger-
ous ground. He would change the theme, and pre-
vent any farther speech till he was better master of it.
He begged for some music. She sat down at once
and played for him ; then sang at his desire. Rich as
she was in the gifts of nature, her voice was the chief, —
thrilling, flexible, with a sympatheiie quality that in
singing pathetic music brought tears, though the
hearer understood not a word of the language in which

136 What Answer?

she sang. In the old time he had never wearied lis-
tening, and now he besought her to repeat for him
some of the dear, familiar songs. If these held for her
any associations, he did not know it ; she gave no out-
ward sign, — sang to him as sweetly and calmly as to
the veriest stranger. What else had he expected ?
Nothing ; yet, with the unreasonableness of a lover,
was disappointed that nothing appeared.

Taking up a piece at random, without pausing to
remember the words, he said, spreading it before her,
" May I tax you a little farther ? I am greedy, I
know, but then how can I help it ? "

It was the song of the Princess.

She hesitated a moment, and half closed the book.
Had he been standing where he could see her face, he
would have been shocked by its pallor. It was over
directly : she recovered herself, and, opening the
music with a resolute air, began to sing : —

" Ask me no more : the moon may draw the sea ;

The cloud may stoop from heaven and take the shape,
"With fold to fold, of mountain and of cape ;
But, O too fond, when have I answered thee ?
Ask me no more."

" Ask me no more : what answer should I give ?
I love not hollow cheek or faded eye ;
Yet, O my friend, I will not have thee die !
Ask me no more, lest I should bid thee live :
Ask mc no more."

What Answer? 137

She sang thus far with a clear, untrembling voice, —
so clear and untrembling as to be almost metallic, —
the restraint she had put upon herself making it un-
natural. At the commencement she had estimated
her strength, and said, " It is sufficient ! " but she
had overtaxed it, as she found in singing the last
verse : —

" Ask me no more : thy fate and mine are sealed ;
I strove against the stream and all in vain ;
Let the great river take me to the main ;
No more, dear love, for at a touch I jdeld :
Ask me no more."

All the longing, the passion, the prayer of which a
human soul is capable found expression in her voice.
It broke through the affected coldness and calm, as
the ocean breaks through its puny barriers when, after
wind and tempest, all its mighty floods are out. Sur-
rey had changed his place, and stood fronting her.
As the last word fell, she looked at him, and the two
faces saw in each but a reflection of the same passion
and pain : pallid, with eyes burning from an inward
fire, — swayed by the same emotion, — she bent for-
ward as he, stretching forth his arms, in a stifling voice
cried, " Come !"

Bent, but for an instant ; then, by a superhuman
effort, turned from him, and put out her hand with a
gesture of dissent, though she could not control her
voice to speak a word.

it, 8 What Answer?

At that he came close to her, not touching her hand
or even her dress, but looking into her face with im-
ploring eyes, and whispering, " Francesca, my darling,
speak to me ! say that you love me ! one word ! You
are breaking my heart ! "

Not a word.

" Francesca ! "

She had mastered her voice. " Go ! " she then
said, beseechingly. " Oh, why did you ask me ? why
did I let you come ? "

" No, no," he answered. " I cannot go, — not till
you answer me."

" Ah ! " she entreated, " do not ask ! I can give
no such answer as you desire. It is all wrong, — all
a mistake. You do not comprehend."

" Make me, then."

She was silent.

" Forgive me. I am rude : I cannot help it. I
will not go unless you say, ' I do not love you.' Noth-
ing but this shall drive me away."

Francesca's training in her childhood had been by
a Catholic governess ; she never quite lost its effect.
Now she raised her hand to a little gold cross that
hung at her neck, her fingers closing on it with a de-
spairing clasp. " Ah, Christ, have pity!" her heart
cried. " Blessed Mother of God, forgive me ! have
mercy upon me ! "

What Answer? 139

Her face wTas frightfully pale, but her voice did not
tremble as she gave him her hand, and said gently,
" Go, then, my friend. I do not love you."

He took her hand, held it close for a moment, and
then, without another look or word, put it tenderly
down, and was gone.

So absorbed was he in painful thought that, passing
down the long avenue with bent head, he did not no-
tice, nor even see, a gentleman who, coming from the
opposite direction, looked at him at first carelessly, and
then searchingly, as he went by.

This gentleman, a man in the prime of life, hand-
some, stately, and evidently at home here, scrutinized
the stranger with a singular intensity, — made a move-
ment as though he would speak to him, — and then,
drawing back, went with hasty steps towards the house.

Had Willie looked up, beheld this face and its ex-
pression, returned the scrutiny of the one, and com-
prehended the meaning of the other, while memory
recalled a picture once held in his hands, some things
now obscured would have been revealed to him, and
a problem been solved. As it was, he saw nothing,
moved mechanically onward to the carriage, seated
himself, and said, " Home ! "

This young man was neither presumptuous nor
vain. He had been once repulsed and but now ut-
terly rejected. He had no reason to hope, and yet —

140 What Ansiver?

perhaps it was his poetical and imaginative tempera-
ment — he could not resign himself to despair.

Suddenly he started with an exclamation that was
almost a cry. What was it ? He remembered that,
more than two years ago, on the last day he had been
with her, he had begged the copy of a duet which
they sometimes sang. It was in manuscript, and he
desired to. have it written out by her own hand. He
had before petitioned, and she promised it ; and when
he thus again spoke of it, she laughed, and said, " What
a memory it is, to be sure ! I shall .have to tie a bit
of string on my ringer to refresh it."

" Is that efficacious ? " he had asked.

" Doubtless," she had replied, searching in her
pocket for a scrap of anything that would serve.

" Will this do ? " he then queried, bringing forth a
coil of gold wire which he had been commissioned to
buy for some fanciful work of his mother.

"Finely," she declared ; " it is durable, it will give
me a wide margin, it will be long in wearing out."

" Nay, then, you must have something more fragile,"
he had objected.

At that they both laughed, as he twisted a fragment
of it on the little finger of her right hand. "There
it is to stay," he asserted, " till your promise is re-
deemed." That was the last time he had seen her till
to-day.

What Answer? 141

Now, sitting, thinking of the interview just passed,
suddenly he remembered, as one often recalls the
vision of something seemingly unnoticed at the time,
that, upon her right hand, the little finger of the right
hand, there was a delicate ring, — a mere thread, — in
fact, a wire of gold ; the very one himself had tied
there two years ago.

In an instant, by one of those inexplicable connec-
tions of the brain or soul, he found himself living over
an experience of his college youth.

He had been spending the day in Boston with a
dear friend, some score of years his senior; a man of
the rarest culture, and of a most sweet and gentle
nature withal ; and when evening came they had
drifted naturally to the theatre, — the fool's paradise it
may be sometimes, but to them on that occasion a
real paradise.

He remembered well the play. It was Scott's Bride
of Lammermoor. He had never read it, but, before
the curtain rose, his friend had unfolded the story in
so kind and skilful a manner as to have imbued him
as fully with the spirit of the tale as though he had
studied the book.

What he chiefly recalled in the play was the scene
in which Ravenswood comes back to Emily long after
they had been plighted, — long after he had supposed
her faithless, — long after he had been tossed on a sea

142 What Answer?

of troubles, touching the seeming decay in her affec-
tions. Just as she is about to be enveloped in the
toils which were spread for her, — just as she is about
to surrender herself to the hated nuptials, and submit
to the embrace of one whom she loathed more than
she dreaded death, — Ravenswood, the man whom
Heaven had made for her, presents himself.

What followed was quiet, yet intensely dramatic.
Ravenswood, wrought to the verge of despair, bursts
upon the scene at the critical moment, detaches Emily
from her party, and leads her slowly forward. He is
unutterably sad. He questions her very tenderly ;
asks her whether she is not enforced ; whether she is
taking this step of her own free will and accord ;
whether she has indeed dismissed the dear, old fond
love for him from her heart forever ? He must hear
it from her own lips. When timidly and feebly in-
formed that such is indeed the case, he requests her
to return a certain memento, — a silver trinket which
had been given her as the symbol of his love on the
occasion of their betrothal. Raising her hand to her
throat she essays to draw it from her bosom. Her
fingers rest upon the chain which binds it to her
neck, but the o'erfraught heart is still, — the troubled,
but unconscious head droops upon his shoulder, — he
lifts the chain from its resting-place, and withdraws the
token from her heart.

What Answer t 143

Supporting her with one hand and holding this
badge of a lost love with the other, he says, looking
down upon her with a face of anguish, and in a voice
of despair, " And she could wear it thus ! "

As this scene rose and lived before him, Surrey ex-
claimed, " Surely that must have been the perfection
of art, to have produced an effect so lasting and pro-
found, — ' and she could wear it thus ! ' — ah," he said,
as in response to some unexpressed thought, " but
Emily loved Ravenswood. Why — ? " Evidently he
was endeavoring to answer a question that baffled
him.

CHAPTER XII.

"And down on aching heart and brain
Blow after blow unbroken falls."

Boker.

" A LETTER for you, sir," said the clerk, as Surrey
•*\ stopped at the desk for his key. It was a
buiky epistle, addressed in his aunt Russell's hand,
and he carried it off, wondering what she could have
to say at such length.

He was in no mood to read or to enjoy ; but, never-
theless, tore open the cover, finding within it a double
letter. Taking the envelope of one from the folds of
the other, his eye fell first upon his mother's writing ;
a short note and a puzzling one.

" My dear Willie : —

" I have tried to write you a letter, but cannot. I
never wounded you if I could avoid it, and I do not
wish to begin now. Augusta and I had a talk about
you yesterday which crazed me with anxiety. She
told me it was my place to write you what ought to be
said under these trying circumstances, for we are sure
you have remained in Philadelphia to see Miss Ercil-
doune. At first I said I would, and then my heart
failed me. I was sure, too, that she could write, as

What Answer? 145

she always does, much better than I ; so I begged her

to say all that was necessary, and I would send her

this note to enclose with her letter. Read it, I entreat

you, and then hasten, I pray you, hasten to us at once.

" Take care of your arm, do not hurt yourself by any

excitement ; and, with dear love from your father, which

he would send did he know I was writing, believe me

always your devoted

"Mother."

" ' Trying circumstances ! ' — ' Miss Ercildoune ! ' —
what does it mean ? " he cried, bewildered. " Come,
let us see."

The letter which he now opened was an old and
much-fingered one, written — as he saw at the first
glance — by his aunt to his mother. Why it was sent
to him he could not conjecture ; and, without attempt-
ing to so do, at once plunged into its pages : —

" Continental Hotel,

Philadelphia, June 27, 1861.

" My dear Laura : —

" I can readily understand with what astonishment
you will read this letter, from the amazement I have
experienced in collecting its details. I will not weary
you with any personal narration, but tell my tale at
once.

"Miss Ercildoune, as you know, was my daughter's
intimate at school, — a school, the admittance to which
7 J

146 What Answer?

was of itself a guarantee of respectability. Of course
I knew nothing of her family, nor of her, — save as
Clara wrote me of her beauty and her accomplish-
ments, and, above all, of her style, — till I met Mrs.
Lancaster. Of her it is needless for me to speak. As
you know, she is irreproachable, and her position is
of the best. Consequently when Clara wrote me that
her friend was to come to New York to her aunt, and
begged to entertain her for a while, I added my re-
quest to her entreaty, and Miss Ercildoune came. Ill-
fated visit ! would it had never been made !

" It is useless now to deny her gifts and graces.
They are, reluctantly I confess, so rare and so con-
spicuous,— have so many times been seen, and known,
and praised by us all, — that it would put me in the
most foolish of attitudes should I attempt to recon-
sider a verdict so frequently pronounced, or to eat my
own words, uttered a thousand times.

" It is also, I presume, useless to deny that we were
well pleased — nay, delighted — with Willie's evident
sentiment for her. Indeed, so thoroughly did she
charm me, that, had I not seen how absolutely his
heart was enlisted in her pursuit, she is the very girl
whom I should have selected, could I have so done, as
a wife for Tom and a daughter for myself.

" I knew full well how deep was this feeling for her
when he marched away, on that day so full of supreme

What Answer? 147

splendor and pain, unable to see her and to say adieu.
His eyes, his face, his manner, his very voice, marked
his restlessness, his longing, and disappointment. I
was positively angry with the girl for thwarting and
hurting him so, and, whatever her excuse might be, for
her absence at such a time. How constantly are we
quarrelling with our best fates !

" She remained in New York, as you know, for
some weeks after the 19th; in fact, has been at home
but for a little while. Once or twice, so provoked
with her was I for disappointing our pet, I could not
resist the temptation of saying some words about him
which, if she cared for him, I knew would wound her :
and, indeed, they did, — wounded her so deeply, as
was manifest in her manner and her face, that I had
not the heart to repeat the experiment.

" One week ago I had a letter from Willie, enclos-
ing another to her, and an entreaty, as he had written
one which he was sure had miscarried, that I would
see that this reached her hands in safety. So anxious
was I to fulfil his request in its word and its spirit,
and so certain that I could further his cause, — for I
was sure this letter was a love-letter, — that I did not
forward it by post, but, being compelled to come to
Burlington, I determined to go on to Philadelphia,
drive out to her home, and myself deliver the missive
into her very hands. A most fortunate conclusion, as
you will presently decide.

148 What Answer •?

"Last evening I reached the city, — rested, slept
here, — and this morning was driven to her father's
place. For all our sakes, I was somewhat anxious,
under the circumstances, that this should be quite the
thing ; and I confess myself, on the instant of its sight,
more than satisfied. It is really superb ! — the grounds
extensive, and laid out with the most absolute taste.
The house, large and substantial, looks very like an
English mansion ; with a certain quaint style and
antique elegance, refreshing to contemplate, after the
crude newness and ostentatious vulgarity of almost
everything one sees here in America. It is within as
it is without. Although a great many lovely things
are scattered about of recent make, the wood-work
and the heavy furniture are aristocratic from their very
age, and, in their way, literally perfection.

" Miss Ercildoune met me with not quite her usual
grace and ease. She was, no doubt, surprised at my
unexpected appearance, and — I then thought, as a
consequence — slightly embarrassed. I soon after-
wards discovered the constraint in her manner sprang
from another cause.

" I had reached the house just at lunch-time, and
she would take me out to the table to eat something
with her. I had hoped to see her father, and was dis-
appointed when she informed me he was in the city.
All I saw charmed me. The appointments of the ta-

What Answer? 149

ble were like those of the house : everything exquisite-
ly fine, and the silver massive and old, — not a new
piece among it, — and marked with a monogram and
crest.

" I write you all this that you may the more thorough-
ly appreciate my absolute horror at the final denoue-
ment, and share my astonishment at the presumption
of these people in daring to maintain such style.

" I had given her Willie's letter before we left the par-
lor, with a significant word and smile, and was piqued
to see that she did not blush, — in fact, became ex-
cessively white as she glanced at the writing, and
with an unsteady hand put it into her pocket. After
lunch she made no motion to look at it, and as I had
my own reasons for desiring her to peruse it, I said,
1 Miss Francesca, will you not read your letter ? that I
may know if there is any later news from our soldier.'

" She hesitated a moment, and then said, with what I
thought an unnatural manner, ' Certainly, if you so
desire,' and, taking it out, broke the seal. ' Allow
me,' she added, going towards a window, — as though
she desired more light, but in reality, I knew, to turn
her back upon me, — forgetting that a mirror, hang-
ing opposite, would reveal her face with distinctness
to my gaze. ,

" It was pale to ghastliness, with a drawn, haggard
look about the mouth and eyes that shocked as much

150 What Answer?

as it amazed me ; and before commencing to read she
crushed the letter in her hands, pressing it to her
heart with a gesture which was less of a caress than
of a spasm.

" However, as she read, all this changed ; and before
she finished I said, ' Ah, Willie, it is clear your cause
needs no advocate.' Positively, I did not know a hu-
man countenance could express such happiness ; there
was something in it absolutely dazzling. And evi-
dently entirely forgetful of me, she raised the paper to
her mouth, and kissed it again and again, pressing
her lips upon it with such clinging and passionate
fondness as would have imbued it with life were
that possible."

Here Willie flung down his aunt's epistle and tore
from his pocket this self-same letter. He had kept it,
■ — carried it about with him, — for two reasons : be-
cause it was hers, he said, — this avowal of his love
was hers, whether she refused it or no, and he had no
right to destroy her property ; and because, as he had
nothing else she had worn or touched, he cherished
this sacredly since it had been in her dear hands.

Now he took it into his clasp as tenderly as though
it were Francesca's face, and kissed it with the self-
same clinging and passionate fondness as this of which
he had just read. Here had her lips rested, — here ;
he felt their fragrance and softness thrilling him under

What Answer 1 151

the cold, dead paper, and pressed it to his heart while
he continued to read : —

" Before she turned, I walked to another window, —
wishing to give her time to recover calmness, or at
least self-control, — and was at once absorbed in con-
templating a gentleman whom I felt assured to be Mr.
Ercildoune. He stood with his back to me, apparently-
giving some order to the coachman : thus I could
not see his face, but I never before was so impressed
with, so to speak, the personality of a man. His phy-
sique was grand, and his air and bearing magnificent,
and I watched him with admiration as he walked
slowly away. I presume he passed the window at
which she was standing, for she called, ' Papa ! '
1 In a moment, dear,' he answered, and in a moment
entered, and was presented ; and I, raising my eyes to
his face, — ah, how can I tell you what sight they
beheld !

" Self-possessed as I think I am, and as I certainly
ought to be, I started back with an involuntary excla-
mation, a mingling doubtless of incredulity and dis-
gust. This man, who stood before me with all the
ease and self-assertion of a gentleman, was — you
will never believe it, I fear — a mulatto I

" Whatever effect my manner had on him was not
perceptible. He had not seated himself, and, with
a smile that was actually satirical, he bowed, ut-

152 What Answer?

tered a few 'words of greeting, and went out of the
room.

" ' How dared you ? ' I then cried, for astonishment
had given place to rage, 'how dared you deceive me —
deceive us all — so ? how dared you palm yourself off
as white and respectable, and thus be admitted to Mr.
Hale's school and to the society and companionship
of his pupils ? ' I could scarcely control myself when
I thought of how shamefully we had all been cozened.

"'Pardon me, madam,' she answered with effron-
tery, — effrontery under the circumstances, — ' you
forget yourself, and what is due from one lady to
another.' (Did you ever hear of such presumption ! )
'I practised no deceit upon Professor Hale. He
knew papa well, — was his intimate friend at college, in
England, — and was perfectly aware who was Mr. Ercil-
doune's daughter when she was admitted to his school.
For myself, I had no confessions to make, and made
none. I was your daughter's friend ; as such, went to
her house, and invited her here. I trust you have
seen in me nothing unbecoming a gentlewoman, as, uj>
to this time, I have beheld in you naught save the attri-
butes of a lady. If we are to have any farther conver-
sation, it must be conducted on the old plan, and not
the extraordinary one you have just adopted; else I
shall be compelled, in self-respect, to leave you alone
in my own parlor.'

What Answer? 153

" Imagine if you can the effect of this speech upon
me. I assure you I was composed enough outwardly,
if not inwardly, ere she ended her sentence. Having
finished, I said, ' Pardon me, Miss Ercildoune, for any
words which may have offended your dignity. I will
confine myself for the rest of our interview to your own
rules.'

" ' It is well,' she responded. I had spoken sa-
tirically, and expected to see her shrink under it, but
she answered with perfect coolness and sang froid. I
continued, ' You will not deny that you are a negro, at
least a mulatto.'

" ' Pardon me, madam,' she replied ; e my father is
a mulatto, my mother was an Englishwoman. Thus,
to give you accurate information upon the subject, I
am a quadroon.'

" ' Quadroon be it ! ' I answered, angrily again, I

fear. ' Quadroon, mulatto, or negro, it is all one. I

have no desire to split hairs of definition. You could

not be more obnoxious were you black as Erebus. I

have no farther words to pass upon the past or the

present, but something to say of the future. You hold

in your hands a letter — a love-letter, I am sure — a

declaration, as I fear — from my nephew, Mr. Surrey.

You will oblige me by at once sitting down, writing a

peremptory and unqualified refusal to his proposal, if

he has made you one, — a refusal that will admit of no
7 *

154 What Answer?

hope and no double interpretation, — and give it into
my keeping before I leave this room.'

"When I first alluded to Willie's letter she had
crimsoned, but before I closed she was so white ' I
should have thought her fainting, but for the fire in her
eyes. However, she spoke up clear enough when she
said, ' And what, madam, if I deny your right to dic-
tate any action whatever to me, however insignificant,
and utterly refuse to obey your command ? '

" ' At your peril do so,' I exclaimed. ' Refuse,
and I will write -the whole shameful story, with my own
comments ; and you may judge for yourself of the
effect it will produce.'

" At that she smiled, — an indescribable sort of
smile, — and shut her fingers on the letter she held,
— I could not help thinking as though it were a
human hand. ' Very well, madam, write it. He has
already told me ' —

" ' That he loves you,' I broke in. ' Do you
think he would continue to do so if he knew what
you are ? '

" c He knows me as well now,' she answered, ' as he
will after reading any letter of yours.'

" ' Incredible ! ' I exclaimed. ' When he wrote you
that, he did not know, he could not have known, your
birth, your race, the taint in your blood. I will never
believe it.'

What Answer? 155

" * No,' she said, ' I did not say he did. I said
he knew me; so well, I think, judging from this/ —
clasping his letter with the same .curious pressure I
had before noticed, — • ' that you could scarcely en-
lighten him farther. He knows my heart, and soul,
and brain, — as I said, he knows me?

" ' O, yes,' I answered, — or rather sneered, for I
was uncontrollably indignant through all this, — 'if
you mean that, very likely. I am not talking lovers'
metaphysics, but practical common-sense. He does
not know the one thing at present essential for him to
know ; and he will abandon you, spurn you, — his love
turned to scorn, his passion to contempt, — when he
reads what I shall write him if you refuse to do what I
demand.'

" I expected to see her cower before me. Conceive,
then, if you can, my sensations when she cried, ' Stop,
madam ! Say what you will to me ; insult, outrage me,
if you please, and have not the good breeding and
dignity to forbear ; but do not presume to so slander
him. Do not presume to accuse him, who is all nobil-
ity and greatness of soul, of a sentiment so base, a
prejudice so infamous. Study him, madam, know
him better, ere you attempt to be his mouth-piece.'

" As she uttered these words, a horrible foreboding
seized me, or, to speak more truthfully, I so felt the
certainty of what she spoke, that a shudder of terror

156 What Answer •?

ran over me. I thought of him, of his character, of
his principles, of his insane sense of honor, of his ter-
rible will under all that soft exterior, — the hand of
steel under the silken glove ; I saw that if I persisted
and she still refused to yield I should lose all. On the
instant I changed my attack.

" ' It is true,' I said, ' having asked you to become
his wife, he will marry you ; he will redeem his pledge
though it ruin his life and blast his career, to say
nothing of the effect an unending series of outrages
and mortifications will have upon his temper and his
heart. A pretty love, truly, yours must be, — what-
ever his is, — to condemn him to so terrible an ordeal,
so frightful a fate.'

" She shivered at that, and I went on, — blaming
my folly in not remembering, being a woman, that it
was with a woman and her weakness I had to deal.

" ' He is young,' I continued ; ' he has probably a
long life before him. Rich, handsome, brilliant, — a
magnificent career opening to him, — position, ease,
troops of friends, — you will ruthlessly ruin all this.
Married to you, white as you are, the peculiarity of
your birth would in some way be speedily known. His
father would disinherit him (it was not necessary to
tell her he has a fortune in his own right), his
family disown him, his friends abandon him, so-
ciety close its doors upon him, business refuse to

What Answer? 157

seek him, honor and riches elude his grasp. If
you do not know the strength of this prejudice, which
you call infamous, pre-eminently in the circle to which
he belongs, I cannot tell it you. Taking all this from
him, what will you give him in return ? Ruining his
life, can your affection make amends ? Blasting his
career, will your love fill the gap ? Do you flatter
yourself by the supposition that you can be father,
mother, relatives, friends, society, wealth, position,
honor, career, — all, — to him ? Your people are cursed
in America, and they transfer their curse to any one
mad enough, or generous enough (that was a diplo-
matic turn), to connect his fate with yours.'

" Before I was through, I saw that I had carried
my point. All the fine airs went out of my lady,
and she looked broken and humbled enough. I
might have said less, but I ached to say more to
the insolent.

"' Enough, madam,' she gasped, 'stop.' And
then said, more to herself than to me, ' I could give
heaven for him,' — the rest I rather guessed from the
motion of her lips than from any sound, — ' but I can-
not ask him to give the world for me.'

" t Will you write the letter ? ' I asked.

" ' No.' — She said the word with evident effort, and
then, still more slowly, 'I will give you a mes-
sage. Say, " I implore you never to write me again, —

158 What Answer?

to forget me. I beseech of you not to try me by any
farther appeals, as I shall but return them unopened.'"
I wrote down the words as she spoke them. ' This is
well,' I said, when she finished ; ' but it is not enough.
I must have the letter.'

" 'The letter ? ' she said. ' What need of a letter ?
surely that is sufficient.'

" ' I do not mean your letter. I mean his, — the one
which you hold in your hands.'

" ' This ? ' she queried, looking down on it, -— ' this ? '

" I thought the repetition senseless and affected, but
I answered, 'Yes, — that. He will not believe you
are in earnest if you keep his avowal of love. You
must give him up entirely. If you let me send that
back, with your words, he shall never — at least from
me — have clew or reason for your conduct. That
will close the whole affair.'

" ' Close the whole affair ,' she repeated after me,
mechanically, — - ' close the whole affair.'

" I was getting heartily tired of this, and had no
desire to listen to an echo conversation ; so, without
answering, I stretched out my hand for it. She held
it towards me, then drew it back and raised it to her
heart with the same gesture I had marked when she
first opened it, — a gesture as I said, of that, which was
less of a caress than a spasm. Indeed, I think now
that it was wholly physical and involuntary. Then she

What A nswer t 159

handed it to me, and, motioning towards the door, said,
'Go!'

" I rose, and, infamous as I thought her past de-
ceit, wearied as I was with the interview, small claim
as she had upon me for the slightest consideration, I
said { You have done well, Miss Ercildoune ! I
commend you for your sensible decision, and for your
ability, if late, to appreciate the situation. I wish you
all success in life, I am sure ; and, permit me to add,
a future union with one of your own race, if that will
bring you happiness.'

" Heavens ! what a face and what eyes she turned
upon me as, rising, she once more pointed to the door,
and cried, ' Go ! ' And indeed I went, — the girl ac-
tually frightened me.

" When I got on to the lawn, I missed my bag and
parasol, and had to return for them. I opened the
door with some slight trepidation, but had no need for
fear. She was lying prostrate upon the floor, as I
saw on coming near, in a dead faint. She had evi-
dently fallen so suddenly and with such force as to
have hurt herself ; her head had struck against an or-
nament of the bookcase, near which she had been
standing ; and a little stream of blood was trickling
from her temple. It made me sick to behold it. As
I looked at her where she lay, I could not but pity her
a little, and think what a merciful fate it would be for

160 What Answer?

her, and such as she, if they could all die, — and so
put an end to what, I presume, though I never before
thought of it, is really a very hard existence.

" It was no time, however, to sentimentalize. I
rang for a servant, and, having waited till one came,
took my leave.

" Of course all this is very shocking and painful, but

I am glad I came. The matter is ended now in a

satisfactory manner. I think it has been well done.

Let us both keep our counsel, and the affair will soon

become a memory with us, as it is nothing with every

one else.

" Always your loving sister,

"Augusta."

It is better to be silent upon some themes than to
say too little. Words would fail to express the emo-
tions with which Willie read this history : let silence
and imagination tell the tale.

Flinging down the paper with a passionate cry, he
saw yet another letter, — the one in which these had
been enfolded, — a letter written to him, and by Mrs.
Russell. As by a flash, he perceived that there had
been some blunder here, by which he was the gainer ;
and, partly at least, comprehended it.

These two, mother and aunt, fearing the old fire
had not yet burned to ashes, — nay, from their knowl-
edge of him, sure of it, — hearing naught of his illness,

What A nswer ? 161

for he did not care to distress them by any account
thereof, were satisfied that he had either met, or was
remaining to compass a meeting, with Miss Ercildoune.
His mother had not the5 courage, or the baseness, to
write such a letter as that to which Mrs. Russell urged
her, — a letter which should degrade his love in his
own eyes, and recall him from an unworthy pursuit.
" Very well ! " Mrs. Russell had then said, " it will
be better from you ; it will look more like unwarranted
interference from me ; but I will write, and you shall
send an accompanying line. Let me have it to-
morrow."

The next morning Mrs. Surrey was not well enough
to drive out, and thus sent her note by a servant, en-
closing with it the letter of June 27th, — thinking that
her sister might want it for reference. When it
reached Mrs. Russell, it was almost mail-time, and
with the simple thought, " So, — Laura has written it,
after all," she enclosed it in her own, and sent it off,
post-haste ; not even looking at the unsealed envelope,
as Mrs. Surrey had taken for granted she would, and
thus failing to know of its double contents.

Thus the very letter which they would have com-
passed land and sea to have prevented coming under
his eyes, unwisely yet most fortunately kept in exist-
ence, was sent by themselves to his hands.

Without pausing to read a line of that which his

1 62 What A nswer ?

aunt had written him, he tore it into fragments, flung
it into the empty grate ; and, bounding down the stairs
and on to the street, plunged into a carriage and was
whirled away, all too slowly, to the home he had left
but a little space before with such widely, such pain-
fully different emotions.

CHAPTER XIII.

" I could not love thee, dear, so much,
Loved I not honor more."

Lovklace.

JUST after Surrey, for the third time, had passed
through the avenue of trees, two men appeared in
it, earnestly conversing. One, the older, was the same
who had met Willie as he was going out, and had
examined him with such curious interest. The other,
in feature, form, and bearing, was so absolutely the
counterpart of his companion that it was easy to
recognize in them father and son, — a father and son
whom it would be hard to match. "The finest type
of the Anglo-Saxon race I have seen from America,"
was the verdict pronounced upon Mr. Ercildoune,
when he was a young man studying abroad, by an
enthusiastic and nationally ignorant Englishman ;
" but then, sir," he added, " what very dark complex-
ions you Americans have ! Is it universal ? "

" By no means, sir," was Mr. Ercildoune's reply.
" There are some exceedingly fine ones among my
countrymen. I come from the South : that is a bad
climate for the tint of the skin."

164 What Answer?

" Is it so ? " exclaimed John Bull, — " worse than
the North?"

" Very much worse, sir, in more ways than one." •

Perhaps Robert Ercildoune was a trifle fairer than
his father, but there was still perceptible the shade
which marked him as effectually an outcast from the
freedom of American society, and the rights of Ameri-
can citizenship, as though it had been the badge of
crime or the strait jacket of a madman. Something
of this was manifested in the conversation in which
the two were engaged.

" It is folly, Robert, for you to carry your refinement
and culture into the ranks as a common soldier, to
fight and to die, without thanks. You are made of too
good stuff to serve simply as food for powder."

"Better men than I, father, have gone there, and
are there to-day ; men in every way superior to me."

" Perhaps, — yes, if you will have it so. But what
are they ? white men, fighting for their own country
and flag, for their own rights of manhood and
citizenship, for a present for themselves and a
future for their children, for honor and fame. What
is there for you ? "

" For one thing, just that of which you spoke. Per-
haps not a present for me, but certainly a future for
those that come after."

" A future ! How are you to know ? what warrant or

What Answer? 165

guarantee have you for any such future ? Do you judge
by the past ? by the signs of to-day ? I tell you this
American nation will resort to any means — will pledge
anything, by word or implication — to secure the end
for which it fights ; and will break its pledges just so
soon as it can, and with whomsoever it can with im-
punity. You, and your children, and your children's
children after you, will go to the wall unless it has need
of you in the arena."

" I do not think so. This whole nation is learning,
through pain and loss, the lesson of justice ; of ex-
pediency, doubtless, but still of justice ; and I do
not think it will be forgotten when the war is -ended.
This is our time to wipe off a thousand stigmas of con-
tempt and reproach : this " —

" Who is responsible for them ? ourselves ? What
cast them there ? our own actions ? I trow not. Mark
the facts. I pay taxes to support the public schools,
and am compelled to have my children educated at
home. I pay taxes to support the government, and
am denied any representation or any voice in regard
to the manner in which these taxes shall be expended.
I hail a car on the street, and am laughed to scorn by
the conductor, — or, admitted, at the order of the pas-
sengers am ignominiously expelled. I offer my money
at the door of any place of public amusement, and it
is flung back to me with an oath. I enter a train to

1 66 What Answer?

New York, and am banished to the rear seat or the
' negro car.' I go to a hotel, open for the accommo-
dation of the public, and am denied access ; or am re-
quested to keep my room, and not show myself in
parlor, office, or at table. I come within a church, to
worship the good God who is no respecter of persons,
and am shown out of the door by one of his insolent
creatures. I carry my intelligence to the polls on
election morning, and am elbowed aside by an
American boor or a foreign drunkard, and, with oppro-
brious epithets by law officers and rabble, am driven
away. All this in the North ; all this without excuse
of slavery and of the feeling it engenders ; all this
from arrogant hatred and devilish malignity. At last,
the country which has disowned me, the government
which has never recognized save to outrage me, the
flag which has refused to cover or to protect me, are
in dire need and utmost extremity. Then do they cry
for me and mine to come up to their help ere they perish.
At least, they hold forth a bribe to secure me ? at
least, if they make no apology for the past, they offer
compensation for the future ? at least, they bid high
for the services they desire ? Not at all !

" They say to one man, ' Here is twelve hundred
dollars bounty with which to begin ; here is sixteen
dollars a month for pay ; here is the law passed, and
the money pledged, to secure you in comfort for the

What Answer? i5y

rest of life, if wounded or disabled, or help for
your family, if killed. Here is every door set wide
for you to rise, from post to post ; money yours, ad-
vancement yours, honor, and fame, and glory yours ;
the love of a grateful country, the applause of an ad-
miring world.'

" They say to another man, — you, or me, or Sam
out there in the field, — ' There is no bounty for you,
not a cent ; there is pay for you, twelve dollars a
month, the hire of a servant; there is no pension
for you, or your family, if you be sent back from the
front, wounded or dead j if you are taken prisoner
you can be murdered with impunity, or be sold as a
slave, without interference on our part. Fight like a
lion! do acts of courage and splendor! and you shall
never rise above the rank of a private soldier. For
you there is neither money nor honor, rights secur-
ed, nor fame gained. Dying, you fall into a nameless
grave : living, you come back to your old estate of
insult and wrong. If you refuse these tempting offers,
we brand you cowards. If, under these infamous re-
straints and disadvantages, you fail to equal the white
troops by your side, you are written down — inferiors.
If you equal them, you are still inferiors. If you per-
form miracles, and surpass them, you are, in a measure,
worthy commendation at last ; we consent to see in
you human beings, fit for mention and admiration, —

1 68 What Answer?

not as types of your color and of what you intrinsically
are, but as exceptions ; made such by the habit of
association, and the force of surrounding circum-
stances.'

"These are the terms the American people offer
you, these the terms which you stoop to accept, these
the proofs that they are learning a lesson of justice!
So be it ! there is need. Let them learn it to the
full ! let this war go on ' until the cities be wasted
without inhabitant, and the houses without man, and
the land be utterly destroyed.' Do not you interfere.
Leave them to the teachings and the judgments of
God."

Ercildoune had spoken with such impassioned feel-
ing, with such fire in his eyes, such terrible earnest-
ness in his voice, that Robert could not, if he
would, interrupt him ; and, in the silence, found no
words for the instant at his command. Ere he sum-
moned them they saw some one approaching.

" A fine-looking fellow ! fighting has been no child's
play for him," said Robert, looking, as he spoke, at
the empty sleeve.

Mr. Ercildoune advanced to meet the stranger, and
Surrey beheld the same face upon whose pictured sem-
blance he had once gazed with such intense feelings,
first of jealousy, and then of relief and admiration; the
same splendor of life, and beauty, and vitality. Surrey

What Answer? 169

knew him at once, knew that it was Francesca's
father, and went up to him with extended hand. Mr.
Ercildoune took the proffered hand, and shook it
warmly. " I am happy to meet you, Mr. Surrey."

" You know me ? " said he with surprise. " I
thought to present myself."

" I have seen your picture."

"And I yours. They must have held the mirror
up to nature, for the originals to be so easily known.
But may I ask where you saw mine ? yours was in
Miss Ercildoune's possession."

" As was yours," was answered after a moment's
hesitation, — Surrey thought, with visible reluctance.
His heart flew into his throat. " She has my picture,
— she has spoken of me," he said to himself. "I
wonder what her father will think, — what he will do.
Come, I will to the point immediately."

"Mr. Ercildoune," said he, aloud, "you know some-
thing of me ? of my position and prospects ? "

" A great deal."

" I trust, nothing disparaging or ignoble."

"I know nothing for which any one could desire
oblivion."

" Thanks. Let me speak to you, then, of a matter
which should have been long since proposed to you
had I been permitted the opportunity. I love your
daughter. I cannot speak about that, but you will un-

170 What Answer?

derstand all that I wish to say. I have twice — once
by letter, once by speech — let her know this and my
desire to call her wife. She has twice refused, — abso-
lutely. You think this should cut off all hope ? "

Ercildoune had been watching him closely. " If
she does not love you," he answered, at the pause.

" I do not know. I went away from here a little
while ago with her peremptory command not to return.
I should not have dared disobey it had I not learned
— thought — in fact, but for some circumstances —
I beg your pardon — I do not know what I am saying.
I believed if I saw her once more I could change her
determination, — could induce her to give me another
response, — and came with that hope."

"Which has failed?"

" Which has thus far failed that she will not at all
see me ; will hold no communication with me. I
should be a ruffian did I force myself on her thus with-
out excuse or reason. My own love would be no
apology did I not think, did I not dare to hope, that
it is not aversion to me that induces her to act as she
has clone. Believing so, may I beg a favor of you ?
may I entreat that you will induce her to see me, if
only for a little while ? "

Ercildoune smiled a sad, bitter smile, as he an-
swered, " Mr. Surrey, if my daughter does not love
you, it would be hopeless for you or for me to assail

What Answer? iji

her refusal. If she does, she has doubtless rejected
you for a reason which you can read by simply looking
into my face. No words of mine can destroy or do
that away."

" There is nothing to destroy ; there is nothing to
do away. Thank you for speaking of it, and making
the way easy. There is nothing in all the wide world
between us, — there can be nothing between us, — if
she loves me ; nothing to keep us apart save her in-
difference or lack of regard for me. I want to say so
to her if she will give me the chance. Will you not
help me to it ? "

" You comprehend all that I mean ? "

" I do. It is, as I have said, nothing. That love
would not be worth the telling that considered extra-
neous circumstances, and not the object itself."

" You have counted all the consequences ? I think
not. How, indeed, should yon be able % Come with
me a moment." The two went up to the house, across
the wide veranda, into a room half library, half loung-
ing-room, which, from a score of evidences strewn
around, was plainly the special resort of the master.
Over the mantel hung the life-size portrait of an ex-
cessively beautiful woman. A fine, spirituelle face,
with proud lines around the mouth and delicate nos-
trils, but with a tender, appealing look in the eyes,
that claimed gentle treatment. This face said, " I was

172 What Answer?

made for sunshine and balmy airs, but, if darkness
and storm assail, I can walk through them unflinching,
though the progress be short ; I can die, and give
no sign." Willie went hastily up to this, and stood,
absorbed, before it. " Francesca is very like her
mother," said Ercildoune, coming to his side. It was
his own thought, but he made no answer.

" I will tell you something of her and myself; a very
little story ; you can draw the moral. My father,
who was a Virginian, sent my brother and me to Eng-
land when we were mere boys, to be trained and edu-
cated. After his fashion, doubtless, he loved us ; for
he saw that we had every -advantage that wealth, and
taste, and care could provide ; and though he never
sent for us, nor came to us, in all the years after we
left his house, — and though we had no legal claim
upon him, — he acknowledged us his children, and
left us the entire proceeds of his immense estates, un-
incumbered. We were so young when we went
abroad, had been so tenderly treated at home, had
seen and known so absolutely nothing of the society
about us, that we were ignorant as Arabs of the state
of feeling and prejudice in America against such as
we, who carried any trace of negro blood. Our treat-
ment in England did but increase this oblivion.

" We graduated at Oxford ; my brother, who was two
years older than I, waiting upon me that we might go

What Answer t 173

together through Europe ; and together we had three of
the happiest years of life. On the Continent I met
her. You see what she is ; you know Francesca : it
is useless for me to attempt to describe her. I loved
her, — she loved me, — it was confessed. In a little
while I called her wife ; I would, if I could, tell you of
the time that followed : I cannot. We had a beauti-
ful home, youth, health, riches, friends, happiness,
two noble boys. At last an evil fate brought us
to America. I was to look after some business af-
fairs which, my agent said, needed personal supervi-
sion. My brother, whose health had failed, was ad-
vised to try a sea-voyage, and change of scene and cli-
mate. My wife was enthusiastic about the glorious
Republic, — the great, free America, — the land of my
birth. We came, carrying with us letters from friends
in England, that were an open sesame to the most
jealously barred doors. They flew wide at our ap-
proach, but to be shut with speed when my face was
seen ; hands were cordially extended, and drawn back
as from a loathsome contact when mine went to meet
them. In brief, we were outlawed, ostracised, sacrificed
on the altar of this devilish American prejudice, —
wholly American, for it is found nowhere else in the
world, — I for my color, she for connecting her fate
with mine.

" I was so held as to be unable to return at once,

174 What Answer?

and she would not leave me. Then my brother
drooped more and more. His disease needed the
brightest and most cheerful influences. The social
and moral atmosphere stifled him. He died ; and we,
with grief intensified by bitterness, laid him in the soil
of his own country as though it had been that of the
stranger and enemy.

" At this time the anti-slavery movement was pro-
voking profound thought and feeling in America. I
at once identified myself with it ; not because I was
connected with the hated and despised race, but be-
cause I loathed all forms of tyranny, and fought against
them with what measure of strength I possessed.
Doubtless this made me a more conspicuous mark for
the shafts of malice and cruelty, and as I could no-
where be hurt as through her, malignity exhausted its
devices there. She was hooted at when she appeared
with me on the streets ; she was inundated with infa-
mous letters; she was dragged before a court of jus-
tice upon the plea that she had defied the law of the
state against amalgamation, forbidding the marriage of
white and colored ; though at the time it was known
that she was English, that we were married in England
and by English law. One night, in the midst of the
riots which in 1838 disgraced this city, our house was
surrounded by a mob, burned over us ; and I, with a
few faithful friends, barely succeeded in carrying her to

What Answer? 175

a place of safety, — uncovered, save by her delicate
night-robe and a shawl, hastily caught up as we hur-
ried her away. The yelling fiends, the burning house,
the awful horror of fright and danger, the shock to her
health and strength, the storm, — for the night was a
wild and tempestuous one, which drenched her to the
skin, — from all these she might have recovered, had
not her boy, her first-born, been carried into her,
bruised and dead, — dead, through an accident of
burning rafters and falling stones ; an accident, they
said ; yet as really murdered as though they had wil-
fully, and brutally stricken him down.

" After that I saw that she, too, would die, were she
not taken back to our old home. The preparations
were hastily made ; we turned our faces towards Eng-
land ; we hoped to reach it at least before another pair
of eyes saw the light, but hoped in vain. There on
the broad sea Francesca was born. There her
mother died. There was she buried."

It was with extreme difficulty Ercildoune had con-
trolled his face and voice, through the last of this
distressing recital, and with the final word he bowed
his forehead on the picture-frame, - — convulsed with
agony, — while voiceless sobs, like spasms, shook his
form. Surrey realized that no words were to be said
here, and stood by, awed and silent. What hand,
however tender, could be laid on such a wound as
this ?

176 What Answer?

Presently he looked up, and continued : " I came
back here, because, I said, here was my place. I had
wealth, education, a thousand advantages which are
denied the masses of people who are, like me, of
mixed race. I came here to identify my fate with
theirs ; to work with and for them ; to fight, till I died,
against the cruel and merciless prejudice which grinds
them down. I have a son, who has just entered the
service of this country, perhaps to die under its flag.
I have a 'daughter," — Willie flushed and started
forward ; — "I asked you when I began this recital, if
you had counted all the consequences. You know
my story ; you see with what fate you link yours ;
reflect ! Francesca carries no mark of her birth ; her
father or brother could not come inside her home
without shocking society by the scandal, were not the
story earlier known. The man whom you struck down
this morning is one of our neighbors ; you saw and
heard his brutal assault : are you ready to face more of
the like kind ? Better than you I know what sentence
will be passed upon you, — what measure awarded.
It is for your own sake I say these things ; consider
them. I have finished."

Surrey had made to speak a half score of times,
and as often checked himself, — partly that he should
not interrupt his companion ; partly that he might be
master of his emotions, and say what he had to utter
without heat or excitement.

What Answer? 177

" Mr. Ercildoune," he now said, " listen to me. I
should despise myself were I guilty of the wicked and
vulgar prejudice universal in America. I should be
beneath contempt did I submit or consent to it. Two
years ago I loved Miss Ercildoune without knowing
aught of her birth. She is the same now as then j
should I love her the less ? If anything hard or cruel
is in her fate that love can soften, it shall be done.
If any painful burdens have been thrown upon her
life, I can carry, if not the whole, then a part of them.
If I cannot put her into a safe shelter where no ill will
befall her, I can at least take her into my arms and go
with her through the world. It will be easier for us, I
think, — I hope, — to face any fate if we are together.
Ah, sir, do not prevent it ; do not deny me this happi-
ness. Be my ambassador, since she will not let me
speak for myself, and plead my own cause."

In his earnestness he had come close to Mr.
Ercildoune, putting out his one hand with a gesture
of entreaty, with a tone in his voice, and a look in his
face, irresistible to hear and behold. Ercildoune took
the hand, and held it in a close, firm grasp. Some
strong emotion shook him. The expression, a com-
bination of sadness and scorn, which commonly held
possession of his eyes, went out of them, leaving them
radiant. "No," he said, "I will say nothing for you.
I would not for worlds spoil your plea ; prevent her
8* L

178 What Answer?

hearing, from your own mouth, what you have to say.
I will send her to you," — and, going to a door, gave
the order to a servant, " Desire Miss Francesca to
come to the parlor." Then, motioning Surrey to the
room, he went away, buried in thought.

Standing in the parlor, for he was too restless to sit,
he tried to plan how he should meet her ; to think
of a sentence which at the outset should disarm her
indignation at being thus thrust upon him, and convey
in some measure the thought of which his heart was
full, without trespassing on her reserve, or telling her
of the letter which he had read. Then another fear
seized him ; it was two years since he had written, —
two years since that painful and terrible scene had
been enacted in the very room where he stood, — two
years since she had confessed by deed and look that
she loved him. Might she not have changed ? mi^ht
she not have struggled for the mastery of this feeling
with only too certain success ? might she not have
learned to regard him with esteem, perchance, — with
friendship, — sentiment, — anything but that which he
desired or would claim at her hands ? Silence and
absence and time are pitiless destructives. Might
they not ? aye, might they not ? He paced to and
fro, with quick, restless tread, at the thought. All his
love and his longing cried out against such a cruel
supposition. He stopped by the side of the bookcase

What Answer? 179

against which she had fallen in that merciless and suf-
fering struggle, and put his hand down on the little
projection, which he knew had once cut and wounded
her, with a strong, passionate clasp, as though it were
herself he held. Just then he heard a step, — her
step, yet how unlike ! — coming down the stairs.
Where he stood he could see her as she crossed the
hall, coming unconsciously to meet him. All the
brightness and airy grace seemed to have been drawn
quite out of her. The alert, slender figure drooped as
if it carried some palpable weight, and moved with a
step slow and unsteady as that of sickness or age.
Her face was pathetic in its sad pallor, and blue, sor-
rowful circles were drawn under the deep eyes, heavy
and dim with the shedding of unnumbered tears. It
almost broke his heart to look at her. A feeling, piti-
ful as a mother would have for her suffering baby, took
possession of his soul, — a longing to shield and pro-
tect her. Tears blinded him ; a great sob swelled in
his throat ; he made a step forward as she came into
the room. " Papa," she said, without looking up,
" you wanted me ? " There was no response. " Pa-
pa ! " In an instant an arm enfolded her ; a pres-
ence, tender and strong, bent above her ; a voice,
husky with crowding emotions, yet sweet with all the
sweetness of love, breathed, " My darling ! my dar-
ling ! " as his fair, sunny hair swept her face.

i8o What Answer f

Even then she remembered another scene, remem-
bered her promise ; even then she thought of him,
of his future, and struggled to release herself from
his embrace.

What did he say ? what could he say ? Where were
the arguments he had planned, the entreaties he had
purposed ? where the words with which he was to tell
his tale, combat her refusal, win her to a willing and
happy assent ? All gone.

There was nothing but his heart and its caresses to
speak for him. Silent, with the ineffable stillness
he kissed her eyes, her mouth, held her to his breast
with a passionate fondness, — a tender, yet masterful
hold, which said, " Nothing shall separate us now."
She felt it, recognized it, yielded without power to
longer contend, clasped her arms about his neck, met
his eyes, and dropped her face upon his heart with a
long, tremulous sigh which confessed that heaven was
won.

CHAPTER XIV.

"The golden hours, on angel wings,
Flew o'er me and my dearie."

Burns.

THE evening that followed was of the brightest
and happiest ; even the adieus spoken to the
soldier who was just leaving his home did not sadden
it. They were in such a state of exaltation as to see
everything with courageous and hopeful eyes, and sent
Robert off with the feeling that all these horrible real-
ities they had known so long were but bogies to fright-
en foolish children, and that he would come back to
them wearing, at the very least, the stars of a major-
general. Whatever sombre and painful thoughts filled
Ercildoune's heart he held there, that no gloom might
fall from him upon these fresh young lives, nor sadden
the cheery expectancy of his son.

Surrey, having carried the first line of defence, pre-
pared for a vigorous assault upon the second. Like all
eager lovers, his primary anxiety was to hear " Yes " ;
afterwards, the day. To that end he was pleading
with every resource that love and impatience could
lend ; but Francesca shook her head, and smiled, and
said that was a long way off, — that was not to be

1 82 What Answer?

thought of, at least till the war was over, and her sol-
dier safe at home ; but he insisted that this was the
flimsiest and poorest of excuses ; nay, that it was
the very reverse of the true and sensible idea, which
was of course wholly on his side. He had these few
weeks at home, and then must away once more to
chances of battle and death. He did not say this till
he had exhausted every other entreaty ; but at last,
gathering her close to him with his one loving arm, —
" how fortunate," he had before said, " that it is the
left arm, because if it were the other I could not hold
you so near my heart ! " — so holding her, he glanced
down at the empty sleeve, and whispered, " My
darling ! who knows ? I have been wounded so often,
and am now only a piece of a fellow to come to you.
It may be something more next time, and then I shall
never call you wife. It would make no difference
hereafter, I know : we belong to each other for time
and eternity. But then I should like to feel that we
were something more to one another than even be-
trothed lovers, before the end comes, if come it does,
untimely. Be generous, dearie, and say yes."

He did not give utterance to another fear, which
was that by some device she might again be taken
away from him ; that some cruel plan might be put in
execution to separate them once more. He would not
take the risk ; he would bind her to him so securely

What Answer? 183

that no device, however cunning, — no plan, however
hard and shrewd, — could again divide them.

She hesitated long ; was long entreated ; but the
result was sure, since her own heart seconded every
prayer he uttered. At last she consented ; but insisted
that he should go home at once, see the mother and
father who were waiting for him with such anxious
hearts, give to them — as was their due — at least a
part of the time, and then, when her hasty bride-prep-
arations were made, come back and take her wholly
to himself. Thus it was arranged, and he left her.

Into the mysteries which followed — the mysteries
of hemming and stitching, of tucking and trimming,
ruffling, embroidering, of all the hurry and delicious
confusion of an elegant yet hasty bridal trousseau —
let us not attempt to investigate.

Doubtless through those days, through this sweet
and happy whirl of emotion, Francesca had many anx-
ious and painful hours : hours in which she looked at
the future — for him more than for herself — with sor-
rowful anticipations and forebodings. But with each
evening came a letter, written in the morning by his
dear hand ; a letter so full of happy, hopeful love,
of resolute, manly spirit, that her cares and anxieties
all* took flight, and were but as a tale that is told, or as
a dream of darkness when the sun shines upon a
blessed reality.

1 84 What Answer?

He wrote her that he had told his parents of his
wishes and plans ; and that, as he had known before,
they were opposed, and opposed most bitterly ; but
he was sure that time would soften, and knowledge de-
stroy this prejudice utterly. He wrote as he believed.
They were so fond of him, so devoted to him who was
their only child, that he was assured they would not
and could not cast him off, nor hate that which he
loved. He. did not know that his father, who had
never before been guilty of a base action, — his
mother, who was fine to daintiness, — - were both so
warped by this senseless and cruel feeling — having
seen Francesca and known all her beautiful and noble
elements of personal character — as to have written
her a letter which only a losel should have penned and
an outcast read. She did not tell him. Being satisfied
that they two belonged to one another ; that if they
were separated it would be as the tearing asunder of a
perfect whole, leaving the parts rent and bleeding, —
she would not listen to any voice that attempted, nor
heed any hand that strove to drive an entering wedge,
or to divide them. Why, then, should she trouble him
by the knowledge that this effort had again been made,
and by those he trusted and honored. Let it pass.
The future must decide what the future must be ,
meanwhile, they were to live in a happy present.

He learned of it, however, before he left his home.

What Answer? 185

Finding that neither persuasions, threats, nor prayers
could move him, — that he would be true to honor and
love, — they told him of what they had done; laid
bare the whole intensity of their feeling ; and putting
her on the one side, placing themselves on the other,
said, "Choose, — this wife, or those who have loved
you for a lifetime. Cleave to her, and your father
disowns you, your mother renounces, your home shuts
its doors upon you, never to open. With the world
and its judgment we have nothing to do ; that is be-
tween it and you; but no judgment of indifferent
strangers shall be more severe than ours."

A painful position ; a cruel alternative ; but not for
an instant did he hesitate. Taking the two hands of
father and mother into his solitary one, he said, —
" Father, I have always found you a gentleman ;
mother, you have shown all the graces of the Christian
character which you profess ; yet in this you are sup-
porting the most dishonorable sentiment, the most
infidel unbelief, with which the age is shamed. You
are defying the dictates of justice and the teachings of
God. When you ask me to rank myself on your side,
I cannot do it. Were my heart less wholly enlisted in
this matter, my reason and sense of right would rebel.
Here, then, for the present at least, we must say fare-
well." And so, with many a heart-ache and many a
pang, he went away.

1 86 What Answer?

As true love always grows with passing time, so his
increased with the days, and intensified by the- cruel
heat which was poured upon it. He realized the
torture to which, in a thousand ways, this darling of
his heart had for a lifetime been subjected ; and his
tenderness and love — in which was an element of
indignation and pathos — deepened with every fresh
revelation of the passing hours. When he came back
to her he had few words to speak, and no airy grace
of sentence or caress to bestow ; he followed her about
in a curious, shadow-like way, with such a strain on
his heart as made him many a time lift his hand to it,
as if to check physical pain. For her, she was as one
who had found a beloved master, able and willing to
lighten all her burdens ; a physician, whose slightest
touch brought balm and healing to every aching
wound. And so these two when the time came, spite
of the absence of friends who should have been there,
spite of warnings and denunciations and evil prophe-
cies, stood up and said to those who listened what
their hearts had long before confessed, that they were
one for time and eternity; then, hand in hand, went
out into the world.

For the present it was a pleasant enough world to
them. Surrey had a lovely little place on the Hudson
to which he would carry her, and pleased himself by
fitting it up with every convenience and beauty that
taste could devise and wealth supply.

What Answer? 187

How happy they were there ! To be sure, nobody
came to see them, but then they wished to see nobody ;
so every one was well satisfied. The delicious lovers'
life of two years before was renewed, but with how
much richer and deeper delights and blissfulness !
They galloped on many a pleasant morning across
miles and miles of country, down rocky slopes, and
through wild and romantic glens. They drove lazily,
on summer noons, through leafy fastnesses and cool
forest paths ; or sat idly by some little stream on the
fresh, green moss, with a line dancing on the crystal
water, amusing themselves by the fiction that it was
fishing upon which they were intent, and not the dear
delight of watching one another's faces reflected from
the placid stream. They spent hours at home, read-
ing bits of poems, or singing scraps of love-songs, talk-
ing a little, and then falling away into silence ; or she
sat perched on his knee or the elbow of his chair,
smoothing his sunny hair, stroking his long, silky
mustache, or looking into his answering eyes, till the
world lapsed quite away from them, and they thought
themselves in heaven.

An idle, happy time ! a time to make a worker sigh
only to behold, and a Benthamite lift his hands in dep-
recation and despair. A time which would not last,
because it could not, any more than apple-blossoms
and May flowers, but which was sweet and fragrant
past all describing while it endured.

1 88 What Answer?

Some kindly disposed person sent Surrey a city pa-
per with an item marked in such wise as to make him
understand its unpleasant import without the reading.
" Come," he said, " we will have none of this ; this owl
does not belong to our sunshine," — and so destroyed
and forgot it. Others, however, saw that which he
scorned to read. He had not been into the city since
he called at his father's house, and walked into the re-
ception room of his aunt, and been refused interview
or speech at either place. " Very well," he thought,
" I will go from this painful inhospitality and coldness
to my Paradise ; " and he went, and remained.

The only letter he wrote was to his old friend and
favorite cousin, Tom Russell, — who was away some-
where in the far South, and from whom he had not
heard for many a day, — and hoped that he, at least,
would not disappoint him • would not disappoint the
hearty trust he had in his breadth of nature and manly
sensibility.

And so, with clouds doubtless in the sky, but which
they did not see, —* the sun shone so bright for them ;
and some discords in the minor keys which they did
not heed, — the major music was so sweet and intoxi-
cating, — the brief, glad hours wore away, and the time
for parting, with hasty steps, had almost reached and
faced them. Meanwhile, what was occurring to oth-
ers, in other scenes and among other surroundings ?

CHAPTER XV.

" There are some deeds so grand
That their mighty doers stand

Ennobled, in a moment, more than kings."

Boker.

IT was towards the evening of a blazing July day on
Morris Island. The mail had just come in and
been distributed. Jim, with some papers and a pre-
cious missive from Sallie in one hand, his supper in
the other, betook himself to a cool spot by the river, —
if, indeed, any spot could be called cool in that fiery
sand, — and proceeded to devour the letter with won-
derful avidity while the " grub," properly enough, stood
unnoticed and uncared for. Presently he stopped,
rubbed his eyes, and re-read a paragraph in the epistle
before him, then re-rubbed, and read it again ; and
then, laying it down, gave utterance to a long whistle,
expressive of unbounded astonishment, if not incre-
dulity.

The whistle was answered by its counterpart, and
Jim, looking up, beheld his captain, — Coolidge by
name, — a fast, bright New York boy, standing at a
little distance, and staring with amazed eyes at a paper
he held in his hands. Glancing from this to Jim, en-
countering his look, he burst out laughing and came
towards him.

190 What Answer?

" Helloa, Given ! " he called : Jim was a favorite
with him, as indeed with pretty much every one with
whom he came in contact, officers and men, — " you,
too, seem put out. I wonder if you 've read anything
as queer as that," handing him the paper and striking
his finger down on an item; "read it." Jim read : —

" Miscegenation. Disgraceful Freak in High
Life. Fruit of an Abolition War. — We are cred-
ibly informed that a young man belonging to one of the
first families in the city, Mr. W. A. S., — we spare his
name for the sake of his relatives, — who has been en-
gaged since its outset in this fratricidal war, has just
given evidence of its legitimate effect by taking to his
bosom a nigger wench as his wife. Of course he is
disowned by his family, and spurned by his friends,
even radical fanaticism not being yet ready for such
a dose as this. However — " Jim did not finish the
homily of which this was the presage, but, throwing
the paper on the ground, indignantly drove his heel
through it, tearing and soiling it, and then viciously
kicked it into the river.

Said the Captain when this operation was completed,
having watched it with curious eyes, " Well, my man,
are you aware of the fact that that is ??iy paper ? "

" Don't care if it is. What in thunder did you bring
the damned Copperhead sheet to me for, if you did n't
want it smashed? Ain't you ashamed of yourself hav-

What Answer f 191

ing such a thing round ? How 'd you feel if you were
picked up dead by a reb, with that stuff in your pock-
et ? Say now!"

Coolidge laughed, — he was always ready to laugh :
that was probably why the men liked him so well, and
stood in awe of him not a bit. " Feel ? horridly, of
course. Bad enough, being dead, to yet speak, and
tell 'em that paper did n't represent my politics : 'd
that do ? "

Jim shook his head dubiously.

" What are you making such a devil of a row for, I'd
like to know ? it 's too hot to get excited. 'Tain't
likely you know anything about Willie Surrey."

"Oho! it is Mr. Will, then, is it ? Know him, —
don't I, though ? Like a book. Known him ever since
he was knee-height of a grasshopper. I'd like to have
that fellow " — shaking his fist toward the floating
paper — " within arm's reach. Would n't I pummel
him some ? O no, of course not, — not at all. Only,
if he wants a sound skin, I'd advise him, as a friend, to
be scarce when I'm round, because it 'd very likely be
damaged."

" You think it 's all a Copperhead lie, then ! I
should have thought so, at first, only I know Surrey 's
capable of doing any Quixotic thing if he once gets
his mind fixed on it."

"I know what I know," Jim answered, slowly fold-

192 What Answer?

ing and unfolding Sallie's letter, which he still held in
his hand. "I know all about that young lady he 's
been marrying. She 's young, and she 's handsome —
handsome as a picture — and rich, and as good as an
angel ; that 's about what she is, if Sallie Howard and
I know B from a bull's foot."

" Who is Sallie Howard ? " queried the Captain.

" She ?. O," — very red in the face, — " she 's a friend
of mine, and she 's Miss Ercildoune's seamstress."

" Ercildoune ? good name ! Is she the lady upon
whom Surrey has been bestowing his — ?"

" Yes, she is ; and here *s her photograph. Sallie
begged it of her, and sent it to me, once after she had
done a kind thing by both of us. Looks like a ' nigger
wench,' don't she ?''

The Captain seized the picture, and, having once
fastened his eyes upon it, seemed incapable of remov-
ing them. "This? this her?" he cried. "Great
Cresar ! I should think Surrey would have the fellow
out at twenty paces in no time. Heavens, what a
beauty ! "

Jim grinned sardonically : " She is rather pretty,
now, — ain't she ? "

"Pretty! ugh, what an expression ! pretty, indeed !
I never saw anything so beautiful. But what a sad
face it is ! "

" Sad ! well, 't ain't much wonder. I guess her life 's

What Answer? 193

been sad enough, in spite of her youth, and her beauty,
and her riches, and all the rest."

" Why, how should that be ? "

" Suppose you take another squint at that face."

"Well."

" See anything peculiar about it ? "

" Nothing except its beauty."

" Not about the eyes ? "

" No, — only I believe it is they that make the face
so sorrowful."

" Very like. You generally see just such big mourn-
ful-looking eyes in the faces of people that are called
— octoroons."

"What? " cried the Captain, dropping the picture in
his surprise.

" Just so, " Jim answered, picking it up and dust-
ing it carefully before restoring it to its place in his
pocket-book.

" So, then, it is part true, after all."

" True ! " exclaimed Jim, angrily, — " don't make
an ass of yourself, Captain."

" Why, Given, did n't you say yourself that she was
an octoroon, or some such thing ? "

" Suppose I did, — what then ? "

" I should say, then, that Surrey has disgraced him-
self forever. He has not only outraged his family
and his friends, and scandalized society, but he has

9 M

194 What Answer?

run against nature itself. It 's very plain God Al-
mighty never intended the two races to come to-
gether."

" O, he did n't, hey ? Had a special despatch from
him, that you know all about it? I 've heard just
such. talk before from people who seemed to be pretty
well posted about his intentions, — in this particular
matter, — though I generally noticed they were n't
chaps who were very intimate with him in any other
way."

The Captain laughed. "Thank you, Jim, for the
compliment ; but come, you are n't going to say that
nature has n't placed a barrier between these people
and us ? an instinct that repels an Anglo-Saxon from
a negro always and everywhere ? "

" Ho, ho ! that's good ! why, Captain, if you keep
on, you '11 make me talk myself into a regular aboli-
tionist. Instinct, hey ? I'd like to know, then, where
all the mulattoes, and the quadroons, and the octoroons
come from, — the yellow-skins and brown-skins and
skins so nigh white you can't tell 'em with your specta-
cles on ! The darkies must have bleached out amaz-
ingly here in America, for you 'd have to hunt with a
long pole and a telescope to boot to find a straight-out
black one anywhere round, — leastwise that's my ob-
servation."

" That was slavery."

What Answer? 195

" Yes 't was, — and then the damned rascals talk
about the amalgamationists, and all that, up North.
' T wan't the abolitionists ; 't was the slaveholders and
their friends that made a race of half-breeds all over
the country ; but, slavery or no slavery, they showed
nature had n't put any barriers between them, — and it
seems to me an enough sight decenter and more re-
spectable plan to marry fair and square than to sell your
own children and the mother that bore them. Come,
now, ain't it ? "

" Well, yes, if you come to that, I suppose it is."

" You suppose it is ! See here, — I 've found out
something since I 've been down here, and have
had time to think ; 't ain't the living together that
troubles squeamish stomachs ; it 's the marrying.
That 's what 's the matter ! "

" Just about ! " assented the Captain, with an amused
look, " and here 's a case in point. Surrey ought to
have been shot for marrying one of that degraded
race."

" Bah ! he married one of his own race, if I know
how to calculate."

" There, Jim, don't be a fool ! If she 's got any
negro blood in her veins she 's a nigger, and all your
talk won't make her anything else."

" I say, Captain, I 've heard that some of your an-
cestors were Indians : is that so ? "

196 What Answer?

" Yes : my great-grandmother was an Indian chiefs
daughter, — so they say ; and you might as well claim
royalty when you have the chance."

" Bless me ! your great-grandmother, eh ? Come,
now, what do you call yourself, — an Injun ? "

"No, I don't. I call myself an Anglo-Saxon."

"What, not call yourself an Injun, — when your
great-grandmother was one ? Here 's a pretty go ! "

" Nonsense ! 'tis n't likely that filtered Indian blood
can take precedence and mastery of all the Anglo-
Saxon material it 's run through since then."

" Hurray ! now you Ve said it. Lookee here, Cap-
tain. You say the Anglo-Saxon \s the master race of
the world."

" Of course I do."

" Of course you do, — being a sensible fellow. So
do I ; and you say the negro blood is mighty poor
stuff, and the race a long way behind ours."

" Of course, again."

" Now, Captain, just take a sober squint at your own
logic. You back Anglo-Saxon against the field ; very
well ! here 's Miss Ercildoune, we '11 say, one eighth
negro, seven eighths Anglo-Saxon. You make that
one eighth stronger than all the other seven eighths :
you make that little bit of negro master of all the
lot of Anglo-Saxon. Now I have such a good opinion
of my own race that if it were t' other way about, I 'd

What Answer? 197

think the one eighth Saxon strong enough to beat the
seven eighths nigger. That 's sound, is n't it ? conse-
quently, I call anybody that 's got any mixture at all,
and that knows anything, and keeps a clean face, —
and ain't a rebel, nor yet a Copperhead, — I call him,
if it 's a him, and her, if it 's a she, one of us. And I
mean to say to any such from henceforth, ' Here 's your
chance, — go in, and win, if you can, — and anybody
be damn'd that stops you ! ' "

" Blow away, Jim," laughed the Captain, " I like to
hear you ; and it 's good talk if you don't mean it."

" I '11 be blamed if I don't."

" Come, you 're talking now, — you 're saying a lot
more than you '11 live up to, — you know that as well
as I. People always do when they 're gassing."

" Well, blow or no blow, it 's truth, whether I live
up to it or not." And he, evidently with not all the
steam worked off, began to gather sticks and build a
fire to fry his bit of pork and warm the cold coffee.

Just then they heard the plash of oars keeping time
to the cadence of a plantation hymn, which came float-
ing solemn and clear through the night : —

" My brudder sittin' on de tree ob life,
An' he yearde when Jordan roll.
Roll Jordan, roll Jordan, roll Jordan, roll,
Roll Jordan, roll ! "

They both paused to listen as the refrain was again
and again repeated.

198 What Answer f

" There 's nigger for you," broke out Jim, " what 'n
thunder 'd they mean by such gibberish as that ? "

The Captain laughed. " Come, Given, don't quarrel
with what 's above your comprehension. Doubtless
there 's a spiritual meaning hidden away somewhere,
which your unsanctified ears can't interpret."

" Spiritual fiddlestick ! "

"Worse and worse ! what a heathen you 're demon-
strating yourself! Violins are no part of the heavenly
chorus."

" Much you know about it ! Hark, — they 're at it
again" • and again the voices and break of oars came
through the night : —

" O march, de angel march ! O march, de angel march !
O my soul arise in heaven, Lord, for to yearde when Jordan
roll!

Roll Jordan, roll Jordan, roll Jordan, roll."

" Well, I confess that 's a little bit above my com-
prehension, — that is. Spiritual or something else.
Lazy vermin ! they '11 paddle round in them boats, or
lie about in the sun, and hoot all day and all night
about ' de good Lord ' and ' de day ob jubilee,' — and
think God Almighty is going to interfere in their spe-
cial behalf, and do big things for them generally."

" It 's a feet ; they do all seem to be waiting for
something."

" Well, I reckon they need n't wait any longer. The

What Answer? 199

day of miracles is gone by, for such as them, anyway.
They ain't worth the salt that feeds them, so far as I
can discover."

Through the wash of the waters they could hear
from the voices, as they sang, that their possessors
were evidently drawing nearer.

" Sense or not," said the Captain, " I never listen to
them without a queer feeling. What they sing is gen-
erally ridiculous enough, but their voices are the most
pathetic things in the world." "

Here the hymn stopped ; a boat was pulled up, and
presently they saw two men coming from the sands
and into the light of their fire, — ragged, dirty ; one
shabby old garment — a pair of tow pantaloons — on
each ; bareheaded, barefooted, — great, clumsy feet,
stupid and heavy-looking heads ; slouching walk,
stooping shoulders ■ something eager yet deprecating
in their black faces.

" Look at 'em, Captain ; now you just take a fair
look at 'em ; and then say that Mr. Surrey's wife be-
longs to the same family, — own kith and kin, — you
ca- a -n't do it."

" Faugh ! for heaven's sake, shut up ! of course,
when it comes to this, I can't say anything of the kind."

"'NufF said. You see, I believe in Mr. Surrey,
and what 's more, I believe in Miss Ercildoune, — have
reason to ; and when I hear anybody mixing her up

200 What Answer?

with these onry, good-for-nothing niggers, it 's more 'n
I can stand, so don't let 's have any more of it " ;
and turning with an air which said that subject was
ended, Jim took up his forgotten coffee, pulled apart
some brands and put the big tin cup on the coals, and
then bent over it absorbed, sniffing the savory steam
which presently came up from it. Meanwhile the two
men were • skulking about among the trees, watching,
yet not coming near, — " at their usual work of wait-
ing," as the Captain said.

" Proper enough, too, let 'em wait. Waiting 's their
business. Now," taking off his tin and looking to-
wards them, " what d 'ye s'pose those anemiles want ?
Pity the boat had n't tipped over before they got here.
Camp's overrun now with just such scoots. Here,
you ! " he called.

The men came near. " Where 'd you come from ?"

One of them pointed back to the boat, seen dimly
on the sand.

" Was that you howling a while ago, ' Roll Jordan,'
or something ? "

" Yes, massa."

" And where did you come from ? — no, you need n't
look back there again, — I mean, where did you and
the boat too come from ? "

" Come from Mass' George Wingate's place, massa."

" Far from here ? "

What Answer? 201

" Big way, massa."

11 What brought you here ? what did you come for?"

" If you please, massa, 'cause the Linkum sojer's was
yere, an' de big guns, an' we yearde dat all our peo-
ple 's free when dey gets yere."

" Free ! what '11 such fellows as you do with free-
dom, hey ? "

The two looked at their interrogator, then at one
another, opened their mouths as to speak, and shut
them hopelessly, — unable to put into words that which
was struggling in their darkened brains, — and then
with a laugh, a laugh that sounded wofully like a sob,
answered, " Dunno, massa."

"What fools!" cried Jim, angrily; but the Cap-
tain, who was watching them keenly, thought of a line
he had once read, " There is a laughter sadder than
tears." "True enough, — poor devils !" he added to
himself.

" Are you hungry ? " Jim proceeded.

" I hope massa don't think we's come yere for to git
suthin' to eat," said the smaller of the two, a little, thin,
haggard-looking fellow, — " we 's no beggars. Some ob
de darkies is, but we 's not dem kind, — Jim an' me, —
we's willin' to work, ain't we, Jim ? "

" Jim ! " soliloquized Given, — " my name, hey ?
we '11 take a squint at this fellow."

The squint showed two impoverished-looking wretch-
9*

202 What Answer?

es, with a starved look in their eyes, which he did not
comprehend, and a starved look in their faces and
forms, which he did.

" Come, now, are you hungry ? " he queried once
more.

'V-If ye please, massa," began the little one who was
spokesman, — ' little folks always are gas-bags,' Jim
was fond of saying from his six feet of height, — " if ye
please, massa, we 's had nothin' to eat but berries an'
roots an' sich like truck for long while."

" Well, why the devil have n't you had something
else then ? what 've you been doing with yourselves for
' long while ' ? what d'ye mean, coming here starved
to death, making a fellow sick to look at you ? Hold
your gab, and eat up that pork," pushing over his tin
plate, " 'n' that bread," sending it after, " 'n' that hard
tack, — 't ai'n't very good, but it 's better 'n roots, I
reckon, or berries either, — 'n' gobble up that coffee,
double-quick, mind ; and don't you open your heads to
talk till that grub 's gone, slick and clean. Ugh ! " he
said to the Captain, — " sight o' them fellows just took
my appetite away ; could n't eat to save my soul ;
lucky they came to devour the rations ; pity to throw
them away." The Captain smiled, — he knew Jim.
"Poor cusses!" he added presently, "eat like canni-
bals, don't they ? hope they enjoy it. Had enough ?"
seeing they had devoured everything put before them.

What Answi 203

" Thankee, massa, Yes. mass?.. Bery kind, massa.
Had quite 'nua

"Veil, now, you, sir ! '7 looking at the little one, —
" by the way, what 's your name ?

•■ Bijah, if ye please, massa

" 'Bijah ? ^/bijah, hey ? well, I don't please ; how-
ever, it s none of my name. Well, 'Bijah, how came
you two to be looking like a couple of animated skele-
tons ? that *s the next question."

" \ es. massa.'3

" I say. how came you to be starved ? Hai'nt they
nothing but roots and berries up your way? Mass-
George Wingate must have a jolly time, feasting, in
that case. Come, what "s your story ? Out with the
whole pack of lies at once.

"I hope massa thinks we wouldn't tell nuffin but
de txiuy' said Jim, who had not before spoken save to
say, "Thankee." — "'cause if he don't bleeve us, ain't
no use in talkin'."

•■ You shut up ! I ain't conversing with you, raw-
bones ! Speak when you "re spoken to ! Come, 'Bi-
jah, fire away.''

"Bay good, massa. Ye see I'se Mass' George
' gate's boy. Mass' George he lives in de back
country, good long way from de coast. — over a hun-
dred miles, Jim calklates. — an" Jim 's smart at cal-
klating ; well, Mass' George he 's not berry good to

204 What Answer?

his people ; never was, an' he 's been wuss 'n ever
since the Linkum sojers cum round his way, 'cause it 's
made feed scurce ye see, an' a lot of de boys dey
tuck to runnin' away, — so what wid one ting an' an-
oder, his temper got spiled, an' he was mighty hard on
us all de time.

"At las' I got tired of bein' cuffed an' knocked
round, an' den I yearde dat if our people, any of dem,
got to de Fedral lines dey was free, so I said, ' Cum,
'Bijah, — freedom 's wuth tryin' for'; an' one dark
night I did up some hoe-cake an' a piece of pork an'
started. I trabbeled hard 's I could all night, — 'bout
fifteen mile, I reckon, — an' den as 't was gittin' toward
mornin' I hid away in a swamp. Ye see I felt drefful
bad, for I could year way off, but plain enuff, de bayin'
of de hounds, an' I knew dat de men an' de guns an'
de dogs was all after me ; but de day passed an' dey
did n't come. So de next night I started off agen, an'
run an' walked hard all night, an' towards mornin' I
went up to a little house standen off from de road,
thinking it was a nigger house, an' jest as I got up to
it out walked a white woman scarin' me awfully, an'
de fust ting she axed me was what I wanted."

" Tight shave ! " interrupted Jim, — " what d' ye do
then ? "

" Well, massa, ye see I saw mighty quick I was in
for a lie anyhow, so I said, ' Is massa at home ? ' 'Yes,'

What Answer? 205

says she, — an' sure nuff, he cum right out. ' Hello,
nigger ! ' he said when he seed me, ' whar you cum from?
so I tells him from Pocotaligo, an' before he could ax
any more queshuns, I went on an' tole him we cotched
fifty Yankees down dere yesterday, an' massa he was so
tickled dat he let me go to Barnwells to see my family,
an' den I said I 'd got off de track an' was dead beat
an' drefful hungry, an' would he please to sell me
suthin to eat. At dat de woman streaked right into
de house, an' got me some bread an' meat, an' tole me
to eat it up an' not talk about payin', — ' we don't
charge good, faithful niggers nothin',' she said, — so I
thanked her an' eat it all up, an' den, when de man had
tole me how to go, I went right long till I got out ob
sight ob de little house, an' den I got into de woods,
an' turned right round de oder way an' made tracks
fast as I could in dat direcshun."

" Ho ! ho ! you 're about what I call a 'cute nigger,"
laughed Jim. " Come, go on, — this gets interesting."

" Well, directly I yearde de dogs. Dere was a pond
little way off; so I tuck to it, an' waded out till I could
just touch my toes an' keep my nose above water so 's
to breathe. Presently dey all cum down, an' I yearde
Mass' George say, ' I '11 hunt dat nigger till I find him
if takes a month. I'se goin' to make a zample of
him,' — so I shook some at dat, for I know 'd what
Mass' George's zamples was. Arter while one ob de

206 What Answer?

men says, l He ain't yere, — he 'd shown hisself before
dis, if he was,' an' I spose I would, for I was pretty
nearly choked, only I said to myself when I went in,
' I '11 go to de bottom before I '11 come up to be
tuck,' so I jest held on by my toes an' waited.

" I did n't dare to cum out when dey rode away to
try a new scent, an' when I did I jest skulked round
de edge ob de pond, ready to take to it agen if I
yearde dem, an' when night cum I started off an' run
an' walked agen hard 's I could, an' den at day-dawn
I tuck to anoder pond, an' went on a log dat was
stickin' in de water, and broke down some rushes an'
bushes enuf to lie down on an' cover me up, an' den
I slept all day, for I was drefful tired an' most starved
too. Next evenin' when it got dark, I went on agen,
an' trabblin through de woods I seed a little light, an'
sartin dis time dat it was a darkey's cabin, I made for
it, an' it was. It was his'n," — pointing to the big fellow
who stood beside him, and who nodded his head in
assent.

" I had a palaver before he 'd let me in, but when I
was in I seed what de matter was. He had a sojer
dere, a Linkum sojer, bad wounded, what he 'd found
in de woods, — he was a runaway hisself, ye see, like
■me, — an' he 'd tuck him to dis ole cabin an 'd been
nussin him up for good while. When I seed dat I felt
drefful bad, for I knowed dey was a huntin for me yet,

What Answer? 207

an' I tought if de dogs got on de trail dey 'd get to dis
cabin, sure : an' den dey 'd both be tuck. So I up
an' tole dem, an' de sojer he says, ' Come, Jim, you 've
done quite enuff fur me, my boy. If you 're in dan-
ger now, be off with you fast as you can, — an' God
reward you, for I never can, for all you 've done for
me.'

" ' No,' says Jim, ' Capen, ye need n't talk in dat
way, for I'se not goin to budge widout you. You got
wounded fur me an' my people, an' now I '11 stick by
you an' face any thing fur you if it 's Death hisself ! '
That 's just what Jim said ; an' de sojer he put his
hand up to his face, an' I seed it tremble bad, — he was
weak, you see, — an' some big tears cum out troo his
fingers onto de back ob it.

" Den Jim says, ' Dis is n't a safe place for any on
us, an' we '11 have to take to our heels agen, an' so de
sooner we 's off de better.' So he did up some vittels,
— all he had dere, — an' gave 'em to me to tote, — an'
den before de Capen could sneeze he had him up on
his back, an' we was off.

" It was pretty hard work I kin tell you, strong as
Jim was, an' we 'd have to stop an' rest putty ofen ; an'
den, Jim an' I, we 'd tote him atween us on some
boughs ; an' den we had to lie by, some days, all day,
■ — an' we trabbled putty slow, cause we 'd lost our
bearins an' was in a secesh country, we knowed, — an'

20 8 What Answer?

we had nuffin but berries an' sich to eat, an' got nigh
starved.

" One night we cum onto half a dozen fellows skulk-
in' in de woods, an' at fust dey made fight, but
d'rectly dey know'd we was friends, fur dey was some
more Linkum sojers, an' dey 'd lost dere way, or
ruther, dey know'd where dey was, but dey did n't
know how to git way from dere. Dey was 'scaped
pris'ners, dey told us ; when I yearde where 'twas I
know'd de way to de coast, an' said I'd show 'em de
way if dey'd cum long wid us, so dey did ; an' we got
'long all right till we got to de ribber up by Mass'
Rhett's place."

"Yes, I know where it is," said the Captain.

" Den what to do was de puzzle. De country was
all full ob secesh pickets, an' dere was de ribber, an'
we had no boat, — so Jim, he says, ' I know what to
do ; fust I '11 hide you yere,' an' he did all safe in de
woods ; ' an' den I '11 git ye suthin to eat from de
niggers round,' an' he did dat too, do he could n't git
much, for fear he'd be seen; an' den we, he and I,
made some ropes out ob de tall grass like dat we 'd
ofen made fur mats , an' tied dem together wid some
oder grass, an' stuck a board in, an' den made fur de
Yankee camp, an' yere we is."

" Yes," said the black man Jim, here, — breaking
silence, — " we '11 show you de way back if you kin go

What Answer? 209

up in a boat dey can rest in, fur dey's most all clean
done out, an' de capen's wound is awful bad yit"

" This captain, — what 's his name ? " inquired
Coolidge.

" His name is here," said Jim, carefully drawing
forth a paper from his rags, — " he has on dis some
riggers an' a map of de country he took before he got
wounded, an' some words he writ wid a bit of burnt
stick just before we cum away, — an' he giv it to me,
an' tole me to bring it to camp, fur fear something
might happen to him while we was away."

" My God ! " cried Coolidge when he had opened
the paper, and with hasty eyes scanned its contents,
" it 's Tom Russell ; I know him well. This must be
sent up to head-quarters, and I '11 get an order, and a
boat, and some men, to go for them at once." All of
which was promptly done.

" See here ! I speak to be one of the fellows what
goes," Jim emphatically announced.

" All right. I reckon we '11 both go, Given, if the
General will let us, — and I think he will," — which
was a safe guess, and a true one. The boat was soon
ready and manned. 'Bijah, too weak to pull an oar,
was left behind ; and Jim, really not fit to do aught
save guide them, still insisted on taking his share of
work. They found the place at last, and the men ;
and taking them on board, — Russell having to be

210 What Answer?

moved slowly and carefully, — they began to pull for
home.

The tide was going out, and the river low : that, with
the heavily laden boat, made their progress lingering ;
a fact which distressed them all, as they knew the
night to be almost spent, and that the shores were
so lined with batteries, open and masked, and the
country about so scoured by rebels, as to make it al-
most sure death to them if they were not beyond the
lines before the morning broke.

The water was steadily- and perceptibly ebbing, —
the rowing growing more and more insecure, — the
danger becoming imminent.

" Ease her off, there ! ease her off! " cried the Cap-
tain, — as a harsh, gravelly sound smote on his ear,
and at the same moment a shot whizzed past them,
showing that they were discovered, — " ease her off,
there ! or we 're stuck ! "

The warning came too late, — indeed, could not have
been obeyed, had it come earlier. The boat struck ;
her bottom grating hard on the wet sand.

" Great God ! she 's on a bar," cried Coolidge,
"and the tide 's running out, fast."

" Yes, and them damned rebs are safe enough from
our fire," said one of the men.

A few scattering shot fell about them.

" They 're going to make their mark on us, anyway,"
put in another.

What Answer ? 211

" And we can't send 'em anything in return, blast
'em ! " growled a third.

"That 's the worst of it," broke out a fourth, "to
be shot at like a rat in a hole."

All said in a breath, and the balls by this time
falling thick and. fast, — a fiery, awful rain of death.
The men were no cowards, and the captain was brave
enough ; but what could they do ? To stand up was but
to make figure-heads at which the concealed enemy
could fire with ghastly certainty ; to fire in return
was to waste their ammunition in the air. The men
flung themselves face foremost on the deck, silent and
watchful.

Through it all Jim had been sitting crouched over
his oar. He, unarmed, could not have fought had the
chance offered ; breaking out, once and again, into
the solemn-sounding chant which he had been singing
when he came up in his boat the evening before : —

" O my soul arise in heaven, Lord, for to yearde when Jordan
roll,

Roll Jordan, roll Jordan, roll Jordan, roll," —

the words falling in with the sound of the water as it
lapsed from them. .

" Stop that infernal noise, will you ?" cried one of
the men, impatiently. The noise stopped.

"Hush, Harry, — don't swear!" expostulated an-
other, beside whom was lying a man mortally wound-

212 What Answer?

ed. " This is awful ! 't ain't like going in fair and
square, on your chance."

" That 's so, — it's enough to make a fellow pray,"
was the answer.

Here Russell, putting up his hand, took hold of
Jim's brawny black one with a gesture gentle as a
woman's. It hurt him to hear his faithful friend even
spoken to harshly. All this, while the hideous shower
of death was dropping about them ; the water was
ebbing, ebbing, — falling and running out fast to sea,
leaving them higher and drier on the sands ; the gray
dawn was steadily brightening into day.

At this fearful pass a sublime scene was enacted.
" Sirs ! " said a voice, — it was Jim's voice, and in it
sounded something so earnest and strange, that the
men involuntarily turned their heads to look at him.
Then this man stood up, — a black man, — a little
while before a slave, — the great muscles swollen and
gnarled with unpaid toil, the marks of the lash and the
branding-iron yet plain upon his person, the shadows
of a life-time of wrongs and sufferings looking out of
his eyes. "Sirs ! " he said, simply, "somebody's got
to die to get us out of dis, and it may as well be me,"
— plunged overboard, put his toil-hardened shoulders
to the boat ; a struggle, a gasp, a mighty wrench, —
pushed it off clear ; then fell, face foremost, pierced by
a dozen bullets. Free at last !

CHAPTER XVI.

"Ye died to live."

BOKER.

' I ^HE next day Jim was recounting this scene to
■*- some men in camp, describing it with feeling and
earnestness, and winding up the narration by the dec-
laration, " and the first man that says a nigger ain't as
good as a white man, and a damn'd sight better 'n
those graybacks over yonder, well " —

" Well, suppose he does? " — interrupted one of the
men.

" O, nothing, Billy Dodge, — only he and I '11 have
a few words to pass on the subject, that's all ;" doub-
ling up his fist, and examining the big cords and mus-
cles on it with curious and well-satisfied interest.

" See here, Billy ! " put in one of his comrades,
"don't you go to having any argument with Jim, —
he 's a dabster with his tongue, Jim is."

" Yes, and a devil with his fist," growled a sullen-
looking fellow.

"Just so," — assented Jim, — " when a blackguard 's
round to feel it."

" Well, Given, do you like the darkeys well enough

214 What Answer?

to take off your cap to them ? " queried a sergeant
standing near.

" What are you driving at now, hey ? "

" O, not much ; but you '11 have to play second
fiddle to them to-night. The General thinks they 're
as good as the rest of us, and a little bit better, and
has sent over for the Fifty-fourth to lead the charge
this evening. What have you got to say to that ? "

" Bully for them ! that 's what I 've got to say. Any
objections? " looking round him.

" Nary objec ! " " They deserve it ! " " They
fought like tigers over on James Island ! " "I hope
they '11 pepper the rebs well ! " — " It ought to be a
free fight, and no quarter, with them ! " " Yes, for they
get none if they 're taken ! " " Go in, Fifty-fourth ! "
These and the like exclamations broke from the men
on all sides, with absolute heartiness and good will.

" It seems to me," sneered a dapper little officer
who had been looking and listening, " that the niggers
have plenty of advocates here."

Two or three of the men looked at Jim. " You may
bet your pile on that, Major ! " said he, with becoming
gravity ; " we love our friends, and we hate our ene-
mies, and it 's the dark-complected fellows that are the
first down this way."

" Pretty-looking set of friends ! "

" Well, they ain't much to look at, that 's a fact ;

}V/iat Answe 215

but I never heard of anybody saying you was to turn a
cold shoulder on a helper because he was homely,
except," — this as the Major was walking away, " ex-
cept a secesh, or a fool, or one of little 2s lac's staff
officers. "

"Homely? what are you gassing about?" objected
a little fellow from Massachusetts ; '* the Fifty-fourth is
as fine-looking a set of men as shoulder rifles anywhere
in the army."

" Jack ?s sensitive about the credit of his State,"
chaffed a big Ohioan. " He wants to crack up these
fellows, seeing they're his comrades. I say, Johnny,
are all the white men down your way such little shav-
ers as vou ? "

" For a fellow that 's ail legs and no brains, you talk
too much," answered Johnny. " Have any of you seen
the Fifty-fourth ? "

"I haven't." "Nor I." '"'Yes, I saw them at
Port Royal." " And I." " And I."

" Well, the Twenty-third was at Beaufort while they
were there, and I used to go over to their camp and
talk with them. I never saw fellows so in earnest ;
they seemed ready to die on the instant, if they could
help their people, or walk into the slaveholders any,
first. They were just full of it j and yet it seemed ab-
surd to call 'em a black regiment ; they were pretty
much all colors, and some of 'em as white as I am."

2i6 What Answer?

" Lord," said Jim, " that 's not saying much, you 've
got a smutty face."

The men laughed, Jack with the rest, as he dabbed
at his heated, powder-stained countenance. " Come,"
said he, " that 's no fair, — they 're as white as I am,
then, when I Ve just scrubbed ; and some of them are
first-raters, too ; none of your rag, tag, and bobtail.
There 's one I remember, a man from Philadelphia,
who walks round like a prince. He 's a gentleman,
every inch, — and he 's rich, — and about the hand-
somest-looking specimen of humanity I 've set eyes
upon for an age."

" Rich, is he ? how do you know he 's rich ? "

" I was over one night with Captain Ware, and he
and this man got to talking about the pay for the Fifty-
fourth. The government promised them regular pay,
you see, and then when it got 'em refused to stick to
its agreement, and they would take no less, so they
have n't seen a dime since they enlisted ; and it 's a
darned mean piece of business, that 's my opinion of
the matter, and I don't care who knows it," looking
round belligerently.

" Come, Bantam, don't crow so loud," interrupted
the big Ohioan ; " nobody 's going to fight you on that
statement ; it 's a shame, and no mistake. But what
about your paragon? "

" I '11 tell you. The Captain was trying to convince

What Answer? 217

him that they had better take what they could get till
they got the whole, and that, after all, it was but a pal-
try difference. 'But,' said the man, 'it's not the
money, though plenty of us are poor enough to make
that an item. It's the badge of disgrace, the stigma
attached, the dishonor to the government. If it were
only two cents we would n't submit to it, for the differ-
ence would be made because we are colored, and
we 're not going to help degrade our own people, not
if we starve for it. Besides, it's our flag, and our
government now, and we 've got to defend the honor
of both against any assailants, North or South, —
whether they 're Republican Congressmen or rebel sol-
diers.' The Captain looked puzzled at that, and asked
what he meant. ' Why,' said he, l the United States
government enlisted us as soldiers. Being such, we
don't intend to disgrace the service by accepting the
pay of servants.'"

" That 's the kind of talk," bawled Jim from a fence-
rail upon which he was balancing. " I 'd like to have
a shake of that fellow's paw. What 's his name, d 'ye
know ? "

" Ercildoune."

"Hey?"

" Ercildoune."

" Jemime ! Ercildoune, — from Philadelphia, you
say?"

10

218 What Answer?

" Yes, — do you know him ? "

" Well, no, — I don't exactly know him, but I think
I know something about him. His pa 's rich as a nob,
if it 's the one I mean," — and then finished sotto voce,
" it 's Mrs. Surrey's brother, sure as a gun ! "

"Well, he ought to be rich, if he ain't. As we,
that 's the Captain and me, were walking away, the Cap-
tain said to one of the officers of the Fifty-fourth who 'd
been listening to the talk, ' It 's easy for that man to
preach self-denial for a principle. He 's rich, I 've
heard. It don't hurt him any; but it's rather selfish
to hold some of the rest up to his standard ; and I
presume that such a man as he has no end of influence
with them ! '

" ' As he should,' said his officer. ' Ercildoune has
brains enough to stock a regiment, and refinement, and
genius, and cultivation that would assure him the high-
est position in society or professional life anywhere
out of America. He won't leave it though; for in
spite of its wrongs to him he sees its greatness and
goodness, — says that it is his, and that it is to be
saved, it and all its benefits, for Americans, — no mat-
ter what the color of their skin, — of whom he is one.
He sees plain enough that this war is going to break
the slave's chain, and ultimately the stronger chain of
prejudice that binds his people to the grindstone, and
he 's full of enthusiasm for it, accordingly ; though I'm

What Answer t 219

free to confess, the magnanimity of these colored men
from the North who fight, on faith, for the government,
is to me something amazing.' "

" l Why,' said the Captain, — ' why, any more from
the North than from the South ? ' "

" Why ? the blacks down here can at least fight their
ex-masters, and pay off some old scores ; but for a man
from the North who is free already, and so has nothing
to gain in that way, — whose rights as a man and a
citizen are denied, — for such a man to enlist and to
fight, without bounty, pay, honor, or promotion, —
without the promise of gaining anything whatever for
himself, — condemned to a thankless task on the one
side, — to a merciless death or even worse fate on the
other, — facing all this because he has faith that the
great republic will ultimately be redeemed ; that some
hands will gather in the harvest of this bloody sowing,
though he be lying dead under it, — I tell you, the
more I see of these men, the more I know of them,
the more am I filled with admiration and astonish-
ment.

" Now here 's this one of whom we are talking, Er-
cildoune, born with a silver spoon in his mouth : in-
stead of eating with it, in peace and elegance, in some
European home, look at him here. You said some-
thing about his lack of self-sacrifice. He 's doing what
he is from a principle j and beyond that, it 's no won-

220 What Answer?

der the men care for him : he has spent a small fortune
on the most needy of them since they enlisted, — find-
ing out which of them have families, or any one de-
pendent on them, and helping them in the finest and
most delicate way possible. There are others like
him here, and it 's a fortunate circumstance, for there 's
not a man but would suffer, himself, — and, what 's
more, let his family suffer at home, — before he 'd give
up the idea .for which they are contending now."

" ' Well, good luck to them ! ' said the Captain as we
came away ; and so say I," finished Jack.

" And I," — " And I," responded some of the
men. " We must see this man when they come over
here."

" I '11 bet you a shilling," said Jim, pulling out a bit
of currency, " that he '11 make his mark to-night."

" Lend us the change, Given, and I '11 take you up,"
said one of the men.

The others laughed. "He don't mean it," said
Jim : which, indeed, he did n't. Nobody seemed in-
clined to run any risks by betting on the other side of
so likely a proposition.

This talk took place late in the afternoon, near the
head-quarters of the commanding General ; and the
men directly scattered to prepare for the work of the
evening : some to clean a bayonet, or furbish up a
rifle ; others to chat and laugh over the chances and

What Answer? 221

to lay plans for the morrow, — the morrow which was
for them never to dawn on earth ; and yet others to
sit down in their tents and write letters to the dear
ones at home, making what might, they knew, be a
final farewell, — for the fight impending was to be a
fierce one, — or to read a chapter in a little book carried
from some quiet fireside, balancing accounts perchance,
in anticipation of the call of the Great Captain to come
up higher.

Through the whole afternoon there had been a tre-
mendous cannonading of the fort from the gunboats
and the land forces : the smooth, regular engineer
lines were broken, and the fresh-sodded embankments
torn and roughened by the unceasing rain of shot and
shell.

About six o'clock there came moving up the island,
over the burning sands and under the burning sky, a
stalwart, splendid-appearing set of men, who looked
equal to any daring, and capable of any heroism ;
men whom nothing could daunt and few things subdue.
Now, weary, travel-stained, with the mire and the
rain of a two days' tramp ; weakened by the incessant
strain and lack of food, having taken nothing for forty-
eight hours save some crackers and cold coffee ; with
gaps in their ranks made by the death of comrades who
had fallen in battle but a little time before, — under all
these disadvantages, it was plain to be seen of what

22.2 What Answer f

stuff these men were made, and for what work they
were ready.

As this regiment, the famous Fifty-fourth, came up the
island to take its place at the head of the storming
party in the assault on Wagner, it was cheered from
all sides by the white soldiers, who recognized and
honored the heroism which it had already shown, and
of which it was soon to give such new and sublime
proof.

The evening, or rather the afternoon, was a lurid
and sultry one. Great masses of clouds, heavy and
black, were piled in the western sky, fringed here and
there by an angry red, and torn by vivid streams of
lightning. Not a breath of wind shook the leaves or
stirred the high, rank grass by the water-side ; a por-
tentous and awful stillness filled the air, — the stillness
felt by nature before a devastating storm. Quiet,
with the like awful and portentous calm, the black
regiment, headed by its young, fair-haired, knightly
colonel, marched to its destined place and action.

When within about six hundred yards of the fort it
was halted at the head of the regiments already sta-
tioned, and the line of battle formed. The prospect
was such as might daunt the courage of old and well-
tried veterans, but these soldiers of a few weeks
seemed but impatient to take the odds, and to make
light of impossibilities. A slightly rising ground, raked

What Answer? 223

by a murderous fire, to within a little distance of the
battery ; a ditch holding three feet of water ; a straight
lift of parapet, thirty feet high ; an impregnable po-
sition, held by a desperate and invincible foe.

Here the men were addressed in a few brief and
burning words by their heroic commander. Here
they were besought to glorify their whole race by the
lustre of their deeds ; here their faces shone with a
look which said, " Though men, we are ready to do
deeds, to achieve triumphs, worthy the gods ! " here
the word of command was given : —

" We are ordered and expected to take Battery
Wagner at the point of the bayonet. Are you ready ? "

" Ay, ay, sir ! ready ! " was the answer.

And the order went pealing down the line, " Ready !
Close ranks ! Charge bayonets ! Forward ! Double-
quick, march ! " — and away they went, under a scat-
tering fire, in one compact line till within one hundred
feet of the fort, when the storm of death broke upon
them. Every gun belched forth its great shot and
shell ; eveiy rifle whizzed out its sharp-singing, death-
freighted messenger. The men wavered not for an
instant ; — forward, — forward they went ; plunged into
the ditch ; waded through the deep water, no longer
of muddy hue, but stained crimson with their blood ;
and commenced to climb the parapet. The foremost
line fell, and then the next, and the next. The ground

224 What Answer?

was strewn with the wrecks of humanity, scattered
prostrate, silent, where they fell, — or rolling under the
very feet of the living comrades who swept onward to
fill their places. On, over the piled-up mounds of
dead and dying, of wounded and slain, to the mouth
of the battery ; seizing the guns ; bayoneting the gun-
ners at their posts ; planting their flag and struggling
around it ; their leader on the walls, sword in hand, his
blue eyes blazing, his fair face aflame, his clear voice
calling out, " Forward, my brave boys ! " — then
plunging into the hell of battle before him. Forward
it was. They followed him, gathered about him,
gained an angle of the fort, and fought where he fell,
around his prostrate body, over his peaceful heart, —
shielding its dead silence by their living, pulsating
ones, — till they, too, were stricken down ; then hacked,
hewn, battered, mangled, heroic, yet overcome, the
remnant was beaten back.

Ably sustained by their supporters, Anglo-African
and Anglo-Saxon vied together to carry off the palm
of courage and glory. All the world knows the
last fought with heroism sublime : all the world forgets
this and them in contemplating the deeds and the
death of their compatriots. Said Napoleon at Auster-
litz to a young Russian officer, overwhelmed with
shame at yielding his sword, " Young man, be con-
soled : those who are conquered by my soldiers may

What Answer? 225

still have titles to glory." To say that on that memo-
rable night the last were surpassed by the first is still
to leave ample margin on which to write in glowing
characters the record of their deeds.

As the men were clambering up the parapet their
color-sergeant was shot dead, the colors trailing
stained and wet in the dust beside him. Ercildoune,
who was just behind, sprang forward, seized the staff
from his dying hand, and mounted with it upward. A
ball struck his right arm, yet ere it could fall shattered
by his side, his left hand caught the flag and carried it
onward. Even in the mad sweep of assault and death
the men around him found breath and time to hurrah,
and those behind him pressed more gallantly forward
to follow such a lead. He kept in his place, the colors
flying, — though faint with loss of blood and wrung with
agony, — up the slippery steep ; up to the walls of the
fort ; on the wall itself, planting the flag where the men
made that brief, splendid stand, and melted away like
snow before furnace-heat. Here a bayonet thrust met
him and brought him down, a great wound in his brave
breast, but he did not yield ; dropping to his knees,
pressing his unbroken arm upon the gaping wound, —
bracing himself against a dead comrade, — the colors
still flew ; an inspiration to the men about him : a defi-
ance to the foe.

At last when the shattered ranks fell back, sullenly
10* o

226 What Answer?

and slowly retreating, it was seen by those who
watched him, — men lying for three hundred rods
around in every form of wounded suffering, — that he
was painfully working his way downward, still holding
aloft the flag, bent evidently on saving it, and saving
it as flag had rarely, if ever, been saved before.

Some of the men had crawled, some had been car-
ried, some hastily caught up and helped by comrades
to a sheltered tent out of range of the fire ; a hospital
tent, they called it, if anything could bear that name
which was but a place where men could lie to suffer
and expire, without a bandage, a surgeon, or even a
drop of cooling water to moisten parched and dying
lips. Among these was Jim. He had a small field-
glass in his pocket, and forgot or ignored his pain in
his eager interest of watching through this the progress
of the man and the flag, and reporting accounts to his
no less eager companions. Black soldiers and white
were alike mad with excitement over the deed ; and
fear lest the colors which had not yet dipped should
at last bite the ground.

Now and then he paused at some impediment : it
was where the dead and dying were piled so thickly
as to compel him to make a detour. Now and then
he rested a moment to press his arm tighter against
his torn and open breast. The rain fell in such tor-
rents, the evening shadows were gathering so thickly,

What Answer? 227

that they could scarcely trace his course, long before
it was ended.

Slowly, painfully, he dragged himself onward, —
step by step down the hill, inch by inch across the
ground, — to the door of the hospital ; and then, while
dying eyes brightened, — dying hands and even shat-
tered stumps were thrown into the air, — in brief,
while dying men held back their souls from the eter-
nities to cheer him, — gasped out, " I did — but do —
my duty, boys, — and the dear — old flag — never once
— touched the ground," — and then, away from the
reach and sight of its foes, in the midst of its defend-
ers, who loved and were dying for it, the flag at last

fell.

• • • • • •

Meanwhile, other troops had gone up to the encoun-
ter j other regiments strove to win what these men had
failed to gain ; and through the night, and the storm,
and the terrific reception, did their gallant endeavor —
in vain.

The next day a flag of truce went up to beg the
body of the heroic young chief who had so led that
marvellous assault. It came back without him. A
ditch, deep and wide, had been dug ; his body, and
those of twenty-two of his men found dead upon and
about him, flung into it in one common heap;

228 What Answer?

and the word sent back was, " We have buried him
with his niggers."

It was well done. The fair, sweet face and gallant
breast lie peacefully enough under their stately monu-
ment of ebony.

It was well done. What more fitting close of such
a life, — what fate more welcome to him who had
fought with them, had loved, and believed in them,
had led them to death, — than to lie with them when
they died?

It was well done. Slavery buried these men, black
and white, together, — black and white in a common
grave. Let Liberty see to it, then, that black and
white be raised together in a life better than the old.

CHAPTER XVII.

" Spirits are not finely touched
But to fine issues."

Shakespeare.

SURREY was to depart for his command on Mon-
day night, and as there were various matters which
demanded his attention in town ere leaving, he drove
Francesca to the city on the preceding Sunday, — a
soft clear summer evening, full of pleasant sights and
sounds. They scarcely spoke as, hand in hand, they
sat drinking in the scene whilst the old gray, for they
wished no high-stepping prancers for this ride, jogged
on the even tenor of his way. Above them, the blue
of the sky never before seemed so deep and tender ;
while in it floated fleecy clouds of delicate amber,
rose, and gold, like gossamer robes of happy spir-
its invisible to human eyes. The leaves and grass
just stirred in the breeze, making a slight, musical
murmur, and across them fell long shadows cast by
the westering sun. A sentiment so sweet and pleas-
urable as to be tinged with pain, took possession of
these young, susceptible souls, as the influences of
the time closed about them. In our happiest mo-
ments, our moments of utmost exaltation, it is always

230 What Answer?

•thus : — when earth most nearly approaches the beati-
tudes of heaven, and the spirit stretches forward with
a vain longing for the far off, which seems but a little
way beyond ; the unattained and dim, which for a
space come near.

" Darling ! " said Surrey softly, " does it not seem
easy now to die ? "

" Yes, Willie," she whispered, " I feel as though it
would be stepping over a very little stream to some
new and beautiful shore."

Doubtless, when a pure and great soul is close to
eternity, ministering angels draw nigh to one soon to
be of their number, and cast something of the peace
and glory of their presence on the spirit yet held by
its cerements of clay.

At last the ride and the evening had an end. The
country and its dear delights were mere memories, —
fresh, it is true, but memories still, and no longer re-
alities, — in the luxurious rooms of their hotel.

Evidently Surrey had something to say, which he
hesitated and feared to utter. Again and again, when
Francesca was talking of his plans and purposes,
trusting and hoping that he might see no hard ser-
vice, nor be called upon for any exposing duty, " not
yet awhile," she prayed, at least, — again and again he
made as if to speak, and then, ere she could notice
the movement, shook his head with a gesture of si-

What Answer? 231

lence, or — she seeing it, and asking what it was he
had to say — found ready utterance for some other
thought, and whispered to himself, " not yet ; not quite
yet Let her rest in peace a little space longer."

They sat talking far into the night, this last night
that they could spend together in so long a time, — how
long, God, with whom are hid the secrets of the future,
could alone tell. They talked of what had passed, which
was ended, — and of what was to come, which was not
sure but full of hope, — but of both with a feeling
that quickened their heart-throbs, and brought happy
tears to their eyes.

Twice or thrice a sound from some far distance, un-
decided, yet full of a solemn melody, came through the
open window, borne to their ears on the still air of
night, — something so undefined as not consciously to
arrest their attention, yet still penetrating their nerves
and affecting some fine, inner sense of feeling, for both
shivered as though a chill wind had blown across them,
and Surrey — half ashamed of the confession — said,
" I don't know what possesses me, but I hear dead
marches as plainly as though I were following a sol-
dier's funeral."

Francesca at that grew white, crept closer to his
breast, and spread out her arms as if to defend him by
that slight shield from some impending danger ; then
both laughed at these foolish and superstitious fan-

232 What Answer?

cies, and went on with their cheerful and tender
talk.

Whatever the sound was, it grew plainer and came
nearer ; and, pausing to listen, they discovered it was
a mighty swell of human voices and the marching of
many feet.

" A regiment going through," said they, and ran to
the window to see if it passed their way, looking for it
up the long street, which lay solemn and still in the
moonlight. On either side the palace-like houses stood
stately and dark, like giant sentinels guarding the
magnificent avenue, from whence was banished every
sight and sound of the busy life of day ; not a noise,
not a footfall, not a solitary soul abroad, not a wave
nor a vestige of the great restless sea of humanity
which a little space before surged through it, and
which, in a little while to come, would rise and swell
to its full, and then ebb, and fall, and drop away once
more into silence and nothingness.

Through this white stillness there came marching a
regiment of men, without fife or drum, moving to the
music of a refrain which lifted and fell on the quiet
air. It was the Battle Hymn of the Republic, — and
the two listeners presently distinguished the words, —

" In the beauty of the lilies Christ was born across the sea,
With a glory in his bosom that transfigures you and me ;
As he died to make men holy, let us die to make men free,
While God is marching on."

What Answer? 233

The effect of this ; the thousand voices which sang ;
the marching of twice one thousand feet ; the majesty
of the words ; the deserted street ; the clear moonlight
streaming over the men, reflected from their gleam-
ing bayonets, brightening the faded blue of their uni-
forms, illumining their faces which, one and all, seemed
to wear — and probably did wear — a look more sol-
emn and earnest than that of common life and feel-
ing, — the combined effect of it all was something in-
describably impressive : — ■■ inspiring, yet solemn.

They stood watching and listening till the pageant
had vanished, and then turned back into their room,
Francesca taking up the refrain and singing the line,

" As he died to make men holy, let us die to make men free,
While God is marching on/'

Surrey's face brightened at the rapt expression of
hers. " Sing it again, dearie ! " he said. She sang it
again. " Do you mean it ? " he asked then. " Can
you sing it, and mean it with all your heart, for me? "

She looked at him with an expression of anxiety
and pain. " What are you asking, Willie ? "

He sat down; taking her upon his knee, and with
the old fond gesture, holding her head to his heart,
— "I should have told you before, dearie, but I did
not wish to throw any shadow on the happy days we
have been spending together ; they were few and brief

234 What Answer?

enough without marring them ; and I was certain of
the effect it would have upon you, by your incessant
anxiety for Robert."

She drew a long, gasping sigh, and started away
from his hold : " O Willie, you are not going to — "

His arm drew her back to her resting-place. " I do
not return to my command, darling. I am to raise a
black brigade."
. " Freedmen ? "

" Yes, dearie."

" O Willie, — and that act just passed ! "

" It is true ; yet, after all, it is but one risk more."

" One ? O Willie, it is a thousand. You had that
many chances of escape where you were ; you might
be wounded and captured a score of times, and come
home safe at last ; but this ! "

" I know."

" To go into every battle with the sentence of death
hanging over you ; to know that if you are anywhere
captured, anyhow made prisoner, you are condemned
to die, — O Willie, I can't bear it ; I can't bear it ! I
shall die, or go mad, to carry such a thought all the
time."

For answer he only held her close, with his face rest-
ing upon her hair, and in the stillness they could hear
each other's heart beat.

" It is God's service," he said, at last.

What Answer? 235

"I know."

" It will end slavery and the war more effectually
than aught else."

" I know."

" It will make these freedmen, wherever they fight,
free men. It will give them and their people a sense
of dignity and power that might otherwise take gener-
ations to secure."

" I know."

" And I. Both feeling and knowing this, who so fit
to yield and to do for such a cause ? If those who see
do not advance, the blind will never walk."

Silence for a space again fell between them. Fran-
cesca moved in his arm.

" Dearie." She looked up. " I want to do no half
service. I go into this heart and soul, but I do not
wish to go alone. It will be so much to me to know
that you are quite willing, and bade me go. Think
what it is."

She did. For an instant all sacrifices appeared
easy, all burdens light. She could send him out to
death unfaltering. One of those sublime moods in
which martyrdom seems glorious filled and possessed
her. She took away her clinging arms from his neck,
and said, " Go, — whether it be for life or for death ;
whether you come back to me or go up to God ; I am
willing — glad — to yield you to such a cause."

22,6 What Answer?

It was finished. There was nothing more to be
said. Both had climbed the mount of sacrifice, and
sat still with God.

After a while the cool gray dawn stole into their
room. The night had passed in this communion, and
another day come.

There were many " last things " which claimed
Surrey's attention ; and he, wishing to get through
them early, so as to have the afternoon and evening
undisturbed with Francesca, plunged into a stinging
bath to refresh him for the day, breakfasted, and was
gone.

He attended to his business, came across many an
old acquaintance and friend, some of whom greeted
him coldly ; a few cut him dead \ whilst others put
out their hands with cordial frankness, and one or two
congratulated him heartily upon his new condition and
happiness. These last gave him fresh courage for the
task which he had set himself. If friends regarded
the matter thus, surely they — his father and mother —
would relent, when he came to say what might be a
final adieu.

He ran up the steps, rang the bell, and, speaking a
pleasant word to the old servant, went directly to his
mother's room. His father had not yet gone down
town • thus he found them together. They started at
seeing him, and his mother, forgetting for the instant

What Answer? 237

all her pride, chagrin, and anger, had her arms about
his neck, with the cry, " O Willie, Willie," which
came from the depths of her heart ; then seeing her
husband's face, and recovering herself, sat down cold
and still.

It was a painful interview. He could not leave
without seeing them once more ; he longed for a lov-
ing good by ; but after that first outburst he almost
wished he had not forced the meeting. He did not
speak of his wife, nor did they ; but a barrier as of
adamant was raised between them, and he felt as
though congealing in the breath of an iceberg. At
length he rose to go.

" Father ! " he said then, " perhaps you will care to
know that I do not return to my old command, but
have been commissioned to raise a brigade from the
freedmen."

Both father and mother knew the awful peril of this
service, and both cried, half in suffering, half in an-
ger, " This is your wife's work ! " while his fathei
added, with a passionate exclamation, " It is right,
quite right, that you should identify yourself with her
people. Well, go your way. You have made your
bed; lie in it."

The blood flushed into Surrey's face. He opened
his lips, and shut them again. At last he said .
" Father, will you never forego this cruel preju-
dice ? "

238 What Answer?

" Never ! " answered his mother, quickly. " Never ! n
repeated his father, with bitter emphasis. " It is a
feeling that will never die out, and ought never to
die out, so long as any of the race remain in America.
She belongs to it, that is enough."

Surrey urged no further ; but with few words, con-
strained on their part, — though under its covering of
pride the mother's heart was bleeding for him, — sad
and earnest on his, the farewell was spoken, and
they watched him out of the room. How and when
would they see him again ?

There was one other call upon his time. The day
was wearing into the afternoon, but he would not
neglect it. This was to see his old protege, Abram
Franklin, in whom he had never lost interest, and
for whose welfare he had cared, though he had not
seen him in more than two years. He knew that
Abram was ill, had been so for a long time, and wished
to see him and speak to him a few friendly and cheer-
ing words, — ■ sure, from what the boy's own hand had
written, that this would be his last opportunity upon
earth to so do.

Thus he went on from his father's stately palace up
Fifth Avenue, turned into the quiet side street, and
knocked at the little green door. Mrs. Franklin came
to open it, her handsome face thinner and sadder than
of old. She caught Surrey's hand between both of

What Answer? 239

hers with a delighted cry: "Is it you, Mr. Willie?
How glad I am to see you ! How glad Abram will be !
How good of you to come ! " And, holding his hand
as she used when he was a boy, she led him up
stairs to the sick-room. This room was even cosier
than the two below ; its curtains and paper cheerfuller ;
its furniture of quainter and more hospitable aspect ;
its windows letting in more light and air ; everything
clean and homely, and pleasant for weary, suffering
eyes to look upon.

Abram was propped up in bed, his dark, intelligent
face worn to a shadow, fiery spots breaking through
the tawny hue upon cheeks and lips, his eyes bright
with fever. Surrey saw, as he came and sat beside him,
that for him earthly sorrow and toil were almost ended.

He had brought some fruit and flowers, and a little
book. This last Abram, having thanked him eagerly
for all, stretched out his hand to examine.

" You see, Mr. Willie, I have not gotten over my old
love," he said, as his fingers closed upon it. " Whit-
tier ? ' In War-Time ' ? that is fine. I can read about
it, if I can't do anything in it," and he lay for a
while quietly turning over the pages. Mrs. Franklin
had gone out to do an errand, and the two were alone.

" Do you know, Mr. Willie," said Abram, putting his
finger upon the titles of two successive poems, " The
Waiting," and " The Summons," " I had hard work to

240 What A nswer ?

submit to this sickness a few months ago ? I fought
against it strong ; do you know why ? "

" Not your special reason. What was it ? "
" I had waited so long, you see, — I, and my peo-
ple, — for a chance. It made me quite wild to watch
this big fight go on, and know that it was all about us,
and not be allowed to participate ; and at last when
the chance came, and the summons, and the way was
opened, I could n't answer, nor go. It 's not the dying
I care for • I 'd be willing to die the first battle I was
in ; but I want to do something for the cause before
death comes." \

The book was lying open where it had fallen from
his hand, and Surrey, glancing down at the veiy
poem of which he spoke, said gently, "Here is your
answer, Franklin, better than any I can make ; it
ought to comfort you ; listen, it is God's truth !

' O power to do ! O baffled will !

O prayer and action ! ye are one ;
Who may not strive may yet fulfil
The harder task of standing still,

And good but wished with God is done ! ' '

" It is so, " said Abram. " You act and I pray, and
you act for me and mine. I 'd like to be under you
when you get the troops you were telling me about ;
but — God knows best."

Surrey sat gazing earnestly into space, crowded by

What Answer? 241

emotions called up by these last words, whilst Abrara
lay watching him with admiring and loving eyes.
" For me and mine," he repeated softly, his look fas-
tening on the blue sleeve, which hung, limp and empty,
near his hand. This he put out cautiously, but drew
it back at some slight movement from his companion ;
then, seeing that he was still absorbed, advanced it
once more, and slowly, timidly, gently, lifted it to his
mouth, pressing his lips upon it as upon a shrine.
" For me and mine ! " he whispered, — " for me and
mine ! " tears dimming the pathetic, dying eyes.

The peaceful quiet was broken by a tempest of aw-
ful sound, — groans and shrieks and yells mingled in
horrible discord, blended with the trampling of many
feet, — noises which seemed to their startled and ex-
cited fancies like those of hell itself. The next
moment a door was flung open ; and Mrs. Franklin,
bruised, lame, her garments torn, blood flowing from a
cut On her head, staggered into the room. " O Lord !
O Lord Jesus ! " she cried, " the day of wrath has
come ! " and fell, shuddering and crying, on the floor.

11

CHAPTER XVIII.

"Will the future come? It seems that we may almost ask this question,
when we see such terrible shadow." — Victor Hugo.

ERE it will be necessary to consider some facts
which, while they are rather in the domain of
the grave recorder of historical events, than in that of
the narrator of personal experiences, are yet essential
to the comprehension of. the scenes in which Surrey
and Francesca took such tragic parts.

Following the proclamation for a draft in the city of
New York, there had been heard on all sides from the
newspaper press which sympathized with and aided
the rebellion, premonitions of the coming storm ;
denunciations of the war, the government, the sol-
diers, of the harmless and inoffensive negroes ; angry
incitings of the poor man to hatred against the rich,
since the rich man could save himself from the neces-
sity of serving in the ranks by the payment of three
hundred dollars of commutation money ; incendiary
appeals to the worst passions of the most ignorant
portion of the community ; and open calls to insurrec-
tion and arms to resist the peaceable enforcement of a
law enacted in furtherance of the defence of the na
tion's life.

What Answer? 243

Doubtless this outbreak had been intended at the
time of the darkest and most disastrous days of the
Republic ; when the often-defeated and sorely dispirited
Army of the Potomac was marching northward to
cover Washington and Baltimore, and the victorious
legions of traitors under Lee were swelling across the
border, into a loyal State ; when Grant stood in seem-
ingly hopeless waiting before Vicksburg, and Banks
before Port Hudson ; and the whole people of the
North, depressed and disheartened by the continued
series of defeats to our arms, were beginning to look
each at his neighbor, and whisper with white lips,
" Perhaps, after all, this struggle is to be in vain."

Had it been attempted at this precise time, it would,
without question, have been, not a riot, but an insur-
rection, — would have been a portion of the army of
rebellion, organized and effective for the prosecution
of the war, and not a mob, hideous and devilish in its
work of destruction, yet still a mob ; and as such to
be beaten down and dispersed in a comparatively
short space of time.

On the morning of Monday, the thirteenth of July,
began this outbreak, unparalleled in atrocities by
anything in American history, and equalled only by
the horrors of the worst days of the French Revolu-
tion. Gangs of men and boys, composed of railroad
employees, workers in machine-shops, and a vast

244 What Answer?

crowd of those who lived by preying upon others,
thieves, pimps, professional ruffians, — the scum of
the city, — jail-birds, or those who were running with
swift feet to enter the prison-doors, began to gather on
the corners, and in streets and alleys where they lived ;
from thence issuing forth they visited the great estab-
lishments on the line of their advance, commanding
their instant close and the companionship of the
workmen, — many of them peaceful and orderly men,
— on pain of the destruction of one and a murderous
assault upon the other, did not their orders meet with
instant compliance.

A body of these, five or six hundred strong, gather-
ed about one of the enrolling-offices in the upper part
of the city, where the draft was quietly proceeding,
and opened the assault upon it by a shower of clubs,
bricks, and paving-stones torn from the streets, fol-
lowing it up by a furious rush into the office. Lists,
records, books, the drafting-wheel, every article of fur-
niture or work in the room was rent in pieces, and
strewn about the floor or flung into the street ; while
the law officers, the newspaper reporters, — who are
expected to be everywhere, — and the few peaceable
spectators, were compelled to make a hasty retreat
through an opportune rear exit, accelerated by the
curses and blows of the assailants.

A safe in the room, which contained some of the

What Answer? 245

hated records, was fallen upon by the men, who strove
to wrench open its impregnable lock with their naked
hands, and, baffled, beat them on its iron doors and
sides till they v/ere stained with blood, in a mad frenzy
of senseless hate and fury. And then, finding every
portable article destroyed, — their thirst for ruin grow-
ing by the little drink it had had, — and believing, or
rather hoping, that the officers had taken refuge in the
upper rooms, set fire to the house, and stood watching
the slow and steady lift of the flames, filling the air with
demoniac shrieks and yells, while they waited for the
prey to escape from some door or window, from the
merciless fire to their merciless hands. One of these,
who was on the other side of the street, courageously
stepped forward, and, telling them that they had utterly
demolished all they came to seek, informed them that
helpless women and little children were in the house,
and besought them to extinguish the flames and leave
the ruined premises ; to disperse, or at least to seek
some other scene.

By his dress recognizing in him a government offi-
cial, so far from hearing or heeding his humane appeal,
they set upon him with sticks and clubs, and beat him
till his eyes were blind with blood, and he — bruised
and mangled — succeeded in escaping to thejiandful
of police who stood helpless before this howling crew,
now increased to thousands. With difficulty and pain

246 What Answer?

th&inoffensive tenants escaped from the rapidly spread-
ing fire, which, having devoured the house originally
lighted, swept across the neighboring buildings till the
whole block stood a mass of burning flames. The
firemen came up tardily and reluctantly, many of them
of the same class as the miscreants who surrounded
them, and who cheered at their approach, but either
made no attempt to perform their duty, or so feeble
and farcical a one, as to bring disgrace upon a service
they so generally honor and ennoble.

At last, when there was here nothing more to ac-
complish, the mob, swollen to a frightful size, includ-
ing myriads of wretched, drunken women, and the
half-grown, vagabond boys of the pavements, rushed
through the intervening streets, stopping cars and in-
sulting peaceable citizens on their way, to an armory
where were manufactured and stored carbines and
guns for the government. In anticipation of the at-
tack, this, earlier in the day, had been fortified by
a police squad capable of coping with an ordinary
crowrd of ruffians, but as chaff before fire in the pres-
ence of these murderous thousands. Here, as before,
the attack was begun by a rain of missiles gathered
from the streets ; less fatal, doubtless, than more civ-
ilized arms, but frightful in the ghastly wounds and
injuries they inflicted. Of this no notice was taken
by those who were stationed within ; it was repeated.

What Answer? 247

At last, finding they were treated with contemptuous
silence, and that no sign of surrender was offered, the
Crowd swayed back, — then forward, — in a combined
attempt to force the wide entrance-doors. Heavy
hammers and sledges, which had been brought from"
forges and workshops, caught up hastily as they gath-
ered the mechanics into their ranks, were used with
frightful violence to beat them in, — at last successfully.
The foremost assailants began to climb the stairs, but
were checked, and for the moment driven back by
the fire of the officers, who at last had been com-
manded to resort to their revolvers. A half-score fell
wounded ; and one, who had been acting in some sort
as their leader, — a big, brutal, Irish ruffian, — dropped
dead.

The pause was but for an instant. As the smoke
cleared away there was a general and ferocious on-
slaught upon the armory ; curses, oaths, revilings,
hideous and obscene blasphemy, with terrible yells
and cries, filled the air in every accent of the English
tongue save that spoken by a native American. Such
were there mingled with the sea of sound, but they
were so few and weak as to be unnoticeable in the
roar of voices. The paving-stones flew like hail, until
the street was torn into gaps and ruts, and every win-
dow-pane, and sash, and doorway, was smashed or
broken. Meanwhile, divers attempts were made to

248 What Answer?

fire the building, but failed through haste or ineffect-
ual materials, or the vigilant watchfulness of the be-
sieged. In the midst of this gallant defence, word
was brought to the defenders from head-quarters that
nothing could be done for their support ; and that, if
they. would save their lives, they must make a quick
and orderly retreat. Fortunately, these was a side
passage with which the mob was unacquainted, and,
one by one, they succeeded in gaining this, and van-
ishing. A few, too faithful or too plucky to retreat
before such a foe. persisted in remaining at their posts
till the fire, which had at last been communicated to
the building, crept unpleasantly near ; then, by drop-
ping from sill to sill of the. broken windows, or sliding
by their hands and feet down the rough pipes and
stones, reached the pavement, — but not without inju-
ries, and blows, and broken bones, which disabled for
a lifetime, if indeed they did not die in the hospitals to
which a few of the more mercifully disposed carried
them.

The work thus begun, continued, — gathering in force
and fury as the day wore on. Police-stations, enroll-
ing-offices, rooms or buildings used in any way by
government authority, or obnoxious as representing
the dignity of law, were gutted, destroyed, then left to
the mercy of the flames. Newspaper offices, whose
issues had been a fire in the rear of the nation's

What Answer? 249

armies by extenuating and defending treason, and
through violent and incendiary appeals stirring up
"lewd fellows of the baser sort" to this very carnival
of ruin and blood, were cheered as the crowd went
by. Those that had been faithful to loyalty and law
were hooted, stoned, and even stormed by the army
of miscreants who were only driven off by the gallant
and determined charge of the police, and in one place
by the equally gallant, and certainly unique defence,
which came from turning the boiling water from the
engines upon the howling wretches, who, unprepared
for any such warm reception as this, beat a precipitate
and general retreat. Before night fell it was no
longer one vast crowd collected in a single section,
but great numbers of gatherings, scattered over the
whole length and breadth of the city, — some of them
engaged in actual work of demolition and ruin ;
others with clubs and weapons in their hands, prowl-
ing round apparently with no definite atrocity to per-
petrate, but ready for any iniquity that might offer,
— and, by way of pastime, chasing every stray police
officer, or solitary soldier, or inoffensive negro, who
crossed the line of their vision ; these three objects —
the badge of a defender of the law, — the uniform of
the Union army, — the skin of a helpless and outraged
race — acted upon these madmen as water acts upon
a rabid dog.

11 * .

250 What Answer?

Late in the afternoon a crowd which could have
numbered not less than ten thousand, the majority of
whom were ragged, frowzy, drunken women, gathered
about the Orphan Asylum for Colored Children, — a
large and beautiful building, and one of the most
admirable and noble charities of the city. When it
became evident, from the menacing cries and groans
of the multitude, that danger, if not destruction, was
meditated to the harmless and inoffensive inmates, a
flag of truce appeared, and an appeal was made in
their behalf, by the principal, to every sentiment of
humanity which these beings might possess, — a vain
appeal ! Whatever human feeling had ever, if ever,
filled these souls was utterly drowned and washed
away in the tide of rapine and blood in which they
had been steeping themselves. The few officers who
stood guard over the doors, and manfully faced these
demoniac legions, were beaten down and flung to one
side, helpless and stunned, whilst the vast crowd
rushed in. All the articles upon which they could
seize — beds, bedding, carpets, furniture, — the very
garments of the fleeing inmates, some of these torn
from their persons as they sped by — were carried into
the streets, and hurried off by the women and children
who stood ready to receive the goods which their hus-
bands, sons, and fathers flung to their care. The
little ones, many of them, assailed and beaten ; all, —

, What Answer? 251

orphans and care-takers, — exposed to every indignity
and every danger, driven on to the street, — the build-
ing was fired. This had been attempted whilst the
helpless children — some of them scarce more than
babies — were still in their rooms ; but this devilish
consummation was prevented by the heroism of one
man. He, the Chief of the Fire Department, strove by
voice and arm to stay the endeavor ; and when, over-
come by superior numbers, the brands had been lit
and piled, with naked hands, and in the face of
threatened death, he tore asunder the glowing embers,
and trod them under foot. Again the effort was
made, and again failed through the determined and
heroic opposition of this solitary soul. Then, on the
front steps, in the midst of these drunken and infuri-
ate thousands, he stood up and besought them, if they
cared nothing for themselves nor for these hapless
orphans, that they would not bring lasting disgrace
upon the city by destroying one of its noblest chari-
ties, which had for its object nothing but good.

He was answered on all sides by yells and execra-
tions, and frenzied shrieks of " Down with the nagurs ! "
coupled with every oath and every curse that malig-
nant hate of the blacks could devise, and drunken,
Irish tongues could speak. It had been decreed that
this building was to be razed to the ground. The
house was fired in a thousand places, and in less than

252 What Answer?

two hours the walls crashed in, — a mass of smoking,
blackened ruins ; whilst the children wandered through
the streets, a prey to beings who were wild beasts
in everything save the superior ingenuity of man to
agonize and torture his victims.

Frightful as the day had been, the night was yet
more hideous ; since to the horrors which were seen
was added. the greater horror of deeds which might be
committed in the darkness ; or, if they were seen, it
was by the lurid glare of burning buildings, — the red
flames of which — flung upon the stained and brutal
faces, the torn and tattered garments, of men and
women who danced and howled around the scene of
ruin they had caused — made the whole aspect of
affairs seem more like a gathering of fiends rejoicing
in Pandemonium than aught with which creatures of
flesh and blood had to do.

Standing on some elevated point, looking over the
great city, which presented, as usual, at night, a solemn
and impressive show, the spectator was thrilled with a
fearful admiration by the sights and sounds which gave
to it a mysterious and awful interest. A thousand
fires streamed up against the sky, making darkness
visible ; and from all sides came a combination of
noises such as might be heard from an asylum in
which were gathered the madmen of the world.

The next morning's sun rose on a city which was

What Answer? 253

ruled by a reign of terror. Had the police possessed
the heads of Hydra and the arms of Briareus, and
had these heads all seen, these arms all fought,
they would have been powerless against the multi-
tude of opposers. Outbreaks were made, crowds
gathered, houses burned, streets barricaded, fights
enacted, in a score of places at once. Where the
officers appeared they were irretrievably beaten and
overcome ; their stand, were it ever so short, but in-
flaming the passions of the mob to fresh deeds of vio-
lence. Stores were closed ; the business portion of the
city deserted ; the large works and factories emptied
of mem who had been sent home by their employers,
or were swept into the ranks of the marauding bands.
The city cars, omnibuses, hacks, were unable to run,
and remained under shelter. Every telegraph wire was
cut, the posts torn up, the operators driven from their
offices. The mayor, seeing that civil power was help-
less to stem this tide, desired to call the military to his
aid, and place the city under martial law, but was op-
posed by the Governor, — a governor, who, but a few
days before, had pronounced the war a failure ; and
not only predicted, but encouraged this mob rule,
which was now crushing everything beneath its heavy
and ensanguined feet. This man, through almost two
days of these awful scenes, remained at a quiet sea-
side retreat but a few miles from the city. Coming to

254 What Answer?

it on the afternoon of the second day, — instead of
ordering cannon planted in the streets, giving these
creatures opportunity to retire to their homes, and, in
the event of refusal, blowing them there by powder and
ball, — he first went to the point where was collected
the chiefest mob, and proceeded to address them.
Before him stood incendiaries, thieves, and murderers,
who even then were sacking dwelling-houses, and
butchering powerless and inoffensive beings. These
wretches he apostrophized as " My friends," repeating
the title again and again in the course of his harangue,
assuring them that he was there as a proof of his
friendship, — which he had demonstrated by " sending
his adjutant-general to Washington, to have the draft
stopped "; begging them to "wait for his return "; " to
separate now as good citizens "; with the promise that
they " might assemble again whenever they wished to
so do "; meanwhile, he would " take care of their
rights." This model speech was incessantly inter-
rupted by tremendous cheering and frantic demon-
strations of delight, — one great fellow almost crushing
the Governor in his enthusiastic embrace. This ended,
he entered a carriage, and was driven through the
blackened, smoking scenes of Monday's devastations ;
through fresh vistas of outrage, of the day's execution ;
bland, gracious, smiling. Wherever he appeared, cheer
upon cheer rent the air from these crowds of drunken

What A nswer ? 255

blasphemers ; and in one place the carriage in which
he sat was actually lifted from the ground, and carried
some rods, by hands yet red with deeds of arson and
murder ; while from all sides voices cried out, " Will ye
stop the draft, Gov'nur ? " " Bully boy ! " "Ye 're the
man for us ! " "Hooray for Gov'nur Saymoor ! " Thus
Through the midst of this admiring and applauding
crowd, this high officer of the law, sworn to maintain
public peace, moved to his hotel, where he was met
by a despatch from Washington, informing him that
five regiments were under arms and on their way to
put an end to this bloody assistance to the Southern
war.

His allies in newspaper offices attempted to throw
the blame upon the loyal press and portion of the
community. This was but a repetition of the cry, raised
by traitors in arms, that the government, struggling for
life in their deadly hold, was responsible for the war :
" If thou wouldst but consent to be murdered peacea-
bly, there could be no strife."

These editors outraged common sense, truth, and
decency, by speaking of the riots as an " uprising of
the people to defend their liberties," — " an opposition
on the part of the workingmen to an unjust and op-
pressive law, enacted in favor of the men of wealth and
standing." As though the people of the great metropo-
lis were incendiaries, robbers, and assassins ■ as though

256 What Answer f

the poor were to demonstrate their indignation- against
the rich by hunting and stoning defenceless women
and children ; torturing and murdering men whose
only offence was the color God gave them, or men
wearing the self-same uniform as that which they de-
clared was to be thrust upon them at the behest of the
rich and the great. •

It was absurd and futile to characterize this new
Reign of Terror as anything but an effort on the part
of Northern rebels to help Southern ones, at the most
critical moment of the war, — with the State militia
and available troops absent in a neighboring Common-
wealth, — and the loyal people unprepared. These
editors and their coadjutors, men of brains and ability,
were of that most poisonous growth, — traitors to the
Government and the flag of their country, — renegade
Americans. Let it, however, be written plainly and
graven deeply, that the tribes of savages — the hordes
of ruffians — found ready to do their loathsome bid-
ding, were not of native growth, nor American born.

While it is true that there were some glib-ton gued
fellows who spoke the language without foreign accent,
all of them of the lowest order of Democratic ward-
politicians, or creatures skulking from the outstretched
arm of avenging law ; while the most degraded of the
German population were represented ; while it is also
true that there were Irish, and Catholic Irish too, —

What Answer? 257

industrious, sober, intelligent people, — who indignant-
ly refused participation in these outrages, and mourned
over the barbarities which were disgracing their
national name ; it is pre-eminently true, — proven by
thousands of witnesses, and testified to by numberless
tongues, — that the masses, the rank and file, the
almost entire body of rioters, were the worst classes
of Irish emigrants, infuriated by artful appeals, and
maddened by the atrocious whiskey of thousands of
grog-shops.

By far the most infamous part of these cruelties was
that which wreaked ever}- species of torture and linger-
ing death upon the colored people of the city, — men,
women, and children, old and young, strong and
feeble alike. Hundreds of these fell victims to the
prejudice fostered by public opinion, incorporated in
our statute-books, sanctioned by our laws, which here
and thus found legitimate outgrowth and action. The
horrors which blanched the face of Christendom were
but the bloody harvest of fields sown by society, by
cultured men and women, by speech, and book, and
press, by professions and politics, nay, by the pulpit
itself, and the men who there make God's truth a lie,
— garbling or denying the inspired declaration that
'•'He has made of one blood all people to dwell
upon the face of the earth " ; and that he, the All-Just
and Merciful One, " is no respecter of persons."

Q

258 What Answer?

This riot, begun ostensibly to oppose the enforce-
ment of a single law, developed itself into a burn-
ing and pillaging assault upon the homes and prop-
erty of peaceful citizens. To realize this, it was
only necessary to walk the streets, if that were pos-
sible, through those days of riot and conflagration,
observe the materials gathered into the vast, moving
multitudes, and scrutinize the faces of those of whom
they were composed, — deformed, idiotic, drunken,
imbecile, poverty-stricken ; seamed with every line
which wretchedness could draw or vicious habits
and associations delve. -To walk these streets and
look upon these faces was like a fearful witnessing
in perspective of the last day, when the secrets of
life, more loathsome than those of death, shall be
laid bare in all their hideous deformity and ghastly
shame.

The knowledge of these people and their deeds
was sufficient to create a paralysis of fear, even where
they were not seen. Indeed, there was terror every-
where. High and low, rich and poor, cultured and
ignorant, all shivered in its awful grasp. Upon
stately avenues and noisome alleys it fell with the
like blackness of darkness. Women cried aloud to
God with the same agonized entreaty from knees
bent on velvet carpets or bare and dingy floors.
Men wandered up and down, prisoners in their own

What Answer? 259

homes, and cursed or prayed with equal fury or
intensity whether the homes were simple or splen-
did. Here one surveyed all his costly store of rare
and exquisite surroundings, and shook his head as
he gazed, ominous and foreboding. There, another
of darker hue peered out from garret casement, or
cellar light, or broken window-pane, and, shuddering,
watched some woman stoned and beaten till she died ,
some child shot down, while thousands of heavy,
brutal feet trod over it till the hard stones were red
with its blood, and the little prostrate form, yet
warm, lost every likeness of humanity, and lay there,
a sickening mass of mangled flesh and bones ; some
man assaulted, clubbed, overborne, left wounded or
dying or dead, as he fell, or tied to some convenient
tree or lamp-post to be hacked and hewn, or flayed
and roasted, yet living, where he hung, — and watch-
ing this, and cowering as he watched, held his breath,
and waited his own turn, not knowing when it might
come.

CHAPTER XIX

In breathless quiet, after all their ills."

Arnold.

A body of these wretches, fresh from some act of
rapine and pillage, had seen Mrs. Franklin,
hastening home, and, opening the hue and cry, had
started in full chase after her. Struck by sticks and
stones that darkened the air, twice down, fleeing as
those only do who flee for life, she gained her own
house, thinking there to find security. Vain hope !
the door was battered in, the windows demolished,
the puny barriers between the room in which they
were gathered and the creatures in pursuit, speedily
destroyed, — and these three turned to face death.

By chance, Surrey had his sword at his side, and,
tearing this from its scabbard, sprang to the defence,
■ — a gallant intent, but what could one weapon and one
arm do against such odds as these ? He was speedily
beaten down and flung aside by the miscreants who
swarmed into the room. It was marvellous they did
not kill him outright. Doubtless they would have
done so but for the face propped against the pillows,
which caught their hungry eyes. Soldier and woman
were alike forgotten at sight of this dying boy. Here

What Answer ■? 261

was a foeman worthy their steel. They gathered
about him, and with savage hands struck at him and
the bed upon which he lay.

A pause for a moment to hold consultation, crowded
with oaths and jeers and curses ; obscenity and blas-
phemy too hideous to read or record, — then the cruel
hands tore him from his bed, dragged him over the
prostrate body of his mother, past the senseless
form of his brave young defender, out to the street.
Here they propped him against a tree, to mock and
torment him ; to prick him, wound him, torture him ; to
task endurance to its utmost limit, but not to extin-
guish life. These savages had no such mercy as this
in their souls ; and when, once or twice he fell away
into insensibility, a cut or blow administered with dev-
ilish skill or strength, restored him to anguish and to
life.

Surrey, bewildered and dizzy, had recovered con-
sciousness, and sat gazing vacantly around him, till
the cries and yells without, the agonized face with-
in, thrilled every nerve into feeling. Starting up, he
rushed to the window, but recoiled at the awful sight.
Here, he saw, there was no human power within
reach or call that could interfere. The whole block,
from street to street, was crowded with men and boys,
armed with the armory of the street, and rejoicing like
veritable fiends of hell over the pangs of their victim.

262 What Answer?

Even in the moment he stood there he beheld that
which would haunt his memory, did it endure for a
century. At last, tired of their sport, some of those
who were just about Abram had tied a rope about his
body, and raised him to the nearest branch of an over-
hanging tree ; then, heaping under him the sticks and
clubs which were flung them from all sides, set fire to
the dry, .inflammable pile, and watched, for the moment
silent, to see it burn.

Surrey fled to the other side of the room, and, cowr
ering down, buried his head in his arm to shut out
the awful sight and sounds. But his mother, — O mar-
vellous, inscrutable mystery of mother-love ! — his
mother knelt by the open window, near which hung
her boy, and prayed aloud, that he might hear, for the
wrung body and passing soul. Great God ! that such
tilings were possible, and thy heavens fell not ! Through
the sound of falling blows, reviling oaths, and hideous
blasphemy, through the crackling of burning fagots
and lifting flames, there went out no cry for mercy, no
shriek of pain, no wail of despair. But when the tor-
ture was almost ended, and nature had yielded to this
work of fiends, the dying face was turned towards his
mother, — the eyes, dim with the veil that falls be-
tween time and eternity, seeking her eyes with their
latest glance, — the voice, not weak, but clear and
thrilling even in death, cried for her ear, " Be of

What Answer? 263

good cheer, mother ! they may kill the body, but they
cannot touch the soul ! " and even with the words
the great soul walked with God.

After a while the mob melted out of the street to
seek new scenes of ravage and death ; not, however,
till they had marked the house, as those within
learned, for the purpose of returning, if it should so
please them, at some future time.

When they were all gone, and the way was clear,
these two — the mother that bore him, the elegant
patrician who instinctively shrank from all unpleasant
and painful things — took down the poor charred
body, and carrying it carefully and tenderly into the
house of a trembling neighbor, who yet opened her
doors and bade them in, composed it decently for its
final rest.

It was drawing towards evening, and Surrey was
eager to get away from this terrible region, — both
to take the heart-stricken woman, thus thrown upon
his care, to some place of rest and safety, and to re-
assure Francesca, who, he knew, would be filled with
maddening anxiety and fear at his long absence.

At length they ventured forth : no one was in the
square ; — turned at Fortieth Street, — all clear ; —
went on with hasty steps to the Avenue, — not a
soul in sight. " Safe, — thank God ! " exclaimed

264 What Answer f

Surrey, as he hurried his companion onward. Half
the space to their destination had been crossed, when
a band of rioters, rushing down the street from the
sack and burning of the Orphan Asylum, came upon
them. Defence seemed utterly vain. Every house
was shut ; its windows closed and barred ; its in-
mates gathered in some rear room. Escape and hope
appeared alike impossible; but Surrey, flinging his
charge behind him, with drawn sword, face to the
on-sweeping hordes, backed down the street. The
combination — a negro woman, a soldier's uniform —
intensified the mad fury of the mob, which was
nevertheless held at bay by the heroic front and
gleaming steel of their single adversary. Only for a
moment ! Then, not venturing near him, a shower of
bricks and stones hurtled through the air, falling
about and upon him.

At this instant a voice called, " This way ! this
way ! For God's sake ! quick ! quick ! " and he saw
a friendly black face and hand thrust from an area
window. Still covering with his body his defenceless
charge, he moved rapidly towards this refuge. Rapid
as was the motion, it was not speedy enough ; he
reached the railing, caught her with his one powerful
arm, imbued now with a giant's strength, flung her
over to the waiting hands that seized and dragged her
in, pausing for an instant, ere he leaped himself, to

What Answer? 265

beat back a half-dozen of the foremost miscreants,
who would else have captured their prey, just vanish-
ing from sight. Sublime, yet fatal delay ! but an
instant, yet in that instant a thousand forms sur-
rounded him, disarmed him, overcame him, and beat
him down.

Meanwhile what of Francesca? The morning
passed, and with its passing came terrible rumors of
assault and death. The afternoon began, wore on, —
the rumors deepened to details of awful facts and re-
alities ; and he — he, with his courage, his fatal dress
— was absent, was on those death-crowded streets.
She wandered from room to room, forgetting her
reserve, and accosting every soul she met for later
news, — for information which, received, did but tor-
ture her with more intolerable pangs, and send her
to her knees ; though, kneeling, she could not pray,
only cry out in some dumb, inarticulate fashion,
" God be merciful ! "

The afternoon was spent ; the day gone ; the sum-
mer twilight deepening into night ; and still he did
not come. She had caught up her hat and mantle
with some insane intention of rushing into the wide,
wild city, on a frenzied search, when two gentlemen
passing by her door, talking of the all-absorbing
theme, arrested her ear and attention.

" The house ought to be guarded ! These devils
12

266 What Answer?

will be here presently, - — they are on the Avenue
now."

" Good God ! are you certain ? "

" Certain."

" You may well be," said a third voice, as another
step joined theirs. "They are just above Thirtieth
Street. I was coming down the Avenue, and saw
them myself. I don't know what my fate would have
been in this dress/' — Francesca knew from this that he
who talked was of the police or soldiery, — " but they
were engaged in fighting a young officer, who made a
splendid defence before they cut him down ; his cour-
age was magnificent. It makes my blood curdle to
think of it. A fair-haired,* gallant-looking fellow, with
only one arm. I could do nothing for him, of course,
and should have been killed had I stayed ; so I ran
for life. But I don't think I '11 ever quite forgive my-
self for not rushing to the rescue, and taking my
chance with him."

She did not stay to hear the closing words. Out
of the room, past them, like a spirit, — through the
broad halls, — down the wide stairways, — on to the
street, — up the long street, deserted here, but O,
with what a crowd beyond !

A company of soldiers, paltry in number, yet each
with loaded rifle and bayonet set, charged past her at
double-quick upon this crowd, which gave way slowly

What Answer? 267

and sullenly at its approach, holding with desperate
ferocity and determination to whatever ghastly work
had been employing their hands, — dropped at last, —
left on the stones, — the soldiers between it and the
mob, — silent, motionless, — she saw it, and knew
it where it lay. O woful sight and knowledge for
loving eyes and bursting heart!

Ere she reached it some last stones were flung by
the retreating crowd, a last shot fired in the air, — ■
fired at random, but speeding with as unerring aim
to her aching, anguished breast, death-freighted and
life-destroying, — but not till she had reached her
destined point and end ; not till her feet failed close
to that bruised and silent form ; not till she had sunk
beside it, gathered it in her fair young arms, and pil-
lowed its beautiful head — from which streamed golden
hair, dabbled and blood-bestained — upon her faith-
ful heart.

There it stirred ; the eyes unclosed to meet hers, a
gleam of divine love shining through their fading fire ;
the battered, stiffened arm lifted, as to fold her in the
old familiar caress. " Darling — die — to make —
free " — came in gasps from the sweet, yet whitening
lips. Then she lay still. Where his breath blew
across her hair it waved, and her bosom moved above
the slow and" labored beating of his heart ; but, save
for this, she was as quiet as the peaceful dead within

268 What Answer?

their graves, — and, like them, done with the noise
and strife of time forever.

For him, — the shadows deepened where he lay, —
the stars came out one by one, looking down with
clear and solemn eyes upon this wreck of fair and
beautiful things, wrought by earthly hate and the aw-
ful passions of men, — then veiled their light in heavy
and sombre clouds. The rain fell upon the noble
face and floating, sunny hair, — washing them free
of soil, and dark and fearful stains ; moistening the
fevered, burning lips, and cooling the bruised and
aching frame. How passed the long night with that
half-insensible soul ? God knoweth. The secrets of
that are hidden in the eternity to which it now be-
longs. Questionless, ministering spirits drew near,
freighted with balm and inspiration • for when the
shadows fled, and the next morning's sun shone upon
these silent forms, it revealed faces radiant as with
some celestial fire, and beatified as reflecting the smile
of God.

The inmates of the house before which lay this
solemn mystery, rising to face a new-made day, look-
ing out from their windows to mark what traces were
left of last night's devastations, beheld this awful yet
sublime sight.

"A prejudice which, I trust, will never end," had

What Answer? 269

Mr. Surrey said, in bidding adieu to his son but a
few short hours before. This prejudice, living and
active, had now thus brought death and desolation to
his own doors. " How unsearchable are the judg-
ments of God, and his ways past finding out ! "

CHAPTER XX.

"Drink, — for thy necessity is yet greater than mine." — Sir Philip
Sidney.

THE hospital boat, going out of Beaufort, was a
sad, yet great sight. It was but necessary to
look around it to see that the men here gathered had
stood on the slippery battle-sod, and scorned to flinch.
You heard no cries, scarcely a groan ; whatever
anguish wrung them as they were lifted into their
berths, or were turned or raised for comfort, found
little outward sign, — a long, gasping breath now and
then ; a suppressed exclamation ; sometimes a laugh,
to cover what would else be a cry of mortal agony ;
almost no swearing ; these men had been too near the
awful realities of death and eternity, some of them
were still too near, to make a mock at either. Having
demonstrated themselves heroes in action, they would,
one and all, be equally heroes in the hour of suffering,
or on the bed of lingering death.

Jim, so wounded as to make every movement a
pang, had been carefully carried in on a stretcher, and
as carefully lifted into a middle berth.

"Good," said one of the men, as he eased him
down on his pillow.

What Answer? 271

" What 's good ? " queried Jim.

" The berth ; middle berth. Put you in as easy as
into the lowest one : bad lifting such a leg as yours
into the top one, and it's the comfortablest of the
three when you 're in."

" O, that 's it, is it ? all right ; glad I 'm here then ;
getting in did n't hurt more than a flea-bite," — saying
which Jim turned his face away to put his teeth down
hard on a lip already bleeding. The wrench to his
shattered leg was excruciating, "But then," as he
announced to himself, " no snivelling, James ; you 're
not going to make a spooney of yourself." Presently
he moved, and lay quietly watching the others they
were bringing in.

"Why!" he called, "that's Bertie Curtis, ain't it?"
as a slight, beautiful-faced boy was carried past him,
and raised to his place.

"Yes, it is," answered one of the men, shortly, to
cover some strong feeling.

Jim leaned out of his berth, regardless of his pro-
testing leg, canteen in hand. " Here, Bertie ! " he
called, " my canteen 's full of fresh water, just filled.
I know it'll taste good to you."

The boy's fine face flushed. "O, thank you, Given,
it would taste deliciously, but I can't take it," — glan-
cing down. Jim followed the look, to see that both
arms were gone, close to the graceful, boyish form ;

272 What Answer?

seeing which his face twitched painfully, — not with
his own suffering, — and for a moment words failed
him. Just then came up one of the sanitary nurses
with some cooling drink, and fresh, wet bandages for
the fevered stumps.

Great drops were standing on Bertie's forehead,
and ominous gray shadows had already settled about
the mouth, and under the long, shut lashes. Looking
at the face, so young, so refined, some mother's pride
and darling, the nurse brushed back tenderly the fair
hair, murmuring, " Poor fellow !""

The eyes unclosed quickly : " There are no poor fel-
lows here, sir ! " he said.

"Well, brave fellow, then ! *

" I did but do my duty," — a smile breaking through
the gathering mists.

Here some poor fellow, — poor indeed, — delirious
with fever, called out, " Mother 1 mother I I want to
see my mother ! "

Tears rushed to the clear, steady eyes, dimmed
them, dropped down unchecked upon the face.
The nurse, with a sob choking in his throat, softly
raised his hand to brush them away. " Mother," Ber-
tie whispered, — " mother ! " and was gone where God
wipes away the tears^from all eyes.

For the space of five minutes, as Jim said after-
wards, in telling about it, " that boat was like a meet-

What Answer? 273

ing-house." Used as they were to death in all forms,
more than one brave fellow's eye was dim as the silent
shape was carried away to make place for the stricken
living, — one of whom was directly brought in, and the
stretcher put down near Jim.

"What's up?" he called, for the man's face was
turned from him, and his wounded body so covered as
to give no clew to its condition. " What 's wrong ? "
seeing the bearers did not offer to lift him, and that
they were anxiously scanning the long rows of berths.

" Berth 's wrong," one of them answered.

" What 's the matter with the berth ? "

" Matter enough ! not a middle one nor a lower
one empty."

" Well," called a wounded boy from the third tier,
" plenty of room up here ; sky-parlor, — airy lodgings,
— all fine, — I see a lot of empty houses that '11 take
him in."

" Like enough, — but he 's about blown to pieces,"
said the bearer in a low voice, " and it '11 be aw — ful
putting him up there ; however," — commencing to take
off the light cover.

" Helloa ! " cried Jim, " that 's a dilapidated-looking
leg," — his head out, looking at it. " Stop a bit ! " —
body half after the head, — " you just stop that, and
come here and catch hold of a fellow ; now put me
up there. I reckon I '11 bear hoisting better 'n he

12* R

274 What Answer?

will, anyway. Ugh ! ah ! urn ! owh ! here we are !
bully ! "

If Jim had been of the fainting or praying order he
would certainly have fainted or prayed ; as it was, he
said " Bully ! " but lay for a while thereafter still as a
mouse.

" Given, you 're a brick ! " one of the boys was
apostrophizing him. Jim took no notice. " And your
man 's in, safe and sound " ; he turned at that, and
leaned forward, as well as he could, to look at the oc-
cupant of his late bed.

" Jemime ! " he cried, when he saw the face. " I
say, boys ! it 's Ercildoune — ■ Robert — flag — Wagner
— hurray — let 's give three cheers for the color-ser-
geant, — long may he wave ! "

The men, propped up or lying down, gave the three
cheers with a will, and then three more ; and then, de-
lighted with their performance, three more after that,
Jim winding up the whole with an " a-a-ah, -Tiger ! "
that made them all laugh ; then relapsing into silence
and a hard battle with pain.

A weary voyage, — a weary journey thereafter to the
Northern hospitals, — some dying by the way, and low-
ered through the shifting, restless waves, or buried
with hasty yet kindly hands in alien soil, — accounted
strangers and foemen in the land of their birth. God
grant that no tread of rebellion in the years to come,

What Answer? 275

nor thunder of contending armies, may disturb their
peace !

Some stopped in the heat and dust of Washington
to be nursed and tended in the great barracks of
hospitals, — uncomfortable-looking without, clean and
spacious and admirable within ; some to their homes,
on long-desired and eagerly welcomed furloughs, there
to be cured speedily, the body swayed by the mind ;
some to suffer and die ; some to struggle against
winds and tides of mortality and conquer, — yet scarred
and maimed ; some to go out, as giants refreshed
with new wine, to take their places once more in the
great conflict, and fight there faithfully to the end.

Among these last was Jim ; but not till after many
a hard battle, and buffet, and back-set did life triumph
and strength prevail. One thing which sadly retarded
his recovery was his incessant anxiety about Sallie, and
his longing to see her once more. He had himself,
after his first hurt, written her that he was slightly
wounded ; but when he reached Washington, and the
surgeon, looking at his shattered leg, talked about am-
putation and death, Jim decided that Sallie should not
know a word of all this till something definite was pro-
nounced.

" She ought n't to have an ugly, one-legged fellow,
he said, " to drag round with her ; and, if she knows
how bad it is, she '11 post straight down here, to nurse

276 What Answer?

and look after me, — I know her ! and she '11 have me
in the end, out of sheer pity ; and I ain't going to
take any such mean advantage of her : no, sir-ee, not
if I know myself. If I get well, safe and sound, I '11
go to her ; and, if I 'm going to die, I '11 send for her ;
so I '11 wait," — which he did.

He found, however, that it was a great deal easier
making the decision, than keeping it when made.
Sallie, hearing nothing from him, — supposing him
still in the South, — fearful as she had all along been
that she stood on uncertain ground, — Mrs. Surrey
away in New York, — and Robert Ercildoune, as the
papers asserted in their published lists, mortally
wounded, — having no indirect means of communica-
tion with him, and fearing to write again without some
sign from him, — was sorrowing in silence at home.

The silence reacted on him ; not realizing its cause
he grew fretful and impatient, and the fretfulness and
impatience told on his leg, intensified his fever, and
put the day of recovery — if recovery it was to be —
farther into the future.

" See here, my man," — said the quick little sur-
geon one day, " you 're worrying about something.
This '11 never do ; if you don't stop it, you '11 die, as
sure as fate ; and you might as well make up your
mind to it at once, — so, now ! "

" Well, sir," answered Jim, " it 's as good a time

What Answer? 277

to die now, I reckon, as often happens ; but I ain't
dead yet, not by a long shot ; and I ain't going to die
neither ; so, now, yourself! "

The doctor laughed. " All right ; if you '11 get up
that spirit, and keep it, I '11 bet my pile on your recov-
ery, — but you '11 have to stop fretting. You 've got
something on your mind that 's troubling you ; and the
sooner you get rid of it, if you can, the better. That 's
all I 've got to say." And he marched off.

"Get rid of it," mused Jim, "how in thunder '11
I get rid of it if I don't hear from Sallie ? Let me see
■ — ah ! I have it ! " and looking more cheerful on the
instant he lay still, watching for the doctor to come
down the ward once more. " Helloa ! " he called,
then. " Helloa ! " responded the doctor, coming over
to him, " what 's the go now ? you 're improved al-
ready."

" Got any objection to telling a lie ? " — this might
be called coming to the point.

" That depends — " said the doctor.

" Well, all 's fair in love and war, they say. This is
for love. Help a fellow ? "

"Of course, — if I can, — and the fellow 's a good
one, like Jim Given. What is it you want ? "

"Well, I want a letter written, and I can't do it my-
self, you know," — looking down at his still bandaged
arm, — " likewise I want a lie told in it, and these

278 What Answer?

ladies here are all angels, and of course you can't ask
an angel to tell a lie, — no offence to you; so if you
can take the time, and '11 do it, I '11 stand your ever-
lasting debtor, and shoulder the responsibility if you
7re afraid of the weight."

" What sort of a lie ? "

" A capital one ; listen. I want a young lady to
know that I 'm wounded in the arm, — you see ? not
bad; nor nothing over which she need worry, and
nothing that hurts me much; and I ain't damaged
in any other way ; legs not mentioned in this concern,
— you understand ? " The doctor nodded. " But
it 's tied up my hand, so that I have to get you to say
all this for me. I '11 be well pretty soon ; and, if I
can get a furlough, I '11 be up in Philadelphia in a
jiffy, — so she can just prepare for the infliction, &c.
Comprendy ? And '11 you do it? "

" Of course I will, if you don't want the truth told,
and the fib '11 do you any good ; and, upon my word,
the way you 're looking I really think it will. So now
for it."

Thus the letter was written, and read, and re-read,
to make sure that there was nothing in it to alarm
Sallie ; and, being satisfactory on that head, was
finally sent away, to rejoice the poor girl who had
waited, and watched, and hoped for it through such a
weary time. When she answered it, her letter was

What Answer f 279

so full of happiness and solicitude, and a love that,
in spite of herself, spoke out in every line, that Jim
furtively kissed it, and read it into tatters in the first
few hours of its possession ; then tucking it away in
his hospital shirt, over his heart, proceeded to get well
as fast as fast could be.

" Well," said the doctor, a few weeks afterwards, as
Jim was going home on his coveted sick-leave, " Mr.
Thomas Carlyle calls fibs wind-bags. If that singular
remedy would work to such a charm with all my men,
I 'd tell lies with impunity. Good by, Jim, and the
best of good luck to you."

"The same to you, Doctor, and I hope you may
always find a friend in need, to lie for you. Good by,
and God bless you ! " wringing his hand hard, —
" and now, hurrah for home ! "

" Hurrah it is ! " cried the little surgeon after him,
as, happy and proud, he limped down the ward, and
turned his face towards home.

CHAPTER XXI.

" Youth on the prow, and Pleasure at the helm." — Gray.

JIM scarcely felt the jolting of the ambulance over
the city stones, and his impatience and eagerness
to get across the intervening space made dust, and
heat, and weariness of travel seem but as feather
weights, not to be cared for, nor indeed considered at
all j though, in fact, his arm complained, and his leg
ached distressingly, and he was faint and weak with-
out confessing it long before the tiresome journey
reached its end.

"No matter," he said to himself; "it '11 be all
well, or forgotten, at least, when I see Sallie once
more ; and so, what odds ? "

The end was gained at last, and he would have
gone to her fast as certain Rosinantes, yclept hack-
horses, could carry him, but, stopping for a moment to
consider, he thought, " No, that will never do ! Go
to her looking like such a guy? Nary time. I '11 get
scrubbed, and put on a clean shirt, and make myself
decent, before she sees me. She always used to look
nice as a new pin, and she liked me to look so too ;
so I 'd better put my best foot foremost when she

What Answer? 281

has n't laid eyes on me for such an age. I 'm fright
enough, anyway, goodness knows, with my thinness,
and my old lame leg ; so — " sticking his head out
of the window, and using his lungs with astonishing
vigor — " Driver ! streak like lightning, will you, to the
1 Merchants '? and you shall have extra fare."

" Hold your blab there," growled the driver ; " I
ain't such a pig yet as to take double fare from a
wounded soldier. You '11 pay me well at half-price, —
when we get where you want to go," — which they did
soon.

" No ! " said Jehu, thrusting back part of the money,
" I ain't agoin' to take it, so you need n't poke it out at
me. I 'm all right ; or, if I ain't, I '11 make it up on
the next broadcloth or officer I carry ; never you fear !
us fellows knows how to take care of ourselves, you 'd
better believe ! " which statement Jim would have
known to be truth, without the necessity of repetition,
had he been one of the aforesaid "broadcloths," or
" officers," and thus better acquainted with the genus
hack-driver in the ordinary exercise of its profession.

As it was, he shook hands with the fellow, pocketed
the surplus change, made his way into the hotel, was
in his room, in his bath, under the barber's hands,
cleaned, shaved, brushed, polished, shining, — as he
himself would have declared, "in a jiffy." Then, de-
ciding himself to be presentable to the lady of his

282 What Anszvcr?

heart, took his crutch and sallied forth, as good-looking
a young fellow, spite of the wooden appendage, as any
the sun shone upon in all the big city, and as- happy,
as it was bright.

He knew where to go, and, by help of street-cars and
other legs than his own, he was there speedily. He
knew the very room towards which to turn ; and, reach-
ing it, paused to look in through the half-open door, —
delighted thus to watch and listen for a little space
unseen. •

Sallie was sitting, her handsome head bent over her
sewing, — Frankie gambolling about the floor.

" O sis ! don't you wish Jim would come home ? "
queried the youngster. " I do, — I wish he 'd come
right straight away."

" Right straight away ? What do you want to see Jim
for?"

" O, 'cause he 's nice ; and 'cause he '11 take me to the
Theayter ; and 'cause he '11 treat, — apples, and pea-
nuts, and candy, you know, and — and — ice-cream,"
wiping the beads from his little red face, — the last
desideratum evidently suggested by the fiery summer
heat. "I say, Sallie!" — a pause — "won't you get
me some ice-cream this evening?"

" Yes, Bobbity, if you '11 be a good boy."

Frankie looked dubious over that proposition. Jim
never made any such stipulations : so, after another

What Answer f 283

pause, in which he was probably considering the whole
subject with clue and becoming gravity, — evidently
desiring to hear his own wish propped up by some-
body else's seconding, — he broke out again, " Now,
Sallie, don't you just wish Jim would come home ? "

" O Frankie, don't I ? " cried the girl, dropping her
work, and stretching out her empty arms as though
she would clasp some shape in the air.

Frankie, poor child ! innocently imagining the prof-
fered embrace was for him, ran forward, for he wras an
affectionate little soul, to give Sallie a good hug, but
found himself literally left out in the cold ; no arms to
meet, and no Sallie, indeed, to touch him. Something
big, burly, and blue loomed up on his sight, — some-
thing that was doing its best to crush Sallie bodily,
and to devour what was not crushed ; something that
could say nothing by reason of its lips being so much
more pleasantly engaged, and whose face was invisible
through its extraordinary proximity to somebody else's
face and hair.

Frankie, finding he could gain neither sight nor
sound of notice, began to howl. But as neither of the
hard-hearted creatures seemed to care for the poor
little chap's howling, he fell upon the coat-tails of the
big blue obstruction, and pulled at them lustily, —
not to say viciously, — till their owner turned, and
beheld him panting and fiery.

284 What Answer?

" Helloa, youngster ! what 's to pay now ? "

" Wow ! if 't ain't Jim. Hooray ! " screeched the
youngster, first embracing the blue legs, and then pro-
ceeding to execute a dance upon his head. " Te, te, di
di, idde i-dum," he sang, coming feet down, finally.

Evidently the bad boy's language had been cor-
rupted by his street confreres ; it was a missionary
ground upon which Sallie entered, more or less faith-
fully, every day to hoe and weed ; but of this last
specimen-plant she took no notice, save to laugh as
Jim, catching him up, first kissed him, then gave him
a shake and a small spank, and, thrusting a piece
of currency into his hand, whisked him outside the
door with a " Come, shaver, decamp, and treat your-
self to-day," and had it shut and fastened in a twink-
ling.

" O Jim ! " she cried then, her soul in her hand-
some eyes.

" O Sallie ! " — and he had her fast and tight once
more.

An ineffable blank, punctuated liberally with sound-
ing exclamation points, and strongly marked periods,
— though how or why a blank should be punctuated
at all, only blissful lovers could possibly define.

" Jim, dear Jim ! " whispering it, and snuggling her
blushing face closer to the faded blue, " can you love
me after all that has happened ? "

What Answer? 285

" Come now ! can I love you, my beauty? Sligh-'y,
I should think. O, te, te, di di, idde i-dum," — sing-
ing Frank's little song with his big, gay voice, — "I
'm happy as a king."

Happy as a king, that was plain enough. And
what shall be said of her, as he sat down, and, resting
the wounded leg, — stiff and sore yet, — held Sallie
on his other knee, — then fell to admiring her while
she stroked his mustache and his crisp, curling hair,
looking at both and at him altogether with an ex-
pression of contented adoration in her eyes.

Frank, tired of prowling round the door, candy in
hand, here thrust his head in at the window, and,
unfortunately for his plans, sneezed. "Mutual-ad-
miration society ! " he cried at that, seeing that he
was detected in any case, and running away, — his fun
spoiled as soon as it began.

" We are a handsome couple," laughed Jim, hold-
ing back her face between both hands, — " ain't we,
now ? "

Yes, they were, — no mistake about that, handsome
as pictures.

And merry as birds, through all of his short stay.
They would see no danger in the future : Jim had
been scathed in time past so often, yet come out safe
and sound, that they would have no fear for what was
to befall him in time to come. If they had, neither

286 What Answer?

showed it to the other. Jim thought, " Sallie would
break her heart, if she knew just what is down there,
— so it would be a pity to talk about it " ; and Sallie
thought, " It 's right for Jim to go, and I won't say
a word to keep him back, no matter how I feel."

The furlough was soon — ah! how soon — out,
the days of happiness over ; and Jim, holding her in
a last close embrace, said his farewell : " Come, Sallie,
you 're not to cry now, and make me a coward. It '11
only be' for a little while ; the Rebs canH stand it
much longer, and then — "

" Ah, Jim ! but if you should — "

" Yes, but I sha'n't, you see ; not a bit of it ; don't
you go to think it. ' I bear ' — what is it ? O —
' a charmed life,' as Mr. Macbeth says, and you '11 see
me back right and tight, and up to time. One kiss
more, dear. God bless you ! good by ! " and he was
gone.

She leaned out of the window, — she smiled after
him, kissed her hand, waved her handkerchief, so long
as he could see them, — till he had turned a corner
way down the street, — and smile, and hand, and
handkerchief were lost to his sight ; then flung herself
on the floor, and cried as though her very heart would
break. " God send him home, — send him safe and
soon home ! " she implored ; entreaty made for how
many loved ones, by how many aching hearts, that

What Answer f 287

speedily lost the need of saying amen to any such
petition, — the prayer for the living lost in mourning for
the dead. Heaven grant that no soul that reads this
ever may have the like cause to offer such prayer
again !

CHAPTER XXII.

"When we see the dishonor of a thing, then it is time to renounce it." —
Plutarch.

A LETTER which Sallie wrote to Jim a few weeks
after his departure tells its own story, and hence
shall be repeated here.

Philadelphia, October 29, 1863.

Dear Jim : —

I take my pen in hand this morning to write you a
letter, and to tell you the news, though I don't know
much of the last except about Frankie and myself.
However, I suppose you will care more to hear that
than any other, so I will begin.

Maybe you will be surprised to hear that Frankie
and I are at Mr. Ercildoune's. Well, we are, — and I
will tell you how it came about. Not long after you
went away, Frank began to pine, and look droopy.
There was n't any use in giving him medicine, for it
did n't do him a bit of good. He could n't eat, and he
did n't sleep, and I was at my wits' ends to know what
to do for him.

One day Mrs. Lee, — that Mr. Ercildoune's house-
keeper, — an old English lady she is, and she 's lived
with him ever since he was married, and before he

What Answer? 289

came here, — a real lady, too, — came in with some
sewing, some fine shirts for Mr. Robert Ercildoune.
I asked after him, and you '11 be glad to know that
he 's recovering. He did n't have to lose his leg, as
they feared ; and his arm is healing ; and the wound
in his breast getting well. Mrs. Lee says she 's very
sorry the stump is n't longer, so that he could wear a
Palmer arm, — but she 's got no complaints to make ;
they 're only too glad and thankful to have him living
at all, after such a dreadful time.

While I was talking with her, Frankie called me
from the next room, and began to cry. You would n't
have known him, — he cried at everything, and was
so fretful and cross I could scarcely get along at all.
When I got him quiet, and came back, Mrs. Lee says,
" What 's the matter with Frank ? " so I told her I
did n't know, — but would she see him ? Well, she
saw him, and shook her head ia a bad sort of way
that scared me awfully, and I suppose she saw I was
frightened, for she said, "All he wants is plenty of
fresh air, and good, wholesome country food and exer-
cise." I can tell you, spite of that, she went away,
leaving me with heavy enough a heart.

The next day Mr. Ercildoune came in. How he is
changed ! I have n't seen him before since Mrs. Sur-
rey died, and that of itself was enough to kill him,
without this dreadful time about Mr. Robert.

13 s

290 What Answer?

" Good morning, Miss Sallie," says he, " how are
you ? and I 'm glad to see you looking so well." So I
told him I was well, and then he asked for Frankie.
" Mrs. Lee tells me," he said, " that your little brother
is quite ill, and that he needs country air and exercise.
He can have them both at The Oaks ; so if you '11 get
him ready, the carriage will come for you at whatever
time you appoint. Mrs. Lee can find you plenty of
work as long as you care to stay." He looked as
if he wanted to say something more, but did n't ; and
I was just as sure as sure could be that it was some-
thing about Miss Francesca, probably about her having
me out there so much ; for his face looked so sad, and
his lips trembled so, I knew that must be in his mind.
And when I thought of it, and of such an awful fate
as it was for her, so young, and handsome, and happy,
like the great baby I am, I just threw my apron over
my head, and burst out crying.

" Don't ! " he said, — " don't ! " in O, such a voice !
It was like a knife going through me ; and he went
quick out of the room, and down stairs, without even
saying good by.

Well, we came out the next day, — and I have plen-
ty to do, and Frankie is getting real bright and strong.
I can see Mr. Ercildoune likes to have us here, be-
cause of the connection with Miss Francesca. She was
so interested in us, and so kind to us, and he knows

What Answer? 291

I loved her so very dearly, — and if it 's any comfort
to him I'm sure I'm glad to be here, without taking
Frankie into the account, — for the poor gentleman
looks so bowed and heart-broken that it makes one's
heart ache just to see him. Mr. Robert is n't well
enough to be about yet, hut he sits up for a while every
day, and is getting on — the doctor says — nicely.
They both talk about you often ; and Mr. Ercildoune,
I can see, thinks everything of you for that good, kind
deed of yours, when you and Mr. Robert were on the
transport together. Dear Jim, he don't know you as
well as I do, or he 'd know that you could n't help
doing such things, — not if you tried.

I hope you'll like the box that comes with this.
Mr. Robert had it packed for you in his own room,
to see that everything went in that you 'd like. Of
course, as he 's been a soldier himself, he knows better
what they want than anybody else can.

Dear Jim, do take care of yourself; don't go and
get wounded ; and don't get sick ; and, whatever you
do, don't let the rebels take you prisoner, unless you
want to drive me frantic. I think about you pretty
much all the time, and pray for you, as well as I know
how, every night when I go to bed, and am always

Your own loving

Sallie.

292 What Answer?

"Wow! " said Jim, as he read, "she 's in a good
berth there." So she was, — and so she stayed.
Frankie got quite well once more, and Sallie began to
think of going, but Mr. Ercildoune evidently clung to
her and to the sunshine which the bright little fellow
cast through the house. Sallie was quite right in her
supposition. Francesca had cared for this girl, had
been kind to her and helped her, — and his heart
went out to everything that reminded him of his dear,
dead child. So it happened that autumn passed, and
winter, and spring, — and still they stayed. In fact,
she was domesticated in the house, and, for the first
time in years, enjoyed the. delightful sense of a home.
Here, then, she set up her rest, and remained : here,
when the " cruel war was over," the armies disbanded,
the last regiments discharged, and Jimmy " came
marching home," brown, handsome, and a captain,
here he found her, — and from here he married and
carried her away.

It was a happy little wedding, though nobody was
there beside the essentials, save the family and a dear
friend of Robert's, who was with him at the time, as he
had been before and would be often again, — none
other than William Surrey's favorite cousin and friend,
Tom Russell.

The letter which Surrey had written never reached
his hand till he lay almost dying from the effects of

What Answer? 20^

wounds and exposure, after he had been brought in
safety to our lines by his faithful black friends, at M 3
ris Island. Surrey had not mistaken his temper ; gay,
reckless fellow, as he was, he was a thorough gentle-
man, in whom could harbor no small spite, nor petty
prejudice, — and without a mean fibre in his being.
At a glance he took in the whole situation, and ins
ing upon being propped up in bed, with his own hand
— though slowly, and as a work of magnitude — suc-
ceeded in writing a cordial letter of congratulation
and affection, that would have been to Surrey like the
grasp of a brothers hand in a strange and fore
country, had it ever reached his touch and eyes.

But even while Tom lay writing his letter, occasion-
ally muttering, " They '11 have a devilish hard time of
it ! " or " Poor young un ! " or " She 's one in a mil-
lion ! " or some such sentence which marked his feel-
ing and care, — these two of whom he thought, to
whose future he looked with such loving anxiety, were
beyond the reach of human help or hindrance, — done
alike with the sorrows and joys of time.

From a distance, with the help of a glass, and ab-
sorbing interest, he had followed the movements of
the flag and its bearer, and had cheered, till he fainted
from weakness and exhaustion, as he saw them safe at
las:. It was with delight that he found himself on the
same transport with Ercildoune, and discovered in hi a

294 What Answer?

the brother of the young girl for whom, in the past, he
had had so pleasing and deep a regard, and whose
present and future were so full of interest for him, in
their new and nearer relations.

These two young men, unlike as they were in most
particulars, were drawn together by an irresistible at-
traction. They had that common bond, always felt
and recognized by those who possess it, of the gentle
blood, — tastes and instincts in common, and a fine,
chivalrous sentiment which each felt and thoroughly ap-
preciated in the other. The friendship thus begun
grew with the passing years, and was intensified a
hundred fold by a portion -of the past to which they
rarely referred, but which lay always at the bottom of
their hearts. They had each for those two who had
lain dead together in the streets of New York the
strongest and tenderest love, — and though it was not
a tie about which they could talk, it bound them to-
gether as with chains of steel.

Russell was with Ercildoune at the time of the wed-
ding, and entered into it heartily, as they all did. The
result was, as has been written, the gayest and merriest
of times. Sallie's dress, which Robert had given her,
was a sight to behold ; and the pretty jewels, which
were a part of his gift, and the long veil, made her
look, as Jim declared, " so handsome he did n't know
her," — though that must have been one of Jim's

What Answer? 295

stories, or else he was in the habit of making love to
strange ladies with extraordinary ease and effrontery.

The breakfast was another sight to behold. As
Mary the cook said, to Jane the housemaid, " If they 'd
been born kings and queens, Mrs. Lee could n't have
laid herself out more ; it 's grand, so it is, — just you
go and see " ; which Jane proceeded to do, and forth-
with thereafter corroborated Mary's enthusiastic state-
ment.

There were plenty of presents, too : and when it was
all over, and they were in the carriage, to be sent to
the station, Mr. Ercildoune, holding Sallie's hand in
farewell, left there a bit of paper, " which is for you,"
he said. " God protect, and keep you happy, my
child ! " Then they were gone, with many kind adieus
and good wishes called and sent after them. When
they were seated in the cars, Sallie looked at her bit of
paper, and read on its outer covering, " A wedding-
gift to Sallie Howard from my dear daughter Frances-
ca," and found within the deed of a beautiful little
home. God bless her ! say we, with Mr. Ercildoune.
God bless them both, and may they live long to enjoy
it!

That afternoon, as Tom and Robert were driving,
Russell, noting the unwonted look of life and activity,
and the gay flags flung to the breeze, demanded what
it all meant. " Why," said he, " it is like a field day."

296 What Answer?

" It is so," answered Robert, " or what is the same ;
it is election day."

" Bless my soul ! so it is ; and a soldier to be elected.
Have you voted ? "

" No ! "

" No ? Here 's a nice state of affairs ! a fellow
that '11 get his arm blown off for a flag, but won't take
the trouble to drop a scrap of paper for it. Come, I '11
drive you over."

"You forget, Russell!"

"Forget? Nonsense! This isn't i860, but 1865.
I don't forget ; I remember. It is after the war now,
— come."

" As you please," said Robert. He knew the dis-
appointment that awaited his friend, but he would not
thwart him now.

There was a great crowd about the polling-office,
and they all looked on with curious interest as the two
young men came up. No demonstration was made,
though a half-dozen brutal fellows uttered some coarse
remarks.

" Hear the damned Rebs talk ! " said a man in the
army blue, who, with keen eyes, was observing the
scene. " They 're the same sort of stuff we licked in
Carolina."

" Ay," said another, " but with a difference ; blue
led there ; but gray '11 come off winner here, or I 'm
mistaken."

What Answer? 297

Robert stood leaning upon his cane ; a support
which he would need for life ; one empty sleeve
pinned across his breast, over the scar from a deep
and yet unhealed wound. The clear October sun
shone down upon his form and face, upon the broad
folds of the flag that waved in triumph above him,
upon a country where wars and rumors of wars had
ceased.

" Courage, man ! what ails you ? " whispered Rus-
sell, as he felt his comrade tremble ; " it 's a ballot in
place of a bayonet, and all for the same cause ; lay it
down."

Robert put out his hand.

" Challenge the vote ! " " Challenge the vote ! "
" No niggers here ! " sounded from all sides.

The bit of paper which Ercildoune had placed on
the window-ledge fluttered to the ground on the outer
side, and, looking at Tom, Robert said quietly, " i860
or 1865 ? — is tne war ended ? "

" No ! " answered Tom, taking his arm, and walking
away. " No, my friend ! so you and I will continue
in the service."

" Not ended ; — it is true ! how and when will it
be closed ? "

"That is for the loyal people of America to de-
cide," said Russell, as they turned their faces towards
home.

13*

298 What Answer f

How and when will it be closed ? a question asked
by the living and the dead, — to which America must
respond.

Among the living is a vast army : black and white,
— shattered, and maimed, and blind : and these say,
" Here we stand, shattered and maimed, that the body
politic might be perfect ! blind forever, that the glori-
ous sun of liberty might shine abroad throughout the
land, for all people, through all coming time."

And the dead speak too. From their crowded
graves come voices of thrilling and persistent pathos,
whispering, " Finish the work that has fallen from our
nerveless hands. Let no weight of tyranny, nor taint
of oppression, nor stain of wrong, cumber the soil,
nor darken the land we died to save.

NOTE.

O INCE it is impossible for any one memory to carry
the entire record of the war, it is well to state,
that almost every scene in this book is copied from life,
and that the incidents of battle and camp are part of
the history of the great contest.

The story of Fort: Wagner is one that needs no such
emphasis, it is too thoroughly known ; that of the Color-
Sergeant, whose proper name is W. H. Carney, is taken
from a letter written by General M. S. Littlefield to Colo-
nel A. G. Browne, Secretary to Governor Andrew.

From the New York Tribune and the Providence Jour-
nal were taken the accounts of the finding of Hunt, the
coming of the slaves into a South Carolina camp, and the
voluntary carrying, by black men, ere they were enlisted,
of a schooner into the fight at Newbern. Than these two
papers, none were considered more reliable and trustwor-
thy in their war record.

Almost every paper in the North published the narrative
of the black man pushing off the boat, for which an official
report is responsible. The boat was a flat-boat, with a
company of soldiers on board; and the battery under
the fire of which it fell was at Rodman's Point, North

300 Note.

Carolina. In drawing the outlines of this, as of the
others, I have necessarily used a somewhat free . pen-
cil, but the main incident of each has been faithfully
preserved.

The disabled black soldier my own eyes saw thrust from
a car in Philadelphia.

The portraits of Ercildoune and his children may seem
to some exaggerated ; those who have, as I, the rare
pleasure of knowing the originals, will say, " the half has
not been told."

Every leading New York paper, Democratic and Re-
publican, was gone over, ere the summary of the Riots was
made ; and I think the record will be found historically
accurate. The Anglo-African gives the story of poor
Abram Franklin ; and the assault on Surrey has its like-
ness in the death of Colonel O'Brien.

In a conversation between Surrey and Francesca, allu-
sion is made to an act the existence of which I have fre-
quently heard doubted. I therefore copy here a part
of the " Retaliatory Act," passed by the Rebel Govern-
ment at Richmond, and approved by its head, May i,
1863: —

" Sec. 4. Every white person, being a commissioned
officer, or acting as such, who, during the present war,
shall command negroes or mulattoes in arms against the
Confederate States, or who shall arm, train, organize, or
prepare negroes or mulattoes for military service against
the Confederate States, or who shall voluntarily aid ne-
groes or mulattoes in any military enterprise, attack,
or conflict in such service, shall be deemed as inciting

Note. 301

servile insurrection ; and shall, if captured, be put to
death."

I have written this book, and send it to the con-
sciences and the hearts of the American' people. May-
God, for whose " little ones " I have here spoken, vivify
its words.

THE END.

Cambridge : Stereotyped and Printed by Welch, Bigelow, & Co.