Chapter IX: Book III: The Lover (9)

"Suffer! What do you know of that? Why should you suffer? You have not lost the one you love--yet." She stopped abruptly, lending a sharp accent to the last word.

Natalia drew back. The implied suggestion seemed to scream at her from the woman's blazing eyes.

"If it were not for you he would still be here." Mrs. Jervais made a step nearer. "You asked me to come here and do this for you. I did, and what has it brought me--death! It is accursed--this place of your ancestors. So were they--_all_ of them! When they lived here it brought them nothing but death. It drove your mother to madness. And now--" her voice in its calmness grew even more sinister, "it will bring its curse upon _you_. Do you think a _murderer_ could bring you any happiness?"

Natalia shrank back from her, reaching out for the steadying hand of Judge Houston.

"Mrs. Jervais," he expostulated gently, "Natalia is suffering, too. You forget that in your own grief. Have you no kind words for her?"

"It is no time for kind words, Felix Houston. It is only bitterness and hatred that I have now! Why should I feel kindly towards a woman who has brought a man here that he might kill my husband? When she has lost as I have, then I shall be kind, perhaps! And it will not be long that she will wait! I shall not leave a stone unturned to punish with death the one who caused it."

She turned abruptly back into the room and closed the door. In the intense stillness of the house the key grated harshly in the lock, as she turned it. Without a word Mrs. Houston put her arm around Natalia and led her toward the stairs. When she stood on the steps Natalia turned and faced them.

"Don't any of you come with me," she said faintly. "I must be alone. No, Millicent, not to-night. I only want to be alone now." And turning from them, she walked slowly up the stairs, clinging to the rail to steady herself while the others stood silently watching her.

Opening the door, the flickering light of a candle burned far into its socket greeted her. At first she stopped in the centre of the room, her hands clasped vise-like, while the excitement and strain gradually dropped away from her, leaving only a wave of utter weariness. She sank into a chair near the massive, four-post bed, gazing listlessly at her wedding veil and bouquet of gardenias which lay carelessly upon the sheets where they had been thrown. Vaguely she felt their significance; in a way they represented her wedding day--the day that had dawned so brilliantly, and was now only a crumpled, withered memory.

A rasping pain shot through her, and leaning forward she pressed both hands to her temples. Was this the real side of life that had come to her at last? Was this what she had so yearned for--a grappling with things that counted? Ah, no, it could not be that, for this was only despair and horror. Suddenly she shivered violently with the thought that perhaps she was no better fitted to combat it than her mother had been.

A weird, ghostly light on her bride's veil drew her back once more to her surroundings. Looking up she saw the pale outline of the window against the dark room. With the realization that another day was dawning, there rushed over her for the first time, in its full meaning, the horrifying thought that her lover had killed a man. Hitherto the excitement had kept her from any analysis of her own emotions--everything had been swept aside in the thought of Morgan. But now, facing her pitilessly, was the awful necessity of introspection, of seeing the situation from her viewpoint, of being honest with herself. _Would_ it make any difference to her? A feeling of self-hate swept over her that she should consider herself in the least. Yet, fight against it as she would, the question insistently remained. But there would be time enough for all such thoughts after the trial. The trial! Mrs. Jervais' words rang in her ears again. She started at the thought. Would Morgan be cleared? Was there any doubt? The horror of her fancies choked her and she rose from her chair as if seeking something that moment, that would aid her.

As she turned towards the window, her eyes fell upon Dicey, sitting upright in a chair against the wall, her hands clasped in her lap, her eyes staring straight into her own. The old slave had kept the vigil with her mistress.

Dicey rose and made towards her.

"Will yer go ter bed, now, honey?" Her voice was very low, caressing and gentle. "Hit'll soon be day and yer ought ter tak er lil res'."

"Rest! I can't, Mammy. I must do something to help him. He is to be tried for murder! He must be saved. Oh, Mammy," her voice broke with a sob. "What can I do?"

She went to the window and raised it, letting the chill breeze of the daybreak blow upon her face and neck. All the world in its dreary greyness spoke to her only of despair and death. Finally she felt Dicey's arm about her, gently drawing her back from the window. The strange look of visions was alive in the old slave's eyes once more, more burning and intense than ever.

"Yer kin sabe him, honey-chile, easy 'nuff," she whispered. "All yer got ter do is ter sen' word to Marse Sargent ter cum an' 'fend him."

A weary smile flitted across Natalia's lips as she thought of the old woman's love for her master. Then her face grew serious again.

"I'll do _anything_, Mammy. But he is not here. Where can I find him?"

"Yer jes' write de letter an' I'll make Jonas--dat's his body-servant--fetch hit ter him. I knows whar his wharbouts is. I'se been er keepin' up wid him for fo' days. Yer writes de letter an' he'll git hit ter him."

Natalia stared at her a moment, then going quickly to her desk, pulled out her portfolio. When the paper was spread before her she paused, thoughtfully.

"How strange," she said half aloud. "I remember it so distinctly now. He told me if I ever needed him--" her lips curved into the smile of the little girl, and the tears fell fast upon the sheet of paper.

Before the address was dry, Dicey was flying with it towards the town.

*CHAPTER IX*

*THE HONOURABLE SARGENT EVERETT*

In a little village, far off in the eastern part of the State, a great crowd was assembling. The planters and their wives and children, every one from the adjoining counties, were going into the village that morning. Some rode horses; others mules; some were in crude wagons without springs; others in old coaches no longer fit for regular service; and many on foot--all of them followed by their favourite slaves. It was to be a great day in the lives of these simple country folk. Tidings had gone forth that the great lawyer was to speak to them that day, telling them all about their rights; explaining to them the mysteries of their great Constitution, and the importance of proper representation. Every man felt it his special duty to hear what was going to be said, and although this celebrated lawyer was not of their political beliefs, being a Whig while the county was Democratic, they were glad of the opportunity to hear a man speak, whose name was becoming a byword throughout the State. Though un-lettered, hard-fisted woodland patriots caring little for the outside world except in what would bring them absolute freedom, they were still keenly alive to the needs and laws that would open their great forests to the civilized world.

And while the sun rose higher and the brilliance of the June morning deepened, and the crowd grew larger and more impatient, the man who had caused all this interest sat in the cool shade of a veranda, looking steadily out before him through deeply brooding eyes.

It was a beautiful scene of wide, luxuriant cotton fields, stretching out before him. Nearby, a garden of luxuriant flowers, guarded by smoothly clipped box hedges, filled the air with a delicious fragrance.

Beside him on the veranda, comfortably lounging in a spacious rocking chair, sat his host, Colonel Pickram; a portly old gentleman, bluff and hearty, and red of face. Beyond, through the open window, came the laughter and gay chatter of the two daughters of the house, healthy, comely girls who moved about the room, giving directions for what was to be a sumptuous dinner.

Colonel Pickram gazed at his guest under questioning brows. The great lawyer was not to-day as he had known him before. The virility and life seemed to have lessened in him since the last visit; he was no longer the sparkling conversationalist he had known before; the winning humour that had drawn every one to him was gone. As he sat there silent, his hands clasped en his knees, his eyes full of a sad expression of yearning, even the dull perception of the self-satisfied farmer was aware that he was not himself.

"Mr. Everett," Colonel Pickram broke the long silence, "you've been working too hard on the campaign. It's telling on you. I reckon you're mighty glad to-morrow's the last day."

Everett looked up abstractedly.

"Yes--I'm glad to-morrow sees the end of this trip--and yet," he drew himself together responsively, "it has been a wonderful experience. Whenever I get nearer to the people and begin to like them all the more after I know them, and find them liking me--I feel that I have accomplished so much more than merely winning their votes. That is what I love in this work--the winning of friends. And then, Colonel," he glanced almost affectionately at his surroundings, "being in a home like this always gives me such pleasant memories to carry away with me. Still, it makes me very homesick at times." His voice lowered again and the sadness crept back into his eyes. "It takes me back to my old home days. I'd give almost anything to be back there to-day. But this ambition!" He sighed, a half humourous, half sorrowful expression twisting his lips. "It is wonderful what it will make us give up."

The Colonel crossed one leg deliberately over the other, blowing a long line of smoke between them.

"Well, sir, I've often wondered if the game of politics was worth the candle. Here I am, with my two fine lassies, as good girls as you'll ever find in any country, and a plain home, but it's comfortable enough, and plenty of slaves and mules to make a crop and pay my bills. It's all I want and I'm right happy--just as contented as if I owned the world. But then--I'm old and you're young. I look back and you look forward. That's what makes the difference, I reckon."

"But you are right, Colonel, and I am wrong. All a fellow works for in this life is a happy home; and it seems I'm never going to have that--at least the kind I mean, the complete one. It gets further and further away as I get older. I used to say that when I was thirty I would have all those I loved about me. Look at me now!" He spread out his hands futilely. "I'm nearly thirty, living alone, a bachelor, and many times, for all my gay spirits and friends, terribly lonely."

"You ought to get married. Why don't you? There are plenty of nice girls everywhere."

Everett winced and turned abruptly away. When he spoke again his face was towards the cotton fields. "But they don't want a cripple for a husband," he answered the old man's remark. "They want a man of fine proportions, who will do them credit when they are seen together. They want one who--" he narrowed his eyes a moment, and in them came the tenderness of bygone days, "--who will go to church with them, and send them beautiful nosegays and take them to dances." He ended, smiling upon the Colonel's surprised countenance. "I once heard a woman say, Colonel," he began again, more seriously, "that she chose her husband because he looked well in a ball-room. And I don't blame her--perfection and beauty are the greatest factors in our lives."

The old Colonel smiled over his pipe.

"I'm afraid, Mr. Everett, that you are a much better lawyer than a judge of the ladies. I have a higher opinion of them than you have. They are not half so silly as you paint them."

"You misunderstand me, Colonel," Everett answered hurriedly. "I revere them more than any man. But they love the beautiful in life, and they are beautiful themselves. My bitterness comes only from my inability to give them what they demand."

Colonel Pickram grunted sarcastically.

"You can give them a good deal, I think. I'd like to see the woman who wouldn't be satisfied to be a Congressman's wife and spend her winters in Washington. The trouble with you, Mr. Everett, and you'll pardon me for saying it, is that you've never been in love."

Sargent rose from his chair almost abruptly. Walking to the end of the veranda and back again, he faced Colonel Pickram, smiling down into the rough old fellow's face as if he were much his elder.

"Perhaps you are right, Colonel," he said, taking out his watch. "Time's up, however, so we had better drop dreaming and be on our way to grapple with politics."

Squaring his shoulders and throwing back his head, a gesture of his earlier days that clung to him still, Sargent threw off the melancholy of the past day, and became once more the man who charmed people by the thousands. Colonel Pickram noticed the quick change and pondered over it. "Big men were curious creatures," he reflected. "They could jump from one mood into another just as easily as a travelling magician he saw last week, could change a rabbit into a pocket handkerchief."

As they passed across the meadow, towards the village, the signal of their approach was given. The multitude left their lunches, and hurried towards the platform from which the speech was to be made.

Every one's neck was craned to catch the first glimpse of the two men as they approached. One they knew well, though in his linen waistcoat and Sunday stock--which had already wellnigh brought on an attack of apoplexy--Colonel Pickram did not look familiar. They noticed the slow and pompous dignity with which he moved beside the stranger, and felt instinctively that he considered this the proudest day of his life. The man beside him walked with the aid of a cane and dragged one foot slightly after him. The crowd stared. Was it possible that this unobtrusive young man, in a black coat and chimney-pot hat, could be the one they had heard so much about? They looked at him curiously, drawn unconsciously by his kindly dark eyes, and the winning smile upon his handsome face. But he did not represent to them a political champion. Some mistake had been made. They were evidently the dupes of some jest that had been played upon them.

While they speculated over the matter, Colonel Pickram led the young man to a place before the platform where the crowd pressed closest. Here a few introductions were made, after which the word went over the gathering, that the small, limping man was really Sargent Everett.

As they waited, he climbed the steps of the platform and looked down into the crowd of faces. With the removal of his hat, his aspect changed suddenly. He looked taller, the high polished forehead lent a dignity and breadth to his whole physique. The enthusiasm and intellect that always glowed in his eyes when he faced an audience gave out sparks of magnetism that quieted the waiting throng into an inspiring audience.

During the ensuing moments of waiting it seemed to them that the warmth and friendliness of his glance was shed upon each one of them individually. When his lips parted and his opening words came forth--

"FELLOW CITIZENS! By the Father of Waters I have used this greeting; on the banks of the great Ohio I have spoken it; here I say it again, and many hundreds of miles east of us, west of us, north of us, I can still employ these words and thrill with the knowledge that before me are--'My fellow citizens.'"

--the crowd fell under the spell of the man's electrifying talent and listened with bated breath.

Seeing him then one would have said that he was the same as when he had made that wonderful speech that convicted the highwayman; the one who had led so forcibly in the Legislature when the State's new Constitution was formulated; who had thrilled many audiences in New Orleans; who had made his name sound far into the North when he had conducted a famous trial in Kentucky. And he had been the same, years making no change except to deepen and intensify his genius, until a few months before, when, almost indescribably, yet vividly discernible to his intimates, a difference had come. The world did not know; he was still lighthearted and buoyant to it; but to those who loved him best when alone with him, there was a strange loss of youth in his countenance, an abstraction, almost a lessening of that spontaneous sympathy which was such a potent ingredient of his charm. But in his public life there was no difference. Standing before a crowd, and meeting its warm, inspiring glances, any thought of personal effort was lost. He became a wonderful machine which throbbed and pulsated with the dynamic force of a great mind.

So it was that day before the gathering in the little village. Though before his speech he had sunk deep into a valley of shadows and knew well it would be the same again when the excitement had died out, now that he was facing them, he was only aware of the powerful influence that always made him charm his audience.

He made only a few gestures as he spoke, and even then, the expression of his face and the movement of his hands were perfectly attuned to the subject. There was nothing theatrical; one saw and understood the general effect only. There was no time for any criticism or thought. The words came in a constant flowing sound and through them the magnetism of the man glowed, reaching each listener with an irresistible force that drew him with a surrendering of beliefs, of convictions, of desires, often even against his personal wish. His face, illumined by the inward fire of his imagination, grew steadily in beauty and nobility, until it became fascinating with the brilliance of the thoughts reflected through it. His well moulded features, showing clear-cut and perfect in the ivory whiteness which had recently come to them, drew even those who did not understand the wonderful flow of words; indeed, in all his speeches this look of idealism was ever uppermost--an expression which none of the portrait painters of his day were able to reproduce. When he realized that the attention of the audience was his, he paused. Then, with renewed energy, he plunged deeper into his subject, and was reaching the height to which his forensic talent swept him, when an incident on the outskirts of the crowd caught his attention. Some one had just ridden up on a horse and was trying to force his way through the crowd. Evidently there was resistance on the part of the listeners and voices were raised in protest against the newcomer's insistence. Then, several men pushed aside and made a path for the man, and Sargent saw a negro making his way slowly through the crowd towards him. As he drew nearer he recognized Jonas. Climbing up the ladder to the platform the negro did not hesitate one moment until he had thrust a letter into-Sargent's hand.

Sargent stopped in the midst of the speech and looked at Jonas, half frowning, half smiling at the negro's temerity in reaching him through the crowd.

"Marse Sargent, please sah, read dat lettah--right now, sah! Hit's a mattah ob life an' death, sah!"

Sargent turned back to his audience, smiling. "One moment, please," he said, laughing down into the sea of upturned expectant faces, "I think my opponents have put up some joke on me. I want to read it to you and then we can laugh over it together." Then he tore open the letter indifferently.

"Lawdy, I sho wuz glad ter heah yer voice, Marse Sargent. I'se been er gwine ober dis heah kentry fer three days er sarchin' fer yer. Ole Dicey tole me fer ter git out on de road an' fin' yer an' ter gib yer dis heah lettah. She done said hit wuz a mattah ob life an' death," Jonas ended panting, looking around on the crowd and grinning with the success of his quest.

Sargent did not hear his words. At the first glance at the handwriting he had started. While he read the crowd waited breathlessly. When he had finished he turned to Colonel Pickram, his face flushed deeply, his words coming with a rush.

"Colonel Pickram, I want your fastest horse. I must be in Natchez by Sunday."

"Of course you can have anything I've got. Has anything happened?"

"Yes--a great deal--for me."

Colonel Pickram noted the strangely flushed face and was more deeply puzzled than ever.

"You forget to-morrow at Canton. You are going to meet your opponent there. It is the deciding day. You can't afford to miss that! It's your big chance!"

Everett shook his head smiling. When he answered his eyes were full of the expression of a man who is drunk with joy.

"No," he said, "my chance lies in Natchez next week--the great chance of my life!"

Colonel Pickram looked at him amazed. Had the man lost his mind!

"But the people here! Your speech! They are waiting for you to finish it!"

Sargent had already picked up his hat and cane.

"Tell them I am ill--that I cannot go on. Tell them anything, Colonel, I don't care what. I can't say anything more. I haven't a moment to lose. Good-bye to all of you!"

*CHAPTER X*

*THE LEAD OF HONOUR*

On and on through the country Sargent urged his horse, followed closely by the faithful Jonas. They had stopped only for a change of horses and for food, taking no rest until at the end of the second day he realized that his wild impatience must be curbed or the end of the journey would find him exhausted.

But the night's rest had brought him no peace; the physical relaxation seemed to intensify the mental excitement. The few moments of sleep were but agitated lurid dreams. He would awaken from them startled, with cold sweat upon his face and hands and the two words ringing in his ears that had come to him with Natalia's letter--"My chance! My chance!"

Early the next morning he resumed the journey no calmer in the knowledge that before sunset he would reach his destination.

The forest rang with the two words all through the hot day; in the early morning the mists hovering over the cotton fields whispered them to him; the gallop of his horse beat then, into a rhythmic insistence. It was a throbbing, joyful sound, singing in his ears, glowing in his face, crystallizing in his eyes. It was the intervention of Fate, smiling upon him, and telling him that his opportunity had come at last; that it was the moment when the dreams and inspiration of his youth would become a reality. The last months of hopelessness, when he had felt that the loss of his ideal, the goal of all his plans, had slipped from him, were forgotten in the thrilling thought that all hope was not gone. One more chance was left; already he felt it to be the forerunner of happiness.

Always a man who lost himself in the grip of one idea, he could see nothing else but that Natalia was not yet married. The fact that the marriage was postponed because her lover, his old schoolmate, had killed Lemuel Jervais, was all a vague background to the other great certainty. The outcome did not intrude itself upon the theme that sounded so steadily in his ears. Nothing else counted until he could reach her side and pour out all the pent-up yearnings of the years and years that he had planned and builded and waited for her.

When Natalia had gone away a little girl, leaving behind her the fragrance of her charm, the lingering notes of her sweet dependence, Sargent had treasured her memory within his heart, keeping it alive and more vividly before him by its very secrecy. Only two knew that beneath the success of the young lawyer there was a strong, true hope that was leading him on towards a future his dreams made perfect. What difference did it make to him when her letters dwindled and finally ceased? That was only natural in a girl developing into womanhood. Of course she would forget for a while; that in itself would make the memories and devotions of her childhood all the stronger when she came back to them. When the letters to him had stopped coming and only occasionally Mrs. Houston had received one, it was always a great day to them. The old lady would send for Sargent, and reading aloud to him what Natalia had written, they would end by planning for the wonderful time when she would be coming back to them. Then, at last had come the letter concerning her marriage. Mrs. Houston had not hesitated when she realized the duty that lay before her, but in the choosing of time and place, there was a subtle sympathy and gentleness that expressed her nature completely. She had driven to Sargent's home in the late afternoon and sending word for him to drive with her, had gradually broached the subject, ending by reading the letter. They had driven home in silence amid the gathering shadows, her hand on his, neither meeting the other's saddened eyes. Afterwards had come the work of the campaign, into which Sargent threw himself as never before, seeking vainly, through physical and mental fatigue, forgetfulness. Then, when his intelligence, his humour, and his bitter disappointment were struggling in a great fight to build up his life as it had been before, Natalia's message came to him. Beside her, he could tell her of what the years without her, yet so completely filled with her, had meant to him. She would listen, he kept repeating over and over to himself; he would make her listen, she would be powerless to combat his great love; it was of such force that obstacles would be swept before it as by a storm. In the delirious happiness of this obsession there was left no room for sane thoughts.

Towards evening he rode into the town. The church bells were ringing their call to the evening services, for it was Sunday. The air was filled with the last glow of liquid, golden sunlight; over all Nature was spread the luxurious, lazy warmth of summer.

Sargent did not spare his weary horse as he entered the town; even then his impatience seemed to become greater with his destination reached. Riding directly to Judge Houston's house, for he was not certain but that he might find her with them, he threw his reins to Jonas and dismounted. Walking toward the house, his habitual halting step grown more perceptible in his exhaustion, he suddenly realized the strain he had forced himself to undergo. Yet, in his face still glowed the beauty of his hope. Fatigue and utter weariness were powerless to affect its potency.

The servant told him that Judge Houston was just preparing to drive back to the country; that he had been in town all day. Sargent found him in the garden back of the house, his head bent forward in deep thought. With the quick straightening of his body and the bright light in his eyes when he looked up, Sargent knew that his coming had brought a great relief.

"I am glad they found you, Sargent," he exclaimed. "Natalia told me she had written you. We need you, boy--we need all the help we can get."

Sargent held the old man's hand while he searched his eyes.

"Where is she now?" he almost whispered.

"Natalia? At her home. Maria and I are staying out there with her."

Judge Houston drew his hand away slowly, his brows wrinkling into an expression of bewilderment as he noted more closely the flushed face before him. Suddenly he put out his hand and motioned Sargent to sit on the bench beside him. His voice trembled slightly when he spoke.

"Do you know what has happened?"

"Yes--she wrote me--and asked me to come and save Morgan!"

"Do you know what she meant?"

Sargent glanced up. The old man's hand was shaking as it rested on his shoulder, and in his eyes there had come quickly an expression of sharp pain.

"Do you know what she meant?" he repeated, almost harshly.

"Yes, of course--but why--"

Sargent's voice failed him. His old friend had read his hope and in his face now was speaking the suffering that he knew was coming. In the moment of silence Sargent faced the old man squarely.

"You mean--" he said, his voice cold and hard. Already his happiness of the past two days was stealing away from him.

"She loves Morgan Talbot with her whole intense nature. If he is not saved I fear almost anything. You know her mother's end? It is your chance, Sargent--"

"My chance!" Sargent stood up, repeating the words that had rung in his ears for so many hours, though now the accent spoke of dead hope. Still saying them over to himself as if seeking for some hidden meaning in the mere sound of the words, he left Judge Houston and walked to the far end of the garden.

The old gentleman followed him, finally standing beside him when he leaned on the fence.

After a long silence, his glance still riveted on the ground before him, Sargent spoke:

"Are you quite sure?" he murmured. "There might be some mistake--yet."

Judge Houston moved nearer him, his whole face showing his surprise. It was a phase of Sargent's character that he had not seen before.

"I was not certain until I carried her to the jail to see Morgan," he said slowly. "That night I knew he meant everything to her. It was a silly dream of ours ever to hope for anything else. As well as we knew her, we should have been sure of her love for the man she would marry. Why did you, of all of us, hope for any change?"

Sargent lifted his face with a quivering flash of anger.

"Why did I hope? Why did I think my chance had come?" he burst out with vehemence. "Are you so old that the meaning of love and all its joy have been forgotten? Do you think that because I have sunk all desires and cravings into my ambition, that covered up in my heart was no passion? I am only a human being--with all the pent-up yearnings for what I see others possessing. Why should I not use my opportunity now that it has come to me? I will, Great God, I will! Don't stop me! I'm going to her to plead my cause, to lay my love before her. She will not refuse it--she _shall_ not. There is a time in every man's life when he must forget everything but himself! I am going to do that now!"

Judge Houston did not interrupt him. When the wild flow of words had ceased he remained quietly beside Sargent, giving no sign that he had heard what was said.

"You think I am insane, I suppose," Sargent rushed on, even more intensely than before. "You think because I speak out the great desire of my heart--because at last the blood is boiling in my veins, making me like other people, like all the creatures God has made to claim their rights--you think because of all this," his voice broke shrilly, "that I am not the man you thought I was. Is it not so?" He turned and faced Judge Houston, grasping both his arms. "You are disappointed, distressed, terribly shaken in me--answer me? I want to hear you speak?"

The old gentleman's eyes beamed into Sargent's.

"My faith in you is shaken--not one jot!" His words came crisp and full of a deep significance. "I know you too well. I love you as I would have loved my son. My confidence in you is without limit. I know what you will do as surely as if I were going to do it myself!"

Their eyes burned into each other: then over them, enveloping them, came the silence of a miracle. Sargent's hands fell to his side. His body shook for a second like a man who was in the grip of a chill; then, as he gradually grew steady, a great calmness swept over him; his face grew white and set, and from his eyes shone out the look that the wise old man beside him knew would come--the expression of one who has been tempted, and is feeling at last the infinite glory of renunciation.

"How did you know?" Sargent asked at last with a broken sob.

The old gentleman shook his head sadly.

"The other side was not you, Sargent. It was a dream--a horrible dream."

Sargent put his hands to his forehead, pushing back his hair and showing the ivory whiteness of his brow. His face, illumined by the miraculous thought that had come in one minute, grew steadily in beauty until it became almost glorified in its brilliance.

In that instant the meaning of his whole life came to him. His early training, the teachings of his mother, and later his first great experience in his chosen profession, when it seemed that all sides were narrowing about him in his great failure and despair. In Phelps he realized the beacon light that started him towards the goal. It was through him that the conviction had come to him to make his life-work a defence of men who had taken the wrong road. Now, with a thrilling sense of seeing deep into the mystery of life, he realized that every little detail had been a preparation for what was coming. Even his recent temptation was a strengthening of his forces. And from it all he lifted his head with the transcendence of the knowledge was to come the flowering of his life.

He stretched out both hands to Judge Houston.

"Thank God!" he murmured, "my dear, dear friend. It was left to you to stand by me and show me the way." He wrung the old gentleman's hands, then turned resolutely, with the upward lift of his head that was more eloquent than ever before. "Now let us go to Morgan. My work begins there first."

Judge Houston slipped his arm through Sargent's as they strolled back to the house.

"And afterwards--to Natalia. She needs you, too."

"No--not yet," Sargent answered, the glow of the great thought burning deeply in his eyes. "Later--when I have shown her what my love can do; then--perhaps--but not before!"

*CHAPTER XI*

*A ROAD TO HAPPINESS*

The Judge's surmise as to the verdict of the coroner's jury had proved to be true. It had seemed wise, therefore, to proceed quickly with the trial in order to avoid inflaming the already excited sentiment of Jervais' adherents. Now the first day of the trial was ending. Natalia stood on the veranda waiting for Judge Houston; he was to take her to see Morgan.

The approaching evening brought to her strange, restless thoughts; an overwhelming rush of emotions which had so filled her for the last four days. She felt, as she stood alone, with all the old, familiar surroundings about her, that she was being pushed relentlessly on towards a situation which, for some unknown reason, she dreaded. A change had come over her; already she felt the great influence of the tragedy upon her life. It had opened the more serious side of her nature, unchaining characteristics which had been felt only vaguely heretofore. The very depths of sympathy seemed to have stirred within her; a closer relationship to those about her made her realize that before she had viewed the world through the eyes of a happy egoism. Now she was an integral part of life, bearing her burden as the endless thousands had done before her. With this realization had come a feeling of strength, of capacity, of endurance; and a determination to make the ties which had bound her and Morgan more full of meaning and purpose.

Breaking through this comforting purpose came, at moments, a strange restlessness. It always forced itself upon her after her visits to Morgan. After the first night in the jail, she had gone to him every day, spending several hours in the little white-washed room where the iron bars across the window kept their surroundings palpably before them. She had hoped that after the first night of suffering and despondency Morgan would gradually drift back into the buoyancy which had seemed always such an integral part of his nature. She had expected that to help him towards a more hopeful outlook. But it was quite the other way. The weight of the crime had fallen with a crushing blow upon the man who had known nothing but a care-free life during his thirty years. The courage in his eyes had died out; there were deep circles beneath them; even his brilliant colouring had faded into a lifeless pallor. To one whose life had been so far removed from tragedy as Morgan's, the blow brought a lessening of all energies. The full realization that he had killed a man came to him with such a shock that he shrank from it like a child, cowed and irremediably injured.

Natalia had at first felt her whole being go out to him in sympathy and love; when she saw him each morning seeking her eyes so like some pitiful, wounded animal, she began to wonder if he could be the same man she had known before. Disappointment followed pity, and afterwards self-hate that she should have expected him to be unchanged by this experience. It was then that the full conception of the great moral outcome of the tragedy came to her. She knew in a moment of flashing intuition, that her happiness and Morgan's lay in her hands alone. All the courts of the world, with their justice and gifts of liberty, could not do for him what she must do. But could she do it? The question left her cold and trembling.

All during the week she had gone bravely through the ordeal that confronted her. Mrs. Jervais had left the morning after the day set for the wedding, having refused to see Natalia, and leaving behind her a request that they should not meet again. Then had come the greatest trial of all, when, looking out of the window, Natalia saw the funeral procession pass through the grove where still lingered some of the decorations for her wedding.

Always beside her, through these dismal days, Dicey stood; encouraging and comforting in her tenderness. Each evening the old slave would leave Natalia for a little while, going through the big gate and out to the highway, where she stood and watched for the long-expected messenger. When at last Jonas had ridden out to impart to her his successful mission, Dicey had spoken no word of approval, but turning swiftly, had rushed back to the house and into Natalia's room with wildly illumined face.

"He's cum, honey!" she cried. "He done cum at las'. Now hit's gwine be all right. Eberything's done been sabed."

And later that evening Judge Houston sent word to them that Sargent had come and that he would stay in town with him that night.

When Judge Houston came for her, Natalia took her place in the carriage beside him, her lips silent, her eyes seeking his for some outcome of the first day's trial. As they passed out of the gate into the deserted road, the old gentleman put his arm about her and drew her head down on his shoulder.

"We haven't long to wait now, little girl," he said, his words gaining a benignity in their tenderness. "Everything is going as we wish it now. Sargent is at the helm," he ended, his voice full of calm certainty.

"He came in answer to my letter?" Natalia murmured.

"Yes--he got it in the midst of one of his speeches."

"He left his campaign for me?"

The old gentleman nodded.

"For you--and for Morgan."

Natalia lifted her head, suddenly.

"Uncle Felix," she cried, "will it mean a loss to him? Did he let his chance go for--for us?"

"I hope it will not be that way." Judge Houston looked away from her questioning eyes. "There was only one more speech. It was the one in which he was to meet his opponent. But that was nothing to him, Natalia. If you knew him as I do, you would realize that nothing counts with him when a friend calls for help."

Natalia clasped her hands, helplessly. When she spoke again her lips were trembling.

"I know, Uncle Felix, I know that. But I have no right to call him back from his work. If this should cause him to lose his election to Congress, it would be upon my hands. I have no right to wreck people's lives as I am doing. Already Mrs. Jervais' words are sinking heavily upon me--I can't forget them. Uncle Felix, what does it mean? Why has all this come to me? Is my race accursed--as she said?" She shrank closer to him, her hands seeking his for comfort. "It seems to me that I pray every moment. My lips are moving always in supplication. And yet--" her expression changed to one of intense fear--"I wonder sometimes if I know what I am praying for."

He looked down at her, puzzled at this sudden shrinking, his eyes seeking hers in explanation.

"I know you don't understand," she began again, in answer to his look. "I am not myself. Perhaps it has been too much for me to stand. But I dread something, Uncle Felix, something that is coming. I don't seem to have the strength for the duty that lies before me. It is not so much the outcome of the trial," she continued, calmer, "as what will come afterwards."

The old man pressed her hand sympathetically. "I know," he said thoughtfully. "That is a question that had to come to one of your nature. And the hardest part of it is that no one can help you; you must work it out alone. Only one thing can bring you back your happiness--Morgan and your love for him."

"You mean, Uncle Felix--"

"That your love for him will make you forget the deed."

She drew a long sigh, and clung closer to his side.

"It is not that," she answered slowly. "That has made no difference in my love for him. It will make a difference in our happiness, I know; but what I fear is the change in Morgan. There is something that he is keeping from me. I have seen it every day that I was with him. Do you know what it is, Uncle Felix?"

The old gentleman looked away, avoiding her question.

"Sargent went to him yesterday evening, as soon as he had come. I left them together," he resumed after a short silence.

"Did you see him afterwards--when he had left Morgan?"

"No. I only saw him at breakfast this morning. But he could talk of nothing but the details of the trial." Judge Houston was still looking away from her. "Perhaps," he said with a start, "Sargent will do for Morgan what no one else could do."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean that when Morgan hears the speech for his defence, couched in legal terms and showing in a convincing way that he is not guilty of--of murder, it will bring to him a realization of his innocence. Sargent's speech is going to be wonderful." The old man's eyes deepened with the certainty of that knowledge. "I saw that yesterday when he came back, worn out and exhausted from the long journey. Do you know, Natalia," he looked at her searchingly, "I believe it would help you, too. Will you go?"

They rode along in silence, while Natalia's hand trembled in his clasp.

"When will it be?"

"I hope to-morrow. If all the evidence is heard by noon, the speeches will come in the afternoon."

"Do you think I could bear seeing Morgan in that room before a court of judges?" she murmured, asking the question more of herself than of him. "I am afraid, Uncle Felix. It would be indelibly stamped upon my memory."

"But you would be hearing him defended against an accusation that was unjust. You would see him in the light of justice and right. That would be the lasting thought. Take my advice, Natalia," he urged. "Perhaps your sensitiveness recoils from being seen there; but there are some situations in life in which we must forget our preferences for others."

"Your confidence helps me--but if the outcome should be otherwise?"

"It cannot be otherwise. If you knew Sargent as I do, you would know that there could be no doubt."

Natalia sank back against the cushions. Every argument that she had used lately seemed to lead directly to one answer--Sargent Everett. The confidence he inspired in every one seemed without limit; even Judge Houston, with an age and experience that were exceptional, was willing to trust everything to him, gaining from that trust a happy confidence where doubts were unknown. And deeper than this trust, was the love that she had seen with her own eyes. Mrs. Houston showed it in the brightness of her face when she discussed him, and Dicey seemed to be under a spell which not even her love for Natalia could affect. Natalia found herself wondering over Judge Houston's words when he had finished talking, and in her thoughts had suddenly flashed a pang of resentment that this man had grown deeper into the hearts of those she loved, than herself. She was passing his house as this thought came into her mind, and in the quiet dignity of the classic white columns against the red brick, the clean swept lawn and carefully clipped box, she imagined she saw a reflection of the man's purpose and strength.

Following the feeling of jealousy came the remembrance of what he was doing for her. He had given up his campaign, unfinished, to save her lover. And it was alone from the call for help that she had sent to him. Suddenly every word that she had heard about him since her return to the old home stood out distinctly, full of hidden meanings, full of evasions, that she had only guessed at and pushed out of her thoughts as unreasonable. Now she saw plainly. Every detail spoke a certainty. And she, stumbling blindly through it all, had at the end demanded a sacrifice that would ruin his career in the world.

They had reached the town and were passing along the streets at the hour when people were coming from their supper tables to sit on the lawns. Natalia loosened her veil and shrank further back into the carriage, shuddering from the looks of sympathy cast towards her. When they had reached the jail and gone up the walk together, she stopped a moment before the door and laid her hand on Judge Houston's arm.

"Why did Sargent Everett not come to me instead of to Morgan? It was I who sent for him." The overpowering discovery had pressed out all other thoughts at that moment.

"Because Morgan needed him," came the answer, the old man's face averted. "You did not."

Natalia withdrew her hand, a little bewildered. Perhaps, after all, her inflamed imagination had carried her beyond the truth!

They entered the gloomy corridor together, and as the door to Morgan's cell was unlocked, Judge Houston stepped back to let Natalia enter alone. During her former visits she had found Joel always beside Morgan, cheering him and talking about the trial in a lively manner that was a feeble attempt to dispel the gloom which had settled over him. This time Morgan was alone, standing at the window looking out at the gorgeous sunset. When he turned at her entrance, she started back when she had seen the expression of his face. The change was remarkable; instead of the mute suffering which she had seen in his eyes during the last few days, was now a semblance of his old self, the same brilliant expression and colouring, only deepened and strengthened by experience. And in his eyes, as they rested on her, she saw again the love which had hitherto been veiled in the unwonted expression of his despair.

As he came toward her, a flood of doubts swept over her and she put out her hands as if to ward off a blow.

"Something has happened, Morgan," she cried. "What is it?"

He gathered her hands into his strong clasp and led her to a chair, looking down at her all the time, like one who had not seen her for a long time. When she had sunk into the chair, still staring at him anxiously, he pulled a stool up beside her, and took hold of her hands again.

"It is nearly over, Natalia," he said with a happy ring in his voice. "They tell me to-morrow will bring the end of the trial. Will you ever forgive me, dear?"

"Forgive you! What?" she answered, still reading his face for some explanation.

"For almost ruining your happiness and mine. I had felt all along that your love for me would die after I had killed Jervais; that even if it were in self-defence, you would not be able to forget the crime. But it isn't true--you do not feel that way, do you?"

"Morgan--you have changed! Something has happened that I do not know about! What is it?"

She put her hands on his shoulders and searched his face. A rush of doubts was making her heart beat furiously.

"I am changed! I am an entirely different man," he answered, smiling into her anxious eyes. "How could a man who was as wretched as I, and who has suddenly been shown the way to happiness, be otherwise than changed! The world has become a different place to me, Natalia; and after the trial, when I am a free man and take up my life again, it will mean so much more to me than ever before. Perhaps I shall be a little older--but we aren't children any longer, either of us, and the serious side of life had to come some day. I think what made it so hard on me was that it came so suddenly." He stopped for a moment, pressing her hands tight, then holding them to his lips. "There has been a change in you, too, Natalia," he continued, his face glowing with the love he was expressing. "I saw it keenly that night you came to me here. At first I thought your love for me was gone,--not that you were not kind and sympathetic and gentle--but in your eyes I fancied I saw more pity than love."

Morgan rose from his seat and stood before her, as if shaking off the remembrance of that hour. "It almost drove me mad that night when my imagination was let loose, and in its reflected images I saw a future in which you had forsaken me, and I was left to drift through life alone, without hope, with only the horror of a crime for companionship. It was always with me--that haunting fancy--until," his voice deepened vibrantly, "until I was shown my mistake."

"Until you were shown," Natalia repeated mechanically.

"Yes, until I was shown my happiness--by Sargent Everett."

She pressed her hand quickly to her heart. Its quick throbbing had frightened her. It was true now; she no longer felt any doubts. Her happiness and Morgan's were being builded upon the sacrifice of another. The exaltation of the thought swept through her with a great rush; a lightness, almost a dizziness, made her breath come quickly. She found herself trembling with vague, uncomprehending emotions. Then followed the quick reversal; and the throbbing life ebbed away, leaving her cold and numb.

"What did he tell you?" she heard herself asking.

Morgan looked down at her from the great height of his renewed self-confidence.