ourgee's 
 
 AMERICA 
 RiSTORICAL ROYELS 
 
 •FORDS:HOWARfl*HUI.BERT" 
 
Digitized by the Internet Archive 
 
 in 2010 with funding from 
 
 University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill 
 
 http://www.archive.org/details/hotplowsharesnovOOtour 
 
Hot Plowshares, 
 
 A NOVEL, 
 
 ALBION W. TOURGEE, 
 
 Author or "A Fool's Ekband," etc. 
 
 New York : 
 FORDS, HOWARD, & HULBERT 
 
 1883 
 
COPYRIGHT, A. D., 1882, 
 
 By Albion W. TouROtE, 
 
 Author. 
 
PREFACE. 
 
 Fiction is the handmaid of Truth. Imagination is 
 almost always the forerunner of fact. History gives only 
 the outlines of the world's life. It tells us what was 
 done, who did it, when and where, and, in a general 
 way, the reason why it was done. It traces the move- 
 ments of races, nations and parties. It is concei-ned 
 chiefly with nouns of multitude, taking no heed of the 
 individual save when he becomes connected with the 
 general result in the relation of cause and effect. Rulers 
 and leaders are noted as types of great events ; the 
 man — the human atom — is only an incident. History 
 tells what the army did, and gives the general a place in 
 its pages simply because he commanded the army. Of 
 the motives that inspire the rank and file it takes as 
 little note as of their individual acts. 
 
 Biography both supplements and obscures History — 
 supplements by showing the relation of great events to a 
 particular individual, and obscures by magnifying his 
 causative relation to them. If we accepted the verdict of 
 the most conscientious biographer as veritable truth, 
 we should soon be hopelessly astray. Biography covers 
 the whole area of History with private landmarks. 
 Every great event is pre-empted by a thousand claim- 
 ants, each of whom asserts his individual right to be 
 considered its originator. The rivalry of the dead is 
 even worse than that of the living. Men who wrought 
 and fought side by side while alive against some common 
 enemy, are no sooner dead than they are pitted against 
 each other in a never-ending struggle for the laurels of 
 the victory they have jointly won. 
 
 603280 
 
PREFACE. 
 
 Fiction labors under no such disadvantages. It fills 
 out the outlines History gives, and colors and completes 
 its pictures. It shows what manner of men they were 
 who wrought its great events. It vivifies the past of 
 which History only furnishes the record. 
 
 Twenty-two years ago a great nation was broken in 
 twain in an hour. There was no splintering of the parts, 
 no strain, no lesion. The cleavage was sharp and smooth. 
 The day before there was no sign of severance. The 
 day after there was no trace of the union that had been. 
 The one republic became two withovit a ripple in the 
 daily life or relations of the people. Governors, judges — 
 all officers, state and federal — continued to perform the 
 same duties under the new as under the old organization. 
 The two hostile powers were as far apart as if they had 
 never been united. Before the SAVord was drawn the 
 separation was as complete as if the ocean rolled be- 
 tween. Some of the border states were held by Northern 
 power and occupancy. They were, so to speak, over- 
 laid by Northern life. The soil was held, but their life, 
 their sympathy and the bulk of their strength went with 
 the South, of which they were a part. 
 
 What made this sudden severance possible — not only 
 possible but inevitable ? It was not ambition nor parti- 
 san malice, nor the lust of power. It was because the 
 two sections had grown apart — had leaned steadily away 
 from each other, farther and farther every year for a 
 generation. 
 
 The separation was not effected by any act of secession 
 or declaration of independence. That was but the sign 
 of the fact. The mutually repellent forces within the 
 respective sections had completed their work. The 
 North clung together because it was homogeneous in 
 sentiment. The South was solid for the same reason. 
 War followed naturally. Which was right and which 
 was wrong, abstractly, is of little moment to-day. That 
 
PREFACE. 
 
 all who were actors in that mighty drama should un- 
 derstand and appreciate the sentiments and motives of 
 those who stood opposed to them is, at least, desirable. 
 That our children should understand that the great cata- 
 clysm was sprung, not from passion, greed or ambition, 
 but was based upon the deepest impulses of right and 
 honor, is essential to that homogeneity of sentiment on 
 which our future prosperity and happiness so much 
 depend. 
 
 We are accustomed to speak of "the results of the 
 war." It would be. more logical to speak of the results 
 of the years of peace that preceded war. The peculiar 
 relations that still prevail between certain classes at the 
 South are less the result of war than of the system which 
 was overthrown by war. There are many problems 
 which the past has left unsolved. Some of them are of the 
 gravest possible character. Their peaceful solution makes 
 the fullest comprehension of the pre-existing influences 
 and developments a prime necessity on the part of all. 
 
 Many years ago the author conceived the idea that he 
 might aid some of his fellow-countrymen and country- 
 women to a juster comprehension of these things by a 
 series of works which should give, in the form of fictitious 
 narrative, the effects of these distinct and contrasted 
 civilizations upon various types of character and daring 
 specific periods of the great transition. Beginning their 
 preparation in 1867, in the midst of the fading glare of 
 revolution, on the very spot where one of the great armies 
 of the rebellion surrendered, he has worked patiently 
 and honestly and zealously to complete his analyses of 
 the representative groups of character. By birth and 
 education he became intuitively familiar with Northern 
 life. Born upon the Western Reserve, the impressible 
 years of boyhood and youth were almost equally divided 
 between the East and the West. They were years of 
 fruitful though unconscious observation. From the close 
 
PREFACE. 
 
 o\ the war until 1880 he resided continuous!)- at the 
 South, and studied with the utmost care, and from a 
 standpoint of peculiar advantage, the types of the ex- 
 piring and the coming eras. 
 
 The present volume is the last of the projected series. 
 It is designed to give a review of the Anti-Slavery strug- 
 gle, by tracing its growth and the influence of the senti- 
 ment upon contrasted characters. In the main, it does 
 not concern itself with the promoters of this struggle. 
 In no sense does the work profess to give a history of 
 the movement, but onl}^ a truthful i^icture of the life 
 upon which it acted, of the growth of its influence and 
 its character as a preparation for the struggle in which 
 those whose thought had been moulded by its sentiments 
 were destined to engage. 
 
 The period covered by the now completed series of six 
 volumes extends from twenty years before the war until 
 twelve years after it. By the public, they have been per- 
 sistently designated as "historical novels." The term is 
 true only in that they have been endeavors to trace the 
 operation of sentiments which have arisen from, and 
 been instrumental in producing, historical facts. In chro- 
 nological order they would stand as follows : " Hot Plow- 
 shares," "Figs and Thistles," "A Eo3^al Gentleman," 
 "A Fool's Errand," " Bricks Without Straw," "John 
 Fax." When the series was begun the author had little 
 hope that it would be completed. Now that it is finished, 
 he is almost sorry to bid adieu to a subject that has en- 
 grossed the better portion of his active manhood. It is 
 believed that it constitutes the most serious attempt ever 
 made to portray the various phases of a climacteric era, by 
 successive pictures of the various forms of life developed 
 thereby. For the favor extended to the preceding vol- 
 umes the author desires to render renewed thanks. 
 
 A. W. T. 
 Philadelphia, May 2, 1883. 
 
CONTEI^TS. 
 
 CHAPTER 
 
 I. The Shadow of the Storm, 
 II. President-Making, 
 
 III. "Arise, Sir Knight!" 
 
 IV. "For Wounds, Balm," 
 V. "A Defeated Joy," 
 
 VI. The Clue to the Labyrinth, 
 
 VII. Between the Pillars, 
 VIII. On Guard, .... 
 
 IX. Hargrove's Quarter, . 
 X. Merwyn Hargrove, 
 
 XL "Gay Castles in the Clouds th 
 XIL Partners, .... 
 
 XIII. A New Day, .... 
 
 XIV. The End op the Law, . 
 XV. "For the Glory of God," 
 
 XVL Brackish Waters, 
 XVIIi What Waked the World, . 
 XVIII. A Weekly Post, . 
 XIX. A Momentous Question, 
 XX. "He that Is to Be," . 
 XXL A Subterranean Myth, 
 XXII. A Free Institution, . 
 
 XXIII. For the Amendment of Divine 
 
 XXIV. By an Unpracticed Hand, 
 XXV. A Punic Peace, . 
 
 AT Pass, 
 
 Error, 
 
 PAGE 
 
 7 
 
 20 
 
 31 
 
 43 
 
 63 
 
 66 
 
 75 
 
 86 
 
 95 
 
 110 
 
 125 
 
 136 
 
 158 
 
 163 
 
 176 
 
 192 
 
 215 
 
 231 
 
 246 
 
 258 
 
 278 
 
 291 
 
 297 
 
 311 
 
 319 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 CHAPTER 
 
 XXVI. The Reconnoissance in Force, . 
 XXVII. Not Without Honor, . . . . 
 XXVIII. Bridging the Chasm, . . . . 
 
 XXIX. A Hard Bargain, 
 
 XXX. A Good Investment, . . . . 
 
 XXXI. On the Divide, 
 
 XXXII. PossEssio Pedis, 
 
 XXXIII. A Nineteenth Century Buccaneer, . 
 
 XXXIV. A Change of Base, . . . . 
 XXXV. Blindfold and Barefoot, . 
 
 XXXVI. Born of the Spirit, . . . . 
 XXXVII. The Freemasonry of the Oppressed, 
 
 XXXVIII. Out op the Toils, 
 
 XXXIX. The Church Militant, . . . . 
 XL. Cleansed from Blood-Guiltiness, 
 XLI. The Proof that Healeth Doubt, 
 XLII. The Effect of a Side Light, 
 XLIII. That Nothing be Lost, 
 XLIV. Facing the Ordeal, 
 XLV. A Masked Battery, 
 XL VI. Clamor in the Home Nest, 
 XLVII. A Flickering Lamp, 
 XL VIII. Bits of Gossip, 
 XLIX, The Ha-h vesting, . 
 
 PAGE 
 
 329 
 
 349 
 355 
 370 
 379 
 397 
 400 
 413 
 429 
 446 
 456 
 469 
 480 
 502 
 520 
 535 
 546 
 563 
 576 
 583 
 588 
 598 
 008 
 
ILLUSTRATIONS. 
 
 Designed by A. B. Frost. Engravings by O. P. Williams 
 and Edith Cooper. 
 
 
 PAGE 
 
 1. A Fateful Search, 
 
 Frontispiece. 
 
 3. The Eukaway, .... 
 
 . 43 
 
 3. The Christening of Amity Lake, 
 
 . 109 
 
 4. Partners, ...... 
 
 . 156 
 
 5. The Vindication of the Law, 
 
 . . . 288 
 
 6. At Bay 
 
 . . . 409 
 
HOT PLOWSHARES. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 THE SHADOW OF THE STORM. 
 
 It was the fifth day of November, in the year of 
 Grace, one thousand eight hundred and forty-eight. A 
 man and a boy were husking corn in a liillside field 
 overlooking the valley of the Mohawk, a valley once so 
 celebrated for wealth and fertility that the early pioneers 
 looked upon this favorite hunting-ground of the Iro- 
 quois as the ne plus ultra of a farmer's desires. To 
 be of the Mohawk valley, even during the present cen- 
 tury, was to occupy the most enviable of agricultm-al 
 locations. Of varied soil, pleasantly undulated, richly 
 wooded — the forest giving place to the most succulent 
 herbage which grew under the settler's feet whenever 
 his axe let in the sunlight — it is no wonder that the 
 Dutchman cheated Skenandoah and the Yankee looked 
 with covetous eyes from the rocky hills of New England 
 upon its milk-and-honey flowing slopes. Principahties 
 were carved out of its rich acreage. The landmarks of 
 the Livingstones, the Schuylers, the Van Renssalaers, 
 bounded realms worthy of a Palatine. Towns and cities 
 grew up within them. Lesser farms filled in the uneven 
 jointure of their boi-derings. To own even the out- 
 skirts of the valley was enough to make the possessor en- 
 vied. The first Puritan owner of the tributary valley in 
 
8 HOT PL WSHARE8. 
 
 which the field of which we have spoken was situated, 
 had seized a precarious foothold between the duchies of 
 two contending families and gleefully named his insecure 
 possession Paradise Bay. There was no bay at all and 
 the neighborhood was anything but paradisaical to the 
 intruder. He was in the valley, however, and content, 
 he and his descendants, thinking there was nothing more 
 to be desired until the wonder-working To-day rushed 
 by them, lifted the gateways of the West, and under the 
 setting sun revealed marvels which dwarfed with daily 
 facts the wildest fancies of the Orient. 
 
 The time of which we write was near the waking 
 from a long slumber. The canal which stretches from 
 lake to river was stih the main avenue of transit east- 
 ward and westward through the Empire State. Beyond 
 that the steamer and the stage-coach held sway. The 
 grosser products of the West consumed themselves before 
 they reached the Eastern market. The cattle and swine 
 stretched away in endless droves across the States lying 
 eastward of the Mississippi. The sustentation of these 
 while on the way to the Eastern market enriched the 
 farmers along the route more than those who reared 
 and drove. Cheese sold at the ports of Lake Erie then 
 at three cents a pound. That very year tens of thou- 
 sands of fat sheep were slaughtered in Ohio for the 
 hides and tallow — only the hams and tongues being 
 saved for food. The West was open ; was known to be 
 full of possibilities. It teemed with food but yet was 
 poor. The East was at its zenith. Every industry was 
 quick. Labor was in abundance and yet in demand. 
 Wages were low and so Avere supplies. There were few 
 centres of population and still fewer unoccupied arable 
 regions. Life and labor were evenly spread over the 
 whole country. The land was a bursting hive — a maga- ^0m 
 zine of possibility. 
 
 We were still a nation of hand- workers. There was not 
 
 m 
 
THE SHADOW OF THE STORM. 9 
 
 a mower or harvester then in existence. No house con- 
 tained a sewnig-machine. The telegraph had be^un at 
 
 ^:^^rTr^ '-^'f. ^* ^^- York'twelve Tntl 
 befoie. The land was lighted with candles after nightfall. 
 The spmmng-wheel and shuttle sovmded in every farmer'^ 
 house. Butter was unmarketable a hundred milesZm 
 the dairy The steam saw-mill had just begun to T 
 
 of a hfe ; from North to South a voyage of discovery. ^ 
 The migratory fever that New England breeds made 
 he valley ^.e great highway of the s'ekers for thesun- 
 set. The Yankee overran the Dutchman, and the crreat 
 
 West. The Dutchman became first an innkeeper then 
 
 iTtt e oft n ^""f ''^ "' ^"^^^-^^^^ '''' *h^t knows 
 
 lordlv Inn '^''' '^''' ^'''' ^""^ ^''^' ^^t^tes. the 
 
 lordly landowners, remained, but the towns and villages 
 and the hillside farms were stamped with the impress of 
 Kew England hfe. It was a sort of half-way house 
 
 tiof'^ThV'^'''' '""f ' '"' ^'^'^^'y^ here was 'frui- 
 tion. The rich were lavish in an abundance which was 
 not yet coveted by the keen eye of commerce. tL 
 poor had enoiigh, and in the comforts of life were almost 
 
 sat Xh" h '"' ;"'• ^""^ ''''' '' - "— ^^ ac^e 
 sat with his harvesters at dinner. He who counted his 
 possessions by the square mile kept open house foi the 
 wayfarer. The epoch of haste had not come. The si 
 rose qmetly and set at leisure. A day's journey was a 
 TZr7^. The canvas-covered w'agon was^hl^l-k 
 ot trade. The saddle was the emblem of speed Men 
 
 and not with the train's arrival. The turnpike was 
 still the great artery of trade. The highways were 
 dusty and populous. There was time to five. BrlZ 
 
10 HOT PLOWSHARES. 
 
 and brain went hand in hand. Every hfe touched na- 
 ture. Like Anteus we felt the earth beneath our feet 
 and were stronc;. We had vanquished Nature and sat 
 by the Indus of Time weeping for other worlds to con- 
 quer. 
 
 It was not long to continue thus. Already the foot- 
 steps of the prince were at the portals of the silent 
 palace. The age of miracles was about to dawn. With- 
 in a year the gold of California; within a decade the 
 railroad, the telegraph, the mower, the thresher, the 
 sewing-machine, petroleum, gas — ah! so many won- 
 ders that they that wrought before forgot their cun- 
 ning and learned anew to guide rather than do, to stand 
 by and direct the goblins whom science had evoked 
 from earth and air and sea to do their bidding. 
 
 The man and the boy still wrought together in the 
 field. The corn stood in serried shocks between the rows 
 from which it had been cut. The outer, weather-beaten 
 leaves flapped brokenly in the wind. Here and there a 
 yellow ear peeped out. The close-bound top and the 
 wide-spread base made an extempore rick that promised 
 a sturdy defense of the treasures which it held, even 
 against winter storms. But the farmer had no idea of 
 trusting his crop to this protection. To husk and house 
 it properly was the greater part of his "fall work," as 
 it was called. It was hardly past the period of the 
 Indian summer yet, though the maples M^ere almost 
 bare ; the birches showed their white arms on the hill- 
 side ; the beeches had grown brown, and the seared 
 leaves were whirling in weird dances down the hollows. 
 
 One of the shocks of maize ("stooks" they were called 
 upon the Mohawk) had been thrown down and the band 
 that confined the top loosened. Upon one side of this 
 knelt the man ; upon the other sat the boy. Each held in 
 his right hand a sharp skewer of buckhorn which was 
 fastened by a leather thong about his middle finger. With 
 
THE SHADOW OF THE STORM. 11 
 
 the left hand he drew toward him the dry rustling 
 stalks, quickly seized the ear and thrusting the buck- 
 horn "husking-pin," as it is called, through the dry 
 shuck, stripped down the husk, first upon one side, then 
 upon the other ; and then breaking off the ear with a 
 quick jerk threw it upon the golden pile which lay where 
 the shock had stood. As the stalks collected, each busker 
 put them beneath his knees and so advanced toward 
 the other through the rifled shock. 
 
 The man was in the prime of Hfe, smooth-shaven as 
 was the custom of the time, strong, heavy-browed, with 
 a prominent sharply cut nose and a mouth whose 
 mobile under lip and flexible corners showed a mental 
 activity clearly indicated also by the rapidity and cer- 
 tainty of his physical movements. He was clad in a 
 blue frock with overalls of the same material, and wore 
 also a sort of leather garment like a smith's apron, ex- 
 cept that it was cut open below and strapped about each 
 leg. His black felt hat, straight-brimmed in front and 
 shghtly upturned behind, showed marks of use but still 
 more evident marks of thrift and respectability. 
 
 The frock open at the throat revealed a bit of white 
 linen and a black silk tie, somewhat out of keeping with 
 the rough outer habiUments but thoroughly in harmony 
 with the strong, earnest face above. His hands were 
 broad and strong but deft and supple. His eyes rested 
 intently upon his work, but the movement of his lip 
 and the quick humorous flash of his eye showed that his 
 thought was busy elsewhere and that the quick play of 
 his hands was half unconscious. It needed but a glance 
 to tell that this man was of that class unmatched in any 
 other land, the American Farmer— Gentleman and La- 
 borer in one— Servant and King. This man, husking 
 maize upon the hillside, might sway a senate or lead an 
 army as easily as he fought the battle of life with na- 
 ture. He was a good type of that democracy which 
 
12 HOT PLOWSHARES. 
 
 always surprises the world when the strain is put upon 
 it. Unconscious of any rank above himself and compas- 
 sionate of any that may be below, he seems born to 
 self-rehancc and success. Content to do w^hat he finds 
 to be done, respectful of himself and mindful of the 
 rights of others, his real power is unknown even to him- 
 self until occasion places some new burden on his shoul- 
 ders and then the world Avonders that it has found an 
 Ajax. He is the Cromwell who comes from the fens 
 to grasp the "fool's bauble" from the hands of weak- 
 lings. 
 
 The boy was a type, as well as the father. His dozen 
 years might have been more or less, so far as one could 
 judge from appearances. Small, weazened in look and 
 feature, and of the sallow dullness of complexion so 
 often found in the American farmer-bo}^ his counte- 
 nance was redeemed from the commonplace by the keen 
 blue eye and the full red lips wiiich, even when puck- 
 ered into a whistle, showed character and life. Instead 
 of kneeling by the shock, the boy had rolled one of the 
 many big yellow pumpkins which were scattered over 
 the field, to his side of the shock of corn, and sat upon it 
 with his legs stretched out contentedly under the stalks. 
 He worked neither with the energy displayed by his 
 father — for the relation Avas manifest — nor with the list- 
 lessness of the hireling. Sometimes he husked ear for 
 ear with his father ; then he would sit and watch him 
 dreamily or dawdle with some peculiarity of the ear his 
 hands laid bare. More than once he amused himself 
 by throwing bits of stone or nubbins of corn at a small 
 dog, a long-haired mongrel with bright eyes, whose 
 fleecy coat had become matted with cockle-burs and 
 Spanish-needles vmtil it was hard to say Avhat might have 
 been its original color. The dog had dug for moles in 
 the cornfield, yelped after rabbits in the alders that grew 
 gilong a little brook that intersected it, barked at gray 
 
The shadow of the storm. n 
 
 squirrels in the wood above and now sat beside the heap 
 of slender twelve-rowed ears of yellow flint (to which 
 the father added an ear with eveiy second almost with 
 the regularity of a pendulum stroke), with his tongue 
 out and his muddy nose pointed toward the house be- 
 low, as if suggesting that his day's work was done, and 
 done to his own satisfaction. 
 
 It was getting toward nightfall. A wind had sprung 
 up from the northwest. The sky grew dark and leaden. 
 The boy began to shiver. The horses which had been 
 quietly hitched to the wagon at some distance feeding 
 out of the box, began to whinny and grow restless. All 
 at once the man seemed to waken from his preoccupa- 
 tion. His hands lagged at their work as he glanced up 
 at the sky and noted the signs of the m^ eather with a 
 quick, shrewd intelligence. 
 
 "Hello, Martin," said he, "what's this? Tow if it 
 don't look as though 'twas going to snow. If it was 
 two weeks later I should think we were going to have 
 an old rouser from the nor'west. It's getting cold, too. 
 Makes you shiver, does it ?" — noticing the boy's quiver- 
 ing chin. "Well, I don't wonder. Let me see," he 
 continued, drawing a large silver watch from beneath 
 his jacket and consulting its face, "I wanted to finish 
 this row of stocks, but it's now four o'clock, and to- 
 morrow is 'lection day. We'll do this one, pick up the 
 corn and quit work for to-day. Come on, let's have it 
 done with in a hurry." 
 
 The boy who had listened with evident pleasure to this 
 conclusion added a few ears to the pile with unusual 
 alacrity and then began to scrutinize the sky himself. 
 
 "Father?" 
 
 "Yes?" 
 
 " What made you say you thought it would snow ?" 
 
 " Looks like it " — not raising his eyes nor intermitting 
 his work. 
 
14 HOT PLOWStlAiiES. 
 
 The son was silent for a moment. Then he said hesi- 
 tatingly ' 
 
 " I don't see how you know." 
 
 "Why there," said the father stretching his arm to- 
 ward the north, " oif there in the northwest, where the 
 wind comes from, don't you see that dull heavy bank of 
 clouds ?" 
 
 <■ ' Yes ' '—doubtfully. ' ' Is that snoAv ? ' ' 
 
 "Well, it may be. If it hadn't been such a mild 
 season or was a little later I should say it was. Besides if 
 you look across the valley you can just see the steeple at 
 Rockboro. In good weather you can see the whole 
 town though it is most ten miles away. That is sure 
 to mean a storm and a big one too." 
 
 There was silence for a moment, except the rustling 
 of the cornstalks. Then the son : 
 
 "Father?" 
 
 "Yes?" 
 
 " If it storms very bad will they hold the 'lection just 
 the same ?" 
 
 "Just the same. It's one of the things that's never 
 put off for the weather, my son, though I 'spect it 
 makes some difference in the result. At least they 
 always claim it does." 
 
 "What difference?" 
 
 "Well, fair weather may be better for one party and 
 bad weather better for another." 
 
 " How many parties are there, father ?" 
 
 " Three— Democrats and Whigs and Barnburners." 
 
 " What do they mean hy ' Barnbui'ners,' father ?" 
 
 "That's the new party. Barnburners is a nickname 
 that's given them. They call themselves the Liberty 
 party and Free Soil party. Other folks call them Abo 
 litionists, sometimes." 
 
 " You're a Whig, ain't you father ?" 
 
THE SHADOW OF THE STOBM. 15 
 
 "Well, yes, I s'pose so;" (musingly,) "I've always 
 voted that ticket an' s'pose I will agin'." 
 
 "Which party is it that's for General Taylor ?" 
 
 " That's the Whig party." 
 
 "I hope they'll win, anyhow." 
 
 "You do?" glancing at him with an amused smile. 
 "Why?" 
 
 " 'Coz he fit the Mexicans !" 
 
 "Ha! ha! ha!" roared the father in hearty sonorous 
 tones, which echoed over the valley with singular clear- 
 ness owing to proximity of the coming storm. The 
 boy's face flushed. 
 
 "What makes you laugh ? Ain't that a good reason ?" 
 
 "Good or bad," said the father, still laughing, "it's 
 the only one anybody has yet been able to give. So I 
 s'pose it Avill have to do." 
 
 They finished the shock as he spoke, and as he rose 
 he showed himself a man of powerful frame. He glanced 
 at the clouds again and said : 
 
 "Get the baskets, Martie, while I bind up these 
 stalks and we will be out of this in a jiffy." 
 
 The boy ran for the baskets— great bushel measures— 
 and came back warmed by the exercise. The corn was 
 piled in one, shaken down and heaped up, and the 
 father, perching it lightly upon his shoulder, carried it 
 to the wagon, a few rods away, while the son filled the 
 other. The afternoon's husking was soon loaded, and 
 they drove away to the house and in upon the threshing 
 floor of the great red barn that flanked the house upon 
 the hillside below. As they were unharnessing the 
 horses the boy asked, in a tone that showed his doubt 
 as to a favorable answer : 
 
 "Father, may I go to the 'lection to-morrow ?" 
 
 "Go to 'lection? Well, I don't know," said the 
 father, thoughtfully, as he rubbed the horse he had un- 
 
16 nOT PLOWSHARES. 
 
 harnessed with a handful of straw, "What do 3'ou 
 want to go for ?" 
 
 "Just to see how it's done, sir." 
 
 •'How what is done?" asked the father, looking at 
 him thoughtfully. 
 
 "How a President's made, I s'pose." 
 
 " HoAv a President's made, eh?" with a twinkle in 
 his deep gray eyes. " That's not so bad, Martin. That's 
 about all the makin' they get. Yes, you may go and 
 see how a President's made and who makes him, and 
 all about it that you can learn by looking on and listen- 
 ing. But remember, my son, that you must not ask 
 questions nor get in the way, nor be any trouble to any 
 one. I shall most likely be busy countin' the votes, and 
 you must come home in good time to do the chores." 
 
 "I will, sir," was the glad reply. 
 
 Martin Kortright dreamed all night of the mystery of 
 mysteries which he was to unravel on the morrow. 
 
 The boy had been in bed an hour. The clock struck 
 nine. The farmer put away his newspaper ; his wife 
 laid aside her knitting and brought the Bible and laid it 
 on the table before her husband. He read a chapter, 
 gravely and solemnly but in tones that echoed through 
 the silent house thrilling with the tremor of a strong 
 man's earnestness. Then the husband and wife knelt in 
 prayer. Her head was bowed upon the low, cushioned 
 rocker on which she had been sitting, while his hands 
 grasped the heavy wooden "Windsor" chair he had 
 occupied, and his strong face showed over its back 
 as he prayed. Harrison Kortright was a positive man 
 in all things, but in his religion, especially so. If he had 
 ever been troubled with doubt, it had long since been 
 exorcised. That he meant to walk with God no one 
 could doubt who looked at him. He was not soft and 
 loving and sweet of temper, but he was in earnest and 
 would have fought for his faith or died for it Avithout a 
 
THE SHADOW OF THE STORM. 17 
 
 murmur; though he would have much preferred the 
 fighting to the dying. His earnestness somewhat im- 
 paired what we are accustomed to term reverence. The 
 God he worshiped was an approachable, every -day 
 being. In his prayers he spoke to this Omnipotent face 
 to face, and was quite unabashed by the fact. He was 
 not ashamed to come before the throne of the Eternal, 
 for he felt that he came by virtue of a divine right. The 
 God to whom his family altar had been builded was the 
 One, Almighty, Invisible Eternal ; but then he had been 
 bidden to come before him with boldness and he came 
 in simple obedience to that command, and poured out 
 the desires of an earnest, honest heart. Outside, the 
 snow fell upon the window-ledge, silent and soft. The 
 great flakes came noiselessly against the pane. The 
 heaps grew higher and higher upon the sash. The voice 
 of the worshiper M-ent beyond the walls — out into the 
 snowy night which muffled its tones to a soft murmur. 
 The candlelight shone upon the white flocculence and 
 made a golden pathway upward from the window-seat 
 toward the sky. As he prayed, a face looked in at the 
 window — gave a quick startled look — then another, a 
 close keen glance— at the bowed woman's head and the 
 man's face, calm and strong. The snow fell between the 
 watcher and the window, but the light showed that 
 it was a woman's face. The prayer ended, and the 
 face disappeared. The worshipers arose. The woman 
 passed her hands over her hair smoothing it down 
 toward the temples. She began to put back the chairs 
 against the wall. The man put the Bible he had 
 read upon the mantel near the stove and passed out 
 into the hall. The whirrmg of wheels was heard as he 
 wound the old Dutch clock. It was the last of the day's 
 duties. When this was done he would cross the hall 
 into his bed-room. His wife had taken up the candle to 
 follow him when there was a knock at the door. She 
 
18 HOT PLOWSHARES. 
 
 started, then stopped and listened, as though uncertain. 
 She thought she heard a movement on the porch. There 
 was another knock. 
 
 "What — who's there?" she asked, in startled ac- 
 cents. 
 
 The question was not ansAvered. The door opened and 
 a woman entered. The two gazed at each other a mo- 
 ment and then, as though there had been a mutual recog- 
 nition, the farmer's wife approached her unseasonable 
 visitant, asked a question, and in a moment more the 
 new-comer was sitting by the stove and the good wife 
 was ministering to her comfort. 
 
 An hour later, Harrison Kortright left his house with 
 the stranger, who had meantime eaten heartily, snugly 
 wrapped up beside him m his buggy, while his wife held 
 the flaming candle at the end of the porch. 
 
 "Don't set up for me, Martha," he called as the}'^ 
 drove away. "I shan't be back afore midnight, any- 
 how, and like 's not it'll be later 'n that." 
 
 It was later, for the clock in the hall had struck two 
 before his step sounded again on the porch, and, stamp- 
 ing the snow from his feet, he entered the room where 
 his wife sat awaiting liini. 
 
 "All right," he said in reply to a look of inquiry; 
 " but I've had a hard time — an awful hard time. The 
 snow's above knee deep and I had to leave the buggy 
 at Smithson's and ride home horseback, an' without a 
 saddle, too. Even in that way it was hard to get along. 
 I've had to walk half the way, for fear the horse would 
 give out. As good luck will have it, it ain't very cold ; 
 if 't had been I don't know how I'd ever got through. 
 
 He shook oft' the snow and removed his hat and coat. 
 His wife lifted the coflee-pot from the stove, and set it 
 on the table Avhere she had already spread a lunch. 
 Then she approached as he sat tugging at his soaked 
 boots, and laying her hand on his head exclaimed : 
 
THE .SHADOW OF THE BTOliM. 19 
 
 " "Why, how wet your hair is 1" 
 
 "Wet! I guess if you'd seen me wading through 
 this snow and towing the horse after me for five miles, 
 you wouldn't wonder. I'm just as wet as if I'd been in 
 the river. Don't believe I ever had such a job. If it 
 keeps on this way I don't know how anybody '11 get to 
 'lection to-morrow." 
 
 "I don't think it makes much difference whether 
 they do or not," said the Avife briskly, " 'Twixt Whigs 
 and Democrats and Locofocos and Hunkers and Hards 
 and Softs, and what not, I don't see much difterence." 
 
 The husband sat gazing intently into the fire a mo- 
 ment with one of the boots he had just laboriously 
 drawn off still in his hand, before he answered : 
 
 "It really does seem, Martha, as if the Lord was 
 takin' a mighty queer way to establish righteousness in 
 the land, but I guess He'll do it. Oh, dear," he ex- 
 claimed, rising from his chair and stretching his arms 
 above his head, " I'm too tired to talk about it — I'm 
 just done out." 
 
 He evidently spoke truly. After a sup or two of cof- 
 fee he declared that he could eat nothing — he was too 
 tired. And almost before the words were fairly uttered, 
 with his wife's help he had staggered off to bed. She 
 returned presently and hung his wet clothes by the 
 glowing stove and then herself retired. It was almost 
 three o'clock when silence and darkness fell upon Para- 
 dise Bay that night. The silent flakes were still falling 
 without. The clouds that hung above the valley when 
 the sun went down were outspread upon the earth when 
 it arose. The clouds that hung above the land waited 
 till the sun of a generation had set before they burst. 
 
CHAPTER II. 
 
 PRESIDENT-MAKING. 
 
 The morning sliowed that the promise of the evening 
 had been more than fulfilled. Snow had fallen dm-ing the 
 night to a depth almost unprecedented even in that re- 
 gion of deep snows. There had been no wind, and the 
 fleecy coverlet had fallen evenly and softly upon hill 
 and dale alike. It was as though the earth had 
 been blotted out by magic, and a white, boundless 
 sea had usurped its place. Fences and walls were 
 hidden from sight. The roofs were laden with the cling- 
 ing mass. The trees, still bearing half their foliage, bent 
 beneath the spotless burden. Highways there were 
 none. The flocks were buried from sight. The cattle 
 fought their way Avith difficulty through the snow to 
 the barns. Two feet and more in depth it lay upon the 
 level, soft and heavy as if it felt ashamed of its untimely 
 coming and longed to melt and run down the hills and 
 into the unfrozen rivers, and flee away to the unfreezing 
 sea. The sun shone bright ; the dogs barked ; the cattle 
 lowed ; the cocks croAved incessantly and all nature 
 seemed determined to regard this sudden onslaught of 
 winter as a jest. But for the mass of snow, the day 
 would have been a balmy one. At the lowest the 
 thermometer had hardly touched the freezing point, 
 and the sun shone out at once with a warmth that 
 showed his resentment at this unexpected intrusion of 
 Winter. 
 
 That day the freemen of the Republic Avere astir 
 early. To get to the polls at all required an eftbrt. If 
 20 
 
PRESIDENT-MAKING. 21 
 
 the slothful and laggard were not urged and transported 
 thither, the ballots would be few. 
 
 At an early hour, on every road leading toward the 
 polls was to be seen a company of men engaged in 
 breaking the way thither. A half-dozen pairs of oxen 
 were yoked before a great sled with a score of men and 
 boys in attendance, some riding, some driving, some 
 carrying shovels to dig out the deepest places, and all 
 laughing, jesting, snow-balhng each other and enjoying 
 this first surprise which Winter had given them, consti- 
 tuted the advance guard of this jolly army of patriot 
 rulers on their way to the universal witenagemote of 
 the Republic. Following in the wake of this pioneer 
 snow-plow, perhaps coupled to it, would be another sled 
 or two, then horses, sleighs, cutters, and, after all of 
 them, a rabble still on foot following along the track 
 beaten smooth and hard by those in advance. Every 
 house that was passed contributed its quota to the pro- 
 cession. Every one was good natured, as people gen- 
 erally are in cold weather, and this election day prom- 
 ised to be even more of a holiday than the occasion 
 usually is. 
 
 Such a cavalcade it was that about nine o'clock 
 that morning stopped before the residence of Harri- 
 son Kortright. The house was a tidy white one, stand- 
 ing a few rods back from the road, with green blinds, 
 a bit of porch over the front door, and two dark ever- 
 greens flanking upon either side the walk that led 
 down to the gate. It was a dwelling somewhat more 
 pretentious than the most of those in the neighbor- 
 hood, yet by no means betokening wealth or luxury. 
 Half way between the house and the gate was our little 
 friend Martin, shoveling manfully away at a path, the 
 level snow being almost even with his shoulders, and 
 the piled-up masses which he had flung out on either 
 side reaching above his head. He paused in his work 
 
22 HOT PLOWSHARES. 
 
 as the procession came into view from around the side 
 of the hill, looked and listened for a moment, and then 
 sturdily resumed his labor while the tears showed tliem- 
 selves under his dark lashes. It was evident the storm 
 had spoiled the holiday of which he had dreamed. 
 
 "Halloa, Martin," cried the foremost driver, who, 
 clinging to his ox yoke, half Avalked and was half 
 dragged through the deep snow. " Halloa, Martin, 
 hain't you got your path dug yet V" 
 
 "What's the matter on ye, boy?" said another. 
 "Snowed up so't you didn't know it was day till just 
 now ?" 
 
 "Hi, you little Barnburner," cried a third; "you'll 
 have to wake up earlier'u this if you are going to make 
 your namesake president. How's 'Matty Van' any- 
 how ?" 
 
 "He has got a Avorse road than that before him," said 
 another. 
 
 The crowd stopped before the gate, and still kept 
 on badgering the patient boy. 
 
 "Why didn't you let us know you were snowed in ?" 
 said one of them. "We Avould have come over and dug 
 you out long afore this, if you'd told us on't." 
 
 "The Barnburners will be snowed in Avorse than that 
 before night," said another. 
 
 "Oh, you let the Barnburners aloue," retorted one 
 evidently inclined to that persuasicu, " They Avill take 
 care of themselves and clean out Whigs and Demo- 
 crats both, first you knoAv." 
 
 "Say, sonny," cried a young man Avho Avished to 
 shoAv his age by displaying his impertinence, "is your 
 name 'Matty Van' ?" 
 
 "No, my name ain't Matty Van," shouted the boy, 
 setting his teeth close and shaking his shovel at the 
 croAvd, while the tears coursed doAvn his cheeks. "And 
 I ain't no Barnburner neither, and you knoAv it, too. 
 
PllE.^IDENT-MAKING. 23 
 
 You had better jest go 'long and mind your own busi- 
 ness, and not stay here makin' a fuss and a noise 'round 
 where folks is sick." 
 
 " Sick ? Who's sick, my son ?" spoke half a dozen 
 with ready sympathy. 
 
 "My father is,— that's Avho," said the boy, begin- 
 ning to sob. "And that's the reason the path ain't 
 dug out, too. There wasn't nobody else to do the 
 chores, and a boy can't do everything in a minute if he 
 is twelve yeai's old." 
 
 "Sick? The Squire sick ? Why, I declare, we hadn't 
 heard a word on it, son," said an elderly man who 
 stood on the foremost sled, while the whole crowd was 
 hushed at once into respectful silence. 
 
 "Here you fellows, a half dozen on ye," he con- 
 tinued. "Take hold here and help shovel that boy's 
 path. What the dickens you doin', anyhow ? Such a 
 lazy unmannerly crowd ain't got together every day. 
 One would think you hadn't got nothin' better on 
 hand than just to stand 'round and holler and worry 
 a boy because he is at work. What's the matter with 
 your daddy, son ?" 
 
 "I don't know nothin' about it, sir," sobbed the 
 boy, now fairly broken down, as he leaned upon the 
 handle of his shovel and gave vent to his grief "I 
 don't know nothin' about it. He was jest as well 
 as could be last night when I went to bed, and this 
 morning the first I heard he was just groanin' and 
 takin' on hke he was going to die, and I tried to get 
 Ma to let me go after the doctor, but she said the snow 
 was too deep. I'd a had him here before now if she'd 
 just let me gone." 
 
 "There ain't a doubt about that, my son," said the 
 elderly man. "Here you, Orrin Coltrane on the horse 
 yonder, can't you go for the doctor for the Squire ? " 
 " 'Tain't no sort of use to try it, Squire Eitner," said 
 
24 HOT PLOWSHARES. 
 
 the man addressed. " There ain't no horse in the 
 world can plow his way through that depth of snow. 
 Better just let the oxen go on as fast as they can, 
 and I'll -send the doctor back just as soon as we get 
 there." 
 
 "AVcll, it's too bad," exclaimed Kitner. "Squire 
 Kortright's lived right here, man and boy, nigh on to 
 fifty years now, and I don't believe he Avas ever in bed a 
 day in his life before. If there's any man in the whole 
 valley that is ahvays up and 'round and a stirrin', 
 bright and healthy and willin', that man's been the 
 Squire, always. I don't know how on earth we'll get 
 along without him at the 'lection to-day." 
 
 By that time, twenty Avilling hands had dug away 
 the snow and made a broad, clean path from house 
 to gate. 
 
 " I guess, boys," said the man who had acted as spokes- 
 man, " I guess you had better go now and dig out the 
 paths around the house, to the barn and the well, and 
 the like, and I will step in and see how the Squire's 
 gettin' on. Won't you come in with me ?" he said, 
 to some of the older men in the company. 
 
 Three or four, who were evidently the men of most 
 note in the procession, walked up to the house with 
 Squire Ritner at their head, stamping their feet upon 
 the red brick Avalk that had just been cleared, brush- 
 ing the snow from their clothes, clearing their throats 
 and seeking to make themselves presentable for the sick 
 room with no little noise and ostentation. As they 
 were about to ascend the steps of the porch Rituer 
 turned and said to those in the road : 
 
 "You may as well drive on as quick as you have 
 shoveled out the paths here. Pick up all the men folks 
 as you go along, and we will overtake you after a little, 
 or foot it the rest of the way into town, just as it hap- 
 pens. 'Tain't a great Avay, anyhow, and it's time 
 
PRESIDENT-MAKING. 25 
 
 somebody was gettiu' through and lookhi' after things 
 there." 
 
 Martin, drying his tears with his woolen coat sleeve, 
 sobbing and red-eyed, opened tlie door for the neigh- 
 bors, ushered them into the family sitting-room and then 
 went to inform his mother of their arrival. 
 
 Mrs. Kortright, a snug, tidy matron, whose hair was 
 just beginning to be flecked with silver, very soon en- 
 tered and saluted them each by name, evidently much 
 more composed than they had expected to find her. 
 
 "Martin said the Squire was sick, Mrs. Kortright." 
 
 "Yes," responded the lady in a matter-of-fact tone, 
 "for once he was not able to get up when the clock 
 struck six." 
 
 " i^othin' serious, I hope ? " 
 
 "Well, he's sufterin' a good deal. It's rheumatiz, 
 I guess. He's easier than he was, though. I got him 
 to take some boneset tea and put a bag of baked hops 
 to his back and fixed him up the best I could, because 
 the snow was so deep, Martin couldn't go for the doctor, 
 nohow. ' ' 
 
 "It's monstrous sudden," said one of the men, "and 
 I don't see how we're goin' to do without the Squire 
 for clerk at the 'lection." 
 
 "That's just what I told him this mornin'," said 
 the matron, briskly. " Says I, ' Harrison Kortright, it's 
 mighty queer that the first time any thin' is the matter 
 with you, since you and I was married, twenty odd years 
 ago, should be just the very day of this election ; and 
 in my opinion,' says I to Mr. Kortright, 'it's just a 
 judgment on you for bein' so hard-hearted and unrea- 
 sonable as to be aginst the Abolitionists and in favor of 
 keepin' the poor niggers in slavery year after year, and 
 you free and forehanded, and doin' as you're a mind .to 
 'round here on your own farm, and with your own wife 
 and babies, under your own vine and fig tree,' says I." 
 
26 HOT PLOWSHARKS. 
 
 " Babies V" said one of the neighbors, quizzically. 
 "I didn't know" — 
 
 "Oh, pshaw," said the matron, blushing brightly and 
 putting her arm over the shoulders of the sturdy boy 
 who stood beside her. "Well, Martin is rather big to 
 ])C called a baby, but you see I was iniprovin' the occa- 
 sion, Mr. Sullivan." 
 
 "Oh, that won't do, Miss Kortright," said the 
 leader. "You shouldn't be takin' advantage of a man 
 when he's down that way. Besides that, we can't 
 allow you to make a Barnburner of the Squire, if he 
 has got the rheumatism. You know he is just about 
 the mainstay of the Whig party here in Skendore Town- 
 ship, and so many of our best men have been a droppin' 
 oft' and runnin' with the Abolitionists lately, that its 
 just nip and tuck we can muster enough to take care of 
 Shields and his crowd of Democrats. You haven't got 
 the Squire converted, have you V 
 
 Squire Eitner gave a quiet chuckle and winked quiz- 
 zically toward one of his companions as he spoke. 
 
 " Well, I don't know 'bout that, gentlemen," laughed 
 Mrs. Kortright. "But I can tell you one thing. If last 
 night didn't convert that man, there ain't much hopes 
 of his ever turnin' from the error of his ways, it's my 
 opinion." 
 
 "Do you think it would do for us to see him V 
 
 " Oh, certainly, gentlemen, certainly. I don't 'spose 
 it's any thin' dangerous, though Bub here's been cryin' 
 about it all the mornm', and Mr. Kortright certainly does 
 take on a good deal whenever he moves hand or foot." 
 
 The cheerful dame led the way into the sick room of 
 her husband. Hers was one of those enviable na- 
 tures that never go forward on the path of life to 
 meet trouble. To do all that lay in her power to 
 relieve sutTering was instinctive with her, and the 
 very act kept her mind too busy to admit the shadow 
 
PRESIDENT-MAKING. 27 
 
 of apprehension. To such a wife, an attack of rheu- 
 matism seizing upon her husband after twenty years of 
 the most provoking robustness, was an opportunity 
 not to be neglected. Pain without serious danger of a 
 fixtal result, then the popular idea of this disease, was 
 the very perfection of occasion for the display of the 
 qualities of the nurse. This opportunity Mrs. Kortright 
 had fully improved. It is doubtful if in her heart 
 she was not half glad to find, when awakened by her 
 husband's groans at daylight, that the doctor was an 
 impossibility for many hours. At length she had 
 a chance to minister to her husband in his weak- 
 ness. To her alone he should owe relief— perhaps 
 even restoration. She had fully justified her reputa- 
 tion as a nurse and had brought into play all her house- 
 wifely knowledge of herbs and simples to relieve the 
 fierce attack that wrung the strong man's frame. In 
 this she had in a great measure succeeded. The self- 
 constituted committee of condolence found their stal- 
 wart neighbor propped up in bed, wrapped in many 
 drapings, with the smell of pungent herbs filling the 
 room. Already his pain had been greatly modified, 
 and the moisture of the hand which he extended in 
 welcome promised quick recovery. 
 
 "How do you do, Squire?" said Eitner heartily, 
 shaking his hand. "I tell you we're sorry to see yon 
 in this fix. I was just a tellin' Miss Kortright that you 
 was about the last man in the neighborhood that any- 
 body 'd have expected to hear of bein' sick." 
 
 "Oh, it's nothing," said Kortright half jestingly. 
 "Just a deep cold that I've got, on account of this 
 storm, I guess. I expect to be about before the snow's 
 off." 
 
 "I don't know so well about that," said Shields. 
 " It's goin' mighty lively. This hot sun and south wind 
 is just takin' it off almost as fast as it come. Just 
 
28 HOT FLOWSnAEES 
 
 the teams that went along hreakhig the road packed it 
 down smooth and made right good sleighin'." 
 
 "It'll be mighty bad for 'lection though," said an- 
 other. 
 
 " "Wal, now, I don't know 'bout that, Mr. Van Wor- 
 mer," said the sick man, disputatiously, the instinct of 
 the partisan getting the better of his pain. " I don't 
 know about that. I've always noticed that 'tain't the 
 pleasantest days that brings out the biggest vote. If 
 what Shields says 'bout the roads is true, it's my notion 
 we'll get a bigger vote than if it hadn't snowed at all. 
 It's my idea that if a man wanted to get out the very 
 biggest possible vote, and had the makin' of a day to 
 suit himself, and had watched 'lections as long as I 
 have, that he would have a big storm in the morning 
 and the rest of the day bright and clear. ' ' 
 
 "Wal now," said Kitner, "I had never thought on't 
 in that light. There's bound to be some folks stay at 
 home on 'count of the storm." 
 
 " Ko doubt," said Kortright, " a few on 'em of course. 
 But then you know, neighbor, the loafers will come out 
 anyhow." 
 
 "Of course — and the Democrats. That's the reason 
 Shields got started so early," said Van Wormer, mis- 
 chievously. 
 
 "Oh, Avell, now," said Shields, shutting his thin lips 
 firmly, "you needn't trouble youi-self about Shields. 
 He was raised a Democrat when Democrat meant the 
 people's right, afore Hunkers or Barnburners was ever 
 heard on, . and about the first thing he learned from 
 his father was that votin' weren't a privilege so much 
 as it was a duty, and he always has voted, whatever the 
 weather, and he always will, too, as long as he can get 
 to the polls. I guess the Squire '11 bear me out in say- 
 ing that's what a man ought to do, too." 
 
 "Yes," said Kortright, doubtfully, "I believe it is. 
 
PRESIDENT-MAKINQ. 29 
 
 I've always voted myself, and always . expected to as 
 long as I lived, as you say, but I guess I shall have to 
 score a miss this time." 
 
 "Oh, no," said Ritner, quickly. "A man that's 
 been clerk of the 'lection board as long as you have 
 ain't a goin' to be sick right handy by the village 
 here, and not have a chance to vote. The poll-holders 
 '11 have to come and bring you the box, so 't you won't 
 lose your vote. We can't afford that, this time, any- 
 how." 
 
 "Wal, now, I don't know," said Shields, banter- 
 ingly. " We'll have to argue that pint, and see whether 
 the poll-holders have got any right to be carryin' the 
 box around the country for folks to vote in, just here 
 and there and everywhere." 
 
 "Oh, you know that's customary," said Ritner, in a 
 conciliatory tone. "Always been done, no matter what 
 set wanted it — here in Skendore, anyhow. Whatever 
 the law may be, that's what we've always agreed to, 
 and there hain't never been no objection. Ain't that 
 so. Squire Kortright ? " — appealing to the sick man. 
 
 "Well, yes," answered the Squire, smiling. "That's 
 always been the custom here, and it's a good custom, 
 too. I don't know if it's exactly strict law, but it's 
 good sense and good neighborship, that's certain. How- 
 ever, you needn't mind about doin' it for me, for I'd 
 made up my mind not to vote, if the day had been ever 
 so fair and I'd been as well as I ever was in my life," 
 
 " Not vote ! " they all ejaculated in surprise. " Why, 
 Squire Kortright I " 
 
 "Ah, gentlemen," said Mrs. Kortright with a trium- 
 phant smile, " what did I tell you ? " 
 
 "You don't mean," said Yan Wormer in surprise, 
 " that you have turned Barnburner, Squire ? " 
 
 " Well, no, not exactly that ; though I'll tell you what 
 I do mean, gentlemen," said the Squire, suddenly sit- 
 
30 nOT PLOWSHARES. 
 
 ting bolt-uprighi in bed, and speaking in a voice ren- 
 dered almost tragic by its solemnity and the suggestion 
 of his surroundings, "I do mean that I won't never 
 cast a ballot for any man that holds a slave, nor for any 
 man that thinks another ought to hold one, nor for 
 any man that is willin' the law should let any man be 
 another man's slave, so long as I live. So help me 
 God !" 
 
 There was an instant's solemn hush in the sick room, 
 as they listened to the burning words and looked upon 
 the flushed face and upraised hand of the speaker . 
 
 A shriek pierced the stillness. 
 
 A child's voice. 
 
 " IIo ! " A sharp, shrill shout. Another. 
 
 " Help 1 Help ! " — a man's hoarse, agonized appeal. 
 
CHAPTER III. 
 
 "arise, sir knight!" 
 
 When the party of neighbors went into his father's 
 room, Martin strolled out upon the porch. There he 
 stood in the bright sunshine, gazing longingly after the 
 procession, now almost lost in the distance on its way 
 to the village, which lay nestling under the hill two miles 
 away. 
 
 To the boy's thought, the earth's axis ran through 
 Skendoah village. It was only a little hamlet, consist- 
 ing of a church, a tavern, two stores and a few dozen 
 houses, and he knew that there were great cities and 
 towns beyond. He himself had once been to the city with 
 his father, and in the long winter nights he had listened 
 with wondering delight to the story of marvels which 
 his father had seen. For Squire Kortright in his youth 
 had been a wanderer ; although he was born in the 
 valley, his veins were full of the bluest and liveliest 
 Yankee blood ; go somewhere he must. The migra- 
 tory instinct was as strong within his heart as in the 
 barn-swallow that brooded under the eaves of the great 
 red barn his father had built, not only after the Dutch 
 style of his neighbors, which he readily recognized as 
 superior to that prevailing in New England and ac- 
 cepted with the true adaptiveness of his race, but also 
 of a size and conspicuousness to make it a landmark in 
 the valley. He did not go West. He was the youngest 
 of many, all of whom had flitted early from the home- 
 nest and with sturdy hands had let in the sunlight upon 
 many a forest home in the westward-stretching wilder- 
 31 
 
3S HOT PLOWSHARES. 
 
 ncss. lie was the last, and the mother's heart yearned 
 over him and could not let him go. So it was fearly 
 understood that he should remain at home, and in con- 
 sideration of his having thus ignored the blandishments 
 of fortune and the Great West, should inherit the pater- 
 nal acres. But he had no thought of waiting quietly 
 for his patrimony. He must Avork, and work for him- 
 self. His father, yet hale and strong, with the aid of a 
 hired man in harvest could manage the farm. He must 
 go East and work. He did not know exactly what he 
 would do — he hardly cared. To do something, to earn 
 money, to match brawn and brain against gold — that 
 was his animating impulse — an inheritance his parents 
 had given him before they thought of bestowing Para- 
 dise Bay upon him. It was not an ignoble desire. It 
 was not for money as an end that he wrought. It was 
 not mere greed of possession, but the nobler lust of ac- 
 complishment. It was the grand egotism which has 
 been the whip and spur of American progress, the undy- 
 ing aspiration to do, to excel, to work miracles for the 
 mere sense of power that goes with a completed task. 
 
 So, while yet a youth, he had bidden his parents good- 
 by one summer morning, and gone with a drover to 
 New York in the place of one who had sickened the 
 night before at Kockboro. He had been at another time 
 one of the crew of a canal-boat as far west as Lockport, 
 and told with vociferous laughter of the funny "boom " 
 in values that occurred in that almost forgotten bor- 
 ough, Avhen the canal first reached it and developed a 
 water power which many fondly thought would make 
 the little village a metropolis. He had gone there, 
 touched by the mania for speculation, thinking to invest 
 a little money profitably ; but finding the excitement so 
 great that the prices dismayed him, he came away with 
 his money in his pocket — a fact he never failed to men- 
 tion with great satisfaction. 
 
'^ABLSE, SIB KNIGHT."' %?, 
 
 He had been to the Eastward too. With another 
 Yankee instinct, he wanted to see where his forebears 
 came from, to survey for himself the surroundings that 
 had been made familiar to him by the fireside tales of 
 his parents. He had found the place far up on a rugged 
 mountain side — a little patch of open land, green where 
 the rocks gave the grass a chance to grow ; a little 
 mountain lake glancing the morning sunshine into the 
 humble doorway ; a pretty brook, full of speckled trout, 
 gleaming among the alders as it hied away to its work 
 of weaving and spinning and turning and forging in the 
 valley below, where it was fretted with dams, imprisoned 
 in locks and finally beaten into foam over groaning 
 wheels. It was one of those places where, at the best, 
 subsistence must have been an endless struggle, yet 
 one whose quaint charms so impress those reared among 
 them, that generations of prairie and forest-born West- 
 ern descendants hardly release themselves from its mys- 
 tical enchantment. Ah ! sweet mountain home-nests of 
 the nation's fairest life. In the homes of the Mid-west 
 the farmers' children dream to-day of the fairy-land 
 of which their grandparents tell. The herder on the 
 plains looks toward the East, and feeds his fancy with a 
 picture of "the old place" which perhaps his father 
 never saw. When he makes an unusually "good thing" 
 on a shipment of cattle, he will leave his "traps" at 
 Chicago, and go on to visit this Mecca of his dream. He 
 will return disgusted. Then the thread of tradition will 
 be broken. Laughter and ridicule will take the place 
 of loving glamour, in telling the story of his origin, and 
 from thenceforth New England as an active inspiration 
 will pass out of the western stock ; thenceforth they 
 will be true and loyal children of the plain, and will turn 
 toward the Occident when they pray for happiness, as 
 well as Avhen they offer sacrifice to Mammon. 
 
 The boy who stood upon the porch knew of the world 
 
34 .HOT PL WSHARES. 
 
 that lay beyond tlie tield of vision by this tradition, so 
 much more real and inspiring than the printed page 
 could be. His father had seen and felt the life of the 
 city and the mountain ; had wrought in the mills of the 
 East for a season ; had made at least one trip on salt 
 water, and had seen the bright-bosomed lakes of the 
 West. He knew that the world did not revoh^e around 
 the village of Skendoah, yet it was to him the sole gate- 
 way to the life that lay beyond. It was the world in 
 jjosse. He had been strictly reared. The father had worn 
 out the vagrant humor early. When he settled down to 
 the duties of life on the paternal farm, there was no fur- 
 ther thought of unrest. His life-work was before him ; 
 and he took it up. Curiosity was smothered in that 
 hour. So too with ambition, change and hope for bet- 
 terment. Hereafter there was no holiday in his life. 
 The hillside farm was his tabernacle, from which he 
 had no desire ever to go forth. He wore a silk hat on 
 Sunday, and was called Squii'e before his thirtieth birth- 
 day. He was a solid man. But the virus of unrest 
 that was in his blood he had transmitted to his son, 
 who saw the gay procession of road breakers disappear 
 around the bend of the hill with tears of bitter disap- 
 pointment. 
 
 Martin had been to the bleak, hill-side school-house 
 every day it had been open since his seventh birth- 
 day. He was a good scholar — all the teachers said that, 
 and a good boy, all said, too, except one who called him 
 mischievous. He knew all about the hills and woods 
 and springs and brooks in the neighborhood. There was 
 not a wood-chuck's hole within a circle of half a mile, 
 that he had not visited and speculated on the dislodg- 
 ment of its occupant. But his Avorld was getting too 
 small for him of late. He wanted to go through the 
 Gate Skendoah into the World Beautiful. Of course he 
 went to the village to church and Sunday-school. But 
 
''ARISE, SIR KNIGHT!'' 35 
 
 he took his home-Ufe with him there — father and mother. 
 He went now and then to the village store, but he always 
 had some errand to keep him company and repress his 
 enjoyment. He wanted to go alone, and at least peep out 
 at the boundless. He had been to Utica, once, when 
 his father was drawn a juror in the court there. If he 
 had been alone, he would have learned a great deal. He 
 longed to know, to realize, to subjugate for himself, 
 the kingdoms of this world. The inquisitiveness of the 
 Yankee is proverbial. He is said to be prone to ask 
 questions. It is perhaps true, and it is certain that he 
 will also pick up more facts with fewer questions than 
 any other mortal. Occidentalism always impels hu- 
 manity to learn, to acquire, to do. The world-life in our 
 veins is stirred into a fever which can be appeased only 
 by action, knowledge, achievement. 
 
 The boy was just beginning to feel this New-World 
 disease. His father had seen it in his eye when he asked 
 to go to the election the day before, and had shrewdly 
 determined to indulge rather than attempt to suppress 
 it. The problem of government was ah-eady before the 
 boy's mind, and his reply to his father had been per- 
 fectly sincere, when he told him he wanted to see "how 
 a President was made." Of course, he did not exclude 
 from his anticipation the meeting of boys from all parts 
 of the toAvnship, or the luxury of "doing" Skendoah 
 all alone for a whole day. His di'eam had come to 
 naught. The election day had daAvned and would set 
 and he would not see how a President was made. It 
 would be four years before the chance would come again. 
 He knew that. The political ferment that was just 
 taking hold of the American mind had left its impress 
 on his. He knew the times and seasons of our govern- 
 ment far better than the city boy of to-day knows them. 
 Pour years — he wondered how big he would be then — 
 what he would have done, learned and seen, by that 
 
36 HOT PLOWSHARES. 
 
 time. The loss of his hoUday meant almost an eternity 
 of delay to him. 
 
 He had not told his mother. He knew his father's 
 illness made it impossible that he should be absent, and 
 he would not add to her care by acquainting her with 
 his disappointment. As he brooded over his ill luck, his 
 eye fell upon one of the evergreens that stood beside 
 the path. They were his mother's trees. She had 
 planted them soon after her marriage, and they had 
 grown to overtop the house. They were of a kind then 
 very rare in the country, and passers-by often stopped 
 to wonder at them. The seed had come from over the 
 sea — aye, even from that side the earth that lies below 
 our feet, and the name told the story of its origin. It 
 was written on the little packet of seeds, which was 
 all that the letter contained Avhich had come so far to 
 the young Squire's wife — " Cryptomeria Jajionica, or 
 Japan Mourner. " She had kept the bit of paper, with 
 these words written upon it in a fine, manly hand, " so 
 as not to forget the name," she said ; but she had once 
 told her boy a curious story of a friend of her girlhood 
 — a bright-eyed but poor boy, who had romped and 
 roamed with her about the hills and valleys, until child- 
 hood's feet had touched the borderland of Youth ; who 
 had then gone away to the East, on foot and alone, 
 not to seek his fortune so much as to find the know- 
 ledge for which he thirsted. He had promised to return 
 when his task was accomplished. But the years went 
 by, and the girl heard no more of her boy-friend. She 
 grew to womanhood. He did not come. He was almost 
 forgotten — quite forgotten, by all in the valley save the 
 girl whom he had made his special playmate. Even to 
 her, his memory had grown dim. Harrison Kortright 
 had wooed and won her. She only vaguely wished that 
 Dawson Fox might know her good fortune, when one 
 day a stranger came to her mother's house— tall, fair- 
 
''ARISE, Sm KNIGHT!'' 37 
 
 haired, laughing-eyed. Her heart leaped in half recog- 
 nition when she saw him, but she shook her head, and 
 said "i^o, she did not know him." When he told his 
 name, and stood looking as though he would clasp lier 
 in his arms and devour her with those hungry eyes and 
 quivering lips, she coolly gave him her hand, and in 
 light, even tones, asked him to sit down. She talked of 
 everything but the old times, until he could bear it 
 no longer. Then he burst out with a story of boy-love, 
 effort and conquest, and told her he had come back a 
 man to perform the vow of the boy. 
 
 The woman's lip trembled, as she told the story to 
 her son on a summer afternoon, sitting on the porch. 
 "But he was only thirteen," she added, "when he 
 went away. Who would ever have thought he would 
 remember me ?" 
 
 He was not rich, he said. She knew that, Avithout the 
 saying. His was not one of the natures that grow rich, 
 except in love and good works. He was not rich, but 
 he had worked hard, had studied diligently, had gradu- 
 ated from an Eastern College, was now an ordained 
 minister of the Gospel, and had been called to go as a 
 missionary to the heathen of the old, old world beyond 
 the great Pacific, and had come to ask her if she would 
 go with him — be his wife. She told him she was to 
 marry the prosperous young farmer whose acres joined 
 her father's land. She did not tell her young boy what 
 he said in reply, but only that he preached in the vil- 
 lage church the next Sunday, and then went away, 
 and she had never seen or heard from him since, except 
 by the little package of seeds that came a year after- 
 ward, to let her know that he had arrived safely in the 
 strange land to which he was bound, on what seemed a 
 vain attempt to bring God's word to those who would 
 have none of it. 
 
 " He was only thirteen when he went away !" said the 
 
38 HOT FL W^IIAIiEti. 
 
 buy to himself, as he glanced up at one of the drooping 
 evergreens which served to keep alive the memory of a 
 dead love. As he looked, he saw that the mass of cling- 
 ing snow had weighed down one of the long, slender 
 branches, until it had split oft' from the trunk, and was 
 now left clinging to the tree only by a shred of bark 
 and a tough splinter of wood fibre. The outer end, 
 thrust forward by the fall, was lying on the floor of the 
 porch. The boy seized it, and by a sturdy pull de- 
 tached it from its socket. Then he shook out the snow, 
 and held the long green branch above him like a banner, 
 while he marched to and fro up and down the porch. 
 The banner was large and the knight was small, but his 
 plain face was flushed, and his eyes burned Avith a light 
 as pure and steady as ever shone upon the face of one 
 who sought for deeds of high emprise. 
 
 His dreams were high — dreams of valiant well-doing 
 in the manhood which he panted to enjoy. The great 
 green banner taxed his strength to bear it upright on 
 his shoulder, but he struggled bravely with its weight. 
 Its tip brushed the ceiling of the porch. Its lower 
 limbs dragged on the floor. It was in ludicrous dispro- 
 portion with himself, but to his dream it was the pennon 
 of a knight. He was a squire who waited but an op- 
 portunity to win his spurs. His step was springy and 
 his muscles tense with longing for life's battle. The 
 dead present was but ashes beneath his feet. His 
 disappointment Avas forgotten. How a President was 
 made concerned him not. In his dream-thought there 
 was no doubt. He was the peer of him who rode the 
 gj-ay horse and "fit the Mexicans." Fancy's fiery 
 chariot upbore his feet — the gateway of the future that 
 should never be swinging back, and his e3-es feasted on 
 glories that only the pure in heart may see when they 
 dream dreams of self-forgetful wonder-working. 
 
 He heard a cry, and glanced swiftly toAvard the wiu- 
 
^'ARIHE, mi KNIGHT!'' 30 
 
 flow of his father's room. His dream had cast out fear, 
 but the spectre of disease thus suddenly recalled by the 
 thought of his father's sickness blanched his young face. 
 As he looked toward the valley he saw the doctor's 
 horse and cutter coming past the school house. His face 
 lighted with joy, for he remembered his father's pain and 
 thought relief was at hand. 
 
 Another cry — now shrill and clear. Turning to the 
 left, he saw rushing down the hillside road a pair of dark 
 blood-bays attached to a light sleigh that only dimly 
 showed above the wall of snow bounding the track the 
 road-breakers had beaten down. Their sleek coats glis- 
 tened in the sunshine. The richly-mounted harness 
 sparkled as they moved. Their black manes flew back 
 from their high-arched necks in tossing waves. On 
 they came at full speed, the loose reins flying from side 
 to side as they ran. The richly caparisoned sleigh 
 bounded back and forth in the narrow track. One robe 
 hung over the dash-board ; another had fallen out, and 
 its red lining showed like a stain of blood on the white 
 track behind. A young girl clung to the back of the 
 sleigh, her blanched face turned with the fascination of 
 a mortal terror toward the frightened animals which 
 whirled her onward to destruction. Shriek after shriek 
 went up from her lips. Far behind them, making frantic 
 gestures and uttering hoarse cries for aid, a man was 
 running, so slowly in comparison with the flying steeds 
 that it seemed as if he were standing still. 
 
 The boy stood an instant as though petrified. Over the 
 white expanse he saw the frightened runaways come 
 with long swift strides down the gentle declivity toward 
 the spot where he stood. Kow he saw their outstretched 
 heads as they came straight on ; then, as the course 
 changed, their gleaming sides with the tossing cockle- 
 shell behind and its clinging white-faced occupant. The 
 light of his dream was in his eye ; his teeth close shut 
 
40 HOT PLOWSHARES. 
 
 and nostrils spread while his hand ckitched nervously the 
 great dark bough upon his shoulder. 
 
 Ah, ho^-ish squire, thine hour has come ! The prayer 
 of faith unsyllabled, the aspiration of a heart unsmirched 
 by sin has won from fate the golden opportunity. Thy 
 budding manhood hath its devoir. Do or die ! Stake 
 length of days against thy dream ! 
 
 He stood still, gazing at the furious beasts, each striv- 
 ing to outdo the other in a mad race from some imagined 
 danger. They were scarce twenty lengths from the end 
 of the pathway that led down to the road. He could 
 see their black eyes, the white foam that hung upon 
 their lips and splashed with light their dark sides. He 
 saw the sunlit steaming of their nostrils ; he heard their 
 sharp snorts of terror as they looked back at the sleigh, 
 transformed by their fears into a threatening pursuer. 
 
 All at once the boy sprang into life. "Whoa!" he 
 shouted, sharply and imperiously, as if the terror-stricken 
 animals must obey his command. The green banner was 
 upreared once more. He dashed down the steps and 
 along the path where lately he had stood weeping with 
 vexation. He did not think — there was no time to 
 think ! The banner showed above the heaped-up bank 
 of snow ; the knight was almost hidden in the trench. 
 "Whoa!" he cried again, as he reached the roadway. 
 There, almost upon him, w^ere the straining steeds. Their 
 red nostrils shone, braced and quivering. Their breath 
 came, hot and spumy. " Whoa !" 
 
 The otf horse saw the little objector and his quaint 
 forest banner burst from the snow almost beneath his 
 feet, and shied with fright. The movement threw his 
 mate against the snowy wall beyond. At the next 
 stride he landed in the soft, clinging mass. The boy 
 saw his advantage in an instant. His eyes flashed fire. 
 The light of battle glared in his face. He set the bush 
 in rest as though it had been a lance and charged on the 
 
''ARllSE, SIR KNIGHT!'' 41 
 
 horse nearest him. '^Whoa!^' he shouted through his 
 set teeth. Tlie brute flinched and pressed his mate 
 farther and fartlier into the snow. Botli were tlounder- 
 ing in the wliite, untrodden depths. The boy dropped 
 his bush and sprang at tlie bridle of the nearest. His 
 right hand caught the bit, and the left shut close upon a 
 lock of flying mane. The frightened beast reared upon 
 his hind feet and tossed the boy about as if he had been 
 a feather. The cruel iron-shod hoofs struck against him 
 but he kept his hold. The near horse floundered and 
 fell. The one to which the boy clung stood upright, 
 staggered, fell across his mate. Half-buried in ''the 
 snow, both struggled with a Avild frenzy that was deaf 
 and blind to everything save an all-possessing fear and 
 the untamable instinct of self preservation. Under- 
 neath the struggling, heaving, snorting mass, half hid- 
 den by the tossing snow, beaten, bruised and crushed, 
 was the boy. The overturned sleigh stood on its side.' 
 The little girl, thrown harmlessly against the yielding 
 bank, had scrambled up, and half-way to the house, stood 
 gazing at the half-buried pile of writhing limbs and 
 straining forms. The air was full of shrieks and cries. 
 Squire Ritner and his fellows came rushing from the 
 house. The mother flew shrieking down the path. The 
 Doctor lashed his horse into a run to reach the scene of 
 the encounter he had witnessed. The drooping runner 
 was but a few steps away. The horses, one above the 
 other, struggled and fought to rise. The boy, now here, 
 now there, then hidden underneath— could it be he was 
 alive ? 
 
 ^ Willing but cautious hands seized bit and rein. Martha 
 Kortright with a woman's instinct caught the fright- 
 ened girl in her arms and stood moaning with short \m- 
 conscious breaths. Suddenly, her husband, risen half 
 clad from his bed, shot past her. His unshod feet 
 hardly seemed to touch the snow. Before any one could 
 
42 HOT PLOWSHARES. 
 
 cry out to prevent, he had the ott" horse by the bit ; had 
 forced him back with an iron grip, and reacliiug down, 
 had seized with his right hand the boy, in whom his 
 father's heart was wrapped up, had drawn him half-way 
 from beneath tlie other horse, when the one lie had by 
 the bit reared again, again fell across his mate, throw- 
 ing the father headlong beside the son and holding 
 both beneath him. 
 
 But in the place of Harrison Kortright stood now a 
 man who was even his superior in strength. Younger 
 by some years, broad shouldered, with a square, firm-set 
 jaw and dark flowing beard, he was still panting for 
 breath, but his face was aflame with passion. Seizing 
 the uppermost horse by jaw and nostril he suddenly 
 twisted back his head with relentless strength until with 
 a cry of pain the animal rolled upon his back doAvn the 
 slope of yielding snow, into the beaten track. Harrison 
 Kortright rose with the limp, insensible body of his son 
 in his arms. The doctor leaped from his sleigh. The 
 neighbors assisted the father into the house. He would 
 not yield his son to any other arm. The doctor ran 
 by his side, feeling for the boy's pulse, and giving calm 
 directions as to his carriage. Mrs. Kortright followed, 
 bearing the little girl in her arms. The stranger, blown 
 and flushed with exertion, stood beside his horses, both 
 of which had risen and stood looking curiously at the 
 havoc they had wrought. 
 
CHAPTER IV. 
 "fok wounds, balm." 
 
 Harrisox Kortright staggered into the house, and 
 laid his insensible son upon the chintz-covered lounge 
 in the dining-room. His own face was as white as the 
 pinched and weazened one that looked up from the 
 pillow, but he waived aside the friendly hands that 
 would take him away, until the doctor, looking up from 
 a hasty examination of the boy, caught sight of his 
 pallid countenance and said quickly : 
 
 " It is only a faint. Squire." 
 
 "You think he will live?" gasped the white-lipped 
 father. 
 
 "Undoubtedly. He is in no danger at all; but 
 you— " 
 
 He did not finish the sentence. Had not a friendly 
 arm supported him, Kortright would have fallen to the 
 floor. As it was, he sank down upon a chair, his teeth 
 chattering, his white lips drawn, his face pinched and 
 wan, and his eyes Avild and unsteady. The reac- 
 tion had come. The excitement that had enabled him 
 to forget pain and overcome weakness had departed, and 
 in its place was an ague-fit which told that the disease, 
 which had momentarily relaxed its hold, had seized him 
 again with redoubled violence. His nervous power, 
 which had been strained to the utmost, had given way. 
 His mind wandered. The events of the past twenty- 
 four hours were strangely mingled in his fevered fancy, 
 and his disconnected words were only half comprehen- 
 sible to the listeners whose willing hands assisted the 
 43 
 
44 HOT PL WSUAllE^. 
 
 doctor ill the vigorous measures which he at once 
 adopted. 
 
 "Marty, Marty, my boy Marty!" moaned the sick 
 man. " They've killed him! They've killed him! Kid- 
 nappers, did you say ? Kidnappers ! There ain't no 
 kidnappers here. God wouldn't allow it ! Marty ! 
 Marty ! "VVlioa ! Why don't ye kill 'em ! Get away ; 
 let me get at 'em ! I'll kill 'em ! Let me go ; they've 
 killed my boy ! The kidnappers have killed my boy !" 
 
 Mrs. Kortright, who had been utterly overwhelmed 
 by the catastrophe that had happened to her son, 
 released the little girl from her arms immediately on en- 
 tering the house, and then stood, weeping and wringing 
 her hands, beside the couch on which he lay. No 
 sooner, however, did she perceive the condition of her 
 husband, than the instinct of the care-taker returned. 
 Instantly she was at his side, her perceptions sharpened 
 by her love, the most efficient of aids to the ijhysician. 
 In less time than it would require to state in detail what 
 was done, the sick man had been taken to his bed, a 
 vein in his arm opened, masses of moist snow packed 
 about his head, his feet and limbs swathed in hot cloths 
 and chafed by strong and willing hands, and powerful 
 remedies administered. Under this treatment his symp- 
 toms rapidly subsided. His mutterings ceased, his eyes 
 closed, the nervous twitching of the face disappeared, 
 and his breathing became regular and natural, in place 
 of the stertorous and labored suspirations of an hour 
 before. The physician felt his pulse for the hun- 
 dredth time, passed his hand over his face, pulled down 
 the lids of one of his eyes and then of the other, peered 
 into the unseeing orbs, and then drcAv a long eath of 
 relief. 
 
 " I guess it's over," he said, 
 
 "You don't mean—!" Mrs. Kortright exclaimed in 
 frenzied tones. 
 
"FOR WOUNDS, BALMy 45 
 
 "I guess he'll pull through," replied the physician, 
 glancing keenly at her as he spoke, "but we mustn't 
 spare any exertion till the circulation is well established. 
 He's better, but he needs care. Everything depends 
 on that, now. Keep on rubbing him awhile longer, gen- 
 tlemen. Are those flat-irons at his feet warm, Mrs. 
 Kortright ? Couldn't you get some more bottles of hot 
 water to put about his limbs '?" 
 
 Mrs. Kortright became at once the obedient and care- 
 ful nurse again. She left the room to obtain what was 
 desired. When she had closed the door the physician's 
 countenance relaxed. 
 
 "He's doing all right, gentlemen, but it won't do to 
 let her know it just now. I've known her all her life. 
 She's a mighty capable woman, no mistake about that ; 
 but this thing's been a little too much, and if she ain't 
 let down easy there'll be another faint here. Just keep 
 on till I tell you to stop. 'Twon't do any harm, and 
 will help her to pull up easy. By the way, I wonder 
 how the boy is getting on. Gad ! gentlemen, that was 
 a plucky thing, and he had a narrow escape. I thought, 
 when I saw him swinging by that brute's head, that 
 he'd be past my help by this time. It was the snow 
 that saved him — and his father, too, for that matter." 
 
 "This has been a bad day for the Squire," said Rit- 
 ner, with kindly sympathy. 
 
 "It might have been worse," said the physician seri- 
 ously. " If he had had to wait for treatment, he 'd have 
 been past help before now. I tell you, gentlemen. Squire 
 Kortright 's always been a lucky man — 'specially since 
 he married Mattie Ermendorf— and his luck hasn't left 
 him to-day." 
 
 The doctor had been washing blood-stains from his 
 hands, wiping his lancet and turning down his sleeves 
 as he spoke. Mrs. Kortright entered the room as he 
 concluded, with a bottle in either hand wrapped in a 
 
46 HOT PLOWSHARES. 
 
 towel. There was an anxious look in her face, but the 
 strained, apprehensive expression had disappeared. 
 
 "Can't you go and see Martin, now:"' she asked, 
 glancing up at the doctor's face. 
 
 "Certainl}^ Martha," he answered, with the famili- 
 arity of an old friend ; " but don't you have any trouble 
 about him. If a boy ain't killed off-hand, you needn't 
 be afraid but what he '11 come out all right. Young 
 bones are tough," he added, in a jovial way. "Here, 
 by the way," he continued, pouring something into a 
 glass, and adding a little water, "you just take this.'' 
 
 The woman obe3^ed. 
 
 "Now," said he, taking her by the arm and leading 
 her to a large, old-fashioned rocking-chair, " just you sit 
 down there and cry. You '11 feel better then. These 
 gentlemen will take care of the Squire and I '11 look 
 after Martin." 
 
 Mrs. Kortright sat down with a look of remonstrance 
 in her eyes, from which the tears were already flowing. 
 Ashamed to display her weakness, she threw her apron 
 over her head, and only her con\'ulsive sobbing attested 
 the relief which the tears brought. The physician nod- 
 ded approval and left the room. 
 
 When they had started for the house with Martin and 
 his father, the OAvner of the runaway team — for it was 
 he who had released Kortright and his son from their 
 perilous position — shook his head to Shields, who seemed 
 to halt in regard to his duty, whether to go with the 
 others or stay with the stranger, and said, sharpl}-, 
 "You take care of the Doctor's rig, there, and then go 
 into the house. You may be needed. I '11 look after 
 these brutes." 
 
 The horses had risen, and now stood with the melting 
 snow dripping from their steaming coats, the broken 
 harness dangling around them, and gazed with startled 
 surprise at the confusion they had caused. They had not 
 
''FOR WOUNDS, BAL3r' ' 47 
 
 yet recovered entirely from their fright, and the sight of 
 the overturned sleigh caused them to snort and shy as 
 they sought to turn and examine it. 
 
 "Whoa!" cried the master, as he caught them both 
 by the bits and gave them a savage pull that brought 
 them- to their haunches in the deep snow where they 
 stood. " Whoa ! you infernal fools ! You've done enough 
 for to-day. I wish you and the cursed idiot who caused 
 all this trouble had been dead before I ever set eyes on 
 either of you. There 's been nothing but bad luck in my 
 life ever since George Eighmie left me his inheritance 
 of folly and I was dunce enough to accept it." 
 
 He jerked the horses savagely about, until the fear of 
 the master overcame the fright under which they had 
 been laboring, and they stood, trembling and apprehen- 
 sive, while he tied up the broken harness, righted the 
 sleigh and secured them again in their places. Then he 
 drove back along the road by which he had come, secured 
 the scattered robes and cushions, picked up his whip and 
 applied it furiously to the horses, which he held and 
 managed with the ease of an accomplished horseman. 
 Arrived again at Kortright's house, he drove into the 
 yard, hitched his horses to a post near where the Doc- 
 tor's sleigh was standing, carefully spread a buffalo-robe 
 upon each, did the same with the Doctor's horse, which 
 Shields had left unprotected, and then knocked at the 
 side door, which opened into the family room. His 
 knock was answered by the little girl, who looked out 
 with a blanched face, and eyes distended with horror at 
 the scenes she had witnessed. 
 
 "Oh papa, papa!" she cried, and, leaping into his 
 arms, she laid her head upon his shoulder and burst 
 into tears. 
 
 "There, there, Hilda dear," he said, soothingly, as 
 lie kissed her tear-stained cheek and smoothed the dark 
 
48 HOT PLO]VSiLiUES. 
 
 curls that clustered about her head; "there, there, 
 don't cry. You didn't get hurt, did 3'ou ?" 
 
 "Xo, papa," the child answered quickly, raising her 
 head and hushing her sobs, "but the poor httle boy, 
 papa, do come and do something for him. I've done 
 all I could." 
 
 ■^ But his parents, child, where are they '?" 
 
 " Oh, his papa was hurt just awful, and the little boy 
 is hurt, too, only he won't say a word, but just lies there 
 and cries about his papa. Do come, papa, ' ' she continued, 
 as she slid to the floor and drew him forward by the 
 hand, " do come ; he is a real good little boy." 
 
 "Yes, indeed," said he, "I am afraid I should have 
 had no little Hilda now if it had not been for his 
 bravery." 
 
 The child shuddered and hid her face against him. 
 The father hfted her up, kissed her again, and passed 
 through the door, 
 
 Martin lay upon the lounge where he had been placed, 
 with the cushion from the chair by which his mother 
 had knelt the night before beneath his head. The girl's 
 hood and rich furs were upon a chair beside him. Left 
 alone Avitli him, her childish instinct had led her to seek 
 to comfort him, as soon as she saw that he was con- 
 scious. She had accordingly dried her tears, put aside 
 her wraps and sat down by his side. After a while 
 she smoothed the hair Isack from his forehead, wiped 
 his face with a handkerchief, the delicate perfume of 
 which came like a breath of Araby the blest to the boy, 
 unaccustomed to luxury. Then she asked him ten- 
 derly if he was hurt, and Avas not deceived by his stout- 
 hearted denial. She gave him water, inquired if she 
 should not call his mother, and when he refused to 
 allow her to do so, had returned to his side, weeping 
 for his pain, her soft caresses soothing him more than 
 she knew. The woman's admiration for courage had 
 
''FOR WOUNDS, BALMy 49 
 
 already developed in her little heart, and the great 
 brown eyes looked with an awe born of reverent wor- 
 ship upon the white face that lay before her, as im- 
 penetrable as the sphinx in its resolute endurance. For 
 the first time in her life she looked consciously upon 
 a hero. The impress her young mind received that day 
 was one that years could not eftace. 
 
 In every respect the two children were the opposite 
 of each other. The one, as we have seen, was blue- 
 eyed and fair, unused to luxury or the display of aftec- 
 tion — a tough, Aviry lad, whose life, while without hard- 
 ship, had been familiarized only with the ha.rsh, every- 
 day plainness of a farmer's home. He had been loved 
 but never petted, save now and then when his mother's 
 half-concealed caresses had gladdened his heart. His 
 father's love he had taken for granted. Careful, grave 
 and undemonstrative, he had never realized, until he 
 felt the firm grip that dragged him from beneath the 
 horses, what intense love burned for him in his father's 
 heart. His own heart was very tender, and he almost 
 forgot his bruises, as he lay there gazing at the beau- 
 tifully clad girl and thinking of the father whose love 
 he had just discovered, and whose condition he had 
 revived sufficiently to apprehend before his removal 
 to the other room. He thought that he had never seen 
 anything so beautiful in his life as the brown-skinned, 
 dark-eyed little girl, whose hair clung in abundant ring- 
 lets about her head, as she alternately gazed out of the 
 window at her father, and bent over him in sympa- 
 thetic sorrow. Unconsciously she did the very best 
 thing that could have been done for her charge. She 
 told him what her father was doing, how he struck and 
 jerked the horses about in anger at their misdeeds ; 
 how they reared and plunged and were drawn back and 
 beaten still more severely ; till his mind was diverted 
 
50 HOT PLOWSHARES. 
 
 from his own and his father's woes to the sympathy of 
 a born horseman for a fine animal. 
 
 '' Are tliey your fiither's horses V" he aslced, 
 
 " Oil yes, indeed, but he will sell them now. I know 
 he will. I shall never ride after them any more," she 
 answered, warmly. 
 
 " Why not ?" in surprise. 
 
 " Because they are so bad — because the}^ hurt j^ou." 
 
 "Pshaw! That ain't nothing. They didn't mean to 
 hurt me. They was scart ; that was all.'' 
 
 " Well, I don't want to see them any more— the hate- 
 ful, mean old things !" 
 
 " Your father must be very rich ?" meditatively. 
 
 "I don't know — why ?" 
 
 " To have such nice horses. I wish I had them." 
 
 " You ? What for ?" — in amazement. 
 
 "To drive, of course." 
 
 "Why, they would kill you. I should think you 
 would want them killed too. I do." 
 
 "That's because you are a girl," with quiet con- 
 tempt, despite her beauty. 
 
 "Would you really like to have those awful, bad, 
 wicked horses?" 
 
 " Of course I would. If I Avas a little older, I wouldn't 
 be afraid of them any more 'n your father." 
 
 "Well, you shall have them," with quiet decision, 
 "when you get well and have grown up. I'll ask my 
 papa to give them to you. He always does what I want 
 him to." 
 
 "What is your — j'our father's name?" He tried to 
 say "papa" as she did, but could not, somehow. He 
 had never said " papa" in his life. To him, as to all of 
 his class at that time, his father and mother were known 
 by no other names. He had read of the other titles in 
 books, and had thought them very pleasant words. He 
 
''FOR WOUNDS, balm:' di 
 
 had even wished sometimes that he might use them 
 but had never dared to do so. ' ' 
 
 "Why, don't you know my papa?" said the girl with 
 evident pride. "He's Captain Hargrove, and we Hve 
 at Sturmhold. " 
 
 The boy looked up at her with a sort of awe. He knew 
 the great brick house, built on a ragged spur of the upper 
 Catskills that overlooked the valley for twenty miles up 
 and down, and, though ten miles away, was only hidden 
 from view by the wooded crest of a range of hills that 
 •skirted an intervening tributary. The owner of Sturm- 
 hold was accounted fabulously rich, but Avas thought bv 
 his country neighbors to be a man whose past life would 
 not bear scrutiny. He had built the house some years 
 before lived lavishly, it was said, kept a large retinue of 
 colored servants and fished the mountain streams for 
 trout; but had no relations with any of his neighbors 
 and did not encourage any approaches on their part 
 
 It must be mighty nice to live in such a grand 
 house," he ventured. 
 
 "Oh, it is so lonesome," she said, wearily; "onlv 
 when papa is at home. " -^ ' j 
 
 "Why, ain't your— your mother there ?" 
 "My mamma is-is-dead," said the child, with sud- 
 den moisture in her eyes. 
 
 Martin would have apologized, if he had known how 
 for the painful reference he had made. He had never 
 said I beg your pardon," or uttered any similar form 
 of pohte regret in his life. His father had once whipped 
 him for half an hour to compel him to ask his teacher's 
 forgiveness for some piece of mischief of which she had 
 made complaint. He had yielded at last, and repeated 
 the humiliating ritual the next day, but the words had 
 left a bitter taste in his mouth. Fortunately, just at 
 this time her father knocked at the door, which she ran 
 to open. 
 
m HOT PLOWSHARES. 
 
 Captain Hargrove came at once upon his daughter's 
 entreaty to the side of the lounge, and said in a softly 
 modulated voice, while he looked do^^^l into Martin's 
 eyes with thoughtful keenness : 
 
 "Are you hurt, my little man ? I hope not, for you 
 saved my little Hilda's life, and I should feel very badly 
 to know that you were injured in so brave an act." 
 
 "Oh, 'tain't nothin', sir," said the boy, his eyes fill- 
 ing with tears, and his cheek flushing, more at the con- 
 trast between his own rough speech and the evenly- 
 spoken, well-chosen words of the gentleman, who sat 
 down as he spoke, and taking his arm felt for his pulse 
 with a hand as soft as velvet. 
 
 "Where are you hurt, my boy?" he asked. "I am 
 not a doctor, but I have had some bruises myself, 
 and seen smart of broken bones, first and last. I hope 
 you have had no such mishap, though." He spoke 
 pleasantly, and smoothed his long dark beard with one 
 hand while he held the boy's wrist with the other. 
 
 Martin looked into his deep dark eyes with wondering 
 surprise not unmixed with admiring distrust. He re- 
 membered that some people believed that this white- 
 handed gentleman had been a pirate in his day. Some 
 even surmised that he still made a trip, now and then, 
 on a fast-sailing sloop that had been known to come 
 up the Hudson, take him on board, and, spreading its 
 white wings till it seemed like a great cloud, speed 
 away in silence to the sea to return again after many 
 months, and leave him — always after nightfall, and al- 
 ways disappearing again before the morning. 
 
 Captain Hargrove skillfully disarmed the boy's sus- 
 picion, which he no doubt mistook for bashfulness, and 
 learned that his left arm was the chief seat of pain. 
 Carefully examining this, he found that one of the l)ones 
 below the elbow was broken. Taking a knife fi'om his 
 poc-ket— the boy noticed that it was pearl-handled and 
 
''FOR WOUNDS, balm:' 5^ 
 
 had many slender, bright blades, and wondered still 
 more at the luxury that clothed the most ordinary 
 things of life with such lavish splendor — he opened it 
 and cut away the sleeve so as to leave the arm bare. 
 He did this so gently and deftly that the boy's conti- 
 dence was won without reserve, and he told him of 
 every ache and pain he had experienced since he was 
 dragged from beneath the struggling horses. 
 
 "There isn't anything else the matter with you, my 
 little man," said the stranger briskly, "except bruises, 
 wMch of course, must be expected by any one that un- 
 dertakes so tough a job as stopping my bays wlien 
 they once get away from their driver." 
 
 At this moment the door opened and the physician 
 entered, 
 
 " Ah, Captain Hargrove," said he, " this is a bad day. 
 I hope your horses were not hurt." 
 
 "Unfortunately, no," said Hargrove. "I wish their 
 necks had been broken instead of this brave boy's arm, 
 — I do indeed." 
 
 "What! his arm broken?" said the doctor in in- 
 credulous surprise. "That's a fact," after a quick ex- 
 amination of the injured member, that brought a groan 
 from the close-pressed lips of the resolute lad. "Well, 
 well, my son, this must be looked after." 
 
 The fracture of the arm was soon reduced, the hand 
 and forearm bound so as to prevent the dislocation of 
 the parts, and Martin, relieved from pain, sunk away 
 into a quiet sleep. Mrs. Kortright, her equanimity re- 
 stored, became again the careful housewife, and took up 
 the task of attending to her two invalids v^^itli her 
 wonted cheerfulness. It was agreed among the neigh- 
 bors that one should stay until night, when the others 
 were to send watchers, and the doctor consented to look 
 out for a girl to assist in the housework. At this point 
 
54 HOT PLOWSHARES. 
 
 in the discussion, Captain Hargrove advanced, and said 
 to Mrs. Kortriglit : 
 
 "I beg, madam, that you will not leave me out of the 
 arrangements made necessary by my carelessness. I 
 have a servant who is a most experienced nurse, as well 
 as a most capable manager of a household. I insist, 
 madam, on placing him at your service. He is entirely 
 reliable, strong and untiring." 
 
 "'I am much obliged," said Mrs, Kortriglit, "but — " 
 
 "Madam," said he earnestly, taking his little girl by 
 the hand and leading her forward, "Madam, this is all 
 I have to love in the world. Your brave boy saved her 
 life. Have I not a right to testify my gratitude ?" 
 
 Still the feeling of independence that is innate with 
 the class to which she belonged withheld the woman 
 from a frank acceptance of the proffered aid. Perhaps 
 this feeling arose in part from the manner in which he 
 spoke of the one he desired to send, as — "a servant." 
 Somehow, the word was very rejiulsive to the ears of the 
 great masses of the North, and every possible peri- 
 phrasis was employed to avoid its use. Perhaps it was 
 a relic of the great revolt of the Occident against the 
 Orient that separated the New World from the Old in 
 manners and customs, even farther than in laws and in- 
 stitutions. 
 
 "Thank you," she repeated, "but the neighbors — " 
 
 "Beggin' your pardon, Mrs. Kortriglit," interrupted 
 Shields, with the incisive bluntness that characterized 
 him, "the neighbors 'ud think you Ava'an't fair to yer- 
 self or Captain Hargrove, either, if j^ou didn't let him 
 do as he proposes. Don't ye say so. Squire '?" turning 
 to Eitner, who assented with a nod. 
 
 "Besides," added the doctor, as he stood with his 
 hand on the latch, "a steady, trained nurse, as Captain 
 Hargrove's man no doubt is, Avould be vastly better for 
 
''FOR WOUNDS, balm:' 55 
 
 your husband than the best of watchers, coming and 
 going from day to day." 
 
 Mrs. Kortright could not resist this appeal to her love, 
 and she turned toward Hargrove with a gesture of as- 
 sent. 
 
 "Consider it settled, then," said he. "I will send 
 Jason to-night. I must drive into the village to make 
 some inquiries upon a matter that caused my unfortu- 
 nate drive in this direction. By the way," he added, 
 turning to the men who were just passing out, "perhaps 
 one of you may be able to give me some information." 
 
 "WeUl be glad to do anything for you that we can, 
 Captain," said Eitner, politely, but not over-cordially. 
 There was something in the manner of this man, frank, 
 bold and tender as he seemed to be, that was so difter- 
 ent from the people among whom he lived as to awaken 
 suspicion in their minds at once. 
 
 "Some time last night," continued Hargrove, "a 
 servant woman left my house, and wandered ofl' into 
 the storm. She had been in my service for a long time, 
 seemed perfectly contented, and, indeed, had no reason 
 to be otherwise. She Avas my housekeeper, and had 
 almost absolute control. I am afraid she must have 
 been seized with a sudden hallucination, and fleeing 
 from some imagined difficulty, met with her death in 
 the storm." 
 
 A knowing look passed around the little circle as he 
 spoke. 
 
 "Was she a colored woman ?" asked Ritner, gravely. 
 
 "Certainly," answei-ed Hargrove, with a smile. "I 
 have always been accustomed to colored servants, and 
 should hardly know how to get along with white ones," 
 
 "Most likely not," said Shields, with the trace of a 
 sneer in his tone. 
 
 Insensibly the little group had grown suddenly cold. 
 Hargrove and his little girl stood in the midst of them, 
 
5G HOT PL W^^IIARES. 
 
 but were not of them. Tlie northern jealousy of per- 
 sonal freedom built a wall about the man wlio was 
 believed to hold his servants in subjection by a terror 
 they could not resist, 
 
 " I hope the fact that she is colored is no reason why 
 I should not seek to find and save her from death, if 
 possible," said Hargrove, answering the tone rather than 
 the words. 
 
 ".Sartin not," said Shields, "if that's what you want 
 to find her for." 
 
 "If!" said Hargrove hotly, looking from one to an- 
 other, and for the first time fully realizing the suspicion 
 they entertained. "If! By Heaven, gentlemen, I am not 
 always in a mood to endure such imputation ; but after 
 the events of this morning, I cannot quarrel with you. 
 I suppose you think that because I have slaves under 
 my control in another State I regard the whole African 
 race as mine, 'to have and to hold,' as the lawyers say ?" 
 
 " Wal," said Eitner, apologetically, " the Free Soilers 
 are havin' so much to say about slavery, jest now, that 
 I s'pose we're gettin' to be a little unreasonable on the 
 subject. You mustn't think hard on us, Captain, we 
 don't mean no harm." 
 
 "I do not think you do," answered Hargrove earn- 
 estly, "and you ought to know that if I intended any 
 evil to the girl I would not ask such men as you for aid." 
 
 "There's sense in that, certainly," said the Doctor, 
 with the instinct of his profession to make matters 
 smooth. 
 
 "I assure you," said Hargrove, "that I am more 
 anxious than I can express in regard to her safety. She 
 has been very tenderly raised and is utterly unfitted to 
 protect herself in such a storm." 
 
 "Oh, there ain't no danger of any one suffering in 
 so thickly settled a country as this, " said Van "VYormer, 
 the youngest of the neighbors, who had hitherto taken 
 
''FOR WOUNDS, balm:' 57 
 
 no part in the conversation. "She's all right. You'll 
 find her at some neighbor's house, probably." 
 
 "That was my opinion, too," said Hargrove, "but 
 my servants and myself have been visiting the houses 
 in every direction, since early morning, Avhen her absence 
 was discovered, and we find no trace of her. I fear that 
 in an insane apprehension she may have been even afraid 
 to ask for aid." 
 
 " Wal, wal," said Shields suspiciously, " that's a queer 
 story." 
 
 "No doubt it seems so to you," said Hargrove with 
 evident annoyance. " She was my housekeeper, and I 
 should almost as soon have expected my child to run 
 away." 
 
 "Perhaps you did not pay her enough," suggested 
 Van Wormer. 
 
 "Pay her?" ejaculated Hargrove. "I never thought 
 of such a thing. She had only to ask for money to re- 
 ceive it. I have often left large sums in her possession 
 and never thought of asking an account of what she 
 spent." 
 
 "Hain't you any idea what made her take such a 
 sudden start '?" asked the Doctor. 
 
 "My overseer arrived from the South yesterday," re- 
 sponded Hargrove, "and I think her fears, awakened 
 perhaps by meddlesome parties who did not know as 
 much as she ought to have known, were excited that 
 she might be returned to slavery. I had kept the record 
 of her manumission with my own papers, lest it should 
 be lost, and she no doubt distrusted my intentions." 
 
 " 'T wouldn't be onnateral ef she did," said Shields 
 grimly. 
 
 "Perhaps not," said Hargrove, " but I never thought 
 of it. It is hard to get over the habit of regarding 
 one who has been your slave as, in a sense, still under 
 your guardianship. So I never thought of handing her 
 
58 HOT PLOWSHARES. 
 
 this bit of paper, wliicli shows she is as free as you 
 or I." 
 
 He drew a folded docuiueut from his pocket, as lie 
 spoke, and handed it to Rituer, who examined it curi- 
 ously. 
 
 "Well, I can't say I blame her," said Shields, squint- 
 ing his eyes toward the document that Ritner held. 
 " Ef ray freedom depended on a bit of paper like that 
 'ar, and somebody else hed hold on't, an' kept holding 
 on to et, too, I must say I should be mighty apt to cut 
 out fur a country that wasn't healthy fur kidnappers." 
 
 " Kidnappers ! What do you mean ?" asked Hargrove, 
 turning impetuously upon him. 
 
 The hatchet-faced farmer did not quail before the 
 flaming glance or clenched fist of the angry gentleman. 
 His slender fingers worked nervously, and his gray eyes 
 had a dangerous light in them as he said : 
 
 " 'Tain't no use to try any Southern swagger here. 
 Captain. My words wa'nt hard to understand, and I 
 hain't got nothing to take back, neither." 
 
 "There, there, gentlemen," interposed the doctor, with 
 something of authority in his tone ; " this is not the place 
 for any such talk as that." 
 
 "I beg your pardon, madam," said Hargrove, turn- 
 ing quickly, and bowing deferentially to Mrs. Kortright. 
 "With my anxiety about this poor woman and the mis- 
 haps I have been so unfortunate as to bring upon this 
 household, I am hardly responsible for what I do or say. 
 Come, Hilda, let us go." 
 
 The cliild, who had clung to her father's hand during 
 this conversation with tearful eyes and quivering lips, 
 now inquired: "Won't we ever find my mammy, 
 Papa?" 
 
 "I will trj', my child," answered Hargrove huskily. 
 "Good morning, madam." 
 
 "Mr. Hargrove," said Mrs. Kortright, as he moved 
 
''FOR WOUNDS, balm:' 59 
 
 toward the door, "was the woman you are hunting for 
 named Lida ?" 
 
 "Yes, indeed," answered Hargrove, turning eagerly 
 toward her. " Do you know anything of her, madam ?" 
 
 " Oh ! have you seen my mammy ? have you seen 
 my mammy ?" cried the httle girl, running to Mrs. 
 Kortright and seizing her hand. "Do please say you 
 know where she is, and that she isn't lost and dead 
 under the cold, bad snow." She burst out sobbing as 
 she cried this and hid her face in the woman's dress. 
 
 Mrs. Kortright fondled the child's head soothingly, 
 as she replied : 
 
 "A woman who said her name was Lida, that she 
 had been livin' at Sturmhold, and had run away be- 
 cause the kidnappers were after her, came to our house 
 and asked for shelter and protection. She said she was 
 'colored,' but she was just as white as I am, for all I 
 could see." 
 
 " Oh, that is my mammy ! I 've found my mammy !" 
 shouted the little girl in ecstasy. 
 
 "And she is now — where ?" asked Hargrove, eagerly. 
 
 "Captain Hargrove," answered the farmer's wife, 
 gazing at him keenly, and speaking very slowly, "I do 
 not know ; and, I will be fair with you, I would not tell 
 you if I did." 
 
 "You did not turn her out into the storm, I hope?" 
 —angrily. 
 
 "Into the storm, sir!" said the woman, proudly; 
 "nobody was ever refused food or shelter at Harrison 
 Kortright's house, and never will be, in fair weather or 
 foul." 
 
 "Pardon me, then she is still here, madam? I was 
 only anxious for her safety. If she is safe, it is all I 
 care for. I am sorry she chose to leave us, but it is her 
 undoubted right to do so." 
 
60 HOT PLOWSHARES. 
 
 "She is safe," answered Mrs. Kortright, with sig- 
 nificance. 
 
 "Yon'd better be contented with that, Captain," 
 said Shields. " You can't git yer nigger back, an' 'tain't 
 no use a-tryin'. When once they git loose up in this 
 country, up north of here, there ain't no more use of 
 follerin' 'em than of huntin' a fox on skates — not a 
 bit." 
 
 "Gentlemen," said Hargrove, with lofty dignity, "I 
 perceive that it is useless for me to appeal to your rea- 
 son. You will persist in misinterpreting my motives. 
 I am a slaveholder because the law permits me to be. 
 The same law gives a manumitted slave the right to be 
 free, and I would help to tar and feather a kidnapper 
 just as quick as the hottest abolitionist that ever howled 
 about what he knows nothing of. There are reasons 
 which I cannot explain here, why I am especially inte- 
 rested in this woman. I would not interfere with her 
 freedom, however, for the price of a king's ransom." 
 
 "Captain Hargrove," said Mrs. Kortright, extending 
 her hand to him, "I believe every word you say." 
 
 "Thank you, madam," said he with emotion, as he 
 clasped her hand. " You will never regret your confi- 
 dence in my integrity. You will then inform me of the 
 whereabouts of this unfortunate woman?" 
 
 "I cannot. Captain. I assure you she is safe. My 
 husband took her through the storm last night to the 
 house of a friend ; but I can tell you nothing more until 
 he is well enough to permit of my consulting with him." 
 
 "You are entirely right to act with caution, madam. 
 Meantime may I make you my agent to transmit to her 
 this document," said Hargrove, taking the record of 
 manumission again from his pocket, "and also this 
 money for the supply of her present needs. Whenever 
 she may require more, you have but to inform me of the 
 fact, and 1 will gladly supply any reasonable amount." 
 
''FOR WOUNDS, balm:' 61 
 
 The sum which he laid in the honest woman's pahii 
 was such as to cause her breath to come quick with 
 amazement. 
 
 ''Come, Hilda," said Hargrove, cheerfully. "Good 
 morning, madam. I will send .Jason over as soon as I 
 get home. Good morning, gentlemen." 
 
 Passing out of the door, Merwyn Hargrove unhitched 
 his horses and drove back to Sturmhold, with a look 
 upon his face that showed how genuine had been his 
 anxiety. 
 
CHAPTEE Y. 
 
 "a defeated joy." 
 
 The neighbors followed Hargrove out of the house 
 and stood peering at the bright sunshine from the little 
 side porch, while the master of Sturmhold hastily 
 stripped the robes from his horses, unhitched them from 
 the post, and, with sharp, stern words of command, 
 started them upon their homeward way. The noon 
 sunshine was undoing the night's work with wonderful 
 rapidity. Bright streams trickled from the eaves of 
 every building. The softened snow slipped from the 
 bowed branches of the trees, which leaped up to their pro- 
 per places with sharp sighs of relief from their burdens. 
 Avalanches swept doAvn the sloping roofs. The beaten 
 paths yielded beneath the feet as if a sea were hidden 
 under the dripping whiteness that overspread the earth. 
 Boreas declined the gage of battle and left his chariot 
 to be melted by the wrath of the conqueror. 
 
 "Going fast," said Ritner, looking at the sun and the 
 torrents pouring from the eaves. 
 
 "Which?" asked Van Wormer, glancing roguishly 
 from the eave spouts to Hargrove, then just stepping 
 into his sleigh. 
 
 " Wal, both," answered Ritner, with instant but sol- 
 emn appreciation of the jest. 
 
 "Jest as they come, too," added Shields, dryly, losing 
 nothing of the humor of his companions, but fitting his 
 own caustic wit to their pleasantry, "without invitation 
 and for mighty little good." 
 62 
 
"^ DEFEATED JOY:' 03 
 
 "Queer that he should have run across the woman's 
 track right here," said Van Wormer, 
 
 " He didn't make much off o' Martha Kortright, any- 
 liow," said Sliields. 
 
 "That's how the Squire got his rheumatism last 
 night!" said Ritner, incUning his head knowingly to- 
 ward the room they had just left. 
 
 "And that," said Shields, nodding assent and raising 
 his finger for emphasis, " that's what made him a Free- 
 S'iler this morning, too." 
 
 "Well, gentlemen, can I take one of you down to 
 'lection ?" asked the Doctor, hriskly, as he passed them 
 on the porch and began to untie his horse. "What say 
 you, Shields? I don't often take a 'Hunker' to the 
 polls, but Ave couldn't get along without you." 
 
 A ripple of laughter greeted the Doctor's joke. 
 
 " Wal, no, thank you all the same. Doctor. 1 ain't a 
 bit proud, an' having come this far with a ' Silver-Grey ' " 
 — glancing at Ritner— " I Avouldn't mind going the rest 
 of the way with a ' Woolly Head ;' but I bleeve I won't 
 vote to-day. I ain't sure but Squire Kortright is about 
 right. Anyhow, I'll pair off with him this time, an' 
 try an' make up my mind 'bout some things that I ain't 
 exactly sartain of uoav afore 'lection time comes 'round 
 agin." 
 
 "So you're going to let the country go to destruction 
 without trying to stop it," said the Doctor, as he settled 
 himself in his cutter and took up the reins." 
 
 "Wal, yes," answered Shields, deprecatingly. "1 
 know I ain't doin' right, an' it's my fault, too, but the 
 fact is, I don't exactly knoAv what I ought to do. I'm 
 at a standstill an' can't determine whether I ought to 
 be for the woman that run away in the snow or for the 
 man that followed after in the sleigh." 
 
 "That's my idea exactly," echoed liitner warmly, 
 " and that's about all there is in our politics when you 
 
04 HOT PLOWSHARES. 
 
 git to the bottom on't, too," he continued medita- 
 tively, " though ever3^bod5' keeps swearin' that politics 
 hain't nothing to do with Slaveiy or Freedom/' 
 
 "Good Heavens, Doctor," said Van Wormer, "did 
 you ever see such a nest of Abolitionists ?" 
 
 "Well," said the Doctor, cutting the snow with his 
 whip as he spoke, " I'm in about the same predicament ; 
 but I've made up my mind to run betwixt and between, 
 as we have to do sometimes when we can't exactlj^ make 
 out what's the matter with a patient. There ain't no 
 chance of the Free Soil party winning this time, and 
 yet it seems to me to be bottomed on the right idea. So 
 I believe I'll give them a vote this once, just to encour- 
 age them." 
 
 "It amounts to jest the same thing," answered 
 Shields. "We both own up that we don't know the 
 river, as we used to say in raftin', an' so Ave give up the 
 steerin' oar to them that thinks they do." 
 
 "That's so," said the Doctor, tightening his reins. 
 " Well, won't either of you go ?" looking at Van Wormer 
 as he spoke. 
 
 "Well, no," said the younger man, "I believe not. I 
 guess I'll go home with these two ' Barnburners' and in- 
 troduce them to their families. They've changed so 
 since they started out that nobod}' there would recog- 
 nize them." 
 
 The Doctor drove off with a laugh, while the others 
 walked homewards over the soft and splashing road- 
 way they had helped to make a few hours before, more 
 thoughtful if not wiser men. 
 
 As Kortright had predicted, the vote that day was an 
 unusually heavy one, though the storm had extended 
 into several States, and when the boxes were closed as 
 the sun went down, "the man that fit the Mexicans" 
 had been "made" President of the Republic. For the 
 first time in the history of the nation the lines between 
 
"^ DEFEATED JOY:' 65 
 
 Slavery and Freedom had been sharply drawn, and 
 Lil)erty had achieved its first victory, though its advo- 
 cates but little understood the significance of that day's 
 work, and did not realize until many a day had passed 
 that a defeat which mocked them with apparent hope- 
 lessness was but the shadow of coming victory. 
 
CHAPTER VI. 
 
 THE CLUE TO THE LABYRINTH. 
 
 The sixteenth Presidential election was really a turn- 
 ing point in American history. For the first time, the 
 Anti-Slavery sentiment then became an actual poAver 
 in American politics. The growth of this principle and 
 the conflict between the two opposing claims of right — 
 the right of the Master to hold and the right of the 
 Slave to be free — must long remain the most interest- 
 ing phase of our history, as for more than a generation 
 it was the most absorbing question of our national life. 
 So deftly was the ebb and flow of this mighty thought 
 concealed beneath the waves which the gusts of party 
 passion stirred upon the surface, that many of the most 
 prominent actors in our destiny little dreamed that they 
 were borne on to victory by its power or drawn doAvn 
 to oblivion by its undertow. 
 
 It has been too much the custom to regard this great 
 'Conflict of ideas as simply a series of partisan successes 
 and defeats. In truth, no great principle ever gained a 
 foothold in the polity of a republic so independently of all 
 party influence and favor in its growth and development 
 as the movement in the United States for the abolition of 
 slavery. For man}' years it was outside of all parties, 
 yet underneath ever}' political organization. It had fcAV 
 professed advocates ; yet it colored with its intensity 
 every public life. Long before it had become a recog- 
 nized political poAver in the nation, it had entered 
 the pulpit, the home, the school, and had stinnilated 
 thought to a point never before paralleled in history. 
 60 
 
THE CLUE TO THE LABYRINTH 67 
 
 The struggle it inaugurated was pre-eminently a con- 
 flict of ideas, and the field on which it was fought 
 covered almost the entire domain of human knowledge. 
 Every physical scientist, from Agassiz down to the 
 half-taught quack of the country cross-roads, had an 
 opinion by which he was ready to stand or fall as to 
 the comparative capacity of the African and Caucasian 
 races. In defense of his special theory was always ar- 
 rayed his professional pride and not seldom his profes- 
 sional spite. 
 
 The archaeologist exhausted the lore of history, tra- 
 dition and scientific guesswork to prove or disprove 
 the negro's capacity for self-direction and self-control. 
 The political economist faced his fellow-scientist in the 
 struggle to show that Cotton was King, and that the 
 king could be made regnant only by the slave's labor. 
 The theologians hurled tomes of learning at each other's 
 heads, proving and disproving more doctrine from Scrip- 
 ture than the most inspired of the prophets had ever 
 forecasted. 
 
 Its growth was not only extra-political, but it grew in 
 spite of parties. It is probable that when the first 
 petition in regard to slavery was presented in the 
 House of Representatives, the number of people who 
 were distinctly opposed to it — who actually regarded it 
 as a wrong toward the slave — was very insignificant. It 
 has been said that there were five thousand such in the 
 State of Massachusetts, but it is doubtful if there were 
 that number in the whole nation. There were many 
 who believed it an evil to the white race, and others 
 who thought it only a choice of evils ; but the number who 
 actually regarded the negro as a man, entitled to all 
 the rights and privileges attaching to white manhood, 
 was excessively small during the last quarter of the 
 eighteenth and first quarter of the nineteenth century. 
 
 Both parties shunned the mighty problems it in- 
 
68 HOT PLOWSHARES. 
 
 volved. Even the splendid powers of John Quincy 
 Adams were sufficient only to make the right of pe- 
 tition an uncertain and dubious issue. The one party 
 not only openly declared against the assailabihty of 
 slavery, but in the main, insisted that it was the ne- 
 cessary and normal condition of a considerable por- 
 tion of our population. To this party the Anti-Slavery 
 movement was wrong in theory as well as in practice. 
 On the other hand, the opposing party, while deprecat- 
 ing slavery as an evil, deprecated still more all move- 
 ment looking toward its extinction. The one denounced 
 the very existence of the movement; the other hesi- 
 tatingly courted its support and thought its advocates 
 unreasonable when they demanded more than bare tole- 
 ration at its hands. The one actively proclaimed and 
 advocated the rights of the slave-owners ; the other 
 mildly questioned the extent of them but stubbornly 
 refused to recognize any right attaching to the slave. 
 Each party fought the other manfully on most questions, 
 but joined hands in putting down the heresy that a 
 black skin ever afforded lodgement for inalienable right. 
 
 The South was "solid," even then. It had two par- 
 ties, but only one political creed. Each party had a 
 "Southern wing," and, so far as this question was con- 
 cerned, they might have swapped "wings" and the dif- 
 ference hardly have been perceptible. Instead of being 
 the creature of party "Abolitionism" was the bete noire 
 of all parties. The one declared that such an idea was 
 treasonable and dangerovis ; the other that it was im- 
 practicable and absurd. Between the two the choice 
 was not great. The one favored slavery and the other 
 would not advocate freedom. 
 
 A like anomaly presented itself in the church. One 
 ecclesiastical body undertook to enforce the doctrine of 
 its founder as a vital element of Christian faith, and 
 was rent asunder in the convulsion that followed. Other 
 
THE CLUE TO THE LABYRINTH. 69 
 
 bodies of a less homogeneous character displayed the 
 most amazing contradictions of dogma. In the same 
 town, one pulpit thundered in behalf of slavery and an- 
 other, of the same faith, promulgated the doctrine of 
 human liberty and equality. 
 
 Commerce, as usual, was with the majority, and fa- 
 vored the status quo. Cotton was King, on 'Change at 
 least, and he who spun and wove bowed obedient to its 
 mandate. Trade seeks peaceful highways, and the traf- 
 ficker avoids every element of uncertainty that can be 
 eliminated from his estimate of the future. So Com- 
 merce joined hands with Politics and Religion and threw 
 obstacles in the way of the new movement. 
 
 Yet still it grew. There is nothing more wonderful 
 in history than its growth. Despite its burdens of pre- 
 dicted disaster, of irreligious tone, of commercial dis- 
 trust, of scientific absurdity, of political animosity — 
 despite all this, it grew like the oak hid in the acorn 
 and pressed down by the rock — silently, imperceptibly, 
 none could guess in what direction, but always toward 
 the light. 
 
 Strangely enough, too, it grew in streaks and spots. 
 It did not follow geographical or State lines. It took 
 root on one side of a mountain and never found lodge- 
 ment on the other. One bank of a river was anti-slavery 
 in sentiment, while that a bowshot away was bitterly 
 hostile to the last. One end of a street was for and 
 the other against the dogma. So, too, one could judge 
 nothing from the antecedents of parties in regard to 
 their course upon this question. The New England 
 Brahmin and the nameless shoemaker's son struck 
 hands in advocacy of the doctrine. Here would be found 
 a community devoutly in earnest in the battle for lib- 
 erty, while all around it sneered at the notion of right 
 attaching to ebon-hued humanity. The most trivial 
 incident turned men who carried with them whole 
 
70 HOT PL W SHARES. 
 
 communities. A traveler by cliance saw an assemblage 
 of men and women refused admission to a public hall, 
 because they proposed to discuss the doctrine of human 
 liberty. He offered them his house as a refuge of free 
 thought, rode all night to prepare for their coming, and 
 from that day the voice and pen of Gerrit Smith rested 
 not until slavery was no more. 
 
 Its early advocates were men and women of profound 
 convictions. The opprobrium attaching to the name of 
 Abolitionist had no charm for the demagogue. The 
 man who declared his adhesion to the odious dogma 
 must needs have the courage of his convictions. Even 
 the South, which honestly and naturally regarded this 
 movement with hate and horror, could not but admit 
 its sincerity. They accounted it fanaticism — cruel, harsh 
 fanaticism — but they could attribute no selfish or un- 
 worthy motives to its advocates. The only approach to 
 such imputation was the frequent claim that fanaticism 
 was fanned by envy — that the ease and abundance of 
 the South stirred the envious hate of the half-starved 
 New Englander. But this was the raving of ignorance. 
 The truth is, that upon no public question in the world's 
 history have a whole people ever been so intensely sin- 
 cere in their convictions. Upon no other hypothesis can 
 the intellectual phenomena of that day be explained. 
 Of course, both sides misunderstood and misappreciated 
 each other. The Anti-Slavery leaders thought, spoke 
 and wrote ; were beaten, incarcerated and maligned, 
 until they could not conceive that those who advocated 
 the preservation and continuance of an evil that grew 
 blacker with every ray of light thrown upon its real 
 character, could be moved by other than base and self- 
 ish considerations. The slaveholder, on the other hand, 
 who looked upon slavery as upon any other incident 
 of his accustomed life, regarding it as an institution 
 not altogether perfect or in all respects admirable, but 
 
THE CLUE TO THE LABYRINTH. 71 
 
 infinitely superior to any condition of society likely to 
 be formed of the same elements, considered the mere 
 agitation of the question as an unlawful infringement 
 of his sacred right of private property. To his mind, 
 the nation was a simple confederation which he had 
 entered clothed with certain powers, among which was 
 the right to control and manage his own property in 
 such manner as he chose. This was in his eyes a gua- 
 ranty which all the land had pledged its honor and 
 power to sustain. That the slave had a right that 
 might conflict with his he did not dream. His father 
 and his father's fathers, back to the dawn of history, had 
 held slaves or been slaves. He was right, too. The 
 weight of authority was with him. Leaving aside the 
 New Testament, the literature of personal liberty was 
 very light when Garrison dipped his pen in fire for its 
 advocacy. Even in this, the lesson of comfort given to 
 the poor "doulos" was, by interpretation, made to over- 
 weigh the vision of the "common and unclean" that 
 came to Peter, the declaration of Paul that the Chris- 
 tian idea recognized neither "bond nor free," and the 
 whole lesson of the Master's life. The whole doc- 
 trine was an innovation. One little island, in its re- 
 bound from the pains of foreign thraldom, had given to 
 its soil the magic power to dissolve the fetters of the 
 slave by instant contact. But even her dependencies 
 were yet ruled by the lash, and the slaves' labor yet 
 filled the coffers of her merchant princes. Aye, it was 
 from her that he had received his heritage of bondsmen 
 and the right to hold and use them as he chose. Con- 
 firmed by generations, extending over one-third of the 
 Republic, and afiecting not only every one who owned a 
 slave, but every one who dwelt within the zone where 
 the African race constituted a considerable proportion 
 of the population, it is not to be wondered at that all 
 efforts to change this established relation or interfere 
 
72 HOT PLOW.SIIAEES. 
 
 with the right confirmed by a prescription which might 
 well defy the law's severest test, were regarded as in- 
 cendiary, and, lacking a selfish motive in their promoters, 
 were thought to be inspired by a fanaticism "moved 
 and instigated by the Devil." 
 
 There are some phases of this struggle for Avhich it is 
 almost impossible to account. Among these was the 
 intensity of the odium attaching to the advocacy of 
 anti-slavery principles at the North. There was no per- 
 sonal interest to excuse or justify this. The mere vis 
 inertia of the public mind, Avhich is of course opposed 
 to change, is not sufficient to account for its rancor. To 
 be an " Abolitionist " was to be regarded with distrust 
 in almost all localities, with clearly-expressed disfavor 
 in a majority of cases and with absolute hostihty in not 
 a few. Men and women were mobbed in quiet country 
 towns hundreds of miles away from the northern verge 
 of slave territory, for simply avowing the belief that 
 slavery was an unrighteous and an evil thing and should 
 be abolished at the earliest possible moment. This was 
 done, too, by quiet, earnest, moral people, who would 
 have looked with horror upon the denial of the right of 
 private opinion on any other subject. 
 
 As the struggle grew more general it became also 
 more bitter. The feeling in its favor grew stronger year 
 by year, its adversaries more numerous and the war of 
 words more universal. Despite the protests and clamor 
 of parties, the question began to color all jiolitical contro- 
 versy. Without ever having been distinctly recognized, 
 it was the underlying motive of almost every political 
 act. The growing army of Abolitionists was made up 
 of men whose convictions made -them valuable allies and 
 dangerous enemies. They had little regard for party 
 lines and still less for party platforms. Their one idea 
 swallowed up all others. To this they subordinated all 
 other political considerations. Whatever moved the 
 
THE CLUE TO THE LABYlUNTir. 7,3 
 
 wheels of progress toward the goal of lil)erty by even a 
 hair's breadth, that they favored. Whatever stood in 
 the way of the accomplishnieut of their one desire, that 
 they hated and opposed. 
 
 So it was that they formed strange alliances. In one 
 State they aided the Whigs and in another the Demo- 
 crats ; but, whatever the specific result, in all cases they 
 gained something by the continuous discussion of the 
 question which controlled their action. As a rule, the 
 Whigs were supposed to lean toward the party of liberty 
 and the Democrats to incline themselves toward the sup- 
 porters of slavery. The official utterances of the former 
 were intended to conciliate the Free-Soil element with- 
 out oflending any more than was unavoidable the Pro- 
 slavery wing of the party. The latter sought to achieve 
 success by conciliating the Slave Power, as it was then 
 t-alled, and stigmatizing in the severest terms the Abo- 
 litionists. Yet in its early struggles the Anti-Slavery 
 movement was very largely reinforced from Democratic 
 ranks, and perhaps the greater number of its political 
 leaders came originally from that party. 
 
 The great leaders of it as a moral and intellectual 
 movement— those who planned its campaigns among the 
 people and fought its battles in the forum of conscience 
 —belonged to no party. To them individual Hberty 
 and its proper guarantees were above all things in im- 
 portance. They had no other aim, no ulterior purpose. 
 They rightly named themselves in their first party con- 
 vention—a weak and beggarly affair so far as numbers 
 or great names were concerned— the Liberty Party. 
 One great thought absorbed them. Outside of this they 
 were nothing. Already their names are falling into ob- 
 scurity. Their work accomplished, the world has no 
 more use for them. They are the worn instruments 
 which the Master Workman lays aside when they have 
 served His purpose. 
 
74 HOT PLOWSUARES. 
 
 To the whole land, however, this struggle Avas the 
 great impulse to thought. No mind could slumber in 
 the fever heat it brought. Every soul was wrought up 
 to its best and brightest in assault or defense. There 
 was no middle ground. Those who stood by and fal- 
 tered Avere ground to powder. The greatest was as the 
 least before the onward sweeping avalanche. One mo- 
 ment's hesitation, and the greatest of leaders was tram- 
 pled in the mire. One moment's inspiration, and a 
 pigmy was thrust over the heads of all into the leader's 
 place. Men were nothing — the one great thought was all. 
 
CHAPTER VII. 
 
 BETWEEN THE PILLARS. 
 
 On the day when Harrison Kortright's friends stood 
 upon his porch and debated as to their duty, tlie Anti- 
 Slavery movement, having cast oft" the fetters of pohti- 
 cal thraldom, had just laid hold upon its first opportu- 
 nity to make or mar — to lift up and to cast down in the 
 Republic. Four years before, there had been a fierce 
 struggle in the Democratic party. One of its great 
 leaders had been thrown aside by a combination of 
 many lesser ones. For twenty years and more Martin 
 Van Buren had been the strategist of his party. Its 
 victories had been won under his dii'ection, if not through 
 his apparent leadership. He was to Jackson what Ham- 
 ilton was to Washington, and even more. Not only had 
 his brain conceived the successes of his party, but he 
 had generally proved himself capable of warding off" the 
 perils resulting from the stupidity or stubbornness of 
 others. Weighted through the entire period of his own 
 administration with the blunders he was powerless to 
 prevent his predecessor from committing, (the resulting 
 eft"ects of which were fully developed only during his 
 own presidency) probably no candidate ever offered for 
 a re-election under equal disadvantages. His defeat 
 was overwhelming, but his management in saving his 
 party from demoralization and dissolution in conse- 
 quence of this defeat was most admirable. During 
 the four years that followed this overthrow of the 
 Democracy after a brilliant series of uninterrupted 
 successes, it was his masterly skill and unequaled sa- 
 75 
 
76 HOT PLOWSHARES. 
 
 gacity that transformed the shattered and defeated mob 
 of 1840 into the triumphant host of 1844. He was the 
 head of his party in defeat as well as in victory. This 
 most trying of all roles to the partisan chief he filled, 
 not only with success, but with a peculiar dignity that 
 enabled him to enter the next convention of his party 
 with an undoubted majority at his back. Perhaps so 
 difficult an achievemsnt has never been successfully per- 
 formed by any other American party leader. Its diffi- 
 culty was greatly enhanced, not only by the fact that the 
 defeat came after a political life of unusual duration 
 and activity, but also by the further fact that there 
 were in the ranks of his party a large number of aspir- 
 ing veterans whose service had been nearly equal to his 
 own in length, and whose successes had been only less 
 conspicuous. To the ambition of each of these the 
 lapse of another quadrenniate was fraught with danger. 
 With so astute a leader as Van Buren, the success of 
 the party was assured. Their antagonists, the Whigs, 
 demoralized by the defection of Tyler, and weakened 
 by the rivalry of two great leaders, each of whom con- 
 sidered the party a simple machine for his own per- 
 sonal aggrandizement, were indeed rather to be de- 
 spised than feared, even with the name of "Harry of 
 the West " upon their banners. 
 
 The number and efficiency of the lieutenants Van Bu- 
 ren had attached to himself was marvelous. In his four 
 years of retirement he had managed, none knew how, to 
 make himself again the autocrat of his party in his own 
 state of New York. It was not from any fear of failure 
 under his leadership, therefore, that his name was re- 
 jected by the convention and that of an unknown Ten- 
 nessee politician substituted in its place. Two causes 
 were at work. Each of the leaders who stood next him 
 in rank thought it possible that such defeat might mean 
 his own selection. Having combined to ettect this re- 
 
BETWEEN THE PILLARS. 77 
 
 suit, thoy found that the defeated .statesman had still 
 sutRcient power ta- prevent any one of them from wear- 
 ing the laurels that had been snatched from his brow 
 through their conspiracy. The best they could do was 
 to acquiesce in the selection of a man so obscure and 
 of such conspicuous weakness as to leave the matter of 
 the succession open to a free scramble four years later. 
 This course suited well the baffled giant, who was no 
 doubt even then meditating his revenge. 
 
 The lot fell upon a Southern man, quiet, scholarly, 
 narrow-minded, and, in all that affected the South, a 
 bigot of the extremest type. Strangely enough, he 
 lacked all the characteristic attributes of a Southern 
 politician except good family. He was neither a bril- 
 liant orator, an astute manager, a magnetic personality, 
 nor any other thing that is supposed to characterize 
 the successful leader. He was merely James K. Polk, 
 of Tennessee — a good enough man, a fair lawyer, a 
 sound State-Rights Democrat, cold-blooded, precise, 
 suspicious and weak — a man morally certain to organ- 
 ize no following that would enable him to be or to 
 name his own successor. At the same time, he was re- 
 garded as a docile, manageable man, whose adminis- 
 tration would probably be one of those even, unmarked 
 periods, not at all dangerous to the success of a party 
 whose strongest guarantee of power was its unswerving 
 adhesion to the established order. 
 
 Probably no character in our history is so hard to 
 analyze as that of Martin Van Buren, The secret 
 of his power seems to have died with him. He was 
 not renowned as an orator, and yet must have pos- 
 sessed great powers as an advocate. He is not usu- 
 ally credited with having devised any great public 
 measures, yet, during the most important epoch of 
 his party's history, every measure to which it owed 
 success not only required his approval, but showed 
 
78 HOT PLOWSHARES. 
 
 his shaping or modifying touch. He was not eminent 
 in debate, but was always a leader of his party in 
 legislation. He is said to have been personally calm, 
 self-poised and unconfiding. He heard every one's 
 opinion, but took no one's advice. He was accounted 
 shrewd and cunning, but never was accused of personal 
 treachery. He was cautious to the verge of timidity 
 and, at the same time, confident to the verge of rashness. 
 He never exulted over victory nor whimpered at defeat. 
 He had few personal friends, but an amazing popular 
 following. In theory he was the broadest of democrats ; 
 in practice the most exclusive of aristocrats. Xone of 
 his associates seem to have regarded him with affection 
 and few of his opponents looked upon him with ani- 
 mosity. Perhaps no political life in our history shows 
 so few mistakes. In no single instance did he fail to 
 make the best of the occasion, viewing it from his own 
 standpoint ; unless it were the last and greatest of his 
 life — the opportunity to lead the movement that even- 
 tually transformed the nation. He seems to have had 
 all men's regard, but to have given none his trust. 
 By his opponents he Avas called cunning ; by his fol- 
 lowers sagacious. More justly than almost any other 
 politician he may be said to have achieved his own 
 successes. Living, he was the envy of all who would 
 succeed ; dead, he has been the model of unnumbered 
 failures. Few statesmen would covet his fame ; fewer 
 still do not envy his success. He is the Sphinx of our 
 history — the hidden hand in many great events — a man 
 in whom the elements were so deftly mixed that no 
 friend knew his heart and no enemy ever came M'ithin 
 his guard. 
 
 In that knowledge of the public heart on which is 
 grounded the power to forecast political events he was 
 admittedly unequaled by any man of his day. Another 
 characteristic also none ever denied him — the most 
 
BETWEEN THE PILLARS. 7!) 
 
 unruffled courage. His course once fixed upon, nothing 
 could swerve him from pursuing it to the end. Pubhc 
 clamor or private cabal he regarded with equal indiffer- 
 ence. Friend or foe he met with equal urbanity. In 
 a time when personal coUisions were frequent and fac- 
 tional strife was hottest, he was on terms of personal 
 familiarity Mith all. No insult disturbed his serenity, 
 yet no affront was ever forgotten. He never clamored 
 for revenge, and never failed to obtain it. To those 
 who aided his plans he was a faithful ally ; to those who 
 openly opposed, a dangerous but yet pleasing enemy ; 
 to those who sought to undermine and betray, a power 
 that never failed to countermine and crush. 
 
 With his great contemporaries he offered a strange 
 contrast. While John Quincy Adams scourged and 
 distrusted all, he spoke ill of none. To Jackson, turbu- 
 lent, boisterous, impulsive, and stubborn rather than 
 determined, he was a rudder unseen, quiet, often un- 
 shipped, yet in the end preserving him from the disaster 
 he invited. To Calhoun he was a calm, unruffled mirror, 
 in which that clamorous and ambitious controversialist 
 read his doom of defeat and mortification. To Webster 
 and Clay he was a fate that disarmed their eloquence, 
 thwarted their schemes, detected their ambition and de- 
 fied their disappointment. In short, he is the one man 
 in our history who always stood alone and yet for a 
 quarter of a century was a leader of the majority. He 
 was called "the Little Magician," and the genius which 
 transformed the country tavern-keeper's son into the 
 most successful of party leaders justified the title. 
 
 In 1844 this man met with a disaster which he knew 
 was irretrievable. His knowledge of public sentiment, 
 wider, keener, more accurate than any other of his day 
 possessed, told him that he had no hope of re-estabhsh- 
 ing himself in the seat of power. Age had already left 
 its impress upon him, though he was yet erect, his step 
 
80 HOT PLOWSHARES. 
 
 elastic, his eyes undimmod and his tones as even and 
 decisive as ever. For ahnost forty years he had been 
 in public life, filling perhaps more positions of honor 
 and trust and discharging more varied and responsitjle 
 duties than any other citizen of the republic has been 
 called upon to perform. His was that ripeness of know- 
 ledge and intellect that is an invaluable adjunct to 
 any fixed purpose. As a statesman he was the best 
 trained of his time. As a diplomatist he was unmatched 
 at home or abroad. As a politician he was the envy 
 of friend and foe alike. This man, in the ripeness of 
 his powers, was relegated to the private station partly 
 through the envy of his inferiors, and partly through 
 the operation of a cause that remains.to be traced. 
 
 The State of New York was really the theatre in 
 which the first political battles of the Anti-Slavery move- 
 ment were fought. It is true that Xew England has 
 generally claimed the leadership of this movement, as, in 
 a sense, she very well deserves to do. But the Empire 
 State w^as that in which it first became an active and 
 important political factor, and there, chiefly because of 
 its co-operation with different cabals in the Democratic 
 party. In that State the old Republican party, and its 
 successor in doctrine and personnel^ the Democratic, was 
 not only very strong from the beginning of the cen- 
 tury until the time of which we write, but the State had 
 also produced a surprising number of political leaders of 
 that faith. The success of several of these had been 
 such, not only in the politics of the State but in the 
 councils of the nation, as to inspire in them a just and 
 reasonable desire to become the candidate of their party 
 for the highest place. Each had his particular follow- 
 ers, and this struggle for the leadership of the Democracy 
 of the Empire State offered the first practicable oppor- 
 tunity for the new doctrine to obtain lodgment inside of 
 established party lines. She gave it a foothold that 
 
BETWEEN THE PILLAR f!. ftl 
 
 seems surprising when we reflect how few outspoken 
 advocates it had among her recognized intellectual lead- 
 ers. Already, in 1.S40, when lirst a vote was cast for Anti- 
 Slavery candidates for President and Vice-President, 
 there Avere almost twice as many in New York who were 
 willing to accept the odium of " AboUtionism" as in 
 Massachusetts, and these two States furnished more 
 than half of the seven thousand votei's of the "Liberty" 
 party. By 1844, this number in New York had in- 
 creased from three thousand to fifteen thousand, still 
 leading Massachusetts by fifty per cent, of its vote, and 
 furnishing one-fourth of the entire following of the new 
 party. 
 
 This was the situation of affairs Avhen Martin Van 
 Buren received his death blow as a political leader in 
 the Democratic Convention at Baltimore. Samson was 
 shorn and blinded. In the silence of retirement he medi- 
 tated his revenge. 
 
 The State of New York has always been noted, not 
 only for the struggle of factions within the great pohti- 
 cal parties, but also for the nomenclature that has been 
 adopted to designate them. In this respect it has been 
 in striking contrast with the New England States, 
 which, except in a few instances, have hardly ever de- 
 parted from the orthodox designations of the national 
 parties. Considering the general reputation for humor 
 which attaches to the New England character and the 
 contrasted repute for phlegm which has been attributed 
 to the citizens of the Empire State, this is somewhat 
 remarkable. Especially is this true when we consider 
 the grotesque and ludicrous epithets that have prevailed 
 in the latter State— " Locofoco, " "Hunker," "Barn- 
 burner," "Silver Grey," "Woolly Heads," and many 
 others of equal insignificance at the present time, but 
 each constituting at the time of its adoption a nick- 
 name that expressed some actual or supposed character- 
 
82 HOT PLOWSHARES. 
 
 istic of the faction to which it was appUed. Some of 
 these are said to have been self-assumed. Others were 
 adopted by the parties in defiance of the ridicule at- 
 tempted to be conveyed l)y them. Some, as "Locofoco,'' 
 spx-ead beyond the boundary of the State and became 
 accepted party designations in other states. This one 
 is said to have been derived from the use of matches — 
 then a luxury just beginning to be common in the 
 land, displacing the ancient flint and steel, which was 
 not entirely dispossessed until the century had almost 
 reached its meridian — and called by their supposed 
 inventor "Locofocos." These matches, much more 
 strongly charged with sulphur than the modern match, 
 are said to have played a prominent part in one of the 
 meetings of the faction, which thence took its name. 
 Another faction was compared by a wit to a farmer 
 who burned his barn to rid himself of the rats who 
 devoured his grain. Thence they were termed there- 
 after "Barnburners," a name which for a time bade fair 
 to usurp the place so long held by that king of denun- 
 ciatory epithets, "Abolitionist." "Silver Greys" aijd 
 "Woolly Heads" were epithets applied to Whig fac- 
 tions, corresponding very nearty with the "Hunkers" 
 and "Barnburners" of the Democracy, and represent- 
 ing respectively the conservative and liberal elements 
 of the parties. In the period between 1844 and 1848 
 this epithetic warfare Avas at its height. The struggle 
 of factions seemed constantly intensified during this 
 time by some unseen power which never rested. No 
 sooner was one breach healed than one even more 
 dangerous discovered itself The acknowledged leaders 
 of the Democracy became mysteriously estranged. Ap- 
 parently Van Buren did nothing, but accepted as his 
 quietus the defeat he had received. There were some 
 who professed to see his handiwork in this distracted 
 and wari-ing condition of the Democracv. Others saw 
 
BETWEim THE J'fLLAIiS. 83 
 
 in it only the. lack of his fostering can' and marvel- 
 ous tactical skill. The one counted it as due to his 
 active machinations ; the others attributed it solely to 
 his indifterence. It was tacitly understood that he no 
 longer felt himself bound to bear true faith and allegiance 
 to his old party. During the Presidential campaign that 
 followed he remained loyal to his party colors, or if he 
 did not co-operate in the election of Polk, he at least 
 refrained from any overt act that could be accounted 
 bad faith in a defeated candidate. That election, how- 
 ever, loosed his bonds. He had been defeated by the 
 Southern wing of his party. They had opposed him 
 solidly, and, by an alliance with the followers of Cass 
 and others of less note, had adopted the two-thirds 
 rule, which made Yan Buren's nomination impossible. 
 This was charged upon Cass as an act of bad faith, and 
 the events which followed seem to sustain the imputa- 
 tion. 
 
 It had been alleged against Van Buren that he was 
 not true to the South, and that section, always jealous 
 of those whom it favored with its support, under the 
 inspiration of some whose motive was no doubt partly 
 that of revenge, declared against him. How far the 
 charge is true it is hard at this time to determine. That 
 he was impelled by his sagacity to be progressive there 
 is no doubt. He knew human nature well enough to 
 understand that men could not always be kept fighting 
 over and over again the same old battles. He kncAV 
 that the successful leader must always be fecund of 
 new issues. In his own State he had won and held his 
 leadership by originating and adopting various new 
 departures. Upon assuming the presidential chair he 
 had at once devised a ncAV method of evincing his sub- 
 serviency to the slavery power by declaring in advance 
 his purpose to veto all measures aftecting that institu- 
 tion in the District of Columbia. Excepting his oppo- 
 
84 HOT PLOWSHARES. 
 
 sition to Calhoun, there is little if anything in his career 
 to justify the inference that he was ever lukewarm in 
 his support of slavery. 
 
 The Democratic Convention of 1848 was held in May, 
 and Lewis Cass was its nominee for President, receiving 
 the almost undivided support of the Southern members. 
 The time was therefore ripe for his revenge. The 
 Southern wing of the Democracy, which had deserted 
 from his standard, was now united in interest Avith 
 Cass who, he claimed, had betrayed him, while Marcy 
 and other great leaders of the North felt in some de- 
 gree the sting that rankled in his own breast. In Au- 
 gust thereafter, a "Free Soil" Convention was held 
 at Buffalo. It Avas the old Liberty party under a new 
 name, and in it was a new element. Martin Van Buren 
 was its candidate for President, and Avhen the votes 
 were counted, at the close of the day of which we have 
 written, a hundred and twenty thousand of the freemen 
 of New York stood where four years before there had 
 been but fifteen thousand. Almost one-half the Free 
 Soil strength was found within her borders. Zachary 
 Taylor was elected and Lewis Cass defeated by thirty- 
 six electoral votes — the electoral votes of New York. The 
 shorn and blinded Samson had pulled down the temple 
 on those who mocked at him. 
 
 Four years afterwards, the Free Soil vote of New York 
 had fallen back to twenty-five thousand. By a compa- 
 rison of the votes of 1844, 1848 and 1852, it will be seen 
 that in New York Yan Buren not only received the full 
 strength of the Free Soil vote, but also carried to it fully 
 one Imndred thousand votes from the Democratic j^artij I 
 There is little in his previous or subsequent career to 
 justify the belief that he accepted the principles of the 
 party whose cause he apparently espoused. Indeed, 
 he can hardly be said to have expressed approval of 
 them at all. He merely engaged to carry them into 
 
BETWEEN THE I'll. LARS. 85 
 
 effect if elected, which, as he had no hope of an elec- 
 tion, was a promise cheaply made. lie indulged in 
 some platitudes with regard to the danger of Slavery as 
 an element of our national life, which hardly any one 
 would have presumed to question then, and which he 
 lived to see fulfilled in a way that astounded him so 
 greatly as almost conclusively to prove that his utter- 
 ance of these warning words was merely a perfunctory 
 recognition of a growing public sentiment and not a 
 positive conviction. That he secured the unhesitating 
 support of a party to which he had previously been 
 pecuUarly obnoxious, and at the same time, after two 
 defeats, carried so great a portion of his own party into 
 the camp of their bitterest opponents, without patro- 
 nage, without hope of success, and without faith in the 
 future of the movement with which he was identified, is 
 a testimony to his power such as few men have ever 
 received. To have detected the underlying tendency 
 toward freedom in the hearts of his own followers who 
 had hitherto been the professed allies of Slavery, is also 
 a proof of that marvelous sagacity which marked his 
 career. 
 
CHAPTEK VIII. 
 
 ON GUARD, 
 
 Mrs. Kortright was not long left alone with her 
 two invalids. The wives of the neighbors, who had un- 
 expectedly returned home at midday, no sooner heard 
 the story of the strange happenings at Paradise Bay, 
 than they were clamorous in their reproaches of the 
 carelessness manifested by their respective husbands in 
 leaving the good woman to care for her sick ones, even 
 for an hour. The snow had hardly time to melt under 
 the feet of the sympathetic dames on their way to sup- 
 ply their husbands' delinquencies. The story spread 
 thi'ough the neighborhood, and from every one came 
 offers of assistance. Willing hands and kindly hearts 
 crowded to the house of pain, with that earnest alacrity 
 that prevails where men are not so thickly crowded to- 
 gether as to care nothing for the well-being of those 
 that live beyond the barrier of a party-wall. At that 
 time, our American life had not become so distraught 
 with the events of the world outside as to forget the 
 duties of good neighborship. The lightning which 
 brought "the uttermost parts of the earth" to our 
 doors, also put far away from us the joys and sorrows 
 of the vicinage. The world's life conies into our hearts 
 with the morning sunlight. We know the woes of 
 India and feel the throbbing of the great guns that 
 pour their iron wrath upon Alexandria. We know 
 how all the peoples of the earth are faring, almost 
 hour by hour. From Irkutsk to Zululand, not a heart 
 bleeds or a frame sutlers with heat or cold, famine or 
 
ON GUARD. 87 
 
 pestilence, but we know its ill before the going down of 
 the sun. Our sympathy reaches out and gathers in the 
 whole world. "Who is my neighbor?" is no longer a 
 conundrum. Our charity embraces the world, and 
 humanity is the boundary of duty. Yet the old-fash- 
 ioned neighborhood is no more. Beyond the threshold 
 of the front door, all the world is alike to us. Printing- 
 press and telegraph and telephone — steam and light- 
 ning — have annihilated time and space. To be face to 
 face is naught ; to be eye to eye is a useless luxury. 
 The world's heart-beat comes through the ear or pulses 
 along the printed page. Contiguity is nothing. The 
 street puts asunder as far as the sea. San Francisco is 
 nearer to [N^ew York than the hill-top and the valley 
 were when Martin Kortright, bruised and sore from 
 crown to sole, lay moaning in his troubled sleep and 
 dreaming of the enchanted castle, ten miles away from 
 the house which could never more prison his life within 
 its walls. His banner-tree from far Japan had made 
 him a true knight-errant from the hour when he had 
 borne it so gallantly to his first joust with evil-working 
 force — the griffin that sought him in the hour of his 
 self-abnegating watch. 
 
 In that day, the meanest dweller in the Valley could 
 not feel the touch of sickness without knowing the 
 ministry of willing hands and the cheer of kindly faces 
 and hopeful tones from those who honored the then unfor- 
 gotten name of neighbor. When Martin awoke, there- 
 fore, he found the house full of friends. There was a 
 superfluity of care. Many hands made light the house- 
 hold work. He was urged to eat and sleep, to keep 
 silent, and to talk of the day's adventures, almost at the 
 same time. His lounge was transfoi'med into a bed by 
 being turned front to the wall and piled high with downy 
 feather beds and swelling pillows — the store of provident 
 generations of exemplary housekeepers. All was bustle 
 
88 HOT PLOWSHAliES. 
 
 and confusion in the living-room where the bruised boy 
 lay, but at the door which led to his father's room the 
 kingdom of silence began. There none entered but 
 his mother, to whom the restful gloom was a needed 
 refuge, and the nurse who had quietly installed himself 
 in charge. Xow and then there appeared at the door 
 a dark face, and a tall form came forth with noiseless 
 steps, the appearance of whom at once hushed the chat- 
 ter of the neighbor women, who did nothing but watch 
 his movements until he returned to his duties at the 
 Squire's bedside. This was Unthank, the butler or 
 "head-man" of the servant household of Sturmhold. 
 Captain Hargrove had not exaggerated his capacity as a 
 nurse, and his efficiency on this occasion was greatly 
 enhanced by the fact of his color. 
 
 Though hardly a generation had passed since the abo- 
 lition of slavery in the state, the number of blacks was 
 so few in many of the rural districts that they were 
 looked upon, especially after the anti-slavery crusade 
 was well under way, with a strange mixture of pity 
 and dread. The quick imagination clothed every dusky 
 face with the romance of oppression and suffering. To 
 have been a slave was to be a hero. To the wide eyes of 
 the neighbor women, well-read in the literature that was 
 already becoming a part of the daily food of the North- 
 ern mind, Unthank — who had been a slave and might 
 be a slave again for aught they knew — was the imper- 
 sonation of the woes and wrongs of all his race. His 
 kindly, dark brown face was to them a mask behind 
 which all the evils of slavery were hidden. A scar 
 upon the temporal angle of his broad brow, a slight 
 limp in his gait, were to their teeming fancies texts 
 from which a woeful history was woven. The careful 
 quiet of his movement, the lightness of his slippered 
 footfall, the noiseless opening and shutting of the door, 
 his softly modulated tones that seemed to die away as 
 
ON GUARD. 89 
 
 soon as they had passed his lips, the instinctive order- 
 ing of every breath and movement to meet the need 
 and comfort of another — all these were evidence to 
 these watchful eyes of the servitude which had warped 
 his nature and made him as different from them in 
 character as in appearance. Then, too, his language, 
 though not the broad dialect of the plantation, was 
 unmistakably Southern, and had a charm for their un- 
 accustomed ears which, indeed, no familiarity can de- 
 stroy. So they answered his inquiries nervously and 
 hurriedly, shrunk from the accidental touch of his 
 hand with a shiver which brought with it a blush of 
 shame, watched him wonderingly, but kept away from 
 his peculiar domain — the bedside of the sick man. 
 
 The Doctor came again toward night, nodded ap- 
 proval of what had been done, left new directions 
 and more medicine, cautioned Mrs. Kortright to take 
 abundant rest, and went away promising to come early 
 in the morning. For the boy he predicted swift recov- 
 ery ; of the flither he said little. A daughter of one of 
 the neighbors had consented to come and "do the house 
 work" as long as her assistance should be required. 
 A neighbor volunteered to look after the stock until a 
 man could be hired. So the struggle with disease began. 
 The lad recovered speedily. Young flesh soon forgets 
 its bruises. The sudden snow had hardly time to flee 
 away before he had left his improvised couch and caught 
 a glimpse of the stained whiteness here and there in 
 sheltered nooks. The broken arm had hardly time to 
 lose the charm of oddity before he almost forgot its 
 existence. He was kept a prisoner still, but a most 
 unwilling one. With the master of Paradise Bay, the 
 case was different. His room was kept dark and silent. 
 The nurse passed noiselessly in and out. Low moans 
 were sometimes heard within. The Doctor came and 
 went, till he grew to be an accustomed presence. The 
 
90 HOT PL WISHARES. 
 
 neighbors gathered and in hushed tones inquired of tlie 
 sick man's condition. Mrs, Kortriglit grew pale and 
 anxious-looking. The spring sunshine had started the 
 sap in the maples on the hillsides before the doubtful 
 issue was decided. 
 
 A Aveek after "the great snow-storm" the Indian 
 sunnner had resumed its interrupted sway. Unprece- 
 dented mildness folloAved the sudden irruption of win- 
 ter, but the gloom that pervaded the household was 
 beginning to tell upon the spirits of Martin Kortriglit. 
 He began to grow peevish and discontented. His 
 mother's preoccupied anxiety was a serious deprivation 
 to him. He had been her pet in a quiet way. Now she 
 seemed almost to have forgotten him, or remembered 
 him only to weep over him. Harrison Kortright had 
 not been a demonstrative man in his household, but he 
 had l)een its head in a most emphatic sense. He had 
 ruled it not by conscious assertion but with unconscious 
 power. Theoretically, his wife had sometimes differed 
 from him ; practically, she would as soon have thought 
 of attempting to live without air as of failing to antici- 
 pate his wishes. He was the king of Paradise Bay, not 
 because he wished to rule, but because he was one of 
 those men who cannot help ruling. He had impressed 
 himself upon the house, the farm buildings, every rood 
 of land and every rod of fence and wall. To take him 
 out of its life was to remove not the steersman but tlie 
 rudder. The boy felt this all the more keenly because 
 of his own weakness. It hung about his spirit like a 
 niglitmare. He forgot his joys and anticipated only 
 sorrow. 
 
 One morning he was gazing out of the window in this 
 mood of restless discontent, when all at once his pale 
 face lighted up and he forgot his troubles as he cried 
 out to his mother, who chanced to be preparing some- 
 thing at the stove : 
 
ON GUARD. 91 
 
 " Oh, mother, mother, here they are again !" 
 
 "You don't say!" she said, catcliing liis tone — glad 
 in spite of her sorrow for the joy it betrayed — " and who 
 might 'they' be ?" 
 
 "Why, the Captain— Captain Hargrove and — and the 
 little girl and— and the horses,''^ responded Martin, with 
 an admiring stress upon the last words, which showed 
 unmistakably that the prancing bays, whose glistening 
 coats gave no hint of the rough usage of a week before, 
 eclipsed in importance to his mind the other personages 
 he named. 
 
 His eyes danced with joy as he stood gazing at them 
 and the carriage which, though by no means magnifi- 
 cent, seemed to him the very perfection of luxury. It 
 was only a double-seated phaeton with the top thrown 
 back, light and bright save where some splashes of the 
 autumn mud attested a sharp drive over the country 
 roads. On the front seat was a colored driver, while 
 the owner and his daughter sat behind wrapped in 
 robes; for the weather, though bright, was bracing at 
 that hour. The Captain smoked a cigar. The driver 
 wore gloves. The harness was richly mounted with sil- 
 ver. So intent had the boy been in observing these things 
 that he hardly had noticed Hargrove spring out, throw 
 away his cigar and come quickly along the porch, until 
 he heard a light knock at the door and saw his mother 
 hasten to open it, somewhat flushed, wiping her hands 
 upon her apron and giving a hasty touch to her hair, 
 with the feminine instinct of making herself presentable, 
 on the way between the stove and the doorway. 
 
 "Good morning, Mrs. Kortright," said the visitor, 
 removing his hat, bowing and speaking in low tones 
 which of themselves expressed sympathy and conside- 
 ration. " How are all this morning ?" 
 
 The emphasis implied that • he knew how they were 
 yesterday, and brought to the hearers' minds the fact 
 
92 HOT PLOWiSUAUES. 
 
 that every day since the accident a messenger had come 
 from Sturmhold to make this inquiry on his behalf. 
 
 "About the same, Mr. Hargrove," answered the 
 comely matron, who still felt somewhat abashed in the 
 presence of this man, who seemed to belong to a sphere 
 of life with which she was unfamiliar. She was not at 
 all oppressed with any sense of inferiority, but only em- 
 barrassed by the ease of his address. " Won't you come 
 in ?" she added, as she threw open the door and stepped 
 backward to bring a chair. 
 
 "Ah, here is our little hero," said Hargrove, as he 
 entered. " How is he ? I am glad to see him up, at all 
 events." 
 
 The boy hung back at first bashfully, but there was no 
 resisting the dark-bearded stranger, who took him by 
 the hand, spoke so pleasantly and had such a charm of 
 mystery about him. He drew the boy toward him as 
 he sat down and kept holding his hand afterward. 
 Martin noticed the contrast between his own hand, even 
 after a week's sickness, and the soft, firm palm in which 
 it rested. There was nothing efteminate about the man, 
 whom he watched furtively as he stood beside him. He 
 had heard during the days he had been confined to the 
 house astounding stories of his strength. It was said 
 by the neighbors, who witnessed the rescue of father 
 and son, that he had thrown the horses right and left 
 as if they had been sheep, instead of the finest span of 
 high-bred roadsters within a circle of fifty miles at 
 least. So the whiteness of his hand was all the more 
 amazing to the boy, who contrasted with it his brown 
 fingers with their irregular and grimy nails. 
 
 "I am afraid he is not much of a hero to-day," said 
 Mrs. Kortright, reproachfully. "He has been fretting 
 and teasing ever since he woke up." 
 
 "Just what I expected, and that is why I drove 
 
ON aUAUD. 93 
 
 around this way," said the Captain. "Wouldn't you 
 like to take a ride, George '?" 
 
 "His name is Mai'tin," said the mother. 
 
 " Martin, eh ? That's a good name, but it should be 
 George — after Saint George of England." 
 
 "I had rather be named after George "Washington," 
 said the boy sturdily. 
 
 " St. George of America, eh ? Well, either one. They 
 Avere both born knights, and need not be ashamed to give 
 their names to a boy who does what you did." 
 
 "]^ow, now. Mister Hargrove, don't," said Mrs. Kort- 
 right deprecatingly. " I'm afraid they're going to spoil 
 the boy with praise." 
 
 " Do not fear, Madame. Praise that is honestly earned 
 is not apt to do harm." 
 
 He touched, as he spoke, the gray end of the fingers 
 that peeped above the wrappings of the splinted arm. 
 His look was reverent, and his touch was a caress. The 
 mother was moved by his earnestness, and said, apolo- 
 getically : 
 
 "You don't know, sir, how much has been said about 
 it. I am afraid it will make him vain." 
 
 "!N^ot as vain as you are of him," said Hargrove, 
 glancing archly up at her. 
 
 "I?" she asked blushing, but now quite at her ease. 
 
 "Yes, you. But what about the ride? Would you 
 like it, George — Martin, I mean ?" 
 
 " Oh, mother, may 1 ?" he asked in pleading tones, see- 
 ing her look of dissent. 
 
 " Keally, I am much obliged to you for thinking of it, 
 but "— 
 
 " Madame," said he earnestly, " please do not make me 
 feel that I can do nothing but harm in the world !" His 
 face grew sad as he spoke, and Mrs. Kortright hastened 
 to say : 
 
 "Indeed, sir, you have been very kind. I am sure 
 
94 HOT PLOWSHARES. 
 
 nobody could have done so well as your— your man, 
 Unthank. If— if, when he gets well"— nodding toward 
 the sick room, while the tears sprang to her eyes — "he 
 will tell you how grateful we all are for your kindness." 
 
 "Do not say so, Madame," Hargrove answered hus- 
 kily, rising to his feet to conceal his emotion. " But let 
 me take this boy for an airing. It would give my little 
 girl great pleasure." 
 
 The mother could not resist this earnest appeal. 
 Martin was soon ready and took his first taste of lux- 
 ury, as he reclined against the strong man's breast 
 upon the back seat, the dark-eyed Hilda sitting face 
 toward him on the front one, and was bowled along 
 over the undulating roads by the horses, whose very 
 hoof-beats were music to his ears. The bright sky, the 
 soft swinging carriage, the even-voiced, black-bearded 
 man of mystery, the balmy air, the autumn colors 
 mixed with the dark hemlocks on the hillsides — all made 
 it the perfection of bliss to the convalescent boy. He 
 wondered if Elijah was happier in the Chariot of Fire. 
 
 When they returned, the Doctor was at Paradise Bay, 
 and added his approval, almost his command, to Har- 
 grove's request that he might take the boy for a time to 
 Sturmhold. The mother, with much doubt as to what 
 "Father" would say, finally consented, and after din- 
 ner Martin was whirled away again, the first time he 
 had ever left father and mother for a night. The day's 
 excitement had been rather too much for his weakened 
 frame, and his mother's kiss was hardly dry upon his 
 cheek before, lulled by the easy motion of the carriage, 
 he fell asleep in the arms of his strange new friend. 
 When he awoke it was in wonderland. 
 
CHAPTER IX. 
 
 HARGROVE'S QUARTER. 
 
 Merwyn Hargrove was of a notable if not famous 
 ancestry. His father, St. John Hargrove, was one of 
 the most deserving oflflcers of the infant navy of our 
 young republic. His family was of the old colonial 
 day, and their plantation, bordering on one of the 
 sounds that indent the Southern coast, had long been 
 noted for the hospitality and sturdiness of successive 
 generations of the rugged English stock who had become 
 possessors of many a square mile of alternate swamp 
 and intervening level, long before the third George had 
 trouble with his Occidental dependencies. 
 
 On the bank of a beautiful inland lake, and within 
 bow-shot of one of those deep and narrow streams that 
 lazily wind in and out among the gray-bearded trees 
 that line its banks, and loiter about the arching roots 
 of the surrounding cypresses as if they had forgotten 
 which way they should run, stood the old family man- 
 sion. Twenty miles away, across a shallow bay, and 
 beyond a low range of hills through which a narrow 
 channel, known as Hargrove's Inlet, gave a dangerous 
 passage in and out, the Atlantic showed a long, low 
 Kne of lazily-bursting waves in fair weather, and in 
 storm a mile in width of yeasty billows that left stretches 
 of bare sand between pursuer and pursued, as they 
 chased each other inward toward the line of shifting 
 hills which the ocean's wrath had piled up to defeat 
 its progress. The Sound— a river balked of its will and 
 spreading itself up and down the coast for half a hun- 
 95 
 
96 HOT PLOWSHARES. 
 
 dred miles in search of an outlet — was barely a mile 
 away. The water of the lake and of the shallow wells 
 dug here and there upon the plantation, was sweet, 
 though not without a yellowish tinge and a flavor that 
 spoke of the swamp and the cypress. The land was 
 of astonishing fertility, a black, loamy sand, lying just 
 above the water level, full of peaty fibre which burned 
 like punk if it happened to take fire in the dry summer 
 time, and told the story of its creation as plainly as if 
 written with a pen. Out of the marshy shore the sea 
 had builded its own barriers. The sandy, undulating 
 ridges had once been barren hills like those that 
 stretched along the shore beyond. The reedy levels 
 had been transformed to rich alluvial beds. The pris- 
 oned river had thrust itself "between the ridges in search 
 of an outlet. The tributary streams had followed the 
 same windings. The swamp had come and fenced the 
 waters from the land with its clinging growth. Then it 
 caught the sands with its rootlets ; balked the winds 
 with its yielding branches ; crowded back the sea and 
 staked off the channels of the rivers. With the water 
 in the estuaries it fought a constant warfare until deep, 
 dark channels only were left to them. "What the sea 
 threw up in scorn the earth received gladly and trans- 
 formed into an impassable bulwark against the assault 
 of her enemy. 
 
 Here, early in the history of our country, one Dobson 
 Hargrove had fixed his habitation, which, after the 
 fashion of that region, was thenceforth known as "Har- 
 grove's Quarter" ; none knew by Avhat right, and he did 
 not care. It was vaguely understood that "sixty-nine 
 miles wide from sea to sea " had been given to one of 
 England's nobles under the broad seal of the realm, to 
 hold forever, subject only to a yearly tribute of " twelve 
 ears of Indian corn and twelve choice beaver skins for 
 the royal robes." This principality unquestionably in- 
 
HARGROVE'S QUARTER. 97 
 
 eluded the tract on which the original Hargrove first 
 made settlement. But there were fcAv at that time to re- 
 port the trespass, and fewer still who cared whether the 
 King's favorite or the King's 5'eoman enjoyed the soil. 
 
 So, year after year, the occupancy of Hargrove ex- 
 tended. Despite its beauty and the fertility of the 
 soil, the situation was not one to attract neighbors. 
 It was a minutely divided delta. Between swamps 
 and channels and estuaries, where the balked tide rose 
 and fell almost imperceptibly, lay arable levels of sand 
 and peat which had once been the bottoms of lagoons. 
 Here and there a little bank of crumbling, sand-mixed 
 clay showed above the level — the foundation of some 
 old-time bar, behind the shelter of which the waves had 
 deposited the sandy tribute of ages. The cypress and 
 the water oaks held the swamps and borders of the chan- 
 nels. The pines grew dense and close above the sandy 
 reaches that lay between. Some scrubby oaks and dog- 
 woods crowned the rare banks of clay. The channels 
 were many and devious ; the sandy reaches narrow. 
 The corn was gathered with batteaux. Broad ditches 
 joined the inlets and made the roadways of the Quarter. 
 
 The log house which Hargrove built commanded the 
 little lake which was the key to the situation. The 
 trough in which it lay had been burned out by fire, and 
 the clayey filter through which its waters came kept 
 them sweet and fresh. Year after year, the squatter 
 " took in" more and more of the pine levels, and by 
 implication extended his sway over the swamps and 
 estuaries that intervened. A few cattle occupied an 
 enormous range. He waged war on the wild beasts 
 that disputed his dominion, and the barriers he built 
 against them, in time, were transformed into muniments 
 of title which the lord of the manor himself could not 
 overthrow. 
 
 This sturdy English settler could not have helped 
 
98 HOT PLOWSHARES. 
 
 being a fisherman and a hunter. On the point which 
 jutted into the sound, at the mouth of the narrow river 
 that ran by the Quarter, had been an Indian fishing 
 camp of much repute among the aborigines. Indeed, 
 for almost a hundred years after the first Hargrove 
 settled at the Quarter, they were wont to come, even 
 from the mountains, two hundred miles to the west- 
 ward, in the season when the shad and herring ran, to 
 catch and dry their stores and market the winter's 
 peltry. The woods were as full of game as the waters 
 of fish, and the settler was too wise a man to waste his 
 time in cultivating a soil that supplied nearly all his 
 wants without labor. The little that he grew was for 
 luxury rather than need. It was only when he became 
 the owner of slaves that the hunter-fisherman was trans- 
 formed into a planter. 
 
 Little by little the dug-out in which he had been wont 
 to visit the settlements up the river and along the coast 
 grew into a more pretentious craft. A clumsy shallop 
 took its place, and this in turn gave way to a sloop not 
 overly trim in her rig but whose lines displayed the skill 
 of her northern builder, and whose performances, both 
 on the doubtful waters of the sound and in the roughest 
 seas outside the bar, soon made her master's name justly 
 famous in the coastwise traffic of the day. Before the 
 third generation had been gathered to their fathers 
 "Hargrove's Quarter" had become a busy hive. The 
 owner's one sloop had increased to a little fleet that plied 
 back and forth between the AVest Indies and the settle- 
 ments of all the Southern colonies — sometimes engaged 
 in legitimate traffic, but more frequently setting at defi- 
 ance the laws of the realm. Then it was that they be- 
 came not only navigators but cultivators, too. Slaves 
 were cheap in the Indies, often indeed a drug in the mar- 
 ket, and the shrewd Carolinian not only found his advan- 
 tage in introducing the new laborers upon the mainland. 
 
HARGROVE' 8 QUARTER. 99 
 
 but thereby also secured an abundant supply for himself. 
 The Quarter became a barracoon which supplied the 
 planters who dwelt along the river above. Overseers 
 and drivers and an array of subordinates, who did his 
 will ashore and afloat, gathered about the occupant of 
 the Quarter, so that when the lord of the manor sent 
 the king's officers to dispossess the intruder, to spoil his 
 improvements and to tear down the house he was build- 
 ing of bricks brought from France by way of Martinique, 
 they found a host ready to oppose them, and came away 
 the worse for the affray they had provoked. The bucca- 
 neer planter was ready to hold by force what he had 
 taken without leave. Then the powers that were be- 
 came his enemies. For a time he even was an outlaw 
 by formal proclamation of the judges of the assize, held 
 far enough away to be safe from his reprisals— though 
 it is reported that once, in a jolly mood, he found two of 
 the king's judges crossing the sound, and compelled them 
 and their attendants, the peripatetic barristers of that 
 day, willy-nilly to come aboard his sloop, brought them 
 to the Quarter, and kept them for a week's carouse, dur- 
 ing which the rum of St. Croix flowed by the tierce and 
 the wine of Madeira by the tun. At the end of that time, 
 his sloop took them by night to the town where they 
 should have entered an appearance a week before, 
 and they were left asleep upon the porch of the Ordinary, 
 to awake in the morning dazed with their long debauch, 
 afraid and ashamed to confess their delinquency, and so 
 unable to account for their absence. This very delay 
 was afterwards solemnly recounted as one of the griev- 
 ances which the colonists averred that they had suffered 
 at the hands of the king's servants. Tales of wrecks 
 and spoils are told to this day of the owner of Hargrove's 
 Quarter. It was believed that sometimes on the Span- 
 ish Main his vessels carried the black flag. A strange, 
 rough company gathered around him. Half the popu- 
 
100 HOT PLOWSHARES. 
 
 lation of two or three neighboring towns were really his 
 retainers. Every squatter in the piney-woods was a spy 
 in his pay and interest. Xo bailiff could come nigh 
 by land or water without warning being given of his 
 approach. When he went into the towns he had a fol- 
 lowing about him tliat forbade his arrest. "Hargrove 
 of Hargrove's Quarter" would probably have been 
 hanged at the yard-arm of some one of Her Majesty's 
 men-of-war, had not the opportunity occurred for him to 
 exchange the role of a buccaneer for that of the patriot. 
 
 That the Hargroves grew rich goes without saying. 
 Every time that one of their staunch little coasters drove 
 her smutty nose through the chopping waves of the tor- 
 tuous inlet that made through sand-hills and surf just 
 below the long, low cape that masked the entrance, and 
 was warped to her hidden berth in the narrow river 
 that flowed by the " Quarter," it brought new stores of 
 wealth. They were not merchants, yet they bought 
 and sold for half the planters round about. The rivers 
 and the sounds were then the sole highways between 
 these low-lying principalities. The dug-out and the bat- 
 teau brought produce and took aM^ay merchandise to the 
 " up-country." Even the sea was in league with them. 
 If argosies foundered upon the coast, the best of all the 
 waves cast up found its way to their storehouses. Strange 
 stories are yet told in the cabins of the " sand-hill- 
 ers" and "hog-hunters" in the piney-woods, of a horse 
 that was trained to bear a lantern up and down the 
 rolling dunes that formed the cape, when the storm 
 drove to the northwestward, to lure passing ships upon 
 the breakers. Perhaps men whispered it to each other 
 at that time, but they said nothing about it to the mas- 
 ter of Hargrove's Quarter. Some may have disapproved 
 his methods but few hesitated to profit by them. If 
 the wine he sold was rich and old, they asked not how 
 it came into his possession. If tea was cheaper on the 
 
HARGROVE'S QUARTER. 101 
 
 inland river bank than in the harbor of Charleston, they 
 did not discuss the cause. If his rum and molasses 
 were of the best quality, they did not ask to see his 
 invoices. 
 
 The Quarter grew populous, but it was all the pro- 
 perty of the master. He built no docks ; he invited 
 neither partnership nor competition. The cypress-lined 
 river still hid his craft, which rarely came or went by 
 day, and only stayed to discharge and receive their car- 
 goes. They belonged, nominally, to other ports. They 
 traded between city and city. They were simple coasters 
 beyond the bar. They ran in and out without making 
 any entry in the log of the variation from the accus- 
 tomed track. It was an easy thing. There were few 
 to watch and few to go astray in those days. The 
 wind's wings were the swiftest messengers then known 
 upon the earth. Twenty miles to the westward, the 
 highway from the South to the already more boisterous 
 and adventurous North crossed the river, whose swollen 
 surface made the sound. Couriers sometimes came ex- 
 press to Hargrove's Quarter by that route, taking boat 
 at the town. Gentlemen left their carriages sometimes, 
 and came in the same way to enjoy his hospitality. The 
 little lake lay in the heart of a wondrously fertile plan- 
 tation now. Road there was none leading into this 
 checkered domain. The driver's horn mustered slaves 
 by the hundred when he wound it at daylight. There 
 was hunting and fishing and lavish hospitality. 
 
 Yet, despite their power, the Hargroves were not on 
 terms of familiarity with the planter aristocracy whose 
 residences dotted the river banks above, though not one 
 in twenty of them could show a tithe of his substance. 
 After a while, there came a time when this fact galled 
 the hereditary prince of the " Quarter." He determined 
 to conquer his neighbors as his ancestors had conquered 
 the obstacles that beset them. So his only son was 
 
102 HOT PLOWSHARES. 
 
 educated to be a gentleman. He was sent to travel 
 through New England. He made the voyage to Europe. 
 The revenues of the Quarter were placed at his dis- 
 posal. His lavish hand and cultivated manner obtained 
 him entrance to homes and hearts. The semi-feudal 
 aristocracy of Virginia received him. He became fa- 
 miliar with that strange group of democratic exclusives, 
 whose burning eloquence held the Southern settlements 
 to a movement utterly inconsistent with their develop- 
 ment, but which grew as naturally out of the animating 
 impulse of the Northern colonies as the flower comes 
 from the bud. Away from his home, the young Har- 
 grove was welcomed by the best and esteemed of all. 
 At home he was only the heir of the Quarter — the son 
 of old Nathaniel Hargrove, the hard-working, hard- 
 drinking, hard-headed master of princely revenues, but 
 of ill repute. 
 
 From his son the father caught the fever of the time. 
 The thought that was working like yeast in the hearts 
 of the colonists just suited his adventurous spirit. To 
 defy power of any sort was to him a luxury. All at 
 once he became a leader. When a meeting was held a 
 hundred miles away to consider what the grievances of 
 the people were, and what remedies ought to be adopted, 
 he summoned his henchmen and appeared upon the day 
 appointed at the head of a following so considerable 
 that the officers who were commissioned to disperse 
 the assembly counted it the part of prudence not to 
 interfere. 
 
 AVhen the Congress met in Philadelphia, one of his 
 sloops was lying in the Delaware, and when the Decla- 
 ration was signed, his son sent him word by sea and 
 Jeft'erson sent couriei's by land to announce the great 
 event. From that hour Hargrove's Quarter lost its evil 
 name. Patriotism sanctified both its surroundings and 
 its antecedents. Interest and inclination ran hand in 
 
HARGROVE'S QUARTER. 103 
 
 hand. Successful rebellion meant to the Hargroves se- 
 curity of title and undoubted position. The best fami- 
 lies of the colony were nearly all rebels, many from 
 motives hardly less questionable than his. They were 
 all outlaws together, and he was most esteemed who 
 could do most to promote the common unlawful end. 
 The practical sagacity and boldness of the master of the 
 Quarter made him a leader in their counsels. The son 
 trod the quarter-deck of a letter of marque. The change 
 was more apparent than real. What the rakish coaster 
 was reputed to have done before the privateer now did 
 openly. There were many adventures both by sea and 
 land. The son was captured and confined in the prison- 
 ship at New York. One privateer was cast upon the 
 beach as she sought to make the inlet heavily laden with 
 spoils. Tarleton burned the Quarter. The slaves died 
 by the score of a strange sickness that broke out among 
 them. Yet Nathaniel Hargrove never faltered. He gave 
 as long as he had. Then he pledged his credit, which was 
 almost unlimited. The new government's promises to 
 pay were never dishonored by his non-acceptance. 
 Robert Morris wrote him a letter of thanks for his 
 sturdy co-operation with him in maintaining the sinking 
 credit of the infant nation. 
 
 When the war ended, he had great store of Continental 
 currency, a good title to the lands he had held before by 
 suflerance, a burden of debt, and unbounded faith. Pa- 
 triotism had not paid so well as his old trade, but he 
 was not discouraged. He began at once to rebuild the 
 Quarter. He bought new ships and began to trade 
 again with the Indies. His son had won fame and died 
 in the prison-hulks. His grandson, though only a lad 
 of fourteen, had been with Paul Jones on the Bon 
 Homrtic Bichard and shared his captain's gloiy. For a 
 time it seemed as if he would rehabilitate his shaken 
 fortunes. The new States were not swift to ofter reme- 
 
104 HOT PLOWSHARES. 
 
 dies to the creditors. Nathaniel Hargrove shirked 
 nothing. He beUeved in the dingy paper piled up in 
 boxes, and barrels even, in the rude cabin that served 
 hina for an office. When it finally became worthless by 
 express repudiation, his hope failed and his heart broke. 
 He died, leaving the Quarter to his grandson, greatly 
 reduced in acreage and sadly encumbered with honest 
 debt. 
 
 St. John Hargrove, when he thus became the heir of 
 the shattered fortunes of his family, had just donned 
 the uniform of the navy of the young republic. His 
 pay was meagre, but the prospect of glory was bright. 
 Already another war was imminent. He left the Quar- 
 ter in charge of an agent to redeem itself Wlien he 
 was thirty-five, he had seen service in every sea, risen to 
 a captaincy, married a young wife in a Northern city, 
 and sailed away to return no more. A year afterward, 
 when the widow went South to take possession of her 
 dower in the Quarter, she bore a son in her arms whom 
 she had christened Merwyn, after his uncle who had 
 died in the prison-ship during the war for libert}^ 
 
 Chastine Elverson was a Quaker orphan of small es- 
 tate and of a soft and tender beauty, when she left the 
 Meeting to marry that son of Belial, St. John Hargrove, 
 the red-handed officer of a man-of-war and reputed 
 owner of vast estates and countless hosts of slaves in 
 one of the Southern States. Perhaps her husband knew 
 nothing of this magnifying of the Southron into a na- 
 bob, which has always been characteristic of the North, 
 and which led her almost unconsciously to suppose her- 
 self the Mife of a magnate rather than a poor officer whose 
 fortune was his sword. Perhaps he hesitated to disturb 
 her silly dream. At all events, he did not undeceive 
 her. It is true he did tell her he had no living rela- 
 tives ; that the old plantation was terribly run down, 
 and that he had not seen it in ten years. What he did 
 
HARGROVE' ti QUARThJR. 105 
 
 not tell her was that he had pinched and saved all he 
 could from his pay as a naval officer to discharge the in- 
 terest on the mortgage that hung over it. So the young 
 widow was greatly disappointed when she came to view 
 the place her fancy had pictured as the seat of a luxuiy 
 such as the bleak North could hardly match. The agent 
 who had lived at the Quarter had done little else. The 
 incumbrances that overhung the estate had grown 
 greater rather than less. Her own little dowry and the 
 modest pension allowed her would do little toward dis- 
 charging the debts that rested on it, but to this task she 
 addressed herself with the utmost devotion, for her son's 
 sake. She had the shrewdness and self-reliance of her 
 sect and people, and saw in the Quarter possibilities 
 which its founder had not discovered. 
 
 Colonel Peter Eighmie, who owned a plantation a 
 little up the river, heard of this Quixotic resolution of 
 the fair young widow, and, after many sneers at her 
 folly, concluded to gp and give her his advice, or, as he 
 phrased it, " send her back to her people, where she be- 
 longed." In pursuance of this resolution, he had him- 
 self conveyed to the Quarter, and fomid the lady he sought 
 supervising some repairs she was having made in order 
 to render habitable for herself and immediate family a 
 part of the unfinished mansion the old patriot had be- 
 gun. The Colonel was past forty, long a wadower and 
 childless. The widow was twenty-four, and very fair. 
 The Colonel's mission was one of pure charity. He had 
 never seen his new neighbor, and only thought of her as 
 a young woman who was going to do a foolish thing. 
 It was not the claim of a vain, boasting plantation life 
 to be called patriarchal. The man who for years had 
 swayed the destinies and cared for the woes and ills of 
 scores of human beings, became accustomed to looking 
 after all his vicinage as a matter of course. It never oc- 
 ourred to this plantation king that there could be any 
 
lUG IIUT PLOM'SHARES. 
 
 impropriety in the step he Avas taking, nor did he dream 
 that the foohsh woman would for a moment think of re- 
 jecting his counsel. He went to scold her as he would a 
 wayward daughter, and expected her to obey with equal 
 readiness. Yet as he came briskly up from the old neg- 
 lected landing, and saw her standing in the soft autumn 
 sunshine directing the workmen with a quiet resolution 
 in her young face, he was smitten with unconscious re- 
 spect for the fair dunce he had come to reprove. He 
 advanced, however, and addressed her courteously, in- 
 troducing himself by name. 
 
 "Ah, then you are my neighbor, though you do live 
 miles away ? I am so glad, for it is getting to be lonely 
 already, though the people on the plantation have been 
 very kind," was her reply to his greeting. 
 
 "You do mean to live here, then?" The Colonel 
 drew down liis heavy brows and bent his deep gray eyes 
 upon her, as though she had committed a deadly sin by 
 thus presuming to contravene his wijl even before know- 
 ledge of its terror. 
 
 "Oh, yes," nervously; _" I hope to get it habitable 
 before spring." 
 
 "You've plenty of money, I suppose." 
 
 "Oh, dear, no. Just enough to fix up a little and 
 furnish supplies for the next year." 
 
 " You've got niggers, and stock, and boats, and all 
 that's needed for a plantation that hasn't fed its hands, 
 or hardly more, in tAventy years ?" 
 
 "'Bless me, no sir; but a friend in Philadelphia has 
 agreed to advance me something on the crop, and I hope 
 to get through somehow." 
 
 "Yes — 5''es," sententiously. "So you will — soniehoir. 
 Do 3^ou know, Madame, that this plantation can't be 
 made to bread the hands necessary to work it for the 
 next five years ?" 
 
 " Oh, you don't mean it !" she said starting and look- 
 
ILUiUltOVE'H qUARTER. 1U7 
 
 ing acrof's the lake, incredulously, yet not without per- 
 turbation. " Surely, it cannot be true." 
 
 "Cannot, eh? Madame, will you please to make in- 
 quiries as to Colonel Eighmie's character for truth ? And 
 while you are at it, perhaps you may as well ask what 
 he knows about running a plantation." 
 
 "Oh, I beg your pardon," she said quickly, turning 
 her great brown eyes upon his face with a plea for mercy. 
 "I know already that you must be both honest and 
 capable, or you could not be Colonel Eighmie of Mallow- 
 banks." 
 
 "Thanks, Madame," he answered gravely, bowing ac- 
 knowledgment of her earnest compliment, "I believe 
 I have earned the reputation you have heard. I am old 
 enough to be your father, ma'am, and came here to ad- 
 vise you for your own good." 
 
 "T am sure, sir," she replied, "I shall be very glad 
 to have your advice in redeeming my son's inheri- 
 tance." 
 
 "Meaning this old run-down plantation, I reckon?" 
 . sarcastically. 
 
 " Of course," quietly. 
 
 " How much is the mortgage ?" 
 
 "About twenty thousand dollars, I believe." 
 
 "Well, let me tell you, Madame, it will take twenty 
 thousand more to make it sell for that money." 
 
 "Well?" she said quietly, as she looked away from 
 his face across the little lake to the scraggy, half-grown- 
 up fields, which years of neglect had spread where thrift 
 and neatness once had been. 
 
 "Well?" he echoed in surprise. "Well? Are you 
 going to undertake such a task ?" 
 
 "I have twenty years to do it in," she answered ab- 
 sently, still looking across the lake as if she saw the 
 changes she would make, and beheld her' son entering 
 upon his unincumbered heritage. "It will be twenty 
 
108 HOT PLOWSHARES. 
 
 years before he will come of age, and a great donl can. 
 be done in that time, even little by little." 
 
 Her look grew fixed and hard as she spoke — more to 
 herself than to her listener. The fair young cheek 
 seemed to lose something of its bloom ; her lips shut 
 close, and her hands clasped each other tightly, as she 
 thus consecrated her life to a harsh duty. 
 
 The Colonel looked at her in amazement. He read 
 the fixed look of self-sacrifice upon her face, and re- 
 moving his hat, he said in a voice full of respectful 
 homage : 
 
 " Pardon me, Madame, you are right and I was wrong. 
 You will do it ; and it is Avorth doing. Allow me to 
 place my poor services at your disposal." 
 
 "Oh, thank you, sir," she said brightly, extending her 
 hand in frank recognition of his sincerity. "Then 
 please tell me what I ought to do first." 
 
 "By all means, change its name." 
 
 " Why ? Hargrove's Quarter is" — 
 
 "A poor name to conjure with," he interrupted. 
 
 " But what diiference does it make ?" 
 
 " Your son's inheritance will be worth a great deal 
 more if it has a good name. It takes time to change the 
 style of a plantation, and in this country it is best done 
 when a change of ownership occurs." 
 
 "You think I should mark my coming by giving the 
 Quarter a new name." 
 
 "It will be of great aid in what you have under- 
 taken. The power to name presupposes the power to 
 hold and control. Your neighbors will esteem you all 
 the more highly for it." 
 
 "I see ; but what shall it be called ?" 
 
 "The ancients were accustomed to give names de- 
 scriptive of some incident attending their first sojourn." 
 
 She was silent a moment, looking up into his kind, 
 

 -^o 
 
 
 Z'^^k 
 
 ■»',.- #V- 
 
 c a. 
 
 « IS 
 
 
 
HARGROVE' f^ QUARrFJL 100 
 
 "The first good thing the place has brought me is 
 your friendship, sir. Might I call it ' Amity ' ?" 
 
 "You do me too much honor, Madame," said the 
 Colonel, bowing low, with a hint of a flush upon his 
 face at this unexpected reply. He was unaccustomed 
 to the directness which marked her Quaker breeding. 
 
 So the young heir was brought out from one of the 
 cabins where he had been left in care of a nurse ; the 
 mother held him up; the Colonel steadied his httle 
 hand as it poured a wine-glassful of water on the soil, 
 and with much quiet mirth the plantation was re- 
 christened "Amity Lake." 
 
 And such it remains, even to this day. 
 
CHAPTER X. 
 
 MERWYN MARGEOVE. 
 
 Before Merwyn Hargrove attained the age of two 
 years, "Amity Lake" was joined to " Mallowbanks" 
 by the marriage of Colonel Peter Eighmie with the 
 widow of St, John Hargrove. A year afterward, a 
 half-brother, George Eighmie, was born, and the death 
 of his mother followed close npon this event. There- 
 upon the twice-widowed gentleman became the legal 
 guardian of Merwyn, and devoted his life to the training 
 of the two boys his wife had committed to his care with 
 her dying breath. Xo trustee had ever a more scrupu- 
 lous and tender conscience than Colonel Eighmie. The 
 interests of the heir of Amity Lake were looked after 
 with an exactness greatly-exceeding that bestowed upon 
 his own estate. Not only did he insist upon the ut- 
 most scrutiny being given to his dealings in this fidu- 
 ciary capacity, by the Orphans' Court to which he made 
 report, but he even went farther and assumed the 
 responsibility of using his own funds in the betterment 
 of his ward's estate. Between his son and his ward, it 
 was remai'ked, he never made the slightest difference 
 in his demeanor. Both seemed in an equal degree 
 to be representatives to him of the wife whose memory 
 he adored. The short span of married life which he had 
 passed with her had been to this strong, tender man a 
 foretaste of heaven. Despite his mature years, he seemed 
 only to have begun to live when he first met her. She had 
 awakened him from the lethargy such as is apt to super- 
 vene upon years of continuous plantation life ; had given 
 
 no 
 
MERWY.Y ] [Alia ROVE. Ill 
 
 a purpose to his oxisteuce and made liim again a man oi' 
 action. Had she Uved he would no doubt have been 
 known in much wider fields of influence. His young- 
 wife, demure and staid as she seemed, was yet aml)i- 
 tious, and lier love for her children, already stimulated 
 Ijy the fame which her first husband had won, demanded 
 an equal legacy of renown for those that might bear 
 the name of one whom she loved not less deeply and 
 whom she must have felt to be even more worthy of her 
 devotion. Her death, however, put an end to all such 
 aspirations on his part. Thenceforth he had no thought 
 but to promote tlie welfare and happiness of her children. 
 To secure this he spared no pains. They grew up to- 
 gether twins in his love and care. Between them, also, 
 subsisted the warmest affection. They were so different 
 in character and temperament that their inclinations 
 rarely clashed, and the sports of the one always supple- 
 mented the pleasures of the other. In force and vigor 
 of constitution and character there was much more dif- 
 ference between them than their years would imply. 
 Merwyn, the scion of the unknown 3'eoman stock that 
 had stolen a piece of the New World and held it in defi- 
 ance of the laws of the Old, was a sturdy, resolute boy, 
 whom nothing could daunt. Before he had reached the 
 age of a dozen years he had become a fearless navigator 
 of the Sound. Indeed, his little sail-boat had more than 
 once danced about in the disturbed waters of the inlet, 
 and once or twice had even thrust her nose into the blue 
 waters beyond, only to come scurrying back when she 
 reached a point even with the breakei's on either side, 
 beyond which the bt)y had promised his father never to 
 venture alone. The buccaneer instinct early showed in 
 his nature. ISTot only did he feel quite capable of de- 
 fending himself, but no show of force could deter him 
 from insisting upon his own right or that of his younger 
 and weaker playmate. 
 
n2 HOT PLOWSHARES. 
 
 On the other hand, George Eighmie, the heir of the 
 name and blood of a family which, in the person of a 
 hrave knight, had come out of Normandy across the 
 Channel with William, and had afterward been famed for 
 deeds of high emprise in many wars, sending at length 
 to the New World a cadet to found a rival house when 
 kingdoms should supplant the forest, was weak in body 
 and timid in mind. He followed his more rugged play- 
 mate with the most unquestioning faith. Wherever 
 Merwyn went he was willing to go also, but he never 
 led in any physical sports. In their studies, however, 
 he was easily first, and in the drawing-room and the so- 
 ciety of strangers, to which the Southern child is accus- 
 tomed at a much earlier age than the Northern boy, he 
 was far more self-possessed and accomplished than his 
 sturdy elder brother. These differences grew more 
 marked as the boys grew older, and their mutual devo- 
 tion also increased. They were almost inseparable ; 
 the younger became a hunter and fisher of no mean 
 skill, while the elder grew to be more of a scholar than 
 he would otherwise have become, in order that they 
 might not be separated. 
 
 This difference between the tAvo lads did not escape 
 the attention of the watchful man who had been a 
 father to both alike. If he regretted the fact that his 
 own son was of a less rugged type than the elder brother 
 he never expressed his sorrow to either. Prudently re- 
 fraining from any attempt to change their natural incli- 
 nations, he adapted his favors and gifts to their diverse 
 tastes — a horse or a hound to the one and a book or a 
 picture to the other. Amity Lake bade fair to become a 
 hunting lodge ; Mallowbanks a scholar's retreat. To the 
 tastes of each the father ministered with equal wisdom 
 and equal pleasure, as it seemed. Yet there were not 
 wanting those who beheved that the dead hero's sou 
 had a stronger hold upon the doting second husband's 
 
MEnWYN HARGROVE. 113 
 
 heart than his own oftspring. This was not strange. 
 He had his mother's great liquid brown eyes and her 
 calm, unshrinking gaze, that looked into the eyes on 
 which they rested as if they saAV and read the soul that 
 lay beyond. George, on the other hand, had the gra}' 
 eyes of his father, deepened into a blue that attested his 
 affectionate tenderness of disposition, but gave no pro- 
 mise of ambition or achievement. The former had one 
 of those restless spirits to whom the world's life offers 
 an irresistible charm. He must do and dare. Without 
 adventure, life to him would not be worth living. His 
 brother might sink down into the sloth of a planter's 
 life. ; he miglit avoid responsibility and enjoy the re- 
 pose of a cultivated gentleman of large estate — what 
 his life would be depended very greatly upon the forces 
 that surrounded it. AVhat MerAvyn's would be de- 
 pended more on the character of the task he under- 
 took to perform. If he sought the Northwest passage 
 he would find it — or a grave. He would give his life 
 to a purpose, great or small, with a steadfastness that 
 could not falter. The one might be a dreamer ; the 
 other must be a doer. The one might do himself an 
 injury, or even others, from lack of power to resist 
 evil. ; the other would never question the righteous- 
 ness of anything which he once undertook. Obstacles 
 that would dishearten George Eighmie would only stimu- 
 late Merwyn Hargrove. 
 
 "When Merwyn had reached the age of sixteen these 
 differences had become so palpable that his thoughtful 
 guardian saw it would not do longer to defer the selection 
 of a profession adapted to his temperament. Though it 
 was like parting his heart in twain, Colonel Eighmie 
 could no longer conceal from himself the fact that the 
 best interests of his step-son demanded that he should 
 adopt the profession which his father had honored, and 
 to which the whole family seemed to have an instinctive 
 
Ill HOT PLOWsiiAn/-:.^. 
 
 inclination. It was no difficult matter to secure for the 
 son of St. John Hargrove a commission in the service 
 his father had adorned ; and the young midshipman bade 
 adieu to his home, the brother he loved, and the father 
 ■whose prescient love had in nowise failed to banish re- 
 gret for the father he had lost, with a sorrow greatly 
 lightened by the longing of the instinctive sailor for 
 the roll of blue water under his feet. Before he left, his 
 guardian informed him fully of the condition of his 
 estate, shoAving him that upon arriving at majority he 
 would become master of a plantation not only unen- 
 cumbered with debt, but yielding a revenue almost 
 equal to its entire value when it fell to him by descent. 
 The skill and care of Colonel Eighmie had transformed 
 the run-down plantation into one the fertility of which 
 lie frankly confessed had proved a surprise to himself. 
 
 ''No one knew, my son," he said in tremulous tones, 
 "no one knew, in that day, what Amity Lake was 
 capable of but your Ma. She, poor dear, saw it all. 
 and shamed my experience with her faith and instinct. 
 She always said that Amity Lake would make you an 
 inheritance equal to any in the State, and it'll nigh 
 about do it, my sou ; nigh about." 
 
 He gave him a complete inventory of all the personal 
 property in his hands, with a map of the plantation 
 showing the use of the different parts, and requested 
 him to keep these by him and write very fully about his 
 affairs, so that he might become accustomed to the man- 
 agement of his estate through an agent while yet his 
 guardian had it in legal charge. 
 
 On the day that Merwyn reached his majority the 
 Colonel filed his final statement as guardian, and trans- 
 mitted a copy with a letter requesting his ward's in- 
 structions as to the selection of .an agent, to a distant 
 port, where the young sailor was expected to be about 
 that time. It met and passed in mid-ocean a letter 
 
METi WYX II A n (Ui I 'A'. 115 
 
 from the young ensign, inclosing a release in full to the 
 guardian, executed on his birthday before the consul of 
 the port, and also an unlimited power of attorney con- 
 tinuing in his hands the management of the estate. The 
 noble old man, still erect and vigorous, though he well 
 knew the end could not be far oft', wept tears of happy 
 pride at this exhibition of his step-son's trust in him. 
 He filed the release in the Orphans' Court, calling espe- 
 cial notice to the date as identical with that of his final 
 statement and the fact that it was executed in the port 
 of Fayal — half the Avorld's width away — and proudly 
 desired it to be noted on the record that he consented to 
 the withdrawal and cancellation of this release should 
 his ward at any time see fit to question any of his acts 
 or accountings as guardian and trustee of his estate. 
 
 The young officer had little desire to return home. 
 The adventurous life and arduous service of that day 
 suited well his inclination, and it was not till he had 
 passed the age of t went j^ -five that became back, browned 
 by exposure, with the regulation bit of whisker just 
 reaching below either ear, and the stiff' navy stock 
 rising squarely above shoulders on which rested the 
 epaulettes of a lieutenant. His service had been an 
 honorable one, and the brevet rank in a higher grade, 
 which he had won by special coolness under fire, gave 
 almost as much joy to the fond old man who awaited his 
 coming, as did the dark-eyed little wife whom he brought 
 with him from abroad to be the mistress of Amity Lake. 
 At her solicitation, united to the importunity of his 
 step-father, Merwyn Hargrove quitted the navy and 
 gave himself to the care of his estate, the enjoyment of 
 domestic life, and the solace of the last years of him 
 who had been more than a father to his orphaned state. 
 
 For some reason Colonel Eighmie had become es- 
 tranged from his own son, and, on Merwyn's return, he 
 was still domiciled at Amity Lake, while George resided 
 
no HOT PLOWSHARES. 
 
 at Mallowbanks, the use and revenues of which his 
 father had given up entirely to him. Between the two 
 there had not been the sUghtest intercourse since the 
 son had come of age. Some unpardonable oftense had 
 frozen the father's love, and he never mentioned the 
 name of the quiet, studious occupant of his splendid 
 riverside plantation. Merwyn learned from others the 
 cause of the estrangement, and tried to effect a recon- 
 ciliation, but was at once commanded by the stern old 
 man never to allude to the matter again. He visited 
 his brother and found him leading a quiet, luxurious 
 life — his plantation entirely in charge of the overseer — 
 seeing and desiring no society. The old regard for his 
 elder brother was undimmed by the latter's absence, 
 however, and he entrusted to him fully his version of 
 the difference with his father. Merwyn tried to per- 
 suade him to yield the point of controversy, but, on this 
 alone, found him to be inexorable. It was useless to 
 consider the question. He had no ill-will toward his 
 parent — indeed, he wept as he spoke of the estrange- 
 ment ; but he could not yield. Merwyn's wife, Rietta, 
 also conceived a most unconquerable aversion to the 
 luckless George, and did all in her power to persuade 
 Merwyn to cast him off. In this, however, she failed, 
 and her failure became a potent element in the results 
 that followed. 
 
 Thus a few years passed away, and the old man sank 
 peacefully into the grave, the idol of the household at 
 Amity Lake, iDut never reconciled to the quiet, gentle 
 scholar who dwelt at Mallowbanks. People wondered 
 at the father's firmness, but denounced in the most 
 bitter language the scandalous obduracy of the son. He 
 came, indeed, to attend the funeral of his father, but 
 the fiery Italian blood of Rietta gave him a welcome 
 such as he did not care to face again. AVith the death of 
 Colonel Eighmie, her dislike of the recluse of Mallow- 
 
MEBWTN HARGROVE. 117 
 
 ripened into a hate which did not hesitate to 
 ascribe to him the death of tlie father, who had yielded 
 to only seventy odd years of life's wear and tear. 
 Then, too, the antipatliy against him among the neigh- 
 boring planters began to increase. With his elder bro 
 ther alone he remained upon terms of contidence and 
 aftectlon. Captain Hargrove, as he was now called, 
 seemed somehow to blame himself for all the moral de- 
 linquencies of his weaker brother. When the good 
 people of the vicinage expressed their disapproval of 
 his Ufe and conduct, and proposed to visit their wrath 
 upon the recreant son, they were amazed to find that 
 the young officer had constituted himself the defender 
 of his brother. He had always been his protector, aud 
 still felt called upon to assume that role. He did not 
 pretend to justify his brother's course — he did not ex- 
 pect the neighborhood to approve it ; but George Eigh- 
 mie had a right to do as he chose, and no one must in- 
 terfere with that right except on peril of an altercation 
 with Merwyn Hargrove. The result of this was that 
 Merwyn and his young wife were soon included in the 
 social condemnation visited on their brother, and Amity 
 Lake was placed under the ban pronounced against 
 Mallowbanks. 
 
 It was because of these things that Captain Hargrove 
 became the forerunner of that class of ocean-wanderers 
 known in our day as yachtsmen. To remove Rietta from 
 the petty annoyances of Hfe at the plantation, and at 
 the same time minister to his own enjoyment, he pro- 
 cured a noted Boston shipbuilder to make for him a 
 small sloop, which, while thoroughly seaworthy, should 
 still be fitted up in a style of luxury worthy of the 
 bright-eyed queen whose floating palace it was designed 
 to be. This costly toy was regarded as* a marvel of ele- 
 gance in those days, and the frequenters of the North- 
 ern watering-places, where she now and then folded her 
 
11« HOT PLOWSHARES. 
 
 white wing.s for a \iii\\ weeks;' rest, thought the master 
 and mi8tre:ss of the jaunty httle craft must be nabobs 
 of ^'ery great M'ealth. During one of these summer 
 t-ruisings they had sailed up the Hudson, and, mooring 
 the sloop in the bay that lies below the Kaaterskills, had 
 started in a carriage to explore at their leisure that re- 
 gion, then in its quiet rural beauty the richest the land 
 aftbrded, and to-day not excelled in the rare views which 
 are to be seen from its mountain peaks. 
 
 Unknown to her husband, the capricious beauty had 
 made up her mind never to return to Amity Lake, and 
 was quietly looking for a new location for the Hargroves 
 of the future. Though of good family in her native 
 land, the profusion of her planter husband had been 
 such as to impress upon her mind the belief that his re- 
 sources were inexhaustible. Accustomed to the blue 
 vistas of the Piedmont, it was but natural that she 
 should weary of the level richness of the plantation. 
 Her lively nature was struck, too, with the greater ap- 
 parent vivacity, life and energy of the Xorthern people. 
 Her father, who had become an exile for having plotted 
 for Italian liberty before its day-star had arisen, liad in- 
 fused into his daughter's heart, during their years of 
 refuge in England's sheltering arms, such an intense 
 devotion to personal liberty that her whole nature re- 
 volted at slavery. Her experience at Amity Lake, where 
 the wise and kindly Colonel Eighmie had permitted only 
 its best features to take root and grow, might have lulled 
 her antipathy to slumber, perhaps, but her relations 
 with the master of Mallowbanks did not permit its most 
 offensive features to be forgotten, even for an hour. 
 Rietta Hargrove had therefore determined that her hus- 
 band, through his love for her, should be induced to 
 transplant the family tree from Carolina to such portion 
 of the more free and enterprising Xorth as she should 
 select for a permanent abiding place. With this in view, 
 
MER wry llAR UR O i ■/•;. 1 19 
 
 she had persuaded him to sail up the Hudson, in that 
 day the pai-adise of elegant American leisure, Avhose 
 picturesque heights and umbrageous valleys had already 
 been dedicated to luxury by the most intellectual and 
 scholarly of the fortunate children of the great metro- 
 polis. Its jutting headlands were crowned with castles, 
 fresh and garish enough as yet, and in many instances 
 somewhat too frail to furnish sightly ruins even in age. 
 Hidden under its leafy groves were the homes of more 
 than one of the writers of our classic age. The villas 
 which fashion is now deserting for other haunts which 
 the railroad has brought near, were then the summer 
 rendezvous of all that was best and brightest in the life 
 of that marvelous little island that lies between the 
 rivers and rests upon the sea, through which the na- 
 tion's life-blood flows in a throbbing, ceaseless stream. 
 
 These had pleased her fancy well, but she wished to 
 see the interior before revealing her secret plan to the 
 husband who, she believed, could deny nothing that she 
 asked. They traveled leisurely, stopping to climb the 
 heights that promised the best outlook, comijaring all 
 that they saw with those of their kind in her childhood's 
 home. The sky was not so blue ; the silence and the 
 brightness of the eternal snows were not there. The 
 ravines were not so dark nor the valleys so narrow. 
 But ah, the verdure ! The grand umbrageous woods 
 upon the slopes ! The bright waters that ran down be- 
 tAveen and mingled and grew into placid streams ! The 
 sense of thrift and peace and home ! These Piedmont 
 never knew. The shadows on her hills were as dark 
 as the sad fate of Italy — torn, distracted, trampled, 
 bleeding beneath the feet of contending ravishers. This 
 was an Italy on which English peace had smiled and 
 where only American abundance dwelt. 
 
 It was upon the third day after they left the sloop 
 that they climbed by a devious path to a wooded table 
 
12U HOT PLOWSHARES. 
 
 land, terminating a spur of the mountains wliich shot 
 out into the valley of the Mohawk between tin; waters 
 of two of its tributaries. It was a l)almy day of early 
 summer. The little plateau on wliieh they stood was 
 carpeted with fragrant verdure. To the eastward, the 
 long range of rugged hills that shut in the level trough 
 of the Hudson showed their western slopes under the 
 morning sun, aflame with the glory of the mountaiw 
 laurel — billows of rosy light. Beneath, the triple val- 
 leys met and stretched away, until the northward limit 
 was lost in distance, while the far western sky was in- 
 tlented with a line of purple heights. Behind them, the 
 mountain rose sharply many hundred feet, its rugged 
 face screened and softened by the dense foliage of low- 
 branching trees that clung to its rocky sides. The val- 
 ley was a scene of peaceful life. Sleek herds cropp(Hl 
 the green pastures. Farmers wrought busily in the 
 fields. Tidily-dressed women passed in and out of the 
 snug homes, engaged in their household labors, and 
 the voice of song came faintly to the ears of the wan- 
 derers who from the hill-top first beheld the quiet scene. 
 The roads wound in and out among the hills and through 
 the fields and groves. The sun shone brightly. The 
 bees hummed in the clover at their feet and in among 
 the branches overhead. As they stood there, a storm 
 swept in turbulent wrath down the bed of the western 
 tributary, and melted into a laughing shower in the 
 sunshine of the broader valley. 
 
 Rietta watched it all with heaving bosom and with 
 eyes aglow with rapture. 
 
 ^'Ah, Heaven!" she cried, as she clasped her hands 
 and looked over the vale the shower had kissed. "Here 
 would I live ! Here would I die ! Here is Italy ! Here 
 is Ameri-A'a .' Oh, Merwyn — my Merwyn, here must 
 we hve — here die ! "^Ve, cam mio, we a,ud— our chil- 
 dren !" 
 
MERW7N HARGROVE. 131 
 
 Her will was law. Amity Lake was sold, and Sturm- 
 hold arose upon the table-land from which they viewed 
 the summer storm. 
 
 It was in the flush times just preceding the great 
 crash of the Jacksonian era, when speculation ran wild, 
 and the old Hargrove's Quarter, transformed by Colonel 
 Eighmie's wise and prudent management into a planta- 
 tion notable among the finest of the South Atlantic 
 slope, produced a sum which would have amazed his 
 buccaneer ancestors even more than it did Merwyn Har- 
 grove. Taken as a piece of business, merely, the im- 
 pulse of his Italian wife was a most fortunate one. 
 Sturmhold and the picturesque domain that surrounded 
 it absorbed but a small proportion of this sum. Of 
 the remainder a part was invested in the China trade, 
 with which his foreign service had made him familiar, 
 and a still greater part, with the timidity of a man but 
 little accustomed to business, or perhaps with the in- 
 herited instincts of his race, he transmuted into coin 
 and secured in the strong box whose secret hiding place 
 and mysterious lock were only known to himself and his 
 faithful servant, Jason Unthank. 
 
 So the Southern planter was transformed into the na- 
 bob of that portion of the valley. "When the crisis 
 came, a few years later, the master of Sturmhold, in- 
 stead of being in the least harmed by it, found the pur- 
 chasing power of his hoarded coin trebled and quadru- 
 pled. It was then that the commercial instincts of the 
 people by whom he was surrounded first took hold upon 
 him, and he bought farm after farm, to right and left 
 and up and down the tributaries, until his domain 
 rivaled in extent the possessions of those who had taken 
 by virtue of the King's grant or by pretended purchase 
 from the aborigines. Then, too, his swift-sailing sloop 
 lost somewhat of her holiday neatness and made long 
 trips, whose destination and purpose none of his neigh- 
 
122 HOT PLOWSHARES. 
 
 bors knew, always with the master of Sturnihold on 
 board. In all this, however, Merwyn Hargrove pre- 
 served the characteristics of the plantation even more 
 than those of his profession, and the two united formed 
 a combination which his new neighbors were utterly 
 unable to analyze. His agents were his servants, and 
 his servants were trusted more than the most confiden- 
 tial of agents. Of his neighbors he asked no advice 
 and sought no assistance. He neither courted their 
 good-will nor deprecated their resentment. He seemed 
 unaware of their existence and unconscious of their 
 strictures. His wife felt this sort of isolation even less 
 than he. Accustomed to the social life of Europe, where 
 every class is absolutely shut out of all ranks above and 
 below itself, it seemed to her by no means unnatural 
 that they should dwell among a people whom they did 
 not come near in their social life. Plantation life had 
 deepened this impression, and she made no effort to be- 
 come a part of the people among whom they lived. She 
 was happy because of her beautiful surroundings, the 
 elegant mansion in which she received her many friends 
 from the great city, and the belief that she had trans- 
 formed her husband from the king of a plantation into a 
 citizen of the world. In truth, they had brought the plan- 
 tation with them. They had superimposed Amity Lake 
 upon Sturmhold, In name, they had become citizens 
 of ^New York ; in fact, they still remained Carolini- 
 ans. This impression was greatly aided by their having 
 brought with them a retinue of colored servants — 
 all manumitted slaves, as was carefully given out — 
 favorite servants from the plantation ; but the fact that 
 some of them had disappeared, without leaving traces 
 that could be followed beyond the master's sloop, led 
 many to conjecture that they had been inveigled again 
 into slavery. 
 The mistress hardly lived long enough to enjoy the 
 
MEItWYN IIAROROVE. 133 
 
 triumph of her love. Perhaps, if she had, she would 
 have discovered her isolation, and, with her keen in- 
 sight and ready sympathy, have found a way to open 
 the hearts of the rugged farmer-folks about her and 
 have made Sturmhold the focus of the region's life and 
 her husband the exponent of its aspirations. Almost 
 before the laAvn had lost the trace of the builder's Avork, 
 however, the rigors of the climate took hold upon her. 
 She laughed at her husband's fear of the cough that 
 rang through the elegant halls of the new home. When 
 the spring came the hectic showed upon her cheek. She 
 was taken aboard the yacht, and its white wings bore 
 her again to summer seas. It was in vain. When the 
 autumn had painted the hills with his magic touch she 
 was brought back to the place she loved, to die. She 
 left behind her daughter, Hilda, then scarcely three 
 years of age, asking but one thing to be done in her 
 memory, and that was that her husband should keep 
 Sturmhold as the family seat and not return to the South 
 and its institutions. Her opposition to these was in- 
 tense and peculiar. There was very little of the hu- 
 manitarian element in it. She did not pity the slave 
 so much as she deplored the effect upon the master. 
 She believed that bondage was degrading and unjust, 
 not merely to the oppressed, but to the oppressor even 
 more. Her keen perception taught her that the time 
 must come when the unnatural relation must be dis- 
 solved in blood. She saw that liberty and slavery could 
 not long co-exist. She feared a servile insurrection and 
 desired to remove her loved one from its scope. 
 
 Her husband did not share these feelings or prejudices 
 of his wife. To him slavery was not only a natural 
 state of society, but the only social organization which 
 was possible where a strong race and a weak race dwelt 
 together. However, he had little to induce him to leave 
 Sturmhold, and he assented without hesitation to his 
 
124 JIOT PLOWSHARES. 
 
 wife's request. From the time of her death he grew still 
 more reserved with all about him. His sloop made 
 still more frequent trips, and he seemed to desire to 
 conceal his movements from his neighbors. Year by 
 year the dislike became more and more apparent and 
 intense. E^dl rumors were current in the region, and 
 Captain Hargrove had a constantly growing ill-repute 
 until the day when he brought misfortune to the home 
 of Harrison Kortright. 
 
CHAPTER XI. 
 "gay castles in the clouds that pass." 
 
 " Good morning, little boy." 
 
 Martin Kortright opened his eyes, sat up and looked 
 about him in amazement. He found himself upon a 
 wide, high-posted bed above which hung a canopy of 
 pale blue silk, the curtains of which fell about him, 
 making a tent, and reminding him of the summer sky 
 at twilight. These were drawn back in front, and 
 through the opening he saw a spacious room, high-ceiled, 
 and frescoed in blue and gold. Heavy silken window- 
 curtains matching the rest in color shut out the sun- 
 shine, save here and there a ray that shot between their 
 folds. The furniture was rich and massive beyond any 
 that he had ever seen before, while just in front of him 
 a mirror that reached almost from floor to ceiling multi- 
 plied the magnificence a thousand-fold to his astonished 
 eyes. 
 
 "Don't you know where you are ?" 
 
 The words were followed by a merry, rippling laugh. 
 Martin looked in the direction whence the words and 
 the laugh came. Standing just in front of him, one 
 arm upon the coverlet and the other on the great 
 white pillow she had pulled down so as to get a sight of 
 his face before he awoke, was the dark-eyed little lady 
 who had filled his dreams of late. Her bright face 
 hardly showed above the coverlet. A colored nurse 
 stood holding back the curtain and laughing at the 
 child's impatience. 
 
 125 
 
126 HOT PLOWSHARES. 
 
 "La, chile, don't be so fractious-like. Do let the 
 little boy git awake afore 3^011 bothers him so." 
 
 " He is awake. Ai-en't you, little boy ?" 
 
 Martin rubbed his eyes again, and said candidly, "I 
 — don't — know." 
 
 "Don't know?" laughed the sprite. "Don't know 
 when you're awake ? Oh, you're too funny for any- 
 thing. Where do you think you are ?" 
 
 "I don't knoAV," said Martin seriously. Then glanc- 
 ing around the room he added solemnly, "In Heaven, I 
 guess." 
 
 "Oh, you queer boy. No, you ain't in Heaven. You 
 are here at Sturmhold, and you have been asleep, oh, 
 ever so long. I thought you Avould wake up when we 
 got home, but you didn't, and papa brought you here 
 and put you on the bed himself. Oh, he's awfully good, 
 my papa is. Don't you think so V" 
 
 "Well, well," said a brusque voice at the foot of the 
 bed, and Captain Hargrove stepped forward with a 
 smile on his face and a twinkle in his eyes. "Is that 
 tlie way you treat your guests, Hilda — wake them up to 
 catechise them on your papa's merits and demerits ?" 
 
 " Oh papa !" cried Hilda with tones of rapture, bound- 
 ing into his arms and kissing him again and again. 
 
 " There, there, dear," said the father, checking her 
 caresses ; " save some of them for to-morrow morning. 
 Let me speak to your Httle friend, won't you ?" 
 
 " Oh, papa, he d-oesn't know where he is." 
 
 " I'm not surprised at that, puss, if you waked him up. " 
 
 "Oh, I didn't kiss /iwn," she said, glancing shyly at 
 Martin under her dark lashes. 
 
 "Indeed! Why not, I should like to know?" he 
 asked quizzically. 
 
 " 'Cause" — she said, dropping her head still lower 
 and putting a finger to her pouting lips—" 'cause I— I 
 couldn't get at him." 
 
GAY CASTLES IN THE CLOUDS THAT PASS. 
 
 12^ 
 
 "Ha! ha'/' laughed the father heartily. "A very 
 good reason, mdeed. I suppose you would have kissed 
 him if you could, eh?'' 
 
 " He's a good Uttle boy," said the girl sententiously. 
 " That's true, dear, and how is the good little hoy 
 this morning, George— I mean Martin V" 
 
 " Pretty well," answered the boy, simply. The afiec- 
 tionate by-play between father and daughter had been 
 almost as great a marvel to him as the enchanted palace 
 in which he found himself. 
 
 "That's right," said Hargrove, patting the boys 
 cheek and noting the temperature and tone of the skin 
 as he did so. "Yes, you are all right. Does the arm 
 ache ?"— looking at the Angers the surprised lad was 
 unconsciously bending back and forth to remove the 
 feeUng of uneasiness which the night had brought to 
 the spUntered member. 
 " A little," said Martin. 
 
 "Sorry," responded the master of Sturmhold, "but 
 when you have had breakfast and a ride after the bays 
 I reckon you'll feel better, won't you ?" 
 
 " Oh, yes !" said the boy, waking into life at the men- 
 tion of the horses. 
 
 "Well, well," said the Captain, laughing at his en- 
 thusiasm, " William will come to help you dress pre- 
 sently, and we will see that you do not get drowsy 
 again, before night at least. As you could not wake 
 your prince with a kiss, Hilda, you might as well give 
 him one to disenchant him now. He is evidently under 
 a spell of some kind. 
 
 He held the child over and she put her arms about 
 Martin's neck and kissed him on the cheek. The boy 
 drew back doubtfully, while the Captain tossed his 
 daughter up and bore her laughingly away. The kiss 
 burned on Martin Kortright's cheek with a strange 
 warmth- Could it be that the wonderful being, the 
 
128 UOT PLOWSHARES. 
 
 very sight of whom had soothed his pain on the day of 
 Ills misfortune, had kissed him ? There was something 
 so strange so wonderful, so fairly -Hke about her that he 
 could hardly believe himself awake. He thought it must 
 be all a dream, and when the colored servant came, 
 he submitted to be washed and combed and dressed with 
 a half belief that he would yet awake and find that the 
 castle had crumbled. But when he saw his rough far- 
 mer-boy shoes nicely blackened and the careful servant 
 brushing his clothes, which, though his very best, yet 
 seemed coarse and out of place amid the grand things 
 that w^ere about him, he began to experience a sense 
 of depression and awkwardness that destroyed all the 
 glamour, and made even the magnificent surround- 
 ings painful and oppressive. When he was ushered 
 down to breakfast and sat beside the little Hilda, whose 
 eyes seemed deeper and softer than ever, and remembered 
 the kiss upon his cheek ; saw a repast, really plain, but 
 appearing to his unaccustomed eyes of regal richness, 
 served by watchful servants who moved about with 
 noiseless steps, and spread, upon a massive table, in 
 dishes of rare delicacy of form and material — china and 
 silver and glass, with the glint of gold in the lining of 
 some of them ; — when all this burst upon him, the sense 
 of unreality returned. He wondered if the missionary 
 who sent the seeds from which had grown the two ever- 
 greens before his father's door ever saw such splendor 
 in the far-ofi" Orient. Then he glanced shyly at the 
 master and wondered if he were as bad a man as was 
 whispered around the country-side. 
 
 And all that day, and for many days thereafter, the 
 sense of dreaming unreality remained. The Knight had 
 found his Lady-love and was imprisoned with her in the 
 castle of Indolence, at the portal of which a terrible 
 giant stood guard, and such was the enervating effect of 
 the magic spells that rested on him that he no longer 
 
GAY CASTLES IJV THE CLOUDS THAT PASS. 131) 
 
 dreamed of doing great things, but wished that he might 
 live on forever in this abode of kixury and ease. 
 
 The days grew into weeks, and still Martin Kortright re- 
 mained at Sturmhold. Captain Hargrove, by some occult 
 influence it would seem, had persuaded Mrs. Kortright 
 to allow him to remain for a few days, and, by sending 
 him every day or two to receive her caresses and inquire 
 of his father's condition, had finally reconciled her to this 
 partial separation ; so that when the convalescent father 
 was inclined to complain at the boy's absence, she even 
 undertook the task of proving to him how much better 
 it was for the lad than that he should be shut up at 
 home during the severe winter weather, and succeeded 
 so well that Martin was allowed to remain and share 
 the sports and tasks of the httle Hilda, with the hearty 
 concurrence of his parents. 
 
 It was not strange that they consented. The one desire 
 of their hearts, cold and undemonstrative as they seemed, 
 was the happiness and interest of their boy. His good 
 was the motive of all their acts and the chief element of 
 all their plans. Already they had ceased to look for- 
 ward to a future of their own. They thought they had 
 attained the limit of their growth and development, 
 "What they were to be they had already become. They 
 might gather somewhat more of wealth, though they 
 hardly desired to do so except to lift up their son. To 
 put him higher in the scale of being than they were ; to 
 make him one of the Presidential possibilities, not b}' 
 wealth nor by chicane, but by giving him a chance to 
 make himself felt among his fellows ; to be all that he 
 might — this was the one thought of their fond, silent 
 hearts ; for this they labored, watched and prayed. 
 
 That it would be for the child's good to remain at 
 Sturmhold for the winter they had little doubt. Not 
 because the master was a rich man — there was in the 
 Btui'dy couple none of that spirit that courts the rich for 
 
130 HOT PLOWSHARES. 
 
 favor. They were not poor themselves, and -would have 
 scorned the thought of allowing the son to improve his 
 chances in the world by becoming the favorite of an- 
 other. It was not of benefit from Merwyn Hargrove 
 that either of them thought in assenting to his proposal, 
 but of advantage to be derived from a style of life 
 Martin could never look for, even in the house of his 
 well-to-do parents. They meant him to be something 
 more than they had been, if it pleased God to favor their 
 plans, and they thought it nothing less than providential 
 that he was privileged while he was yet young to become 
 familiar with that life which they hoped he would some 
 time adorn. 
 
 "It's a good thing," said the Squire, talking over the 
 proposal with his wife, "to get used to the ways of the 
 world early. It comes awkward to a man after he gets 
 grown up an' has reached the top of the ladder the Lord 
 has set afore him to climb, to be brought in company 
 with those that were born somewhere about the top 
 rungs. It must take a deal of trouble to get used to 
 servants and forms and ceremonies, then. But they 're 
 the very things a man 's got to know — and not only know, 
 but be used to, if he 's going to get on in the world." 
 
 "Marty is a well-behaved boy," said the mother, half 
 resenting the idea that any training could be better than 
 that of Paradise Bay. 
 
 " Of course he is, mother, and he 's got good stuif in 
 him, too. But he 's like my Sunday boots. There ain't 
 no better made boots in Albany than them — good stock 
 and good work, every stitch on 't. And they 're all right 
 for church here at Skendoah meetin' house, too. But 
 you jest ought to have seen them boots when I went into 
 the Governor's house to present that petition we sent up 
 'l3out the bank. I thought they were jest the meanest, 
 awkwardest, cheapest-looking things a man ever wore. 
 I'd had 'em blacked at the hotel, but they wa'u't used 
 
GA 7 CASTLES IN THE CL UDS TEA T PA SS. 1 31 
 
 to it, you see, an' it didn't take well. They squeaked an' 
 hollered ; stuck out at the side an' up at the toes an' 
 were run over at the heel, till I thought every one in the 
 room must be lookin' at them; an' when I sat down I 
 hustled 'em under my chair jest as far as I could get 'em. 
 But tliere was the Governor, jest as homely a man as 
 ever looked over a stump fence, with feet as much as 
 three sizes bigger'n mine ; great, long, flat mud-splashers, 
 the biggest I ever saw, except Henry Clay's — I never 
 shall forget his. As I say, the Governor sat there among 
 all them great ladies and gentlemen Avith jest the com- 
 monest kind of boots, not more 'n half blacked and a 
 patch on the toe of one on 'em ; but I tell you, Martha, 
 they looked as if they 'd jest grown there. They were 
 used to it, you see — used to it. That makes the differ- 
 ence, and jest about all the difference, Martha, whether 
 it's with men or boots." 
 
 " It does take you to see things nobody else would ever 
 think of, father," said Mrs. Kortright. " But I've often 
 thought that it makes more difference where a man's 
 been than what he knows. Kow, there 's Captain Har- 
 grove ; I don't s'pose he really knows any more 'n the 
 ordinary run of the neighbors." 
 
 "I wouldn't be afraid to bet," interrupted Kortright, 
 " that half the men that rent farms from him read more 
 pages, year in an' year out, than he does." 
 
 "I shouldn't a bit wonder," answered his wife. " He 
 seems to be real kind of rough like, sometimes." 
 
 " Been a sailor, you know, or at least an officer of the 
 navy and seen a good deal of roughness there, I s'pose," 
 
 "Well, whether 'twas there or somewhere else, I 
 don't undertake to say," said Mrs. Kortright, with a 
 determinedly non-committal air; "what I say is that 
 there are streaks of roughness in him, now and then, yet 
 no one would ever think of his being the least bit awk- 
 wanl or embarrassed, even before kings and queens," 
 
V.yZ HOT P/JJWtHIAIiES. 
 
 "That's so," assented Kortright. 
 
 "Besides that," said Mrs. Kortright, "it is a good 
 cliance for Martin to have the advantage of learning 
 without goin' to school, after havin' his arm broke. 
 You know hoys will he hoys, and Martin ain't strong, 
 nohow." 
 
 " Never was sick a day in his life." 
 
 "That's so; but yet you know he don't grow and 
 seem stout like." 
 
 "Well?" 
 
 "Now you know Captain Plargrove has Miss Barber, 
 the minister's daughter, from Loweboro', up to Sturm- 
 hold in his carriage every day to give that little girl her 
 lessons ; and he says Martin can jest go on with Hilda 
 an' not cost a cent more nor be a mite of trouble. In fact, 
 he says it'll be a great advantage, 'cause it'll make the 
 little girl Avork harder to keep up with him ; for it seems 
 that our boy's ahead of his girl, if he hasn't had more'n 
 half her chances." 
 
 "That would be handy for Marty, and, as you say, 
 save any danger of gittin' his aran broke agin." 
 
 "Yes, and then j^ou know this rheumatiz may hang 
 round you all winter, and I don't think it's good for 
 children to be shut up in the house where sick folks are, 
 too much." 
 
 "Well, no; and besides that, as the Captain says, it 
 would keep the girl chirk and lively while he's gone. 
 An' there's where Jason agrees with him. You know he 
 always said the little girl wouldn't do nothing but mope 
 an' mourn when the Captain was away." 
 
 "So he did. One wouldn't think to see her, though, 
 that she ever did anything but laugh and carry on.'' 
 
 "She is a bright little thing," assented Kortright 
 thoughtfully. ''But they say that's jest the kind that 
 sutlers most when they do have trouble." 
 
 "I s'pose that's the fact," said the cheery matrcju, as 
 
GA Y CA.STLA\S IN THE CL UDS THA T FAS,^. l;j;j 
 
 she rocked back and forth, her needles chcking as their 
 bright points gleamed in the candlelight. Her hnsband 
 glanced at her with a half smile as he thought how well 
 she illustrated the converse of his remark. Trouble had 
 never worn Martha Kortright and never would. 
 
 HaiTison Kortright had left his bed and occupied now 
 during the daytime the lounge on which Martin had 
 passed the early period of his disability. Yet he was 
 none the less an invalid. His thin and wasted face, 
 over which, as he spoke, passed twinges of pain every 
 now and then, testified to this fact as clearly as the 
 cramped limbs and the pair of stout canes that lay be- 
 side his couch. As if his pain had reminded him of the 
 fact, Kortright added after a moment : 
 
 "I don't more'n half like letthi' the boy stay there, 
 after all's said and done, but we can do no less after 
 what the Captain's done for us, that's certain. I don't 
 know how you'd have got along, or I either, if it hadn't 
 been for that man Unthank. There must have been a 
 month that he scarcely slept a wink at nfght. And come 
 to think on't, the Captain wa'n't a particle to blame 
 about it. I'd have had the rheumatiz, any way." 
 
 "But you got it takin' that woman away that he was 
 goin' to kidnap." 
 
 "That's so; that is, I got it that night before the 
 'lection," assented her husband. " 'Bout the kidnap- 
 ping, I ain't so sure." 
 
 "Didn't she say that he was planning to take her 
 back to slavery, and that was the reason she ran awayV" 
 asked his wife in surprise. 
 
 " She certainly did ; but I've been thinking about the 
 matter since I've been lying here, and I can't make it out. " 
 
 "I should think she ought to know," said Mrs. Kort- 
 right. 
 
 "So she ought and perhaps she did," responded tiie 
 Squire; "but I can't make it out for all that. If he'd 
 
134 HOT PLOW>^IIAIiEH. 
 
 wanted to kidnap her why didn't he do it before, or in 
 fact Avhat did he bring her here for at aU ?" 
 
 " Why, to nurse his httle girl." 
 
 " Couldn't he have hired that done just as well with- 
 out risking such a jnece of property here ? And don't 
 the girl need her just as much now as ever '?" 
 
 "Well, really, one would think you were sorry for 
 what you had done," said Mrs. Kortright. 
 
 ' ' Not at all, " said he stubbornly. ' ' The woman wanted 
 to go and had a right to go, and I took her. That's 
 all there is of that. But I don't believe Captain Har- 
 grove had any more idea of kidnapping that woman 
 than he has of kidnapping our Martin." 
 
 " Oh, mercy !" exclaimed Mrs. Kortright, with a start. 
 
 "There, there, mother," said he soothingly. "I 
 hadn't no idea of putting such a notion in your head. 
 What I meant to say was that he hadn't no more no- 
 tion of running off that woman than — than of eloping 
 with you." 
 
 "Now, Harrison!" said the comely matron with a 
 blush and an arch look at her husband, 
 
 "Well, well," said he with a laugh, "I couldn't hardly 
 blame him for wanting to do that." 
 
 " There must have been something Avrong at the bot- 
 tom -of it." 
 
 "There ain't no doubt of that, but I ain't at all sure 
 that Captain Hargrove was at the bottom on't." 
 
 "Perhaps not." The good dame was busy picking 
 up the stitches she had dropped. After a time she said : 
 "Did you ever think it queer what Jason told us about 
 all the servants at Sturmhold except himself being paid 
 off and sent away at one time?" 
 
 "No; and I don't see anything queer about it now. 
 I s'pose rich folks change their servants, sometimes." 
 
 " Of course ; but ain't it strange they should change all 
 of 'era at once ?" 
 
GA Y CASTLES IN THE CLOUDS THAT PASS. 13r, 
 
 " Well, I don't know but it might be." 
 
 ''And that such a man as Jason Un thank should 
 never see nor hear from any of them again ?" 
 
 "It does seem a little odd, now yovi mention it," as- 
 sented Kortright gravely. 
 
 "And that, you remember, was just before this woman 
 Lida came, too." 
 
 " And after his wife died." 
 
 " And before he brought his daughter home." 
 
 Kortright drew a long breath. 
 
 "It's all so, Martha, and there's something wrong 
 somewhere. I don't doubt that. But it ain't in Cap- 
 tain Hargrove. If he ain't a good man and an honest 
 one, then I don't know anything about a man. That's 
 all." 
 
 " Well, it's somebody," persisted the wife. 
 
 "I ain't so sure about that," rejoined the Squire. 
 "I'm half the notion that it's just a bad system that's 
 made the Master a slave and the Slave a victim." 
 
CHAPTER XII. 
 
 PARTNERS. 
 
 Little by little the farmer-boy was transformed. 
 His blue cap gave way to fur ; a rich cloak and bright 
 red tippet made liim appear a fit companion for the little 
 Hilda, Avith whom he rode every day. While his exter- 
 nal appearance was thus changing he underwent a not 
 h'ss striking mental transformation. The ways of the 
 great house were no longer irksome or unfamiliar. The 
 retinue of servants no longer awed his unaccustomed 
 eyes. The little Hilda lost none of her spiritual charm 
 in becoming a sweet, familiar fact. Her morning and 
 evening kiss Avere like honey-dew upon his lips. The 
 child had led a lonely life, and the absence of her ac- 
 customed nurse had left her hungry for companionship, 
 even in the crowded mansion. The " good little boy" had 
 taken a hold upon her fancy, which the father gratified 
 as he would have gratified her wish for any other toy. 
 Besides, the boy had done a brave thing. He liked him. 
 There was an unflinching straightforwardness about him 
 that not only amused but interested. Mr. Hargrove was 
 desirous of recompensing him somewhat for what he had 
 suftered. So Hilda was alloAved her own sweet will with 
 her new plaything. She had persisted in giving him the 
 room next her OAvn, and treating him in all respects as 
 her brother. She consulted his Avishes in all things, and, 
 to the surprise of the servants, yielded readily her A\'ill 
 to another besides that of her father. The simple sin- 
 cerity of her conduct Avas met by a corresponding open- 
 pess and earnestness on ]\Iartin's part. lie kncAV so 
 136 
 
PARTNERS. 137 
 
 little of the world which he had entered that it never 
 once occurred to him that there was anything unusual 
 or peculiar in his position. All around him there was 
 an apparent lavishness that made the sums expended 
 ni his behalf seem trifles not worth cousiderino-. Why 
 should not a man make gifts who seemed to spend his 
 money freely in every other conceivable method ? For 
 to this country boy's unsophisticated mind there was 
 nothing wanting in the appointments or surroundings 
 of Sturmhold. Besides, he had felt himself somewhat 
 111 at ease with Hilda while the coarse habiliments of 
 his home-life seemed to mark the distinction between 
 his lot and hers. So he accepted the good things that 
 late threw in his way, became the companion and pro- 
 tector of the little lady, and, unconsciously to all, soon 
 shared her throne and ruled with her the retinue and 
 through her the master of Sturmhold. Hardly had the 
 injured arm been released from the sling and the role of 
 the invalid ceased, ere he had become an accustomed 
 and welcome presence in the picturesque but lonely 
 mansion. Sharing the pleasures and the tasks of Hilda 
 all constraint was soon forgotten. That age 
 
 "... 'twlxt boy and youth 
 When thought is speech and speech is truth, ' ' 
 
 makes a smooth pathway from heart to heart The 
 farmer's boy lost nothing of his self-respect ; the na- 
 bob's daughter never dreamed of condescension He 
 never questioned why he found his new surroundings 
 sweet ; and it never occurred to her that they were any 
 fairer than he had always known. She had been so 
 accustomed to luxurious environments that she never 
 thought of regarding them as exceptional. He had never 
 known want, and so had no envy of wealth. Her pic- 
 tures, books and toys were as rich a treat to him as if a 
 fairy had brought them at his wish. She never tired 
 of the stories of his rustic sports, and soon grew ahnost 
 
138 HOT PLOWSHARES. 
 
 as anxious as he for the day to come when they should 
 visit Paradise Bay. 
 
 So it happened that, before Christmas time, it seemed 
 as if each home had gained anotlier child. Squire Kort- 
 right and his wife had become devotedly attached to 
 Hilda, and Captain Hargrove manifested more affec- 
 tion for Martin than he had exhibited toward any one but 
 Hilda since his Avife's death. Mrs. Kortright had been 
 to Sturmhold on the master's invitation, and saw with 
 a fond mother's delight all that made her boy so bright 
 and happy. It was observed with many wondering re- 
 marks by the servants that this was the first time that 
 any of the neighbors had been invited to the precincts 
 of Sturmhold. Up to the day that Martin had come 
 into the life of the mansion the utmost seclusion had 
 prevailed. Not only was no one asked to visit the pre- 
 mises, but precautions had been adopted to prevent even 
 accidental intrusion. Hilda's teacher had always been 
 driven back and forth each day, no matter hoAv unpro- 
 pitious the weather. But since Martin's laughter had 
 wakened the echoes about the- silent house, she had sev- 
 eral times been invited to stay for the night, and once 
 had been kept prisoner, half against her will, for several 
 days. A change Avas noted, too, in the master. It seemed 
 as if a burden of care had been unexpectedly rolled from 
 his shoulders. Before, he had appeared moody, ab- 
 sorbed and care-Avorn. Since his Avife's death he had 
 hardly smiled on any one but his daughter. Noav he 
 Avas full of humor and seemed to take almost as much 
 pleasure in the sports of the children as they did 
 themselves. 
 
 " I declar' for't," said Jason Unthank, in couA^ersatiou 
 Avith one of the servants soon after his return from 
 Kortright's, shaking his head solemnly, "I declar' for't, 
 Bre'er William, I don't knoAV what's a-gAvine to happen. 
 I'se knowed Marse HargroAX ever seuce we was boys; 
 
PARTNERS. 139 
 
 together, down at de Quarter, an' I'se been with him 
 almost every blessed minute sence I come on, jest atter 
 Miss Ketty died, an' I don't 'llow thet I'se ever heard 
 him iaugh, enny more'n jest a sort o' chuckle dat he 
 swallowed 'fore 'twas half out, till this blessed day. 
 'Pears like he's done turned boy agin', sence I'se been 
 away. I do declar ef he ain't for all the world jes like 
 de young Marse Merwyn down on de ole Carolina plan- 
 tation." 
 
 " Been so most ever sence you went away, too, more 
 or less," said William, earnestly. "We've all done 
 talked about it over and often." 
 
 "I can't understand it," said Jason, shaking his head 
 seriously. " I'se afeard it don't mean no good. I'se 
 always heerd 'twa'n't no good sign when anybody turns 
 right round from t'other to which that way— cryin' one 
 minute an' laughin' the next, or wice wersy, with no sort 
 o' reason for changin' that anybody can find out." 
 
 "An' I b'leeve it," said William, with a look and 
 tone that attested his sincerity. 
 
 "I hain't got no call to deny it," said Jason, as he 
 passed on to his duties, with a non-committal air that 
 befitted his position as the trusted head of the house- 
 hold retinue. 
 
 After a time, however, the master of Sturmhold 
 became again preoccupied and moody. He ceased to 
 take any part in the children's sports, and, indeed, be- 
 came apparently almost oblivious to their existence. 
 Hilda, used to such moods, after vainly trying to divert 
 her father from them, gave her attention still more to 
 Martin, who, after a day or two of uneasy wonder at 
 the changed demeanor of the man who had so completely 
 captivated his fancy, became accustomed to it, and the 
 twain almost forgot his existence for days together. 
 
 With many misgivings, Mrs. Kortright invited Cap- 
 tain Hargrove and the two children to share the Christ- 
 
140 HOT PLOW^HARl£S. 
 
 mas dinner at Paradise Bay, and greatly to the surprise 
 of all the invitation was accepted. It was a red-letter 
 day in the calendar of the two young lives. They went 
 in the crisp brightness of a winter morning. All day 
 long, after their arrival, the hero-boy showed the won- 
 dering girl the scenes of his early achievements. The 
 great red barn, with its dark corners, dim passages, 
 great mows and cobwebbed roof, decorated with the 
 mud-daubed homes of summer swallows, was explored 
 from purline to basement. The broken arm, grown well 
 and strong, was quite forgotten by the boy, who was 
 only preserved from even more serious injury by the fate 
 that watches over boys; but it was not for a moment 
 absent from the mind of the girl who beheld his ex- 
 ploits. She held her breath in terror at his daring 
 familiarity with the horses, oxen and cows. The reck- 
 lessness with which he climbed the ladder, walked the 
 great beam and took a flying leap of a dozen feet down 
 upon the cut side of the haymow, not only commanded 
 her admiration but awakened her amazement. Sturm- 
 hold sank into insignificance . beside this silent play- 
 house of the sturdy boy, whom she was daily coming to 
 regard as a hero of more than knightly mettle. 
 
 Within the house a difierent scene was enacted. From 
 early morning a fire had been burning in the parlor — 
 that strangely isolated portion of the American farm- 
 house of a generation ago which was never used except 
 on great occasions, and, with its inseparable parlor-bed- 
 room, was sacred to company, consumption and death. 
 Fortunately, the physician had been informed of the in- 
 tended festivity, and had enjoined that a fire should be 
 kept burning in this prohi])ited sanctuary all the pre- 
 vious day. His injunction had been strictly fulfilled, and 
 before the Captain's arrival the Squire had been installed 
 in this spare-room to entertain the visitor until the 
 dinner hour, which, with especial reference to the con- 
 
PARTNliJm. 141 
 
 veuieuce of the visitor, was put at three o'clock, thus 
 splitting the difterence between the dinner hour of the 
 farm-house and that of the mansion. During this time 
 the mysteries of housewifery demanded the attention 
 of Mrs. Kortright, and the two men wfere left to them- 
 selves. 
 
 There could not be a greater contrast. The Squire, 
 thin and pallid from his two months of suffering, occu- 
 pied the plain chintz-covered sofa. His beard had not 
 been cut since his illness, and formed a grizzly stubble 
 over his chin. His hands were white and skinny and the 
 left seemed drawn and weak. One leg was flexed and the 
 toes incurved by the force of the disease that had racked 
 his frame and only spared his life at the price of liis 
 activity. It was a heavy ransom for a man of his stir- 
 ring habit to pay for the bare privilege of existence. He 
 was beyond danger — at least the ijhysician thought so — 
 but he was rigorously commanded not to venture bej'ond 
 the threshold until the summer sunshine had opened the 
 doors and equalized the temperature within and without. 
 Even then it was doubtful if he would ever walk erect 
 and without the aid of a staft' again. He would live — con- 
 fined to a chair, hobbling about on crutches or chained 
 to a staff— a life that had little charm to one who had 
 been accustomed to bid defiance to nature, whose 
 strength had been the pride of his youth and the boast 
 of his manhood. He felt the bitterness of his lot as he 
 saw Captain Hargrove, in the glory of his prime, broad- 
 chested, round, full-limbed ; a flush upon his dark cheek ; 
 his eye full of fire, and his step firm and elastic with 
 something of the tendency to "brace" which is almost 
 always perceptible in the walk of one accustomed to a sea- 
 faring life. It was with something of envy, therefore, 
 that he said as soon as Mrs. Kortright had withdrawn : 
 
 " I'm afraid ye'll find me mighty dull company, Cap- 
 tain." 
 
143 HOT PLOWSHARES. 
 
 "On the conti'ary," said the Captain, "a chat with 
 you is just what I would have chosen had it heen left 
 for me to say how I would like to pass the day." 
 
 "It's very good of j^ou to say so. Captain," said the 
 Squire, not without surprise, yet evidently pleased at 
 this hearty speech, "but it will be hard to make me 
 believe that a man who has been upon his back for two 
 months with this miserable pain racking him most all 
 the time, can be very good company for any one." 
 
 "I suppose," said Hargrove, as he seated himself in 
 a large rocking-chair near the fire, " this is one of 
 the very reasons I want to talk with you. If you 
 were well and busy you would have no time to think of 
 what I want most to say, and perhaps I might not 
 care about trusting you, either." 
 
 "If it's that woman Lida you are referring to. Cap- 
 tain, I may as well say at once that I don't know any- 
 thing more about her than you do." 
 
 " Nor half as much, Mr. Kortright. I am well aware of 
 that, and you have reason to be thankful for the fact, too. " 
 
 "How so?" 
 
 "No matter. She has no connection with what I 
 wish to speak of now, at least not directly, and it won't 
 pay to spend time in discussing her." 
 
 "Well, just as you please," said Kortright, evidently 
 not ijleased himself that the other did not intend to 
 pursue the topic he had introduced. 
 
 " Not that I would be unwilling to tell you all I know 
 of her, but the story is a long one, and I hai-dly feel like 
 undertaking it to-day." 
 
 "I 'spect not," said the other, with a caustic dryness 
 of tone that did not escape the attention of the visitor, 
 who laughed quietly as he said : 
 
 "Queer, isn't it, that a man should be regarded with 
 suspicion because of his good deeds, while perhaps his 
 evil ones bring him only respect ?" 
 
PARTNERS. 143 
 
 "I don't knoAV 'bout that," began Kortrigbt argu- 
 mentativcly. 
 
 "Nor I, as a rule," interrupted Hargrove; "neither 
 do I care whether it is generally true or not. I was 
 only speaking of my own ease. I never thought of it till 
 lately. Somehow, since your boy has been with us I seem 
 to myself like one just wakened out of a long sleep." 
 
 " I hope he hasn't disturbed you," said Kortright, with 
 a twinkle in his eye. 
 
 " Disturbed me ? Oh, no ; he fits in as if he had been 
 the missing link between Sturmhold and the world." 
 
 " Martin is a good boy." 
 
 " Ha, ha !" laughed Hargrove, " that is just what my 
 Hilda is always saying. By the way. Squire, it is mar- 
 velous how those two children seem to suit each other. 
 They haven't found a point of difference yet, and seem 
 to grow fonder of each other every day." 
 
 "I'm glad on't, Captain. The little girl must have 
 had a lonesome life afore he came." 
 
 "Well, I suppose she did ; though I never thought of 
 it. The truth is, Mr. Kortright," he added solemnly, 
 " I have had a burden to bear ever since her birth which 
 no one could share with me, and which has left me very 
 little opportunity for other things." 
 
 "Yes," said the Squire, as Hargrove paused, not be- 
 cause he meant to assent to what had been said but 
 because he did not know what else to say. 
 
 " I wish I could tell you or some other good man all 
 about it, but I can't. That's the trouble of the matter. 
 I undertook to do a good thing — at least I thought it was 
 good and kind, but it has brought a heap of sorrow and 
 misunderstanding. There's that girl Lida, now ; I set 
 her free, gave her a home, and shut all society out of 
 my house that she might be undisturbed, and now am 
 regarded with horror throughout the valley here, be- 
 cause she ran away." 
 
144 HOT PLOWSHARES. 
 
 "There is some feeling about it, certainly," said the 
 Squii'e. 
 
 "Feeling! Bluebeard was an amiable man in com- 
 parison with me, taking my neighljors' estimate," 
 
 The master of Sturmhold laughed pleasantly as he 
 spoke, as though the neighbors' opinion of him was not 
 a matter of grave importance after all. 
 
 "Well, he continued, "the girl Lida made me a deal 
 of trouble when she left, but it was nothing to the trouble 
 she had made by staying, I hardly realized it before ; 
 but when she was gone and your boy came, I seemed to 
 have lost a load that had been on my shoulders so long 
 that I had almost forgotten how it bent me down." 
 
 "I confess. Captain," said Kortright, "I can't under- 
 stand the matter, an' as you don't seem inclined to tell 
 me all about it, perhaps you'd better not say anything at 
 all, an' so not start my curiosity." 
 
 "I've no fear of that, sir," ansAvered Hargrove, "If 
 it was my secret I 'd tell it in a minute, but it concerns 
 every one else whom it touches more nearly than it 
 does me ; and yet I am the only one that knows the 
 whole of it." 
 
 "That must be unpleasant, anj^how." 
 
 "Unpleasant ! It has made me a hermit and built a 
 cave about me. No wonder Hilda was lonesome, as you 
 say. I never thought, when I undertook this job, that 
 she would come to need anybody but a nurse. In fact, 
 I didn't think of anything." 
 
 "That's the way mostly with what folks go into for 
 the pleasure of the present minute," said the elder man 
 severely. 
 
 "Oh, but I didn't go into this, Squire, at all. It just 
 spread itself over me without so much as saying 'by 
 your leave.' I wasn't even indiscreet, except in picking 
 up a load heavier than I could carry." 
 
 "See here, Captain," said the Squire energetically, 
 
PARTNhJltH. 14r, 
 
 "you and I ain't much more'n strangers, but I want to 
 say to you plainly tliat 1 don't want to know anything 
 about the matter tliat you're referrin' to. I'm just as 
 sure as that I'm lyin' here that it's somethin' growin' 
 out of slaver}^, and I don't want the i-esponsibility of 
 carry in' any of its sins.'' 
 
 "There's where you're wrong, Squire," said the Cap- 
 tain, with a touch of triumph in his voice. "All the 
 trouble in this case has come from liberty instead of 
 slavery. There would have been no burden on my back 
 if I had not tried to make a slave happy by giving her 
 freedom." 
 
 "Aye, that is your logic," said Kortright almost bit- 
 terly, " because a day of freedom does not heal the evil 
 of generations of slavery, you say it causes the ills it 
 only drags out into the light of day so that they can be 
 seen.'' 
 
 " 1 don't know about that," responded Hargrove curt- 
 ly. " I believe that negro slavery is a better thing than 
 negro liberty. Abstractly, I dislike slavery as much as 
 you or any one else. I have seen a good deal of it in 
 one country and another, and honestly wish w^e had 
 never had it here. But then I should want to be rid of 
 the African, too." 
 
 "He wouldn't be here if he hadn't been brought," 
 said the other significantly, watching Hargrove keenly 
 as he spoke. 
 
 "True," said Hargrove carelessly, "but here he is, 
 and here he is likely to stay. The only question — if it 
 is a question — is /loio he shall stay." 
 
 "He can't stay here much longer as a slave, that's 
 certain." 
 
 " I cannot see why you think so. A few fanatics 
 make a great deal of noise, but slavery has grown 
 stronger every year since the formation of our govern- 
 ment." 
 
14G HOT PLOWSHARES. 
 
 "The steeple's kept gittin' higher, that's a fact; hut 
 how about the underpinnin* '?" 
 
 "I don't see but it stands on just as good a founda- 
 tion as the government itself." 
 
 " That may be — that may be," meditatively. 
 
 "If the government stands I don't see how slavery 
 can help standing with it. That is my view, Squire, 
 candidly. I wish we had never had slavery, nor the 
 negro, either ; but having the negro, I don't see how we 
 can get along without slaver}'. I hope you understand 
 me." 
 
 "Yes, I guess I do," said Kortright, raising himself 
 on his elbow and looking at the other with eyes that 
 burned like live coals in the ashen pallor of his face, 
 " and I want you to understand me, too. If we've got 
 to have slavery in order to save the nation, I don't see 
 any use in savin' on't. I'm sorry, myself, that the negro 
 is in the country, but bein' here, I 'd rather try to get 
 along with him as a free man than see the country go 
 on heapin' up wrong, j^ear after year, by the wholesale, 
 as we are doin' now." 
 
 "Well," laughed Hargrove, "there's no mistaking 
 that. You would rather the country should perish than 
 slavery live." 
 
 " I would rather see the best machine man ever de- 
 vised broken to pieces than made the instrument of op- 
 pression and wrong." 
 
 "Well, well, we can never agree upon that subject, 
 so we need not discuss it." 
 
 " I s'pose 'twould be a waste of time. You look at 
 it one way and I another, and we're both a little set in 
 our way, probably. " 
 
 Harrison Kortright smiled grimly as he settled him- 
 self upon his couch again. The younger man looked 
 at him with amused expression for a moment, and 
 then said : 
 
PARTNERS. 147 
 
 "I reckon, Squire, you would be surprised to know 
 that at this very time 1 am in very had odor in Carolina 
 1)ecause I am considered a dangerous enemy of ' the in- 
 stitution.' " 
 
 "You?" lifting his rugged brows and surveying the 
 man who sat before him, critically. 
 
 "Yes, I." 
 
 " I think I should," emphatically. 
 
 "Then listen." 
 
 Hargrove drew a newspaper from his pocket and read : 
 
 "Facts which have come to our knowledge warrant us 
 in cautioning the people of Clayburn County against one of 
 her sons who has turned traitor to the South and her in- 
 stitutions. People thought it sti'ange, when, some years 
 ago, a certain gentleman sold his plantation in the vicinity 
 of Amity Lake and removed to the bleak hills of New 
 York ; but no one supposed that a man who owed his 
 fortune and his place in society to the chivalrous watch- 
 care of Colonel Peter Eighmie could ever become a rene- 
 gade to the land of his birth. There was some comment 
 on his folly in taking with him to a free State and there 
 manumitting a considerable number of his most valuable 
 negroes, but, as they were his own property, no one was 
 inclined to regard it as anything more than the harmless 
 freak of a wealthy planter. Indeed, it was generally attrib- 
 uted to the influence of his foreign wife, who had imbibed 
 a foolish prejudice against the patriarchal institution. 
 So, although there had never been any reason to suppose 
 that her husband shared her folly, no one believed it 
 possible that when he became the executor of the son 
 of his benefactor he would either squander the estate 
 through his abolition fanaticism or attempt to meddle 
 with the domestic relations of his neighbors. It was 
 known that there had been an unvisual number of run- 
 aways from that vicinity, but no one suspected that one 
 who had been an officer of the United States navy would 
 ever descend so low as to become a kidnapper of his neigh- 
 
148 JfOT PLOW^^HARES. 
 
 bois' slaves. By the capture of a gang of runaways, in 
 Hurricane Swamp last week, however, it was learned that 
 they were waiting to be taken North in his sloop. It 
 seems that she has hardly ever crossed the bar withovit 
 taking a stolen cargo. It has been learned almost to a 
 certainty that on the last trip he took one of Colonel 
 Granby's most valuable house-servants, a likely woman, 
 who had taken up* with a negro named Unthank, the 
 
 *This term, "taken up with," was one of the unconscious testi- 
 monies of slavery to its own demoralizing tendencies. It was used 
 to express the relation, as nearly as might be, of husband and 
 wife existing between slaves. " The fact," said the Chief Justice 
 of the Supreme Court of the State iu which our story Is located, 
 "that two slaves have taken up with each other, no matter under 
 what pretended ceremony of marriage, and have lived together 
 as if in the marital relation, in no sense constitutes them hus- 
 band and wife, nor clothes them with any of the rights and privi- 
 leges of that relation." The influence of this doctrine is no doubt 
 distinctly visible in the morals of the race to which it was applied. 
 Unquestioual)ly this doctrine is absolutely indispensable to the 
 peace of society where the relation of simple chattelism in man 
 is maintained. The thing — mere property, cannot at the same 
 time be clothed with the rights of a husband and father. The 
 chief difierence between American slavery and that which the 
 world has known in other lands and ages was that it did not 
 pass through the intermediary stages of serfdom in its down- 
 fall. The American slave was transformed into a freeman 
 without development, without instruction ; one day a slave, 
 the next a citizen — changed in the twinkling of an eye. Hith- 
 erto the road from slavery to freedom has always been a harsh 
 and rugged one. One right after another has been won with 
 difficulty and danger. Blood has flowed and generations of strug- 
 gle have engendered a fortitude worthy of the liberty that came 
 at length as its reward. This is the universal history of European 
 development, and out of these struggles grew up the peoples 
 that make what we term the civilized world of to-day. Whether' 
 the sudden transplantation that marked the downfall of our 
 American system, lacking, as it did, all that opportunity for 
 gradual growth which serfdom and feudalism afforded, will show 
 like beneficent results, is a question which only time can answer. 
 It is not yet decided, and the claim of the Southern white man of 
 to-day that two races, so distinctly marked in outward habit of 
 body and so widely separated by previous development, can only 
 
PARTNERS. 149 
 
 body-servant of this man before he was taken out of 
 the State and freed by his fanatical master. This man 
 Unthank is known to be a very impudent and dangerous 
 negro, who has been coming to the State in comj^any with 
 his former master, in open defiance of the law that forbids 
 free negroes to come into the State. We learn that the 
 people of that part of the county are justly incensed at 
 these facts and have organized to give both Unthank and 
 his master such a welcome as they deserve, should they 
 ever dare show themselves in that region again." 
 
 "Meaning you?" asked the listener on the chintz- 
 covered lounge, gazing in undisguised amazement at the 
 reader. 
 
 "Undoubtedly, meaning me," responded Hargrove, 
 Avith a quiet laugh at the other's surprise. " You see I 
 am bound to have the name of kidnapper, wherever I 
 go. It must be something in my face that condemns 
 me, or perhaps it runs in the blood. The Hargroves of 
 a few generations back are said to have done a land- 
 office business in that line." 
 
 "You are sure it ain't in your actions, I suppose?" 
 said Kortright dryly. 
 
 "Well, no," said Hargrove in a tone of candor, "I 
 am not. On the contrary, I am half of the notion that 
 I'm guilty of the charge in Carolina." 
 
 live together in a relation in which one is subordinate to the other, 
 and controlled by it, is a dogma that will be sneered at only by the 
 fool who is too dull to read the past and too blind to fear for 
 the future. We may hope — we must hope — but that very hope 
 should teach us that simple liberty is not all that is required to 
 transform the slave into a freeman. The African of America 
 must have time to learn very much and to forget still more before 
 the Proclamation of Emancipation will have become effectual. 
 On this fact depends the duty of to-day. The Slave may be 
 emancipated ; the Freeman must be developed. We may believe 
 in a result consonant with liberty and our ideas of justice ; but 
 the fact that such an outcome is not demonstrable should teach 
 the people of the whole land that the end of duty is not yet. 
 
150 HOT PLOWSHARES. 
 
 "AVhat!" 
 
 " I think I am guilty of kidnapping, as charged in that 
 paper, and you, too." 
 
 " I ? How do you make that out ?" 
 
 "I have reason to beheve that Un thank has been 
 bringing one or more of his friends back on the sloop, 
 every time I have been down there for a year or more, 
 and I suppose you have been helping him away with 
 them." 
 
 "That's where you've shot mighty wide of the mark, 
 Captain. I don't mind saying that I Avould do it in a 
 minute, if the chance came ; but, as a matter of fact, I 
 never did help a runaway, even Avith a meal of victuals, 
 till the night l)efore the 'lection. That woman's story 
 made me an Abolitionist. ' ' 
 
 " So ? And what was her story, please ?" 
 
 "No matter, Captain. I'm willing to give up that 
 you didn't want to kidnap her ; but that you didn't 
 mean her harm of any kind I'm not quite so sure." 
 
 " You think a Southern man cannot deal fairly with 
 a man or woman having a black skin ?" 
 
 "Well, it don't matter what I think. What she said 
 to me I suppose she told in confidence, and I have no 
 right to go and repeat it to one she was afraid of, to say 
 the least. You see that yourself" 
 
 "You are quite right in that," said Hargrove, "but 
 knowing the girl's history as well as I do, I had a curi- 
 osity to learn how much of it she would tell. I assure 
 you. Squire, that girl has a story well worth hearing, 
 without any fiction being added." 
 
 "The one she told me changed my politics, and I 
 ain't sure but it colored my religion just a trifle." 
 
 "And the real story has changed my life," said Har- 
 grove, as he rose and walked moodily up and down the 
 room. " I suppose I kidnapped her, too. Confound it, 
 Mr. Kortright, do you believe in a devil ?" 
 
PARTNERS. 151 
 
 "It's the one thing I never had a doubt about," an- 
 swered Kortright doggedly. 
 
 " Oh, I don't mean a mere theoretical devil ; I mean 
 a being that cannot help doing evil, even when meaning 
 to do good— one whose acts are all cursed with the 
 venom of destruction, no matter how well intended." 
 
 " I don't know. I suppose that must be the very way 
 the devil is situated." 
 
 "And that is the way it is with this girl, Lida. Poor 
 thing ! she's had a hard time. I don't think she ever 
 meant any one harm, but her very presence is a curse. 
 I never did her anything but kindness in my life, but 
 she brought a curse with her into my house, and I have 
 not been so happy in years as since she left it." 
 
 "Well, she ain't likely to trouble you much more, 
 and, as far as I can see, you're both very well rid of 
 each other." 
 
 "That's the trouble. Squire," said Hargrove, stop- 
 ping short before his companion. " I am not rid of her, 
 and cannot be for many a year. She is hung around my 
 neck like a mill-stone. Even now, I am compelled to go 
 away in a few days to face any amount of danger and 
 trouble on her account." 
 
 "Well, Captain, I'm sorry for both of you— you and 
 the woman, I mean ; but if you won't tell me what it's 
 all about and I won't tell you what she said, what sense 
 is there in our talking around it all day ? To change 
 the subject— your speaking about mill-stones brought it 
 to my mind — you know that farm of yours just across 
 the creek, to the east of my land ?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 " Wouldn't you like to sell that tract ?" 
 
 " I don't know. Why ?" 
 
 " Well, you see, the doctor says I'm not likely ever to 
 be of much use on the farm any more — may not be 
 anywhere— but at least must look for some sort of busi- 
 
152 HOT PLOWSHARES. 
 
 ness that will keep me out of the weather. Now, I 
 never had any turn for merchandising ; and there's the 
 big fall in the creek there, I've always thought would 
 make somebody's fortune, some time. I ain't rich, but 
 I've a mind to try and build a mill there, if I can get 
 the property on easy terms and long time. The dam 
 would back the water up on my meadow, anyhow, so 
 I've got a sort of an interest in it, you see." 
 
 "Yes," said Hargrove, still pacing back and forth 
 across the room, "I've thought such a thing might be 
 done, myself. How much power could be got there ?" 
 
 "Power? I don't know. I ain't a mechanic, ex- 
 actly, but if a good dam was put across that narrow 
 place, there ain't a water-power in this region to com- 
 pare with it. Why, it would run anything." 
 
 " Have you money enough to develop it ?" 
 
 " Not as it ought to be done ; but I'd do enough to 
 hold it, make a living, pay the interest and wait for a 
 chance to do better." 
 
 "Suppose you had the money?" pausing and looking 
 down at the man on the lounge. 
 
 " If I had the money I'd make that tract worth more 'n 
 all the land you've got up and down the valley." 
 
 " Yes," slowly resuming his walk. 
 
 " I don't know exactly what 'twould be, and I wouldn't 
 be in no great hurry to decide neither ; but, if I had the 
 money, I'd put in a dam there that wouldn't be in no 
 danger from high water, and then I'd look around for 
 something for it to do. No fear but I'd find something. 
 The only trouble would be to determine what would be 
 the best." 
 
 " Do you think you would be able to attend to it ?" 
 
 "Well, Captain, I don't never expect to be well again. 
 I s'pose I'll be a sort of half-cripple the rest of my life. 
 I Avon't be able to c?o, but think maybe I'll be able to 
 look after what others are doiu'." 
 
PARTNERS. 153 
 
 " A much more important thing. The great trouble 
 with all of our American work is that there is not 
 enough overlooking. The laborer, being a peer of the 
 employer, naturally resents supervision, and so he is 
 told what is to be done and left to do it in his own 
 
 way." 
 
 " It's a good dear so," assented Kortright. 
 
 " How much money would it take ?" asked Hargrove. 
 
 "Oh, that depends on how much is done. It might 
 take ten thousand, and five times that might not be too 
 much." 
 
 "Squire Kortright!" stopping suddenly in front of 
 
 him. 
 
 "Well?" quietly. 
 
 "I am a rich man." 
 
 "I s'pose so." 
 
 " And I believe you are an honest one." 
 
 " I'm glad you think so," dryly. 
 
 " I do, and I will furnish you all the money you need, 
 on one condition." 
 
 "AVhat's that?" asked the Squire cautiously, betray- 
 ing no more emotion than if he had merely been offered 
 the most ordinary of daily favors. 
 
 "I came here to-day to make a proposition to you of 
 another sort. Yovir suggestion opens a better way. As 
 I said, I am a rich man, to-day. But I have under- 
 taken an enterprise which is full of peril. If I should 
 die to-morrow, it is quite possible that my estate would 
 be swaUowed up in the litigation that would ensue. I 
 have only my daughter to care for. She will be my only 
 heir. But, if I should die while she is yet young, she 
 might have no estate when grown to womanhood, Now, 
 I want to provide against contingencies, and I will tell 
 you what I will do. I will sell you the land at a nomi- 
 nal price, and will give you twenty-five thousand dol- 
 lars to expend in its improvements, on condition that 
 
154 HOT PLOWBUAEES. 
 
 my little girl shall have a half-interest in the business 
 when she comes to be tAventy-one years of age." 
 
 "Meaning little Hilda, I suppose ?" 
 
 "Of course." 
 
 "And you want I should give you what sort of a 
 bond ?" 
 
 " None at all. I want your word that you will transfer 
 this interest to her, if you should be living at that time, 
 and that you will leave it to her by will so that she 
 might not lose it in case of your death." 
 
 "What!" exclaimed the Squire, sitting up, regardless 
 of his ailment, and looking at the Captain in amaze- 
 ment. "You mean to trust me with all this and take 
 no instrument of writing ?" 
 
 "I have been entrusted with much more, and merely 
 expect you to be as faithful as I have been." 
 
 "Oh, I can't take it. Captain. I can't take it. I did 
 think of borrowing it from you, if you could let me have 
 good clean money, but I could not take it in this Avay ; 
 I couldn't do it ; I couldn't do it. I'm much obliged— 
 ever so much obliged — but I couldn't do it, nohow." 
 
 " What do you mean by ' clean money' ?" 
 
 " Clean money V Well, you must excuse me, Captain, 
 bvit — but I meant money that wasn't made in— in any 
 way — that — that " — 
 
 "Kidnapping, for instance ?" sharply. 
 
 "Well, yes," responded the Squire, his self-control 
 at once restored by the other's tone — " that or anything 
 else that— that a man of my convictions couldn't ap- 
 prove of." 
 
 " I'm afraid you couldn't take this, then. I inherited 
 a part of it from the Hargroves of Hargrove's Quarter, 
 who were a tough lot in their day — wox'se than kidnap- 
 pers, I'm afraid— buccaneers — pirates, perhaps." 
 
 "Slave-holders, at least, and perhaps slave-traders, 
 loo," said Kortright. 
 
PARTNERS. 155 
 
 "Both," said Hargrove, resuming his seat. 
 
 "And you — how have you used it?" asked Kortright 
 severely, looking under his eyebrows at the other. 
 
 "Me ? Oh, I took a little that I had left after build- 
 ing Folly Castle, up there, and put it into the 'China 
 trade. ' It has grown from a little to a good deal, and 
 I thought I would draw out while there was something 
 to be had. But that was strictly moral," he added, with 
 a laugh. "We took tea and opium one way and mis- 
 sionaries the other." 
 
 "I s'pose that's the way of trade," said Kortright 
 with a sigh. 
 
 " Squire, I don't often share your peculiar notions, 
 but have never tried to change them ; still I do think 
 you are carrying them a little too far. I wouldn't like 
 to take money that was the direct result of crime, my- 
 self; but can you follow up each piece of gold, and refuse 
 it if a scoundrel's hand has touched it since it left the 
 mint ?" 
 
 "No, I s'pose not. Perhaps this very dollar," he 
 added, drawing one from his pocket, "has helped pay for 
 cutting some man's throat. Yet I don't know. Some- 
 how, I've, never known money that was made in a wrong 
 way to bring much enjoyment to them that had it." 
 
 "That's what they say about the ' nigger -trader's' 
 gains in my country," said Hargrove. 
 
 " I should think that would curse the purest gold that 
 ever was minted !" said Kortright vehemently. 
 
 "Yet you were willing to borrow money of me that, 
 in its origin, was, as you fully believed, stained with 
 this very traffic." 
 
 "That is so," said Kortright meditatively. "That 
 is so. Perhaps I was wrong. I s'pose I must have 
 been. You see, I'd been thinkin' of this, day after day, 
 as I lay here, and had kind o' got my mind set on hav- 
 ing the money, somehow, and d^in' this thing that I 
 
150 HOT PLOWSUARES. 
 
 s'pose has been lyin' in my mind, I don't know how 
 many years. I must have been wrong, though," he 
 added humbly, " for why shouldn't it be just as wrong 
 for me to borrow such money as for another to use 
 it?" 
 
 " There's this difference. Squire, and I think it makes 
 all the difference between ill-gotten gains and 'clean 
 money,' as you called it. If the doer of the wrong uses 
 the money, the curse of his evil may very naturally at- 
 tach to it ; but I do not see how by any justice or rea- 
 son the innocent holder should be affected by it." 
 
 "Perhaps not, perhaps not," sighed Kortright. "I'm 
 sure I don't know." He sank back on the lounge and 
 was silent for a little while and then said, " You want 
 to do this for your little girl ?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 " And I want to do it for my boy." 
 
 " Then why not make them partners ?" 
 
 "How?" 
 
 "If you must have an instrument of writing to wit- 
 ness the trust, why not make yourself a trustee for them 
 jointly, binding yourself to convey to them equal moieties 
 on coming of age ?" • 
 
 There was a moment's silence. 
 
 " I'm a good deal older than you. Captain." 
 
 "But will very likely outlive me. Whether you do 
 or not, a reasonable support will be secured to the child, 
 whatever may be the result of the complications that 
 now threaten me." 
 
 "I'll do it. Captain!" said Kortright, sitting up and 
 reaching out his hand to clasp that of the other. "I'll 
 do it, if Martha hasn't any objection. I didn't think I'd 
 ever be mixed up with slavery or its results. I didn't 
 want to be ; but this seems kind o' thrust upon me. 
 My boy and your girl shall be equal partners, and I \\\\\ 
 be a faithful trustee for them. May God so deal with 
 
PARTNERS. 157 
 
 me as I shall deal with them," he added, solemnly look- 
 ing upwards. 
 
 So the matter was settled. The bell rang for the 
 Christmas dinner. The children came rushing from the 
 barn, their clothes sadly rumpled and not without stain 
 and rent, but with glowing cheeks and ravenous appe- 
 tites. The company that gathered round the farmer's 
 table was a happy one, despite the infirmity of the 
 master of the house. Even he, thought his observ- 
 ing wife, was more cheerful and like himself than he had 
 been since his sickness, and her heart was made glad 
 when she saw Captain Hargrove enjoying the results 
 of her labors with a gusto that was unmistakable. So 
 the day was a happy one, and the Christmas blessing 
 rested upon all. The Squire had a new lease of life in 
 the prospect of doing what he had long dreamed of as a 
 possibility, but never quite expected to realize. The 
 master of Sturmhold had the look of one who had ac- 
 complished a cherished purpose, while the good mis- 
 tress of Paradise Bay rejoiced in the happiness resulting 
 from her scheme. The present had been made bright. 
 The future fortunately cannot always fling its shadows 
 before. 
 
 The two "partners," after a day of rollicking fun at 
 the old homestead, went back to Sturmhold at night, 
 ignorant of the eventful crisis in their lives which it 
 marked. 
 
CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 A NEW DAY. 
 
 The weeks passed by, and still the master of Sturm- 
 hold delayed the departure of which he had spoken in his 
 conversation with Kortright. The arrangement which 
 had been then agreed upon had been fully consummated. 
 The tract conveyed was much larger than the Squire had 
 dreamed of in connection with his project, and the sum 
 placed in his hands greater than he had asked. In return 
 for this confidence, Harrison Kortright had included in 
 the property thus held in trust all of his own lands, 
 except a small tract about the homestead. 
 
 "I couldn't put this in, you see," he said to Har- 
 grove apologetically, "because — well, there's no knowin' 
 what might happen, and I wouldn't like to be entirely 
 out of a home, nor have Martha feel, if I died, that she 
 was only a trustee in her own house." 
 
 "Certainly not," replied Hargrove. "I had no idea 
 of your doing anything of the kind. Indeed, I thought 
 that your care and attention were fully equal in value 
 to my investment, and I was very willing to leave it in 
 that way." 
 
 Mrs. Kortright, however, was opposed to the reser- 
 vation her husband's caution had made in her behalf. 
 The project seemed to have captivated the good woman's 
 fancy in an unusual degree. For the first time in his 
 fife her husband had risen beyond her highest ideal of 
 manhood. The boy-lover who had gone to the heathen 
 as an emissary of that Divine love — prototype of the 
 earthly bliss that had been denied to him — shrank to 
 nothingness in her esteem in comparison with the man 
 158 
 
.i I^EW DAT, 159 
 
 Avho, in mature years, could inafce a bed of pain the blrtii- 
 place of a new life. She had always respected her hus- 
 band's sturdy will, his inflexible integrity, keen and true 
 judgment and unfailing self-poise in all the events of 
 common life. He was a man that filled to perfection her 
 definition of a husband. Kind, careful, thoughtful for 
 every need of his family, respected by all, and year by 
 year rising higher and higher in public esteem — she was 
 proud of his manly completeness, and had almost uncon- 
 sciously yielded all care into his hands, confident that he 
 was entirely sufficient for all the earthly needs of the 
 denizens of Paradise Bay. She had lost her own self- 
 reliance, or rather had transferred to him the faith she 
 once had in herself. If she still spoke with some inde- 
 pendence and had her "notions," as she was wont to 
 say, it was only in accordance with a suppressed intui- 
 tion. She was positive only where she knew that her 
 husband's convictions would not run counter to her pre- 
 ferences. Otherwise, no matter how keen her impression, 
 she was sure to await an expression of his opinion. 
 
 All this had been a matter of growth with Martha 
 Kortright. The marriage which bound her to her hus- 
 band had not been completed with the ceremony that 
 made the twain one flesh. She had grown toward the 
 nature which she at first only half understood, and had 
 contentedly yielded to its power, little by little, until 
 Martha Ermendorf had been quite forgotten in the wife 
 of Harrison Kortright. In all this, however, there had 
 been no enthusiasm and very little pride. She was, of 
 course, in a sense, proud of the confidence and esteem 
 her husband had won among his neighbors, but the ro- 
 mantic element in her nature was not stirred by his 
 character or achievements. What he did was either so 
 commonplace, or done so much as a matter of course, 
 that she never thought of him as a hero. Dawson Fox, 
 the missionary, was the hero of her past ; the boy Martin 
 
IGO HOT PLOWSHARES. 
 
 was the hero of her future. Even in the tragic scene of 
 the election day her husband's part was quite forgotten 
 in comparison with her son's daring and Captain Har- 
 grove's dramatic gallantry. Martin's brave attempt 
 came ever to her mind as the key-note of a life of match- 
 less heroism. The Captain, as he hurled the rearing 
 steed back upon its haunches, seemed a king of men. 
 But the husband, half-clad, pallid, his face wrung Avith 
 agony at the son's danger, was only a matter of course 
 — an instrument of duty. It was all right that he should 
 do as he did. She could not imagine that he would do 
 otherwise ; but it never occurred to her that there Avas 
 anything uncommon or heroic in it. She had lived so 
 long in intimate relations with his thought that she had 
 no idea that the transparent soul hid heroism under the 
 simple guise of duty. 
 
 His plan for building a busy city out of the foam of 
 the great waterfall that had dashed and roared by the 
 sleepy hamlet of Skendoah for many a day, unheeded 
 by those who saw and heard, awakened her at once to 
 the consciousness that her husband was of no common 
 clay. She listened to his plans, grasped his idea and for 
 the first time realized that the companion of her life was 
 indeed heroic. He had been husband, father, lover, in 
 a sedate and solemn sense, these many days ; now he was 
 more — the one man to whom her Avomanhood bowed in 
 adoration. So she was stirred to rival his noble idea by 
 a self-sacrifice that should shoAv her trust. It was a 
 sort of unconscious penance which she set herself to do 
 for the sake of this man, her husband, whom she 
 felt she had robbed of half his due. Wiser counsels 
 prevailed, hoAvever, and through the aid of a lawyer, it 
 Avas finally arranged that Harrison Kortright should 
 hold and manage the combined property, receiving him- 
 self one-half the 3'^early income — or more, if that did 
 not amount to a certain sum— and reserving the re- 
 
A IfEW DAY. 161 
 
 mainder with the principal for Hilda and Martin, in 
 equal moieties, to be given to each at majority and to be 
 held by them as partners thereafter until they should 
 elect to terminate the relation. 
 
 With the spring, new life came to the prisoner of the 
 winter at Paradise Bay. The world was in the light of 
 a new dawning. The great West had been made greater. 
 There was a rvimor of gold in California. A few enthusi- 
 astic outcasts had groped their way across the dun sandy 
 swells to a new Land of Promise under the shadows of 
 the Rocky Mountains, The world was waking, and the 
 telegraph began to stretch its web up and down the land, 
 annihilating distance and making time a jest. It was 
 then that Harrison Kortright undertook the work for 
 which he had been fitted by years of silent thought and 
 that self-reliance that comes only from isolation and self- 
 communion. The dream of his life was now about to be 
 realized. He almost forgot the grip of disease upon his 
 distorted hand and the finger of pain upon his flexed and 
 dragging limb. The flesh could not weigh down his 
 buoyant spirit, and the voice of his nightly prayer was 
 fuller of triumphant thanks than of supplication for 
 strength. He had dreamed of the waterfall from boy- 
 hood and now had his hand upon its boisterous strength. 
 That he would make it do his will he no more doubted 
 than did Cromwell the issue upon Marston Moor. 
 
 The time was favorable, and as the tidings of his pro- 
 ject spread, every one who heard wondered that it had 
 not been undertaken before. Success ran to meet him 
 in his new endeavor. Skendoah awoke from its slum- 
 ber, and waited in expectancy for the coming of new 
 feet and a new era. When the spring buds burst into 
 flower Martin bade adieu to Sturmhold, the new life that 
 had enchained him and the Princess who had awakened 
 him with her kiss, and returned to give the aid of quick 
 eyes and nimble feet to his father's enterprise. There 
 
162 HOT PLOWSHARES. 
 
 were tears and kisses at parting. The farmer's boy 
 found Paradise Bay exceeding dull Avitliout the bright 
 eyes and ruby lips that wept and sobbed for him at 
 deserted Sturmhold. The grief of both was assuaged 
 only by the promise of frequent meeting and of a future 
 reunion when the torrent had been tamed and the master 
 of Sturmhold should go no more away from its delightful 
 surroundings. 
 
CHAPTEK XIV. 
 
 THE END OF THE LAW. 
 
 A tal'l, stately man of middle age, with a mien of 
 peculiar grace and dignity, called at Sturmhold one day 
 not long afterwards, during a brief absence of Captain 
 Hargrove, and was shown into the library to await his 
 return. In person the visitor was one who would any- 
 where have attracted attention. Fully six feet in height, 
 well-knit and muscular in frame, with a noble, well- 
 proportioned head set on broad shouldei's, he was a fine 
 specimen of self-reliant manhood. Add to this an ex- 
 pressive face, strong features, a large, brilliant, kindly. 
 eye, a musical, sonorous voice, and you have a fair pic- 
 ture of the stranger who waited patiently for Hargrove's 
 return. To him entered Hilda, restless from the loss of 
 her companion. It was not long before she yielded to 
 the fascinations of a manner which few could resist, and 
 gave her fullest confidence to one whom no man had 
 ever presumed to doubt. When Captain Hargrove re- 
 turned he was handed a plain card, on which was written 
 the name, " Jared Clarkson," It was a name well 
 known in that region, as that of a landholder whose 
 acres were numberless, scattered over half a hundred 
 counties of the State. Equally noted as an orator, a 
 philanthropist and a financier, he was a man of remark- 
 able character and of great personal power, but so 
 given to what were deemed impracticable vagaries as 
 to be held in very trivial esteem in any public capacity, 
 while the regard for his private character was un- 
 bounded. Hargrove had often heard of him and had 
 163 
 
164 HOT PLOWSHARES. 
 
 no little curiosity to meet him, but chance had never 
 thrown them together. He wondered what this man, 
 who Avas chiefly known as the leader of the most ad- 
 vanced ideas upon social and political subjects, could 
 want with him — the one man in all that region who was 
 credited with the most active opposition to these ideas. 
 Knowing his eccentricity, however, it occurred to Har- 
 grove that perhaps his visitor had come to Sturmhold 
 on an evangelizing tour, and proposed to accompUsh 
 nothing less than a conversion to the dogmas to which 
 he was attached. It was with an amused smile, there- 
 fore, that he proceeded to the library. His amusement 
 changed to amazement, therefore, Avhen, opening the 
 door, he saw this radical reformer seated on a low stool 
 before Hilda, who was perched upon the highest chair 
 in the room, with an open book in her lap, over which 
 her eager face expressed only undoubting wonder. 
 
 "Yes," continued the excited child, "and the bears 
 got after him !" 
 
 "Bears ? — the Great Bear and the Little Bear, I sup- 
 pose ?" with the hint of a smile at the corner of his 
 broad mouth. 
 
 "I reckon so," she responded, with an uneasy feel- 
 ing that she was being laughed at. " Of course there 
 must have been little and big ones, for there were twenty 
 thousand of them." 
 
 " Twenty thousand !" 
 
 ""VYell, perhaps it was only ten thousand ; but it was 
 a great many, anyhoio^''^ — the last word with great posi- 
 tiveness of emphasis. 
 
 Mr. Clarkson bent in apparent absorption, while his 
 tawny beard almost swept the page and his genial face 
 was aglow with delight. It was the story of the adven- 
 tures of Baron Munchausen, of whom Hilda was dis- 
 coursing as she turned the pages and explained the 
 engravings which illustrated the text. It had been a 
 
THE END OF THE LAW. 165 
 
 favorite with Martin, and so a x^art of her repertory of 
 the wonderful. 
 
 "And this," she said, didactically, 'Hhis is where he 
 went to the North Pole." 
 
 "You don't tell me!" said her auditor, in a soft, 
 melodious voice. " WeU, what did he do then ?" 
 
 " The Baron ? Oh, he was all right. He always was. 
 He climbed the Pole !" in a voice of triumph. 
 
 " Climbed the pole ? Was it a bare pole ?" 
 
 "Yes — well — I don't know. But they were polar 
 bears, you know." 
 
 A rich, full laugh rang out at this unconscious sally. 
 The stranger caught Hilda in his arms, and turning met 
 the surprised and amused glance of Captain Hargrove. 
 Without putting the child down, the visitor advanced 
 and said : 
 
 " Captain Hargrove, I suppose ?" 
 
 "That is my name. This is Mr. Clarkson, I pre- 
 Bume?" 
 
 " Yes. I wanted to see you a moment on business, 
 and while I waited made the acquaintance of this little 
 girl. She is very entertaining." 
 
 "For a wild girl, she does well enough," said Har- 
 grove, smiling. "She has always lived alone, except 
 when I have been here now and then for a while, and, 
 though she has had a teacher, seems to have had her 
 own way and taken her own course. I am thinking of 
 sending her to school, now that she is getting so large." 
 
 "Indeed ?" looking inquiringly at the child. 
 
 " Yes ; I have to be away so much that I cannot look 
 after her, and the servants are spoiling her, I am afraid." 
 
 "I don't know," said the stranger, seriously. "Nature 
 is a great teacher— a great teacher, sir, and the grandest 
 of nurses. I always pity the child that has to give the 
 freedom of a life such as she has known for the tyranny 
 of the school-room." The sentence was given with 
 
166 HOT FLOWBHARES. 
 
 oratorical precision, a graceful outward wave of the left 
 hand as he referred to the surroundings of Sturmhold, 
 and a heavy, queer emphasis upon tj-rann}-, the first syl- 
 lable of which was pronounced with a long y. 
 
 "Well," said Hargrove, "I don't know which is most 
 to be pitied, the child that has nature and misses the 
 school, or that has the school and misses nature. But 
 how can I serve you ?" 
 
 "Oh, I just w^ant to talk with you a little," repUed 
 Clarkson. "There, run aAvay, my dear." He kissed 
 the child, and lowered her to the floor as he spoke, and 
 she left the room without further words. Hargrove 
 motioned to a couple of chairs that stood in the embra- 
 sure of a window at the end of the room overlooking 
 the valley, and they sat down. The visitor looked at 
 the prospect without for a moment, turned and cast 
 his eye over the well-filled shelves and rich adornments 
 of the room, and then surveyed his companion from 
 head to foot with careful scrutiny. Everything appa- 
 rently pleased him, for he said : 
 
 "You have a fine place here. Captain Hargrove." 
 
 There was something in his tone that conveyed a 
 deeper meaning than the words. Hargrove smiled quietly 
 as he replied : 
 
 " You did not come all this distance to tell me that, I 
 suppose, Mr. Clarkson ?" 
 
 "Well, no," said the other, frankly, "I did not. I 
 came as the representative of Mrs, George Eighmie." 
 
 "Indeed !" said Hargrove, lifting his eyes. 
 
 "You are surprised, perhaps?" he asked, with a smile. 
 
 "At your coming, no; at the title of your embassy, 
 yes," with a light laugh. 
 
 " So ? You object to my credentials ?" 
 
 " Not at all. If you are satisfied with them, I am." 
 
 " You no doubt know to whom I refer." 
 
THE END OF THE LAW. 167 
 
 "lam sure I have not the shghtest idea," repHed 
 Hargrove, with significant blandness. 
 
 " George Eighmie was your brother, I believe ?" 
 
 "My half-brotlier." 
 
 " Yes, of course. You were his executor ?" 
 
 " There is such a record, I beheve." 
 
 " And the guardian of his children ?" 
 
 " You say so," smiling. 
 
 " I ask you, Mr. Hargrove ; I ask you as a man, sir," 
 turning upon him a grave, earnest face, half-flushed 
 with anger at the levity of tone and manner of his lis- 
 tener. 
 
 "You have the right to ask, Mr. Clarkson, and I 
 have an equally indubitable right to answer or not, as 
 suits my pleasure. " 
 
 The visitor regarded him with surprise. He was one of 
 those men who are accustomed to overbear those who 
 converse with them by the mere force of their own di- 
 rectness. Subterfuge was rarely attempted with him. 
 He was sincerity itself, and not only expected, but al- 
 most compelled sincerity from others. That one should 
 think of refusing to answer such an inquiry was a thing 
 most preposterous to him. So he said : 
 
 " I am a plain man, Captain Hargrove." 
 
 " They call me blunt, sir," said the ex-ofiicer in a tone 
 that fully justified such a description. 
 
 "And I ask a plain question," said Clarkson severely, 
 ignoring the other's interjection. 
 
 "AVhen you do so you will get a plain answer, sir," 
 was the emphatic reply. 
 
 "Humph! Will you tell me, then, whether you were 
 the guardian of your half-brother's children V" 
 
 "I will not." ^ 
 
 " You will not ; why ?" 
 
 " Because I do not choose to do so." 
 
1G8 HOT PLOWSHAIIES. 
 
 Clarkson rose and walked quickly once or twice across 
 the room. 
 
 "Mr. Hargrove," he said, finally, as he paused near 
 his former seat, "I came here in a spirit of friendship 
 and conciliation to induce you to do justice to an in- 
 jured and outraged woman." 
 
 "Am I to infer that you show your conciliatory spirit 
 by accusing me of the injury and outrage ?" asked Har- 
 grove, with a smile. 
 
 " She is your brother's Avidow," said the other, hotly. 
 
 " So you have said before." 
 
 " And you have not denied — you dare not deny it." 
 
 " I do not feel called upon to deny it." 
 
 " You have taken her estate and left her in penury. 
 You have separated her from her children and — " 
 
 " That will do, Mr. Clarkson. I do not question your 
 motives, but you must remember that I am in my own 
 house — a fact which I may forget if you do not use 
 milder language." 
 
 " I beg your pardon, sir, " said Clarkson. " The wrong 
 of which this woman's life is only one sad chapter al- 
 ways stirs me to the very marrow. The law which per- 
 mits such outrages is a vile and infamous thing." 
 
 Hargrove made no answer. Clarkson turned away, 
 and, after a moment, returned and said : 
 
 "If you do not mean to comply with our demands, 
 Mr. Hargrove, why not say so plainly ?" 
 
 "You have not as yet made any demand. When 
 you do so I will certainly reply distinctly." 
 
 "Very well, I will proceed now in form," said Clark- 
 son, resuming his seat. "Here is a power of attorney 
 from the relict of George Eighmie, late of Mallowbanks, 
 planter, whose half-brother and executor you admit 
 yourself to be." 
 
 He handed Captain Hargrove a legal document as he 
 spoke. 
 
THE END OF THK LAW. 1U5» 
 
 ''Well?" 
 
 ''By examination you will see that 1 am authorized 
 hy her to demand from you a share of the estate of her 
 late husband and the custody of her children. Now, 
 what have you to say ?" 
 
 " Only, Mr. Clarkson, that the law has decided that 
 George Eighmie left no widow and no legitimate chil- 
 dren. Through failure of these, his estate fell to me as 
 his heir. What I shall do with it as such is a matter 
 for my own conscience alone. If, as executor of his will, 
 I am in the least in fault, the law offers a remedy." 
 
 " Yes, the remedy which the poor have against the rich 
 — the weak against the strong, ' ' said Clarkson with a sneer. 
 
 "Pardon me, Mr. Clarkson," said Hargrove, rising 
 to his feet, "that is not so. If the woman you call 
 George Eighmie 's widow had not you for her friend — 
 the richest man of all this region of wealth and thrift — 
 she still has me, and knows very well that I would not 
 see any wrong done her by any one, much less be guilty 
 of it myself." 
 
 "Yet you hold and enjoy the estate which should 
 have been hers, while she is obliged to seek refuge 
 among strangers." 
 
 " Pardon me again, sir," said Hargrove, "the woman 
 of whom you speak is in no need. Whatever I have she 
 is welcome to enjoy. Even now my house is at her dis- 
 posal, my servants subject to her control." 
 
 " Yet she fled from this house in a frenzy of terror." 
 
 " A silly, baseless fear, yet one which her sad expe- 
 rience made it not unreasonable that she should enter- 
 tain. She is a weak, foolish woman at best, and has 
 been made doubly suspicious by the snares into which 
 she has fallen through her own folly and the love of a 
 weak man." 
 
 "Perhaps your own conduct gave her groimd for sus- 
 picion." 
 
170 HOT PLOWSHAKE.S. 
 
 "I have reproached niys^elf Avith the thought that it 
 may have doue so, Mr. Clarkson,"'' said Hargrove 
 frankly. "I am free to admit that I do not hke her, I 
 never did. She is a vain, selfish, querulous thing, who 
 never had anything but a pretty face to make her at- 
 tractive. Then, too, I have never been able to forget 
 the woe she wrought in my poor brother's life." 
 
 •• Was it not his fault rather than hers ?" sharply. 
 
 " Oh, no doubt ; but you see, Mr. Clarkson, I loved 
 him, and it is always the one we love who is wronged by 
 misfortune.'" 
 
 "But if 30U do not want her in your house, why do 
 you not let her have the estate — or a widow's portion 
 of it, at least — give up the children to her charge, and 
 leave her to care for them {ind herself as she chooses V 
 Certainly you have enough without it. Or, if the law 
 gives it to you, you might at least yield a moiety to her." 
 
 ''Mr. Clarkson, your remark shows how easily we are 
 misled by our prejudices and prepossessions. If this 
 woman had not l)een, at one time, a victim of the evils 
 of a system which you regard with peculiar horror and 
 aversion, you would not look upon her case as one of 
 hardship. A good home here or a good support else- 
 where — anything in reason, and in fact a good deal more 
 than reason, I am ready to provide." 
 
 " But, still, what should have been her own is with- 
 held from her." 
 
 "• You think so ? Let me tell you the facts. When I 
 shall have disposed of that estate according to the wish 
 of George Eighmie, it w^ll have consumed itself and 
 half as much more, and will leave me still to provide 
 out of my own estate for this woman and her children.'' 
 
 " You might at least allow her the control of her own 
 children." 
 
 "Your opinion differs from that of George Eighmie. 
 That is all there is of that matter," answered Hargrove. 
 
THE END OF THE LAW. 171 
 
 " He left two c-hildreu to my caiv. His own relation to 
 them was complex and peculiar. AVhether I received them 
 as executor or as guardian is yet an undetermined ques- 
 tion, legally. As his brother, however, 1 have thus far 
 strictly followed his injunctions in regard to them, and in- 
 tend to do so hereafter, no matter what the consequences. " 
 
 '' Where are they now ?" 
 
 "■Mr. Clarkson, the woman whom you represent 
 knows very well that one of them, the boy, was stolen 
 from my possession, and I have since been unable to 
 tind any trace of him. As for the girl — well, she is pro- 
 perly cared for.'- 
 
 " She is about the age of the child 1 made the ac- 
 quaintance of here this morning, I believe ?" 
 
 ''Very nearly," said Hargrove, with a smile. 
 
 "• And resembles her in appearance, too ?" 
 
 '' Perhaps," the smile deepening as he spoke. 
 
 "Mr. Hargrove, why is not this mother allowed to 
 see her child ?" Clarkson asked the question with deep 
 feeling, and then proceeded : '' Put yourself in her place, 
 my dear sir. As you say, her life has been a sad one. 
 She seems to have known poverty and wealth, love 
 and hate ; and noAv to be debarred from her children.'s 
 caresses is surely a hard lot." 
 
 "No one realizes that more than 1," rejoined Har- 
 grove with emotion. "I greatly misdoubt the wisdom 
 of my brother's plan ; but I pledged him my honor to 
 carry it into effect, and I mean to do it to the letter, if 
 it takes my fortune and my life." 
 
 "Surely his plan did not contemplate any such cruelty 
 toward the poor woman who had been his wife — at least 
 in the sight of Heaven." 
 
 "I think, sir, that his plan was devised simply with 
 a view to securing the happiness of the children. The 
 law had dealt very harshly with my poor brother's 
 foibles, and he wished to save them from its scath," 
 
1 72 HOT PL W8HARES. 
 
 "The law— the law 1" exclaimed the other hotly, "do 
 you call that the laii\ which separates husband and 
 wife ? It is sacrilege, sir ! Such an enactment is no 
 law. It is an instrument of iniquity — an outgrowth of 
 that 'league with hell,' the Constitution of the United 
 States !" 
 
 His eyes flashed fire under his heavy brows, aud his 
 strong face w^orked with excitement as he spoke. 
 
 "That may all be, Mr. Clarkson. I do not pretend 
 to know where the law cuts the line of right too sharply 
 to bind the conscience. This I do know, that George 
 Eighmie enjoined it upon me on his death-bed to do for 
 these children as he would have done had we exchanged 
 places. His purpose was one that my conscience ap- 
 proves though my reason may not. I am doing noAV 
 what you would do, what any honorable man would do. 
 "What his purpose was, I have never revealed to any 
 one. Should I live to see it accomplished, no one 
 will ever know it save from such rough guesses as you 
 may make. If I die before that work is completed, I 
 will leave it in good and- honest hands. Mr. Clark- 
 son," he added, suddenly laying his hand upon the 
 latter's shoulder, " If I should die before the youngest 
 of these children arrives at maturity this trust will 
 devolve on you." 
 
 "On me?'' 
 
 "Yes, on you. I have long been thinking of one 
 whom I could make my successor, and our conversation 
 to-day has brought me to this decision." 
 
 " I will not touch it, sir, I will not touch it I" 
 
 "I think you wall, sir. No honest man will ever re- 
 fuse another honest man a just and reasonable request. 
 At least, if you will not act yourself, you will select 
 some one to act in my place."" 
 
 "I refuse, sir, I refuse, utterly and absolutely, now 
 aud forever," said Clarkson, moving toward the door. 
 
THK END OF THE LAW. IT:'. 
 
 "You will not, sir, when he who asks is dead." 
 
 "I will not hear of it ! If you think you are doing 
 right, go on. I shall not trouble you. But what shall I 
 say to — to this woman ?" 
 
 "Tell her that George Eighniie asked me to provide 
 for her every reasonable comfort, and that not one syl- 
 lable of what I promised him shall ever fail while Mer- 
 wyn Hargrove lives." 
 
 "And if she wishes to return? You will make her 
 welcome, I suppose ?" 
 
 "No; I have no welcome for her. I wish she might 
 elect not to return ; but, if she insists on coming, my 
 house is open, and she shall have no reason to com- 
 plain of any lack of respect while here." 
 
 "And the little girl, she will be allowed to assume 
 her old relation to her, I suppose ?" 
 
 " To Hilda ? Oh, yes ; though she is getting past the 
 need of a nurse, which is about the limit of her capacity. " 
 
 " But you will not separate them ?" 
 
 "Not unless she abuses my confidence. In that case, 
 of course, I shall lose no time in ridding myself of her 
 presence." 
 
 "Of course. Well, I will tell her. I think that is the 
 best she can do." 
 
 "I should prefer, Mr. Clarkson, that you should say 
 what is a reasonable allowance for her and let me pay it 
 into your hands." 
 
 " No, sir ; no, sir ; I drop the matter from this mo- 
 ment. It is evidently one of the accursed secrets of 
 slavery, of which I have already heard too many. By 
 the way. Captain Hargrove, I am surprised that, with 
 the sad experiences which you have known, you should 
 still be an advocate of the system which produces them." 
 
 "I do not know that I am an advocate of it ; but I 
 was born where it prevailed, and, while I appreciate its 
 evils, I do not see how they can be remedied." 
 
174 - HOT PLOWHHARKS. 
 
 "The remedy is freedom!" said Clarksou. enthusias- 
 tically; "make the negro a man and he will soon take 
 care of himself." 
 
 " Pshaw ! Mr. Clai-kson. I have seen the negro at 
 home and abroad, free and slave, and I know the people 
 of the South. I have myself set free more slaves than 
 all the Abolitionists in the State of New York." 
 
 "You?" 
 
 "Yes, I," he repeated, in a contemptuous tone, "and 
 I have now no particle of interest in a slave, except 
 through the will of George Eighmie." 
 
 "Indeed ?" 
 
 "Yes, and I don't mind saying that I don't want any 
 more slave property. I believe I would rather be poor 
 than have it. Yet, I am not sure that slavery itself is 
 a sin, and I am not surprised at a man who inherited 
 slaves along with his family Bible hanging on to them 
 just as strongly as he sticks to that." 
 
 " Yet that does not make it right." 
 
 "Granted. Xeither does the fact that liberty is ab- 
 stractly right make universal freedom desirable.*" 
 
 "I do not see why." 
 
 "You do not ? Why if, by a miracle, the slaves were 
 freed to-day, they would be re-enslaved or annihilated in 
 a week. It is impossible and absurd to think of Free- 
 dom cannot be where there are two races, almost equal 
 in numbers, one of which has been the master and the 
 other servile. It can never be — never, sir, unless the 
 spirit of the one is broken and the manhood of the other 
 developed. The path from slavery to freedom must 
 always be a long and hard one. I do not see how the 
 American slave can ever set his foot in it. Slavery has 
 been a hard master, but it has taught him much. He 
 is infinitely above his congener on the African coast, 
 but he is not yet able to go alone. Isolated from the 
 white race, he lapses into barbarism without fail. The 
 
THE END OF THE LA 
 
 175 
 
 pioblem which seems so simple to jou, Mr. Clarkson, is 
 a terrible and bloody one to me. You may, perhaps 
 
 wou " "" f- f "'^- ^' ^^^^'^ ^^^- - i^ 'j- time 
 would come which my Eietta was always prophesying 
 when the land will be riven by the conflict, anS «laven' 
 be drowned in blood. It may come, and you may hve 
 to see It, though I do not think you will. But, if you do 
 remember what I tell you to-day. A slave ma b.: 
 fieedin an hour; a free man cannot ]>e made in many 
 
 ,J^^ *r "''" '*^^'^ ^^^"^g earnestly into each other\s 
 
 ItTrih % """7- '^^''"'^^ '''''"'- ^''' '''' ^^-^-k and 
 swarthy with a hint of Southern sunshine in his eye 
 his long beard and a certain litheness of form distinguish- 
 ing h,ni from the other, who, not less stalwart in lame 
 had a tawny tinge in his beard and a clear light in his 
 blue eye that told of generations that had looked up at 
 frozen winter skies. Of the two, the latter was b^fj 
 the more carefully dressed. He was graceful wiUiout 
 he languid ease of the other, and more readily awakened 
 o engrossing interest, though perhaps less intensely ex- 
 cited when his interest was once aroused 
 
 ''You may be right," said Clarkson, earnestly, and 
 extending his hand as he spoke. "I can anDrerin 
 your feeling though I do not'share your a^pX::;::: 
 ^^sIZ^oJiZT' ^^^ ^-P-^-^ factor-indeed, 
 
 p«iid!'""'^^'^'^^^---^^^^-^^'- 
 
 soiemnftv" "f ''"" ^'''''' "^ "" ''''' ^^ "^ ^^^most 
 so lemmty. 'I can only see the evil that is, and hear a 
 
 voice calling me to tear it down, and trust kim to p o- 
 Mde a remedy for that which shall come after " 
 
 Then'^ihr'''^ f."^''' '""^* ''' ^ "^^^^^-t i^ silence. 
 
 JtWh 7 ^ "^ '^'^' '^ P^^d^^ the thoughts the 
 other had expressed. 
 
CHAPTER XV. 
 "for the glory of god." 
 
 " ' For the glory of God— for the glory of God '—I de- 
 clare, Captain, I don't know. I thought of it when you 
 first brought me that will, but, as there wasn't any op- 
 position^ — that is, no caveat filed, though there was con- 
 siderable talk of one — I didn't give it much attention. 
 Since that, I 've kind of thought it a settled matter — not 
 exactly res adjiidicata, you know, but a question not likely 
 to come up again, till now this new claim of the heirs 
 that Gilman is pushing, and I 've had my mind turned 
 to it again, and I declare, Captain, I 'm more 'n half 
 afraid on't." 
 
 The speaker sat in the librar}'^ at Sturmhold beside a 
 table on which were numerous papers, while on the 
 other side sat Merwyn Hargrove, his face flushed and 
 his brows knitted close above angry, impatient eyes. It 
 was at night, and a shaded lamp left the two men half 
 in shadow, while the papers, inkstand and the stubby 
 hand of the lawyer, who held a quill pen with the back 
 of it downward while he spoke, were in the circle of 
 white light about its base. Just beside it, too, stood a 
 silver waiter, on which was a decanter, a small pitcher, 
 a sugar-bowl and spoons. A glass, half full of liquor, 
 stood at the speaker's right hand, while an empty one 
 stood at Hargrove's elbow. The clock upon the mantel 
 struck a soft, mellow chime as the speaker paused. Each 
 of the listeners counted stroke by stroke, mentally won- 
 dering what would be the result. It was eleven o'clock, 
 and they had been there since seven. Neither thought 
 176 
 
''FOR THE GLORY OF OODy l7t 
 
 so long a time had passed. It was the conclusion of an 
 important consultation. The man who had spoken was 
 Mr. Matthew Bartlemy, the legal adviser of Merwyn 
 Hargrove in Carolina. Mr. Bartlemy had heen the attor- 
 ney of Colonel Eighmie, and his devoted friend as well, 
 and had naturally been intrusted with Captain Har- 
 grove's affairs for that reason, if for no other. 
 
 But there were not lacking other reasons why one 
 charged with delicate and important duties should 
 seek the aid of Matthew Bartlemy. He M^as one of 
 the men who had come up from the lower ranks of 
 Southern Hfe to the highest pinnacle in his profession. 
 The fact that one of this class rises at all is evidence 
 of his unusual power. Even at the North, the capacity 
 to come up through superincumbent social grades with- 
 out the aid of money or friends is not regarded lightly. 
 The man who achieves success from nothingness is 
 apt to look back upon his past with a peculiar compla- 
 cency, and boast, directly or indirectly, of being a self- 
 made man. He may be Avrong to feel so. It is a 
 matter of grave doubt whether a good brain is not 
 often hampered with the accidents of wealth and po- 
 sition rather than given any advantage thereby. It is a 
 question whether the paucity of opportunity " which 
 poverty brings does not favor that intensity, concentra- 
 tion and self-reliance on which, in the main, success de- 
 pends. Many a plant would have grown rugged and 
 strong on the bleak mountain side that, prisoned in a 
 hot-house, is dwarfed and weakened until it falls a victim 
 to hordes of parasites who could not have pierced its 
 bark in its wild estate. So many a man, who would 
 have grown strong and grand in wholesome poverty and 
 risen out of obscurity into eminence under the ceaseless 
 sting of dire necessity, fades into insignificance under 
 the influence of wealth, opportunity and the lack of an 
 unrelenting need. 
 
178 HOT PLOWSirAlU-:s. 
 
 But if. such a career at the North be regarded as 
 creditable, what shall be said of it under the social con- 
 ditions of the South of that day ? That such instances 
 were not infrequent speaks volumes for the strength and 
 vigor of that unconsidered class who constitute the ma- 
 jority of the Southern whites — the "common liver," 
 " crapper " or " poor white " class. 
 
 From this class, unesteemed and, in many respects, 
 undesirable, has been constantly repaired that vital 
 waste which slavery produced in the ruling or aristo- 
 cratic class. By a principle of selection not less certain 
 than the survival of the fittest among the lower forms 
 of life, there rose out of this neglected, ignorant and 
 ofttimes degraded class, year by year, the strongest, 
 bravest and toughest — the best and the worst — into the 
 ranks of the ruling class, to take the places of those 
 whom luxury, leisure and vice had weakened and de- 
 stroyed. From this source came the new blood that 
 kept the old families up to the level of ability their 
 names implied. Solitude, nature and poverty were the 
 inheritance of such. The pine trees crooned their cradle 
 songs. Rocks and rivers were their playground and 
 academia. They were so near to nature that they had 
 almost the toughness of the savage. Their needs were 
 as simple as the slave's. The woods and waters fur- 
 nished half their subsistence without labor. They 
 looked forward to be to-morrow as they were yesterday. 
 For their children they asked no more than they had 
 themselves. The public school was so rare as to be a 
 curiosity and so poor as hardly to merit the name. 
 If knowledge came to such it was by accident, or 
 as a reward for a perseverance that of itself guar- 
 anteed success. This life strengthened, however, and 
 toughened its best specimens, while the inferior ones 
 shriveled and rotted. Strong-willed, thick-skinned, 
 tough-fibred men came out of this class and conquered 
 
''FOB THE GLORY OF GOD." 170 
 
 places in the aristocracy. They mated with its daugh- 
 ters. Tliey won its estates by industry sometimes, not 
 unfrequently by fraud. Tliey won their way by over- 
 matching in brain and power tliose that boasted of 
 hereditary gifts, and took tlieir places in the caste they 
 had conquered. It was bj^ this means that new fami- 
 lies grew and old ones were kept alive at the South. It 
 is for this reason that the individuals who stand at the 
 head of Southern affairs, who dominate its political life, 
 are very rarely the blue-bloods which the sycophants of 
 the North conceive them to be. One needs only to run 
 through the list of Southern statesmen, present or past, 
 to discover the fact that their marvelous strength, indi- 
 viduality and energy, is due, not to their old families and 
 aristocratic descent, but to the nameless herd whose very 
 memory is spurned by the leader whom the same hard- 
 ships have toughened for conflict. Therefore it is that 
 the Northern man is apt to boast of having overcome 
 poverty, while the Southern man extols the wealth and 
 social rank of his kindred, it hardly matters how re- 
 mote. The Northern man who rises exults in his victory. 
 The Southern man is often humiliated by the memory 
 of really humble origin. Indeed, it is rare to find at the 
 South a strong man who is, on both sides of his family, 
 two I'emoves from that peculiar substratum which is the 
 really distinctive feature of Southern life, and on the 
 elevation of which the future of the South must depend. 
 What called itself aristocracy was a pleasant thing. It 
 had its uses in the past, no doubt. Indeed, it has a use 
 in the present — it is the dead trmik, smitten by the fiery 
 bolt, but yet erect, about -vYhich the living vine of the 
 scorned and unconsidered lower class will cling and 
 climb. 
 
 The ancient aristocracy will serve as the mould in 
 which the manhood of the South will in a measure be 
 shaped, but it is in the undertow that its strength, its 
 
LSO HOT PL0W8I1AMES. 
 
 enterprise and its destiny must be sought. From this 
 class, even in the past, have come its best and strongest. 
 Jackson, whose birth is still a mj^sterj^ against whom 
 stands yet the record of the hostel that he left without 
 paying his bill, came out of this class. A President of 
 questionable parentage, who learned the rudiments after 
 his marriage ; a Senator whose first shoes were worn 
 Avhen, according to tradition, he fiddled at his mother's 
 first marriage ; Governors and Judges and generals by 
 the score, whose names are accounted of the proudest 
 among the living and the dead, derived from this class, 
 which they have too often made haste to disown and 
 contemn, the strength that gave success. So, while 
 the strongest of those below conquered their places in 
 the rank above the}-^ were in turn overcome by the 
 caste to which they aspired, which, as a condition of 
 recognition and acceptance, demanded that the fact be 
 forgotten. So the aristocracy preserved itself and 3'et 
 renewed its strength by constant accessions from the 
 ranks below. The gradations in societ}- were preserved 
 with a distinctness impossible at the North. The poor 
 white remained poor. The aristocrat still boasted of 
 his proud descent. They kept the pride of the great 
 families alive, and the sou whose sire was of humble 
 oi-igin flaunted his mother's family crest. Even the 
 bai*-sinister was not always allowed to interfere with 
 the pride of descent, and instances are to be found 
 of great men who have sunk the pride of self-achieve- 
 ment to boast the unsanctioned kinship of a great name. 
 Ah ! do not sneer, good Puritan. The results of this 
 social system are not lightly to be condemned. While 
 the system which you deem incompai-able has tended 
 more and more to crush out individuality, to furnish a 
 Procrustean bed for all, this has developed the reverse. 
 Before you boast of material results you must remember 
 that you have taken the choicest blood of the world to 
 
FOR THE GLORY OF GOD:' 181 
 
 repair the waste of life your follies have eutailed. Half 
 a million lives a year have brought fresh blood to inject 
 into your veins. You have been the Canaan of the 
 world's hope — the highway of its aspiration. Europe's 
 life, from the frozen ocean to the steaming sea, has 
 mingled with your life. Good and bad have come alike. 
 The evil have come to ravish as well as the good law- 
 fully to enjoy. But all have brought strength and kindly 
 nature has chastened the evil with her amenities, and 
 developed the good with healthful antagonism and abun- 
 dant reward. Babel has been builded at every four 
 corners. Every churchyard is polyglotic. Who are 
 you, and whence ? How many peoples mingle in your 
 veins ? How many ancestral languages make up your 
 speech ? You have wrought wonders on the face of the 
 earth. Is all that you have done good ? Can you forecast 
 a cloudless future V Y''ou claim to be the perfection of the 
 American idea — to be yourself American. Is it true? 
 
 "With the South how different have been the conditions ! 
 Her people are all the children of those who dwelt 
 within her lines when the Revolution ended. The 
 world has run past her borders. Her children have 
 poured out of her limits, but none have returned. She 
 has peopled her own West and flowed over into your 
 Northwest. Y''ou have builded factories and cities and 
 marts. She has grown men. She has given of her life 
 by millions to make your life-blood richer. Y^'ou have 
 grown too rich to raise children ; her homes are swarm- 
 ing with them. One system may be better, but neither 
 is bad. Perhaps the best may lie somewhere between. 
 At least, O, boastful Northman, remember this: what 
 thou hast achieved has been with the world's help. 
 What the South has done she has done alone — because 
 she willed to be alone, no doubt, but yet the fact re- 
 mains. The world has not come into her life. The 
 English stocks that settled on her eastern coast have 
 
182 HOT PLOWSHARES. 
 
 filled her borders and overflowed Ihem, too. There is 
 little admixture. The immigraut has beeu excluded •, 
 the African is afar oft' across the abyss of darkness. 
 The one life has grown out of itself; the other has 
 sucked the veins of the world. 
 
 Mr. Matthew Bartlemy was of the stock of common 
 livers. His father had been an overseer ; his grandfather 
 a "crap per "—good, honest people, as are the most of 
 their class. They ate and drank with content. For 
 them there was no morrow that gave promise of more 
 tlian to-day, and httle fear of any that should be worse. 
 The place of the rich and favored was too high for them 
 to aspire to, and below them was only the slave, who 
 was separated from them a world-wide distance by his 
 color. They were poor. They did not feel it deeply. 
 Their people had always been poor. They expected 
 nothing else for their children. They were poor but 
 honest and — white. Of these two things they were 
 justly proud, and of these alone. There was nothing 
 else in their past, present or future, so far as they could 
 foresee it, to justify pride. 
 
 They were coarse, rough people ; hardened by gene- 
 rations of want. They did not murmur. They were as 
 well off as their neighbors. The pride and luxury of the 
 rich did not gall them. They were only poor folks ; ex- 
 pected to be treated as such ; had no idea of being any- 
 thing else, and had no quarrel Avith fate over what they 
 deemed inevitable and irremediable. 
 
 Some of these attributes the good people had trans- 
 mitted to their descendant. He was neither sensitive 
 nor retiring ; and he was ambitious. He could not see 
 why others should have what he did not possess. He 
 was not especially desirous of fame, but wealth, success, 
 power, he coveted with an unquenchable desire. What- 
 ever lay between him and these he early determined to 
 overcome. He was not scrupulous. What others hosi- 
 
''FOR THE (J LORY OF dOD." 183 
 
 taled to do he performed with alacrity if it promoted 
 the end he had iu view. By stubborn persistence he 
 gained an education. An old field school, the kindness 
 of a clergyman to whom even the pittance he could pay 
 was an object, and the place of a beneficiary at college, 
 together with his indomitable energy and tireless appli- 
 cation, put him on a level, in acquirement, with the 
 most favored. He had brain. Everybody had learned 
 that before he graduated. He was not brilliant, but he 
 Avas solid. He did not know everything, but what he 
 once learned he knew forever. What he needed to know 
 he was sure to find out. For what he did not need he 
 had no care. He chose the law ; gave himself to his 
 client ; was faithful, tireless, shrewd and hard. He had 
 few intimates ; avoided politics ; served his profession 
 and made it serve him. Before he had reached middle 
 life he had the leading practice in his circuit, and was 
 known and feared as an opponent even in the capital of 
 the state. Xow, in the fullness of his years, he stood 
 at the head of his profession, the aspirations of his youth 
 more than fulfilled — the lord of many a plantation, the 
 owner of hundreds of slaves. He had steadily put aside 
 the honors of his profession, and gathered only with 
 untiring zeal its material advantages. 
 
 The habits of his life were so strong upon him that 
 he still labored as assiduously as when spurred by ne- 
 cessity. Colonel Eighmie had been his patron in his 
 early days, and he never forgot a service rendered to 
 himself. Merwyn Hargrove, thus commended to his at- 
 tention, had further commended himself by being a very 
 profitable client. Matthew Bartlemy had served him 
 faithfully, and never dreamed of relaxing his watch 
 over the interests that had been committed to his care. 
 He would not have scrupled to demand half the estate 
 for an emergent service ; but, having undertaken that 
 service, he would not for a thousand times that amount 
 
184 HOT PLOWSHARES. 
 
 have failed iu any duty attaching to the relation he had 
 assumed. He gave to the atfairs of every client not only 
 reasonable care Ijut the utmost diligence. As a man, he 
 was not altogether admirable. As an agent, he was the 
 perfection of vigilance, sagacity and fidelity. As Mat- 
 thew Bartlemy he was feared, hated, and sometimes 
 loathed. As M. Bartlemy, Esq., Attorney-at-Law, he 
 was trusted by his clients, feared l)y his opponents and 
 envied by the entire bar of his state. 
 
 "You don't mean to say that you really have any 
 doubt as to the validity of that will?'' said Hargrove, 
 taking a paper between his thumb and finger and hold- 
 ing it toward the lawyer, 
 
 " AVell, I don't know. Gilman has been feeling round 
 on this matter a right smart while, and now he has got 
 all the collateral heirs to agree and is going to bring suit 
 for them to the Fall Term. There ain't any doubt 
 about that. Now, Gilman isn't the sort of a man that 
 stakes on a jolay he don't think has a fair chance of win- 
 ning, and I may be alloAved to say I am hardly the man 
 he 'd try to blufi" on a weak hand. Whatever else may 
 be said of Matthew Bartlemy, it 's pretty well settled 
 that he don't scare easy." 
 
 The short, erect figure that sat opposite Merwyn Har- 
 grove just moved as a low chuckle escaped the lips. The 
 small gray eyes peered keenly over the gold-bowed 
 glasses on his nose as he passed his hand over the round 
 solid forehead that rose like a dome springing from the 
 red face and gray, furzy brows below. The trim old 
 man, whose head seemed to rest almost upon the mas- 
 sive shoulders, so short and stout was the neck that up- 
 held it, was the very embodiment of courage. Har- 
 grove laughed, despite his evident vexation, at the grim 
 humor of the old man's allusion to his well-earned repu- 
 tation. Bartlemy laid down his pen, emptied his glass, 
 and, turning toward his auditor a little more squarely, 
 
''FOR THE OLOllY OF. GOD/' 185 
 
 raised a silver-headed caiie that had rested against the 
 arm of his chair, crossed his hands upon it, and, still 
 sitting bolt upright, continued : 
 
 "Now, Gilman thinks he can overthrow that will, 
 but he isn't sure about some things. If he 'd been en- 
 tirely sure he wouldn't ever have come to me with a 
 proposition of compromise. He would have brought 
 suit and waited for me to go to him. He ain't in any 
 hurry. He knows you 're good ; but there's something 
 in the way. I know him so well that I can tell his state 
 of mind almost as quick as he can himself He thinks 
 he sees his way through that will, Captain Hargrove. 
 There ain't any other way to his end. If that will is 
 good the collateral heirs of George Eighmie have no 
 more claim to his estate than the King of Timbuctoo— 
 not a bit." 
 
 The old man stamped the floor with his cane, raised 
 his glasses to his forehead and leaned forward with 
 flushed face and burning eyes as he uttered this conclu- 
 sion at which he had arrived. 
 
 " But why ?" queried Hargrove. "• There is no doubt 
 of its being George's will, I suppose ?" 
 
 "Kot a bit," said Bartlemy. "It has every element 
 of a valid holographic will, which was duly ascertained 
 when it was admitted to probate. Besides, that question 
 cannot be raised by these heirs. Every one of them had 
 due notice, and that question is decided." 
 
 "What, then, can be their ground of action V" 
 
 "That's just what I set myself to find out. As I 
 said, I know Gilman. Thei'e's just this difference be- 
 tween him and me : he ain't afraid of anything he can 
 see, and I am not troubled about anything I can't see. 
 So I set out to find first what sort of a hole the damned 
 rascal had found in that will to make him think he could 
 drive a cart and oxen through it ; and, in the second 
 place, what there wa.s behind it to scare him after he 
 
186 HOT PLOWSHARES. 
 
 got through ; and I 've found out both, Captain Har- 
 grove 1" 
 
 "You have?" 
 
 "I have. The hole he's found in the will — or thinks 
 he's found — is that piece of sentimental foolishness, ' for 
 the glory of God.' " 
 
 "What ?" inquired Hargrove in surprise. 
 
 " Tor the glory of God,' sir, ' for the glory of God ;' 
 that's it. If ever Gilman or any one else gets past that 
 will, that's just where he '11 drive through." 
 
 " I don't see how that can affect it." 
 
 "That's just what the idiot thought who wrote it. 
 Confound the fool, if he had just let me draw it, there 'd 
 never been any such chance. Religion hasn't any place 
 in a will anyhow, and I shouldn't have wasted any in 
 that way." 
 
 "I presume not," said Hargrove, with a smile "though 
 I cannot see what harm George's weak attempt at piety 
 can do." 
 
 "That's it — that's just it. The man was a coward. 
 He hadn't pluck enough to do what he wanted done 
 himself, and so naturally distrusted you." 
 
 " I do not see that," said the other. 
 
 " You don't see it ? Why, he had some sort of an un- 
 derstanding with you, and so made you his heir, with a 
 secret trust that you should do some particular thing 
 with his estate, didn't he ?"" 
 
 "Yes," responded Hargrove. "He had talked with 
 me very freely of what he wished done, and I had pro- 
 mised him repeatedly that, if he left it to me, I would 
 not take a cent of it for myself, but would—" 
 
 "There, there," interrupted Bartlemy, striking his 
 cane on the floor and stamping so as effectually to drown 
 the other's words, "haven't I told you a hundred times 
 that I don't want to know anything about that ? A 
 secret trust ought to be kept secret, aod especially roust 
 
''FOR THE GLORT OF GOD." 187 
 
 not l)e inferable from the teniis of a bequest. Now, if 
 he 'd been the kind of man you are, Captain, he 'd have 
 trusted 3^ou without any doubt to do just as you had 
 promised." 
 
 "Why, so he did, Mr. Bartlemy," interposed Har- 
 grove. 
 
 " Did, eh ? Then what did he put in that confounded 
 ' glory of God ' clause for ?" 
 
 " Why to remind me of my promise, I suppose," said 
 Hargrove. 
 
 "That's it — that's just it !" said Bartlemy, springing 
 from his chair, and beginning to pace up and down the 
 floor. "He thought he must prick up your conscience 
 by some sort of a hint that you alone would under- 
 stand. The infernal fool ! That 's always the way with 
 a man that hasn't pluck enough to get a lawyer to draw 
 his will, but sneaks off alone and writes it himself, and 
 leaves a court to find out whether it is legal or not." 
 
 " Still," said Haxgrove, " I do not see how this hint, 
 as you call it, can affect the validity of his will." 
 
 "I don't say it does," retorted Bartlemy, "but it 
 may. It depends entirely on whether a court holds it 
 to be a hint, and, if so, what kind of a hint they think 
 it is." 
 
 " Don't almost all wills have a similar clause, ' In the 
 name of God, Amen,' or something of the sort ?" 
 
 " Oh, yes ; and if we can only make the court believe 
 that this is a sort of amen clause, or a mere pious ejacu- 
 lation, it will be all right. But that 's the trouble. 
 Scholar as he was, George Eighmie wasn't over-inclined 
 to piety. He wasn't so desperately given to religious 
 exhoi'tation and you weren't so badly in need of it, es- 
 pecially from him, that he would be very likely to send 
 you a sermon in so short a will as that. Here, let me 
 read it." 
 
 The old man caught the paper from Hargrove's hand. 
 
188 HOT PLOWSHARES. 
 
 thrust it down into the circle of light near the lamp, 
 worked his eyebrows up and down with a quick twitch- 
 ing movement that brouglit his eye-glasses down upon 
 his nose, and read : 
 
 "I give and bequeath all my real and personal property 
 of which I may die seized and possessed, and all my ne- 
 groes — " 
 
 "That is all right," said the old man, gesticulating 
 with the head of his cane in his left hand. "He might 
 have left out ' real ' and ' personal, ' but they do no 
 harm ; and, having used them, it was well enough to 
 mention ' negroes ' particularly, too, for they are hardly 
 one or the other — a sort of ' chattel-real, ' the courts have 
 sometimes called them." Then he read on : 
 
 — "to my half-brother, Captain Merwyn Hargrove," 
 
 "If the fool had only stopped there I should not have 
 been coming up here on any trumped-up story about 
 seeing a Xew York doctor, especially as I haven't had 
 any call for a doctor at home in sixty odd years. Now 
 here 's the trouble :" 
 
 — "to hold and use according to the dictates of his con- 
 science and for the glory of God." 
 
 "There it is, just as plain as 'olack and Avhite can 
 make it, that he meant to constitute you his trustee and 
 not his heir. At least it seems so to me, and I am 
 afraid will appear so to the court." 
 
 "Weil, what of it?" 
 
 "Wliat of it? Well, there is a good deal of it. In 
 the first place, if that is admitted, the court Avill want to 
 know what sort of a trust it was, and whether it Avas a 
 lawful one or not." 
 
 "Hasn't a man a right to dispose of his property as 
 he chooses ?" 
 
 " We sometimes say so, Captain, but it isn't true — 
 uot by a great de^.1. Let us suppose now t-liat this trust 
 
''FOR THE GLORY OF GOD/' 180 
 
 your brother hinted at was that you should use the pro- 
 ceeds of his estate to build a school or a college, or anj" 
 similar charity. Then it would be all right." 
 
 "The purpose was certainly a charitable one," said 
 Hargrove. 
 
 "• Tut, tut ! I don't want to know what it was. Re- 
 member that. But now let las suppose again that it was 
 given to you in order that you might take care of that 
 woman he called his wife and the children he had by 
 her. * ' 
 
 "Well." 
 
 " Or suppose this was only part of it, and the rest was 
 that you should free his slaves and use the estate to 
 make them comfortable and help them make their own 
 living." 
 
 "That would be a very reasonable supposition from 
 what I have done," said Merwyn with a meaning smile. 
 
 "I'm afraid it would," rejoined Bartlemy, "and if 
 the court should be of that notion I 'm afraid the will 
 would be in a bad way." 
 
 "How so ?" 
 
 " Well, you see, just a few months before George died 
 the Legislature passed an act declaring that slaves 
 should not be set free by will. You see it was getting 
 to be a common thing for a man to hold niggers as long 
 as he lived, and get all he could out of them, and then, 
 just at the last minute, set them free, without any pro- 
 vision for their support or anything of the kind. This 
 ' free nigger ' population, scattered all through the coun- 
 try, is getting to be a dangerous element, corrupting the 
 slaves, encouraging them to steal and run away, and 
 really disturbing the peace of the state. Very often, 
 too, it worked great injury to creditors. A man would 
 perhaps get trusted on the strength of his slave pro- 
 perty, set them all free, die, and leave his creditors to 
 whistle for their money. Xow, to cure this evil, the 
 
190 HOT PLOWHHAREf<. 
 
 Legislature enacted that a slave should only be manu- 
 mitted by leave of court and -svhen the owner was not 
 indebted to any considerable extent. Besides this, the 
 owner was required to give bond for the negro's good 
 behavior, and to provide for his support and keep him 
 off the county. This didn't quite meet the evil, and 
 so they cut off testamentary manumission in express 
 terms." 
 
 "But that is not this case, even according to your 
 supposition." 
 
 " Not exactlj' ; but you see I am afraid the principle 
 of the law that don't allow a man to do indirectlj'^ what 
 he is forbidden to do directly may come in. If he could 
 not set his niggers free by Avill, could he by will make 
 you his agent to do it for him ? Honestly, Captain, I 
 don't believe he could. So, if the court should think it 
 showed a trust, and should infer that it was this par- 
 ticular kind of a trust, I 'm of the notion that the collate- 
 rals would recover." 
 
 " Yes, yes," said Hargrove, rising and Avalking thought- 
 fully across the room, "and what about the woman ?" 
 
 "That's the very question I came here to ask you," 
 rejoined the lawyer. "I want to know all that is known 
 about that Avoman Lida ; and I want to see every scrap 
 of paper j-ou 've got or can lay hands on that in any way 
 relates to her. I 'm satisfied that, in some way or other, 
 she 's the stumbling-block that is in Gilman's way. It 
 isn't in the will, I 'm sure ; and after that 's past I 
 can't see anything but this woman and her children to 
 make him shy. You see, if the will is set aside, the es- 
 tate goes to the heirs-at-law, and the next question to be 
 decided is—' Who are the right heirs of George Eigh- 
 mie ' ?" 
 
 Note. — The chronological sequence of legislation and decLsiou 
 upon the points embraced in this chapter it has not been attempt- 
 
''FOB THE GLORY OF GOD." 101 
 
 ed to preserve. In most of the Slave States a part of this legis- 
 lation was of much earlier date than that given in the story, 
 while the remainder was a few years later. In nearly all of 
 them, however, these laws were enacted. Indeed, they may be 
 said to have grown unavoidably out of the necessities of the in- 
 stitution. To one accustomed to regard the slave as a man they 
 seem harsh and cruel ; to one accustomed to regard him as prop- 
 erty they appear only reasonable requirements to prevent fraud 
 and avoid the growth of a population, of necessity dangerous to 
 property endowed with the power of locomotion and a natural 
 inclination to escape from the restrictions of another's will. 
 Generally, the owner of slaves could manumit by will, if the will 
 provided for the removal of the persons thus freed from the 
 state. Even this was not, however, permitted in some states 
 toward the last years of the existence of the institution. The 
 condition that invalidated the will of George Eighmie is copied 
 from a reported case in a Southern Supreme Court. It sounds 
 queerly to unaccustomed ears, but is unquestionably good law 
 under the conditions which slavery imposed. The increase of 
 the free negro population being counted against public policy, 
 and the slave himself not having any right to be considered, the 
 conclusion was logical and just. 
 
CHAPTEE XYI. 
 
 BRACKISH WATERS. 
 
 " Her story is a sad one, Mr. Bartlemy. If it was not 
 for the wreck she made of poor George's hfe I suppose 
 I should pity her even more than I do, for, though I 
 don't like her, I must say she has had a hard time." 
 
 " So I suppose," said the lawyer, lightl}^ "though I 
 can't say I care much about that. What I want to 
 know is just what her relations may be to this estate." 
 
 "Well, I suppose you know the main features of her 
 history," began Hargrove. 
 
 "Don't suppose any such thing," said Bartlemy, 
 sharply. "I may have heard a great deal, but I want 
 facts. Just tell me all you know of her, directly or 
 indirectly, from first to last." 
 
 He pushed his spectacles high up on his capacious 
 forehead, clasped his hands on the head of his cane and 
 leaned back in his chair to listen. Now and then, as the 
 story proceeded, he reached forward, and, lifting the 
 glass to his lips, took a sip of its contents. 
 
 "Alida Barton, as she Avas called," said Hargrove, 
 when he saw his listener was ready for him to proceed, 
 "was certainly a pretty girl when George first became 
 a-cquainted Avith her. It was while he Avas in college, 
 and she was supposed to be the daughter of a poor 
 Methodist clergj'man, who officiated at that time in the 
 little town where the college was located. She was a 
 lithe, coquettish creature, Avhose jet black hair clung in 
 close, clustering curls about her head, Avhile her spark- 
 193 
 
BBACKItill WATERS. 193 
 
 ling eyes, full, but finely-shaped lips, and cheeks that 
 showed a ruddy bloom through a dark, soft skin, formed 
 a peculiarly piquant and pleasing picture." 
 
 "You needn't mind painting her portrait," growled 
 the lawyer; "I don't want to buy her; and, if I did, 
 she 's gaunt enough now, I '11 warrant." 
 
 "I was only excusing George, sir," said Hargrove, 
 apologetically. "I loved him, I reckon, as well as man 
 ever loved a brother. There was never a word of un- 
 kindness between us, and the poor fellow never saw the 
 day he would not have given his life for me. Say what 
 they may of him, I haven't found any better man since 
 his father died. And, for that matter, though the old 
 gentleman did cast him oflF, I doubt if he would have 
 acted differently, under the circumstances, himself" 
 
 " You don't mean it !" said the other in surprise. 
 
 " Every word of it," said Merwyn warmly. " If there 
 ever was a true-hearted, honest, clean-souled man, his 
 name was George Eighmie !" 
 
 " I thought him a kind of mean-spirited dawdler, who 
 let this woman lead him by the nose," said the lawyer. 
 
 " He was a quiet, studious fellow, who loved his ease, 
 and the peculiar troubles that he encountered made him 
 a hermit ; but he never had a low thought and could not 
 be driven or hired to do a mean thing. ' ' 
 
 "I thought, as he had broken with the Colonel and 
 taken up this woman, there must be something Avrong 
 about him. Of course, I never knew much of him. I 
 was the Colonel's counsel, and not his, and, as you know, 
 Peter Eighmie wasn't given to talking of his affairs, even 
 to his lawyer, unless it was actually necessary." 
 
 " George worshipped this woman. There is no doubt 
 of that," continued Hargrove, not heeding the other's 
 explanation, "and I must say, after all she has suffered, 
 she is a woman to attract any one's notice. He came 
 home from college engaged. His father was prejudiced 
 
194 HOT PLOWSHARES. 
 
 against her from the outset, not so much on account of 
 her rank in hfe — for she had been fairly well educated, 
 and her manner, saving a sort of pertness that grew 
 into pride and suspicion when trouble came upon her, 
 Avas certainly that of a lady — as because of some diffi- 
 culty that he had once had with a man of her name, 
 who was, I believe, a distant relative of her father/' 
 
 " The name was what, did you say ?" 
 
 "Barton — Charles Barton, originally of Mecklin 
 County." 
 
 " You don't say V Well, go on," said the lawyer, with 
 apparently renewed interest. 
 
 ''His father's opposition was a serious thing to George, 
 but as it was based <jn nothing more substantial than the 
 opinion that there never was a Barton who was not a 
 mean-spirited, low-down cur, he did not feel bound to 
 allow it to influence him." 
 
 "Eight, too," interrupted the lawyer. "My mother 
 was a Barton on the mother's side." 
 
 A half-smile crept under Hargrove's moustache, and 
 his eyes twinkled as if he thought the reason not alto- 
 gether conclusive. He went on, however : 
 
 "So they were married, and came to Mallowbanks to 
 live. His father, though not entirely satisfied at first, 
 was soon won over, George wrote me, by the spirit and 
 brightness of the young wife, and everything promised 
 a life of quiet happiness for them. George's letters to me 
 about this time were in one ceaseless strain of satisfied 
 delight. And it is no wonder. His wife, his father, his 
 home and his prospects seemed to be all that man could 
 ask. I, who had never met my Rietta then, and was just 
 a roving, jolly young lieutenant, who had no thought of 
 love or home — I even envied him his blissful prospects. 
 Poor fellow ! I have thought of it many a time since 
 with shame for my selfishness. 
 
 " Well, things went on in this way for something like 
 
BRACKISH WATERS. 195 
 
 a year, when one morning, while they were at breakfast, 
 Salathiel Jenkins, the nigger-trader from up the coun- 
 try, came with a couple of men and asked for George, 
 They were shown into the old keeping-room, which you 
 remember at Mallowbanks, that overlooked the river 
 and opened off the dining-room. G-eorge and his wife 
 were at breakfast, but Colonel Eighmie had not yet left 
 his room. George went to them at once, and as he 
 came into the room they could see Lida sitting at the 
 head of the table. Jenkins told him he had come to 
 reclaim a nigger gal of his that was 'harboring' on 
 the plantation. George promptly replied that he had 
 no slaves on his premises except those that had always 
 been there. You know it was the boast of the Eigh- 
 mies that they never sold a slave and never bought ex- 
 cept in families. He was sure they must be mistaken. 
 
 "'Oh, not at all,' said Jenkins, with that infei-nal 
 leer that drew the scar on his face almost up to his 
 eye and made him look more as the devil ought to be 
 painted than any man I ever saw." 
 
 "Jenkins wasn't any beauty," chuckled the lawyer, 
 "especially after that fight with Grinstead. I hap- 
 pened to see it myself It M'as at Martinburg court. 
 They were both young men, and Grinstead had sworn 
 that he would kill him on sight, as I reckon he ought to 
 have done. They met just at the court-house steps and 
 both drew their knives. There was some pretty spar- 
 ring for a moment, and tben Grinstead got his point in 
 just at the corner of Jenkins' right nostril and drove it 
 back with all his might. It ripped Jenkins' cheek open 
 clean back to the ear and left a mark there's no mis- 
 taking. But while Grinstead's arm was up doing it, 
 Jenkins give him a slash across the middle and he 
 never stood straight afterwards. Luckily for him it 
 wasn't deep enough to hit a vital part, or Jenkins 
 wouldn't have hved to trouble anybody else. Grin- 
 
196 HOT PLOWSHARES. 
 
 stead's brothers never would have let up on him till 
 they had shed the last drop of blood in his veins." 
 
 " So I have heard. Well, Jenkiiw said thei'e wasn't 
 any mistake, because he had seen his nigger since he 
 had come into the room. 
 
 " ' Seen her ? Where '?' asked George. 
 
 " 'In the dining-room,' answered Jenkins. 
 
 "'There is no one there but the regular servants,' 
 said George, 'I have just come from there.' 
 
 " He felt so sure, he told me, that he would not go to 
 the door to look in. 
 
 '"Oh, yes, there is,' said Jenkins — 'sitting at the 
 table.' 
 
 " 'Why, that is my wife, sir !' said George. 
 
 " ' That may be what you call her,' said Jenkins, 'but 
 I know she is my slave !' 
 
 " ' Jenkins !' said George, ' this may be an honest mis- 
 take on your part, but a man cannot intimate such a 
 thing of my wife, either in jest or earnest, without an- 
 swering for it. ' 
 
 "Jenkins wasn't a coward, and besides, he had tAVO 
 men with him ; so he did not flinch at George's words, 
 but said very coolly : 
 
 " 'Mr. Eighmie, if you will call that woman in here, 
 should she not recognize me and own that she 's my 
 slave, you may shoot me on the spot. ' 
 
 "'Very well,' said George, 'as you seem so sincere 
 in your belief, I will convince you of your mistake, and 
 you shall answer for it afterwards.' 
 
 " So he called Alida in, and, leading her forward on 
 his arm, he said : 
 
 " ' My dear, do you recognize either of these men ?' 
 
 "She looked at them carelessly, and answered in the 
 negative. 
 
 " 'See heiT, Lida,' said Jenkins. 'You don't mean to 
 say you've done ibrgot \\\v an' your mammy, that yaller 
 
BEACKISII WATERS. 197 
 
 girl, Sophy, that I bought of Dr. Gant ? Oh, no,' he 
 continued, with his usual grin, and hitching nearer to 
 her on that one short leg, ' Oh, no ! It 's a right smart 
 while ago, and you was only a bit of a gal, but you 
 hain't forgot that nor me either. ' 
 
 " It 's a wonder George didn't kill him in his tracks," 
 said the lawyer. 
 
 "It's what he ought to have done," said Merwyn, 
 emphatically, " and what he would have done, if his at- 
 tention had not been turned to his wife." 
 
 "What did she do?" 
 
 " She looked at Jenkins at first in surprise. Then her 
 eyes distended in mortal terror. She threw up her 
 hands, and shriek after shriek rang through the house. 
 She fell in spasms just as Colonel Eighmie entered the 
 room." 
 
 "Wh — e — w !" said the attorney with a long low 
 whistle. 
 
 "There wasn't any doubt about the facts when they 
 came to investigate them," said Hargrove, not noticing 
 the lawyer's interruption. "Jenkins had a bill of sale 
 for the woman Sophy and her daughter Lida. Lida 
 herself confirmed the trader's report, though she per- 
 sisted in declaring that Sophy was not her mother. 
 Though she was not three years old Avhen separated from 
 her, she has always asserted that Sophy declared she 
 was not her child, but that hers had died, and she had 
 been given her to nurse. To this day she declares that 
 Sophy used to cry for her own baby, and tell her that 
 she was the daughter of a great lady." 
 
 "It's queer how many pretty quadroons get that no- 
 tion," said Bai'tlemy. "I suppose it is the natural re- 
 volt of the white blood against slavery." 
 
 "It did not seem to have any good foundation in her 
 case," said Hargrove. "Dr. Gant and his wife were 
 both dead, and left no children : but the neighbors re- 
 
198 HOT PLOWSHARES. 
 
 membered Sophy, who was a bright young mulatto, be- 
 longing to him ; also the fact of her having a child and 
 being sold. There was some laugh about his wife's 
 jealousy being the cause of the sale, which fixed the fact 
 in their memory. After his wife died, according to 
 Jenkins, and others, too, the Doctor tried to trace the 
 girl, and was especially anxious about the child. 
 
 " Jenkins, on his part, said the child was a puny thing 
 — that he had no idea it would live. The mother was a 
 strong, handsome woman, and the care of the child, as 
 well as its sickly appearance, was likely to affect her 
 value. As he was on the way to New Orleans, where 
 such stock always sells high, and had besides a large 
 gang, he concluded to abandon the child. So, after she 
 was asleep he took her to a house near where they were 
 camping for the night, and left her upon the porch. 
 
 "It happened to be the house of the childless itine- 
 rant, Charles Barton. Owing to her complexion, which 
 was even more misleading because of the pallor of dis- 
 ease, there was no thought of the child being of colored 
 blood and especially no idea that it was a slave. People 
 are not apt to abandon slave children, and even in this 
 case it seems to have been just a trick of that scoundrel 
 Jenkins. I suppose he hardly liked to^ kill her for fear 
 of consequences, and probably had no thought that she 
 would live. There was some inquiry made, but nothing 
 elicited as to the parentage, and so the good couple took 
 the little waif into their homes and hearts as their 
 daughter. ' ' 
 
 " My God ! that was rough on George and the Colonel, 
 wasn't it ? What did they do ?'' 
 
 "What could they do ? The Colonel bought the girl 
 of Jenkins at his own price, and then told him he would 
 shoot him on sight if he ever came into the county 
 again, or if he ever breathed a word about the matter 
 to a living soul." 
 
BRACKISH WATERS. 199 
 
 " No doubt he meant it, too.'' 
 
 "Of course; from that day until his death he never 
 went off the plantation without carrying a pistol to 
 'shoot that d d scoundrel Jenkins.' " 
 
 "And George ?" 
 
 " His father gave the girl to him — " 
 
 "There was a deed, I suppose," interrupted the 
 lawyer. 
 
 " Yes, a deed of gift under seal." 
 
 The lawyer nodded. 
 
 "His father advised him to take her North, set her 
 free, buy her a comfortable home and give her a reason- 
 able support." 
 
 "Very liberal, by God! as the old man always was, 
 and just what George ought to have done." 
 
 "With our notions, yes, but not with George Eigh- 
 mie's. In the first place, he loved the girl better than 
 his life ; and, in the next place, he did not believe 
 there was a drop of colored blood in her veins. So, 
 what does he do but bring her to New York, manumit 
 her in due form and marry her again." 
 
 "The devil! You don't tell me?" said Bartlemy, 
 springing from his chair. " I never heard of that. " 
 
 "Here are the papers. These are copies — Lida has 
 the originals — of the deed of manumission, the license 
 and marriage certificate." 
 
 "Well, I declare !" 
 
 "Not only that, but about this time a child was born 
 — a son, who, by the way, was cursed with the exact 
 duplicate of that scar of Jenkins, — and so anxious Avas 
 George to put him on a legal footing that he formally 
 legitimatized him according to the laws of the state. 
 Here is a copy of the recoxxl." 
 
 "Good Lord!" exclaimed the lawyer, "was there 
 any other foolish thing that idiot could do ?" 
 
 "Oh, yes. What he did iiejct was a deal worse. He 
 
200 HOT PLOWiSHARES. 
 
 went back to Mallovvbanks and presented himself and 
 family to Colonel Eighmie. ' ' 
 
 "No!" roared Bartleiuy, striking the floor with his 
 cane. " He didn't dare do that ?" 
 
 "He did that very thing." 
 
 "And the Colonel?" 
 
 "Turned on his heel; went down to the landing; 
 was rowed over to Amity Lake, and never looked on 
 his son's face again," 
 
 "Served him right, too, just right," exclaimed the 
 lawyer almost gleefully. 
 
 "Did the only mean act of his life, sir," said Har- 
 grove gravely. 
 
 "What, sir ! do you mean to justify such an outrage- 
 ous thing ? "Would you associate with a man who mar- 
 ries a nigger?" 
 
 "That is not the question," rejoined Hargrove. 
 " George married the girl without any deception on her 
 part. Her memory of the trader and that of her ' mam- 
 my,' as she no doubt called the girl Sophy, was only of a 
 horrid man who had taken her and her nurse from home. 
 All she knew of her past life was that she had been told 
 that her mother was a ' great lady. ' This was the account 
 she gave of herself to her foster-parents. Being so fair 
 and so young — she could not have been over three years 
 old — I do not suppose the idea of slavery had ever entered 
 her mind, at least in connection with herself. The kind 
 people with whom she had lived afterwards had made an 
 idol of her. George had made her his wife, so far as intent 
 could go. She was the mother of his child. Her kind 
 foster-mother was dead — died of grief at her calamity. 
 Under these circumstances, George thought it his duty 
 to share the misfortune that had fallen on the woman 
 that he loved, be it more or less, as you lawyers say, 
 and I honor his memory for having done it. I might 
 not have had the pluck, and of course you wouldn't," 
 
BRACKISH WATERS. 201 
 
 he added with a slight smile, "but I'll tell you what, 
 sir, when a man loves a woman well enough to go to hell 
 with her rather than to heaven Avithout her, he 's bound 
 to be very much of a man !■' 
 
 " There 's a good deal of truth in that," said the other 
 thoughtfully. 
 
 " That 's why I say Colonel Eighmie was wrong. He 
 ought to have stood by George because he had acted with 
 a manly motive, and at the worst hurt only himself. If 
 he had done so, and sent them West at once, there never 
 would have been any trouble about it. But he was like 
 most Southern men — he never could realize that there 
 was a world beyond his own horizon. He never dreamed 
 that a reputation shattered by an indiscretion at home 
 might be healed and cured by a life of honor abroad." 
 
 "There's where he was wrong. He ought to have 
 remembered that one of the greatest men the State ever 
 produced had to leave, it is said, because of a little mis- 
 take about some money. He went West and never 
 came back until he was one of the foremost .men in the 
 United States Senate. If he had been a lawyer. Colonel 
 Eighmie would never have made that mistake. If he 
 had confided in me I should have told him the best Avay 
 to get rid of a son he didn't want to see was to send him 
 out of his sight. It seems just natural, though, for a 
 planter to think that there isn't much room in the world 
 outside of his own possessions. That life does narrow a 
 man's ideas wonderfully." 
 
 "Yes; that is so. Well, the Colonel never thought 
 of that or anything else, except that George had dis- 
 graced him. So, while he let him live on the planta- 
 tion and enjoy its revenues, he yet gave him no right to 
 the least thing, and refused all intercourse with him." 
 
 " Well, what was the upshot of it ?" 
 
 "Just what you might suppose. While there was of 
 course an efibrt to suppress the facts, they had somehow 
 
202 HOT PLOWSHARES. 
 
 leaked out— partly known and partly guessed at, no 
 doubt. I question if ever a word would have been said 
 if his father had stood by him. After that, you know 
 the scorn and insult that was heaped upon them. Of 
 course, it drove him into solitude. I think she would 
 have faced it and braved it down, but he couldn't. His 
 hands were tied, he had no means, and could not get 
 aAvay ; and so, for years, he never left the plantation. I 
 came home and took his part, but it Avas too late. I 
 never dared speak to Colonel Eighmie about it, and my 
 wife loved him so well that she hated George as only 
 one of her blood can hate. I think this family shame 
 was more than half the cause of her hating slavery as 
 fiercely as she did." 
 
 "She was an Italian, I believe ?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 " You married her abroad ?" 
 
 "In London." 
 
 " Yes ; I saw her once ; a very pretty woman." 
 
 " She was accounted a beauty." 
 
 "I never knew you had a child until to-day." 
 
 "She was born while we were on a cruise — at King- 
 ston, where I had taken Eietta in the hope that a South- 
 ern winter would do her good. Because of her weak- 
 ness, she was persuaded when we sailed to leave the 
 child with the family of an English clergyman, who 
 cared for her until she was nearly three years old." 
 
 " I thought she had seen hotter sunshine than you get 
 up here." 
 
 "Oh, yes; Hilda is at least semi-tropical, both by 
 birth and descent." 
 
 " I see. "Well, is there anything more about this wo- 
 man Lida ?" 
 
 "Oh, yes; her troubles were not ended with the es- 
 trangement of her husband from his father and the public 
 sentiment that marked them and their children as the most 
 
BRACKISH WATERS. 203 
 
 degraded of pariahs. After a time the Colonel died, and 
 a surge of wrath swept through the community, as if they 
 had been guilty of parricide. Perhaps, in his later years, 
 the heart of the father had softened toward his unfortu- 
 nate son. At least, he made no attempt to disinherit 
 him, and, dying intestate, his property descended to 
 George. What the son had suffered had not only made 
 him a hermit, but he had also become one of the most 
 rabid and fanatical Abolitionists that ever breathed." 
 
 "An Abolitionist! That is all that was needed to 
 complete the picture that you have drawn," said Bar- 
 tlemy, with evident disgust. "There was more sense 
 in his being such, however, than any of these rabid fools 
 that howl and foam through the North about what they 
 know nothing of, and in which they have no interest." 
 
 "Well, George was an Abolitionist, right or wrong, 
 and made up his mind as soon as Mallowbanks and its 
 slaves fell into his hands to set them free without delay 
 and then go himself to some part of the great West 
 where he thought slavery would never come. Unfortu- 
 nately, his estate was not large enough to permit him 
 to do this just out of hand, Avithout impoverishing 
 himself. The plantation had reached that stage, by rea- 
 son of the increase of its slave force, that it was almost 
 impossible to make any great profit cmt of it without re- 
 ducing the consumption by disposing of some of them. 
 He determined, however, after due consideration, to 
 devote the net proceeds of each crop to the creation of 
 a fund which should be sufficient not only to remove the 
 slaves to another state when freed, but also, with a 
 portion of the proceeds arising from the sale of the 
 plantation, to give each family a comfortable start in 
 the new life which he proposed to bestow upon them. 
 He told me all his plans, and, though I regarded them 
 as visionary, I could not but respect his earnestness 
 and admire the sagacity he showed in their execution. 
 
204 HOT PLOWSHARES. 
 
 His new purpose transformed the listless recluse into the 
 active and unresting business man. He calculated that 
 live years would be sufficient for the purpose he had in 
 view, and he allowed himself no luxur}"^ and spared him- 
 self no labor tending to its accomplishment. .Soon after 
 he undertook this task another child was bom to them 
 — a daughter whom the mother called Heloise. Her 
 birth seemed to ai'ouse the hatred of the people even 
 more than all that had gone before. He and Lida were 
 indicted for living together illegally. The matter dragged 
 along for several terms of court and nothing was done, 
 at least no trial took place. I suspect, from what has 
 since occurred, that the collateral heirs may have been 
 at the bottom of the prosecution, fearing, perhaps, the 
 accomplishment of his purpose in his lifetime." 
 
 "It's more than likely, for I've heard myself of his 
 having that fool-notion among others. But, no matter, 
 go on." 
 
 '' At length, just as it was about to come to trial, George 
 suddenly died, I was not there at the time, and, queerly 
 enough, Lida did not know where to find his will. I 
 knew he had made me his executor, and he had told me, 
 in connection with his plans, where he kept his will, and 
 I knew just what he expected me to do. It was to carry 
 out his plan with regard to his slaves and to see that 
 his children grew up entirely unconscious of the stain 
 upon their birth. In regard to this latter he was very 
 emphatic. The question of administering on his estate 
 arising before my return, Lida showed splendid pluck in 
 urging her claim as his Avidow to be appointed adminis- 
 tratrix. She also claimed dower and her year's provi- 
 sion." 
 
 "Pluck? Do you call that pluck, Mr. Hargrove?" 
 cried the lawyer, impetuously, "I call it d d impu- 
 dence," 
 
 " Well, whichever it may be, it saved her and the es- 
 
BRACKISH WATERS. 205 
 
 tate both. I came just before the matter was decided. 
 The court below had pronounced her marriage illegal 
 and the higher one had it before it on appeal. I found 
 the will — and the rest you know." 
 
 " I know that you proved it and entered into posses- 
 sion, and all that touches the legal history of your ad- 
 ministration. I can now understand why you did, from 
 time to time, certain absurd things which I advised you 
 not to do." 
 
 " Yes ; I freed the house-servants in order to run the 
 plantation more economically, and so increase the fund 
 more rapidly ; but it has already taken me longer than 
 George expected, chiefly because I determined to make 
 the slaves pay for their own freedom and save the estate 
 intact for Lida and her children. Then, too, the search 
 for the boy—" 
 
 "Yes ; I want to know about that." 
 
 "There is very little to tell. About the time we 
 offered the will for probate the child was missed from 
 the house one evening, but his mother was not greatly 
 alarmed at first, as she supposed him to be over at the 
 quarters, hardly half a mile away. Upon inquiiy, 
 however, it appeared that no one on the plantation 
 had seen him since noon. His mother was sure that 
 he had been kidnapped, but we thought that being 
 so peculiarly marked it would be no difficult matter 
 to trace him. It never entered into my head at the 
 time that he might be put out of the way entirely. 
 I at once removed Lida and her daughter to the yacht, 
 which was lying in the sound, and sent her to New 
 York to get her out of harm's way. Then I set myself 
 to find that boy. I had every slave-market watched ; 
 offered a liberal reward, of which every slave-dealer in 
 the country was informed, and was just about to give 
 up all hope, concluding that the boy was dead, when, 
 after he had been missing two years, I heard of a poor 
 
206 HOT PLOWSHARES. 
 
 white family in Western Carolina, away up among the 
 mountains, who had a child answering my description. 
 Before I could reach there, however, they were gone. 
 By dint of careful inquir}-, I learned that Jenkins had 
 been in that region not long before their flitting, and 
 from some facts I gathered had no doubt that he 
 had something to do with their departure. He proba- 
 bly learned that I was on the scent and spirited away 
 not only the child, but the people who had him in 
 charge, to avoid discovery. I have been on a constant 
 hunt for the child ever since, but have not found the 
 least trace of him, or the people who had him. My 
 agents have gone through every state of the South upon 
 the search for him in vain. There is no doubt in my 
 mind but some of George's cousins kidnapped little 
 Hugh and intended to do the same with the daughter, 
 in order to induce the mother to forego any further 
 claims to the estate." 
 
 "That's more than likely, and it chimes in with my 
 theory that the woman and her children are the stum- 
 bling-block in Oilman's path, ' ' said the law^-er. ' ' Though 
 the inferior court decided, on her petition for doAver and 
 leave to administer, that she was not the lawful wife 
 of George Eighmie, I 'm not exactly sure that it was 
 right. The first marriage was no doubt void, because 
 she was a slave. The effect of the second one it is 
 hard to determine. If the}^ had been married in Caro- 
 lina the presumption would have been against its le- 
 gality. Having been a slave, she is presumed to have 
 at least one-eighth of colored blood. As her descent is 
 unknown, I hardly see how this presumption could be 
 rebutted. So I think the second marriage would have 
 been held to be contrary to the law of the state regard- 
 ing intermarriages between whites and free blacks if it 
 had been solemnized there." 
 
 "■ But the marriage was in Xew York," said Hargrove. 
 
BRACKISH WATERS. 207 
 
 "So I understand," answered Bartleni}', "and that 
 makes a queer state of affairs. Tlie marriage Avould be 
 illegal here, I reckon — it would in most Northern States 
 — if the woman was actually colored. But here the pre- 
 sumption is right the other way. It would be necessary 
 to show colored blood in her veins affirmatively, before 
 she could be adjudged a negro and the marriage invali- 
 dated. So, I take it, the marriage would be held lawful 
 in the State of New York." 
 
 "If lawful there, where it was contracted, I suppose 
 it would be held lawful in Carolina ?" said Hargrove. 
 
 "Well, no," responded Bartlemy ; "that doesn't fol- 
 low. It has been decided in our state that if parties who 
 are prohibited by its laws from marrying go beyond its 
 limits, and contract marriage according to the laws of 
 another state, and then return there to live, that It is in 
 fraud of the law, and void." 
 
 "So she must have been his wife in New York and 
 not his wife in Carolina," said Hargrove in surprise. 
 
 " That 's about the situation. The same principle ap- 
 plies to her manumission. It has been held that if a 
 man take his slave to another state, and set him free 
 under its laws, and then bring him back into a state 
 that only permits a slave to be set free by order of 
 court, it shows a purpose to evade the law, and the 
 foreign manumission is void. In such a case, it was 
 held that the slave was not free at all, though the 
 former master had always regarded and treated her as 
 such, and in his will made her a specific bequest, but 
 was still his slave, and passed to his heirs as a resi- 
 due of his estate, with respect to which he had died in- 
 testate." 
 
 " So," said Hargrove, rising in excitement, " I under- 
 stand you to say that that woman was George Eigh- 
 mie's lawful wedded wife in New York '?" 
 
 " That is my opinion." 
 
208 HOT PLOWSHARES. 
 
 "And that she was, at tl)e same time, lawfully held 
 as his slave in Carolina V" 
 
 " My dear fellow," said Bartlemy, " you ought to have 
 been a lawyer. That is as near as I can figure it out, 
 and I couldn't have stated it better myself." 
 
 "Then, Mr. Bartlemy," said Hargrove, bringing his 
 fist down upon the table vehemently, " Creorge Eighmie 
 was right. There M^as never any other land in which 
 the master could not make his slave free at pleasure, nor 
 one in which marriage, duly solemnized, did not make 
 free. George was right. An institution that permits 
 and renders necessar}' such things, is not fit to exist in 
 a Christian land." 
 
 "Sho! sho ! You are not going to turn Abolitionist 
 just because the institution of slaver}^ is not perfect, T 
 hope?" said Bartlemy, "Just think Avhat we should 
 have if it were swept aAvay. " 
 
 "That is where I have alwaA's stood," answered Har- 
 grove. " It is not long since that I told one of the fore- 
 most Abolitionists here in this very room, that I thought 
 it a choice between negro slavery and negro libert}', and 
 that the latter was far the more dangerous." 
 
 "You were right, too," said Bartlemy; "entirely 
 right." 
 
 " I was a fool!" said Hargrove impetuoush\ "George 
 Eighmie was right when he told me, the last time I saw 
 him, that one such experience as his outweighed the ar- 
 gument from convenience and necessity a thousandfold. 
 A system that permitted and compelled such horrible 
 monstrosities ought not to live a moment." 
 
 "Why, wh}', my dear sir," said Bartlemy; "one 
 would think you were really going to come out a howl- 
 ing Abolitionist." 
 
 "I am going to come out that most earnest of all 
 the opponents of slavery — a Southern Abolitionist !" re- 
 sponded Hargrove. "From this hour, for George Eigh- 
 
BliAUJa^JI WATERS. 20J) 
 
 mie's sake, I will do all I can not only to secure the 
 rights of his wife and children, but to carry out his 
 wishes as to his slaves. Every one of them shall be set 
 free if it takes the last dollar I have on earth !" 
 
 "But — but — Mr. Hargrove, I — I — protest! As your 
 counsel, I protest against any such rash course on 3'our 
 part," said Bartlemy. "I — I^indeed, sir — " 
 
 "Never mind about it, Mr. Bartlemy," said Hargrove 
 promptly. " I want your aid to carry out my purpose ; 
 not to instruct me what I ought to do." 
 
 " But I refuse to act as your counsel with such an 
 object," said the lawyer petulantly. 
 
 "You have already become my counsel with a tacit 
 knowledge of the trust I had to execute." 
 
 "I knew nothing about it, sir ; nothing about it." 
 
 "Not in wox-ds, perhaps, until to-night, but by un- 
 avoidable implication you well understood M^hat it was," 
 ansAvered Hargrove. " However, if you wish to discon- 
 tinue your relation to me as counsel you have only to 
 present your bill." 
 
 "Oh, no, no, no!" said the lawyer, waving his hand 
 back and forth and shaking his head deprecatingl}-, 
 " by no manner of means. It wouldn't do to act hastily 
 in such a matter. Gilman might get an advantage if 
 we did. Of course, you must follow your conscience. 
 It's really none of my business. But I do hate to see a 
 good estate squandered on a lot of niggers that haven't 
 sense enough to appreciate what is done for them." 
 
 "Well, Mr. Bartlemy, that was George's aflair, and 
 not ours, and it's his estate we are administering and 
 his money we are spending." 
 
 "I'm not so sure of that," growled the lawyer. 
 
 "Well, the rest of it is mine," said Hargrove posi- 
 tively. 
 
 '•At least it isn't mine," said the lawyei-, "so we 
 
210 HOT PLOWSirARES. 
 
 won't quarrel over it. Now tell me what has become of 
 the other child."" 
 
 "The other child ? Oh, yes — Marah," said Hargrove 
 meditatively'. 
 
 "I thought you said her name was Heloise," said the 
 lawyer quickly. 
 
 " Heloise ? Yes, so I did. That was her name, but it 
 should have been Marah, for if ever a life was doomed 
 to bitterness it was hers." 
 
 " She is dead, then ?" 
 
 "No," said Hargrove, walking meditatively back and 
 forth. 
 
 " Then Avhere is she ?" 
 
 "Mr. Bartlemy," said Merwj'n, stopping before him, 
 "my brother desired that his children might never know 
 the curse that a possible drop of colored blood in their 
 veins might work in their lives. I alone know the se- 
 cret of the child's existence. I have already provided 
 that in case of my decease before everything is settled, 
 one other man should l)e informed of it. That is quite 
 enough to know what ia intended to be a secret. Should 
 I live to see the entire matter concluded, as I hope to do, 
 no one will ever know the truth as to that child's birth or 
 be able to trace her parentage." 
 
 "Just as you choose," said Bartlemy, with something 
 of pique in his tone. "I suppose there is nothing else 
 I need ask about ?" 
 
 With a parting drop from the decanter, the lawyer 
 bade his host and client good night. It was late when 
 he arose the next morning. After breakfast Captain 
 Hargrove said to him : 
 
 " You will no doubt set me down in the same category 
 as my brother, but I think you told me that Lida was 
 unquestionably George's wife by the law of Xew York V" 
 
 " Beyond the shadow of a doubt." 
 
 " She returned this mornins:, and will remain here as 
 
BRACKISH WATERS. 211 
 
 his widow hereafter. Would you like to speak with 
 her ?" 
 
 Upon Bartlemy's signifying liis assent, Hargrove led 
 him to the sitting-room, wliere a slight, dark-eyed 
 woman, who was plainly dressed in black, sat listening 
 to Hilda's prattle. Her llxce was pale and thin, and a 
 nervous tremulousness about the lips, as well as a star- 
 tled, hunted look in the eyes, showed how her sufferings 
 had wrought upon her life. After introducing the law- 
 yer, Hargrove took Hilda and left the room. An hour 
 afterward Bartlemy came to him and said : 
 
 "There isn't a bit of doubt about it, Captain. That 
 woman and her children are just what Gilman is afraid 
 of. If he had them in Carolina, they wouldn't give him 
 a minute's trouble ; but being here in New York, he 's 
 afraid of them. He hasn't any more doubt about the 
 will than I, but he 's afraid that this woman, living in 
 another state, might set up her claim through the 
 United States Courts ; and he is in a good deal of doubt 
 what the Supreme Court at Washington would do in 
 such a case, and I am not very clear about it myself. 
 There 's one thing I want to tell you, though. You have 
 long since settled the estate of your testator. Your only 
 interest in the state now is as the owner of the property 
 devised you by George Eighmie. Now you keep out of 
 Carolina. If they have to sue you here, the chances are 
 all in your favor ; if you let them sue there, they are 
 all the other way." 
 
 "But I must atttend to the property," said Hargrove 
 dubiously. 
 
 " By an agent, yes," said the lawyer with a smile. 
 
 "Very well, I will remember your advice," he as- 
 sented. 
 
 "Another thing, Captain," Bartlemy began hesitantly. 
 
 "Yes?" said Hargrove in a tone that invited him to 
 proceed. 
 
212 HOT PLOWSHARES. 
 
 " It is about those children." 
 
 " Well ?" responded Hargrove, still expectantly. 
 
 The other looked at him doubtfully a moment and 
 then blurted out : 
 
 "Why don't you tell that woman all you know about 
 her children ?" 
 
 "I have." 
 
 "No, you have not." 
 
 " I have told her of my search for the boj-, and that I 
 have put the girl in good safe hands where she is well 
 cared for." 
 
 " But that is not what she wants to know. Why don't 
 you tell her where she is ?" 
 
 " Because I am carrying out my brother's instruc- 
 tions. He had made up his mind to put his children 
 away from him, and have them reared and educated 
 under assumed names. She would perhaps have trusted 
 him, or he might have trusted her ; but he warned me 
 that the children must be put beyond her reach, or at 
 least beyond all possible knowledge of her relationship 
 to them." 
 
 " By Heaven ! Captain, I am not much given to senti- 
 ment, but that is hard. Can you be cruel enough to 
 carry it out?" 
 
 "I must. I have been tempted a thousand times to 
 give it up, but thus far I have stood firm." 
 
 " Do you know she suspects you of having sold the 
 boy?" 
 
 "No doubt," said Hargrove sadly. "There is no end 
 to her M'ild fancies so far as the children are concerned. 
 Her love for them makes her life a constant torture. I 
 am the only one who has befriended her since George's 
 death, but I think she has lost the power to trust 
 even me. I discharged all my servants except Jason 
 when I brought her here, so that there might not be the 
 least suspicion of the facts, yet she tied as soon as my 
 
BRACKISH WATERS. 213 
 
 overseer set foot in the house, thinkhig I was preparing 
 to abduct her. She is a weak, silly woman, whom I 
 cannot trust with a knowledge of my purposes lest she 
 should unintentionally betray them." 
 
 "I see, I see," said the lawyer, "but how you can re- 
 sist her piteous appeals and those great eyes with the 
 tears running over the lids down on that sad face, passes 
 my comprehension. I 'm pretty tough, but I swear I 
 couldn't stand that." 
 
 "You can guess what I have suffered then," said 
 Hargrove, ruefully. " It has been a terrible task, but I 
 pledged my honor to do it, and no one shall ever say I 
 failed through weakness or lack of diligence." 
 
 "Do you know that she thinks Hilda her daughter ?" 
 asked the lawyer, with a keen look. 
 
 "She has hinted such a suspicion," answered Har- 
 grove, Avith a smile. 
 
 " And what was your reply ?" 
 
 " That she might think what she chose, so long as she 
 did not breathe a word of her suspicion to the child." 
 
 ''And if she did?" 
 
 " That she should never see her face again." 
 
 " You think you would know it ?" 
 
 " Hilda could not hide it from me for a moment." 
 
 "So you hope — ?" 
 
 " To keep Lida quiet and prevent her life from being 
 entirely miserable." 
 
 "It 's a great risk — a great risk, Captain, and for very 
 little good, so far as I can see. What is the use of all 
 this secresy ?" 
 
 "Simply to fulfill a brother's request. If you had 
 heard him implore me to save his children from the 
 curse which the knowledge of one drop of colored blood 
 entails, you would not wonder at what I have done. 
 Only think, sir, suppose your child— rsuppose my little 
 Hilda should come to believe that the blood of that un- 
 
214 HOT rLOWSHARES. 
 
 fortunate race flowed in her veins — that she was branded 
 with the mark of degradation and shame — what evil 
 would not be counted light in comparison with it ? She 
 would pray for death, sir, and I would rather see her 
 dead than know her thus accursed." 
 
 "Well, well," said the old lawyer, shaking his head. 
 "Perhaps you are right; but I am glad it is you and 
 not I that have this thing to do." 
 
CHAPTER XVII. 
 
 WHAT WAKED THE WORLD. 
 
 TialE fled. The world moved faster than ever be- 
 fore. The telegraph Avas beginuing to unify thought. 
 Like a giant centipede, it crept over the land. It mur- 
 dered sloth and ran ahead of time. It stole the mer- 
 chant's secret and sold it to a rival a thousand leagues 
 away. It made principal and agent one. It fed brain 
 with fact and gave to mind the ubiquity of the Infinite. 
 It made every man an Adam and marshaled the world's 
 life before him. 
 
 The curtain of darkness was rent in twain, and beyond 
 the Mississippi a boundless empire was revealed. The 
 Golden Gates were uplifted, and the traditions of the 
 Orient were beggared by the facts of the Occident. For 
 two hundred years the world had hungered for gold and 
 found no new supply. The temples and palaces of India 
 had been ravaged by ruthless hands to satisfy the greed 
 of civilization. The jewels of her gods shone in the 
 royal crowns of Europe. Brave men wore with pride 
 the gems that valor had won from heathen hands. 
 The wives, the sweethearts and the covirtesans of Christ- 
 endom flaunted upon snowy arms and billowy bosoms 
 the pillage of the unbeliever. 
 
 But, alas ! the supply was almost exhausted. The 
 lands that Cortez and Pizarro ravaged, stripped of the 
 wealth the Aztecs and the Incas had amassed in the 
 unknown centuries before the robber's torch shed light 
 upon their stores, lay barren and unheeded under the 
 315 
 
216 HOT PLOWSHARES. 
 
 torrid sunshine. When the chance for plunder passed 
 away the Hght of civiUzation fled. Mexico, Potosi 
 and Coquimbo gave a steadily decreasing output. All 
 the rest of the world was guessed at a beggarly ten 
 millions yearly of actual gain of the world's lucre. When 
 Begums and Kajahs became pensioners rather than vic- 
 tims of legalized plunder — when the East called for aid, 
 instead of offering an unlimited chance for looting — 
 then the romance of India was gone, and it became 
 only a refuge for parsimony and thrift, which were con- 
 tent to endure exile, discomfort and long delay for 
 moderate gain. 
 
 The w^all that encircled China had been broken down, 
 but only the paltriest tribute could be wrung from a 
 people whose economies stupefied even the thriftiest of 
 Europeans, and demanded for their expression a coin a 
 hundred times less in value than the meanest that ever 
 boasted a queen's face. 
 
 The world was base and man was greedy. For a 
 hundred years the supply of the precious metals had 
 steadily diminished. Commerce had increased mean- 
 while a thousandfold. The accepted basis of exchange 
 had grown less and less sufficient for the world's need. 
 Already the human mind was busy devising substi- 
 tutes. Production was limited, not by demand or by 
 capacity for supply, but by the difficulty of transport 
 and the paucity of an indestructible measure of value. 
 "Gold! Gold! Gold!" was the hopeless cry of all the 
 Avorld. It was generally believed that the earth was 
 virtually exhausted of precious minerals, and no one 
 supposed that the supply would ever be materially .en- 
 hanced. 
 
 The width of a continent transformed boundless wealth 
 into pitiable poverty. AVhere nothing was expected, 
 infinite possibility uprose. Fifteen years before a Con- 
 gressional report had said: "No man will, after a mo- 
 
WJIAl' WAKED THE WORLD. 217 
 
 ment's reflectiou, suppose that the country beyond the 
 sandy prairies in the West and North can ever become 
 members of this Union. They are scarcely less distant 
 than the coast of Africa, and are separated from us by a 
 breadth of continent requiring more time and expense to 
 traverse than the ocean itself" A noted politician, who 
 yet lives to laugh at his own folly, said, in a public speech 
 upon the acquisition of California, holding a well-worn 
 pencil up before his auditors, "I would not give that 
 pencil-stub for all the gold that will ever be found there ;" 
 and his hearers applauded his wisdom. 
 
 No wonder the world woke with amazement from such 
 dreams and ran wild when golden plains and silver 
 mountains outspread themselves before its famished 
 eyes. All Christendom felt the throb of an insatiable 
 greed. The lust of sudden wealth thrilled peer and 
 pauper. The desert that lay between was robbed of fear. 
 The tropic sun blazed down in vain upon the reckless w^ay- 
 farers. The glint of gold outshone the stars. Distance 
 could not dim it. Difficulty could not quench desire. A 
 grain of yellow dust inflamed a hundred hearts. A smgle 
 nugget fired a thousand souls to new exertion. Men 
 who would have died clods lived to be envied of princes 
 through the lust born of a gold-streaked lump of snowy 
 quartz shown in a shop window. Thousands failed. 
 Thousands died. The highways to the land of promise 
 became endless charnels. Dead men's bones pointed 
 the w^ay to those who came after. The sharks of the 
 southern seas grew fat on frequent corpses ; yet over 
 the dead all the more greedily pressed the living. For 
 every one that fell there were a- thousand that sprang 
 up. For every one that went there were ten thousand 
 tliat sought to go. For every one that came back laden 
 there were a million who dreamed that they might some 
 time know a like good fortune, and, because of this 
 dream, wrought more earnestly, saved more persist- 
 
318 HOT PLOWSHARES. 
 
 eiitly, and so achieved more richly than they other- 
 wise would have done. Thus Science and Greed stirred 
 the Avorld into new life. 
 
 Wlierever trade went the fever flew. Gold flowed 
 througli the world like water, in comparison with the 
 dearth that had been. Half a decade yielded more than 
 half a century had given before. "Dust" and "nug- 
 gets " grew familiar to all eyes. The slang of the 
 mining camp ci-ept into the world's speech. Palms that 
 liad only known shillings were gladdened with crowns. 
 The child leaped from his cradle to join in the struggle 
 for gold. The peasant's heart grew big and his arm 
 waxed strong as he saw a possibility that he might yet 
 be richer than his king. Mammon gave his right hand 
 to Democracy. The yellow, molten torrent undermined 
 the throne and made the crown look dim. The high- 
 Avays of empire were opened to the humblest feet. The 
 doors of kings' palaces were unbarred, and unwashed 
 feet poured through the sanctuaries of power. Wooden 
 shoes gave place to golden sandals. Miracles were mul- 
 tiplied. Where one liad risen a step before, a thousand 
 were to reach the top thereafter. Rank Avas cheapened ; 
 manhood magnified. Those above Avere not dragged 
 doAvn, but those beloAv Avere forced upAvard. The world 
 Avas started on a race which grew more fierce and head- 
 long as the years went by. The past was SAvept aAvay 
 as Avith a burning besom. The future bloomed Avith 
 hope. A flood-tide marked the century's zenith. 
 
 In that same hour Freedom and Slavery cast their 
 eyes upon the neAv domain. Both Avere inspired by 
 greed. The free North demanded that at least a part 
 of the fertile plains, the golden sands and the silver- 
 veined heights should be held as an arena wherein every 
 man might struggle Avith his felloAv for the prizes of life 
 Avithout let or hindrance from another's Avill. The 
 South demanded that the institution most favored by the 
 
WHAT WAKED THE WORLD. 219 
 
 Constitution, and especially nourished and protected by 
 the laws of the states in which it had taken root, should 
 also be protected in the territories of the United States 
 not yet organized under municipal forms or erected into 
 self-governing states. They claimed that the government 
 which allowed the citizen to hold a certain species of pro- 
 perty under the laws of certain states of the Union, was 
 bound to protect him in the enjoyment of that property 
 upon its unassigned domain, of which he and his fellow 
 slave-owners were joint proprietors in common with the 
 non-slaveholding citizens of the Northern States. 
 
 It is not enough to say that this claim was a specious 
 one. Not only has it never been fairly answered, but it 
 is not susceptible of logical refutation if its premises are 
 granted. The argument against the right of slavery to 
 exist, to be defended and to extend itself, was always in- 
 complete and unsatisfactory when it was based upon the 
 written Avord of the Constitution. To hold that instru- 
 ment sacred above all things else and yet deny the slave- 
 owner's legal right to his human chattel was impossible. 
 Many a lover of liberty and righteousness tried to do it 
 and failed. To doubt the one was sacrilegious. To ad- 
 mit the other seemed little less than sin. The Consti- 
 tution was admittedly inspired. To question that was 
 treason. A curse too fearful to be uttered rested upon 
 any one who should query its lightest word. All that 
 it contained was not only just and true, but there was 
 nothing of governmental justice and truth that it did not 
 contain, if not in the full ear of explicit declaration at 
 least in the fecund germ of necessary implication. Tried 
 by the declaration on which it rested, there could be no 
 slave beneath its segis. But the "person held to service 
 or labor in one state, under the laws thereof, escaping 
 into another," could be nothing but the slave fleeing 
 from bondage toward the hope of freedom. Men gravely 
 argued that this might mean apprentices. The quibble 
 
220 HOT PLOWtiUAUES. 
 
 was never worthy even of the contempt poured upon it, 
 though it found favor with minds that nothing but the 
 desperation of dilemma could have induced to harbor it. 
 In very truth the argument was all with the slave- 
 holder when it was once admitted that the Constitution 
 was infallible. Standing upon the "person held to ser- 
 vice or labor" clause, slavery was impregnable. Eight 
 or wrong, the Constitution covered it by unavoidable im- 
 plication. Grounded upon that, who should assail it ? 
 Had not the blood of the fathers sanctified its provi- 
 sions ? Did not Washington commend it to our jealous 
 care ? Had not every patriot whose memory we cher- 
 ished regarded it as the talisman of our liberty — the sa- 
 cred scroll on which our destiny depended ? 
 
 But for this single clause in the Constitution, slavery 
 would have Avithered before the glare of conscience long 
 before even the time of which we write. The bulwark 
 of the Constitution was its moral as well as its legal 
 cover from assault. A thousand quirks and quibbles 
 were devised to avoid the potency of this claim which 
 had the merit, unusual* among political dogmas, of never 
 being tinctured with doubt in the minds of those who 
 put it forward. As to his moral right to buy and sell 
 and hold human beings as slaves, the Southern man 
 might doubt— many of them did. As to his legal right 
 there was never any question. The Northern mind 
 conceived innumerable pleas against it, chiefly based 
 upon a specious use of the word "man," meaning in one 
 part of the argument a slave and in another premise a 
 free man. The impetuous logic of the South was right 
 when it termed them all makeshifts and evasions. If the 
 Constitution meant anything it guaranteed in the most 
 emphatic manner not only the right to hold slaves, but 
 to hunt them. If it gave that privilege in one state it 
 was a right of property, which the citizen was entitled 
 to carry with him and exercise in the national domain. 
 
WHAT WAKED THE WORLD. 221 
 
 This was not contemplated by the framers of that instru- 
 ment, because they were affected by human conditions 
 and could not foresee the future. It followed, however, as 
 certainly and indefeasibly as the right of the merchant 
 to offer his wares, of the tradesman to exercise his call- 
 ing, or of the farmer to till the soil — admitting always 
 that the Constitution is the complete compendium of 
 political truth. These quibbles served only as excuses 
 for feeble brains and timid consciences. There were 
 those who did not stop to speculate on the absurdity of 
 picketing state-lines against runaway apprentices, or who 
 easily overlooked the fact that Benjamin Franklin, him- 
 self an absconding apprentice, signed the instrument. 
 There were others who, halting between their reverence 
 for the sacred charter and the dictates of conscience, 
 needed only a formal quibble to satisfy them that their 
 convictions of right did not contravene the letter or the 
 spirit of the Constitution. From first to last the Con- 
 stitution was the Gibraltar of slavery, and the reverence 
 felt for that instrument was the last stronghold, which 
 its opponents were never able to storm until its advo- 
 cates had thrown down its walls upon themselves. 
 
 Their fii'st step in this direction was when they 
 sought to make of this shield of the "peculiar institu- 
 tion," as it was called, a weapon of offense against 
 their aggressive and persistent enemies. For nearly 
 sixty years there had been a law upon the statute-book 
 regulating the recaption of slaves and their return to 
 captivity. Stung, however, by the defeat which their 
 candidate had received through the power of the Anti- 
 slavery idea, the Southern leaders determined to stamp 
 out this political heresy for all time, by the assertion, 
 in the most irritating and offensive manner that could 
 be devised, of the constitutional principle on which 
 they rested. The theory on which was based what is 
 known as the Fugitive Slave Law, was that it was sound 
 
222 HOT PLOWSHARES. 
 
 policy to demonstrate so clearly that none could evade 
 or deny it, the constitutional sanction on which slavery 
 rested secure. For this purpose not only were the rights 
 of caption and removal reasserted, but it was made the 
 duty of every citizen, under an express penalty, to aid 
 in such removal. It was this pinning upon every 
 man's conscience a constitutional duty which was in- 
 tended to destroy all opposition to slavery, that ulti- 
 mately wrought its overthrow. The right to retake ex- 
 isted ; the power to summon a posse comitatus no doubt 
 resided in the officer of the court, and the duty to obey 
 rested on all good citizens before this statute was en- 
 acted. But the old law had become almost a dead letter. 
 Its machinery was imperfect, since at that time (1793) 
 there was no tangible hostility to slavery. It was 
 merely a machine for carrying out an unresisted and 
 unquestioned provision of the Constitution at the best. 
 The reassertion and elaboration of these features, how- 
 ever, coupled with some others of peculiar offensiveness, 
 stirred the heart of the Xorth as if shackles had been 
 put on the hands of its first-born. For a time, the 
 supporters of the Anti-slavery movement were over- 
 whelmed with discouragement. Many who had begun 
 to pay court to its adherents, and for political advan- 
 tage sought to be numbered with them, fell away. Some 
 who had stood in the forefront of public regard thought 
 they saw in this the end of a disturbing conflict, and for 
 personal advantage favored it covertly or openly. Of 
 these, some were amazed when the earth opened and 
 swallowed them up, and others made haste to recant 
 when they saw the tenor of public feeling. Instead of 
 being weakened, the Anti-slavery cause was strength- 
 ened a thousandfold. Many gave up to the stupefac- 
 tion of despair, but many more had their moral re- 
 sponsibility for slaverj' and its fruits brought home to 
 their own doors so that they could not evade it longer. 
 
WHAT WAKED THE WORLD. 223 
 
 Every enforcement of this law, which was eagerly seized 
 upon by slave-owners, not only as a means for enabling 
 them to recover valuable property but also of teaching 
 the people of the North the strength of their position, 
 only added fuel to the flame of hostility against its pro- 
 visions and awakened a stronger doubt as to the infal- 
 libility of the Constitution on which it rested. 
 
 Parties were eaten to the core with discontent. This 
 law was the solvent which released "Whig and Demo- 
 crat alike from the bonds of party fealty. Webster 
 .was buried in shame — relegated to that death in life 
 which is of all things most horrible to a man who has 
 helped to move the world — pitied and despised at length 
 by those whose admiration for his genius had made 
 them blind to his faults. Sumner was uplifted in glory 
 from his bed of martydom to mark with the utmost em- 
 phasis the disapproval of the great leader's cowardice, 
 and the emphatic indorsement that Massachusetts would 
 give to the heroism of her youngest representative. 
 
 "What had been before a mere vague generality now 
 assumed a personal and individual aspect. Men of con- 
 science rebelled against what they before had only 
 dimly regarded as evil, now first plainly realizing its 
 true nature and their unavoidable responsibility for its 
 existence. Men of spirit arrayed themselves against the 
 law because of its offensively dictatorial character. It 
 enhanced the horrors of slavery by cutting off even the 
 little chance there was before of escape, and thus con- 
 firmed the Anti-slavery sentiment of those who were 
 feebly halting on the absurd plea that slavery would soon 
 die from natural causes ; although it increased in num- 
 bers twice as fast as the ratio of increase in the surround- 
 ing populations. These were now convinced that only 
 positive measures would ever cure what thej' deemed a 
 wrong against humanity. Many worthy men, who had 
 never violated the law before, counted themselves honored 
 
224 HOT PLOWSHARES. 
 
 forever when permitted to aid in the escape of a fu- 
 gitive. 
 
 A thrill of angry apprehension passed through the 
 whole Xorth. People knew that a great crisis was at 
 hand, but none could trace its outcome. A few 
 were confident that liberty would triumph. Others 
 counted slaver}^ the victor, and yet sullenly resisted ; 
 wiiile still others thought the whole matter ended, and 
 looked for the old parties to muster their hosts again on 
 the old familiar grounds that had been fought over 
 quadrennially for threescore years or so — the means of 
 raising revenue, the appropriation of the public domain, 
 and other questions of method in administration onl3^ 
 
 Instead of this chaos ensued. Before the sentiment 
 produced by this measure had time to crystallize into 
 organic form a Presidential election came. Party bonds 
 were dissolved. The Democracy, by reason of its 
 close alliance in doctrine with the pro-slavery faction, 
 suffered less than the opponent at whose hands it 
 had suffered defeat four years previously. Yet it had 
 many defections, and, in almost every state, those who 
 left its ranks were men of remarkable strength and 
 character. It is easy enough for even a weak man to 
 be left by his party, but it takes a strong man to be 
 able to break away from life-long associations on a ques- 
 tion of principle that does not even promise success. 
 
 The Whig party crumbled like shattered clay. Claim- 
 ing libei-al principles and covertly seeking the aid of the 
 Abolitionists, whom they sought to hold to their support 
 upon the plea that only through their success was there 
 any hope of ultimate triumph, the leaders had shown 
 themselves utterly unable to read the temper of the 
 times and, as a rule, too cowardly to defend the views 
 they secretly professed to favor. To avoid giving offense 
 to the South, they trifled with the convictions of the 
 better element of their party at the North, and found 
 
WHAT WAKED THE WORLD. 22r, 
 
 at length that its intelHgence, conscience and courage 
 liad renounced allegiance to a party of cowardice and 
 hypocris}'. 
 
 But as yet it did not appear what would be the result. 
 The doom of the Whig party was sealed. Insurrection 
 against the folly and recreancy of its leaders had made 
 any further success under its banners impossible. Its 
 two greatest names had been smitten with the madness 
 that destroys. Drunk with envy of each other, mad 
 with the lust of power and filled with disappointed 
 ambition, they had forgotten all but themselves. For 
 thirty years they had been the rival leaders of their 
 party. The voice of adulation had become as the breath 
 of life in their nostrils. They had forgotten that the 
 worship of admiring followers was a poor test of truth. 
 They had so long been hailed as gods that, like drunken 
 Alexander, they had come to believe in their own 
 divinity. The party whom they once served had, in 
 their minds, degenerated into a mere personal following. 
 Its declaration of principles was to them only a formu- 
 lation of the ideas of wliich they were the incarnation. 
 They no longer remembered that they had grown to 
 greatness by faithfully serving those whom they repre- 
 sented. They both ignored the fact that it was not 
 Clay nor Webster that the people had followed, but 
 the ideas that each had wrought into the fibre of his 
 life. They made the mistake, fatal to party leaders in a 
 republic, of first placing the party above the nation and 
 then themselves above the party. The people, through 
 whose choice they had been called to the foremost places 
 in the councils both of party and nation, had shrunk to 
 nothingness in their eyes, which beheld only the great- 
 ness at which they had themselves arrived. 
 
 A considerable number of the Whig leaders who stood 
 next to the highest in rank were among the malcontents. 
 Some of them for many years had held their allegiance 
 
226 HOT PLOWSHARES. 
 
 but lightly. Others had marked the tendency of public 
 sentiment, and not only put themselves in harmony with 
 it, but while yet recognized as Whigs, had become really 
 the leaders of a movement which could no longer be re- 
 conciled with the policy of the old party as dictated by 
 its acknowledged chiefs. Then, as in all such crises, 
 the claim was strenuously made that this was not a 
 party question. However vital it might become in the 
 opinion of the voter, it was urged that it was not, could 
 not properly, and never must be allowed to become a 
 party question. It was a moral question, a social ques- 
 tion, a religious problem ; but a political question — an 
 idea upon which parties should divide — it could not be. 
 It lacked all the features of the regular stock-in-trade 
 pohtical issue. There was no element of taxation or ad- 
 ministration in it. Its decision did not involve any 
 change of governmental form, internal economy, or 
 foreign relation. It was merely a great^moral idea, affect- 
 ing directly the people of those states in which slavery 
 existed, and only by the remotest indirection those who 
 gave it aid and comfort through the ' ' held to service 
 or labor" clause of the Constitution. However wrong- 
 ful it might be, parties could not legally interfere \vith 
 it. Whigs might bewail its unrighteousness ; Demo- 
 crats might mourn its iniquities ; all alike must regret 
 its abuses ; but nothing more could be done. Moral in- 
 fluences might be exerted. Perhaps, indirectly, legisla- 
 tion might do something to prevent its spread and 
 growth ; but beyond this no political party would ever 
 dare to go. Beyond this line was only a violated Con- 
 stitution, a broken pledge, a divided people. What 
 politician scheming for place and preferment could 
 dream that a people's conscience would ever drive them 
 so far ? Who would imagine that the pangs of remorse 
 for an evil done by the fathers, would ever induce the 
 children to violate a compact solemnly made binding 
 
WJLVr WAKED THE WORLD. 227 
 
 upon them and the heirs of their honor and glory for- 
 ever, simply from a deeply-rooted conviction that such 
 agreement was unjust, unholy, oppressive and therefore 
 void? 
 
 Already Seward and Wade and Giddings and Chase, 
 and a hundred others of the coming men of both great 
 parties, had declared this issue to be paramount, and 
 their constituencies had not only approved their course, 
 but unmistakably indicated a willingness to follow them 
 beyond party lines. Very few of them had, however, 
 ostensibly severed their relations with existing parties. 
 The people clamored for leaders, for organization, 
 for progress. The politicians paltered and schemed ; 
 sought for substitutes and preferred excuses. Parties 
 sprang up like mushrooms. A thousand visionary 
 projects were broached. Secret political organizations 
 that grew up among the people, none knew how, 
 confounded the estimates of the demagogue. The pro- 
 fessional politician was at sea in all his calculations. 
 No man knew how his neighbor stood on any political 
 question. Blind leaders thought they led blind fol- 
 lowers, but found themselves deserted at the last mo- 
 ment. Chaos reigned in politics. Each one was seeking 
 for a new and sure way out of the labyrinth. The recre- 
 ancy of some of the old leaders produced suspicion of 
 almost all. 
 
 The blame which attached to the Whig chiefs ex- 
 tended also to the recognized leaders of what had been 
 known as the Liberty, or Free-Soil party. The nomi- 
 nation of Mr. Van Buren, though it resulted in an 
 immense increase of the vote previously polled by that 
 party, was by no means regarded with approval by 
 its rank and file. They were earnest men, who had 
 been tried as by fire, and they had no faith in the sin- 
 cerity of the candidate's weakly-worded professions. 
 They regarded it very generally as a matter of bar- 
 
228 HOT PLOWSHARES. 
 
 gain and sale between the leading members of the 
 Free-Soil Convention and Mr. Van Buren, by which, in 
 consideration of their lending the party name and 
 strength to aid his plan of personal revenge, he formally 
 consented to carry out their principles in the unex- 
 pected contingency of his election. It was freely charged 
 that the leaders of the Free-Soil party had made this 
 bargain with a defeated Democratic aspirant in the in- 
 terest of the Whigs. The result of the election and the 
 immediate abandonment of the party and its tenets by 
 Mr. Van Buren, as soon as it had served his individual 
 purpose, gave color to this charge. 'By reason of this, 
 the Free-Soil party was tainted even in the hour of its 
 apparent success with the seemingly well-grounded sus- 
 picion that it was a party not of principles, but designed 
 only for the sale and delivery of votes in the interest of 
 certain leaders. To the men who composed this party 
 no charge could be more galling. They despised chi- 
 canery. Not one in a hundred of them believed at all in 
 political management, as it is called. They were brave, 
 honest men, who feared God, loved liberty and hated 
 wrong. To ally themselves in any way with the great 
 parties who had paltered, lied and finally betrayed 
 the great principle which overshadowed all others, 
 was, in their view, the blackest treason. The party 
 had thitherto been distinguished from all others in 
 that it did not seek for power, was wedded to the for- 
 tunes of no man or set of men, but was simply a stand- 
 ing protest against a national evil. Those who had 
 been prominent in its councils were the martyrs of 
 its cause. Steadfastness in the midst of persecution, 
 hope in the midst of discouragement, and a willingness 
 to serve "withoutfiivor, reward or the hope of reward," 
 had been the qualifications of its standard-bearers. 
 
 For the first time, in 1848, these simple, earnest, sin- 
 gle-hearted men were subjected to the artful Aviles of 
 
WHAT WAK/W THE WORLD. 220 
 
 ambitious, self-seeking, political tricksters, with the 
 president of the convention at their head. The brilliant 
 scheme, like many another which he lived to evolve for 
 his own elevation to the Presidency, while promising 
 well for immediate success resulted in ultimate disaster, 
 by producing almost universal distrust of those who were 
 regarded as the promoters of this act of barter and sale. 
 The schemer had secured for himself the Senatorship 
 at which he was then aiming, and to obtain it had re- 
 newed again his allegiance to the Democracy. He had, 
 indeed, opposed the measure which had now become of 
 paramount interest to the advocates of personal liberty 
 for the slave, but he Avas still regarded by the mass of 
 the Democratic party with insuperable distrust. The 
 suspicion which attached to him extended to many of 
 his former associates of the Free-Soil party, and even 
 to the name which had been adopted by them. It is 
 rare that such swift and universal execration follows 
 on the breach of an implied trust. If all that was done 
 then had been bona fide., the party, in 1852, would have 
 been tenfold as strong as was indicated by the con- 
 vention which met at Pittsburg, and, under the name of 
 the "Free Democrac}'," sought to rally its scattered 
 voters back to the support of " equal liberty for all men" 
 as the cardinal principle of political life. Its votes on 
 the day of election were only one-half as many as four 
 years previous, but its power was many times greater. 
 It had purged itself of the taint of fraud, and was ready 
 to enter with clean hands into the climacteric struggle 
 that was rapidly drawing near. 
 
 In the midst of this seven-times-heated furnace of 
 popular thought Martin Kortright laid the foundations 
 of his manhood at the academy in the neighboring vil- 
 lage of Rockboro. There Jared Clarkson's open door 
 invited the oppressed to share a welcome that took no 
 note of color or condition, but evidenced forever the 
 
230 HOT PLOWSHARES. 
 
 sincerity of his devotion to the cause of Hberty and 
 equality of right for all. The eloquence of his words 
 was excelled by the eloquence of his example. Sken- 
 doah felt the new life that came with western gold, and 
 hammers rung and forges glowed amid the roar of its 
 prisoned waterfall. The trustee of the young partners 
 had already become a magnate in the surrounding 
 region. Hilda was exiled to a New England seminary, 
 whose cautious principal disapproved all agitation of the 
 question which, despite objection and protest from the 
 best and wisest, was swiftly coming uppermost in the 
 minds of all. There were those who uncharitably hinted 
 that the good lady's dread of all discussion touching 
 slavery was stimulated by the lusty term-bills of her 
 Southern patrons. Sturmhold's master went and came, 
 apparently undisturbed by the conflict which he watched 
 with a quiet, puzzled interest. Among the people who 
 lived near, he was regarded with less of aversion and dis- 
 trust than when he was considered as in some sort a 
 legitimate successor of the Patroon — a nabob who dwelt 
 in their midst and fed upon their life. His intimate con- 
 nection with Kortright had brought him nearer to his 
 neighbors, and the young people of Paradise Bay and 
 the Castle of Folly (as it was sometimes called in jest) 
 upon the hillside, were already looked upon as lovers, 
 of whom all wished only good. A sad-faced woman, 
 whose hair was blanched to a soft and piteous white, sat 
 at the board and wandered about the rooms of the great 
 mansion, waiting patiently for the light that came only 
 with the recurring vacations of the distant seminary. 
 The master went sailing but little of late in his j-acht, 
 which only left her moorings now and then iii charge of 
 the faithful Jason. So the years went by and the world's 
 life fled faster than the years. 
 
CHAPTER XVIII. 
 
 A WEEKLY POST. 
 
 It was in the fall of 1854 that Merwyn Hargrove sat 
 in his spacious library Avith the weekly packet which, 
 even at that day, was all the service the Post Office De- 
 partment could give to the chain of little inland vil- 
 lages, the route between which Sturmhold overlooked. 
 Turning over the pile of letters that were placed before 
 him, he selected, for his first assault, one which was 
 directed in an irregular, girlish hand, the sight of which 
 brought a tender light to his eye. He broke the seal 
 and took out a many -sheeted letter, written across and 
 around after the manner dear to the feminine heart. 
 
 I. A SCHOOL-GIRL'S LARK, 
 
 Beechwood Seminary, | 
 
 BUKLINGDALE, MaSS., . | 
 
 My Dear Papa : — Miss Huuniwell has sent me to my 
 room to write a letter to post with hers enclosed. She al- 
 ways does so when she has to send any unpleasant word 
 to the parents or guardians of her scholars. The girls say 
 it is in order to save postage, but I don't reckon that is the 
 real reason. Anyhow it is all true what she says about 
 our running away. Amy and I, but we only did it for a 
 lark, you know, just as boys do in college. Miss Hunni- 
 well says it was just awful, so improper and unladylike 
 and — and — everything that it oughtn't to be, and I sup- 
 pose it was ; but, Papa dear, we didn't mean anything bad, 
 only to have a little fun, you know. So you won't scold 
 us too hard, will you, dear Papa, that is me, because Amy 
 she hasn't got any papa, nor mamma either, and she don't 
 know who her guaidian is, only he sends her nice presents 
 231 
 
282 HOT PLOWSHARES. 
 
 and such lots of money and things through the hank for 
 her holidays. Isn't that nice ? Only it must be lonesome 
 not to have any dear old papa to go to see and to ride with 
 and have all to one's self in the long vacation. But she 
 won't have to write any letter of explanation, as Miss Hun- 
 niwell calls it, because there ain't anybody to explain to. 
 Oh, I am real sorry for Amy. She is such a jolly girl, and 
 her name is Hargrove, too, and we are "sin twisters" as 
 we call ourselves in sport, that is, twin sisters, you know. 
 The girls called us that because we were together so much, 
 and we put it the other way for short. 
 
 But Miss Hunniwell says I must tell you all about it, 
 and I am to stay in my room all day and have my supper 
 sent up to me, and it isn't to be anything either, only just 
 some "cambric tea" and cracker, and I know I shall be 
 just as hungry as can be. Well, to begin at the beginning, 
 I don't know how it did begin. Amy was in my room or I 
 was in hers, as we most always are together in one or the 
 other, and she proposed, or else I did, that we should have 
 some fun. It 's just awful dull staying here in the house 
 all the time, unless when we go out with some one along 
 to see that we are just as "proper " as can be. I go riding 
 sometimes, but not very often, because I am the only one 
 that has a pony, and I think it makes the girls feel a little 
 — just a little, you know — well, if I could take one of 
 them along sometimes it wouldn't seem so bad — I know 
 I should hate a girl who had a pony if I didn 't have 
 any. I lend him to one of them sometimes, and then 
 I get a good nice ride afterwards, because I feel then that 
 no one will think that I am seltish, you know. 
 
 Oh, dear, where was I? I don't get along a bit in my 
 "explanation." Oh, yes; we were in my room, because 
 that looks out toward the west, and I always like to 
 watch the Sunset there, and think of you at dear Sturm- 
 hold, and of Aunt Kortright and Mammy and all of you. 
 
 ("So she leaves Martin out, eh? AVrites his name 
 and then erases it," said the father, as he paused in his 
 
A WEEKLY POST. 233 
 
 reading and glanced with a loving look up at his daugh- 
 ter's picture that hung opposite; him upon the wall. 
 After a moment of dreamy scrutiny, he resumed. ) 
 
 So we were sitting looking out at my window, when Amy 
 moved and I seconded it, as they said at the meeting, or 
 else I moved and Amy seconded it,, that we should have 
 some fun. And then I proposed one thing and she another, 
 until finally one or the other suggested that we should go 
 to the meeting that was to be held in the town hall that 
 night. You see from my room we can go right out on the 
 roof of the wing the kitchen is in, and from the kitchen 
 roof down on the wood-shed roof, and the back end of that 
 is right against a big rock that one can get on with a pretty 
 long step, and just walk down by scrambling a little. So, 
 if we put out the light and lock our doors, Miss Hunni- 
 well thinks we are not well, and have gone to bed early. 
 She is a great believer in sleep, and is real kind and good, 
 Papa dear, only sort of notional sometimes, as I don't see 
 how she could help being with so many girls to invent 
 "improper" things to do to torment her, as they must. 
 
 There was to be a big meeting in the town that night^ 
 what they call an ' Abolition' ' meeting — and a woman was to 
 speak, and a colored man, that was a runaway from slavery, 
 and had a reward otfered for him ; and a little girl was to 
 be there, not as old as I, who had been a slave, and was 
 bought and set free by a kind gentleman in Boston, who 
 was just as white as any one — the little girl, I mean — 
 and it was all so dreadful, and so — so — like a circus. 
 Papa, only more so — more exciting, you know — that we 
 couldn't resist the temptation. We didn't dare ask Miss 
 Hunniwell, because we knew she wouldn't let us go. Just 
 that morning at prayers two of the big girls, the best ones 
 in the graduating class, real ladies, you know, they asked 
 her if they might go, and you just ought to have heard 
 her go on at them. I never thought she could talk so — 
 never. She said the Abolitionists were just the worst 
 people ; they wanted to steal and rob and stir up strife 
 
234 HOT PLOWSHARES. 
 
 and — oh, I don't know what all, but it was awful — per- 
 fectly awful. And I thought of Mr. Clarkson and Uncle 
 Kortright, and I told Miss Hunniwell that they were Abo- 
 litionists, and I knew they weren't bad people and didn't 
 want to do anybody any harm, and I wouldn't have them 
 abused, there ! Then I cried. But when I called Mr. 
 Clarkson' s name, half "the girls they just clapped their 
 hands and waved their handkerchiefs, and the other half 
 they hissed— just like a lot of horrid, ugly boys — and Miss 
 Hunniwell she put up both hands and shook her head till 
 her gold glasses slipi^ed almost off her nose, and one side 
 was tilted up and the other hung down so that she looked 
 at me over one glass and under the other, and — I couldn't 
 help it, you know — I burst out laughing, and then both 
 sides stopped cheering and hissing and we all laughed till 
 we cried, and Miss Hunniwell she stamped and screamed, 
 and I got sent to my room for being bad. But I couldn't 
 help it. Papa. It was just too funny for anything. 
 
 Well, that night — last night, you know — we were sit- 
 ting here in my room looking for the stars to come out, 
 and seeing them light the town hall in the village below, 
 and the people going in, men and women and children, 
 when one of us proposed that w^e should go and see the 
 fun anyhow^ "The weight of the meetin'," as the chair- 
 man said after he put something to vote last night, was 
 "in favor on't." So wc locked our doors, without light- 
 ing the caudles, and put on ovxr hoods and wraps and 
 crawled along the roof and went to the meeting. Oh, Papa, 
 it was such fun — I mean it was so sad, you know. The 
 black man that had been a slave was as big as our Jason, 
 and he told, oh, such horrible stories of how they cut and 
 walloped him. I held my fingers in my ears, it was so 
 terrible. But I could hear every word just as plain as 
 could be. And then he told such aw-ful things about his 
 masters, and called the slaveholders such bad names, and 
 stamped his foot and looked as if he was going to swear. 
 But he didn't, only kept on abusing all the masters just 
 
 i 
 
.1 WEEKLY POST. 235 
 
 too bad to think about, till I just hated them, just as bad 
 as he, I do believe, when all at once I thought that you 
 were a slaveholder, and grandpa, and grandma, and Uncle 
 George and all the relations. I was so angry at that man 
 that I forgot where I was, and I jumped right up there in 
 that meeting, where it was just as still as death, only fcfi- 
 the man that was talking, and said, "It ain't any such 
 thing, sir ! My Papa is a slaveholder, and he isn't any 
 bad man. And I think you must have been a pretty bad 
 nigger, too, or you wouldn't have got walloped so much !" 
 Then there was an uproar. Some cheered and some 
 hissed, and I heard them ask, "Who is it?" And then 
 some one said, " It 's one of Miss Himniwell's girls, " and for 
 a minute all was confusion. The man stopped speaking 
 and held up his hand with the palm toward us, and just 
 shook it a minute, and everybody was just as still as the 
 gi'ave. It almost frightened me, there was such a hush 
 came over that crowded house. The palm of his hand had 
 that queer yellow look that made it seem as if he was sick. 
 It trembled, too, and he looked, oh ! so changed and ten- 
 der, as if the tears were going to overflow the eyes that 
 had burned so hatefully a minute before. I cried as 
 soon as the people made such a clamor about what I 
 had said, but I had to take my handkerchief down to look 
 at that man. So I sat and bit my handkerchief and cried 
 and watched him. He came out to the very edge of the 
 platform and said, "Will my little Missy let me ask her 
 forgiveness? I was wrong. Anger made me unjust. 
 There are good men and women who are slave masters 
 and mistresses, and, thank God, there are good little mis- 
 tresses like her, too." Then I was ashamed, and hid my 
 face while he went on to tell of his master's little girl, 
 who was so kind and good to him that he never thought 
 of Heaven without thinking that she would make it lighter 
 and sweeter by her presence. Oh, it was just lovely the ten- 
 der things he said, and the soft, low tones in which he spoke. 
 I heard tlie people on eacb side, of me sobbing and sigh- 
 
236 HOT PLOWSHARES. 
 
 ing, but I didn't cry any more. I just kept my head in 
 my hands and wondered to myself. I kept saying over and 
 over again, ''Can this be a black man? Why should he 
 be, and why should he have been a slave?" Though, for 
 that matter, I think I should rather be a slave than be 
 black ; and if I was black it don't seem to me I should 
 care much what else I was. I got to thinking about that 
 so much that I didn't notice w^hat went on afterwards. 
 
 The woman spoke, I remember, and she brought out the 
 little girl who had been a slave and was sold on the block. 
 And, Papa, it was a fact, she was just as white as I. Then 
 the woman spoke some more, but I didn't mind what she 
 said or what went on, till, all at once, I heard the strangest 
 voice I ever listened to, and lookuig on the platform I saw 
 a man I can never forget. He looked to me like some one 
 out of the Scripture dressed in our every-day clothes. He 
 had a full, broad forehead, from which the hair grew 
 away of its own accord all around in heavy waves. His 
 eyes were very wide apart, and looked so straight out 
 from imder his heavy brows that they seemed to see right 
 through me. They did not flash, but seemed to burn with 
 a steady, clear light. His face had a hard, stern look, and 
 his wide mouth shut so close that I could hardly see the 
 color of his lips from where we sat. He was a tall, straight 
 man, and wore a good dark suit of clothes, which seemed 
 to be new and not quite what he liked to wear. His voice 
 was not exactly loud, but it seemed to come directly to 
 one as if sent for a special purpose. I didn't think of any- 
 thing else while he was speakmg. I couldn't. I don't 
 remember what he said, only that he was "glad that 
 slavery was coming out of its shell. It could not be killed 
 with honey. Instead of smooth words it would take hard 
 blows. The cry of the poor in bondage was for help. The 
 rich and pow^erful must be taught to respect the weak. 
 The master must be brought low before the slave could 
 be lifted up. He had no feeling of revenge. He did not 
 hate the master. He pitied the mistress and Uttk ones, 
 
A WEEKLY POST. 237 
 
 But the will of the Lord must be clone. He had built up 
 in mercy, He would tear down in wrath." 
 
 He did not say very much, and what he did say does not 
 seem very remarkable to me now, but then somehow it 
 seemed as if he spoke with authority. I did not weep or 
 tremble as when the other man was speaking, but I could 
 not help thinking that this man knew all about it and was 
 saying what was the very truth. I could never have in- 
 terrupted him even if he had abused you by name, dear 
 Papa. I should just as soon have thought of interrupting 
 Elijah if I had heard him cursing the priests of Baal. He 
 seemed just as much a prophet. Just before he sat down 
 he said : "I want to tell that little girl who spoke up for 
 her father to-night that I am sure no one meant to hurt 
 her feelings. I am sorry her father is a slaveholder, and 
 hope she will persuade him to let the oppressed go free." 
 
 Then there were some resolutions, and just as they were 
 going to adjourn this man came down the aisle and asked 
 me my name, and when I told Jiim he said, "Hargrove? 
 Hargrove ? Where from ?" 
 
 I said, "Sturmhold, near Skendoah." 
 
 "Yes. Merwyn Hargrove,'' he said as quietly as if he 
 was looking right at you, and he asked me about Jason 
 and Mammy, too, as if he had known them all his life. 
 
 Then he went back on the platform and said with a 
 queer smile : "I want to say that if all the slave masters 
 were like this young lady's father there would be no more 
 call for such meetings as this." 
 
 Then everybody looked at me, and I was too surprised 
 to mind it at all. What did he mean. Papa? Everybody 
 cheered and seemed to think that I was entitled to a great 
 a deal of consideration. There was a great company going 
 by the Seminary when the meeting was over, and they in- 
 sisted on paying us attention, so that we couldn't slip 
 away to climb up our rock and get back into the window. 
 Indeed, two of the young men walked up to the door 
 with us, and cue of theiiw sounded the kuockei- before I 
 
238 HOT PLOWSHARES. 
 
 could get my wits together to stop him. After a long- 
 time the door opened and there stood Miss Hunniwell. 
 You should have seen her. But the letter she sends will 
 tell you all about it, I suppose. We must have been very 
 bad, though I don't see what harm there is in it. If you 
 say there is any I will not do so any more. 
 
 Oh, dear Papa, I want to see you so much ! I want to 
 tell you something that I don't know how to write. You 
 know you told Miss Hunniwell she was never to open my 
 letters, and you told Martin, too, that he might write to 
 me and I might write to him twice every month. It was 
 very kind of you, dear Papa, and it has been a great plea- 
 sure to me, but I am not certain that you meant that he 
 should write as he has done lately. He wants to be my 
 lover, Papa. You may not think it right, though I hope 
 you will not be hard on Martin, for I do love him, Papa — 
 though I have not told him so, and will not until I have 
 your permission. Perhaps I am too young to think of 
 such things, bvit it seems to me as if I had always loved 
 Martin ever since he stopped the horses when they were 
 running away. Then he has been with me so much at 
 home that it seems just as natural to love him as to love 
 you, only it is different, of course. I never thought of it 
 in that way until he wrote, and am sure I ought to let you 
 know. You are such a good papa that I know you will 
 do just what is right, and you maybe sure your "little 
 Hilda" will obey your wishes. Please do not be angry at 
 Martin if he has done wrong. I inclose you his letter. 
 When you read it just think you have me in your arms 
 with my face hid in your bosom and the blushes burning 
 my cheeks as they do now. 
 
 Your loving daughter, Hilda. 
 
 P. S. — That strange man is named Brown — John Brown. 
 Do you know him ? I suppose you do not. He is only a 
 common working man I should say from appearances, per- 
 haps a farmer, but I think John the Baptist must have been 
 just such a man. Amy thinks he was perfectly horrid, 
 
A WEEK f A- POST. 239 
 
 and all the rest of tliem, too. She just hates them, she 
 says, and doesn't see how any Southern man's daughter 
 can endure them for a minute. She is the Southernest 
 girl in the whole school. I think, though, that if these 
 people and Uncle Kortright and Mr. CUarkson are a sample 
 of what Abolitionists are like, ]\Ir. Brown was about right 
 when he said last night that he had been "accustomed 
 to move in the best society for twenty years — the society of 
 fugitive slaves and Abolitionists." H. H. 
 
 P. S. — Please return Martin's letter and write very soon, 
 won't you ? That 's a dear Papa. H. 
 
 P. S. — I forgot to ask if you think my explanation is 
 sufficient. If it is please write and tell Miss Hunniwell 
 that I am your spoiled Hilda and must be allowed a few 
 "improprieties." 
 
 The father paused a monieut when he had finished 
 this long epistle, and looked up to the portrait in tender 
 thought. Then he opened one of the enclosures. It 
 was written in a coarse, sprawling hand, that almost 
 made its fervid words ridiculous. The father smiled at 
 the careful request for its return that Hilda had repeated 
 on the letter itself lest it should escape his memory. 
 Then he re-read a part of his daughter's letter ; walked 
 up and down the room a few times, and glanced at the 
 letter of the principal of Beechwood Seminary, which 
 was full of regrets and excuses for the corruption of 
 mind to which his daughter had been exposed despite 
 the care of the teacher's. Miss Hunniwell was no doubt 
 distressed and alarmed at the escapade of the rich man's 
 daughter. He answered this in a few curt sentences 
 requesting that his daughter have full liberty to go 
 where she chose among the good people of Burlingdale 
 whenever her time was not required for the perform- 
 ance of any school duty. As to what she had done, 
 he did not see anything reprehensible in it except 
 the deception practiced upon Miss Hunniwell herself, 
 
240 HOT PLOWSHARES. 
 
 which he thought would never have been attempted if 
 instead of being watched she had been trusted. As to 
 its being an Abolition meeting, he saw no reason why- 
 she should not attend this as well as any other. She 
 had to form her own opinions, and this was one of the 
 questions on which she might yet be called to act, and 
 he should prefer that she should act intelligently. 
 
 The good woman's amazement knew no bounds when 
 she read this reply. Was it possible that a slaveholder 
 could doubt upon the question of slavery ? The ques- 
 tion itself almost disturbed her own faith in the Scrip- 
 ture which saith " Servants, obey your masters." 
 
 II. A WISE man's warning. 
 
 The next letter that Merwyn Hargrove opened was 
 written in a cramped, close hand, but every character 
 was clear and perfect, and the mind of a strong man 
 shone out from the closely -lined page. 
 
 Oak Ridge, Oct. 24, '54. 
 My Dear Captain : — If you are still bent upon carry- 
 ing your Quixotic scheme into effect, it is no doubt neces- 
 sary that you should remove the slaves from the country 
 entirely. In the first place, they would not be safe any- 
 where in the United States should the collateral heirs ever 
 obtain a decision against you, as they are nearly certain to 
 do if they ever get you into court here. The passage of 
 this new Fugitive Slave Law was a great piece of folly on 
 the part of our Southern Congressmen. They meant well 
 enough, but were mighty short-sighted. Anything that 
 keeps up the agitation about slavery is bad policy. We 
 had a deal better just have submitted to the loss of the 
 few slaves that get away and said nothing more about 
 them. After a negro has once been in a free state a little 
 while he is good for nothing more anyhow. He may do to 
 sell South and work on the sugar i)lantations, but the 
 
A WEEKLY POST. Ul 
 
 chances are that he '11 keep on running away till he gets 
 himself killed or so torn by dogs that he is good for 
 nothing afterwards. This law will just encourage all our 
 people to spend twice the value of a slave getting him 
 back, and keep the North in a constant tumult till 
 somehow or other they will find out a way to set the 
 last one of them free. I don't know how it will be 
 done, but I 'm clearly of the mind that this law will be 
 the death-knell of slavery inside of fifty years — perhaps 
 inside of twenty. It 's the biggest piece of folly I 've ever 
 known. 
 
 If Gilman had his judgment against you, though, he 
 wouldn't lose any time in getting hold of those negroes 
 you took to Ohio. It would be the same anywhere in the 
 Northern States. Besides that, it is simply a refinement 
 of cruelty to take a negro to that climate, set him free and 
 expect him to make a living. With all that you did for 
 those you emancipated, I '11 wager you've had to help sup- 
 port them ever since. The great philanthropist who oftered 
 that immense tract in the Adirondacks to negro settlers 
 gratis, might just as well have given them a quarter sec- 
 tion each in Nova Zembla. No humane master would be so 
 cruel as to send a slave there. I suppose it will make a 
 big transfer station on the Underground Railroad — a sort 
 of harbor where they can stop on the way to Canada, and 
 perhaps they may get so strong after a while that a mar- 
 shal will not care to serve process among them. But I 
 think if you will do it, you should send them to Liberia. 
 If a negro is not going to be a slave he has no business to 
 live among white folks. The greatest nuisance in the 
 world and the most dangerous element in the land is the 
 free black population of the Southern States. I say Libe- 
 ria, too, because it may be that the Colonization Society 
 would pay part of the cost of transporting them there. 
 I do not know. I hear they are very full this year, and 
 they may not have transportation for any but those paying 
 full rates for passage. The only objection to this is its 
 
S42 HOT PL WSHA RKS. 
 
 cost. And right here let me ask if you have fully con- 
 sidered what it costs a Southern man to be an Abolitionist ? 
 Our Northern friends talk about it very glibly ; and well 
 they may. It costs them nothing but fine words. Now 
 take your case. There is first the value of these seventy- 
 six or seventy-eight slaves and the twenty-one you sent to 
 Ohio. It is not a cent less than eighty thousand dollars. 
 Then the cost of transportation is a hundred dollars apiece, 
 if they go to Liberia. At least that is the estimate I find 
 made in an old Congressional report by the chairman, who 
 seemed to know what he was talking about. It would 
 take, I suppose, as much more to set them on their feet and 
 give them a fair start toward getting a living there. This 
 will make it at least $100,000. It is not much wonder 
 there are so few Abolitionists among our planters. If they 
 thought slavery was wrong not one in twenty of them 
 could aftbrd to be right. 
 
 But in your case this is only half the loss. You lose 
 the slaves like any one else, but if the collaterals should 
 get a judgment against you, as they certainly will if they 
 ever get service of process, you will have to pay for the 
 last one of them, and pay for the use and enjoyment you 
 have had of them, too. You are, I suppose, very wealthy. 
 Amity Lake and the negroes you sold with it gave you a 
 good send-ofif, and I hear yoii dropped into some very good 
 investments afterward. They tell me you are selling ofl:' 
 your land, which is a very good idea. It will never be 
 worth any more than now, when everybody has gone wild 
 over California and dreams of having gold as plenty as 
 pewter in a few years. I 'm not so sure about it being a 
 wise thing to put the money into telegraph poles and 
 wires, as I hear you are doing. However, that is your 
 lookout. Fortunes are easier made now than in my day, 
 when they only came by hard work. However rich you 
 may be, you can hardly fail to think twice before risking 
 any such sum as this. Let me advise you once more to 
 abandon all idea of doing it. To my mind, you are carry- 
 
A WEEKLY POST. 243 
 
 ing a point of honor too far when yon imperil yonr own 
 estate just to carry ont your brother's silly notions. If 
 you should lose Mallowbanks and have to pay for the 
 slaves you have already liberated, George Eighmie's be- 
 quest would be a very costly one to you even now. He 
 certainly cannot have expected you to use the proceeds of 
 the slaves you sold with Amity Lake in order to set his 
 Mallowbanks negroes free. But all this is for you alone 
 to consider. As to whether there will be any difficulty in 
 getting them away, I should say it would have to be done 
 very expeditiously. The idea seems to have gotten out 
 that you are going to free them, and you might have 
 trouble if you tried to take away so many at once. Of 
 course, it won't do for me to have anything to do with it, 
 and I can think of no one you can trust with such a deli- 
 cate business. You might get a Northern agent — but his 
 lack of knowledge of the ways of the people would make his 
 success doubtful, and his presence of itself would awaken 
 suspicion. If there were not so many of them, the best 
 way would be to take them out by the Sound ; but there 
 are more than your little schooner could carry, I suppose. 
 However you proceed, be very careful. If you will let me 
 know when it is to be done I will be in that region to help 
 you if you get into any trouble. If the Colonization So- 
 ciety will take them it would perhaps be better, as their 
 agent would then attend to the removal. You may as 
 well make up your mind to this. However, you will never 
 get those negroes out of the county if your intention to 
 remove them is known two hours before the start is made. 
 However you may attempt it, count on this to a certainty. 
 I think that boy of George's is in Virginia ; but I am 
 afraid there is no doubt the mother is colored. I had a 
 notion something might be learned to the contrary, and 
 went myself to investigate. Tliere is no room for doubt. 
 She is a quadroon. It 's a pity, too, for I don't know when 
 I have seen one I felt so much sympathy for. Poor wo- 
 man ! 
 
244 HOT PLOWSHARES. 
 
 If there is any tiling further I can do, you will please 
 command me at all times. 
 
 Yours very truly, 
 
 Matthew Bartlemy. 
 
 ni. "good lord and good devil." 
 The next letter bore the heading of an institution 
 especially characteristic of those times. 
 
 Office of the American ) 
 Colonization Society. \ 
 Dear Sir : I am sorry to inform you that we have care- 
 fully examined the status of the seventy-six negroes named 
 in your application for transportation to Liberia, and have 
 fully determined to decline receiving them as colonists. 
 Our Society is not designed in any degree to interfere with 
 the institution of slavery. With its right or wrong, law- 
 fulness, humanity, extension or continuance we have no- 
 thing to do. The removal and colonization of free blacks 
 on the western coast of Africa at their own desire, or at 
 least with their full consent, is our sole purpose. The first 
 requisite in all cases is that they should be free — free be- 
 yond a peradventure. ' As the usefulness of the Society 
 depends in large degree upon the hearty co-operation of 
 slave owners as well as those opposed to the institution, we 
 could not think of interfering in any case where there was a 
 doubt, even, as to the freedom of the parties offering as colo- 
 nists. In this case, while you no doubt consider your 
 right to manumit the slaves in question to be indisputable, 
 yet we are informed that it is not only questioned but is 
 likely to be controverted by parties who imagine that they 
 have a much better right to the possession and control of 
 this property. 
 
 In such a case it would be manifestly indiscreet for the 
 Society to allow itself to be in the remotest degree con- 
 cerned. I enclose you a report of the proceedings of our 
 last annual meeting, with the speech of Mr. Clay, and 
 other documents, from which you will gather our purpose 
 
A WEEKLY POtiT. 245 
 
 as an organization more fully. It is now some twenty-five 
 years since Mr. Clay, with that lucidity of statement pecu- 
 liar to him, expounded the doctrine on which our Society 
 is founded, and to which it has steadily adhered since its 
 first institution, to wit, the removal of that greatest of 
 all nuisances to civilization, the free black. We do not 
 interfere with the slave or slavery, pro or con. We are 
 neither for nor against it. The free black in the midst of a 
 slave population is an element of danger and corruption ; in 
 the midst of a free white population he is cheated and op- 
 pressed, and can never occupy an independent position or 
 acquire a healthy development. He is an excrescence on 
 the social body. We confine all our attention to this one 
 evil. We seek to remove the free man of color to a soil 
 and climate where, unrepressed by the power and prestige 
 of the Caucasian, he may develop and grow into a man- 
 hood such as his capacity may warrant. We not only do 
 not receive for transportation cases in which there is any 
 doubt as to the right of the master to manumit, but we 
 could not allow them to land as colonists if transported 
 thither at your expense. 
 
 Regretting the necessity that compels a negative answer 
 to your very liberal proposition, I remain, 
 
 Yours very truly, 
 
 A M , Secretary. 
 
 There was a knock at the library door as the master 
 of Sturmhold finished reading this letter, and in answer 
 to his invitation Martin Kortright entered. 
 
CHAPTER XIX. 
 
 A MO]VIENTOUS QUESTION. 
 
 There Avas a flush on the face of Martin Kortright 
 as he advanced quickly across the spacious Hbrary and 
 exchanged greetings with the grave, easy-mannered man 
 beside the heaped-up writing table, and who welcomed 
 him with something of surprise. After shaking hands 
 with his visitor, Hargrove motioned to a chair that 
 stood opposite to his ov*^n and scrutinized the young man 
 somewhat more critically than usual as he sat down. 
 This was his daughter's suitor — her first suitor, and, 
 judging from her words, likely to be the last, if only the 
 impulse of her heart was to be regarded in the decision. 
 He could not blame her. Martin Kortright, at eighteen, 
 must have been confessed by the most casual observer to 
 be a very proper young man. In his person the father's 
 ruggedness had been softened by the mother's fullness 
 of outhne. The keen, blue eyes and massive brow of 
 Harrison Kortright were happily blended in his counte- 
 nance with the richer complexion and rounder oval of 
 Martha Ermendorf His lips were as mobile as his 
 father's, but had something of the fullness and color 
 that still made his mother's smile so sweet. 
 
 Ever since his first visit there, Martin Kortright had 
 made Sturmhold his "other home," as he had been 
 Avont to call it. "Martin's room " had been one of the 
 permanently appropriated apartments of the mansion. 
 It was never occupied by any one else, and was always 
 kept ready for his coming. The life of the hillside 
 ai6 
 
A MOMENTOL,S QUESTION. 247 
 
 mansion had become in him inextricably interwoven 
 with that of the humbler home in the valley. 
 
 To Hilda he had been as a brother. Neither had any 
 other intimate associates of their own age. Between 
 them there had never been the least restraint, and in all 
 these years no serious estrangement. Mr. Hargrove 
 had come to love the sturdy boy almost as a son, all 
 the more easily because of his young daughter's evident 
 ibndness for her playmate and protector. Then, too, 
 the boy had made his w^ay like a conqueror into the 
 alfections of the whole household. Jason, the faithful 
 butler, had long known him only as " Marse Martin." 
 Hargrove could not have resisted, if he would, his frank 
 intrepidity. 
 
 Pie had not planned that Hilda and Martin should 
 love each other. In flict, the simple words of his daugh- 
 ter had brought to him that feeling of jealous surprise 
 with Avhich a loving parent always learns that the life 
 he has cherished is to be dissevered from his OAvn. Yet, 
 while he had not purposely designed to promote this re- 
 sult, he had more than once contemplated it as a pos- 
 sible contingency, and he was not unwilling that it 
 should occur. He remembered that in the very moment 
 when he said to Harrison Kortright, "Let them be 
 partners," it occurred to him that it would be an odd 
 instance of our American conglomeration of races and 
 peoples if his Hilda, sprung from the buccaneer, the 
 planter, and the exile of sunny Italy, with a dash of 
 Quaker steadfastness in her veins, should mate with the 
 child of the Dutch Yankee, the oftspring of chill Ncav 
 England and phlegmatic Netherlands. After all, he 
 thought, it would only be Yeoman Hargrove and Yeoman 
 Cartwright striking hands across the centuries in the 
 persons of their children, whose English lives had sub- 
 jugated the currents of foreign blood that swelled their 
 veins. It was strange that he should quietly have con- 
 
248 HOT PLOWSHAEES. 
 
 templatcd this coutingency. He was not without pride 
 of birth. The father and the father's father, whose 
 portraits looked down from his Ubrary walls, were not 
 men to beget oftspring who could be otherwise than 
 proud of their name and achievements. There was not, 
 it is true, the warmth of attachment between him and 
 the other branches of the Hargrove stock that one is 
 accustomed to find among kindred in the South. In- 
 deed, he hardly seemed to have any kindred in the 
 sense of near relations. The owner of the "Quarter," 
 in the old days, had been the Hargrove of that region. 
 His kinsmen had lacked the inherent force necessary 
 to enable them to rise above the rank in which they 
 had been born. As the family grew rich and strong 
 they gathered around and shared its prosperity. They 
 were rather privileged henchmen than kindred and 
 equals. So, too, the family alliances had not generally 
 been with the very best of the vicinity. The taint of 
 yeoman origin, as well as the somewhat rough manners 
 of the early owners of the Quarter, had prevented that. 
 His father's Northern marriage had been seriously re- 
 sented by the connection when they found that it was 
 not sufficiently lucrative to restore the lavishness of the 
 old regime. They had looked very coldly on the young 
 widow who came to face the prospect of penury on the 
 encumbered plantation, and never quite forgave her for 
 capturing the heart of Colonel Eighmie and, through 
 his aid, avoiding the fate that apparently awaited 
 her. It is very hard for people to permit themselves to 
 be forgiven. So when he himself returned with his fair 
 foreign bride he found the consanguineous Hargroves 
 green with envy at the good fortune that had fallen to 
 his lot. They had, too, the distrust peculiar to that re- 
 gion, of those who come from abroad or whose habits of 
 life and methods of thought are not formed on their 
 peculiar models. When, therefore, he espoused his 
 
A MOMENTOUS QUESTION. 249 
 
 brother's cause against a public sentiment, than which 
 nothing could be more intense and bitter, they were but 
 too glad to disown any responsibility for his conduct 
 and to withdraw from him not only their approval but 
 also their society. Absorbed in each other and the 
 gay life they met at the Northern resorts which they 
 visited, Merwyn and his Rietta had cared little for 
 such conduct on the part of those who, though rela- 
 tives by blood, had been only strangers in fact. His 
 devotion to his wife, whose foreign birth and education 
 separated her somewhat from society, tended even more 
 to secure their complete isolation. Till her death he 
 had wished for nothing more than her presence. To 
 please him was the aim of her existence ; to be with 
 her the height of his desire. Their very fitness to 
 adorn society had, in a sense, shut them out from it by 
 making each sufficient for the other's pleasure. The 
 presence of others was a restraint to them — an intrusion 
 into that paradise which they held saci-ed to each other. 
 
 Wlien his wife died there was nothing living that he 
 loved. Even the child she left seemed a stranger to him 
 until years had passed and her pretty ways began to re- 
 call her whom he still movirned. Added to these circum- 
 stances was the duty imposed upon him by his brother's 
 will. It was neither light nor congenial. Remembering 
 the aversion with which the public mind had regarded 
 his intercession in that brother's behalf, he naturally 
 expected a similar sentiment to obstruct the execution 
 of his dying wish. The difficulties in the way seemed 
 insuperable. He would have shirked his duty could he 
 have done so with honor. But honor was his king, and 
 his love for the dead brother was intense. He had 
 brought from Mallowbanks the books of the student re- 
 cluse, which he had been especially requested to keep 
 for himself The shelves of his library groaned under 
 them. Through them he still communed with the gentle 
 
250 HOT PLOWSHARES. 
 
 spirit who had loved them. His own estate would not 
 at that time have sufficed to discharge the task he had 
 undertaken. But, while he waited in sorrowful seclu- 
 sion, it had grown many fold greater, and he looked 
 upon this unexpected enrichment as a token that he 
 must perform to the letter the strange trust confided to 
 his hands. 
 
 By all these things he had been excluded from the 
 usual circle of association, and therefore, no doubt, 
 looked with more equanimity than he otherwise would 
 on the possibility of marriage between his daughter and 
 one not her equal in birth or station, and separated by 
 the whole width of the world's life from the tradi- 
 tions of which she was the natural heir. So, when 
 the children played together as boy and girl, and he 
 thought that they might some time be partners indeed 
 in the game of life, he said to himself, "Well, why 
 not ?" and then half thoughtlessly brought them nearer 
 and nearer by the strong bonds of his own unconcealed 
 affection. 
 
 Merwyn Hargrove could not be termed superstitious, 
 but there was something about his relations .to Martin 
 Kortright and his father that seemed to him to partake 
 of the mysterious to a degree that unquestionably influ- 
 enced his conduct not a little. At the time of their first 
 unfortunate meeting he had decided to proceed at once 
 to execute his brother's wish. He was not ignorant 
 either of the danger to himself or peril to his estate 
 which such a course would entail. Living, he had no 
 fear of the result. Should he die, he felt that in serving 
 the interests of his brother's children he might destroy 
 the inheritance of his daughter. After much study he 
 had determined to adopt the very course that his brother 
 had pursued, except that in his case, he would, while yet 
 living, select a trustee, who should hold a certain fund 
 for his daughter in such a manner that the law could in 
 
A MOMENTOUS QUESTION. 251 
 
 no event divert it from the purpose designed. Casting 
 about for one on whom he could safely devolve so deli- 
 cate a trust, he could fix upon no one except Jared 
 Clarkson. He had never met with him personally, but 
 from all that he had heard of him in the region where 
 his name was a household word, he felt that he could 
 rely upon both his judgment and integrity. It was well 
 knoAvn that the most cautious financier in the land had 
 not feared to intrust him with hundreds of thousands of 
 dollars, without even so much as a written receipt for 
 it to bear witness of a transaction then almost unprece- 
 dented in amount between private parties. He seemed 
 to have inherited the same rugged faithfulness to his 
 plighted word or implied promise that Hargrove recog- 
 nized as an element of his own nature. The very fact 
 that he lived up to his convictions upon the subject of 
 slavery and the rights of the Negro, without regard for 
 the clamor and vituperation of others and in defiance 
 of a public sentiment which regarded any step toward 
 the social equality of the races with peculiar horror and 
 animosity tended, no doubt, very strongly to strengthen 
 the conviction of his especial fitness for this trust. At 
 that time, as we have seen, Hargrove had no sympathy 
 with Clarkson's convictions upon this subject, but only 
 by accident had found himself charged with a duty that 
 seemed in harmony with them. Negro slavery as an in- 
 stitution seemed to him less dangerous than negro 
 liberty. He was not in favor of emancipation from any 
 point of view. He was simply an instrument of an- 
 other's will. He could not but recognize the fact, how- 
 ever, that faithfulness to conviction was but another 
 name for duty, and that one who did not shrink from 
 obloquy in the advocacy of political principle was most 
 likely to perform a private trust. Knowing that Kort- 
 right was familiar with his character and history, it had 
 been the purpose of his Christma^s visit to Paradise Bay 
 
253 HOT PLOWSHARES. 
 
 to make more specific inquiries iu regard to Clarksou, 
 Kortright's sturdy independence, thorough integrity and 
 the boldness and practicahty of liis sclierae to render 
 tributary to his will the unused waterfall in which both 
 had an interest, had turned him from his purpose, and 
 it flashed upon him like an inspiration that here, in his 
 very presence, was the man for whom he had been seek- 
 ing — a man whom no difficulty could daunt from a task 
 once undertaken, and whom no temptation could swerve 
 from the path of rectitude. 
 
 The plan Kortright had conceived was a bold one. At 
 some period in the remote past the brawling mountain 
 torrent, on its northward way to the MohaAvk, after pass- 
 ing through a level valley where the hills retreating on 
 either side left wide stretches of fertile bottom lands, 
 had met across its pathway a rugged chain of granite- 
 founded hills. Through these it had wound in a narrow, 
 tortuous passage, till at length it burst tlu'ough a last 
 stul)boi'n ledge and tumbled foaming and raging to the 
 plain beneath, thence to pursue its way unheeded to the 
 wider channel which it sought. It was traditionary 
 lore . among the Indians that the level region to the 
 southwestward had once been a lake of several hundred 
 acres in extent, before the Great Spirit had cleft a pas- 
 sage for the pent-up waters through the hills. The fall 
 had been utilized to turn a grist-mill almost ever since 
 the white man's occupancy. There was a tradition that 
 the stones first used in it had been brought from Massa- 
 chusetts slung across a horse, supported by a pack- 
 saddle specially devised by the enterprising pioneer mil- 
 ler for that purpose. It seems an almost incredible 
 tale, but when one has looked upon one of the veritable 
 stones themselves, or what the " picker" has left thereof, 
 as vouched for b}^ tradition among those whose feet have 
 trodden upon it year by year since its grinding days 
 were over, and has noticed what a tiny thing it was be- 
 
A MOMENTOUS QUESTION. 251) 
 
 side the great burr-stones tlaat crush our modern liar^ 
 vest, he begins to grow more credulous. And wlien lie 
 looks upon a letter in which this sturdy pioneer recounts 
 his experience with the twain millstones and the gray 
 horse, whose strength he had wrongfully misdoubted 
 at the first, as they picked their way with difficulty 
 through the Blankshire hills to the little settlement whose 
 need he aspired to supply, doubt vanishes. Without 
 such "sensible and true avouch" the writer hereof had 
 never credited the story which he tells. 
 
 This mill, together with the lands above, had come 
 into Hargrove's hands in the manner before described. 
 Kortright's plan M^as to i-ebuild the barrier and re-cre^ 
 ate the lake. The task was not one that would be 
 called stupendous at this day, but it was bold enough 
 to make most men of that time hesitate. As to its 
 results, when once accomplished, there could be no doubt. 
 The supply of water and the resulting power would be 
 practically unlimited. That this man of mature yearn 
 should have had the self-control to nourish this idea in 
 secret, with hardly the remotest prospect of its final ac- 
 complishment, marked him, to Hargrove's mind, as ih 
 some sort extraordinary. To Kortright himself the won- 
 der always was that he revealed his secret at all. Only 
 the enfeeblement of disease, he mournfully asserted, could 
 have so weakened his resolution as to have induced him 
 to complain of disappointment or condescend to ask for 
 aid. 
 
 The result of the confidence Hargrove had been thus 
 strangely led to bestow upon Squire Kortright had in- 
 clined him still more to the son. It was not the father's 
 success, but the power to succeed in so difficult an un- 
 dertaking, and one so apparently at variance with the 
 training which his life had given, that had year by year 
 increased his respect for the self-centred man whom 
 neither pain nor difficulty could daunt. Xoither ]\rartiu 
 
254 HOT PLOWSHARES. 
 
 nor Hilda had the remotest idea of the strange relation 
 they were to sustain to each other and toward the 
 l)rosperous enterprise that had transformed Skendoah 
 from the sleepiest of hamlets into one of the world's 
 most bustling hives. The blandishments of fortune had 
 not changed Harrison Kortright. His nervous, firm- 
 shut lips were like a barrier of iron set to guard the 
 gateway of his thought. All knew that he had pros- 
 pered marvelously. None knew the secret that under- 
 lay his prosperity. 
 
 The crisis in his affairs which Merwyn Hargrove had 
 long expected, had at length arisen. The collateral heirs 
 of George Eighmie had delayed action for two reasons. 
 First, because of grave doubt as to an ultimately favor- 
 able result to themselves, and, secondly, because they 
 were advised that, as the word "heirs " was not in the 
 will, the property would revert to them in case of the 
 death of Hargrove before converting or consuming the 
 estate. As his fortune, outside of what he had inherited 
 from his testator, was ample to satisfy all claims against 
 him for rents and pi'ofits, should he be adjudged to have 
 held the estate wrongfully, it was believed that the 
 wiser course was to allow matters to remain pretty 
 much in statu qiio until he should make some further 
 attempt to carry out what was believed to be the secret 
 understanding with George Eighmie. B}'^ some means 
 or other the impression had gotten abroad that this was 
 about to be done. The collateral heirs were moving. 
 The case of "Sherwood Eighmie etal. vs. Merwyn Har- 
 grove, as executor, and Merwyn Hargrove individually," 
 had been instituted and was being pressed. Matthew 
 Bartlemy did not fear the action against his client as 
 executor, but the designation served to give the plain- 
 tiffs a place in court and to justify a continuance from 
 term to term in the hope of obtaining personal sei'vico 
 of process. His opponents were right. The time had 
 
A MOMENTOUS QUESTION. 255 
 
 come when Merwyn Hargrove had at length decided 
 to perform, without further delay, the trust his brother 
 had laid upon him. The son of the man to whom 
 he had intrusted her dower had come to ask the hand of 
 his daughter. Had the trust he had bestowed upon the 
 father only prefigured the greater confidence he must 
 now extend to the son? The whole household had long 
 regarded him as heir-apparent to the daughter's love, 
 as he had already become her partner in the father's 
 confidence — all save Lida, who, with the inconsistency 
 of a jealous nature, had long regarded him with an aver- 
 sion that had finally extended to his parents. Since 
 Hilda had been at the seminary, her distrust of Har- 
 grove had returned also, and she had more than once 
 absented herself from his house for considerable periods 
 of time. On such occasions, Jared Clarkson, whose faith 
 in Hargrove's sincerity had become almost as strong as 
 his pride in his own honesty, had generally managed to 
 inform him of her whereabouts in order to remove any 
 apprehension as to her safety. He did this all the more 
 easily because of his connection with those organized 
 enemies of slavery — or more properly, perhaps, friends 
 of freedom — whose joint efforts to promote the escape of 
 fugitives from slavery constituted what was quaintly 
 known as the " Underground Eailroad," an institution 
 the importance of which, as an element in the great 
 movement of the time, has perhaps been somewhat mag- 
 nified by the many startling incidents connected with its 
 operation. 
 
 Martin Kortright had come to the verge of manhood, 
 never doubting his father's kindness or his mother's 
 love. He had seen himself transferred to college after 
 his course at Eockboro' Academy ; had rejoiced at his 
 mother's pride in his progress and success, but was pro- 
 foundly ignorant of any plans that might have l)een 
 made as to his future life. His father was one of those 
 
256 HOT PLOWSHARES. 
 
 men who cannot yield their confidence to any one ex- 
 cept under an irresistible compulsion. No hint of his 
 jDurposes as to his son had ever reached the boy's ear. 
 With the natural instinct of the American youth for 
 self-direction, therefore,, he had laid out for himself a 
 path in life and a part in the world's great conflict 
 that accorded strictly with the influences and ideas 
 of the time in which he lived. Neither the quiet life 
 of Sturmhold nor the bustle of Skendoah's restless wheels 
 and hammers altogether suited him. He did not realize 
 the suftering of which the former was the mellow fruit- 
 age, or the deeper life that underlay the latter. The 
 world's thoughts had entered into his heart, and it 
 throbbed with a wild desire to do some great thing for 
 humanity — for liberty — for the right. His love for Hilda, 
 instead of being a check, was only a spur to this desire. 
 He loved her so well that he was even willing to die 
 in order to be worthy of her. Everything was to him an 
 impulse toward the heroic. His father's stoicism ; his 
 mother's half-secret bursts of efllisive love ; Hilda's un- 
 doubting confidence in the presage of greatness that he 
 felt within ; even the quiet and apparently insignificant 
 life of Mr. Hargrove — all were to him unresting impulses 
 to do. The spirit of the unfailing succession of inborn 
 knights-errant was upon him and would not let him rest 
 content with what others had done. Rose-leaves were 
 not soft enough for his limbs to rest upon. Only laurels, 
 plucked by his own hand on the rugged heights where 
 fame and valor alone may come, could satisfy his soul. 
 
 So, as he sat opposite the grave, quiet man, in 
 whose beard the threads of silver were showing more 
 and more with each recurrent year, his thought was 
 busy with the future— his future — the world's future — 
 when he should help to shape its destiny. His flushed 
 face, swelling nostril and lips, close shut yet tremulous, 
 told of an unusual excitement. The man noted his 
 
A MOMENTOUS QUESTION. 257 
 
 excitement, and not doubting as to its cause, was well 
 pleased to see this boy-suitor for liis davighter's love so 
 impressed with the importance of what he had come to 
 ask. He had half feared that the love that Martin had 
 professed was rather a matter of course — a something- 
 born of propinquity and the habit of years rather than 
 the absorbing and self-forgetful passion that sways and 
 dominates a life once for all. Kow there could be no 
 further doubt. The face of the young man plead for 
 him with the father's heart, and before his lips were 
 opened his cause was won. Very kind was his tone, 
 and his countenance invited the utmost confidence as he 
 asked : 
 
 "Well, Martin, what is it that brings you back from 
 college so unexpectedly ?" 
 
 He knew, of course, but it would not do to betray his 
 knowledge. He wondered in what words the young man 
 would clothe the announcement that had been so simple- 
 made by the daughter, who had never learned to doubt 
 either her father's love or his wisdom. There would be a 
 turbulent storm of words, he did not doubt, when love 
 broke through that painful restraint which the young- 
 man had put upon himself. For this he, was prepared, 
 but he was not prepared for the words that accompanied 
 the look of pain and entreaty which overspread Martin's 
 face as he said, in tones that quivered with sorrow and 
 apprehension : 
 
 '' Mr. Hargrove, do you believe slavery is right V' 
 
CHAPTEE XX. 
 
 "he that is to be." 
 
 "What ?" exclaimed Hargrove, in amazement. 
 
 "Do you believe that slavery is right?" repeated 
 Martin, with a look of anxious entreaty in his eyes. 
 
 "Martin Kortright," said Hargrove, leaning forward 
 and peering anxiously into his face, " are you crazy ?" 
 
 "No, indeed, sir ; but I am in earnest." 
 
 "So it seems." 
 
 A smile that might have been pitying or scornful crept 
 about the corners of Hargrove's mouth as he spoke. 
 
 "I came only to ask that one question," said the 
 young man, with tremulous eagerness. 
 
 " Indeed ? All the way from your college ?" 
 
 "No; from Skendoah." 
 
 " Ten miles for one question ! What a pity ! Why 
 did you not prepare a longer catechism ?" 
 
 The sneer was too apparent to be unheeded even bj^ 
 the preoccupied mind of the young man. He started 
 like one suddenly awakened, and looking at the man be- 
 fore him saw his eyes flashing and his lips quivering 
 with suppressed anger. 
 
 "I — I hope," he stammered, "that you are not of- 
 fended ?" 
 
 "Oh, not at all," said the other; "I am delighted. 
 Such diligence in the pursuit of knowledge is very com- 
 mendable. My daughter, I am sure, will be charmed." 
 
 " You have heard from Hilda then?" asked Martin, 
 while an ingenuous blush overspread his countenance. 
 358 
 
'' HE THAT 18 TO be:' 259 
 
 " I received a letter from my daughter this morning," 
 said Hargrove, coldly. "By the way," he added, turn- 
 ing over some papers, and handing Martin's letter to 
 him, "she enclosed me this. As you have apparently 
 forgotten all about it, I may as well give it to you now, 
 and save her the trouble of mailing it." 
 
 "You — you — do not approve of it then?" said Mar- 
 tin. A sudden pallor succeeded the flush upon his face. 
 The words seemed to choke him as they came forth. 
 He took the letter as he spoke, and sat looking at the 
 other with a sort of dull, hopeless agony in his eyes. 
 
 " Oh, about slavery ?" said Hargrove, lightly. " Well, 
 I don't know. You seem to consider my opinion upon 
 this question of great moment." 
 
 "It is of the utmost possible importance to me, you 
 maybe sure, sir," answered Mai'tin, choking down the 
 emotion that threatened to overcome him, " or I would 
 never have troubled you with the inquiry." 
 
 "Xo doubt you think so, sir," said Hargrove, rising 
 in uncontrollable anger, "There seems to be no bound 
 to your assurance. The fact that you were seeking 
 covertly to win my daughter's love you no doubt thought 
 gave you an unquestionable right to catechise her father. 
 You need not have any further anxiety, sir. Your re- 
 lations with her are ended, and my opinion upon any 
 subject can be of no further moment to you. I bid you 
 good morning, sir." 
 
 Hargrove bowed with mock politeness, and waved his 
 hand toward the door as he spoke. Martin had risen, 
 too, and stood gazing at the master of Sturmhold with 
 a look in which surprise and pain were blended. 
 
 "I do not understand, Mr. Hargrove," he said, with 
 quiet dignity, "in what I have been so unfortunate as 
 to offend. I did love your daughter, and always must. 
 I did not suppose that you were ignorant of the fact, 
 though I liad only lately found it out. I wrote her 
 
260 HOT PLOWSHARES. 
 
 frankly in regard to it, and had no doubt she would con- 
 sult you. If I did wrong, I did not know it." 
 
 " But you made the mistake of not first inquiring fully 
 what were my views on the slavery question," sneered 
 Hargrove. 
 
 "My inquiry had no connection with your daughter, 
 or my love for her," responded Martin. 
 
 "Indeed!" exclaimed Hargrove. "Am I to under- 
 stand that you would have condescended to acknowledge 
 a father-in-law whose views upon that question were not 
 entirely sound ? I am sure I am very much obliged." 
 
 " Captain Hargrove," said the young man, straighten- 
 ing himself up until his eyes flashed proudly into the 
 flaming orbs before him. "I do not understand your 
 allusions, but it is evident that I have made you angry. 
 Allow me to say, however, that my relation to Hil — to 
 your daughter— did not in the least affect my interest in 
 the question I asked. If there is any reason why I 
 ought not to press it, of course I will not, but it is still 
 a matter of vital interest to me — perhaps all the moi-e 
 that you regard my love for — for Hilda as a matter of 
 presumption." 
 
 Hargrove looked at him in amazement. 
 
 "Do you mean to say that you still desire to know 
 whether I consider slavery morally right '?" 
 
 " I do, indeed, sir." 
 
 Hargrove's brow relaxed as he gazed upon the sad 
 but earnest face before him, and unconsciously his tones 
 softened somewhat as he inquired : 
 
 "Will you please tell me how my opinion upon this 
 political question can be of any interest or importance 
 to you now ?" 
 
 "If you will allow me to ex})lain, sir, you will easily 
 see. I came home last night to ask my parents' permis- 
 sion, or, perhaps more truly, to inform them of my de- 
 termination, to do a certain thing. Both opposed my 
 
"i/A' THAT m TO be:' 2(Jl 
 
 wish, and my father especially forbade it, giving as his 
 reason that you were in favor of slavery, and that our 
 relations to you were such as to forbid my doing any- 
 thing that might displease you." 
 
 "It is natural that they should consider conduct that 
 would be displeasing to me inconsistent with your posi- 
 tion as my daughter's lover." 
 
 "But they had no knowledge of— of any such thing." 
 
 " Did they not know you had written that letter ?" 
 
 "They did not." 
 
 " Nor that you intended doing so ?" 
 
 "Nothing of the kind." 
 
 "Indeed. Then I do not see how my opinions be- 
 came important." 
 
 "My father said we were under obligations of no 
 common character to you." 
 
 " Of course he explained their nature and extent?" 
 Hargrove smiled sarcastically. 
 
 "He did not." 
 
 Hargrove's smile deepened to a sneer as he said : 
 
 " And you did not ask him ?" 
 
 "I did not," said Martin, with something of pride- in 
 his tone. "I know it is useless to ask my father what 
 he does not choose to tell." 
 
 "That is true; that is true," mused Hargrove. 
 " Then you do not know to what he referred ?" 
 
 " I only guess that you assisted him in his enterprises. 
 I remember that he was only a well-to-do farmer. I know 
 that he is now a rich manufacturer," answered Martin. 
 
 " Yes," said Hargrove meditatively turning away for 
 a moment, only to come back for a still sharper cate- 
 chism of the young man, who stood as if dazed by the 
 unexpected turn the conversation had taken. " But 
 you knew, sir," and he shook his finger at Martin angrily 
 as he spoke, " you knew the relation you desired to sus- 
 tain to Hilda," 
 
262 HOT PLOWSHARES. 
 
 "Of course," simply. 
 
 "And you thought Hilda would disapprove?" asked 
 Hargrove eagerly, " or you feared to offend her father ?" 
 
 "I am afraid," said Martin blushing and stammer- 
 ing, " I am afraid I did not think of her at all." 
 
 " You did not ? I declare, you are a singular mortal. 
 With the ink of the letter declaring your love, hardly 
 dry, you forget her existence when deciding a matter so 
 important that you call it vital. Pray what did you 
 think of?" 
 
 " I tried to determine my duty." 
 
 " Oh, it is a question of conscience, then. You never 
 thought Hilda might have a conscience too ?" 
 
 " I should doubt my own if hers did not approve." 
 
 " But you took her approval for granted ?" 
 
 " I should not have been worthy of her love if I could 
 have doubted her approval of the right." 
 
 "You were right, too; just right," said Hargrove, 
 with sudden heartiness, "a true woman's heart never 
 indorses what is wrong. But will you tell me now why 
 my opinion became important in the settlement of this 
 question of conscience ?" 
 
 " What I wished to do would probably be displeasing 
 to one who believes slavery to be right." 
 
 "Well?" 
 
 "If you disapproved I had determined to abandon 
 my project." 
 
 "For your father's sake ?" 
 
 "Because I would not offend one whose feelings he 
 felt himself under such obligation to consider." 
 
 "So, if I were your father's creditor you would cut 
 your opinions to suit my notions ?" 
 
 " jSTo ; but if you had done my father a great favor I 
 Avould not express opinions that would be displeasing to 
 you, if I could avoid it without loss of self-respect." 
 
 " Oh ! this is one of those questions of conscience 
 
''HE THAT LS TO BE:' 263 
 
 that are binding at one time and not at another. I de- 
 clare you are becoming quite a Jesuit." 
 
 "Not at all, sir," said Martin simply. "The ques- 
 tion for my conscience was not whether the act itself 
 was right. That I had already settled. The question 
 that remained was whether it was my duty to do it or 
 not." 
 
 "And you decided — ?" 
 
 "That if it would occasion vou annoyance I must 
 leave it to others ?" 
 
 "And that is still your purpose ?" 
 
 "It is." 
 
 Hargrove paced the room for a moment with his head 
 bowed in thought. Then he came back and said in a 
 tone very difterent from what he had used before : 
 
 "Pray be seated again and tell me what is this thing 
 you wish to do that might offend me as a pro-slavery 
 man. I hope you do not wish to preach a new Aboli- 
 tion crusade. I was afraid that Jared Clarkson's influ- 
 ence would turn your head, but I thought you had 
 too much common sense to become clean daft on the 
 subject. You must remember that what is tolerated as 
 a harmless absurdity in a man of his peculiar tempera- 
 ment, becomes altogether a difterent thing in one not 
 blessed with his idiosyncrasies. He does and says a 
 thousand things which would not be tolerated for a mo- 
 ment in another. It is not because he is less sincere, or 
 is so regarded by others, but only because he is in every 
 respect exceptional, peculiar — eccentric, as it is termed. 
 Whatever is pronounced and striking in his opinions or 
 unusual in his conduct, therefore, is accepted as a legiti- 
 mate outgrowth of this eccentricity. Of all the men 
 who agree with him in regard to slavery, he is allowed 
 the most license and regarded with the most toler- 
 ance, not because he is more deserving or more con- 
 sistent than the others, but because of his eccentricity. 
 
264 HOr rLOWSlIARE^. 
 
 Such a man is very apt to charm the fancy, but is 
 always dangerous to follow. What he may do with 
 impunity, it would be ruin for others to attempt. He 
 is no more of an Abolitionist than your father ; indeed, 
 not as much, since your father, having once reached 
 a conclusion, would accept all its consequences, no mat- 
 ter how terrible. Clarkson, with all his hatred of sla- 
 very and all his willingness to cripple and destroy it, 
 yet shrinks in horror from the bloodshed that would 
 inevitably attend any attempt to carry his pet ideas into 
 effect. He is a good man, a sincere and kindly gentle- 
 man, but not one who is fit to lead, nor indeed one whom 
 it is safe to follow." 
 
 "Yet he is one of the leaders of public thought," said 
 Martin. 
 
 "I^ot one of its leaders, but one of its mouthpieces. 
 He is one of the exponents of an idea that just now 
 dominates the public attention. The leaders of public 
 thought are men of an entirely difterent mould." 
 
 "The leader must be exceptional and is often ac- 
 counted eccentric, is he not ?" 
 
 "Undoubtedly. 'He hath a devil,' was the popular 
 verdict as to the Christ. John the Baptist, Peter Her- 
 mit and a thousand others, whose woi'ds, translated into 
 deeds, have shaken the world, were no doubt eccentric 
 to the very limit of what we call sanity. They Avere 
 men of one idea, which they followed to the exclusion of 
 all others. They were men whose souls could feel but 
 one emotion. The intensity of their one thought shriv- 
 eled all others like a furnace-blast. They were of the 
 ' Leave-all-thou-hast-and-follow-me ' type of the excep- 
 tional. They repeated one cry until the world heard 
 and believed. They had no time for argument, expostu- 
 lation or entreaty. From the means to the end Avas only 
 a step to them. All between Avas a desert. Objections, 
 excuses, fair promises, everything between them and the 
 
''HE THAT IIS TO BE:' 265 
 
 result which their intensity made not only possible but 
 real, was as stubble before the flame that burned within 
 them. The pioneer is always one who gives his marrow 
 to light the lamp that shows the way — a man whose 
 mind is perhaps only large enough to grasp one phase 
 of a single thought. Such are they whom the world 
 follows. Others come after them, expound, amplify, 
 reduce everything to due proportions and set up the 
 thought the leader brought to light in its proper place 
 in the temple of human life. The few mark eras ; the 
 many make history." 
 
 "Whom then do you consider the true leader of the 
 anti-slavery movement ?" 
 
 "I do not know that it has one. The real leader — 
 the pathfinder of human thought — is one that never 
 doubts. The end he seeks is always clear before him, 
 and he goes straight to it, over whatever obstacles may 
 lie between. He may not reach his goal — rarely does — but 
 he shows the way to others, who clear the undergrowth, 
 level the hills, fill up the valleys and complete the thor- 
 oughfare that leads to the terminus of his inspiration. 
 But I hope you do not aspire to be such a leader ?" 
 
 "No indeed. I only hoped to be a very humble fol- 
 lower," said Martin, resignedly. 
 
 "You need not sigh. The lot of a leader is not an 
 enviable one. He who swerves humanity from the 
 beaten rut must generally stand alone. Now and then 
 there comes one of such deft and subtle power as to 
 flex almost without its knowledge the world's life. 
 He switches the train of thought from its accustomed 
 track at so slight an angle that it is hardly per- 
 ceived until the space between grows to be a yawning, 
 impassable gulf Such a man is never thought of as a 
 leader at the time he does his work. The world looks 
 back on him afterward and wonders that his power was 
 not recognized before. Such a man must always come 
 
266 HOT PLOWSHARES. 
 
 from the ranks. He must be of the people, and only 
 think their thoughts more clearly than they. He must 
 translate into words and deeds what the dullest and 
 meanest dimly feels. Iso high-bred masquerader in 
 familiar garb can ever win the place, save by renuncia- 
 tion of his birthright and a consecration by the laying 
 on of persecuting hands." 
 
 " But a man cannot be a leader who is not recognized 
 as such by his followers." 
 
 "That is the very mistake that is usually made by 
 those who desire to be leaders. They are not his fol- 
 lowers. They are simply the creatures of the idea that 
 animates his life. The real leader — he who shows a 
 new pathway of progress — is more frequently consid- 
 ered an obstructionist in his day. He stands squarely 
 across the old way and compels human thought to 
 take a new road. He will not let the world go on in 
 peace. He may be trampled down by the blind herd 
 behind, but his stiffeuing finger will point the new path- 
 way which the feet of those who come after must fol- 
 low." 
 
 " But if Mr. Clarkson is not a leader Avhat would you 
 term him ? He certainly seeks new ways." 
 
 "Yes, he is an experimenter — one who makes trial of 
 new ideas for the benefit of others. He is one of that 
 more numerous class who benefit mankind chiefly by 
 demonstrating how great things can not be done. They 
 are the skirmishers who skirt the flanks of the army 
 of progress and develop the obstacles that lie before it. 
 They draw the fire of the enemy ; unmask his batteries ; 
 make him define his position ; show the path the for- 
 lorn hope must take, and what must be overcome when 
 the grand assault is made. Their fusilade attracts at- 
 tention because the world is still. The rattle and flash 
 of their fire thrills the heart of every one that listens 
 to the mimic contests of the outposts ; but when the 
 
''HE THAT IS TO BE:' 267 
 
 army advances along the whole line, they will be drowned 
 in the roar of the conflict, and when it is over will be 
 almost forgotten. The work of such men is no less 
 valuable than that of the greatest ; but it is subordinate 
 thereto and has no independent, permanent result. Such 
 men are doomed to double misconception. At one time 
 they are thrust into undue prominence and at another 
 lost in undeserved obscurity. The scout is rarely a gene- 
 ral. The partisan ranger's work is brilliant and romantic, 
 but is not the sort of work that wins battles and achieves 
 results." 
 
 " You think Mr. Clarkson a political ranger ?" 
 " Undoubtedly. He desires the abolition of slavery. 
 He thinks it essential to national peace and prosperity, 
 as well as due to justice and humanity. Across the road 
 that leads to this result he finds an enemy, organized, 
 alert, and, it would seem, impregnably entrenched. 
 What does he do ? Does he lay down the grand strate- 
 gic lines ? Does he mass the forces at his back and de- 
 termine to carry the position at all hazards ? Not at all. 
 He seeks for some weak point in the enemy's line. He 
 dashes along his front ; tries to turn his flanks ; annoys 
 him with unexpected attacks ; makes brilliant dashes and 
 quick retreats ; fires colored rockets ; explodes harmless 
 mines ; in short, does the work of scout and skirmisher 
 for the general who shall finally direct the campaign. 
 That is what Mr. Clarkson 's work will be if the Anti- 
 Slavery movement ever ripens into an organized aggres- 
 sive force, successfully directed to the accomplishment 
 of a specific purpose. I very much doubt if that time 
 will -ever arrive or that leader will ever appear." 
 
 Hargrove resumed his meditative walk back and forth 
 across the libi'ary. He seemed almost to have forgotten 
 the young man's presence, as he had apparently forgot- 
 ten the starting-point of their conversation. He was un- 
 burdening himself of thought which long study and close 
 
268 HOT PLOWSHARES. 
 
 observation of the men and events of his time had forced 
 upon him in his semi-isolation. Untouched by faction ; 
 remote from tlie conflict of parties ; almost equally at 
 variance with every phase of the prevailing political 
 thought of his day, yet bound by an infrangible chain 
 of events to that institution whose continuance or de- 
 struction was the great question to be decided by the 
 gathering conflict, it is not strange that his views should 
 difter from those of the partisans who shouted, amid 
 the heat of the struggle, some for this brilliant political 
 champion and some for that. 
 
 " At any rate, I think he deserves to be called a 
 knight and not a scout," said Martin, with a touch of 
 pique in his tone. 
 
 "Aye, aye, so he does," said Hargrove, stopping 
 shortly and raising his finger to enforce his words. " So 
 far as gallantry, devotioit and purity of heart are con- 
 cerned, he is a very flower of chivalry. But unfortu- 
 nately for him, perhaps, it is not knight-errantry, it is 
 not the display of personal prowess and skill of fence 
 that moves the Avorld. The progress of thought in a 
 republic is the advance of a grand army. The knight 
 is a central figure when the march begins and swords 
 are first crossed in some casual affray ; to-morrow he 
 will be a scout, and Avhen some Civsar with his Tenth 
 Legion, or Napoleon with his Old Guard shall have won 
 the great battle, he will be remembered kindly and 
 lovingly by the few who remember how well he did his 
 part and forgotten by the many in whose minds his 
 achievements will be blended with, and subordinated to, 
 the grand assault, the leader of which has not yet ap- 
 peared and — is not likely to appear." 
 
 "He will come," said the young man, whose close- 
 shut lips, flashing eyes and hand nervously clasping the 
 back of the chair by which he stood, showed how his 
 blood was stirred by the thought of conflict, "He will 
 
''HE THAT IS TO BE:^ S69 
 
 come !" he repeated in a tone that rang through the 
 silent room Uke the presage of victory. 
 
 "So?" said the other, as he paused in his walk and 
 looked with a half smile upon the young face flushed 
 with enthusiasm. "So the time has come when 'Our 
 sons and our daughters shall prophesy, ' eh ? You may 
 be right. But you said you wished to be a follower. 
 Of whom— Clarkson ?" 
 
 " No. Kow that you point it out, I see that he can- 
 not be a leader in the accomplishment of great events, 
 I am sorry, too, for he is a splendid type of man, and, 
 in most respects, I must admit that I share his views in 
 regard to slavery. " 
 
 " Just so. It is not at all surprising that you should. 
 The only wonder is, that passing your youth in the full 
 glare of his manhood, you should have retained indi- 
 viduality enough to modify your indorsement by that 
 cautious phrase, ' in most respects. ' When the truly 
 great man puts his impress on such plastic material 
 as your young life there is no doubt as to whose mark it 
 is. If the leader ever comes you will follow him with- 
 out any 'if or 'but.' If I am not mistaken, you spoke 
 of wishing to do something now. What was it ?' 
 
 " I wanted to go to Kansas, sir." 
 
 "For what?" 
 
 " To help the ' Free State Men.' " 
 
 " You are anxious to fight the ' Border Rufiians ' 
 then ?" 
 
 " I wish to see freedom prevail." 
 
 " Exactly ; and you supposed my sympathies might be 
 with slavery ?" 
 
 "My father was of that opinion." 
 
 "He could not have made a greater mistake." 
 
 "What?" exclaimed Martin in surprise; "you think 
 slavery wrong and yet own slaves ?" 
 
270 HOT PLOWSHARES. 
 
 "■You probably tliink Jared Clarkson very sincere in 
 his belief iu its uurighteousness V" 
 
 " Of course he is.'' 
 
 "Undoubtedly. But what he only accepts as an evil 
 fact upon the report of others, I know by my own ob- 
 servation and experience to be infinitely worse than 
 he conceives. If I own slaves it is because it is a hard 
 thing for a man in my position to know how to avoid 
 one evil without committing another. ' ' 
 
 " Yet you do not agree with him." 
 
 " Yery far from it. He hates slavery, and adores the 
 enslaved race. I hate slavery, and almost abhor the 
 Negro. Not that I have any ill-will toward him, or 
 would treat him with cruelty or injustice, but I believe 
 his presence among us is an unmixed evil to the white 
 race. Mr. Clarkson and those who agree with liim are 
 opposed to slavery for the sake of the slave. I would 
 destroy it for the sake of the master. The white race 
 has suffered more from slavery than the colored people 
 ever can. I should dread their freedom among us 
 even more than their enslavement. In short, I am a 
 Southern Abolitionist as Mr. Clarkson is a Northern 
 one. Both are humanitarians. He bestows his sympa- 
 thy upon the slave ; I save mine for the master. He 
 would count his work ended with freedom of the slave ; 
 I would not rest until he was transformed or trans- 
 planted. He thinks freedom would cure all the ills of 
 slavery ; I fear that if the races remained together it 
 would only enhance them." 
 
 "Yet you prefer colored servants?" said Martin, in 
 surprise. 
 
 " Very true. Whether it is the force of habit or be- 
 cause of their peculiar adaptedness to the servile rela- 
 tion, I do not know. Certain it is that I do not like to 
 be served by a white person." 
 
 "Why should you apprehend evil consequences if the 
 
' ' HE TEA T IS TO BK " 271 
 
 slaves were freed, and remained as the paid servants of 
 the white race, instead ?" 
 
 " Because the two races can never commingle, and, 
 living side by side with each other, jealousies and dis- 
 sensions and contlicts would be the least of the evils to 
 be expected. But that will never be. The Negro must 
 be removed from among the whites or remain forever a 
 slave. If they were emancipated to-morrow by some 
 sudden stroke, they would be reduced to bondage again 
 before a month had passed. The law of nature is an 
 inflexible one : that where two races, separated by some 
 physical barrier that prevents universal admixture and 
 unification in the course of time, dwell together, the one 
 must rule and the other must serve. They can never 
 live equally and amicabl}^ together." 
 
 "But those who are among us here occasion no trou- 
 ble," said Martin, with the imwillingness of a believer 
 to abandon his creed. 
 
 " Ah, you misunderstand me. It is not because I 
 think the ]N^egro is way more depraved or vicious than 
 any other man at his stage of development. It is not 
 because he is bad, ungovernable, or even incapable that 
 I believe this, but simply because he is not white. He 
 is separated from us by the extremes of color. Nature 
 has divided us. She has made two classes that can never 
 be made one. Where there are clearly marked divisions 
 there will always be discord, which must sooner or later 
 ripen into conflict. The fact that such conflict has not 
 arisen here is easily accounted for by the very small 
 comparative numbers of the unassimilable element." 
 
 " It is strange how near you and Mr. Clarkson are to 
 each other in your conclusions, and yet how far apart in 
 your premises," said Martin, musingly. 
 
 "We agree only in one thing— the detestation of 
 Slavery. To him it is obnoxious, because of its injus- 
 tice and inhumanit}' to the negro, whom he considers an 
 
273 HOT PLOWSHARES. 
 
 equal and of equal right with the white man ; as he has so 
 often said : ' prejudice against people of color is a quarrel 
 with God. ' To me it is hateful, because it has brought 
 the negro among us, enfeebled and corrupted the Avhite 
 race, and cursed the soil which it has touched." 
 
 "He sees no danger in emancipation and 3^ou no hope 
 in it." 
 
 "Very true." 
 
 " And yet you are both sincere." 
 
 "Yes. He shows his sincerity by taking the Xegro 
 to his table ; I mine by giving my fortune to return 
 him whence he came. He laughs at the distinctions 
 between races. I shudder at the thought of their ad- 
 mixture." 
 
 "Yet how can this race, if naturally servile, weaker 
 and less numerous than the whites, in any event work 
 us harm ?" 
 
 "Ah, it is not the amount, it is the character of the 
 mischief. It is the one fly in the pot of ointment. 
 One drop of colored blood is enough to degrade. "What 
 would induce you, if it were possible, to wear the in- 
 signia of that race ? For how much money would you 
 consent to be a negro or have in your veins a drop 
 of African blood ? If you would test the idea of 
 race-prejudice, as it is called, that is the fair way to 
 do it." 
 
 "Candidly, Mr. Hargrove," said Martin, "I think I 
 would rather die." 
 
 " Of course you would. It is not the Xegro's fault. 
 It is not our fault. It is simply a fact of our nature. 
 Yet every year that the races remain together ten thou- 
 sand, twenty thousand, perhaps a hundred thousand 
 lives are cursed with this ineffaceable stigma. Only think 
 of it ! All the whippings that a generation of slaves can 
 suffer are as nothing to what the mere suspicion of 
 such admixture has brought upon Lida. And her chil- 
 
''HE THAT IS TO BE.'' 278 
 
 dren — God knows if any care can save them for genera- 
 tions from this bliglit !" 
 
 Martin shuddered and Hargrove resumed his walk to 
 and fro across the room. Presently he returned, and, 
 laying his hand upon the young man's shoulder, he 
 smiled down at him and said : 
 
 "■ I presume this has relieved you of all fear as to my 
 pro-slavery tendencies." 
 
 "Entirely," said Martin gravely. "Yet I am by no 
 means sure that you would approve of my purpose." 
 
 He looked up inquiringly as he spoke. 
 
 "Perhaps not," said Hargrove. "Let us first dis- 
 pose of the matter for which I supposed that you had 
 come. You love my daughter ?" 
 
 "As my life !" said the young man, rising and gazing 
 earnestly into the other's eyes. 
 
 " I do not question your sincerity. I had just received 
 your letter from Hilda when you entered and thought 
 you had come to ask my sanction of your suit." , 
 
 Martin's eyes fell and his face flushed. 
 
 "I suppose I ought to have done so, sir," he said sub- 
 missively, "but it seemed so much a matter of course 
 that Hilda and I should love each other that I never 
 thought of any formality." 
 
 "Oh, I excuse you fully, now that I know all the 
 facts. The young man of the North at best is not given 
 to formalities in matters of the heart, and Mars and 
 Cupid are poor joint-tenants. If one gets possession the 
 other is sure to be locked out for the time." 
 
 " I did not forget her," protested Martin. 
 
 "Oh, I understand," said Hargrove; "the fever of 
 the public mind possessed you. The rage of battle was 
 upon you, and the very fact that you loved made you 
 all the more anxious for an opportunity to attest your 
 manhood." 
 
 "It must have been so." said Martin, still abashed at 
 
274 HOT PLOWSIIARKS. 
 
 the awkwardness of his position. " I hope you will 
 pardon what must have seemed the most inexcusable 
 presumption." 
 
 "It made me angry, as you saw," said Hargrove. 
 "All the ideas peculiar to a Southern man are so per- 
 sistently misapprehended hy the people of the North 
 that even they who desire to vindicate us are apt to do 
 it upon false grounds. For myself, I have been so gen- 
 erally misunderstood by those about me that I have 
 become sensitive in regard to such questions as that 
 which you so unexpectedly propounded." 
 
 "Why do you not let your opinions be known ?" 
 
 " Because my neighbors cannot understand them. 
 They are foreign to their own thought — the sentiment 
 developed by the life of another people. The inklings I 
 have given have caused me to be looked upon as a kid- 
 napper, if not as a pix-ate^. Yet I have freed a goodly 
 number of slaves, and have reason to believe that Jason 
 sometimes makes Sturmhold itself a station on the ' Un- 
 derground Railroad.' " 
 
 "I am not surprised that you were angry," said Mar- 
 tin, "but I hope that you will not forbid my correspond- 
 ence with Hilda." 
 
 "As to that, my son," said Hargrove, taking his 
 hand, "I shall leave you entirely to Hilda's mercy. 
 "What you shall be to each other you must yourselves de- 
 termine. She is worthy of the Itest, and I believe you 
 will be worthy of her." 
 
 " I will try, sir," said Martin huskily. 
 
 " I know you will, and I see no reason why you should 
 not be as happy together as my Rietta and I were in the 
 few bright years she Avas mine. Hilda is sensitive and 
 impulsive, but there never was a braver or more trust- 
 ful nature. I hope to see your children making Sturm- 
 hold again as bright as your own childish lives made it 
 
"HE THAT IS TO BKr 275' 
 
 but yesterday. 1 shall ))e glad to say, ' God bless you, 
 my childreu,' when you eome to make it your home." 
 
 Hargrove fancied that he heard a low moaning sob in 
 the hall without.. He released his hand from the clasp 
 of the young man, who was trying to express his thanks ; 
 crossed the room, opened the door which was ajar, 
 looked out, and then closing it securel}', walked back to 
 the table and sat down. 
 
 "And now," said he, as Martin also resumed his 
 seat, " about Kansas." 
 
 " I hope you are not offended at my desire to go." 
 
 " On the contrary, I am very glad you have it. With 
 your views, the conflict there is one between right and 
 wrong, and I am glad that you Avere. willing to sacrifice 
 your own ease and comfort for what you deem the right. 
 You were a brave boy, and I hope you will be a brave 
 man." 
 
 "Thank you, sir," said Martin, blushing. "I could 
 not love Hilda and be anything else." 
 
 " What put this into your head '?"' 
 
 " The conversation of a man I met at Mr. Clarkson's 
 the other day." 
 
 " What was his name ?" 
 
 "Brown — John Brown." 
 
 "Indeed," said Hargrove inquiringly. "What is he 
 like ?" 
 
 "Just a plain man, sir. A farmer, who cannot stay 
 upon his farm because men are held in bondage." 
 
 "A great talker, I suppose." 
 
 "No," said Martin reflectively. " Xow that I think' 
 of it, I should say he talked but little. There was a 
 great deal said, and it seemed as if all that was worth 
 saying came from him ; but he used very few words. 
 It did not seem to be so much what he said as the way 
 he said it that made the impression." 
 
 "How was that V" 
 
2TG HOT PLOWSHARES 
 
 "Oil, I cannot tell you. There was such an air of 
 conviction and authority about him that even Mr. 
 Clarkson could not argue with him." 
 
 "That is remarkable." 
 
 "Oh, he cut everything short with just a sentence 
 when they tried to reason with him — a sentence that 
 cut up the root of all the argument, however. There 
 was a man there who has written books and poems who 
 was discoursing on the Constitution. He said that the 
 clause ' No person held to service or labor shall, ' etc. , 
 was meaningless and would some time be so decided by 
 the courts. ' It has been so decided,' said Brown. ' In- 
 deed, ' said the other in surprise ; ' by what court ? ' 
 'By the Judge that sits upon the Great White Throne,' 
 answered Brown, as reverently as if in prayer. The 
 conversation had been very animated before, and there 
 was much difference of opinion, but none seemed to 
 wish to carry the controversy farther," 
 
 "It was a stinging rebuke to those who admit the 
 moral wrong of slavery but make excuse that the Con- 
 stitution shields it," said Hargrove. "What does he 
 propose to do ? " 
 
 "Just go to Kansas and, as he says, 'help the poor 
 that cry.' He has two sons there now." 
 
 " And you wish to go with him V" 
 
 "While I listened I felt like those disciples who said, 
 ' Did not our hearts burn within us while he talked with 
 us ?' And afterwards I could not get rid of his ideas." 
 
 " And you would still like to go ?" 
 
 " I wish to do all I can for liberty and the right." 
 
 "I would not have you do less, and 'your own con- 
 science must be your guide. Everj^ man owes it to 
 himself, his country and God to do the most good that 
 he can. I may be Avrong on this matter. The others 
 may be right. You thai arc coming to the front now 
 
'\HE THAT 18 TO BE:' 277 
 
 must decide. It is a question for to-morrow. I will 
 offer no objection." 
 
 "Thank you, sir," said' Martin exultantly; "some- 
 how, I thought father was wrong in thinking that you 
 would." 
 
 " But I would like you to thmk of one or two things 
 before you decide." 
 
 "With pleasure." 
 
 "The struggle with slavery will not be ended in a 
 day." 
 
 "You have made that plain already." 
 
 " Your father is a very wealthy man," 
 
 "Well?" 
 
 " The management of his estate will devolve on you 
 at his death." 
 
 "Well?" 
 
 " Wealth is an engine of great power, for good as Avell 
 as evil." 
 
 "Of course." 
 
 "A brave boy is one thing ; a strong man another." 
 
 "Yes?" 
 
 "Which is worth the more to liberty and righteous- 
 ness — Martin Kortright, single-handed, immature, one 
 of a disorganized crowd of squatters, half scout and 
 half freebooter ; made an outlaw, perhaps, by the impe- 
 rious necessity of organized government — or Martin 
 Kortright, matured, developed, clothed with intellectual 
 mail and armed with the power to lead a thousand 
 whithersoever he may choose ?" 
 
 "I see," said Martin, after a moment's thought, 
 "and I will wait," 
 
CHAPTER XXI. 
 
 A SUBTERKANEAN MYTH. 
 
 It was October. The maples blazed upon the hill- 
 sides. The river flowed betr/een banks of gold and 
 bronze and under arching canopies of shifting flame. 
 The busy inland city was set in painted squares. The 
 trees that lined the streets paved the ways of commerce 
 with purple and gold, and sent troops of airy fays in the 
 glowing garb of elf-land dancing in the sunshine up and 
 down the dark green lawns, and in and out among the 
 borders where dahlias and asters and coMcombs showed 
 the deep rich lights in which summer says adieu. The 
 smoke drifted lazily away from the tall chimneys. The 
 sportsman's shot echoed from the distant hill-sides. 
 Troops of children chased the dancing leaves or sought 
 for nuts beneath the pictured heaps. By the long low 
 sheds beyond, the autumn sun shone down on many a 
 steel-like mirror, and lighted heaped-up piles of snowy 
 crystals which seemed like mimic forerunners of the 
 white drifts that soon would cover hill and plain. 
 
 The year had been a full one. The earth had ripened 
 golden harvests. The prosperity of the nation in that 
 year had been unparalleled by anything in its previous 
 history. More gold had been minted than the world had 
 ever gloated over before in a twelvemonth. The new 
 Occident promised inexhaustible wealth. The looms 
 were busy ; the diamond-pointed spindles flashed and 
 whirred through daylight hours and on into the night ; 
 the hammers rang ; the barns were bursting ; the or- 
 chards bent beiKjath their burden. The land waited to 
 378 
 
A SUB TERR ANEj:m 3IYTH. 279 
 
 give thanks for unmeasured bounty. Peace was in the 
 air. The sunshine was the harbinger of blessing. The 
 land was ready for repose. Those burning questions 
 that for years had agitated the popular heart and 
 threatened the peace of our Israel, had all been settled. 
 
 Slavery had conquered. "Held to service" had been 
 defined by statute to be that servitude which the framers 
 of our fundamental law meant to protect while they 
 shrank from using its name in an instrument purporting 
 to be the charter of liberty. The arm of the law had 
 been strengthened and the bonds of the slave riveted 
 more securely than ever before. The great Whig leader 
 had shaken hands with the master-spirit of the pro- 
 slavery element, and responded heartily to his joyful 
 prediction that for a hundred years at least the question 
 of the slave's freedom or bondage would trouble the 
 statesmen no more. The Puritan-descended expounder 
 of the Constitution had given the weight of his corrupted 
 intellect and surrendered his debauched conscience to 
 the slave power. By his aid, the Samson of free thought 
 had been securely bound. The Constitution was su- 
 preme. Slavery was paramount. The political horizon 
 was clear. No cloud even a handbreadth wide was 
 to be seen. The nation had but to eat, drink and be 
 merry, with no fear of the morrow. In this very city, 
 in the heart of the Empire State, the vibrant tones of 
 the great Whig leader had but recently proclaimed the 
 conflict ended. He had pointed out that the time had 
 come when the law must prevail over personal inclina- 
 tion, and private conscience must bow to public neces- 
 sity. The guaranties of the Constitution must be re- 
 deemed by the children of its framers. The rights of 
 those who were parties to the great covenant through 
 those from whom they held, must be regarded. " Held 
 to service or labor" was to be no more a vain form of 
 words. The nation had put the baton of power into 
 
280 HOT FLOW^IIARES. 
 
 the master's hand, and the aegis of its authority M-as 
 above his head Avhile he sought diligently for the wan- 
 derer whom the Xorth Star drew like a loadstone toward 
 its chilly realm. It had given him leave to go and 
 search and take. It unbolted the sanctuary's doors that 
 he might take the ''held-to-service" from the altar of 
 prayer. It opened the palace and the hovel ; it tore 
 down the freeman's castle to render up the slave. It 
 smote the hand that dared resist and scourged the feet 
 that loitered when commanded to bring aid. 
 
 It was all over. For sixty years the murmur of re- 
 monstrance had been growing louder and louder, and the 
 signs of contumacy more frequent. It was high time 
 that the nation should speak. Its former utterances 
 had come to be unheeded. The pledge of the fathers 
 was well nigh forgotten. Men openly oftered asylum to 
 the runaway. They made null and void the pledge of 
 the Constitution. The vanes upon the churches pointed 
 toward freedom. Men oftered public prayer for the 
 fugitive from bondage. They put money into the hands 
 of the destitute. They hid the aflrighted in their hearts. 
 They gave aid and comfort to the oppressed — food and 
 raiment to the bondman who fled. It was time that the 
 nation spoke. 
 
 And here, in the Valley of the Mohawk, on the great 
 highway along which the East had run to meet the 
 West, and along which the West came back with heavy 
 laden hands full of rich offerings to the East, the tide of 
 discontent ran high. Here Jared Clarkson lived and 
 gave — for to him life was one continuous opportunity to 
 give. A land-owner whose possessions Avould dwarf an 
 English dukedom, he gave with lavish hand the soil 
 itself, and openly maintained that a restriction upon the 
 ownership of land was a prime essential of free institu- 
 tions and general progress and prosperity. Forgetful of 
 himself, he was so ambitious for the good of his fellows 
 
A SUBTERRANEAN MYTH. 281 
 
 that no disappointment could dampen the ardor of his 
 devotion. Hating all forms of caste, he sought not to 
 drag the highest down, but to lift the lowliest up. He was 
 of such chivalric honor that when he had once promised 
 a gift he would not recall his charity, even when he had 
 found the object unworthy. Counting all men as his 
 brothers, he felt the wrongs of each as if they touched the 
 marrow of his life. A patriot of passionate devotedness, 
 he sought excuses, not always consonant with reason, for 
 the acts of the fathers. Hating oppression for its own 
 sake, he scrupled not at the means by which he wrought 
 for freedom. Worshipping law, he counseled and prac- 
 ticed openly and boldly the evasion of unjust statutes 
 and resistance to them. Asking nothing, giving every- 
 thing, inconsistent only in the reasons with which he 
 sought to maintain beliefs too high for meaner men 
 to appreciate ; ready always with helpful words, and 
 putting to shame even his own high ideals by the 
 conduct of his life ; it is not strange that the magnet- 
 ism of his example should inspire men to a feeble 
 emulation of his vaguely understood nobility. He 
 was not, as Hargrove well said, a leader. Erratic in 
 all things, his light was meteoric and marvelous, yet 
 uncertain. What he would believe none could tell. 
 That he would advocate at all hazards what he be- 
 lieved right none ever doubted. In matters of con- 
 science he astounded the dull and shamed the evil- 
 minded. Beside the corrupt and selfish he stood like an 
 archangel clothed in light. He saw life's weakness, 
 meanness, misery ; and pitied it. He saw every wrong 
 that scourged humanity, and hated it. He sought out 
 every good cause, and helped it. He was an Arthur 
 among the knights-errant of his time, and held a dia- 
 mond-edged excalibar, with a hand never soiled with 
 dishonor and a heart never tainted with ambition. Yet 
 he was not a leader — only an exemplar. He did not 
 
282 IlOr PLOWSHARES. 
 
 combine and organize his fellows, and, above all, he 
 lacked that stability which gives a life to one purpose — 
 that steadfastness which puts aside what is of less 
 importance until that which is paramount has been 
 achieved. He was like the comet among celestial 
 bodies — bright, glowing, wonderful, upon w^hich all gaze 
 with admiration, but none set their w^atches by its move- 
 ments. Yet within the scope of his personal acquaintance 
 his influence, though somewhat uncertain, was great. 
 The worst of men felt impelled by his example to do 
 good. Around him centered a thousand vagaries of 
 theory and endeavor, all of which he promoted because 
 he thought they were based on good intent. He was 
 a forerunner who prepared the way for him who should 
 come after. He kept the public mind awake, waiting 
 and anxious for that light which he was not. So it 
 was that the region where^ he lived had become one in 
 which the ideas of law and obedience Avere strangely 
 confounded witli those of abstract justice and ultimate 
 right. 
 
 It was time that the government spoke ; not only 
 in the words of the statute but b}' the mouth of 
 its most illustrious representative. The spring sun- 
 shine was upon the hills and meadows of the valley 
 when the great Expounder stood before the listening 
 multitudes of the growing inland city, and with the 
 threatening aspect of a Jove that does not know his 
 power has fled, proclaimed the law, and warned the 
 people that from their busy streets would yet be taken 
 the man-beast — the "/lomo sed non persona'''' of the civil 
 law — "held to service or labor" by another. It was a 
 strange prophecy, made with exultant bitterness by 
 the child of the Pilgrims, who had sold his l)irthright for 
 a vain ambition — an ambition that was to be foiled 
 again by the very spirit over whose downfall he then 
 blindly exulted. Sad hearts listened to his prediction. 
 
A SUBTERRANEAN MYTH 283 
 
 Angry eyes hurled back the defiance of his threatening 
 orbs. Groans and hisses mingled with the applause that 
 greeted the words of the orator. He smiled in sorrow- 
 ful pity as he heard them. The statesman's duty ran 
 hand in hand with the foiled leader's thirst for revenge. 
 The stroke he gave was for the nation's safety, but was 
 aimed at an enemy who had balked his will. 
 
 The autumn had come, and the prophecy was about to 
 be fulfilled. An awkward youth loitered curiously about 
 the streets. He watched, with a singular furtiveness, 
 those whom he chanced to meet. There was something 
 slouching and uncertain in his gait. Meeting another, 
 he stepped almost off the pavement and half removed 
 his hat, with a timid, apologetic look as he did so. 
 He was well dressed, but his clothes seemed some- 
 how not to fit him, or rather he appeared not to be at 
 home in them. He was evidently a stranger, and a 
 stranger ill at ease. He saw a crowd of people going 
 into a public hall, and drew near and watched them 
 curiously. He was well built, but his face had a dull, 
 sallow look. There was a red mark like a scar upon his 
 i-ight cheek and rumiing back toward his ear. His dark- 
 brown hair was cut close, but yet showed in rich brown 
 waves upon nape and brow. The hands that showed 
 below his white cuffs Avere large and strong, and deeply 
 browned by exposure. His blue eyes were full of watch- 
 ful wonder. All at once he started, gazed quickly 
 around and hurried away from the place where the 
 crowd were gathering. Two men, who seemed to be 
 casually passing by on the other side, walked leisurely 
 in the same direction. 
 
 Within the hall five hundred people had met together, 
 a little company of evil-disposed malcontents. They 
 were of strangely contrasted types. No band of con- 
 spirators against the law and the established order in a 
 giviUzed laud ever showed a greater medley. Men and 
 
384 HOT PLOWtiHARES. 
 
 women, old and young, black and white, high and low, 
 were there. On every face, in every eye shone the 
 light of a great common purpose. Even children who 
 had come with their parents were hushed into a solemn 
 intentness. A Quaker woman, with a placid, motherly 
 face, sat upon the platform busily knitting during the 
 proceedings. A swart, lean figure walked to and fro as 
 fierce invective and scornful epigram fell from his lips. 
 A dark face, with eyes that flashed fire beneath over- 
 hanging brows, with pointed beard and lips whose quiv- 
 ering smile brought Mephistopheles to mind, told of the 
 slavery he had tasted in his own person. Ah ! terrible 
 were the words of wrath, and more terrible still the 
 forebodings of despair, those stout-hearted men and 
 women uttered. They were few where they had hoped 
 to be many. The last great blow had been a terrible 
 one. It had decimated their ranks. The faint-hearted 
 and the hollow-hearted had fallen off. But to those who 
 remained the stroke had been as that of flint upon 
 steel. The fire flashed out of their hearts in hotter 
 words and fiercer resolves than ever before. They said, 
 these wicked malcontents, that " the enactment of the 
 Fugitive Slave Law, and the general acquiescence in it, 
 under the influence of devil-prompted speeches of poli- 
 ticians and devil -prompted sermons of priests, give 
 fearful evidence that this is a doomed and a damned 
 nation." 
 
 Their language was not only incendiary, but it was des- 
 perate. The prayer which opened their deliberations was 
 full of burning maledictions aimed at the best, the most 
 illustrious and most respectaljle citizens in the land. 
 One who listened to their counsels would have thought 
 that religion and civilization were only invented for the 
 sake of the poor and the oppressed. That all men 
 should be free seemed to them the end of aspiration. 
 Beside this all else seemed to them mean and trivial. 
 
A SUBTERRANEAN MYTH. ^85 
 
 Diverse in all other things they were agreed on this. One 
 grave man, from whose face the dark hair rolled back 
 in billoAvs, when the storm of angry, despairing words 
 grew calm for a moment, rose and said in a voice and 
 with a look that made every heart flutter with api^re- 
 hension : 
 
 " We have had words enough. "Why is not something 
 done ?" 
 
 " Done ? Ah, me, what can be done ?" 
 
 So fluttered every heart in the sigh that swept over 
 the audience. The grave man answered solemnly : 
 
 "We can die !" 
 
 Then Jared Clarkson spoke. Words of hope and cheer, 
 — bitter denunciation of the enemies of liberty and scath- 
 ing criticism of its friends fell from his lips. He could 
 not be discouraged. Nothing could hide from him the 
 light. Victory and defeat were alike to him in bringing 
 always nearer the desired end. 
 
 "What can we do?" he said. "We must take away 
 the shield of the Constitution ! The Abolitionists of the 
 North must insist that it shall not sanction such a com- 
 pound of robbery and murder as slavery. The Federal 
 Constitution must be strictly construed. In terms it does 
 not sanction slavery. The word was purposely excluded. 
 The slaveholder will be strong so long as he can plead 
 law for his matchless crime. Take from him that plea 
 and he will be weak. We can do it !" 
 
 "Not without blood!" said the grave man, inter- 
 rupting. 
 
 A black-robed woman, sad-faced, gray-haired, rose 
 suddenly, threw her black-gloved hands above her head, 
 showing white, slender arms, and wailed in agonized 
 tones: "Blood! blood! More blood! The land is soaked 
 with blood ! How long, O Lord, how long ?" 
 
 Her dark eyes rolled wildly. Her face, which showed 
 the wreck of beauty, was ghastly in its pallor. A strong, 
 
286 HOT PLOWSHARES. 
 
 motherly woman who sat next her drew her down and 
 clasped the shapely head to her broad bosom. "I see 
 it ! I see it !" cried the Sybilline figure, half starting up 
 again, and pointing toward the old man in the aisle. 
 " Rivers and seas of blood 1 Great billows of blood, and 
 he rides upon them ! He rides upon them !" 
 
 The man smiled. The knitter on the platform forgot 
 her work. The women shuddered and wept. The strong 
 woman in whose arms she was drew her down again and 
 soothed her like a child. The man in the aisle sat down. 
 A low murmur of pity swept through the hall. Clark- 
 son essayed to speak, but tears choked him. "If we 
 were not a nation of atheists," he said at length, "we 
 should tremble as if we heard the words of prophecy." 
 
 A shiver ran through the audience. The door was 
 half opened and a scarred face looked in upon the ab- 
 sorbed and breathless assembly. The wanderer upon 
 the street gazed in wonder on the malcontents. There 
 were no evil or debauched faces among them. Sincerity, 
 benevolence, uprightness had set their seal on every 
 brow. They were bad men and women — dangerous 
 men and women — conspirators against all existent good 
 — the enemies of Heaven's unalterable laws — yet only 
 in one thing had they sinned. Besotted license had no 
 representative there. Pure Uves stood behind their blas- 
 phemous words. Charity, kindness, unbounded love, 
 devotion to the right, as they saw the right, marked 
 every life. Albeit, they were all the more dangerous 
 to the nation's peace. Had they only been bad in other 
 directions also they could have been put down ruth- 
 lessly, but their clean lives and unselfish devotion pro- 
 tected them from martyrdom, and made the virus of 
 their mistaken dogmas all the more malignant. The 
 youth with the scarred face listened for a time, then 
 glancing backward, turned and departed hastily. Across 
 the way two men watched for his reappearance. The 
 
A SUBTERRANEAN MYTH. 287 
 
 one pointed him out to the other as he came forth. 
 They crossed the street toward him. Another joined 
 them on the way. 
 
 Clarkson continued within : 
 
 "But who talks of blood? God may demand it for 
 the blood that has been shed — He may require it for 
 the remission of sin ; but it is not for us to think of it 
 as a means. Ours are not the weapons of violence. 
 God has given us the Constitution with which to fight 
 the battles of the oppressed." 
 
 "It is the shield of the oppressor — a league with hell," 
 hissed the black Apollo through his set teeth. 
 
 "Oh, but there are two Constitutions," said Clark- 
 son — "the literal and the historical. The literal is the 
 charter of liberty. The historical is the sheet-anchor of 
 slavery. The historical has prevailed." 
 
 "The literal is a dead letter," said the gray-clad knit- 
 ter who sat beside him on the platform, with quiet sen- 
 tentiousness. 
 
 But Clarkson would not heed. His exalted chivalry 
 would cast no blame upon the fathers. To him the 
 words were separable from the spirit. He would save 
 the Constitution from stain and redeem the slave from 
 bondage also. His friends were annoyed at his stub- 
 bornness. They accused him of inconsistency. He was 
 blind and deaf to remonstrance. "I have helped the 
 slave to flee," he said. "I have paid the master to let 
 him go free. If men are dying of pestilence we do not 
 stop to ask the cause, but give relief at once. If tyrants 
 hold my brother in bondage shall I not ransom him be- 
 cause they act unrighteously ?" 
 
 There was a cry upon the street. Two of the men who 
 dogged the footsteps of the youth had seized him and were 
 taking him away, when he wrenched himself loose and 
 fled. They pursued and caught him again. They wore 
 badges of authority. They were the guardians of the 
 
288 HOT PLOWSHARES. 
 
 law, and this struggling, panting, manacled thing they 
 dragged between them, covered with mire, bruised and 
 bleeding, to the temple of justice was the man-beast — 
 the human chattel — the " held-to-service " under the 
 "historical" Constitution. 
 
 While Clarkson argued a bell tolled solemnly. It was 
 the signal agreed upon beforehand — the knell of Liberty 
 murdered by Law. The little company of malcontents 
 knew that the statesman's prediction had been fulfilled. 
 The law had come into the midst of them to rebuke 
 their lawlessness. Then fled doubt and fear. There 
 was no more argument. Five hundred firebrands rushed 
 out among the people. In an instant the streets were 
 thronged with angry men. Scowling faces filled the 
 forum of justice. Women stood at the gateways and 
 wrung their hands and wept. Children clung to their 
 mothers, hushed and pallid with a nameless terror. 
 Men ceased their labor, asked the cause of the tumult, 
 cursed the law's cruelty, and sullenly wrought on. The 
 swift formalities were hurried through. Jared Clarkson 
 pressed forward to speak for, and to, the man the law 
 was about to transform into a thing. In vain! The judg- 
 ment was quickly rendered by willing lips. The man- 
 chattel was hurried along the street to prison, under the 
 guard already provided, there to await upon the morrow 
 transportation to the master's home, to whom his "ser- 
 vice and labor" were rightfully due. The brown, sallow 
 face was streaked with blood and full of sullen determi- 
 nation. " I will die," he said, in answer to the master's 
 look of triumph, "but I will not be a slave 1^'' He had 
 been a petted servant too. But the law was vindicated, 
 and the malcontents were shown how strong its right 
 hand was, in that it plucked from the midst of them 
 one whom they had unlawfully enticed to flee. 
 
 The harvest moon looked down upon the city. An 
 
A 8UBTERRANEAN MYTH. 289 
 
 angry crowd was gathered at the prison gate. Jared 
 Clarkson's voice commanded that the doors be broken. 
 Three thousand angry freemen surged against the walls. 
 The keepers of the prison quailed. The captors of the 
 chattel fled. The doors flew open. The chains fell off". 
 The man-beast fled away toward the Northward. The 
 malcontents had answered the statesman's challenge. 
 Brave words had ripened into braver acts, and when the 
 law asked who had \iolated its safeguard, Jared Clark- 
 son proudly answered "I." But no man dare lay hands 
 upon him. 
 
 As the carriage bearing the man-chattel whirled away 
 through the city's streets, the glare of a solitary lamp fell 
 on the scarred, pallid young face within. A woman by an 
 open gateway saw it — a dark-eyed, gray-haired woman. 
 Instantly her eyes lighted. She sprang away from the 
 embracing arm that was about her and sped after the 
 flying vehicle. 
 
 "My baby! My boy !" she shrieked as she ran. 
 
 Kind friends followed quickly — men and women, who 
 guessed her grief and saw that it had made her wild — 
 some who had heard her story ; many who had witnessed 
 her woe. They followed fast, but not as fast as she 
 fled, and hours had passed away before strong but kindly 
 hands brought her back to the mansion from which she 
 had fled, bedraggled, moaning, chattering, crazed. Ten- 
 der hands received and nursed and soothed ; but when 
 the morning dawned Alida Eighmie held a rag-doll to 
 her bosom, and smiled and cooed as she clasped and 
 kissed the shapeless mass. 
 
 " My boy, my baby ! Hush! hush!" she said to those 
 who spoke to her, "do not waken him! I've just found 
 him after ever so long — ever so long !" 
 
 The next day after these events the malcontents met 
 again and still further blasphemed the gods of our na- 
 
290 MOT PLOWSHARES. 
 
 tional Olympus. Unanimou.sly these earnest, peaceful, 
 kindly-hearted people resolved that "the Satanic Daniel 
 Webster" was a "base and infamous enemy of the hu- 
 man race." It was a fearful accusation to leave upon 
 the tablet of history against the ambitious giant who 
 paltered and parleyed and perished — the grandest intel- 
 lect of his day chained to the weakest conscience, and 
 attested by the most meagre showing of good results. He 
 was not what their words painted him, but when men be- 
 lieve a truth so fervently as to forget themselves, their 
 words are not always measured with precision. The 
 malcontents were all the harsher judges, because them- 
 selves unselfish. They stood in a seven-times-heated 
 furnace, and their words were as fire. It was not brain 
 alone that spoke, but soul that cleft to the joint and 
 marrow. In behalf of the poorest and meanest they 
 dared to denounce the highest and strongest. The storm 
 that was expected to destroy served only to srengthen 
 them. 
 
CHAPTER XXII. 
 
 • A FREE INSTITUTION. 
 
 Among the institutions which arose out of the fact of 
 slavery, there are two so peculiar and distinctive in their 
 character that no tracing of the thought of that day in 
 its influence upon the formation of character would be 
 at all complete should it omit to consider them. One 
 has passed into history under the grotesque and ridicu- 
 lous name of the "Underground Railroad." It was 
 really not an organization or institution at all, but the 
 simple voluntary co-operation of individuals to promote 
 a certain end. When we reflect how deep-seated and 
 earnest had become the hostility to slavery, and how 
 many there were in all parts of the Korth who were 
 willing to defy the law and imperil their own personal 
 safety to aid in its overthrow, the wonder is, not that 
 the "Underground Railroad" became so effective a 
 method of assisting the runaway slave, as that it re- 
 mained to the last so completely disorganized and fortui- 
 tous in its work. 
 
 It had two basis principles : first, that to assist a 
 human being to achieve his personal liberty was a di- 
 vinely ordained duty, and, second, that the institution 
 of slavery itself could somehow or other be broken down 
 by a system of attacks upon it in the shape of continu- 
 ous and concerted escapes from bondage. So, too, it had 
 two specific methods of operation, the one to assist 
 fugitives who, of their own motion, had undertaken to 
 escape, and the other to arrange for securing and expe- 
 diting the escape of individuals and parties who were 
 291 
 
292 HOT PLOWSHARES. 
 
 about to attempt escape. The difficulty and danger of 
 such enterprises can only be dimly understood at this 
 time. The whole South was in fact an armed garrison. 
 Every port was guarded, and every vessel outAvard- 
 bound was required to submit to the most rigid inspec- 
 tion ; every train and depot was closely w^atched for 
 fugitives, and, beyond that, almost every important 
 point in the North Avas infested with mercenary spies, 
 who were ahvays anxious to secure the rewards offered 
 for the detection and detention of fugitives. In almost 
 every city of the North these persons, very frequently 
 under the direction and control of professional men of 
 influence and position, regularly consulted the files of 
 the Southern papers for the description of escaped 
 slaves, Avhich were clipped and studied as carefully as a 
 "Western cow-herder studies the advertised marks of a 
 strayed or stolen steer. 
 
 The difficulty of traveling through the South without 
 exciting suspicion and the danger attending all attempts 
 of this character, can only be very faintly understood by 
 those who do not understand the organization of South- 
 ern society in those daj'S. Every slaveholder was, of 
 course, bound by his own interest to exercise the utmost 
 vigilance, not only over his own, but over each one of 
 his neighbors' chattels-real. At the best, the slave was 
 a species of property that demanded the utmost vigi- 
 lance. His longing for freedom was irrepressible, and 
 the more intelligent and valuable he became, the more 
 intense was this longing. The mere journey, alone, on 
 foot, and unaided, from the Gulf to the Lakes, was no 
 small undertaking for the stoutest-hearted man. But 
 when we reflect that this journey had to be made almost 
 always by night, in the midst of watchful and suspicious 
 enemies, and with the ineffaceable brand of color upon 
 the brow of the fugitive, Avithout money and without 
 scrip, we are struck Avith amazement at the thought that 
 
A FREE INSTITUTION. 293 
 
 any should have attempted it. This statement, how- 
 ever, only feebly shadows forth the difficulties that beset 
 the path of the fugitive. The States of the South were 
 really military camps. The system of patrols made 
 necessary to prevent combinations and concerted move- 
 ments among the slaves, carefully guarded every high- 
 way. The slave could not leave his master's premises 
 without a written pass, without danger of arrest and 
 punishment. The master was not only an owner, but 
 an officer of a vast military organization, whose duty it 
 was to watch the roads, bridges, ferries and other ave- 
 nues to freedom in order that none should escape. Also, 
 the law forbade all meetings of slaves, so that assist- 
 ance and concert of action were made possible only by 
 the utmost diligence and in defiance of danger. A 
 secrecy that is almost inconceivable to one who has not 
 studied the conditions of that society with care, was 
 necessary at every step of such a venture. 
 
 Besides that, the danger to be encountered was by no 
 means slight. In every Southern State the punishments 
 for inciting slaves to escape, or aiding or abetting them 
 in so doing, were of the severest character : whipping, 
 branding, and in most cases, for the repeated offense, 
 hanging. Then the penalty incurred by the slave him- 
 self, not only from the wrath of a master, who had in 
 some states the actual power of life and death and in 
 none stopping very far short of it, but also from the law 
 itself, was something terrible. In South Carolina, for 
 instance, for the first attempt at escape he was liable to be 
 severely whipped ; for the second to be still more severely 
 whipped and have an ear cut off"; for the third to be 
 branded and lose the other ear, and for the fourth to have 
 the tendons of the right leg cut at the heel or be hanged, 
 at the discretion of the magistrates trying him. Through 
 all this array of obstacles, however, men fled toward lib- 
 erty and the North Star, and despite all laws they found 
 
294 HOT PLOWSHARES. 
 
 men at the North to aid and protect them. In some 
 cases, as between certain accessible points, there came 
 to be well-known places of rest and refuge. Men were 
 found Avho risked and lost their lives in inducing slaves 
 to undertake the peril of a tedious flight. Men cheer- 
 fully gave time and money, endured imprisonment, 
 faced obloquy— in short, became martyrs, willingly and 
 gladly, simply from devotion to the "idea of the sacred- 
 ness of personal liberty as an "inalienable right" of 
 "all men." Ship-owners brought away cargoes of hu- 
 man freight. Husbands and sons, in some cases even 
 wives and daughters, went into the jaws of death to 
 rescue their beloved ones. Strangers shared the risk 
 and burden. White men and women worked side by 
 side with free blacks in this singular crusade against an 
 institution that did them no harm save as it held their 
 fellow-men and women in bondage. 
 
 It was a strange movement. From the Atlantic to 
 the Mississippi, almost every mile of the frontier line 
 between freedom and slavery bore the track of a fugitive 
 or was stained with his blood. Prices were set upon the 
 heads of many prominent men for aiding and abetting 
 such movements. They were indicted by grand juries, 
 and in some instances attempts were made to take them 
 to Slave States for triaL The number actually engaged 
 at any one time in this movement was very small as com- 
 pared with the whole population of the Korth, but the 
 number who sympathized with them was very great. 
 Perhaps the very element of danger added a strange zest 
 to the undertaking. Men of the most diverse characters 
 and positions were engaged in it. Of the most numerous 
 and active of these, Jared Clarkson was a fair type. 
 Earnest and sincere beyond all question ; self-sacrificing 
 to a rare degree, but yet greedy of praise and approbation, 
 and having an insatiable love for notoriety; with a nature 
 erratic if not inherently eccentric and unbalanced, he was 
 
A FREE INSTITUTION. 295 
 
 a leader among those who spoke and wrote, a constant 
 aid to those who wrought and an impracticable ally of 
 those who sought to use other and more moderate means 
 for procuring the same end. 
 
 As a means of abolishing slavery the " Underground 
 Railroad " was ridiculously insufficient. In no single year 
 did the whole number of successful escapes equal the gain 
 in an average county of one of the Slave States. Even 
 had the entire population of the North favored it, it is 
 doubtful if it could ever have made any visible inroads 
 upon the institution. Its chief value as a character- 
 forming element of the times was in its marvelous re- 
 cord of heroic attempts, and in the facts with reference 
 to the mysterious region lying to the southward of 
 Mason and Dixon's line which it constantly brought to 
 light. That the blood of martyrs is the seed of the 
 church was never more beautifully illustrated in histor3\ 
 The furnace-blast of persecution made heroes of the 
 merest clods, and lifted into a most glaring prominence 
 men who would otherwise have died in obscurity. The 
 strange charm Avhich undescved hostility gives the vic- 
 tim was throAvn around the advocates of abolition. Men 
 went to their meetings to revile and persecute, stayed to 
 applaud, and came away with the mark of the beast in 
 their foreheads. Then, too, there was mystery and 
 daring and unlawfulness to charm the brave and pique 
 the curious. The colored orator was in his own person 
 at once a show and an argument. The woman, who 
 stood by her husband on the platform Avhile dangerous 
 and oifenslve missies flew about his head, was, of 
 course, a heroine. The tragedy was so deep that no 
 one could withhold his sympathy from the victims. 
 The hopelessness of the old Greek drama was in every 
 hour of the struggle that marked the decade of which 
 Ave Avrite. The slave was an Edipus Avhose woes Avere 
 forever enacted Avithin the sight of all. The old saAV 
 
396 UOT PLOWSHARES. 
 
 and pitied. Tlie young heard and shuddered. The na- 
 tion's heart echoed his moans. The nation's life leaned 
 daily more and more to his relief. Hourly the conflict 
 of ideas greAv more intense. Momently the decisive 
 struggle grew nearer. While Time lagged in his flight, 
 men and women were growing up in whose hearts 
 liberty was enshrined above all other thought. The 
 conflict that then raged was but a forerunner of a 
 mightier revolution ; the slave who fled to freedom 
 but an antitype of the slave to whom liberty should 
 come almost as an unsought boon. The uprising of free- 
 men against an unjust law was but a precursor of the 
 wrath that should sweep away the foundations of that 
 law. Time mocked at the Stateman's wisdom and jus- 
 tified the folly of the Malcontents. 
 
CHAPTER XXIII. 
 
 FOR THE AMENDMENT OF DIVINE ERROR. 
 
 There was another institution of that time which, 
 indeed, has striven hard to survive the chaos that has 
 since intervened, and is, perliaps, more instructive as a 
 historical study than any other of tlie institutions that 
 owed their origin to slavery. It did nothing to shape 
 thought, and, so far as the character and destiny of the 
 country was concerned, it was utterly futile and insig- 
 nificant. It neither led nor followed public sentiment. 
 It was neither for nor against slavery. Fixing at the 
 outset upon a middle course, it led a life of queer in- 
 decision, Apologizing first to one school of fanatics and 
 then to the other, and always protesting to both that, 
 while not for their respective conflicting dogmas, it also 
 was not opposed to them. In its case, the Scripture 
 rule was plainly reversed — the negation of favor did 
 not establish a presumption of hostility. The difficulty 
 of this position may be better understood when we con- 
 sider the fact that the subject-matter of which the in- 
 stitution treated was so closely connected with the two 
 extremes of thought as to be inseparable from either. 
 As they were concerned with the African in bondage, so 
 this institution was anxious and careful about him in 
 his freedom. It was called The American Colonization 
 Society. As slavery brought the African to this conti- 
 nent for the purpose of enslavement, this society took 
 him back to Africa for the purpose of Uberation. For 
 the millions in bondage it had no regard; for the few 
 thousands who were free it had a watchful interest. It 
 
298 HOT PLOWSHARES. 
 
 had two basis principles; first, non-mterference with 
 slavery, and, second, the removal of the freed black 
 from the land. These two ideas attracted to its support 
 the most diverse and incongruous elements. It afibrded 
 a neutral ground on which the leaders of two mutually 
 destructive principles met upon a platform strangely 
 insincere in fact and yet perfectly consistent in theory 
 and letter. 
 
 This society held that on the Western Continent 
 the African in a state of freedom was a most potent 
 influence for evil. As to the African in a state of 
 bondage it was entirely non-committal. Its prime 
 object was to remove that demoralizing and disturb- 
 ing element, the free negro. Its ulterior purpose was 
 to build up a black republic on the shores of Africa. 
 It placidly assumed that the Divine will was directly 
 and palpably thwarted when the African was brought 
 to America. It was clearly the purpose of the Creator 
 that Africa should belong to the Negro— so th-fe society 
 believed— and America to the White man. This natural 
 distribution having been interfered with by the slave- 
 trade the first great duty of the Caucasian to himself 
 was, by the creed of the society, to put an end to that 
 trade, and then, as rapidly as possible, to restore the 
 freed blacks to the continent "prepared for them from 
 the foundation of the world." 
 
 These peculiar doctrines, in connection Avith its equivo- 
 cal position in regard to slavery, had the eftect of uniting 
 under its banners some curious extremes of thought. 
 In the North, very many were captivated with its ideas 
 under the belief that they offered a peaceful solution of 
 the problem of slavery. It was fondly hoped that, as 
 the years went by, the society would grow strong, the 
 foundations of the new African Republic be securely 
 laid, the slave-trade rigorously suppressed, and the 
 capability of the African for seif-governmerit clearly d€-. 
 
FOR THE AMENDMENT OF DIVINE ERROR. 399 
 
 monstratcd ; that the conscience of slaveholders would 
 become enlightened and that they would crowd the 
 docks from which the Liberian packets were to sail, in 
 earnest rivalry with each other to obtain passage for 
 their late chattels, now gladly freed and restored to 
 Africa, Christianized and civilized, to aid in uplifting 
 the "dark continent." It was a beautiful theory, and 
 the tender-hearted humanitarians who already, in 1817, 
 had come seriously to moot the question of the nation's 
 right to uphold and protect slavery, seized ujion this 
 beatific vision with the utmost alacrity. To them it 
 was the natural antidote and appointed remedy for 
 slavery. There was another class, too, strong, clear- 
 headed, practical men, who realized the ills and iniqui- 
 ties of slavery, but who saw the guaranty in the Con- 
 stitution, respected the claims of that instrument, and 
 could see no means by Avhich slavery could be assailed 
 or overthrown and its provisions still be honestly re- 
 garded. To them there seemed a remote possibility 
 that the African republic might develop in the covu'se 
 of generations into something that might exercise a re- 
 pressive and modifying influence upon American Sla- 
 very. At least, they could see nothing else that could 
 be lawfully and properly done that gave any promise of 
 the amelioration of the slave's condition, and so gave 
 their sympathy and support to one of the most singular 
 and absurd theories that ever affected an intelligent 
 people. 
 
 The sentiment that whatever could be done for the 
 colored man ought to be done, as a sort of indirect atone- 
 ment for the crime of his enslavement, was the main- 
 spring of all the support this society received at the 
 North. Of the colored man as a "free negro," in the 
 sense in which that word was used at the South, the 
 Northern man knew little and cared less. In no North- 
 ern St^te was this population in the least troublesome 
 
300 HOT PLOWSHARES. 
 
 or in any degree dangerous or offensive. It was only in 
 the hope that it might exert a reflex influence upon 
 slavery in the Southern StateB that the ISTorthern man 
 gave either money or prayers to Liberia and the emi- 
 nently respectable but yet Janus-faced Society by which 
 it was founded. It was diflicult for a Northern mind 
 to understand the real relations of this movement to 
 slavery. The South and her institutions have always 
 been terrai incognitce to the average Northern mind. Al- 
 ready, while these lines are being written, slavery has 
 become a myth which the younger citizen of the North 
 finds it hard to realize. 
 
 "Is it a fact," asked an intelUgent young lawyer of 
 the writer within a week, "is it a fact that men and 
 women were actually bought and sold in those days?" 
 
 "Certainly." 
 
 "Were they attached ami levied on, mortgaged, sold 
 for taxes, stolen, sold at auction, and all that sort of 
 thing, just like cattle ?" 
 
 " Of course ; why not ?" 
 
 " I don't know, only I cannot realize that such things 
 ever were." 
 
 A like incapacity to "realize" what actually was the 
 state of slavery which they so very generally deplored, 
 affected the people of the North in that time. They did 
 not dream that the Colonization Society could by any 
 possibility be of the least advantage to slavery or the 
 slave-owner. To them it was a matter of great surprise 
 that the master should favor its purposes at all, and 
 this fact was for a time regarded as an indication of a 
 general desire on the part of a considerable portion of 
 the Southern planter-class to co-operate in any feasible 
 and peaceful method of abolishing slavery gradually and 
 quietly. There were some throughout the South who 
 no doubt entertained these views. The names of 
 very many of that remarkable class who may properly 
 
FOR TllK AMENDMENT OF DIVINE ERROR. 301 
 
 be termed "Southern Abolitionists," are to be found 
 upon the rolls of this society. They were men who, 
 like Hargrove, were opposed to slavery for the sake 
 of the master race. They sometimes admitted its in- 
 justice to the negro as well, but their view of the Afri- 
 can was, as a rule, hardly more favorable than that of 
 the advocates of slavery themselves. They were willing 
 to labor for emancipation, if the manumitted slaves could 
 at once be removed from the country ; and their idea of 
 universal emancipation was of a time when not only no 
 slave but also no negro should be found upon the conti- 
 nent. They were earnest, sincere, just-minded men ; 
 but if the alternative had been presented to them of free- 
 dom with the negro to remain in the land where he was 
 born a slave, or the continuance of slavery, it is prob- 
 able that by far the greater part of them would have 
 preferred the latter. These men heartily and loyally 
 espoused the cause of the Colonization Society as an 
 entering wedge for peaceful abolition. Thej^ even urged 
 national appropriations in its behalf, and uttered glow- 
 ing prognostications of the time when freedom should 
 come to the slave with a steerage ticket to Liberia and 
 compensation to the owner — all the act of the national 
 government. 
 
 A quarter of a century before the time of which we 
 write, grave, thoughtful men, even aspirants for the 
 Presidential chair, seriously argued in the Senate of the 
 United States the question of the purchase and trans- 
 portation to the shores of Liberia of two millions 
 of subject souls. The reasons given for the move- 
 ment were its humanity, justice and the ultimate 
 well-being of the white race. Even in that day one 
 clear-sighted man urged that course as cheaper than 
 a civil war, which he declared must result from the 
 continuance of the institution. He was laughed at 
 almost as much as that Polish patriot — the friend of 
 
302 HOT PLOWSHARES. 
 
 Jefferson — who, cl3'ing, left his modest fortime to accu- 
 mulate, and its proceeds from time to time to be used in 
 the purchase and liberation of slaves. Fortunately, the 
 law held such a gift invalid, and the wisdom of a later 
 day laughed down the foreboding fool who dared to 
 speak of Avar in connection with the patriarchal insti- 
 tution. 
 
 With these various classes in its ranks the society from 
 the outset boasted a most amazing arra}^ of great names : 
 presidents, chief justices, senators, congressmen, gov- 
 ernors, scientists, literati, bishops, ministers, men of 
 wealth and men of note, abolitionists, slaveholders, 
 political economists, philanthropists — in short, almost 
 all who had a handle at either end of their names, or a 
 call to make the world better in any particular re- 
 spect, were added to its numbers and gave to its pro- 
 ceedings a sense of dignily and propriety which was 
 painful to contemplate in connection with the meagre 
 results obtained. Its annual meetings were held at the 
 national capital, and were occasions of unlimited pomp- 
 ous declamation and indirect electioneering. Year after 
 year the great Whig leaders. Clay and Webster, vied 
 with each other in alternate laudation of the purposes 
 and designs of the institution. Within sight of the 
 slave-pens of Alexandria they declared again and again 
 that its purpose was not directly or indirectly to inter- 
 fere with slavery, but only to offer a means for the re- 
 establishment upon the soil of the continent the Divine 
 will had appointed for them to occupy, of all Africans 
 who might chance to become free within the limits of 
 the United States. 
 
 By-and-by another class of men began to accept this 
 doctrine. They were those who did not desire either 
 the immediate or gradual extinction of slavery, but de- 
 prr"'^ rather its continuance and prosjierity. They saw 
 *^^':!^ he removal of the free black made the slave more 
 
FOR THE AMENDMENT OF DIVINE ERR OR. ?m 
 
 secure, more contented, more industrious, more peaceful 
 and more hopeless. To this class the Colonization So- 
 ciety was an especial boon, and many of them espoused 
 its doctrines with alacrity. Gradually the extreme Aboli- 
 tionists of the North began to comprehend this fact, and 
 thenceforward they denounced the society as a movement 
 in the interests of Slavery. Another class of Southern 
 men, however, reasoned that whatever recognized in 
 any degree the self-directing capacity of the negro Avas 
 in fact an enemy of slavery in disgviise, and they were 
 equally fierce in their denunciation of the society as a 
 device of the Abolitionists, and designed to be simply a 
 forerunner of compulsory emancipation. So it was both 
 upheld and denounced because it opposed slavery and 
 because it favored it, neither of which things it did or 
 proposed to do. In trying to please every one it suc- 
 ceeded in displeasing all, and by declaring its absolute 
 neutrality it bore the burden of the sins and errors of 
 both extremes of thought. It held to the last its array 
 of great names, but the tumult of the gathering conflict 
 drowned its appeals, and long before the struggle reached 
 its climax the people had almost forgotten this institu- 
 tion for which at one time the churches had so devoutly 
 prayed — it being one of the few things of that day 
 which the pro-slavery and anti-slavery Christians could 
 unite in heartily commending to the Divine*favor. As 
 a historical fact, it is chiefly valuable as marking the 
 almost universal admission, directly or indirectly, that 
 slavery was unnatural, hurtful and unjust. It was a 
 weak, blind effort to save the Constitution and yet find 
 a way for securing the downfall of slavery. It was an 
 attempt to do indirectly what the fundamental law for- 
 bade to be done directly. 
 
 It was to this institution that Hargrove had appealed 
 to aid him in carrying George Eighmie's will into 
 eft'ect. Its refusal was strictly in the line of its policy. 
 
304 HOT PLOWSHARES. 
 
 This eminently respectable body was, in the strictest 
 sense, all things to all men. To the Abolitionist of the 
 North it held out the alluring hope that through its 
 peaceful and benign influence slavery would yet melt 
 and disappear. To the Slaveholder it painted the de- 
 lights of a paradise where all the freemen were white, 
 and all the blacks were slaves, into which should come 
 no free negro serpent to tempt, corrupt and annoy. It 
 represented in his eyes, in a peculiar degree, "the peace 
 of God and the state," since the slaveholder Avas tho- 
 roughly convinced that the supremest beatitude of so- 
 ciety was one in which there were only masters and 
 slaves. He would willingly have dispensed with the non- 
 slaveholding whites also in order to secure this blissful 
 condition. If by any means the great men that avouched 
 the society's respectability could have devised some 
 method by which the poot whites also could have been 
 transported, whether to Africa or elsewhere, the slave- 
 owners would have hailed it with unmixed rapture, and 
 as slaver}^ ruled the land there would have been no ques- 
 tion as to appropriations and governmental favor. It was 
 a favorite doctrine among the most pronounced of the 
 slave-propagandists of that day, that the free blacks and 
 "poor Avhites" were the great enemies of the "institu- 
 tion." They little thought that the day Avould come 
 when the landless whites Avould pour out their blood like 
 water in its defense. 
 
 It would not do for such a society as this to risk its 
 character for non-interference with the "institution" 
 by furnishing transportation to slaves freed by a master 
 about whose title there could be the slightest doubt. 
 Akeady the Abolitionists of the North had sounded the 
 alarm that it was the friend and ally of slavery, and its 
 supporters in those states had either grown lukewarm or 
 had fallen away entirely. It still had its list of great 
 names and eminent respectabilities there. Men who 
 
FOR THE AMENDMENT OF DIVINE ERROR. 305 
 
 feared every new movement, who thought the safe 
 ground was always midway between the two extremes 
 of thought, still clung to it. They gave to its revenues 
 but sparingly, as is the nature of such minds, which 
 are usually as frugal of pelf as of faith. The churches 
 at the North, that once gave with enthusiasm, now 
 received its periodical appeals Avith coldness. Jared 
 Clarkson, who had mistakenly endowed it with a free 
 hand aforetime, now denounced it bitterly. All who 
 agreed with him not only regarded it as "the hand- 
 maid of slavery," but also despised its hypocritical 
 evasion and double-faced appeals to conflicting senti- 
 ments. The society had come, at the time of which we 
 write, to look to the South for its chief support. The 
 conscience of the dying slaveholder every now and then 
 bequeathed to it not only the slaves he could no longer 
 hold, but also the means for their removal. At one of 
 its anniversaries, about this time, the great Kentucky 
 orator, appealing against a prejudice Avhich had begun 
 to obtain in some of the Southern States against this 
 too frequent freeing of the slave by bequest, and the 
 stringent laws that had been enacted to prevent it, as 
 well as hostile resolutions of some of the legislatures 
 in states where the Southern Abolitionists were propor- 
 tionately numerous and active, had said : 
 
 "Why should Southern men fear the action of this 
 society ? A vast majority of its members and supporters 
 are not only Southern men, but slaveholders also." 
 
 So it would not do for the society to give oifense to 
 the majority of its supporters. It not only declined to 
 aid Hargrove, but through the information that its 
 agents gave with regard to his designs, awakened the 
 alarm of the adverse claimants of the estate of George 
 Eighmie and inspii-ed them to renewed activity. His 
 next letter from Matthew Bartlemy contained this in- 
 formation : 
 
306 HOT PLOWSIIABBS. 
 
 The enemy have finally moved in earnest. Yesterday 
 they procured an injunction restraining you from remov- 
 ing any of the slaves. I suppose, if you do not appear 
 and answer, their next motion will he for the appointment 
 of a receiver. While they cannot obtain personal service 
 of the writ of injunction, you must remember that it is 
 one of those writs which are self-executing, and a know- 
 ledge sufficient to sustain a reasonable belief of its issue 
 is sufiicient to render you liable for its disobedience. I 
 have no doubt that the plaintiffs will adopt measures to 
 have you fully informed of it, and take it for granted that 
 you will now make no attempt to remove the negroes. We 
 may as well fight it out here, and I should advise that a 
 suit be begun against you immediately by the woman 
 Lida, for herself and her children, in order that the ques- 
 tion may be taken to the court of highest resort. 
 
 Upon receipt of this letter, Captain Hargrove wrote 
 to Jared Clarksou as follows : 
 
 The time has come when I must select some one to be 
 the recipient of the trust conferred upon me by the will of 
 my half-brother, George Eighmie. You know in general 
 terms its character. Both as a man of business and as a 
 philanthropist, you are peculiarly fitted to carry it into ef- 
 fect in case of my death or inability from any cause to do 
 so. This is especially urgent, from the fact that the woman 
 Alida, whom you were kind enough to shelter and care for 
 in your home at the outbreak of her unfortunate malady, is 
 beyond doubt hopelessly insane. It is true there are half- 
 lucid intervals, but the better part of the time she is 
 sunk in a despondency from which she cannot be aroused. 
 Her delusion seems to have taken the form of fancying 
 that a child, who was cruelly stolen from her in his early 
 years, has been restored, and to her crazed and bewildered 
 brain, the rag-baby to which she so closely clings is that 
 child. The boy is no doubt dead or hopelessly lost in the 
 labyrinth in which slavery hides its victims. He may be 
 in the swamps of Louisiana or the cotton-fields of South 
 
FOR THE AMENDMENT OF DIVINE ERROR. 307 
 
 Carolina ; but, wherever he is, the oblivion that hangs over 
 the nameless existence of the slave as effectually hides 
 him as if the grave covered him. For the sake of her 
 daughter, however, as well as for my own protection, 
 perhaps, it is necessary that a suit be brought against me 
 in her name and as a resident of this state. This can only 
 be done by an inquisition of lunacy, and the appointment 
 of a guardian for her as a lunatic. This suit, while appa- 
 rently hostile, will in reality be in my interest. It is pos- 
 sible that the will of my brother may be declared invalid, 
 and in that case I become responsible of covirse to the 
 heirs for the rents and profits of the estate, for the slaves 
 that I have set free, and others that I hope to set free 
 hereafter. The estate has been a good while in my hands, 
 and I have hesitated to fulfill my brother's injunction, 
 and free all the slaves, for a good many reasons, promi- 
 nent among which is the fact that I could not fully 
 determine what to do with them afterwards. The funds 
 accruing from the property I have used for the following 
 purposes : — First, a moderate sum yearly has been devoted 
 to the ^care of Alida and her daughter ; second, a larger 
 sum has been expended in searching for the boy Hugh. As 
 I had nothing to guide me except a peculiar birthmark, it 
 has been entirely unsuccessful. I have also freed a por- 
 tion of the slaves, and have accumulated a fund to be used 
 in freeing the others, my design being to secure from the 
 estate a fair support for Alida and her child or children as 
 if they had been the lawful widow and children of my tes- 
 tator, and then to use the balance to effect the manumis- 
 sion of his slaves. I am satisfied that this was the pur- 
 pose for which he made me his sole devisee. 
 
 Now, if the will be held invalid in the suit already be- 
 gun by the collateral heirs, I must not only make good all 
 these amounts, but Alida and her children become assets 
 of the estate, unless her marriage can be successfully set 
 up. It was undoubtedly legal in New York, and very prob- 
 ably illegal in Carolina. If, however, her claim were set 
 up in the United States Court, it is the opinion of my coun- 
 
308 HOT PLOWSHARES. 
 
 sel that she would prevail, and herself and children be de- 
 clared heirs of the estate. This would, of course, relieve 
 me and save them. I will provide for all the expense of 
 such a suit, and, indeed, will perform the will of my bi"o- 
 ther if it require the hulk of my own estate to do it. 
 
 In the event of my death, also, it might be very import- 
 ant that some one should hold the key to the identity of 
 Alida's daughter. According to her father's expressed 
 desire, I have so well disguised her existence that even her 
 mother is in doubt with regard to it. On the other hand, 
 it may be necessary to conceal and protect her. She may 
 be either a slave or an heiress, and in either case there 
 might arise occasions when it would be necessai'y to es- 
 tablish her identity. This is all the more necessary, as I 
 shall take with me upon a voyage I am contemplating my 
 old servant Jason, who is the only one who knows all the 
 facts attending the transformation of the child from what 
 she was to what she is. 
 
 I do not think it will ever become necessary to use this 
 knowledge, and I am most desirous to avoid the revelation 
 for the sake of the girl herself. He may have been wrong, 
 but Mr. Eighmie was especially anxious that his children 
 should never know that there was any suspicion of taint 
 upon their lawful birth or Caucasian descent. Of course, its 
 unnecessary revelation could only excite the keenest an- 
 guish. I feel that I can safely intrust both the business and 
 the secret to your honor and discretion. I would prefer that 
 you should remain yourself uninformed except in certain 
 emergencies. I, therefore, desire, with your permission, 
 to intrust to your care a sealed statement of all the mate- 
 rial facts, which shall only be opened b.y you under cir- 
 cumstances which, in your judgment, shall dictate such a 
 course ; this package, with your own suggestions in regard 
 to it as well as mine, to be transmitted to any one you 
 may select to act with like discretion in case of your death. 
 
 Please let me know whether you will accept this trust, 
 and thereby confer a favor of the utmost importance, not 
 
FOR THE AMENDMENT OF DIVINE ERROR. 309 
 
 only upon the unfortunate sufferers from the evils of slavery, 
 but also upon 
 
 Your humble servant, 
 
 Merwyn Hargrove, 
 
 To this epistle, when the servant who bore it returned 
 upon the morrow, Jarecl Clarkson returned the following 
 answer : 
 
 My Dear Friend : My own affairs press upon me so 
 heavily, both as to time and strength, that I seem forbidden 
 by common prudence to add to it the burden of other peo- 
 ple's business or care. The matter which you present is 
 of so peculiar a nature, however, and I am already so 
 deeply interested in those whom it most nearly concerns, 
 that I have decided to make an exception to my rule and 
 do whatsoever you require. Humanity, justice and liberty 
 commend the course you have taken. I do not think the 
 requirement of secrecy as to the descent a wise one, though . 
 all mvist admit that the fact of being an African, even by the 
 slightest admixture, has become through the wickedness 
 of our nature and life, a most terrible evil. This is not only 
 foolish but wicked. It is a fight against God. Yet it is 
 none the less a fearful curse to those who bear the know- 
 ledge in their hearts that in their veins is but one drop of 
 richer blood than the Caucasian. I, myself have seen a 
 man in whom it was hardly possible to trace a sign of ad- 
 mixture, curse God with a bitterness that knew no remedy, 
 for the evil that rested on his life. I have seen a woman, 
 as fair as any in the land, and as well endowed, intellect- 
 ually, whose descent was clouded by a taint that might 
 show upon her children's brows — I have heard her de- 
 clare that she would willingly be flayed alive if thereby 
 she could feel herself exalted to the level of the white 
 race. I can conceive of nothing more horrible than the 
 sensations of one thus situated who has grown up with 
 all the exclusive assumption of the white race, and you 
 may be sure that I would be as loath to scathe any soul 
 with the curse of a body akin to the despised and perse- 
 
810 HOT PLOW.^HARES. 
 
 cutecl African as you can be. I have ahvays made it a mle 
 to do whatever lay in my power to remove the evil of 
 slavery. I have bought the slave from his master and set 
 him free ; I have aided the fugitive to escape ; I have de- 
 fended him from the claim of an unrighteous law ; I have 
 endeavored to alleviate the poverty it entailed upon its 
 victims when set free by liberal gifts, and now feel that 
 your request that 1 should aid in alleviating the worst of 
 all the ills that flow from this most fearful of all iniqui- 
 ties is one that I can by no means refuse. 
 
 Please inform me of all that it is necessary for me to 
 know and I will discharge the trust you impose, if not so 
 self-forgetfully as you have done, yet at least with an 
 equal desire to do what is right and just and merciful to 
 all concerned. Yours, very truly, 
 
 Jared Clarkson. 
 
 The answer to Mr. Bartlemy's letter directed him to 
 enter an appearance and prepare an answer for Merwj-n 
 Hargrove in the suit in equity brought against him liy 
 the collateral heirs of George Eighmie, and enclosed a 
 power of attorney from "Jared Clai-kson, the guardian 
 of Alida Eighmie, a lunatic, and her two children, 
 Heloise and Hugh Eighmie, infants of the ages of six- 
 teen and eighteen years respectively," authorizing and 
 directing him to bring suit against Merwyn Hargrove 
 for the recovery of the estate of George Eighmie, de- 
 ceased, the husband of the said lunatic and father of 
 the said infants. Then the retinue at Sturmhokl was 
 reduced, the shutters were closed and the master de- 
 parted ; only the weak, chattering woman and her watch- 
 ful care-takers remained in the deserted home. 
 
CHAPTER XXIV. 
 
 BY AN UNrRACTICED HAND. 
 
 It was a few days after the events of the last chapter 
 that Martin Ivortright, now in the first term of his senior 
 year at college, received the following letter, much to the 
 detriment of his record in the recitations of that day : 
 
 Dear Martin : — I do not believe I ever can write a 
 love-letter. I told Amy so when I wrote last, and she 
 wanted to read my letter, but I wouldn't let her ; though 
 there wasn't a word of love in it, was there '? 
 
 I do not see that it makes one bit of difference having 
 you for a lover. I have always told you everything I 
 knew or thought or felt, and now I cannot do any more. 
 My heart has always been open to you ever since we 
 first met, and it would be absu.rd for me to pretend to have 
 any more affection for you now than I had before. Of 
 course, I am glad we are to be married some time, 
 and are never to be separated all our lives ; but truly, 
 Martin, I had never dreamed of such a separation as pos- 
 sible, until your letter came demanding so impetuously 
 what had long ago been conceded without any request. I 
 am afraid I am not a proficient in this matter of love. 
 Amy, who is such a proud, self-reliant creature, says she 
 is quite ashamed of me for owning that I loved you just 
 as much before as after you asked me to be yours. She 
 says she would never admit that she had loved one who had 
 never asked her love. I cannot see why. I did love you ; 
 it was right that I should love you ; and so, why not ad- 
 mit it ? Whether you were playmate, brother, friend, 
 lover — it was all one to me. I loved you just as much 
 811 
 
312 HOT PLOWSHARES. 
 
 under one name as the other, and could never love anybody 
 else as well, no matter what name they assumed. 
 
 Papa has told me all about the queer uiterview he had 
 with you, and I laughed till I cried over it. Oh, you dear 
 old blunderhead ! couldn't you think far enough to know 
 that if you must have your sister transformed into a sweet- 
 heart you must treat for her in due and proper form ? 
 Dear me ! what fun it must have been to see you ! I 
 made papa tell me over and over again just what you said 
 and how you looked, and all about it. And then to think 
 you had forgotten all about poor me ! No, I know you 
 had not forgotten — only just put me aside for a little time 
 while you did a man's part. I will not be jealous, dear. 
 Indeed, I am glad to know that the man I love can put 
 away that love which is a part of himself long enough to 
 think good thoughts and wish to do good deeds for others. 
 I expect my lover to do great thuigs. You won my heart 
 when a boy by your courage, and I could never love a man 
 less brave. I would have you be a true knight, and 
 do noble devoir for truth and righteousness. I cannot 
 bear to think that you should sit still and look upon 
 wrong without striving to undo it. I would rather you 
 should die in battle than live while the conflict raged and 
 shun its dangers. But I suppose the time has not yet come. 
 I would not have you seek danger merely for its own 
 sake, but if there should be any need for your aid to over- 
 throw slavery, I should gladly give you up, even forever, 
 in such a holy cause. 
 
 I am almost sorry you are not going to Kansas with 
 that strange Mr. Brown, whose words and looks still thrill 
 me when I think of them. I do not wonder that you were 
 fascinated. I am sure if I were a boy I should go with him, 
 even if I lost my sweetheart. But yo^i must not do it. 
 That would be very naughty, you know. Besides that, 
 you have promised, and so cannot go now even if you 
 would. Papa is no doubt right — of course he is right—' 
 but then Mr. Brown is right, too. 
 
BY AN UNPRACTICED HAND. 313 
 
 What do you think, Martin ? Papa told me a secret last 
 night — but, dear me, I haven't even told you that papa 
 was here, have I? Here I have been going on just as if 
 you knevp all about it, and you didn't know a word. Well, 
 he says I may write you just as long letters as I choose — 
 that the closer our intercourse now the sweeter will be our 
 love hereafter. Wasn't that kind of the dear old bear? 
 Do you know, Martin, I am sure it hurts him terribly to 
 give me up, even to you. You know I am all he has had 
 to love for so long — except you, who are indeed more like 
 a dear foster-brother than anything else — that he seems as 
 if he were to be left quite alone if your claim is to be al- 
 lowed. It seems strange that he has so buried himself 
 away from the world. He must have worshipped my dear 
 mamma, and yet he hardly ever speaks of her ; but when 
 he does, his eye grows moist and his voice husky in an in- 
 stant. I asked him yesterday why we never saw any of 
 our relatives, and were such a very hermit's lodge there 
 at Sturmhold. He only looked at me very tenderly and 
 said, "Don't be impatient, little one. You will know 
 sometime — unless" he added sadly, "unless, indeed, God 
 spai-e you the knowledge, as I hope He may." 
 
 What can he mean, do you suj^pose ? It must be some- 
 thing dreadful. It made me cold with terror when I heard 
 it, but I cannot imagine what it can be. Indeed, I am not 
 going to try. I am sure he has had a very sorrowful life, 
 and am glad I have been able to give him some pleasure. 
 He has been the dearest, best papa to me that such a 
 naughty girl ever had, I am' sure. He never would scold 
 me, nor let anybody else, do what I might. 
 
 But I have not told you about his coming. I suppose 
 you knew he meant to come, but I did not, until he 
 dropped in upon us here two days ago — he and Jason — 
 all equipped for travel, as if they were going around the 
 world ; as, for that matter, they may be, since he never 
 knows how far he will go when he starts out. We have 
 had just splendid times while he has been here, All the 
 
ai4 HOT PLOWSHARES. 
 
 gills went wild over my distinguished-looking papa, and I 
 teased him about it until he blushed — well, almost as badly 
 as you did, I suppose, when papa reminded you that he had 
 a daughter. Even Amy, who is so very high-toned and 
 exclusive, approved him entirely, until he happened to ad- 
 mit that he thought slavery was a very great evil. Then 
 she w^ovild no more of him, but declared it treason to her 
 "dear native South" ever to hint such a thing. Papa only 
 smiled in his gi'ave, sad way, and said: "My dear young 
 lady, you are certain to learn how weak and vain are your 
 woids. The time is not far distant when every slaveholder 
 will echo the wish of one of the bravest and best of them : 
 'I would to God that the foot of the slave had never 
 pressed the soil of our American continent.' " 
 
 You ought to have seen how scornful and proud she 
 looked. You see she is an immense heiress, though she 
 knows nothing of her estates or people. Her guardian 
 sends her money, and she thinks the South is just the 
 gate of Paradise, as indeed it must be, even in sjDite of 
 slavery. 
 
 By the way, papa says — and that's the secret I started 
 to tell you away back — that he is going to free all the 
 slaves he owns. He says it will cost a great deal, and 
 may leave him very poor. He hoped we — you and I, dear — 
 would not mind that. Only think, Martin, as if we cared 
 whether he was rich or poor, as long as we had him to 
 love ! I just sprang into his lap, put my arms about 
 his neck and kissed him over and over again, and told 
 him he ought to be ashamed to hint such a thing. I knew 
 you would be glad of it, and he said he believed you 
 would. Oh, I tell you, Martin, he is a papa worth having ; 
 and I do believe he loves you almost as much as he does 
 me. He started for New York this morning, and the 
 matron gave me a holiday to get over my grief at parting ; 
 so I am consoling myself by writing to — to — my boy- 
 lover — brother — I declare, Marty, I don't know what to 
 call you. I am afraid I haven't a bit of sentiment, aren't 
 
BT AN UNPRACTIUED HAND. 315 
 
 you ? I don't see why I always have so much to write to 
 you about. But now I have no one else to write to, you 
 must expect to wear out your eyes reading my scrawlly 
 letters. You know tlie teacher says my handwriting is 
 the worst he ever saw, and growing no better every day, 
 which I am sure is his fault, for I practice a great deal, as 
 you know. 
 
 Papa says I may not hear fi'om him in as much as six 
 months, or perhaps even more. What an age to wait ! Be- 
 sides that, I cannot write to him after this week, as he 
 does not know where he will be ; so that no mail will reach 
 him, and it would be just awful, you know, to have one of 
 my letters going all round the world hunting for him. So 
 I am to wait, and be patient and good until he comes back. 
 If he does not come by vacation I am to go and stay with 
 your mamma, and let her get used to having a daughter, I 
 suppose. At least, I am to do so if I choose. If it does 
 not suit my royal pleasure, I am to stay in stately solitude 
 at Sturmhold, subject to your father's direction and con- 
 trol. Papa says he has given him strict charge during 
 his absence, to look after me, keep me out of mischief and 
 see that I am not allowed to cry after the moon. When 
 I told him that Mr. Kortright was too busy with all 
 his factories and mills to look after such a midget as I, he 
 pinched my cheek, kissed me, and said, "Ah, well, he 
 can make his son his agent thenf So it seems you are to 
 be my guardian, by proxy at least. I suppose I shall have 
 to be very good, and always make obeisance to you and say, 
 "Please, sir, may I take a drive?" every day, or you will 
 shut me up in the tower-room and sit like a great dragon 
 at the foot of the stairs, mounting watch and ward over 
 my donjon-keep. By the way, he says you are studying 
 too hard, and will be sure to kill yourself, as so many of 
 the good boys do, before you have a chance to accomplish 
 anything worthy of a strong man, unless you give your- 
 self time to think and rest and grow as well as merely to 
 acquire. I do think that is the foolishest thing in the 
 
316 HOT PLOWSHARES. 
 
 world, and I mean to be real bad, so that you will have to 
 look after me all the time and not study a bit while I am 
 at home. 
 
 Isn't it sad about poor Lida ? I shudder when I think 
 of it. Poor, dear, broken-hearted creature ! Papa says 
 she was a beautiful woman when she was young. Ever 
 since I can remember she has been the same sad-faced, 
 tearful creature you have known, paying little attention 
 to any one but me. She used to go about the house and 
 weep and moan whenever papa was away, so that I was 
 half afraid of her even then. After a while she seemed to 
 be afraid of him, and for a time before she ran away and 
 bi'ought us together so strangely, she used to talk and act 
 so wildly that I was really terrified. Then I think papa 
 must have talked very plainly to her, for she never did so 
 any more. Indeed she very much changed, being just 
 quietly sorrowful instead of boisterous and frenzied in 
 her grief. I never heard' her say a word about herself ex- 
 cept to promise that she would some time tell me all. She 
 used to utter terrible things about some one — she did not 
 say who, but I was sure she meant papa — but has never 
 done so since that time. Indeed she has rarely said a word 
 against any one since, unless slavery was inadvertently 
 mentioned, when she invariably went wild at once. Oh, 
 yes, there was one exception. She always disliked you, 
 and seemed from the very first to have a positive spite 
 against you. Poor woman, I suppose she was jealous of 
 the love her pet gave to her boy-playmate. It is almost a 
 mercy that she cannot realize our love now. I am sure it 
 would grieve her nearly to death. Just to think how her 
 whole life has been burned up with sorrow because of 
 slavery ! It cannot be that anything is right from which 
 comes such wrong. Papa says it has all been because she 
 does not know whether she is black or white. I do not 
 see how that can be, since she was Uncle George's wife. I 
 asked papa, but he only said, " Do not ask me, child — 
 do not ever try to know." 
 
BY AN UNPRAGTICED HAND. 317 
 
 I am sure it is too horrible to think of. No wonder the 
 poor tear-blanched creature became insane. I should think 
 she would hate everybody. I believe I would rather die 
 than meet such a terrible doom as hers. Poor thing ! 
 I think I shall stay at Sturmhold all the time Avhen I 
 come home, just to soothe her if I can. I am glad I am to 
 graduate next summer, so that she can have something- 
 better than a hired care-taker, though I know that the 
 servants papa has left will do all that they can for her. 
 I shall write to your mother and tell her so, in order that 
 she may not expect me to stay at Paradise Bay. Poor 
 Lida ! my dear old "Mammy," deserves all the consola- 
 tion she can gather from the presence of one whom she 
 has served with such a foolish fondness. 
 
 Wasn't it kind in your friend Mr. Clarkson to look after 
 her when her mind gave way so suddenly at the meet- 
 ing ? Papa says he is one of the noblest men in the world, 
 and that you and I are to go and see him, or at least 
 write to him, on the day after I graduate, if he should 
 not return before that time — which I am sure he will. 
 I would rather never graduate at all than do so without 
 him to witness my triumph — I mean over the susceptible 
 hearts of the young men of Burlingdale, not over my class- 
 mates in the studies of the "Sem." There are twenty- 
 three in our class, and I shall be at the very top of the 
 list — when it is turned upside down ! You see I leave all 
 the scholarship and intellectual eminence to you. I only 
 yearn for nice things and — admiration. I am determined 
 to break more hearts here in Burlingdale than all the other 
 girls together, in revenge for having surrendered my own 
 heart to my old playmate at the first summons. So you 
 had better look out. Do not think that your too easy 
 victory is secure, or the first that you know some young 
 Lochinvar will carry me away over these brown hills, and 
 you will be "left lamenting." You see the danger of 
 being made my guardian by a too trustful papa. I am 
 
318 HOT PLOWSHARES. 
 
 sure to find my St. George, just because I shall have a 
 dragon to be delivered from, you know. 
 
 I declare, it is dark. If you cannot find time to read 
 this long letter during the week, being so engaged with 
 Greek and Latin and other more attractive and important 
 things, you can keep it until Sunday, and use it as a seda- 
 tive for an afternoon nap, which you will no doubt greatly 
 need before you finish it. As ever, Hilda. 
 
 P. S.— 9 P. M.— The bell will ring for the lights to be 
 put out in a minute and I must give my letter to the 
 teacher, who comes around to see tliat it is done, in order 
 that it may be mailed in the morning. I have only time 
 to say God bless the naughty boy that "wants to be ray 
 lover." H. 
 
CHAPTER XXV. 
 
 A PUNIC PEACE. 
 
 A THIRD of a century before the time of which we 
 write, a strange treaty had been ratified between Liberty 
 and Slavery, Out of tlie territory tlien recently acquired 
 from France it was proposed to erect a new state. 
 Should Slavery or Freedom prevail within its borders ? 
 This was the question that, in 1820, arose in the minds 
 of people and legislators when it was proposed to make 
 out of the vast, unbounded territory that lay beyond the 
 Mississippi, the ncAV State of Missouri. 
 
 The circumstances attending this first actual introduc- 
 tion of the slavery question into national politics are 
 worthy of something more than a passing notice at the 
 hands of the student of the great movement which for 
 more than forty years thereafter gave tone and color to 
 almost ever}^ event of our political history. It should 
 be noted, first of all, that the political instrumentalities 
 of that day were entirely different from those with which 
 we are now familiar. The country was in the transi- 
 tion period, when personal power and individual popu- 
 larity, as means by which political bodies were made 
 to cohere, were about to give way to the organizations 
 which have since been known as parties. Up to that 
 time such a thing as a party, in the modern acceptation 
 of that term in America, had been unknown. It was a 
 development that grew out of the established facts in 
 our history, however, as naturally as the oak is evolved 
 from the acorn. Such a thing was not contemplated in 
 the original plan of our government. 
 319 
 
320 HOT PLOWSHARES. 
 
 English political writers are wont to sneer at our Con- 
 stitution because it is a written one. They declare it to 
 be inelastic, rigid and not adaptable to circumstances. 
 They claim that it is an invention and not a growth ; 
 that it limits progress instead of being shaped by events. 
 This charge is not only fallacious but absurd. Yet it has 
 been very generally admitted by political writers. A 
 written constitution is only the formulation of previous 
 growth. All that the English people had acquired of 
 civil and religious liberty, as well as all that the colonies 
 had learned before the Kevolution and during the battle- 
 heated years of that momentous struggle — may be found 
 in the weighty provisions of our organic law. Not onlj'^ 
 does it mark the antecedent growth, but experience 
 has shown that a written constitution is far more easily 
 amended and improved than an uuAvritten one whose 
 first distinctive feature is the absurd declaration that it 
 is already the perfection of human wisdom and universal 
 justice. The written form supplies to a healthy degi-ee 
 the place of that reverence for rank and tradition 
 which in England counterbalances the progressive ten- 
 dency of the people. Lacking this inherited check upon 
 the impulse of the moment, the barriers of our Constitu- 
 tion were designed, and have proved themselves sufficient, 
 to restrain the popular impulse until the passing senti- 
 ment has grown and ripened into a mature conviction. 
 Then they are swept away. A written Constitution, 
 Avhile it is the bulwark behind which conservatism ral- 
 lies its forces to prevent sudden and ill-advised change, 
 yet lends itself to well-considered amendment with a 
 readiness that the uuMa-itten Constitution of England 
 has never displayed. The one is changed bj' the will of 
 a requisite majority of voters in two-thirds of the states. 
 Public opinion has only to express itself with sufficient 
 emphasis to transform at once the written Constitution 
 into perfect accord with the popular will. The unwrit- 
 
A PUNIC PEACE. 321 
 
 ten one, upon the contrary, despite the fact that its chief 
 boast is its flexibility, must wait until a generation of 
 judges have grown up under the influence of some new 
 thought before its domains can be enlarged. The one 
 permits an immediate expression of the public will ; the 
 other only a remote reflection of it. 
 
 Our Constitution is no stranger even to that uncon- 
 conscious change which comes only by a modified public 
 sentiment with regard to specific provisions. Of this 
 peculiar adaptability of our fundamental law to vary- 
 ing conditions and unanticipated development, without 
 awaiting the process of formal amendment, there could 
 be no better illustration than the growth of that political 
 machinery which we call party. 
 
 In the Constitution devised by the fathers no pro- 
 vision was made for any such instrumentality for ascer- 
 taining the will of the people as a political party. Indeed, 
 it was not anticipated that the popular will would be 
 directly appealed to for a decision of public questions. 
 It was intended that the people should choose rulers. 
 It was believed that " men would be elected to legis- 
 lative and executive positions, not by reason of any 
 previously expressed opinions upon specific questions, 
 or because of their known inclination toward any par- 
 ticular line of public policy, but simply because of their 
 capacity, integrity and general fitness for the duty of 
 framing or executing laws. These men were not ex- 
 pected to perform the people's Avill, but to secure the 
 general welfare by the exercise of their own discretion, 
 irrespective of what their constituents might desire. It 
 was believed that the populace Avas not always to be 
 trusted to know wlmt Avas good for itself, miich less 
 what would truly subserve the interests of the future, 
 and could only be allowed to choose men to think and 
 act for it. The idea was a beautiful one, but from the 
 very first it was an absolute failure. The people had 
 
323 HOT PLOWSHARES. 
 
 taken up the notion of self-government in dead earnest. 
 They construed the " Declaration of Independence" lit- 
 erally, and insisted upon governing themselves in their 
 own way. They rebelled against the idea of sending 
 men to represent their power merely, and demanded that 
 they should represent also their will. Almost before the 
 new government had been put into operation it had been 
 so extended by the force of universal construction as to 
 change its whole character. The people insisted upon 
 deciding all important questions for themselves and in 
 advance of their determination by the law-making 
 power. Instead of selecting a man purely because of 
 his personal fitness for the task of legislation, they also 
 inquired if his opinions upon questions likely to arise 
 for his action were in harmony with those of the ma- 
 jority whose servant they persisted in considering him. 
 Instead of choosing for their chief executive the man 
 who was deemed the greatest, wisest and most patri- 
 otic of his time, they began to prefer this one or that 
 because of his peculiar views in regard to the con- 
 struction of the Constitution, the limits of state and 
 federal power, and the relation of the executive to the 
 legislative and judicial branches. This was neither in- 
 tended nor foreseen by the framers of the Constitution. 
 Indeed, its forms were expressly designed to forestall 
 such a contingency. But the people were not to be 
 balked of self-government. The electoral college, which 
 was devised as a bulwark against any such ultra-demo- 
 cratic tendency upon the part of the masses, lent itself 
 to their will as readily as the intersecting streets and 
 avenues of the capital, originally designed to promote 
 defensive operations against anticipated popular tumult, 
 lend themselves to-day to peaceful adornment. 
 
 Out of this irrepressible inclination of the people for 
 the immediate exercise of the functions of government 
 grew the American idea of party. In order to make the 
 
A PUNIC PEACE. 32P, 
 
 electoral college the simple recorder of the will of the 
 majority, concert of action became necessary. Men who 
 were pledged to vote for certain popular favorites were 
 at first presented in groups by voluntary promoters of 
 the interests of the aspirant in order to secure for him 
 the popular support. Thus the elector, instead of being 
 such in fact, became simply an agent of those by whom 
 he was chosen and was bound in honor to do their will, 
 even though his own judgment and inclination pointed 
 otherwise. To apply the same method to all other 
 offices Avas but a natural step toward the seizure of all 
 power by the people. When this was effected only one 
 thing more remained to be done, and that was to select 
 the candidate for whom the consolidated vote should be 
 cast by some concerted action. The convention of dele- 
 gates chosen by voluntary associations of voters, autho- 
 rized to prepare a declaration of principles, and select 
 candidates for the support of those who approve the 
 doctrines of the platform, was then unheard of This 
 was all that was needed for the complete development 
 of the American party as it now is, and the transform- 
 ation of the Constitution from an instrument designed 
 to prevent concert of action among the voters into a 
 plan of government that renders unorganized political 
 action the height of individual stupidity. Party organi- 
 zation, while it has in a measure made the exercise of 
 individual choice impossible, has rendered the will of 
 the majority much more effectual. The voter loses some- 
 thing of free will, but the people gain immensely in power 
 by this growth, which fastened itself upon our Constitu- 
 tion in defiance of the intent of its framers, and in ac- 
 cord with the genius of a people bent upon carrying 
 the principle of self-government to its legitimate end. 
 
 At that time slavery had not yet developed into a na- 
 tional question. Public opinion had not yet crystallized 
 for or against it as an institution of the future. Here 
 
324 HOT PLOWSHARES. 
 
 and there, throughout all sections, were found men far- 
 seeing enough to dread its continuance and growth. Its 
 abolition in the states of the Xorth had been accom- 
 jalished with very little agitation. The proportion of 
 slave-owners was too few, and the general tone of the 
 public mind too evidently hostile to make the struggle 
 either prolonged or doubtful. Perhaps this ver}' fact 
 tended to divert the public mind from the importance of 
 the institution in those states where this condition of 
 affairs was reversed. The ease with which it had been 
 banished from Northern States led to the belief that 
 it would gradually disappear even from its Southern 
 strongholds. It was generally supposed that the growth 
 of these communities in population, in commercial and 
 manufacturing enterprises, would sooner or later so over- 
 power the agricultural slave-interest that the mere fact 
 of its false economy and baneful influence upon the 
 white race would secure ils voluntary extinction. It was 
 believed that if confined within specific limits it must 
 sooner or later die from the action of its own exhaustive 
 forces. A constant accession of new territory, a fresh 
 supply of virgin soil, was looked upon as an essential 
 element of its continuance. It was for this reason 
 among others that not a few of all parties throughout 
 the country had been opposed to the "Louisiana Pur- 
 chase." For the first time in our history public atten- 
 tion was directed to slavery as a national question by 
 the acquisition of this territory, and the inquir}'^ at 
 once arose. Is it to be "free" or "slave"? Were 
 the already exhausted areas of slavery to be enlarged 
 by newer and richer domains ? Was the over-crowded 
 slave population of Virginia to find a profitable outlet 
 in the fertile fields of the far Southwest ? Was the 
 market value of the slave, which had already begun 
 to depreciate, to l)e at once enhanced by opening up 
 fresh fields in which his labor might be profitably em- 
 
A PUNIC PEACE. 325 
 
 ployed ? "Was the young republic to give a still greater 
 proportion of its area to slavery ? Was slave-breeding 
 and slave-trading to become as much a part of our in- 
 ternal economy as stock-raising or sheep-farming ? 
 
 These questions had but vaguely shaped themselves in 
 the public mind when it was proposed that still another 
 state should be carved out of the "•Louisiana Purchase." 
 Of the aspirants for presidential honors at that time 
 there was perhaps but one who did not look with dread 
 to the agitation of this question. Whatever its results 
 to the nation at large, its immediate effect upon their 
 individual prospects was of so uncertain a character as 
 to render its discussion at least unadvisable so far as 
 they were concerned. As it chanced, the most strenu- 
 ous advocates of slavery among these presidential as- 
 pirants — at least those having the most direct personal 
 interest in the subject — looked for the bulk of their sup- 
 port to those states of the North in Avhich the feeling in 
 regard to slavery was already, becoming most clearly de- 
 fined and evidently hostile ; while, on the other hand, 
 those whose sentiments had hitherto been most out- 
 spoken upon the question of personal liberty and right 
 looked for much of their support to the states of the 
 South in which slavery was most strongly seated. Oddly 
 enough, the Southern slaveholder w^as, in theory, the 
 most rampant of personal-liberty-loving republicans. Of 
 their own individual rights no class of men were ever 
 more jealous. Not one iota of the right to rule would 
 they abandon on any consideration. The flexing of the 
 Constitution from its original purpose and intent was 
 very largely their work. The barriers which stood 
 between the citizen and the citadel of federal power 
 they labored with angry vehemence to tear down. The 
 very imperiousness that made them masters led them 
 to prize the privilege of being co-equal rulers of the 
 nation. Counting the "all men "of the Declaration as 
 
y26 HOT PLOWSHAUES. 
 
 intended to embrace only the white race, and indeed 
 only such individuals of the white race as might be 
 given the privilege of participating in the government, 
 they were untiring in their efforts to secure and possess 
 this privilege. Eegarding human chattelism as a divine 
 institution, they were yet peculiar champions of indi- 
 vidual right in the direction of the government. Denying 
 the African's claim to the meanest of human rights, they 
 Avere ever ready to fight to the death for the most insig- 
 nificant of individual privileges for the Caucasian. Even 
 when they doubted the policy of slavery, they would not 
 yield the right to enslave. 
 
 Thus it came about that while the tide of public 
 sentiment in the North was already setting quietly but 
 strongly against the extension and perpetuation of sla- 
 very ; Avhile the legislature of Virginia was seeking to 
 find some method by which the increase of slave popula- 
 tion within her borders Tiiight be checked — these tenta- 
 tive movements had not yet assumed sufficient form and 
 consistency to justify any of the presidential aspirants 
 in making this question a material part of the canvass 
 then commencing. It was well understood that if once 
 seriously broached, it might produce results which no 
 one could foresee. There were men, even at that time, 
 who were willing to undergo persecution in order to 
 aAvaken the public conscience to a thorough comprehen- 
 sion of what they deemed an evil of unparalleled magni- 
 tude. The slaveholdiug element was always fierce and 
 impetuous — ^jealous to the extreme of everything that 
 bore the guise of interference with what they deemed a 
 right conceded and guaranteed by the federal compact. 
 
 When the territory now known as Missouri, in which 
 slavery had already taken up its abode, and where it 
 had during the period elapsing since its acquisition 
 been tolerated and protected by the laws of the land — 
 when this territory applied for permission to assume 
 
A PUNIC PEACE. 327 
 
 organic form as a state of the American Union, this 
 troublesome question threatened to assume definite 
 shape and become a national issue. Everyone was 
 aware of a strong undertow of feeling throughout the 
 Northern States which was hostile to the extension of 
 the territorial limits of slavery. Everyone knew that 
 the South would rise en masse., without regard to politi- 
 cal affiliation or preference, to demand the admission 
 of this territory as a slave state. Threats of secession 
 were freely made should this not be conceded. That 
 there were some who desired to precipitate the conflict 
 which afterwards occurred, there is no doubt. There 
 were many upon both sides of the question who believed 
 it was unadvisable to delay a final determination of it, 
 there can be no doubt, but — as is nearly always the case 
 with a matter the result of which is so momentous 
 and doubtful — the policy of delay prevailed. The ad- 
 vocates of slavery and the champions of freedom 
 among the people's representatives in Congress assem- 
 bled, fixed upon a compromise, satisfactory to neither 
 but serving for the time being to keep the main ques- 
 tion in abeyance. It was agreed between these self- 
 constituted plenipotentiaries that all of the untrodden 
 West, north of a certain line prolonged until it should 
 strike the shores of the Pacific, should from and after 
 the passage of that bill be solemnly dedicated to free- 
 dom, and that all south of said line should constitute 
 the undisturbed domain of slavery. It was a negotia- 
 tion made by those who had no power to treat ; a dedi- 
 cation made by those who had no right to grant ; a 
 compromise by which it was proposed to bind two pow- 
 ers which had given no authority to those who assumed 
 to act for them. iSTevertheless, the treaty was con- 
 cluded, and the solemn farce was heralded throughout 
 the i^orth as a triumph of liberty, and at the South as a 
 victory won for slavery. Two little sections of an act 
 
338 HOT PLOWSHARES. 
 
 of Congress passed into history under the name and 
 style of the "Missouri Compromise," It was said to 
 be morally ])inding upon the North, as the especial 
 representative of liberty. It was claimed to be a guar- 
 antee in behalf of the South, as the impersonation of 
 slavery. It was accounted by almost all a final de- 
 termination of a vexatious, and possibly dangerous, 
 question. 
 
 For a third of a century this fiction was maintained. 
 Slavery and freedom mustered undisturbed on their re- 
 spective sides of this imaginary line. Freedom occupied 
 without objection the far Northwest. Slavery laid its 
 hands upon the farther South. Again, at the period of 
 which we write, the hostile forces, now more definitely 
 defined and thoroughly organized approached the flimsy 
 barrier which had been erected to keep them apart. 
 The territory now occupied ])y the States of Kansas 
 and Nebraska was the tempting bait that invited to a 
 renewal of the conflict. 
 
CHAPTER XXVI. 
 
 THE RECONNOISSANCE IN FORCE. 
 
 The struggle between the two opposing ideas, as we 
 have seen, had grown more and more intense, until it 
 had culminated in the victory of the Southern idea in 
 the passage and enforcement of the Fugitive Slave law. 
 Their triumph seemed to have made drunk the oppo- 
 nents of the Abolition movement. The insignificance 
 of the vote polled by the "Free Democracy" in the 
 Presidential struggle of 1852, as well as the overwhelm- 
 ing success of the declared exponent of the policy on 
 which that law was based, no doubt did very much to 
 induce the friends of slavery to believe that any demand 
 they might make would not only be conceded by their 
 party but submitted to by the nation. When the "Mis- 
 souri Compromise" was adopted, it was not generally be- 
 lieved that the region west of the west line of Missouri 
 and north of 36° 30' north latitude would ever be of 
 any value. Its distance from the great markets of the 
 world, under the conditions then affecting the problem 
 of transportation, was supposed to render it unavailable 
 even for stock-raising. The great Northwest was then 
 a wilderness. Where the garden of the world now 
 is, there was silence. Illinois was just born into the 
 sisterhood of States. Where now sits the Queen City of 
 the West — a miracle of busy life, there was only a slender 
 stockade and a little cluster of huts. The seats of 
 empire that lay beyond were hardly deemed habitable. 
 The prairie was thought to be bleak and untamable ; the 
 forest dark and impenetrable. What lay to the south- 
 329 
 
330 HOT PLOWSHARES. 
 
 ward of the line of compromise was known to be fertile ; 
 what was to the northward was believed to be sterile. 
 So Slavery exulted in the bargain that was made, be- 
 lieving that the rich domain it secured to her would 
 easily counterbalance in power the possibilities of what 
 had been surrendered. 
 
 This contest between freedom and slavery for the 
 power to be derived from the statocracy of the national 
 domain is an interesting and instructive chapter of our 
 history. Of the thirteen original States, six were either 
 free or soon became so, while the others retained the in- 
 stitution of slavery in the territory belonging to them. 
 The first State to be created out of the unorganized terri- 
 tory of the nation added still another to the prepondera- 
 ting power of slavery. It was Kentucky, in 1791, 
 counterbalanced, in the same year, by Vermont, which 
 had never known slavery in its limits. Tennessee fol- 
 lowed in 1796, with the "institution" inherited from 
 her mother, North Carolina. After a furious strug- 
 gle, Ohio, with a free Constitution, was carved out 
 of the public domain in 1802. In 1812 Louisiana re- 
 stored once more the original preponderance of slavery. 
 In 1816 Indiana added another name to the roll of 
 freedom. Mississippi restored the former condition in 
 
 1817. Illinois took her place on the other side in 
 
 1818. Slavery brought forward Alabama in 1819, and 
 freedom, after a desperate contest, secured a place for 
 Maine in 1820. Thitherto the two hostile forces had 
 achieved alternate advantages. Then Slavery increased 
 her lead by two — Missouri, in 1821, and Arkansas, in 
 1836. JSIichigan offset one of these in 1837, only to be 
 counterbalanced by Florida in 1845, the twin of Iowa, 
 admitted upon the same day — the result of a bargain 
 between the two great powers. Texas, conquered for 
 the express purpose of preserving the balance of power 
 in favor of slavery, was admitted in 1815, and balanced 
 
THE BEGONNOISSANGE IN FORCE. 331 
 
 by Wisconsin in 1847. Then came California in 1850, the 
 people taking the matter into their own hands and 
 coming to the national legislature with a voluntary con- 
 stitution framed and adopted without specific legal 
 authority, but expressly excluding slavery from her 
 soil. With this in their hands the freemen of the new 
 El Dorado demanded admission to the family of States 
 and could not be refused. Then the roll of the slave 
 states was complete. This alternation was by no acci- 
 dent of growth. By long continued yielding it came to 
 be regarded as a sort of common law that the equipoise 
 should be thus maintained. In sixty years nine slave 
 states and eight in which bondage was forbidden had 
 been added to the list of constituent commonwealths. 
 That portion of the public domain which had been 
 assigned to slavery by the Compromise, so far as it was 
 then available, or was likely soon to become so, was 
 exhausted. On the other hand the Northwest was 
 already gravid with new states. Minnesota and Oregon 
 tv^ere clamoring at the national portal. The tide of civi- 
 lization had poured across the Mississippi, following the 
 footsteps of the modern Argonauts. The desert trail 
 was found to be lined with flowers. The prairies 
 proved to be rich Avith the mould of the ages. Where 
 the buffalo had wandered undisturbed the smoke of the 
 settler's cabin arose. The church and the school-house, 
 the infallible insignia of a New England civilization, 
 were almost hidden by the giant growth of maize. The 
 boundless meadows lay laughing in the sunshine. The 
 riches of the East were poverty compared with this. 
 Liberty discerned its worth, and sent her sons to enter 
 in and occupy. Along all its creeks and rivers ; in the 
 little belts of woodland, wherever thrift and foresight 
 could discover especial excellence, there the hardy 
 Northern pioneer built his sod-cabin or lighted his 
 camp-fire and staked his claim. Already this territory 
 
332 HO T PLO W SHARES. 
 
 was swarming with settlers and would soon be ready 
 for admission as a State. 
 
 Under these circumstances, Slavery turned its eyes 
 eagerly upon the fertile plains. Only the Compromise 
 of 1820 stood between it and this gem of the national 
 domain. Frail barrier ! Hitherto it had been permitted 
 to stand because there had been no desire to go beyond. 
 Now that the lust of possession tempted, it must be 
 swept away. Upon this question the South was not a 
 unit, but she had so often triumphed by threats that 
 she never doubted their potency. So she demanded 
 flatly that the clauses excluding slaveiy from the terri- 
 tories west of Missoui'i and north of its southern line, 
 should be absolutely repealed. The North, which had 
 sullenly submitted to the Fugitive Slave law, burst into 
 a strange fever of wrath at this demand. The Compro- 
 mise, which had been always thitherto the Aveapon of 
 the South, they now seized in their own defense. Ko 
 one had the hardihood in serious earnest to claim that 
 it was not repealable. The power that debarred had 
 also an undoubted right to admit it. Some did claim 
 that the act of 1820 was, in some sense, a consecration of 
 the soil to freedom, and therefore, by the common law 
 of liberty, inviolate ; but the theory was worthier of the 
 domains of sentiment than the forum of reason. The 
 South, exultant in her late success, pressed for her legal 
 right to clear from the path of every citizen all obstacles 
 to his occupation of the common national domain. The 
 course of reasoning she adopted upon this question may 
 be summarized, thus : 
 
 1. The Congress of 1820, was not, and could not have 
 
 been, authorized to make a permanent exclusiou of 
 slavery from any part of the national domain. 
 
 2. Every citizen of every state has a right to carry with 
 
 Jiini into the unorganized territory of the United States 
 
THE REC0NN0I88ANCE IN FORCE. 833 
 
 all the rights aiid privileges with which he is clothed 
 as a citizen of such state. 
 3. He has the right to take with him any property he may 
 possess in the state from which he migrates, to hold 
 and enjoy the same in the territory, and to be pro- 
 tected in such enjoyment by the federal law. 
 To this the North offered : 
 
 1. The answer of the Abolitionists : Slavery being an 
 
 evil if not a crime, if the Constitution recognizes it 
 at all it is only to permit its existence in those states 
 where it was at the time of its adoption, and gave no 
 right to establish it in territory not embraced in their 
 original limits. 
 
 2. The response of the more conservative Northron, who 
 
 recognized slavery as a legal fact in the slave states but 
 regarded it as an evil to be fought with every lawful 
 weapon, and to be eradicated peacefully and legally, 
 as soon as possible : that the South, having assented 
 to the Compromise of 1820, and received benefits there- 
 under in the creation, practically without opposition, 
 of eight slave states morally bound by its conditions. 
 To these the South rejoined : 
 
 1. We have, both as citizens and as states, the same rights 
 
 in the public domain as you. You are not shut out of 
 any part of it ; neither should we be. Your rights of 
 property are secured to you in Texas ; in like manner 
 ours should be secured to us in Kansas. 
 
 2. The Compromise of 1820 was a simple exclusion. We 
 
 were barred from an empire. You suffered no detri- 
 ment therefrom. The non-slaveholder — the free labor- 
 ei" — was not excluded from an inch of our soil. Because 
 we have submitted to this injustice for thirty years 
 and more, we are not barred from i-eclaiming a right, 
 the resumption of which can injure no one. We do 
 not object to your entering the territory ; by what 
 right do you seek to exclude us and our possessions ? 
 
§34 HO T PLO WSIIARES. 
 
 These objections were not fully met. The North was 
 hardly in a mood for argument. The hostility to slavery 
 which had spread and smouldered year after year, now 
 burst all bounds. By some strange process the institu- 
 tion had become queerly personified in the Northern 
 mind. It Avas almost entirely disassociated from the 
 Southern people as individuals. It was a reality, a 
 thing, a material existence which they looked upon as 
 doing, claiming and resisting quite independently of its 
 mere instruments and agents — the people of the South. 
 Against this intangible yet conscious essence the heart 
 of the North was aglow with wrath. The Fugitive Slave 
 law had been looked upon as a step of defiant aggression 
 on the part of the hated institution. Their instinctive 
 love of law and the inherited reverence for the Consti- 
 tution had endured even this exasperating strain ; but 
 underneath the calm exterior there were sullen mur- 
 murings that should Kave warned the friends of slavery 
 that they could go no further. Unfortunately the 
 people of the South had never idealized the institution 
 of slavery so as to disassociate themselves from it. It 
 was their right — their institution^and liostility thereto 
 not only implied but actually covered and concealed 
 a positive animosity against all who were beneficially 
 interested in it. So opposition to slaveiy meant to them 
 hatred of the South, and they urged their right to carry 
 slavery into the territories all the more fiercely because 
 of the unreasonable prejudice against themselves which 
 they believed to lie at the bottom of opposition to it. 
 They were undoubtedly right in their claim so far as the 
 Constitution was concerned. The better reasoning was 
 in favor of their claim for equal enjoyment of the public 
 domain ; but the hostility to slavery had reached that 
 point where one more act of aggression on its part was 
 sure to provoke a conflict, and when the conflict came 
 slavery was certain to go to the Avail. 
 
THE REG0NN0IS8ANCE IN FORCE. 335 
 
 The act was consummated. The South won, and her 
 victory accomplished the ruin of tlie institution in be- 
 half of which the battle was fought. The Missouri Com- 
 promise was repealed. At once throughout the North 
 there ran a flame of indignation. "■ Free Kansas or 
 fight !" rang from movmtain and valley. In an instant 
 the past was dead. The political issues of the day grew 
 stale in an hour. The ghost of the old Whig party 
 wandered still here and there. The secret ritual of the 
 "Know Nothings" was not suthcient to hold men to 
 their allegiance to the American party. The question 
 that had been thrust aside so often had at length found 
 entrance into national politics, and Slavery and Free- 
 dom stood face to face, not only on the plains of Kansas 
 but in every village and hamlet in the land. A band of 
 citizens of Michigan called for a convention to form a 
 party in the state, to be composed of "all who were 
 opposed to the aggressions of slavery." The word was 
 fitly chosen. Many thousands who would not have ut- 
 tered a word or lifted a hand against slavery in the 
 states, were ready to fight to the death against what 
 they deemed its "aggressions." 
 
 The new party was called Eepublican. It sprung 
 into life like Minerva. In a day it had swallowed up, 
 like Aaron's rod, all parties except its one great 
 enemy. The lightning spread the contagion. State 
 after state made haste to furnish its contingent. Men 
 woke in the morning Whigs or Know Nothings and 
 slept at night Kepublicans. The past was rolled away 
 as a scroll. The present filled the earth. 
 
 The shrieker for freedom — the professional Abolition 
 orator who had shouted for so many years apparently 
 in vain — found himself now upon the crest of the wave. 
 The "aggressions of slavery" had suddenly vivified 
 all his old arguments. He stood a prophet justified 
 in his own day. Where he had met revilings before, 
 
336 EOT PLOWSHARES. 
 
 he heard only plaudits now. The abstraction of yester- 
 day had become a reality to-day. The spirit of liberty 
 was mustering its hosts for the Armageddon with 
 slavery. Kansas was the advance post of both. Here 
 came the first skirmish. 
 
 The South has never been backward in maintaining 
 what it conceived to be its right, nor has it ever stopped 
 to count the odds against it. Xo matter how much of 
 boasting it may have done ; no matter how mistaken 
 its views, it has always been ready to vouch for them 
 with blood. The South believed it had an abstract 
 right to carry slavery into Kansas, and it was not slow 
 to assert that right. It sent its voluntary represen- 
 tatives to take and hold. They came from far and near. 
 Missouri overflowed with typical plantation-grown, 
 slave-nursed, slave-holding and slave-raising Americans, 
 who counted the right to enslave inalienable in the free- 
 man and were willing, to fight for it as an inestimable 
 privilege. They were called, north of the mystic line 
 that separated the realms so strangely bound together, 
 " Border Ruffians. " 
 
 The East and North mustered their forces at once to 
 hold the territory against all attempts to establish 
 slavery in its borders. Money flowed like water. Tools, 
 provisions, arms were furnished all who would go and 
 settle there. The anti-slavery societies sent out armed 
 colonies. In the section where slavery held sway they 
 were called "Jay-Hawkers." 
 
 A reign of rapine, blood and plunder folloAved. The 
 fury of the South for the first time met the sturd}' resolu- 
 tion of the l!^orth. While a desultory warfare was waged 
 upon her plains Kansas Avas the Avatchword of a more 
 important conflict in the national arena. 
 
 Names are things in the world of politics, and epi- 
 thets become weapons of offense or defense in every 
 struggle between conflicting dogmas. 
 
THE RECONNOISSANCE IN FORCE. 337 
 
 In the presidential election of 1856, slavery came for 
 the first time to be the question at issue between the 
 two great parties of the country — not its rights, nor yet 
 its policy, but its "aggressions." It was the trial trip 
 of the new party. It was hardly a year since its banner 
 had been unfurled. It was cumbered with fears and 
 fossils. Many of its members still called themselves by 
 other names. Very few had forgotten the idols they 
 had worshipped. There was the hazard that attends 
 all new ventures — the half-heartedness, the distrust, the 
 thrifty inclination not to go so far as to make retreat 
 impossible. The man chosen to lead was one who had 
 nothing to lose. Fortune favored him even when it 
 marked him for disaster. The young giant did not 
 overcome its veteran antagonist, but the struggle was 
 so close that any unprejudiced observer might easily 
 have seen that the death-grapple had begun. A party 
 that had never cast a presidential vote before had 
 brought the best trained opponent the country had ever 
 known— the victor in many a conflict — to the very edge 
 of defeat. The "aggressions of slavery" had healed 
 all dissensions in the ranks of its foes. It had won in 
 the first skirmish ; the reconnoissance in force had been 
 repulsed, but over against it was an enemy devoted solely 
 to its destruction. 
 
CHAPTER XXVII. 
 
 NOT WITHOUT HONOR. 
 
 Dawson Fox was about to return to Skendoah. It 
 was a long time since he had gone forth, a sturdy child 
 of poverty, to do a man's work and win a name for 
 himself that he might come back and woo pretty Mat- 
 tie Ermendorf to share his labor and his fame. It was 
 twenty-five years and more since he had learned that 
 the dream of his youth was not to be fulfilled. The little 
 hamlet had never missed the barefoot boy who went 
 away ; and it listened with something of wonder and a 
 little self-gratulation to the sermon of the high-browed 
 earnest-eyed young' man who had returned. And now 
 again the thriving town that had grown up where had 
 been only the "Drovers' Wayside Home" and the few 
 straggling houses of the old-time corners was about to 
 honor itself by reclaiming an interest in a long-lost son. 
 The town was full of it. The dead-walls were placarded 
 with it, and the village newspaper, edited by a man wiio 
 had come to the village hardly a year before, teemed with 
 glowing accounts of the "gifted and eloquent son of 
 Skendoah," who was said to be "remembered with pe- 
 culiar pride and affection by all our old citizens," The 
 "old citizens" were very numerous, too, considering 
 what the town had been before Harrison Kortright had 
 restored the lost lake Memnona, and turned its pri- 
 soned powers upon the dripping wheels below. Daw- 
 son Eox was in everybody's mouth. Almost every man 
 and woman in whose hair there showed a thread of 
 silver, was sure to have some memory of the returning 
 
NOT WITHOUT UONOR. 339 
 
 celebrity, or at least some tradition derived from the 
 specially intimate associates of his youth. Men stopped 
 each other on the street to tell tales of his boyhood. 
 Laborers in the factories allowed their machines to run 
 idly on while they talked of the returning prodigy. This 
 is what the handbills said of him : 
 
 BLEEDING KANSAS! 
 A Meeting of the Citizens of Skendoah 
 
 WILL BE HELD AT 
 
 KORTRIGHT HALL 
 Next Wednesday Night, 
 
 to TESTIFY our SYMPATHY 
 
 AND 
 
 DEVISE MEANS FOR SENDING AID 
 
 TO THE 
 
 Settlers in Kansas, who are Suffering from the 
 
 Ravages of Border-Ruffian Hordes, 
 
 who seek to 
 
 Drive Every Freeman from Her Borders. 
 
 Hon. Harrison Kortright will preside. Rev. Dawson Fox, the 
 celebrated Orator and Missionary, who is known as the "Apostle 
 of Freedom " in Kansas, where he has labored unceasingly for 
 three years, will address the meeting. The distinguished orator 
 is a native of Skendoah, and will be warmly welcomed in his 
 former home, where he has never been forgotten. 
 
 The company of emigrants who have been fitted out from Sken- 
 doah and vicinity will leave on Thursday. They will be accom- 
 panied to the station by a grand procession of all the citizens who 
 favor Free Speech, Free Labor, Free Soil and Free Kansas. 
 Their outfit is not quite as complete as is desirable, but every 
 man has his Sharpe's rifle and plenty of ammunition. 
 
 The water will be shut off at 12 o'clock on Thursday, so that 
 all may take part in this demonstration. 
 
 By order of the Committee. 
 
 Dawson Fox had been a missionary, and had labored 
 faithfully among the people to whom he had been sent, 
 
340 HOT PLOWSHARES. 
 
 but not with any notable success. All who knew the 
 man, and how he had toiled in his distant field, won- 
 dered at this fact. His associates and superiors in the 
 foreign mission work said, after a while, that he was a 
 most brilliant and devoted man, but not suited to that 
 work. It was suggested that he should marry, but it 
 only excited a strange petulancy when he was urged to 
 do so. At length labor and loneliness and the terrible 
 climate brought him a release. His health was broken, 
 and it was decided that only the homeward voyage and 
 home scenes could effect a cure. He had not spent all 
 these years pining for a lost and hopeless love. So he 
 told himself, and he spoke truly when he said so. He 
 was not the man to destroy himself with regret. Few 
 men in his position had ever given so much time to study ; 
 but that had not brought him forgetfulness. The long 
 years of self-sacrifice and unceasing application, in which 
 he had dreamed only of Mattie Ermendorf, had burned 
 her image into his heart beyond possibility of eradication. 
 If he had won her he would have become a part of the 
 world, for she would have led him into it. Without her, 
 however, he was fitted only to be a hermit. His studies 
 were a cell where only he and his love came in those 
 years, and when his hope had died he hid there with his 
 dead, which was more precious than all the living. He 
 wrought in the learning of the land he was sent to en- 
 lighten, but came not near the hearts of its people, 
 because his own heart was the sealed sepulchre of love. 
 
 When he returned he had half hoped that during his 
 absence time might have wrought some miracle in his 
 behalf; but when he sat at Jared Clarkson's hospitable 
 board and heard from his lips of the prosperity that had 
 fallen on Skendoah through the man who had married 
 the woman he had loved, and learned that Paradise 
 Bay, now in the outskirts of a thrifty town, had been 
 transformed into an elegant mansion whose mistress 
 
NOT WITHOUT HONOR. 841 
 
 was the good angel of every sorrowing heart within its 
 busy limit, he simply said to himself, ''It is well." He 
 felt that the life he would have bound to his own had 
 been made richer in blessing to them that needed, per- 
 haps, and had no doubt been fuller of joy than if he had 
 had his will. So he did not venture near to witness her 
 joy, lest even then he should mar its completeness, but 
 finding a work ready to his hand which ran with his 
 inclination, he gave himself to it, as soon as restored 
 health would permit, and for many years he had been 
 one of the most noted of that class of peripatetic mis- 
 sionaries who were known as Abolition orators. 
 
 Of these there were two classes — men who had nothing 
 else to do, and men who did little else. The former class 
 too often became mere ranters, spouters for a single 
 idea. Their sense of fitness and proportion was de- 
 stroyed, and to their minds the world seemed swinging 
 round a single thought. Dawson Fox was not only too 
 large a man to be thus bounded and absorbed, and life 
 had also brought to him too wide an outlook to permit 
 such subjugation. He felt that the world was not all 
 bounded by the nation whose travail had just begun, 
 though he sincerely believed that here the question of 
 individual liberty was to be fought out for all times and 
 for all peoples. It was that portion of the great world- 
 conflict that filled the present. It was to him also a 
 part of that religion to the promotion of which he had 
 been dedicated — the one element of Christianity which 
 it was given unto our day and times to illustrate and 
 construe for the edification of the ages. To him this 
 idea was a part of a far greater whole. Liberty was a 
 foundation-stone, but the edifice built above was far 
 more worthy and beautiful than that on which it rested. 
 Man was greater, in his eyes, than any of his attributes ; 
 God infinitely above the laws by Him ordained. He 
 felt the work of estabUshing freedom to be only another 
 
343 HOT PLOWSHARES. 
 
 form of missionary labor. In his view, religion was 
 made for man, and not man for religion. He had been 
 unable to do a laborer's part in one portion of the Lord's 
 vineyard, but in that which he had now entered his 
 powers had full play, and he found himself strengthened 
 by knowledge and experience for the work. So, it was 
 no wonder that the disappointed foreign missionary be- 
 came famous as an advocate of liberty and a home mis- 
 sionary on the plains of Kansas. He had crossed its 
 border almost with the first settlers, drawn thither by 
 that fine instinct of its strategic importance in the great 
 conflict, that so often seems more like prophecy tlian 
 forecast in natures that are strung to a higher pitch of 
 observation than the common herd. Regardless of sect, 
 he had constituted himself at once a pastor of the scat- 
 tered people, keeping alive, at the same time, the spirit 
 of religion and of liberty in their hearts. He had shared 
 their dangers and sufterings, and had more than once 
 been their emissary to the rich and populous East, whose 
 outpost they defended. 
 
 More than once had Mr. Kortright, meeting him at 
 various assemblies of this character, sought to induce 
 him to revisit the home of his boyhood ; but it had been 
 in vain. The large-hearted, busy-brained manufixcturer 
 had no suspicion of the reason why. He had something 
 more than mere regard for this man of a double life. 
 They had been boys together — not exactly playmates in 
 any familiar sense, but they had known each other — and 
 he fully realized the disadvantages under which Daw- 
 son Fox had labored, and honored the success he had 
 achieved. Strangely enough, he did not stop to measure 
 it by any material standard. Perhaps strong natures 
 rarely do. The fact of success is of more weight with 
 the man who has wrought his own way upward than 
 the mere accident of wealth. Dawson Fox had suc- 
 ceeded ; so had Harrison Kortright, and they two, in a 
 
NOT WITHOUT HONOR. 343 
 
 sense, towered alone above those with whom they had 
 played and fought and with whoiu they had been Avont 
 to compare themselves in the old days. It mattered not 
 that one was rich and the other poor. Both had hon- 
 ored the native soil, and each was willing to accord to 
 the other the meed of credit for his exertion and success. 
 The magnate of Skendoah was no aristocrat. No man 
 had ever accused him of that ; but he must have been 
 more or less than human not to have been proud of him- 
 self and his work. In a single decade he had transformed 
 the silent hamlet into a busy city. Lake Memnona was 
 his monument — his appeal to the ages — the attestation of 
 his manhood. His life before that had been nothing. 
 So he said, and so every one else believed, forgetful that 
 it is in silence and repose that Nature ripens her best 
 fruits. The years of silence had been years of growth 
 with him. He did not know it; yet he regarded with 
 peculiar pleasure whatever there was of worth and value 
 in those years. The friends ot that time were of especial 
 dehght to him now. One by one he had found a place 
 for several of them in connection with his various enter- 
 prises, and all regarded him still as " the 'Squire." They 
 said of him — everybody who knew him — that old Kort- 
 right had not forgotten what he had come up from. It 
 was a mistake. He was simply unconscious that he had 
 come up. He felt his later life to be no better or wor- 
 thier than his early manhood. It was only broader and 
 stronger— that was all. The people who wrought with 
 him were not beneath him. They were not his work- 
 people, but his neighbors. The little church had grown in 
 size but not in magnificence. Kortright Hall, as the 
 people had insisted that it should be called, was the 
 property of the citizens and for their use. All sorts of 
 gatherings were held here in which the citizens, or any 
 considerable number of them, were interested. Its plat- 
 form was free. Its seats were free, unless the people 
 
344 HOT PLOWSHARES. 
 
 by a general ballot put a price on them for any specific 
 purpose. 
 
 It was here that he desired to welcome Dawson Fox, 
 and with that purpose, in order both to gratify the ex- 
 pected guest and his old friends, he had procured the com- 
 mittee to be made up of men whose names he believed 
 the orator would still remember. Among these were our 
 old friend Shields, still the positive, independent, keen- 
 minded farmer, whose estate had felt the impetus of 
 Skendoah's growth until he was now, in his later years, 
 a man of affluence ; and Van Wormcr, the stirring head 
 of a valuable business that the waters of Lake Mem- 
 nona had brought into life. 
 
 "It's a pity," said Shields, running his hand over 
 the thin, gray hairs that framed his sharp features on 
 either side, when they had met to draft the letter of in- 
 vitation — "it's a pity old 'Squire Ritner ain't here to 
 take a part in this. It 's my notion that he 's about the 
 only one that had any special liking for Dawson when 
 he was a ragged boy round here. He did take to him, 
 and I guess he helped him arter he left here." 
 
 " I'm sure I don't know," said Kortright, "but there 
 never was a man more likely to do another a good turn 
 than Ritner. We lost a man when we buried him." 
 
 " That we did," said Shields. " I 've heard him talk 
 about Dawson more 'n once since he began to make a 
 figger in the world, and it was easy to see he 'd always 
 had a high opinion of him." 
 
 "He was always ahead of all the rest of us in finding 
 out good things to be done," said Kortright, with a sigh. 
 
 "Except in finding water-power," laughed Yan 
 Wormer, with his old propensity to tease. 
 
 "Well," said Kortright, "Josiah Ritner wasn't the 
 sharpest man in findin' pennies or dollars that 's ever 
 been within a hundred miles of Skendoah, but I 've 
 never met a man that knew quite so well how to use 
 
NOT WITHOUT HONOR. 345 
 
 'em. The time was, gentlemen, when that man took 
 me out of about the worst rut I ever got into." 
 
 " How was that ?" asked Yau Wormer. 
 
 "Well, you know, I wasn't exactly used to handling 
 as much money as I had to use in starting these things, 
 and I was pretty nervous about the outcome for a time. 
 I worked mighty hard for a year or two, and didn't 
 think of much else day in and day out, till the fixctories 
 were up and everything running as smooth and easy as 
 water through a pine ' trunk. ' Then the habit had got 
 so fastened onto me that I never thought of giving 
 attention to anything else. One day 'Squire Ritner 
 came into the office, and as I was too busy to talk he 
 just sat and watched me for an hour or so. We 'd al- 
 ways been fast friends, but I should think it had been 
 two years since we 'd said much more 'n ' How d'ye 
 do ?' in passing. After a while we were alone a minute 
 and the 'Squire came up and put his hand on my shoul- 
 der in that sort of petting way he had with everybody, 
 you know, and said : 
 
 " ' Seems to me, Kortright, you 're a' forgittin' that 
 you ain't nothing but a trustee.' 
 
 " I never was so scared in my life, for I thought he 'd 
 got hold of something I didn't care about being known; 
 but when I looked up I saw his meaning at once. I got 
 up and took his hand and shook it as if he 'd been ray 
 brother, as he surely was, and said, ' So I had, 'Squire ; 
 but I promise you I won't any more.' " 
 
 "Oh, ho!" said Shields, with a twinkle in his eye, 
 " that 's what Mis Kortright laughs about yet as your 
 'second conversion,' — eh ?" 
 
 " Exactly. I bought a new span of horses and a new 
 carriage, and went home at four o'clock and took her 
 out riding. It was about the first time I 'd done such a 
 thing since our courting days, too." 
 
 Kortright laughed at the recollection, and it was evi- 
 
346 HOT PL WSHABES. 
 
 dent that his friends understood what his "second con- 
 version" meant. 
 
 "And, by the way," said Shields, "that reminds me 
 that Eitner once told me that Fox took it very much to 
 heart, your marry in' Mattie Ermendorf." 
 
 " Crossed in love, eh ?" said Van Wormer gleefully. 
 "Well, well, 'Squire, I had no idea you Avere bringing 
 an old rival back here to exult over his misfortune." 
 
 "Sho, sho," said Kortright, with a little impatience, 
 but with the hint of a blush on his fine, honest face. 
 " That is just one of Shields' jokes." 
 
 "Not a bit on't," said Shields, combing his thin 
 locks with his hand; "it's what Ritner told me — and 
 told it in dead earnest, too." 
 
 "Why, man," said Kortright, with an amused smile, 
 "Dawson Fox hadn't been in Skendoah for years before 
 we were married. I don't 'spose he 'd seen Mattie since 
 she was a little girl." 
 
 "That's jest what Ritner said," persisted Shields. 
 "He said they were great cronies as boy and gal, and 
 he 'd sot his heart on marryin' her before he went away 
 to school, an' he was mightily broke down wlien he come 
 back arterwards an' found matters all arranged for her 
 to marry you." 
 
 "He did come back just before we were married," 
 said Kortright musingly. 
 
 "Jest so, jest so," said Shields. "I thought Ritner 
 wa'n't likely to be very far out of the way on 't. He 
 wasn't given to talking what he didn't know about." 
 
 Kortright's head dropped thoughtfully upon his breast. 
 A new light had come into his mind. Tiie cryptomerias 
 that still flanked the pathway to his door; his wife's 
 tender care of them ; the fact that she had scarcely 
 spoken of Dawson Fox, notwithstanding his own eulo- 
 gies, all confirmed this story of an early attachment 
 between them. 
 
NOT WITHOUT RON OB. 347 
 
 " I declare, Mr. Shields," said Vau Wormer, with a 
 wink toward Kortright, and a shrug of his shoulders 
 meant as a rebuke to Shields for his indiscretion, "I 
 believe you 've made the 'Squire jealous." 
 
 '"Tain't possible," said Shields in surprise, for the 
 first time realizing that it was possible. 
 
 "Poor fellow," said Kortright, looking up and smihng 
 gravely at their banter ; " poor fellow ! I know what he 
 lost c^entlemen, and can't but think how lonesome the 
 years^would have been if I had been in his place and he 
 in mine." 
 
 There was a tender light in his eye as he spoke, and 
 his lips trembled even as he smiled. The knowledge of 
 this romantic episode in her hfe clothed the wife of his 
 bosom only with a tenderer reverence. How had he 
 been blessed in her love, while this other better man, 
 this brilliant orator, who had sought it, had been left 
 empty-hearted in the world! The man was too brave 
 and self-forgetful to feel a twinge of pain or have a hint 
 of jealousy. 
 
 " We must do all the more," he continued, " to make 
 him feel that we haven't forgotten him. That is, if he 
 will come. I 'm afraid he won't ; but if he does we '11 
 give him such a welcome as a man don't often get when 
 he comes back to a place he hasn't been in three days 
 since be was a boy." 
 
 "Well," said Shields sententiously, "you know there 
 ain't many such men as he." 
 
 "Nor many such as 'Squire Kortright," said Van 
 Wormer with a pecuhar warmth. 
 
 "Oh, of course," said Shields, with a reproachful 
 earnestness that brought a laugh from both the others. 
 
 "Thank you, gentlemen," said Kortright; "but we 
 are not getting on with our business. You just write 
 the letter. Van Wormer, and we will sign it— if it suits 
 
348 HOT PL WtillARES. 
 
 The letter was written more than once, and finally 
 sent on its way. When Harrison Kortright met his 
 wife, an hour afterwards, there was a soft light in his 
 eyes and a tenderness that astonished the good woman 
 as he put his arm about her waist and kissed her still 
 fair lips. It was a most lover-like scene that followed, 
 when he told her all that he had heard, and listened to 
 its confirmation from her lips. They were old lovers, 
 and married lovers, too, whom our modern analysts of 
 the human heart count only worthy of sneers and jests ; 
 but it was really beautiful to the angel eyes that looked 
 down on Paradise Bay that afternoon and saw the wife, 
 in whom the romantic girl had never died, who had 
 hungered all the years of her married life for the blan- 
 dishments and caresses of love, cast herself into her 
 husband's arms, kiss the pale, worn face, fondle the 
 gray whiskers tenderly, and declare how she had been 
 blessed above all other women in his fervent devotion. 
 She was a silly old woman ; he a weak, feeble old man, 
 whose step still betrayed the touch of disease ; yet me- 
 thinks it were a prettier picture and better to look upon 
 than if love had not been there. It certainly cannot be 
 counted artistic in our modern sense, because there was 
 nothing vile or degrading in it. However, that night 
 there went out from Skendoah another missive to Daw- 
 eon Fox, full of the fragrance of the girl-love of long 
 ugo, which, though it had never ripened into woman- 
 love in the heart of Mattie Ermendorf, had never faded 
 from the memor}^ of Martha Kortright. 
 
 In answer to both missives Dawson Fox had said 
 "Yes," and on the morrow he was to come, to be for 
 two days a guest at Paradise Bay, and then to speak 
 at the great meeting to be held in aid of "Bleeding 
 Kansas." 
 
CHAPTER XXVIII. 
 
 BRIDGING THE CHASM. 
 
 Upon the day when Dawson Fox was to arrive, 
 Mr. Kortright was unusually busy. He requested the 
 other members of the committee to accompany Mrs. 
 Kortright in his carriage to the station, two miles away, 
 to welcome their distinguished guest to his old home. 
 Only the wife fathomed the subtlety of this maneuver. 
 To her the silent, reserved man had year by year be- 
 come more and more transparent. She saw through 
 his loving artifice when he told her that morning how 
 he had planned for the day. 
 
 " And I shan't be home till supper ; so you must take 
 care of him, and not let him wear himself out talking 
 to everybody. You 'd better keep him quiet here at 
 home, or perhaps take him out riding toward evening." 
 
 The comely dame looked at him with a loving smile, 
 and said : 
 
 "I didn't know much about you when we were mar- 
 ried." 
 
 " Not know me ?" said the 'Squire in amaze. " Why, 
 we were boy and girl together. ' ' 
 
 "Yes," meditatively. 
 
 " And you knew all there was to know about me." 
 
 " It takes a long while to learn a man." 
 
 "There's where you're mistaken. One sees clear 
 through us at first sight. It 's you women that are 
 deep. Only think how long we had lived together and 
 I never knew — " 
 
 "There wasn't anything to know," interrupted the 
 349 
 
350 HOT PLOWSHARES. 
 
 matron, with a blush that swept like a wave over her 
 comely face and up to the line of her soft gray hair. 
 
 "And there isn't anything to know now," laughed 
 the 'Squire, as he put his left arm about her, and with 
 the cane dangling by its crooked neck over his right, 
 lifted her chin and looked lovingly down into her face. 
 
 " Oh, yes, there is," she said, as she laid her head on 
 his shoulder. "I shall never learn all your kindness 
 and thoughtfulness for others — " 
 
 "There, there," said he, with a sudden moistening 
 of the eyelids. "Don't let us be a couple of old fools. 
 I just thought the poor fellow mightn't feel quite so bad 
 if he got used to seeing you again without having me 
 around to remind him of his loss." 
 
 "And my gain," said the quick-witted woman, look- 
 ing up at him archly and proudly. 
 
 "See here, I'm a-going," said the 'Squire, as he 
 limped quickly away (he had always limped and always 
 carried a cane since that first day we saw him). He 
 turned as he reached the door, shook his head at his 
 wife, and went away with a warm light upon his thin 
 gray face and in his deep gray eye. 
 
 There was a light in her face, too — a love-light that 
 deepened its matronly beauty and made the soft, silvery 
 crown above seem like a refulgent halo to the weary- 
 looking man who came down the platform between 
 Shields and Van Wormer and was introduced to her 
 as the Kev. Dawson Fox. There was a half-startled 
 look in his eye, his lip trembled under the grizzled 
 moustache, his hand clasped hers half-nervously. Then 
 he looked into her eyes ; saw the light there, read the 
 earnest, quiet welcome before it fell from her hps, and, 
 taking the seat beside her, felt a strange sense of rest. 
 There was no spurious sentimentality about the man. 
 He had loved Mattie Ermendorf, and had never loved 
 any other. But that love had been pure and unselfish. 
 
BRIDGING THE CHASM. 351 
 
 His ceaseless prayer had been for her happiness. The 
 older and broader he had grown the deeper and ten- 
 derer had become his devotion to his youthful dream. 
 He had dreaded to be awakened from it. He feared to 
 read in her eyes something he would not wish to see — 
 the evidence of a life not altogether complete and per- 
 fect. He feared to find the trace of sorrow, tears and 
 discontent. Instead, he found only the ripe fruitage of 
 peace and love. He was content. He saw with lan- 
 guid interest the young city through which they drove. 
 He heard the rumble of the water-wheels and listened 
 to the story of Lake Memnona's subjugation. He noted 
 here and there a remembered object — asked dreamily 
 after this and that half-forgotten name. He had lived 
 here once — or some one like him — but it was in some 
 previous state of existence. He had wandered over 
 the hills — he had known the woods and fields; yet 
 he hardly realized that it was himself who had once 
 dwelt there. His life lay between — a life of labor and 
 disappointment and ill-success — in another world. He 
 tried to go back to that old time, but he could not. 
 What there had been he dimly remembered; for what 
 there was he hardly cared. The world had gone away 
 and left him. He was dead already save where he 
 touched the world's life at one vital spot. He laid him- 
 self back on the cushions, closed his eyes, and tried to 
 think whether he were dreaming or waking. His face 
 was pinched and worn. The long tawny beard only 
 half hid its ghastliness. 
 
 "He's just about tuckered out," said Shields in a 
 whisper. The younger man assented with a nod. The 
 woman watched him keenly, and knew better than 
 they the secret of his weariness. He roused himself in 
 a moment and begged pardon for his incivility. The 
 committee stopped at the store of the younger, and 
 Dawson Fox and his hostess drove on alone across the 
 
352 HOT PLOWBHAHEB. 
 
 new bridge, past the old school-house to the mansion of 
 Harrison Kortright. He reached out and took her 
 hand. A soft, contented smile passed over his face. 
 He was at rest. Then they came to the end. Two tall, 
 di-ooping evergreens flanked the doorway — two glimpses 
 of the orient. He saw them ; guessed their origin in 
 a moment, pressed the hand he held fervently and 
 turned dewy eyes upon his companion. He was satis- 
 fied. The past had been suddenly bridged. The boy 
 was alive again. Weariness, pain and defeat were all 
 forgotten. He had been remembered — kindly, tenderly, 
 truly. Happiness had not induced forgetfulness. The 
 love which shone in her eyes for the man she had 
 married had not led her to cast aside the memory of 
 the lover whose passion had been unveiled too late. 
 When he had been shown to his room he fell upon his 
 knees and asked that a blessing might rest upon the 
 home he had entered. The broken life had been re- 
 united, and when in the afternoon Mrs. Kortright took 
 her guest to ride, hunting up the old scenes and point- 
 ing out the changes that had been wrought, there was 
 no longer any apathy or weariness. The man had be- 
 come a boy again. His eye beamed ; his voice was full 
 of glee. The woman and the man touched hands across 
 the chasm of the years and were once more boy and 
 girl together. Their route led by Sturmhold, and the 
 fond mother proudly told the story of her son's love and 
 its return by the bright, gifted heiress. As she showed 
 him through its rooms and chattered of its history, the 
 master's life and the prospects of her son, they came 
 suddenly upon Lida. The poor woman gazed a moment 
 vacantly into the bright face of Mrs. Kortright, then, 
 with a cry of recognition, sprang toward her and seized 
 her hand. Mrs. Kortright was surprised. She had heard 
 that the woman had sane intervals and that they were 
 becoming more and more frequent, but she had never 
 
BRIDGING THE CHASM. 35g 
 
 seen one of them before. In her surprise and ignorance 
 she uttered the very worst thing she could have said. 
 
 "How do you do?" she cried, warmly clasping the 
 other's hand. "How pleased Hilda will be to know 
 that you are well again. I shall write and tell her." 
 
 "Hilda?" said the other with a startled look. " Hilda? 
 Oh, yes — I know — Hilda." Then her look changed to 
 one of mortal hate. She snatched away her hand and 
 said impetuously, "You need not trouble yourself, ma- 
 dam ; I shall write to Hilda myself" 
 
 Then she turned and stalked angrily away. 
 
 "That woman looks too dangerous to be at large," 
 said Fox, watching her retreating figure. 
 
 "Oh, not at all," said Mrs. Kortright. "Her atten- 
 dants are very careful, but she has never shown any in- 
 clination to do mischief." 
 
 " She glai-ed at you very angrily." 
 
 " Yes, indeed. She seems always to dislike me since 
 her misfortune, and that is as near being violent as she 
 ever gets." 
 
 When they returned home Mr. Kortright came out 
 upon the porch to receive them. There was a thrill of 
 rapture in the heart of the still fair woman, who stood 
 by and watched their hearty greeting at the thought 
 that these two men had loved her — aye, loved her still. 
 A blush came to her soft cheek with this last thought, 
 and then as the two men turned to the old times, each 
 evidently full of admiration for the other, she laughed 
 as she followed them within at the thought that her 
 Martin, if present, would be as full of the future as they 
 were of the past. They were not old men. Both of 
 them were progressives, who counted the present but the 
 stepping-stone of to-morrow ; but they had reached the 
 age when retrospect grows pleasant as the background of 
 to-day. She almost wished that Martin were there, as 
 he would have been but for her fear that the excitement 
 
354 HOT PLOWSHAREB. 
 
 of the morrow might awaken his longing to take part in 
 the struggle then going on in Kansas and stir his en- 
 thusiasm to a pitch which might defy even his word of 
 honor plighted to the absent Captain Hargrove. As 
 this name floated through her mind, she wondered 
 where he was and what had befallen the master of 
 Sturmhold. The time was drawing near when, in obedi- 
 ence to his request, if he were not heard from, her 
 husband was to take charge of his affairs and act upon 
 the presumption of his death. Her heart stood still with 
 foreboding as she sat down in the unlighted sitting- 
 room. The two men's voices sounded far away, though 
 she could almost reach them with her outstretched 
 hand. She was nervous, she said to herself, as she went 
 out to see that the evening meal was in readiness. 
 
CHAPTER XXIX. 
 
 A HARD BARGAIN. 
 
 Skendoaii is full of life, yet strangely silent. The 
 wheels stand idle. The water ripples peacefully over 
 them, trickles through the mossy trunks, overflows the 
 silent flumes and runs in a sparkling current down the 
 rocky channel. The mills are silent, and the rows of 
 windows in the factories only give back the light that 
 shines from the public hall, or reflect the beams of the 
 moon as it wades through fleecy autumn clouds. The 
 water had been shut off" at four o'clock, and when 
 the Avater was shut off" Skendoah was dead. The head- 
 gate by which the race below was fed was the great 
 aortic valve of the village life. When that was closed 
 all its activities ceased. The pulleys, belts and spindles 
 were still. The cogged wheels ceased to grind and 
 gnaw. The trip-hammers hung poised and motionless. 
 The breath of the forges failed. The anvils grew cold 
 and silent. The din of warfare betwixt man and mat- 
 ter ceased. The laborers had left their stations. The 
 dust was settling slowly within, even as the silent dew 
 without. 
 
 It was two hours since the autumn twilight began, 
 and more than an hour had passed since the glare of 
 torches, the beating of drums and blare of brazen in- 
 struments, with the tramp of many feet, had sounded ia 
 the streets. The town had gathered in its council hall. 
 The miniature republic had assembled its witanag- 
 emote, Avhere rich and poor and high and low and old 
 and young — male and female — considered of the nation's. 
 
356 HOT PLOWSHARES. 
 
 weal. One of the prime integers of republican power 
 took counsel as to the country's future and its part 
 therein. The people, in whose hands was the sceptre of 
 authority, had met in the town hall to decide as to how 
 it should be exercised. 
 
 They were not all agreed. The struggle of parties in 
 the little town had been very fierce. Yet in that free- 
 working, free-thinking community the majority had 
 daily grown stronger and the minority weaker, as the 
 contest between liberty and slavery approached its 
 culmination. At first there had been little rancor. 
 Among the scattered farmers of the hill-sides political 
 thought and controversy had been, in a great measure, 
 a diversion. The conflict of parties had seemed like a 
 great national game, in which all took a part and all 
 felt an interest, as in any other game ; but very few 
 took the result seriously to heart. As one or the other 
 side achieved success the jest of defeat Avas shifted back 
 and forth, and Whig and Democrat exchanged condo- 
 lence or congratulation with only enough of chagrin or 
 exultation to give zest to the recurrent conflict. When, 
 however, the question of human right came to be ac- 
 tually and directl}^ involved in the contest, it gradually 
 took on a more serious cast. The line of demarca- 
 tion was more sharply drawn. Neighbors grew cool to 
 one another. Friends began to abate something of 
 customary warmth. Business followed in the wake of 
 preference. Churches were divided. Families were sun- 
 dered. 
 
 In Skendoah these rules had suffered no exception. 
 So there were some who were by no means pleased at 
 the demonstration that was taking place. There were 
 some who took no pride in Dawson Fox, and no interest 
 in the cause he represented. Or rather, there were 
 some who contemned him because of the cause he re- 
 presented. They were not many, however, and the 
 
A HARD BAR G Am. 357 
 
 limit of their opposition was silence, or, at the utmost, 
 sneers. Those who indulged in these were generally 
 considered to be largely moved by jealousy of Harrison 
 Kortright and envy of his remarkable success. Except 
 these few, who svilked at home, and those others 
 whom care or illness kept away, the town had emptied 
 itself into the great rectangular hall, whose platform, 
 from its first dedication to popular use, had been a 
 veritable tribunal of liberty. Save for its flashing win- 
 dows and a few feeble lights here and there, the town 
 was dark. But for the regular shouts of applause, the 
 steady rhythm of an orator's full and animated tones, 
 a burst of song or a snatch of martial music, the town 
 was silent. The horses of those Avho had driven in from 
 the neighboring county were hitched around the public 
 square. A few of the shops were yet open, in the hope 
 of catching a penny from some belated purchaser. The 
 long rows of factories that lined the water's edge were 
 dark and desolate. There was something weird in the 
 contrast between the abundant life and light within the 
 hall and the silence and darkness without. 
 
 Dawson Fox was telling the dwellers of his boyhood 
 home the story of Kansas — "bleeding Kansas," as it 
 was then the fashion to style the territory on which 
 the skirmishers of the two great hosts were encamped, 
 and not unfrequently engaged. The crowded hall showed 
 a sea of earnest faces. All types and nationahties 
 were gathered there. Almost every part of Europe 
 had its representatives. A half-dozen colored men and 
 women were there, some with the watchful, hunted 
 look of the fugitive, and others with a self-importance 
 which naturally arose from a consciousness that their 
 race was in fact the bone of contention, the cause of 
 war. But the most noticeable in numbers and in evi- 
 dent preponderance of character, were they of that 
 type of face we call American-rkeen, watchful, scru- 
 
358 HOT PLOWSHARES. 
 
 tinizing, almost skeptical in its attent earnestness. They 
 were jurors in the greatest assize of earth — knights and 
 barons, holding in capite under the Great King, and 
 accountable to Him alone. Dawson Fox was the advo- 
 cate, not of himself or of the Free-State settlers of Kan- 
 sas, but of the principle they represented — of the cause 
 that underlay their occupancy of the boundless prairies. 
 He had entirely lost his worn and haggard look of the 
 day before. The inspiration of the orator and the fervor 
 of the prophet had overborne his physical infirmities. 
 His thin face was flushed, his spare form erect and full, 
 and his step upon the platform was as proud as that 
 of a conqueror. His faith discounted the ages, and the 
 triumph he foretold was ot the far millennial days. His 
 audience listened calmly. The crow's feet about the 
 keen, watchful eyes grew deeper and plainer. The 
 sharp, worn faces — men's faces and women's faces — on 
 which the struggle of life had carved lines of care — the 
 indices of self-reliant, independent natures — followed 
 his words with keen, curious looks of questioning or 
 approval, until little by little their language became 
 unanimous, and the orator led them without dissent to 
 his conclusions. Then his eloquence grew more fervid. 
 He had not only to convince them that he was right, 
 but to inspire them to act on that conviction. He 
 sought not only to awaken faith, but to secure the 
 works that testify belief. 
 
 The night without grew dark. The clouds that swept 
 across the moon's face were denser. The autumn wind 
 arose and moaned pitifully around the nooks and angles 
 of the building. The signs upon the streets below 
 creaked and clattered. The horses fastened to the rail- 
 ing along the public square looked wistfully about for 
 their masters, and shifted their positions to avoid the 
 wind and the clouds of dry dust which it whirled be- 
 fore it, 
 
A BARD BARGAIN. 359 
 
 The orator became more and more impassioned ; the 
 audience more enwrapt. The chairman, the Hon. Har- 
 rison Kortright, leaned forward, his keen white face 
 aglow with interest. His deep gray eyes flashed fire, 
 and his sharp, firm mouth was closed with almost angry 
 determination. He had no need to be convinced, but 
 only to be awakened. By his side sat Shields, one of 
 the vice-presidents of the meeting, and the oldest of 
 the orator's youthful acquaintances. His thin features 
 seemed thinner than ever before, as Uttle by little he 
 drew forward his chair until it stood almost at the 
 speaker's side. His narroAv bald head shone in the 
 light of the overhanging chandelier, while his scattering 
 gray locks were thrust back upon one side, and his left 
 hand, encircling the upturned ear made surer that he 
 should lose no word the speaker uttered. And those 
 words came thick and hot. Mrs. Kortright listened 
 with a pale, wondering face to the story which he told 
 of struggle in that new western land. She heard how 
 the legions of slavery overran the border ; how homes 
 were ravaged and burned ; the stock driven off and crops 
 destroyed. Oh ! many a heart stood still as the tale of 
 murder was told — cruel, unprovoked, save by the advo- 
 cacy of free thought and free speech. He told how, 
 under the forms of law, men were arrested, torn from 
 their families, exposed to every privation and torture ; 
 and even women and children made victims by infu- 
 riate bands to whom slavery seemed fair and sacred, 
 and liberty — the liberty of the colored man — foul and 
 unmeasurable wrong to the white man. The avidience 
 listened breathlessly. Mrs. Kortright thanked God in 
 her heart that Martin was not present. She Avas sure 
 that no power could restrain him should he hear this 
 impassioned plea. 
 
 The light poured out of the windows and shone with 
 a red, fitful glare upon the windows of the factory op-^ 
 
360 HOT PLOWSHARES. 
 
 posite. The clouds shut in the moon. The wind whirled 
 in boisterous gusts through the unpaved streets. How 
 the factory windows glowed ! It was almost ghostly the 
 red reflection from the lighted hall. One could almost 
 fancy the usual night work in progress. What a I'ow 
 of glittering panes ! Two hundred and forty feet of 
 shafting in one line ! All ! what a forest of belts and 
 pulleys and wheels ! How the floor was studded with 
 wondrous combinations of wood and iron ! How many 
 polished forms, now cold and dead, would wake to life 
 when the water was turned on upon the morrow ! Win- 
 dows ! Ah, the whole front was studded with them ! 
 Light is as important to the work done in this mill, 
 which is the pride of Harrison Kortright's heart — the 
 crown and climax of his ■ success — as the great wheel 
 which gives power to the polished shaft and life to the 
 flying belts ! Ah, what an array of windows ! How they 
 glow in the reflected light. How clear the sashes show 
 between the panes ! 
 
 Harrison Kortright, looking past the speaker, sees 
 them through the windows of the hall. His bosom 
 swells with self-reproach as he thinks of the wealth 
 those gleaming windows represent, and remembers 
 how little he has done for the cause the orator is pre- 
 senting. He turns his eyes again with admiration and 
 resolve toward the speaker. He will give liberally to 
 aid the Kansas pioneers. As God has dealt generously 
 with him so will he deal with his oppressed and needy 
 fellows. Then he remembered how plainly the sashes 
 showed in the windows a hundred yards away. It was 
 queer. He had never thought the whole front of the fac- 
 tory would be so lighted up with the glare from the hall. 
 It was so red, too. It must be on account of the dark- 
 ness of the night. He looked again. The windows 
 were still brighter than before ! and — what a silly 
 dreamer he was — he could almost swear that he saw 
 
A HARD BABGAIK 361 
 
 the polit^hed shafts and idle belts ! No— the machinery 
 was in motion ! He almost laughed outright as he 
 thought what a silly fool he was. He had studied it so 
 much that he saw it, as it was by day, even through the 
 night and the distance. It was queer. It must be one 
 of those optical delusions wliich we are all subject to at 
 times. It was strange that he could see only the windows 
 of the second story, too. He remembered that they 
 were just on a level with those of the hall. He had 
 sighted across the sills one day while they were put- 
 ting them in and ascertained that fact. So the angle 
 was just right for him to catch the reflection. Yet it 
 was strange the first and third stories were so dark. 
 And the second was growing lighter ! It was — could it 
 be ? He shaded his eyes with his left hand to look the 
 closer. The right, which grasped his cane, grew rigid 
 as he gazed. His face could not be more colorless or 
 inscrutable, but the light went out of his eyes — the lines 
 about his mouth grew deeper. 
 
 There was a cry without. 
 
 The orator paused. 
 
 Harrison Kortright was at his side in a moment and 
 whispering in his ear, "There must be no alarm. If 
 there is a rush a hundred will be trampled to death." 
 
 The speaker understood, and pressed his hand in 
 silence. 
 
 "Fire!" 
 
 One shrill, wild cry, that the winds took up and 
 whirled away into the night. The audience looked 
 from one to another in questioning surprise. Thank 
 God, the windows were too high for them to see what 
 was visible from the the platform. The door was upon 
 the opposite side of the building, too. 
 
 " Fire ! Fire !" 
 
 There were two voices now, but the wind whistled 
 and mocked at them, Some of the audience started from 
 
362 HOT PL W SHARES. 
 
 their seats. The speaker held up his right hand, the 
 pahu toward them. The buzz of alarm subsided instantly. 
 
 " This," said the orator, "is no doubt a trick of the 
 enem}'." 
 
 "Fire! Fire ! Fire!" 
 
 There were three voices now, and the wind could not 
 drown them. Kortright whispered in the speaker's ear. 
 Shields looked from the speaker to the audience in sur- 
 prise. 
 
 "It is not," said the speaker, " the first time that an 
 alarm of fire has been raised to break up an Abolition 
 meeting !" 
 
 The windows of the mill Avere light enough now. 
 The wheels were turning, the belts flying, the empty 
 arms of the machines clashing and flashing against the 
 red flames that lighted up the panes. 
 
 '' Fire ! Clang ! Boom ! Fire !" 
 
 The alarm-bell joined it- terrors to the voices of 
 shouting men without, 
 
 "Keep quiet!" said Kortright sternly. "They've 
 probably made a bonfire on the pubUc square." 
 
 "It is just time to close our meeting, anyhow," said 
 the orator, consulting his watch. 
 
 A fcAv started toward the door. 
 
 "Don't be in a hurry," said the speaker pleasantly. 
 " The band will now play ' The Star-spangled Banner." " 
 
 The band played. The audience was uneasy. Very 
 many started to go out. 
 
 " We will meet here to-morrow at twelve to see our 
 l)oys off" for Kansas !" shouted Kortright in a pause of 
 the music. " Don't forget it." 
 
 The blare of the trumpets filled the hall. The people, 
 i-eassured by his words and manner, moved quietly 
 toward the stairs ; Harrison Kortright watched anx- 
 iously, clasping his friend's hand as if in congratula- 
 tion and speaking to him Avith careless animation. 
 
A HARD B AEG Am. 863 
 
 They stepped toward Shields and turned his attention 
 another way. Tlie hall was half emptied of the unsus- 
 pecting hearers, when up the stairway came the roar of 
 many voices : 
 
 " Fire ! Fire ! Kortright's mill is on fire !'^ 
 
 Outside, the rush of many feet, the clamor of unnum- 
 bered voices and the clang of the alarm-bell mingled on 
 the breeze. The three men on the platform turned to- 
 ward the window and saw the red Hame and dense clouds 
 of prisoned smoke burst through the flashing, crashing 
 panes and roll upward arouud the doomed building. 
 
 "Thank God!" said Kortright, "no life has been 
 lost." 
 
 Then he rushed off the platform, spoke a word of 
 cheer to his white-faced wife, who, standing upon a 
 chair, was gazing at the scene of desolation, and in a 
 moment more was out of doors directing and stimulating 
 the eftbrts of the people to control the fire. 
 
 From end to end the great factory was now wrapped 
 in a sheet of red, leaping, smoke-tipped flame. The 
 whole second story was ablaze. The fire leaped out of 
 the windows on either side ; ran up the wooden walls ; 
 cUmbed upon the roof; burst through the floor into the 
 third story and ate its way downward into the first. 
 The wind tossed the flames about in wild mockery. It 
 caught up burning fragments and bore them here and 
 there. It swept the flames down upon the pallid multi- 
 tude, who gazed helplessly on the havoc that was being 
 wrought, and scattered them with its fierce breath. The 
 light flashed up against the clouds and painted their 
 darkness with lurid colors. A hungry roar went up from 
 the devouring flames as if an insensate demon asked for 
 more. 
 
 The firemen tried in vain to save the nearest building. 
 The factories stood thick along the banks of the narrow 
 rivulet, The hill rose sliarply just behind them and. 
 
364 HOT PLOWSHARES. 
 
 across the narrow street stood thick and close the houses 
 of the workingmen. The wind blew from the south- 
 westward. In front of this factory was the pubUc square 
 and the hall beyond. Mrs. Kortright, with her face 
 pressed against the window, saAV her husband, his gray 
 hair and white upturned face lighted by the flames, stop 
 the firemen who were trying to save the mill above, which 
 was his own, and lead them down to that which stood 
 below, in which he had no interest. But this lay in the 
 path of the flames, between the blazing factory and the 
 people's houses — between it and a score of other mills 
 and factories below. Side by side with him was Daw- 
 son Fox — the self-constituted leader of the men he was 
 addressing but a moment before. She saw the fire-light 
 shine on his flushed fac&. His long, light beard floated 
 on the wind that was now a gale. His eye flashed as he 
 half turned his face toward her and waved his hand in 
 the direction of the houses on the exposed hillside below. 
 She knew all in a moment. Thej^ were going to aban- 
 don the factory in the attempt to save the dwellings. 
 
 Already the people had divined their danger, and the 
 panic-stricken crowd rushed each to his OAvn threshold. 
 Men, women and children were stripping the houses in 
 hot haste. Whatever was deemed most precious was 
 seized first and carried to a place of safety or aban- 
 doned for something more valuable. It was a mad, 
 raging crowd, and in their terror they despoiled them- 
 selves almost as much as the fiend that followed hard 
 upon their footsteps would have done. 
 
 She started to go. Her husband had bidden her to 
 wait there in safety. She paused ; then laid aside her 
 Avrappings ; tied a red scarf about her head ; flung her 
 India shawl about her chest scarf-wise, and went out to 
 aid in bringing order out of confusion — to cheer the 
 men who stood in the pathway of the flame and bade 
 defiance to its lurid vrrath. 
 
A HARD BARGAIN. 365 
 
 Dawson Fox, with a gallant baud who followed his 
 lead without question, was at the apex of the flame that 
 crept swiftly and fiercely toward the factory below and 
 was already scorching with its hot breath the first of the 
 tenement-houses across the street. 
 
 "Only hold it back a little," Kortright had said to 
 him hoarsely, "until I can get this wild mob organized 
 so that we can fight it inch by inch. Of course, Smith's 
 factory must go ; but we may be able to save the houses- 
 some of them at least. Those who own them cannot 
 afford to lose them.'" 
 
 Fortunately the flumes were full. The little hand- 
 engine— the pride of the tillage on its hohday parades- 
 sucked the water from the race that ran in front of the 
 mill and threw it on the flame through only a single 
 length of hose. Strong arms manned the brakes, and 
 as one dropped off' wearied with the terrific exertion, 
 another took his place. The men's faces glowed with 
 excitement and perspiration. They dipped water from 
 the race to slake their thirst. The water cracked and 
 spluttered as it left the nozzle; hissed weakly as it 
 struck the flame-wrapped building, or was transformed 
 into clouds of vapor that showed soft and fleecy against 
 the red light and dense up-rolling billows of smoke. 
 Then the wind swept the flame down into their faces. 
 The smoke and soot choked them. The heat singed 
 their eyebrows and bUstered their arms and faces. They 
 fell back along the canal a few steps, and renewed the 
 conflict. Kearer and nearer crept the flame to the 
 doomed factory below— nearer and nearer to the doomed 
 dweUings across the narrow street. Fainter and more 
 hopeless grew the struggle of the puny engine with the 
 mighty conflagration. 
 
 But every moment Kortright was educing order out 
 of confusion. Already the corner house, which was 
 most threatened, was swathed in dripping blankets from 
 
366 HOT PLOWSHARES. 
 
 sill to ridge-pole. Ladders were placed at the farther 
 side, up which buckets were passed to men upon the 
 roof. They knew that it must go eventually, but while 
 they held it - the movable belongings of other homes 
 were being rapidly and systematically removed to a place 
 of safety. 
 
 All at once the race began to overflow. The engine 
 was with difficulty dragged across a narrow bridge, 
 whose planks were already floating away. The mill be- 
 low was abandoned to its fate. Its upper gable was 
 hardly ten yards away from the blazing pile. Already 
 the flames seemed about to leap across the intervening 
 space. 
 
 The owner of the imperiled mill had wrought like a 
 Hercules for its preservation. 
 
 " It 's no use !" he said, when it was proposed to carry 
 the hose across the race and keep up the struggle. " It 's 
 no use. Forty such engines couldn't save it.'' 
 
 "I'm afraid that's so," said Kortright. ''If there 
 was a chance we 'd take it. The only thing now is to 
 save the houses if we can." 
 
 " Yes," said the owner dejectedly. Then suddenly, 
 as if a new thought had occurred to him, " How came 
 the water to be turned on to-night, 'Squire ?" 
 
 "How came the water to be turned on?" echoed 
 Kortright angrily. "How came that mill on fii-e ?" he 
 asked, pointing to the flaming pile. 
 
 " Reallj^ I don't know. Some accident, I suppose," 
 said the other, somewhat abashed by his impetuosity. 
 
 "Accident?" said Kortright scornfullj' ; "the gate 
 was raised and the machinery was running when the 
 fire broke out ?" 
 
 "So? I remember now," said the other; "though I 
 had not thought of it before." 
 
 " You can hear the wheel now ?" 
 
 The other listened. 
 
A HARD BARGAIN. 3fi7 
 
 "That's a fact," with a look of horror. "It must 
 have been set on fire." 
 "Unquestionably." 
 " By whom ?" 
 "God only knows 1" 
 
 " You have not an enemy in Skendoah." 
 "Not that I know of." 
 " Then why— ?" 
 
 "See here, Smith," said Kortright, turning on him 
 fiercely, "if I have not an enemy in Skendoah, liberty 
 has I" 
 
 " You don't mean— ?" 
 
 "Aren't you hurt as well as I?" pointing to the ex- 
 posed gable that was already beginning to smoke. 
 
 "Ruined, ruined, sir," shaking his head hopelessly. 
 " Every cent lost, and a load of debt beside." 
 "Where were you an hour ago?" 
 "In the hall." 
 
 "And those people?" jerking his thumb over his 
 shoulder toward the dwelUngs in the rear. 
 "At the hall, too." 
 
 "Don't you see who the man meant to strike at that 
 lighted that fire, started my machinery and lifted that 
 gate ?" 
 
 " My God ! you don't mean— ?" 
 
 "Of course I do!" hissed Kortright through his set 
 teeth, "but, God helping me, he shall fail." 
 
 "You don't expect to save anything below here," 
 with a wave of the hand taking in half the town. 
 "I will," fiercely. 
 "How?" 
 "I don't know." 
 "I guess not. It can't be done." 
 "Hark! What is that ?" 
 
 A dull, heavy sound was heard as he spoke. It was 
 not the rumble of the wheel beneath the fated mill 
 
368 HOT PLOWSHARES. 
 
 or the rush of the devouring flames, but a muffled roar 
 that shook the earth beneath them. Every one stopped 
 and Ustened in amazement. Then a man who stood 
 upon the bridge that spanned the stream a hundred 
 yards below, looked up toward the great dam, and saw 
 a strange white Something leap out of the darkness, out 
 of the very base of the great Avail which had so long 
 imprisoned the waters of Memnona, and rush down the 
 old bed of the torrent. He saw it swell and rise until 
 it filled and overflowed the narrow channel which had 
 been almost closed up and built over since the waters 
 had been shut up behind the great wall of earth and 
 stone. He beheld its wliite crest flash beneath the red 
 rays of the burning mill before he half comprehended 
 what it meant. Then lie rushed across the bridge 
 toward the breathless, waiting crowd and cried : 
 
 " The dam 's broke ! The lake 's coming !" 
 
 "Impossible!" said Smith, incredulovisly. 
 
 "Impossible!" said Kortright, decidedly, remember- 
 ing the foundations on which it rested. 
 
 " Impossible !" echoed every one who heard. 
 
 All waited breathlessly. 
 
 The roar grew louder. The earth trembled beneath 
 their feet. The flames burned unheeded. Dawson Fox 
 stepped to the side of Mrs. Kortright, as if apprehen- 
 sive for her safety. She had been one of the most ac- 
 tive. Her example had done much to quiet the panic 
 which had at first seized men as well as women. Her 
 eyes were fixed on the white-haired man in the middle 
 of the street. He stood listening, wondering. All at 
 once he raised his head, and, with uplifted hands, 
 shouted : 
 
 "Thank God ! Thank God !" 
 
 Those who heard him thought Harrison Kortright 
 had suddenly become crazed. 
 
 " Mr. Smith !" he cried. " Sejanus Smith !" 
 
A HARD BARGAIN. 369 
 
 " Here !" answered the proprietor, who had stepped 
 back a few paces in apprehension. 
 
 " What will you take for that mill ?" 
 
 The fire was already curling up the smoking clap- 
 boards, 
 
 " In addition to the insurance ?" cautiously. 
 
 " Yes, in addition to that." 
 
 " Ten cents," contemptuously. 
 
 " I will give you ten thousand dollars !" 
 
 "What?" 
 
 " I will give you ten thousand dollars." 
 
 " It is sure to burn. " 
 
 " Of course. Will you take it ?" 
 
 " Certainly, if you mean it." 
 
 ' ' All right ! Shake hands ! ' ' 
 
 The two men clasped each other's hands in the street. 
 The bargain was confirmed. The hot breath of the 
 flame swept over them. They were almost alone on 
 the bank of the race. The crowd wondered what it 
 meant. 
 
 The flame leaped across the narrow space, and, with 
 a roar like that of artillery, the gable of the mill Kort- 
 right had just purchased burst into a blaze from sill 
 to cornice. 
 
CHAPTEE XXX. 
 
 A GOOD INVESTMENT. 
 
 A GROAN that was heard above the roar of the flames 
 burst from the crowd who were watching the conflagra- 
 tion. The last faint ray of hope had disappeared. Up 
 to that moment it had seemed possible to prevent the 
 spread of the flames. The factory that was already 
 half- consumed was farther removed from the other 
 buildings of the town than any of the others, because 
 of the open square in front of it. It is true that the 
 wind drove the fire directly toward the corner of a 
 block, but the street with the overflowing race was be- 
 tween them, and it was believed that with the most 
 strenuous exertions it might be saved. For this Harri- 
 son Kortright had abundantly provided, and for a quar- 
 ter of an hour — an interval that seems nothing less 
 than an age at such a time — the efforts of all had been 
 directed to that end. Smith's factory, however, which 
 was now on fire, owing to a bend in the stream which 
 was followed by the street was thrust like a wedge into 
 the most thickly-built portion of the town. Its lower 
 end, with hardly the interval of a yard, overlapped for 
 half its width another monster mill, whose destruction 
 was inevitable if the flames consumed the one they had 
 now attacked. Along the whole front of these, dwell- 
 ings and business houses were thickly built just beyond 
 the narrow street. These the demoralized crowd were 
 about to attack in the hope of saving whatever could be 
 borne away. Already they had begun to break open 
 370 
 
A GOOD INVESTMENT. 371 
 
 the doors and windows, when the voice of Harrison 
 Kortright was heard exclaiming : 
 
 "I want fifty good men to help me save Skendoah. 
 Every man who is willing to obey me, step forward 1" 
 
 More than a hundred were about him in an instant. 
 That he might be the better heard, he sprang upon a 
 box, which had been carried half across the street and 
 abandoned. 
 
 "Gentlemen, if you will follow my directions, I will 
 save the town." 
 
 There was an incredulous silence. 
 
 ' ' I see you do not believe me. You did not believe 
 me when I set out to build the town, either." 
 
 There were cries of "That's so!" "Goon!" "Hur- 
 rah for 'Squire Kortright !" It was a vote of confi- 
 dence—elliptical but sincere. The man who had cre- 
 ated the town out of nothing might surely be trusted 
 to save it if possible. The crowd gathered closer and 
 listened attentively. 
 
 " I am not surprised that you hardly believe it, but I 
 mean what I say. You all know me, and you know I 
 am not accustomed to give fancy prices for anything. 
 Isn't that so '?" 
 
 " That 's truth. No doubt of that !" 
 
 "Well, I've just invested a little more in Skendoah 
 property. You know I sold Smith his water-right and 
 land a few years ago for three thousand dollars. "Well, 
 I 've just bought it back for ten." 
 
 " Ah, the divil ! It '11 be many a long day afore ye '11 
 see the money back, I'm thinkin'," said a quick-witted 
 Irishman. 
 
 "I never shall see it back unless we save the town, 
 and we can do that if every man will act as I direct. 
 Will you do it ?" 
 
 "Aye 1 Aye !" 
 
 " Then we must organize. I will name a few whom 
 
373 HOT PLOWSHARES. 
 
 all must obey. As I call their names, let them come 
 forward and receive orders.'' 
 
 He glanced sharply over the crowd, and by the light 
 of the fire quickly selected his lieutenants. As they came 
 up he gave one after another his instructions, and the 
 crowd was soon dispersed to their execution, except half 
 a dozen who remained grouped around their gray-haired 
 leader. It was evident at once that the confidence which 
 had been expressed by those about him was shared by 
 all to whom Kortright's determination was conveyed. 
 The panic was quickly suppressed, and the crowd quietly 
 urged back by those whom he had detailed for that pur- 
 pose. Then he spoke a few words to the men who re- 
 mained, laying his hand impressively upon the shoulder 
 of the man he had chosen to be their leader. 
 
 "I know," said he, " that it is a dangerous duty, and 
 I have selected you men because I know you will not 
 flinch. If you succeed, the town is safe. If not, Har- 
 rison Kortright will be with you. I never ask a man to 
 do what I would shrink from myself." 
 
 " We '11 'tend to it, boss ; you never mind," said one. 
 
 " No," said Kortright, decidedly. " You bring it here 
 and I will do the rest. Kemember, you have promised 
 to obey." 
 
 "Yes, but— " 
 
 " Make haste ! There is not a minute to lose !" 
 
 He waved his hand imperiously and the men started 
 off at a run. 
 
 Dawson Fox stepped forward and took Kortright's 
 hand. He had heard every word. 
 
 " Let me do this," he said, looking up into the other's 
 face. 
 
 "You cannot," decidedly. 
 
 "But I—" 
 
 "You know nothing of the premises. The man who 
 
A GOOD INVESTMENT. 373 
 
 is to do that must have every foot of that mill as clear 
 in his mind as that tire is in yom* eye." 
 
 "Then I think I ought to be the man," said the re- 
 cent owner hesitatingly. 
 
 He liad stood by and heard the plan which Kortright 
 had devised. The firelight shone on his face. It was 
 pale, but his lips were shut tightly and his voice was 
 steady. 
 
 Kortright gave him his hand. 
 
 "You are a young man, Smith, with a young family. 
 Besides," with a smile, "it is my mill, you know. By 
 the way, Fox, you will remember if anything happens 
 to me that I owe Sejanus Smith ten thousand dollars." 
 
 " And what shall I do ?" asked Smith, huskily. There 
 must be something — " 
 
 "Yes, certainly. Get your men ready and some of 
 Tanner's, and, as soon as it is over, cover the gable of 
 Tanner's mill with wet blankets and throw up an em- 
 bankment at the lower end of your mill. It would be a 
 good thing if you could dam the race, too." 
 
 "All right," said Smith, as he started off, "It shall 
 be done !" 
 
 "And I," said Dawson Fox, looking reverently upon 
 the white-faced man who stepped down from the box 
 and glanced sharply round at the flames, "What shall 
 I do?" 
 
 Harrison Kortright looked swiftly up and down the 
 flame-lit street before he ansAvered. The engine had 
 been driven from the race by the heat and was now 
 plying from some well or cistern on the exposed corner. 
 Men were on the roofs along the whole row of buildings, 
 supplied with buckets, to put out the coals and cinders 
 that might fall upon the shingle roofs. Others patroled 
 the street similarly equipped and watched the fronts of 
 the buildings. The crowd had disappeared. Kort- 
 right's eyes beamed with satisfactioa as he saw how 
 
374 HOT PL W8HARE8. 
 
 readily his instructions had been carried out. At the 
 entrance to an alley almost opposite he saw his wife 
 watching him with a countenance full of anxiety. 
 
 " What can I do ?" repeated Dawson Fox. 
 
 "You," said Kortright, solemnly, "You will look 
 after Mattie !" His lip quivered and the clasp of his 
 hand was like a vise, but his voice was firm. 
 
 " But I would rather — " 
 
 "You cannot do what is to be done. If you stay 
 with me she will be alone. If you are with her I know 
 she will be safe." 
 
 Dawson Fox bowed, Avrung his hand and turned 
 away just as the men who had been sent away returned 
 bearing between them through the heated street a num- 
 ber of kegs, each of which was marked : 
 " Poa-fZe?-." 
 
 Placing himself at the head of these men Kortright 
 crossed the race and entered the building he had so 
 recently purchased, the upper end of which was already 
 aflame, while the heated currents of smoke rolled 
 through the upper stories, scorching and searing like 
 the blast of a furnace. Dawson Fox re-crossed the 
 street and took his place by the side of Mrs. Kort- 
 right in the shadow of a brick building where she 
 stood. An instant afterward all but one of the men re- 
 turned, and, running up and down the street, cautioned 
 every one to retire to a place of safety. After a mo- 
 ment Harrison Kortright and the foreman of the mill, 
 who had remained with him, came out, and seeing that 
 all were out of danger, the former, after some protes- 
 tation on the part of his companion, went again into 
 the mill. The foreman stepped nervously toward the 
 narrow foot-bridge that crossed the race. The shouting 
 was hushed. Only the sound of the flames was heard, 
 and the roar of rushing Avaters. Around every corner 
 peered an anxious face. Presently Harrison Kortright 
 
A GOOD INVESTMENT. 375 
 
 rushed out through smoke that was now pouriug from 
 every door and window. He staggered, half-bUnded, 
 toward the foot-bridge. Seeing the foreman waiting 
 there he cried out : 
 
 " Kun 1 Run ! It is all right." 
 
 The man turned and fled. Harrison Kortright rushed 
 ujion the bridge as fast as his lameness would permit. 
 Half-way across he turned as if to see that the train he 
 had lighted was burning properly. As he did so his foot 
 fell upon the end of a loose board ; the other end flew 
 up, and in an instant he was struggling in the water. 
 As he fell a shadow darted out of the shaded alley op- 
 posite, and the lookers-on saw Dawson Fox fly across 
 the street toward him. Just as he reached the bank of 
 the race there was a dull roar that was heard above the 
 tumult of the waters and the rush of the flame that 
 towered above the doomed building. Then the walls of 
 the lower factory trembled. The whole structure seemed 
 to be lifted up. The blazing gable was thrown back 
 upon the pile from which it had caught the flame. 
 The windows bulged outward. The roof parted at the 
 ridge-pole, and then fell inwards. A vast cloud of black 
 smoke and dust shut out the whole from sight, and 
 shot upward against the white, fleecy clouds that just 
 then had opened around the cold, full moon. Then there 
 was another and a sharper explosion. The earth shook 
 Avith the force of the concussion. A thousand pounds 
 of powder had been exploded beneath the mill. The 
 vast pile rose and crumbled. A bright flash shot up- 
 ward from the centre. Tlien the whole sank down into 
 a shapeless mass. The air seemed full of broken frag- 
 ments. Pieces of the shattered building rattled like 
 hail upon the roofs of the houses opposite. Mrs. Kort- 
 right started to rush to her husband through the shower 
 of fragments. A strong arm held her back. 
 
 "It's uo use, Mrs. Kortright," said Smith, as he re- 
 
376 HOT PLOWSHARES. 
 
 fu&ed to release her. "You cannot help them. The 
 water is not deep. If your husband is not hit with the 
 falling pieces he is safe," 
 
 A moment after a hundred feet were hurrying to the 
 place where Kortright had disappeared. Dawson Fox 
 had halted for an instant when the explosion had oc- 
 curred, and then had leaped into the race. Those who 
 came to the rescue saw a man struggling in the water. 
 A dozen hands seized him and drew him forth. Stran- 
 gled, gasping, dripping, they bore him to the middle of 
 the street. The light of the burning mill fell on the 
 white, drawn face of Harrison Kortright. For a mo- 
 ment all else was forgotten. Mrs. Kortright sat in the 
 du^ty roadway with his head upon her lap. The crowd 
 rushed forth from their hiding places and pressed around 
 with anxious faces. Some one brought a torch of 
 blazing fragments and held it near him. All else was 
 forgotten in the danger of the founder and benefactor 
 of the town. The village doctor made a hasty exami- 
 nation. The patient lay pallid and gasping. A thou- 
 sand suggestions were made. His breathing grew 
 stronger and more regular. The richly-dressed woman 
 wiped his face with her white handkerchief, and held 
 him tightly to her breast. Presently he opened his eyes 
 and tried to speak. The physician rose and said cheer- 
 fully : 
 
 "He is not hurt ; only strangled and confused." 
 
 Then there was a shout. They took him in their 
 arms to bear him to a place of comfort and shelter. He 
 shook himself loose ; sat up ; gazed Avildly about, and 
 chokingly exclaimed : 
 
 " Fox ! Fox ! where is he V 
 
 Where, indeed ! In their anxiety for their friend and 
 neighbor they had forgotten the stranger. 
 
 Instant search was made, and from the swollen race 
 
 This one was 
 
A GOOD TNVE8TMENT. 877 
 
 silent and limp. Xo stertorous gasp gave promise of 
 life. When his face was turned toward the fire-light a 
 deep red gash showed upon the temple, and the hands 
 of those who held his head were deeply stained with 
 blood. The physician placed his thumb upon the wound 
 (and felt a harsh, dull grating answer to his pressure. He 
 shook his head hopelessly, and wiped the blood from his 
 hand. Dawson Tox was dead. A fragment of the 
 building had struck him as he stood over the man he 
 ^sought to rescue. He had saved the husband of his 
 boy-love by yielding up his own life instead. There 
 were many tearful eyes that marked a sad, sweet smile 
 upon the cold dead face as it lay there in the dusty 
 roadway lighted by the raging fire. 
 
 Harrison Kortright heard the sad tidings and offered 
 no more resistance to those who would bear him away. 
 He realized as no one else could the sacrifice that had 
 been made for him. He remembered the brave, set 
 face lighted by the lurid glow of the explosion, that for 
 a moment hung over him. He remembered the strong 
 arms that for an instant clasped him close, held him 
 above the strangling current and then relaxed their 
 hold, tremulous and weak, while he who had come to 
 rescue fell prone across his breasl and bore him again 
 beneath the water. 
 
 As the crowd started on along a narrow street that 
 led up the hill-side from the bank of the stream with 
 their sad burden, there came a cry from those whom 
 Smith had rallied to protect the mill below : 
 
 " The water is rising ! The bridge has gone !" 
 
 At the same time the fiame that was springing up in 
 the debris of the explosion began to hiss and splutter. 
 
 "The sMce-gates are open," said Kortright feebly. 
 "It is all right. The channel is too narrow and the 
 water will back up so as to overfloAv the lower story. 
 Thank God ! the town is safe," 
 
378 HOT PLOWSHARES. 
 
 He was right. The loug unused channel of the moun- 
 tain torrent had been so obstructed by walls and piers 
 that when the tide poured out of the sluice-gates there 
 was not space for it to flow oft", and it choked and fouled 
 until it overspread its banks and poured into the lower 
 story of the mills that stood thick along its course. By 
 this means the fire was prevented from spreading, and 
 Skendoah was saved from a disaster which for a time 
 seemed to be unavoidable. Yet the tale of destruction 
 was not yet ended. As they bore the living and the dead 
 up the hill to the shelter of a friendly house some one 
 uttered an exclamation which caused all to look around. 
 Upon the dark hill-side beyond the roaring torrent that 
 boiled between, a sheet of yellow flame shot up, lighting 
 the whole surrounding region. Mrs. Kortright saw at a 
 glance what it meant. 
 
 "Move on, move on !" she cried hastily to those who 
 bore her husband. She dreaded, above all things, lest 
 his dull eyes should learn the truth. Paradise Bay was 
 wrapped in flame. 
 
CHAPTER XXXI. 
 
 ON THE DIVIDE. 
 
 Skendoah was not in ashes, but a black, smoulder- 
 ing gap in the row of factories along the bank of the 
 stream greeted the eyes of its people on the morning 
 succeeding the events of our last chapter. The rush 
 of water along the tortuous channel had subsided. 
 The prisoned lake had escaped from thralldom. Only 
 a sparkling rivulet ran along the muddy bottom of the 
 great reservoir, bustled through the open jaws of the 
 huge waste-gate, and foamed and flashed in the long- 
 unused channel below. Flood and fire had both de- 
 spoiled the little town, but the former had put an end 
 to the ravages of the latter. By what means the gate 
 had been opened, and whether as an act of good or 
 evil purpose, no one knew. At any other time, the 
 flood would have been an absolute misfortune. Coming 
 as it did, it was an inestimable blessing. Yet it had left 
 rueful marks as well as the flame it quenched. The 
 street across which the battle with the flames had been 
 fought had been submerged a few moments afterwards. 
 The water pouring through the gate, impelled by the 
 weight of the accumulated store behind the dam, would 
 have soon overflowed the channel had it been straight 
 and unobstructed. But it was neither. Little by little 
 factories and bridges had encroached upon the domain 
 of the mountain torrent, until, when it suddenly burst 
 loose, it was to find its way choked and impeded at 
 every turn. It tore away one obstruction after an- 
 other, only to heap up in a bend just below the village 
 the debris of its fury, until its tumultuous rage was, for 
 379 
 
380 HOT PL WSHARES. 
 
 the time, effectually checked. Then the Abaters began 
 to rise in the town, sullenly and silently heaping up 
 behind this temporary barrier, until they crept into 
 the lower windows of the factories, caught the hissing 
 cinders that fell from the flaming buildings, passed 
 beyond the farther walls, stole across the street, and 
 choked in rising vapor the conflagration that raged 
 above its dark and angry surface. Lake Memnona Avas 
 empty once more. The fire was extinguished. The 
 flood had subsided. Dawson Fox was dead. Harrison 
 Kortright was chained to his bed with the shackles of his 
 old enemy newly fastened on his overwrought system. 
 On the hill-side beyond, a black smouldering mass lay 
 among the scorched and blighted trees where the pret- 
 tiest and richest of the mansions of Skendoah had 
 stood. 
 
 "Who did it ?" was the inquiry which each one asked 
 of himself and his neighbor. The idlers who gazed at 
 the ruins, loitered about the streets and met in the 
 doorways, talked of nothing else. The water being 
 turned off, the remaining mills were shut down, some of 
 them that the damages by the flood might be repaired, 
 and the others because there was no inclination on the 
 part of any one to labor. The boys played up and down 
 the stream, clambered in and out of the broken windows 
 of the mills, burrowed among the debris of the overflow 
 for flotsam, or waded about upon the slimy bottom of 
 the pond in search of finny prey which had been left 
 among the ooze by the sudden decadence of the waters. 
 But all the time they were wondering, like their elders, 
 as to the cause of the calamity. 
 
 In the town-hall, on a plainly-draped bier, lay the 
 body- of Dawson Fox. At that time the people of the 
 little country town, despite its sudden dash at prosper- 
 ity, had not learned to decorate the place of the dead. 
 Flowers at a funeral would have been regarded almost 
 
ON THE DIVIDE. 381 
 
 as a sacrilege, and no one even thought of draping the 
 banner that hung hstlessly above the platform, the cof- 
 fin across. All was cold, dull black, save the fixed 
 white face, with its framewoi-k of white satin, that la}' 
 within. Solemn-faced and noiselessly the people passed 
 in and out. A jury of inquest was impaneled in the 
 room below, and came up in a body to view the corpse. 
 There needed to be no autopsy. A thousand knew the 
 cause of death. The real inquiry was as to the cause 
 of the fire. 
 
 The examination was a profitless one. Many wit- 
 nesses were called, many questions asked and very little 
 learned. A few facts were made plain : 
 1. The gate which supplied the common race by which 
 all the mills received their supply of water, had 
 been closed at four o'clock on the day previous, by 
 general consent of the owners and operatives. 
 '2. The Avater had been turned off" the wheel in Kort- 
 right's mill and the machinery stopped, by express 
 order of the owner, an hour earlier than the time 
 mentioned. 
 
 3. When the fire was discovered at about a quarter to 
 
 ten o'clock in the evening, the Avheel was running 
 and the machinery of the mill in motion. 
 
 4. The waste-gate was not opened until more than an 
 
 hour after the breaking out of the fire. It had never 
 been opened before since the building of the dam. 
 It was reached by a frame of timbers that extended 
 above the dam some forty feet or more, into the 
 deepest part of the original channel. It was worked 
 by a large iron screw, M'hich itself was operated by 
 means of a wooden lever which passed through its 
 head. To open these gates to their fullest extent, 
 as they were found the next morning, with a head 
 of forty feet of water or thereabouts resting against 
 
382 HOT PLOWSHARES. 
 
 them, was a task requiring no little time and 
 
 strength for its accomplishment. 
 5. Paradise Bay was discovered to be on fire something 
 
 more than half an hour after the rush of water 
 
 through the waste-gate was first noted. 
 From these facts the jury concluded that Kortright's 
 mill and Kortright's house were set on fire by some per- 
 son desirous of doing him an injury, and utterly reckless 
 as to those who might share in the calamity. There 
 were some other incidents which served more to confuse 
 the jury than to aid them in prosecuting the inquiry 
 beyond this point. Just here two very troublesome 
 questions arose : 
 
 1. Why was the machinery of the mill put in motion ? 
 
 2. Why were the waste-gates opened ? 
 
 To the first, the most evident and general response 
 was that it was done through sheer wantonness of 
 malice. To the second, there was an inclination to 
 reply that the incendiary, terrified at the result of his 
 work, had hit upon this plan to extinguish the flames, 
 and repair, to some extent, the evil he had done. 
 
 In seeming contradiction of this theory, however, 
 was the fact that the wooden lever used to open the 
 gates was found in the road half way to Kortright's 
 residence. If the two fires were regarded as the work 
 of one incendiary, it was evident that after kindling the 
 first he had passed along the top of the dam, opened the 
 sluice and then lighted the second. This was the general 
 belief. Some dwellers in the upper part of the town 
 testified to having seen a dark form pass and repass 
 along the crest of the dam while the fire was at its 
 height. A boy who had come from a farm-house upon 
 the east side of the stream to witness the conflagration 
 that was raging l)eyond, had been terrified by a strange 
 shape that rushed at him with an uplifted bludgeon 
 
ON THE DIVIDE. 383 
 
 not far from where the gate-lever was found. He 
 had not waited for further inquiry, but fled homeward 
 across the fields and fences, inspired by a terror that 
 took little heed of obstacles. His story was so confused 
 and absurd that little heed was paid to it. As to two 
 points all were agi'eed : 
 
 1. The fire was the work of an incendiary. 
 
 2. The said incendiary was moved and instigated by a 
 
 particular malice toward Harrison Kortright. 
 
 Whether this malice was based upon a more general 
 antipathy to the cause of human freedom, which Kort- 
 right at that time especially represented, was a question 
 in regard to which there was great difterence of opinion. 
 The majority — and it was a turbulent and loud-speak- 
 ing majority — believed this to be the case. The mi- 
 nority — a subdued and apologetic one — pointed to the 
 opening of the sluice-gates and the firing only of Kort- 
 right's property in support of a contrary view. The 
 majority sneered at this as absurd. To them the acts 
 referred to were only part of a preconcerted plan to 
 escape detection. 
 
 So the jury returned a verdict which was true in one 
 sense no doubt, though hardly reasonable in a legal 
 sense, that Dawson Fox came to his death by the un- 
 lawful and incendiary act of a certain person or per- 
 sons to them unknown. The people of Skendoah and 
 of the country round, by a large majority, had already 
 decided, however, that the burning of Kortright's mill, 
 the destruction of his house, and the death of Dawson 
 Fox, were all of them acts of the opponents of personal 
 liberty — outrages of the pro-slavery propagandists. Of 
 those who entertained this belief Harrison Kortright 
 was among the most undoubting and sincere. His love 
 of Skendoah and his desire for wealth and success were 
 at once swallowed up in a burning zeal for justice and 
 
384 HOT PL WSHARES. 
 
 revenge. He saw little prospect of detecting the actual 
 perpetrator of the crime, but he was sure that he knew 
 its motive. So he lay upon his sick bed, silent but alert, 
 and planned with firm-set lips and flashing e3'es how 
 he would strike back at that hated institution whose 
 minions he never once doubted had given his propertj' 
 to the flame and shed the blood of his friend. He had 
 been a firm 1:>ut quiet opponent of slavery up to this 
 time. The dead man who rested upon his bier in the 
 town-hall, the "flaming apostle of liberty in Kansas," 
 had been dull and mild when compared with what this 
 calm, gray-haired man of business resolved that he 
 Avould be thereafter. 
 
 .Tared Clarkson, who had come to sympathize with 
 one friend and bury another, fierce as Avas his hatred of 
 the "institution," shrank in s-jomething of terror from the 
 burning zeal of this man who seemed inspired to avenge 
 the death of his friend, net upon its immediate perpe- 
 trators, but on what he deemed the remote cause. Mar- 
 tin, summoned by news of the disaster, was devoted 
 in the very moment of his arrival to the purpose that 
 filled his father's heart. Instead of five, it had been 
 decided that Skendoah should send ten men to uphold 
 the right in Kansas ; that they should leave upon the 
 morrow, and that Martin should go with them. They 
 should be hona fide settlers, too, sworn to make the 
 virgin territory' free soil. He himself would be answer- 
 able for one-half their expenses for the first year. The 
 mother sobbed placidly and helplessly. The crippled 
 magnate was a king whose imperious will brooked no 
 denial. The son, fired by the events which had oc- 
 curred, took his father's command as a consecration. 
 Already his heart was eager for the conflict. He was 
 impatient of the days that must intervene before he 
 should stand upon the prairie and enter the camp of 
 '•Old Brown." He saw, with his lather's eyes, that 
 
ON THE DIVIDE. 385 
 
 slavery must be destroyed. No matter what it might 
 cost — war, blood, death — anything were better than the 
 one thing he was called upon to aid in sweeping from 
 the earth. In his zeal he forgot his promise to Har- 
 grove. He even forgot for the moment that sweet pre- 
 sence in the New England seminary, who was to be 
 his other-self — dimiditmi mece^ he had already begun to 
 call her in the stilted Latin phrase of the college. 
 
 The funeral was in the afternoon. Jared Clarkson 
 stood by the open bier, and in noble words and fervid 
 accents told the story of his life and death. Happy the 
 dead who had such an eulogist ! The people listened 
 quietly but sternly to his words. When the funeral was 
 over there was a meeting in the town hall. Only men 
 attended it, and they were stern-faced and angry-eyed. 
 The women stayed at home and wondered beneath 
 their breaths Avhat would be done. There was very little 
 speaking. They adopted resolutions which seemed tame 
 to them, but were regai'ded as incendiaxy and revolu- 
 tionary by all the world which saw not the charred ruins, 
 and the cold, dead face. Jared Clarkson Avrote them. 
 While his life was full of charity his pen seemed always 
 tipped with venom. The people of Skendoah declared 
 thereby that Dawson Fox died a victim of political hate ; 
 that the hand that held the torch which had disfigured 
 and all but devastated their beautiful village, was that of 
 the great enemy of man and liberty, the slave-power of 
 the South. This was recited at great length, and with 
 sundry ingenious rhetorical flourishes. It will be noted 
 that there was not a particle of evidence to support this 
 conclusion, yet upon it the popular heart rested with 
 the most undisturbed confidence. Of the ultimate cause 
 there was not a doubt ; of the immediate instrument, 
 not a suspicion. There was not a human being to whom 
 any inhabitant pointed in his thought even and said, 
 . "I believe that his hand did this deed." There were a 
 
386 HO T PLO W SHARES. 
 
 few of whom all men said, " The}^ are responsible for 
 this evil." They were those who had sneered at his en- 
 terprises, and carped at the political faith of Harrison 
 Kortright — the stubborn, irreconcilable minority which 
 is to be found in every communit}-, men born in the op- 
 position and condemned by temperament to be envious, 
 if not malignant. A committee of public safety was 
 also organized, whose duty it was to take ever}"- possible 
 means to ferret out the crime. This was needless. 
 From his sick bed a far more potent spirit was already 
 at work. Silently and coolly, but with a determination 
 that never faltered, Harrison Kortright set himself to 
 discover the hand that had smitten him in the darkness. 
 Like the populace, he was without suspicion of any 
 one. Like them, too, he was affected with distrust of 
 many. He was actuated not less by a desire for public 
 safety than by a sense of personal wrong, but most of 
 all by an intense desire to bring to punishment the 
 malefactors whose act had resulted in the death of 
 his friend. Mrs. Kortright alone did not believe that 
 the accepted theory of the crime vras the true one. 
 Without opposing his plans, she insensibly modified her 
 husband's resentment and disarmed his distrust. She 
 had no pet hypothesis. To her the events of that 
 night were only a sad, insoluble mystery. She cared 
 little for the loss of propert}-. The death of the man 
 who had been her lover and had come back after many 
 years in the guise of so sweet a friend, Avhile sor- 
 rowful enough, was not without its consolation. His 
 death had been worthy of himself at his best estate. 
 If there had been a shade of weakness in his life, it 
 was removed by the manner of his death. The hint of 
 failure, the flavor of ill-success, could never pass this 
 crowning act of self-sacrifice. His was a memory to be 
 cherished, not only with affection, but with pride. The 
 loss of her home had cut her to the heart. She re- 
 
OW THE DIVIDE. 387 
 
 proached herself with the thought that it brought more 
 sorrow than the death of her friend. It was natural 
 that it should. The home upon the hill-side had bounded 
 her whole life. Whatever change had come in their con- 
 dition, while it left its marks upon their surroundings, 
 expanding and enriching the homestead from time to 
 time, until to the eye of the stranger its identity seemed 
 destroyed, yet to her it had always remained the same. 
 It was her home. Her personality fitted into every niche 
 along with that of her husband. In losing it she seemed 
 to have lost a part of her very being. It was the back- 
 ground on which all her existence had been projected. 
 These feelings, however, were swallowed up in two all- 
 absorbing sources of gratification— her husband lived, 
 and the town had been saved from destruction. She 
 did not beheve, she would not believe, that any hand 
 within its limits had been lifted to strike at him. She 
 could not believe that any political animosity would in- 
 duce any one to peril the safety of the town, and espe- 
 cially to aim a blow at her. So she smiled at the 
 resolutions that went far and wide throughout the land. 
 The letters of condolence which poured in upon her 
 husband, all assuming that he was a martyr to a 
 great cause, both amused and annoyed her. Once he 
 had laughed at her hostility to slavery; now he was 
 almost angry that she would not account it the sole 
 cause of their misfortunes. They had yet to learn the 
 lesson which Time so often teaches to those who dis- 
 agree, that both were right and both were wrong. 
 
 It was because of this conviction that Mrs. Kort- 
 right, for perhaps the first time in her life, offered 
 a serious objection to any project on which her hus- 
 band had decided. She did oppose the sending of her 
 son to Kansas. Five good men and true had readily 
 been found among those thrown out of employment, 
 for a time at least, by the fire, to go with the other five, 
 
388 HOT PLOWSHARES. 
 
 as Free State settlers, to Kansas. Their departure had 
 necessarily been dela3-ed beyond the time Avhicli the im- 
 petuous sufterer had fixed upon at first. There had been 
 a subscription started to rebuild a little frontier church in 
 which Dawson Fox had ministered, and which had been 
 destroyed by a gang of Missouri raiders, as a memorial 
 to his memory. During this period of delay Mrs. Kort- 
 right did not fail to urge as gently as she could upon 
 her husband's attention that their son had given his 
 word to Hargrove, which it would be bad faith to ignore, 
 except in case of some great public crisis. 
 
 "And is it not a great crisis," the sick man confi- 
 dently asked, "when slavery, not content with having 
 invaded our homes to search for the fugitive, and com- 
 pelled us by law to return him into bondage, comes 
 also and applies its favorite methods for repressing free 
 speech here in the midst of us ?" 
 
 "Admitting this," his wife would say, "you cannot 
 deny that we are not only bound to regard Mr. Har- 
 grove's wishes ourselves, but that Martin is under 
 especial obligation to do so. Can you claim that there 
 is any more need for him to forego his preparation 
 for life's duties and engage in the conflict going on in 
 Kansas now than Avhen you gratefully thanked Captain 
 Hargrove for preventing his departure ?" 
 
 To this view no answer could be given, but it is pro- 
 bable that his wife's importunities would have been of 
 little avail to restrain the exasperated father and hold 
 back the son, whose martial ardor was at fever heat, 
 had it not been for certain items of intelligence which 
 arrived while they waited for the day fixed upon for 
 their departure. 
 
 The first of these was a letter from Hilda, to whom 
 Martin had found leisure, even amid the excitements 
 of the time, to write a full account of all that had oc- 
 curred, including the fact that his father had determined 
 
ON THE DIVIDE. 889 
 
 that he should go to Kansas with the others. Upon 
 this topic he had dilated with much earnestness and 
 enthusiasm. The young girl, dwelling in the quiet of 
 the Blankshire hills, knowing nothing of the mental 
 atmosphere of Skendoah, save from his letter, and 
 withal influenced not a little by the selfishness of love, 
 took a view of the situation which effectually dam- 
 pened the ardor of the would-be knight-errant of liberty, 
 and staggered the positiveness of the father's convic- 
 tion. She wrote : 
 
 "My Dear Martin : I was glad to get your long letter, 
 though it made me very sad indeed. I would come to you 
 at once, for I am sure you need me, but a letter which I 
 have just received from Papa — the lirst after so many 
 mouths — says that he will follow in a few days, and will take 
 me home for a vacation that is not set down in the cata- 
 logue. As this is the last year, and the principal is sure of 
 her pay anyhow, she does not care so very much about ab- 
 sences as she otherwise would. I look for him every day, 
 and may be with you as soon as my letter. I may even 
 get there in time to read it to you. That would be nice, 
 wouldn't it ? Just think of a young gentleman getting a 
 letter from his lady-love by word of mouth— her mouth, 
 too ! I think it would be capital sport, only you would 
 have to promise very solemnly not to— to— interrupt, you 
 know. 
 
 "Oh, my dear Martin, you must forgive me for seeming 
 to be gay M^hen you are in such serious trouble at Sken- 
 doah. I am sure I am sorry — very sorry for jjoor Mr. 
 Fox, whom I did not know at all, you know (and whom I 
 am sure I should not have liked if I had known), and for 
 your papa, who suffers so much, and your dear mamma, 
 who has lost her beautiful home. Poor dear Aunt Mattie 
 (I shall never learn to call her anything else), she must 
 feel as if her life had been cut right in twain and the best 
 part of it thrown away, leaving her only the evening 
 years to call her own," 
 
390 HOT PLOWSHARES. 
 
 "And that is just the way I do feel," sobbed Mrs. 
 Kortright, interrupting the reading of the letter ; " but 
 Avho would have thought she would have understood it ? 
 I wish she were here, the dear child ; I do indeed." 
 
 "But then I am so glad that you are safe, your father 
 alive, your mother well, and my papa coming home, that 
 I cannot be sad a bit and hardly manage to be serious. I 
 am just as happy as a bird, and wish I were one to just fly 
 to you for one little minute and then back here before 
 Papa could have a chance to come and find me gone. That 
 would be awful. I do think it would break his heart if 
 he should come and not find me watching for him. I 
 know I should never get over crying about it. I am sure 
 you need me there very much, too. What in the world 
 are you all stopping at thjlt little hotel for ? I hope you 
 don't mean to stay there while dear old Sturmhold stands 
 vacant and just aching for a poiDulation, What difference 
 does it make that it is ten miles away ? Your father ought 
 to get as far from business as he can, and you are going to 
 Kansas. So you say at least. Now, you know that Papa 
 would not allow you to stay there an hour, nor would I if 
 I could have my way. I have written to the servants at 
 Sturmhold to put everything in order and send the car- 
 riage to you at Skendoah. You did not tell me whether 
 the barn and horses were burned or not — which was very 
 careless of you. Now, if you are going to Kansas — 
 which I do not at all believe — " 
 
 Martin smiled and Mr. Kortright frowned at this. 
 — "the very first thing you should do is to put your father 
 and mother where they will be perfectly comfortable while 
 you are away, and Sturmhold is just the place. Besides, 
 Papa and I will be there in a few days, and you know we 
 shall all want to be together, except you, who will, of 
 course, prefer to be — in Kansas, I am sure your father 
 would like to go there, because he will want me to nurse 
 him. He knows what a capital nurse I am, because he has 
 tried it. I remember being left alone with him when he 
 
ON THE DIVIDE. "BOl 
 
 was sick before. I sui^pose he was busy thinking of what 
 he would do when he got out again, for he answered my 
 questions at first absently, and then with more and more 
 of irritation, until finally your mother came in and he ex- 
 claimed : ' Good Heaven, Mattie, can't you think of some- 
 thing that this child can ask a few questions about?' 
 I don't need any help now. So if he will come to Sturm- 
 hold I will ask questions enough to keep his mind off his 
 business, and then he will get well, only just taking a 
 rest now and then while Papa tells his adventures. He has 
 been aAvay so long that I am sure they will be many and 
 well worth listening to. However, if you will not go at my 
 invitation, I will leave Papa to settle all that when he comes. 
 
 "By the way, Martin — you will excuse me for saying so, 
 but speaking of your father's business brings it to my 
 mind — I remember hearing Papa say that the work Harri- 
 son Kortright did every day was enough to kill two or 
 three ordinary men. Even such a little dunce as I am can 
 see that it must be enormous. Why, even my little busi- 
 ness matters almost bring on a collapse when I undertake 
 to straighten them out. Once a month or so we girls 
 always get leave to go into the town shopping, and I am 
 sure to be laid up for a day or two afterwards. Miss Hun- 
 niwell says it is caramels and the like, but I know it is the 
 cares of business. Then, too. Papa gave me a bank-book 
 and a check-book before he went away, and you have no 
 idea of the trouble I have tryhig to find out how much 
 cash I have in the bank. I know there must be a good 
 deal though, for I haven't used up more than half the 
 checks in my book yet. 
 
 "Now Marty, dear, don't laugh at me. I know I am 
 nothing but a silly little girl ; but it does seem to me that 
 instead of going out to Kansas 'to help on the good cause,' 
 as you say, you would help on a great deal better cause, 
 and the one you mean a great deal faster, too, by staying at 
 home and taking that great business off from your poor 
 father's shoulders jiist as fast as you can. You know I 
 
392 HOT PLOWSHARES. 
 
 want you to do right, and I would not have you shirk 
 your duty, or what you think to be your duty, for any- 
 thing in the world. When you first thought of going you 
 know I was half sorry that Papa discouraged you from 
 doing so. Now, it seems as if he must have been a prophet 
 and have foreseen this very day. I have just read over 
 your letter Avhere you tell me what he told you — that 
 Kansas was at best only an outpost, and if there was to 
 be a great conflict between freedom and slavery it would 
 not be fought out by little squads of partisan rangers 
 fighting and plundering on the prairie. Cannot you re- 
 call his language and see if it is not as true now as 
 then ? If you think yovi ought to go, and your father de- 
 sires it, of course you must pay no heed to what I say. I 
 am only a weak-hearted school-girl. Besides that you 
 know I — I am in love, and don't want you to go away just 
 when I am coming home. It has been an age since I saw 
 you, and nothing less. 
 
 "I hate to speak of it, Marty, dear, but — you won't be 
 angry, will you ? Didn't you — it seems as if you wrote that 
 you did — or maybe it was he — didn't you give Papa your 
 word of honor that you would not engage in this Kansas 
 melee, or trouble, whatever it is? You know he is a 
 Southerner, though he does hate slavery so awfully, and 
 is very punctilious about any agreement made on honor. 
 What shall I tell him, IMartin, dear, if he says to me 
 ' Hilda, your betrothed promised me on his honor not to 
 do this thing, and yet has done it, and done it in my ab- 
 sence, too?' You must tell me how to answer him, because 
 my father even must not impeach in my hearing the honor 
 of my husband that is to be. I will uphold his honor as 
 I would have him defend mine — even with life itself. 
 
 "Good-by, my dearly beloved. Give my love and duty to 
 your parents, and implore them to grant my requests so 
 far as they may count it right to do so, and no farther. 
 May Heaven bless and guide you is the constant prayer of 
 your Hilda. 
 
ON THE DIVIDE. 393 
 
 " P. S.— Do not think I pity the slave or hate slavery any 
 less than I always have done ; but it seems to me that — 
 that it is hard to tell just what is being done or ought to 
 be done in Kansas. They tell horrible stories about ' Old 
 Brown,' as he is called. I don't believe they can be 
 true; but it seems to me very hard to tell how many 
 patriots there are and how many freebooters, even among 
 the 'Free State men.' Some of those we call the best 
 men in Kansas say that John Brown is hardly any better 
 than the worst. They say that he burns and pillages and 
 even kills unarmed people in the night-time. I do not ex- 
 pect that men placed as they are — fighting against the law 
 for wdiat they believe to be right— can always be blame- 
 less ; but it would hurt me terribly, Martin— I think, indeed, 
 it would kill me — if there should be any doubt about the 
 righteousness and honorableness of any act that might be 
 attributed to you either directly or indirectly. H." 
 
 Harrison Kortrigbt was lying on a couch in the best 
 room of the tidy little hotel that had succeeded the 
 Drovers' "Wayside Home which once stood at the Sken- 
 doah cross-roads. Mrs. Kortright sat at the head of the 
 couch, and Martin sat near the fireplace opposite the 
 foot. He still held the letter in his hand, and his flushed 
 face showed that its contents had touched him deeply. 
 The early winter evening had come suddenly on, and the 
 wood-fire lighted up the group. 
 
 "Well, father," said Mrs. Kortright anxiously, "what 
 do you think of "what Hilda Avrites ?" 
 
 Mr. Kortright turned his eyes from the fire, on which 
 they had rested, to his son's face. 
 
 " She is a brave girl," he said. 
 
 " And a good one," added his wife. 
 
 Martin's face flushed with pleasure. 
 
 "A brave girl and a good gii-1," repeated the father 
 slowly, "and has a way of thinking for herself that 
 isn't altogether common. I 'm glad of it, too, and glad 
 
394 HOT PLOWSHARES. 
 
 she is going to be Martin's wife. She '11 make a daugh- 
 ter you '11 always be proud of, Mattie." 
 
 Tears sprang to the son's eyes, and the mother leaned 
 over and kissed the pale brow of her husband. There 
 was a suppressed moan as he shifted his position a trifle, 
 and continued, not noticing the caress : 
 
 " She shows the right spirit. Any one can see that 
 she is just as honest as the day. Marriage won't make 
 a particle of difierence with her. She has begun to be a 
 wife already, and no more thinks of separating her in- 
 terest or her life from Martin's than if they had lived 
 together for ten years." 
 
 "Well, so they have, pretty nearly," said Mrs. Kort- 
 right, smiling. 
 
 "That is so," responded he, "and we have almost 
 forgotten that they were growing up. I am afraid I was 
 a little hasty in urging Martin to go, but it 's just as 
 well. I 've been so given to having my own way that 
 it 's time I learned that Martin is not a boy any longer, 
 but a man, who must act for himself. We are right 
 betwixt two generations — on the divide, as you may 
 say. We haven't finished our work exactly, and he 
 hasn't begun his. We must go on in the old way, 
 but he must take his own way and cut out the chan- 
 nel in which his life must flow. As it was our duty 
 to keep him with us up to this point, so it is now 
 our duty to let him go. You must decide this matter 
 for yourself, my son," he added, reaching forth his 
 hand, "and write Hilda what you will do. Let mo 
 know your decision in the morning." 
 
 The son shook his father's hand, and was about to 
 withdraw from the room, when the landlord rapped at the 
 door, and said that Mr. Clarkson wished to know if Mr. 
 Kortright was able to see him on a matter of importance. 
 
 " Of course — of course ; let him come in," said Kort- 
 right, resuming at ouce his usual alert and eager manner, 
 
ON THE DIVIDE. 395 
 
 " I must beg pardon for troubling you at such an un- 
 seemly hour," said Clarkson, entering at once, "but — " 
 
 "]S^o excuses," said Kortright, with brusque courtesy. 
 " Jared Clarkson can never come where Harrison Kort- 
 right is, at a wrong time." 
 
 " Thanks," said Clarkson, taking his hand with a ten- 
 der heartiness that testified better than words could 
 have done his thoughtful remembrance of his friend's 
 affliction. "I would not have come at this time, but 
 the business that brings nie will not admit delay." 
 
 "Something about our Kansas boys, I suppose," said 
 Kortright. 
 
 "No; it aftects especially you and me," was the 
 reply. 
 
 "Is it anything private?" asked Mrs. Kortright, 
 rising as if to retire. 
 
 "]S^o, no," said Clarkson hastily. "Pray be seated, 
 ma'am. It afiects us all. I am only doubtful as to 
 whether I ought to tell you, in your present condition, 
 Kortright." 
 
 "It is bad news, then." 
 
 "Very sad news, indeed." 
 
 "Brown? Has he — ?" asked Kortright, with a look 
 of quick intelligence. 
 
 "It has nothing to do with Brown," said Clarkson, 
 smiling in spite of his grave mission. " I have not heard 
 from him in a long time. But I received a telegram to- 
 day which — well, read it for yourself" 
 
 He drew a dispatch from his pocket and handed it 
 to Kortright as he spoke. 
 
 "Let me light the lamp," said Mrs. Kortright, rising 
 as she spoke, and taking from the mantel a glass lamp 
 filled with camphene, which she placed upon the table, 
 and, removing the extinguishers from the wicks, lighted 
 with a match. Meantime Kortright had held the tele- 
 gram up to the firelight and read * 
 
396 HOT PLOWSHARES. 
 
 " Jared Clarkson, Esq., Rockboro : 
 
 "Deliver testament. Executor must act at once. Tes- 
 tator dead. M. B." 
 
 It bore date from a Southern city. 
 
 "Well," said he, with a puzzled look, "what does 
 it meau ?" 
 
 " It means that I must deliver this into your hands," 
 said Clarkson, handing him a folded document. 
 
 " And this — ?" asked Kortright, beginning to open 
 it confusedly. 
 
 " That is the will of Merwyn Hargrove, in which you 
 are named executor," said Clarkson impressively. 
 
 "And Captain Hargrove?" queried the sick man 
 anxiously. 
 
 " Is dead !" responded Clarkson. 
 
CHAPTER XXXII. 
 
 POSSESSIO PEDIS. 
 
 Death is a fact that never becomes common. No 
 period of hourly apprehension makes us ready for 
 the announcement. Come when it will, it brings a 
 tremor of surprise. Like the crash of thunder near at 
 hand, or the rumble of the earthquake, one is never 
 quite prepared to hear it. It may not alarm nor even 
 startle, but it always hushes. There are, however, 
 instances in which it is heard with a peculiar thrill. 
 We expect the old to die and the young to live as a 
 universal rule. The demise of those who have long 
 been afflicted with disease or are of peculiarly frail and 
 weakly habit is, of course, regarded as more probable 
 and therefore is less startling than that of the active 
 and strong. The temperament of the decedent, too, is 
 a distinct element in the effect that death produces. 
 There are men who are neither young nor vigorous, 
 but whom we never associate with the idea of death 
 until the fact stares us in the face, and we wonder at 
 it. We are never able to realize that they are not as 
 they always have been. We are forever thinking of 
 them as alive, and recalling with a start our error. 
 Such a man was Merwyn Hargrove. He was not es- 
 pecially robust, but his life for years had been one 
 unvarying round of re-duplicated days. What yester- 
 day had been with him, to-morrow was sure to be again. 
 His personality was self-sustaining. He neither leaned 
 upon his neighbors nor held them up. He neither talked 
 of himself nor listened when another broached the sub- 
 ject. Griefs and pleasures were alike to him so far as 
 397 
 
398 ilOT PLOWSHARES. 
 
 others were concerned. He had become a fixture, as it 
 were, in the eyes of all Avho knew him. He did not 
 come very close to their lives, but yet he did not drop 
 out of them, and there was probably no one in that 
 whole region whose life seemed so much a matter of 
 course as that of Merwyn Hargrove. There was an 
 amazement, therefore, that for a time forbade any 
 speech on the part of the little group who heard Mr. 
 Clarkson's announcement. Kortright looked steadily at 
 the speaker. His wife, after the first start, watched 
 her husband carefully, as if to note the effect of this 
 unexpected news upon him. Martin stood at the foot 
 of the bed transfixed with horror. Mr. Kortright at 
 length spoke, holding up the telegram as he did so. 
 
 " You think there is no mistake ?" 
 
 " I am very sure there is none." 
 
 " This ' M. B.'— who is he ?*' 
 
 " Matthew Bartlemy, Captain Hargrove's attorney in 
 the South." 
 
 " You have no idea how or when — ?" 
 
 " You know all that I do." 
 
 "You say I am the executor ?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 " What do you suppose this man wishes me to do ?" 
 
 "I am aware that Captain Hargrove anticipated a 
 struggle in regard to his property, and it is probable 
 that the object of this haste is to have you enter into 
 possession in order that you may the better hold for his 
 devisees," 
 
 "I will do it," said the sick man, with his accus- 
 tomed decisiveness. "What is the first thing to be 
 done ?" 
 
 "We will offer the will for probate as soon as pos- 
 sible," said Clarkson; " but it is better that you should 
 take possession immediately. Bartlemy evidently fears 
 a hostile entry." 
 
P0SSE8HI0 PEDIS. 399 
 
 "Martin shall go to Sturmliold to-night, and I will 
 follow to-morrow. Will that do ?" 
 
 "That is the very best that can be done," answered 
 Clarkson. "Captain Hargrove certainly made no mis- 
 take in choosing you for his executor," he added as he 
 nodded approval. 
 
 "Merwyn Hargrove has a right to command me and 
 mine, whether alive or dead," said Kortright with emo- 
 tion. " Martin," he added, "you must make no delay." 
 
 "But, father," said Martin hesitantly, "do you re- 
 member — there is Hilda — ought we not to inform her 
 of this ?" 
 
 " True ; I had forgotten," said Kortright thoughtfully. 
 
 Clarkson looked quickly from one to the other. 
 
 "Hilda," said Mrs. Kortright, noticing this look of 
 inquiry, "Captain Hai^grove's daughter, is to be Mar- 
 tin's wife." 
 
 " I ought to go for her at once," said Martin. 
 
 "Better wait till we are sure," said Kortright cau- 
 tiously. 
 
 "You may serve her even better by going to Sturm- 
 hold," added Clarkson with sympathetic assurance. 
 
 Martin still hesitated. 
 
 "Do not seek to be the bearer of evil tidings, my 
 son," said his mother. "Let Hilda be happy as long 
 as she may." 
 
 "I will do as you wish," said Martin, with evident 
 reluctance, "though I think she ought to know of this 
 and come here at once." 
 
 How true is love's prescience ! 
 
 An hour later Martin was on his way to Sturmhold, 
 full of sad forebodings. 
 
CHAPTEE XXXIII. 
 
 A NINETEENTH CENTURY BUCCANEER. 
 
 The next da}^ the air was full of rumors. Captain 
 Hargrove was dead and 'Squire Kortright was his ex- 
 ecutor. That everybody in Skeiidoah knew. The man- 
 ner of Hargrove's death was variously guessed. It was 
 believed that in some way or other slavery was an- 
 swerable for this, as well as the burning of the mills. 
 There were especially stvange reports in regard to 
 Sturmhold — its young mistress, and poor Madame Eigh- 
 mie, as the crazy woman was called in the neighborhood. 
 There was talk of kidnappers and fire-eaters and violence. 
 
 "They'd better not be tryin' any of them tricks," 
 said the old man Shields. " 'Tain't so long since the 
 Anti-Rent war here, that the people of these parts have 
 forgot to take care of themselves, and their neighbors, 
 too. The fact on 't is there 's been just about as much 
 man-stealing and land-stealing done in this region as 
 we care about sitting still and looking on at. I 'm an 
 old man, but if any nigger-hunter comes into this coun- 
 try a-tracking after a runaway or a stayaway, I'm 
 ready to be one of a crowd that '11 give him all the 
 pond-water he '11 care about takin' aboard at a time." 
 
 He was not alone in these sentiments. A company 
 of citizens waited on Mr. Kortright as he was about 
 to enter his carriage to be driven to Sturmhold, and of- 
 fered to watch the premises night after night, in turn, 
 as long as he might think a guard necessary. It was 
 even reported that suspicious movements had been ob- 
 served about the place during the previous night by 
 
A NIXETEENTII CENTURY BUCCANEER. 401 
 
 Martin. That young man did not return, as his parents 
 had expected, but sent a short note of excuse by one of 
 the servants. This fact troubled Harrison Kortright, 
 and hastened his departure. He declined, however, the 
 good offices of his neighbors, and only arranged for the 
 man who had been watchman at the mill to go with him 
 to Sturmhold and remain for a short time. 
 
 One of the New York papers received that day con- 
 tained the following : 
 
 "a doubtful rumor. 
 
 "There is a report of a wholesale kidnapping affair upon 
 the coast of Carolina, in which a well-known citizen of 
 one of our interior counties is said to have lost his life. 
 Great excitement is reported in that region, and the afi'air 
 is denounced as an 'Abolition outrage' of unprecedented 
 magnitude. Tlie tendency to exaggeration on the part of 
 the 'chivalry' in regard to anything affecting in the re- 
 motest degree tlie 'peculiar institution,' leads us to anti- 
 cipate that this will prove to be a great stir over a very 
 small matter. It may even prove to be a flurry started to 
 cover up one of those knife and pistol affairs to which 
 Southern hospitality so often appeals when the Northern 
 creditor goes there to enforce his demand. At all events 
 we shall refrain from further comment until we obtain 
 fuller information. ' ' 
 
 Another referred to it under the heading 
 "a queer complication. 
 
 "The report comes from Washington that a special 
 messenger from the governor of one of the Southern States 
 arrived in that city yesterday, and laid before the President 
 a request that he would dispatch at once a swift-sailing 
 man-of-war to intercept a schooner that cleared from this 
 port, about ten days ago, for Kingston and San Domingo 
 via Newbern, Wilmington and Charleston. It seems that 
 instead of touching at either of these ports, or proceeding 
 on her voyage, the schooner hove to, somewhere oft' Plat- 
 
403 Hot rLOW^llALlKS. 
 
 teras, and took on board some forty or fifty slaves which 
 were brought outside the bar and transferred to the 
 schooner by a fast-sailing yacht which is well known in 
 this harbor and up and down the Hudson. It is supposed 
 that the intention is to take the slaves to Hayti, or, per- 
 haps, to one of the British West Indies, for the purpose of 
 freeing them. The President referred the matter to the 
 Attorney-General, and the Secretary of the Navy was or- 
 dered to have a vessel in readiness should it be decided to 
 attempt the pursuit. It is not probable that anything will 
 be done, as it is not thought that the government has any 
 power to act in the premises. 
 
 "The Sea Foam is reported to have passed up the river 
 last night, but this is not credited. It is rumored that she 
 has been engaged in such kidnapping excursions along the 
 rivers and sounds of that region before. Her owner is said 
 to have been outlawed and a price set upon his head for 
 seducing slaves to run away, more than a year ago. It is 
 generally believed that the whole story is a canard, and 
 intended as a set-off to the absurd stories of Southern out- 
 rage in Kansas." 
 
 That evening Jared Clarkson drove over to Sturmhold. 
 Harrison Kortright was on a couch in the library. His 
 wife was with him when Clarkson was admitted. Kort- 
 right gave him a swift glance as they shook hands, and 
 said in a calm, steady tone : 
 
 "It is true, then ?" 
 
 "Too true,"" 
 
 " You have learned the particulars ?" 
 
 " I have a letter from Mr. Bartlemy," said Clarkson, 
 taking it from his pocket. 
 
 " Wait a moment," said Kortright. " I want Martin 
 to hear it. He Mill have to act for me in this matter, 
 and I want he should know it all. I can only lie here 
 and plan. He must do the work." 
 
 Mrs. Kortright withdrew while he was speaking and 
 
A NiNETEKNTit CmtURY BUCU'ANEEll. m 
 
 Boon returned with their son. Martin had a troul)Ied, 
 anxious look as he shook hands with Clarkson and sat 
 down beside his father's couch. Mr. Clarkson, with the 
 delicate sense of perception which always characterizes 
 men of his temperament, recognized at once the de- 
 velopment which a single night of suffering had wrought 
 in the young man's nature. His tone revealed respect 
 and consideration as he said : 
 
 "I have a letter from Mr. Bartlemy which I was 
 about to read." 
 Martin bowed and Clarkson continued : 
 "It is written from Richmond, Virginia." 
 
 "My Deak Sir : I have just reached this point, having 
 come here post-haste in order that I might communicate 
 with you without awakening suspicion. I learned of the 
 death of your friend and my client, Captain Hargrove, 
 just before leaving home. He was killed two days ago 
 in an attempt to remove the slaves of his late brother, 
 George Eighmie, from Mallowbanks, the plantation for- 
 merly belonging to the said Eighmie. You will probably 
 learn the particulars as soon as I, through the public press. 
 I am so well informed as to the purposes of the heirs of 
 Eighmie — who may also prove to be Hargrove's heirs, 
 though they are only of the half blood— that I think we 
 should take immediate measures to prevent their stealing 
 a march on us by taking possession of the premises at 
 Sturmhold. If you carry out my instructions as given by 
 telegraph, Mr. I^ortright will be on the ground before you 
 get this, and I judge him to be a man not easily fright- 
 ened or driven." 
 
 A smile came over Clarkson's face as he read the old 
 lawyer's estimate of the man before him. Kortright's 
 pale face flushed a little as he said : 
 
 " He did not know his letter would find me as I am." 
 "I don't think he would have changed his opinion if 
 he had," said Clarkson. 'Then he read on : 
 
404 HOT PLOWSHARES. 
 
 "Nevertheless — and tins I want you to impress upon 
 him seriously — he must keep a sharp watch. Our South- 
 ern people have not in all respects the same regard for the 
 mere forms of law as you of the North, and Gilman has 
 a long head. In the fight they intend to make, possession 
 of the realty in your state would be of the utmost import- 
 ance. So too is the discovery and identification of Lida's 
 children. I have just learned that the boy Hugh ran away 
 from his master, who lives near Harj^er's Ferry in this 
 state, some three or four years ago. He had a peculiar 
 livid scar that looks like a cut, extending from the nose 
 almost back to the ear on the right side of his face." 
 
 "Oh, Mr. Clarkson,''' exclaimed Mrs. Kortright, "do 
 you remember the young fugitive that was rescued from 
 the jail?" 
 
 "Sure enough," said Clarkson with a start. "The 
 description fits him exactly." 
 
 "And Lida — " said Mrs. Kortright. "You remem- 
 ber how she ran after the carriage, calling out, ' My 
 baby ! my boy!' " 
 
 "And we thought her crazed," said Clarkson bitterly, 
 as he rose and walked back and forth across the room. 
 "Oh, vile and terrible institution, what evil hast thou 
 not to answer for — a lost child, a crazed mother ! How 
 long, O Lord, how long ?" 
 
 There was a moment's silence. The veins stood out on 
 Clarkson's brow, and his hand was clenched with the 
 excitement of his thought. His eyes burned so fiercely, 
 when they flashed upon the auditors without seeing them, 
 that it seemed as if there might be danger of his own 
 mind losing its proper balance. 
 
 After a time, Kortright said quietly : 
 
 "Well, what more has Mr. Bartlemy to say?" 
 
 Clarkson at once resumed his reading : 
 
 "The girl I think we shall not find it hard ito discover. 
 By the way, if Unthank, Hargrove's body servant, turns 
 
A NINETEENTH CENTURY BUCCANEER. 405 
 
 up ill that region, by all means keep him in concealment, 
 but do not lose track of him. Even if we are unable to 
 use him as a witness, his information will be indispensable 
 to us. He is the only one living who really knows any- 
 thing about Hargrove's life for the last twenty years. But 
 don't let him be seen about there under any circum- 
 stances — at least until after you hear from me again. By 
 the way, I learned while hunting for the boy Hugh that 
 the man who owned him has the only one of Unthank's 
 children whom he has not managed to run oflf. This may 
 help you to keep him in sight if you let him know it." 
 
 "My God!" exclaimed Clarkson. "How heartless 
 slavery makes the best of men !" Then he resumed his 
 reading : 
 
 "I am going direct to Mallowbanks to-day, and will 
 attend to the burial of our friend and whatever else needs 
 to be done there. Do not relax your vigilance, and tell 
 Kortright he must not leave the plantation for an hour 
 until the danger is past. It would be better if he did not 
 leave the house. Those who are against us are very deter- 
 mined men. We will teach them, however, that they can't 
 fool with a client of Matthew Bartlemy or I 'm mistaken. 
 I 've got my heart set on straightening out this tangle, and 
 I 'm going to do it, if I live long enough, even if I have to 
 give up all the rest of my practice. Bob Gilman shall not 
 have a chance to brag that he has got around the old man, 
 if there 's any way to circumvent him. I leave in an hour. 
 "Yours hastily, 
 
 "Matthew Bartlemy." 
 
 There was a moment's silence, when Kortright re- 
 marked : 
 
 "Is that all?" 
 
 "No," answered Clarkson; "I have a copy of the 
 Glayhurn Register. I only glanced over it hastily on my 
 way here. It contains a full account of the killing of 
 Captain Hargrove. Shall I read it ?" he asked, glancing 
 at Mrs, Kortright. 
 
406 HOT PLOWSHARES. 
 
 "Of course," answered Kortright for himself. "We 
 must know it ail some time, and the sooner the better." 
 
 Clarkson glanced down the column and said : 
 
 " There is no need to read the head-lines. It was 
 evidently a godsend to the editor, and he makes the 
 most of it. It is a horrible tale as he tells it. This is 
 what he says : 
 
 "a startling occurrekce. 
 
 "We stop the press to insert a hurried and imperfect 
 account of the most infamous abolition outrage ever per- 
 petrated on the soil of a Southern state. The people of 
 Clayburn county have long been aware that a renegade 
 born upon her soil, but for many years a resident of a 
 Northern state, had become one of the most dangerous 
 and pestiferous of that gang of nigger-stenling fanatics 
 who seem to have no purpose in life except to disturb the 
 peace and harmony of Southern society. This man, him- 
 self born a slaveholder, and of a family noted for cruelty 
 and harshness to their slaves, became by accident the ex- 
 ecutor of an eccentric half-brother, whose will has for 
 many years been a subject of litigation in the courts of 
 the state. Almost a generation of lawyers have passed 
 away since Eighmie vs. Hargrove was first entered upon 
 the docket. Several minor suits have grown out of it, all 
 of which would probably have been dismissed for want of 
 prosecution, since the heirs of George Eighmie were also 
 the natural heirs of Merwyn Hargrove, had they not 
 learned that it was the intention of the latter not only to 
 divert the property entirely from his family and bestow it 
 upon the base-born children of a mulatto woman, with 
 whom his testator sustained illicit relations, but also to 
 deprive them of a chance of recovering it at his death by 
 freeing and removing the slaves. Already the plantatiou 
 of Mallowbanks had suffered severely in its productive 
 capacity by the loss of about one-fourth of the requisite 
 working force, which Hargrove had freed and colonized 
 at the North. Although he is reported to be fi man of 
 
A NINETEENTH CENTURY BUCCANEER. 407 
 
 large means, it was evident to every one that no estate 
 could stand such wholesale depletion as he contemplated, 
 and yet be sufficient to reimburse the heirs for losses 
 sustained through his misfeasance. Under these circum- 
 stances an injunction was obtained' to prevent his remov- 
 ing the slaves during the pendency of the litigation. This 
 was some two or three years ago, and he has shown no in- 
 clination to carry out his original purpose until a few 
 months ago circumstances that came to the knowledge of 
 the claimants put them on their guard, and they arranged 
 to have Mr. Alfred Iddings, a poor but respectable man, 
 who lives on an adjoining plantation, keep watch of mat- 
 ters at Mallowbanks, and let them know of any attempt 
 to remove the slaves, or, in fact, of the coming of Har- 
 grove. It should be stated that about two years ago Har- 
 grove was indicted for kidnapping and seducing slaves to 
 run away from their masters ; and, in accordance with the 
 law, as he constantly evaded arrest, coming and going in 
 the night time, on his swift-sailing yacht, the Sea Foam., he 
 was formally outlawed by the proper authority. The claim- 
 ants were determined to assert their rights at all hazards, 
 and were fully sustained by the popular sentiment of the 
 vicinage, which was kept in a constant state of alarm by 
 this descendant of old Hargrove of Hargrove's Quarter, 
 who seemed to have inherited all the thieving propensities 
 of his buccaneer ancestor. 
 
 "Nothing came of these precautions, however, until this 
 morning about three o'clock, when Mr. Iddings, being 
 awakened by the barking of his dogs, became aware of 
 some unusual stir about the negro quarter at Mallow- 
 banks. The morning being foggy, he could not at iirst 
 make out what it was, but running along the path that 
 skirts the shore he soon came to the inlet, where he 
 found the Sea Foam, with her sails furled and an armed 
 desperado sitting in the stem, evidently awaiting the 
 arrival of some one on shore. The moon was at the 
 full, and Iddings was able to see everything upon the deck 
 
408 HOT PL O WSIIARES. 
 
 as plain as if it had beeu midday. For a little while he 
 was thoroughly astonished. Then he thought that if the 
 craft was thei'e the master of it could not be far off. 
 Stealing back along the path, he ran quickly through the 
 corn-fields to the house of ]\Iajor Sherwood Eighmie, one of 
 the claimants. As soon as Iddings communicated what 
 he had seen to Major Eighmie, that gentleman seized his 
 conch and blew a blast that awakened the whole neigh- 
 borhood. The coming of the yacht had been foreseen, and 
 upon Major Eighmie giving the signal agreed on, all the 
 gentlemen of the neighborhood seized their arms and 
 started for the landing. About this time a fire was seen 
 in the direction of Mallowbanks, and the general belief 
 was that the crowd of ruffians, with Hargrove at their 
 head, had pillaged and fired the Eighmie homestead. 
 Shots were lieard in the direction of the landing, and aho 
 of the house. Owing to the fog, and the uncertainty as 
 to the number of the marauders, it was necessary to ad- 
 vance upon them with caution. It was, therefore, some 
 considerable time before the band of armed neighbors 
 reached the fire, which they found to be not at the man- 
 sion, but at the negro quarters, which had been deserted 
 and set on fire. When this fact was ascertained, the 
 whole infamous plan burst on the minds of the pursuers. 
 It was a great kidnapping scheme ! The negroes had 
 been partly corrupted and i^artly coei'ced into flight. At 
 once a cry was raised, ' To the landing ! To the landing !' 
 Major Eighmie called upon them to follow him, and the 
 enraged neighbors responded promptly to his appeal. They 
 started down the path to the landing, but had not ad- 
 vanced more than a hundred yards when a perfect volley 
 was fired at them out of a clump of wood that intervened 
 between them and the inlet. The bullets that whistled 
 over them showed that Hargrove had a strong and Avell- 
 armed party to aid him in his nefarious enterprise. The 
 citizens then advanced carefully, firing every time they 
 caught a glimpse of the enemy. At length they reached 
 
A NINETEENTH CENTURY BUCCANEER. 409 
 
 the brow of the hill above the landing just as the fog 
 lifted and a sharp breeze sprang up from the west. There 
 was the yacht, with every stitch of canvas set, loaded to 
 the gunwale with frightened negroes, who were crying 
 piteously at being driven away from their home and 
 friends. The wind filled the sails and straightened the 
 hawser, that was fastened to a tree on the bank. Half way 
 down the slope was Unthank, the desperate negro villain, 
 who has served Hargrove as his body-servant for twenty 
 years, and who has been his confederate and agent in all 
 his recent villanies, supporting his master, who was evi- 
 dently wounded. The yacht was hardly twenty steps 
 away, and the black scoundrel was making desperate 
 efforts to get him aboard. Hargrove was perfectly help- 
 less. He must have been wounded somewhere about the 
 spine, as he seemed unable to use his limbs at all, though 
 he was quite conscious and able to use his hands very 
 freely, as he afterwards showed. The neighbors at once 
 opened fire on the precious pair. Hargrove looked around, 
 and, seeing that escape was hopeless, spoke a few words 
 to the negro. A black-bearded scoundrel, who stood in 
 the stern of the yacht with a knife raised ready to cut 
 the rope, called out to them to make haste. Unthank 
 laid his master on the ground at the foot of a large water- 
 oak, and raising his gun drew a bead on the advancing 
 party. Hargrove, however, forbade him to fire, and taking 
 a packet from his bosom gave it to him and ordered 
 him aboard the yacht. The negro refiised to obey. Har- 
 grove again commanded him, to go. Upon his refusing a 
 second time, Hargrove ordered the man in the stern to 
 cut loose. The rascal did so without waiting for fur- 
 ther orders. Unthank, seeing it was his last chance, ran 
 down the slope and jumped from the landing just as the 
 yacht swung out into the wind. The neighbors rushed 
 forward to prevent the escape of tlie slaves, but before 
 they had advanced ten steps were fired upon by Hargrove. 
 As he was known to be a desperate villain and was un- 
 
410 HOT PLOWSHARES. 
 
 doubtedly Avell armed, besides being protected by the tree, 
 it was not a safe matter to advance upon him without 
 cover. While those in front fired upon him steadily, some 
 others of the party crawled through a little belt of bushes 
 above where he lay and sent a bullet crashing through 
 his skull. He was vmdoubtedly saving his fire, expecting 
 a rush to be made on him in front. Strangely enough 
 none of the attacking party were hurt, though Hargrove is 
 known to have been the best rifle-shot ever seen in these 
 parts. By that time the day had broken, and the yacht 
 was dancing over the water before a twelve-knot breeze 
 half a mile away, 
 
 "It was discovered afterward that the Sea Foam had 
 a consort outside the bar to which her cargo was trans- 
 ferred. She had evidently, made one or two trips before 
 the one on which she was discovered, as more than fifty 
 slaves are missing from the plantation. Documents 
 that were found upon the person of this daring robber 
 show that he intended to remove every slave at Mallow- 
 banks, It is perhaps but fair to say that he claimed these 
 slaves not as executor but as legatee under the will of his 
 half-brother. The court was unable to try the question 
 of his right by reason of his refusal to come forward and 
 reply to the interrogatories of the complainant. Being a 
 non-resident the court had no jurisdiction over him except 
 to enjoin him from removing the property. The neighbors 
 were so enraged that the dead body was treated somewhat 
 voughly, until the overseer at Mallowbanks took it in 
 charge. The coroner has been informed, and a jury will 
 probably be impaneled who will thoroughly examine into 
 the affair. Major Sherwood Eighmie starts North to-day to 
 take steps to secure remuneration from the estate of the 
 dead kidnapper for the loss sustained. The community 
 are probably indebted to him for ridding the coast of a 
 most dangerous enemy. It is said that the deceased was 
 such an insatiable negro lover that he took his brother's 
 favorite wench and her niulatto children to his palatial 
 
A NINETEENTH CENTURY BUCCANEER. 411 
 
 home among the Catskills and introduced them into the 
 selectest circles of Northern Abolition society as his own 
 wife and daughter ! 
 
 "This is altogether the most daring piece of villany the 
 abolitionists have yet attemi^ted. The recent expulsion 
 from our soil of the Massachusetts attorney who came to 
 the state expressly to gain a residence in order to test some 
 points of our slave code before the Federal courts, must now 
 be recognized as a wise and prudent measure. The letter 
 of the law is not always to be relied upon. Perhaps, under 
 the circumstances, the act in which Hargrove was engaged 
 would not be held to be a felony, but it was certainly very 
 natural that men who saw themselves about to be robbed 
 by an armed marauder should not be over-nice in their 
 conduct toward him. A number of shots are said to have 
 taken effect upon him, and it would probably be impossi- 
 ble to ascertain who fired the one that actually caused his 
 death. There, was nothing found upon his body to impli- 
 cate any other parties in his act. Indeed, there was an 
 explicit disclaimer, and a declaration written in his own 
 hand, and dated the day before, affirming that he only did 
 it in the assertion of his lawful ownership of the property. 
 No reliance can be put on the declarations of such an out- 
 cast from decent society, and it is exceedingly improbable 
 that it is true. The whole body of abolitionists of the 
 North are undoubtedly responsible for this invasion of 
 our soil and violation of our rights. We counsel our peo- 
 ple to exercise moderation, but vigilance. Every Yankee 
 craft that comes into our waters should be thoroughly 
 overhauled for stowaways, and not one should ever be 
 allowed to leave her moorings without being so thorouglily 
 fumigated as to drive out or kill every living thing under 
 lier hatches. The South must protect itself and its insti- 
 tutions against the envy and greed of Northern hypocrites 
 and fanatics." 
 
 So the descendant of the buccaneer, who had risked 
 his life in planting slavery in the colony, was slain in 
 
413 HOT PLOWSHABES. 
 
 the attempt to restore the children of those slaves to 
 freedom. 
 
 As the people of Skendoah attributed their misfor- 
 tune to slavery, as an ultimate cause, so the citizens of 
 Clayburn county accounted the abolition fanaticism the 
 disturber of their peace. Distrust was paving the way 
 for strife. 
 
CHAPTER XXXIV. 
 
 A CHANGE OF BASE. 
 
 The time had come when he who should untie the 
 Gordian knot of slavery was to appear. Thousands of 
 the best and bravest had grappled with the problem 
 in vain. Many a gallant knight had graven "Liberty" 
 upon his helm only to find himself sooner or later doing 
 battle for slavery. The high and the low had been 
 baffled. What seemed at the beginning an insoluble 
 enigma had grown daily more intricate and difficult. 
 Slavery, which had grown from a little speck to cover 
 half the political horizon, had from the first falsified all 
 theories. Instead of dying it had flourished ; instead 
 of losing strength it had gained power ; instead of 
 yielding to the sentiment of the world it openly defied 
 it. It ruled not only the states where it existed, but 
 those which fattened on its results. The great indus- 
 tries of the North consumed its raw material and sup- 
 plied its demand for manufactured articles and bowed 
 to its behests. Cotton was king, and slavery was the 
 suzerain of cotton. In pride, in power, in wealth, it 
 had grown with every decade stronger and stronger, 
 until now it seemed that the nation was under its abso- 
 lute control. The sentiment of the North had grown 
 year by year more pronounced, and the opposition to 
 slavery more and more determined, yet the way to its 
 extirpation seemed hourly to grow more difficult, and 
 the desired end to be farther and farther away. Before 
 the wave of sentiment uprose forever the barrier of 
 the Constitution. The fundamental law of the nation's 
 life stood betAveen slavery and the onslaught of its foes. 
 413 
 
414 HOT PLOWSHARES. 
 
 Amendment in the manner prescribed was hopeless. 
 Around or behind this instrument there seemed to be 
 no feasible method of going. To trample it under foot 
 was to destroy the nation based upon it. The life of 
 the Republic was pledged for the life of slavery. "The 
 irrepressible conflict" still held on its triumphant way 
 in the hearts of the American people, but none could 
 see any way to victory. Some there were who demanded 
 the forcible removal of the obstacle. One man who had 
 not ceased to declare for many years that only blood 
 could wash away the evil was preparing to make good 
 his prophecy. He looked forward to a day when the 
 slave should win his way to freedom by force. There 
 were many who agreed with him that there was no 
 other method. Some listened to his plans and vaguely 
 indorsed his designs. To many they were partially dis- 
 closed, but none knew their details. He had one 
 thought only : slavery must be destroyed. He cared 
 little for the Constitution, or the nation builded thereon. 
 Laws, customs and institutions were nothing to him ; 
 only the men who were subject to them were sacred in 
 his eyes. For him the universe held but two facts — 
 God, who created all things, and man, made in His 
 image. That slavery was an evil was all he needed to 
 know. That it was doomed to destruction was, by the 
 mere fact of its unholiness, rendered certain beyond 
 question to his mind. How it should be destroyed he 
 he did not know — he did not care. That men should 
 die in compassing its destruction he did not doubt ; 
 whether one or ten or millions it mattered not. He 
 counted liberty as part of the revealed Word, which 
 he devoutly believed, and to him it was of infinitely less 
 moment that men should die than that its lightest syl- 
 lable should fail. So, too, while he lived for humanity, 
 he thought it far better that a nation or a race even 
 should perish from the face of the earth than that they 
 
A CHANGE OF BASE. 415 
 
 should live to suffer wrong. Righteousness and wrong 
 were his two abstractions. To overcome the one was 
 to do the other. He regarded the nation only as a 
 means for achieving a specific end. If the end was not 
 completely achieved he thought the instrument should 
 be at once discarded. On the plains of Kansas, in the 
 swamps of the South, among the snows of the Adiron- 
 dacks, and in the mountains of Virginia, he thought of 
 but one thing — how he might redeem the slave from the 
 wrong of servitude. Without selfishness or malice or 
 greed, hating with undying bitterness the sin of slavery, 
 he could see no obstacle in the way of liberation of 
 the slaves, except the insincerity and inertness of the 
 people. John Brown represented one extreme of thought. 
 Few even of those who agreed with him had the courage 
 and self-denial to adopt the methods he espoused. He 
 represented the sentiment of the most active and ultra 
 portion of the anti-slaveiy element. The destruction of 
 slavery at once and at all hazards was their controlling 
 motive. These people had done the better portion of 
 the work of awakening public sentiment upon this ques- 
 tion. They were the pioneers without being the leaders 
 of popular belief. There was little need, at the time of 
 which we write, of laboring to convince the Northern 
 masses of the desirability of the result they desired to 
 accomplish. How to obtain it without overthrowing the 
 national fabric was the sole question. 
 
 It is a sti'ange fact, and shows a queer phase of our 
 American character, that many of those who were wil- 
 ling to violate the statute law in aiding the fugitive 
 slave, who would even imperil life and liberty in se- 
 curing for the bondman the means to escape, and were 
 ready to defend and protect him in such unlawful 
 acts, no sooner perceived that a movement involved 
 the subversion of the Constitution, or actual defiance 
 of its authority, than they at once refused all con- 
 
41C HOT PLOWSHARES. 
 
 nection therewith. They were wiUing to violate the 
 law — to become felons, perhaps, but they could not 
 contemplate with composure the abrogation of the 
 great contract that constitutes the charter of our liber- 
 ties. Of these there were very many. It mattered not 
 how deep their conviction of the right of liberty and the 
 evil of slavery, they were read}^ to endure the evil a 
 w^hile longer rather than antagonize the basis principles 
 of our Constitution by assailing the citadel of the state's 
 right, within which slavery was enti^enched. This was 
 the feeling of the great mass of the people. The 
 fanatics, who were ready and willing to do and dare 
 anything, were few, very few, in comparison. It was 
 evident that only an absolute conviction of the direst 
 necessity for such a course would induce the American 
 people even to put itself on guard against the institution 
 of slavery. To move against it openly was regarded as 
 treason ; to combine against it secretly was accounted 
 sedition. 
 
 Besides all this, and after all that could be said, no 
 matter how deep their abhorrence might be, there were 
 very many people of the North who excused their inac- 
 tion by the declaration : 
 
 "It is not a matter for us to consider. The sin of 
 Slavery does not lie at our doors, nor the danger. The 
 institution belongs to the South. Our hands are clean. 
 If they desire to invite the curse it must entail, well and 
 good. "We cannot hinder them." 
 
 Many strove to overthrow this delusion and prove that 
 every man of the North was, morally, at least, respon- 
 sible for the act of his fellow-citizen of the South. But 
 in this they made little progress, as it seemed, until 
 there came one to whose homel}' sentences the people lis- 
 tened as if he spake by inspiration. So clear and cogent 
 were his reasons that no one gave him credit for utter- 
 ing any new truths. They seemed so plain and simple 
 
A CHANGE OF BASE. 417 
 
 that the dullest listener conceived that he only heard 
 a re-statement of his own thought. He was a man 
 born of the people, as are all in whom the spirit of the 
 Deliverer dwells. From Mary's son till now the Messi- 
 anic spirit has ever appeared beneath the lowhest 
 lintel. The Deliverer comes always from the plain. 
 The middle class— above the abject poor, and below the 
 soul-dwarfed rich — is that which gives the world the men 
 that overturn its institutions, relieve its people from 
 the bondage of their past and open the gateway of the 
 future. The greatest of our mighty men was one who 
 stood among us in such simple guise that even those 
 who sat at meat with him dreamed not of his great- 
 ness. 
 
 By birthright he was of the South, and, as such, 
 cursed by its destiny. Father and mother, smitten 
 by poverty and ignorance, dwelt in the shadow of 
 the Kentucky "knobs." The destiny of the "poor- 
 white" brooded over their united lives. Slavery which 
 made few rich and many poor counted them among 
 its victims. The shame which passed by the slave 
 because of his irresponsibility, lighted on the freeman, 
 compelled, hke him, to toil. So that labor became 
 a badge of degradation ; and need, which elsewhere was 
 the spur to increased endeavor, there became only a 
 whip to sting and t-o debase. Labor was degenerated 
 into a badge of servitude — the mark of a subverted man- 
 hood. Only idleness was honorable. He whose hand 
 was forced to toil for self-support was kindred to the 
 slave and even less esteemed. Even the slave's con- 
 tempt was visited on such. "Poor-white!" How the 
 name stuck and stung and dragged downwards ! What 
 a world of humiliation in its two syllables ! Com- 
 miseration, contempt— despair ! "White trash!" Ex- 
 pressive synonym ! The fringe of a race of princes ! 
 The debris of a people whose prerogative it was to rule, 
 
418 JJOT PLOWSHARES. 
 
 and whose distinctive privilege it was to be served by 
 another. It was a sad estate, full of shame and self- 
 abasement, and all the more degrading because their 
 only pride lay in the fact that they were allied in blood 
 to the class who ruled and contemned them. Such was 
 the genesis of the Deliverer. The poor-white birth- 
 mark was his sole inheritance. 
 
 Yet not in his own person did he feel this degrada- 
 tion. Across the narrow river that skirts "the dark 
 and bloody ground" upon the Northward, a younger 
 sister state, with a happier destiny, had been estab- 
 lished. His Bethlehem was on the Sangamon. Yet the 
 brand of the "poor-white " was stamped upon his soul. 
 Poverty and ignorance and hopelessness rocked his 
 cradle. Laughter and teSrs were strangely mingled in 
 his nature. Little by little he came to know himself. 
 More than thirty years he served before he knew that 
 he had a mission to perform. He was always a dreamer. 
 He did not fast in the desert nor flee to the caverns for 
 inspiration; but the forest and the stream and the 
 prairie — silence and solitude and distance — nourished 
 the dream of poAver, revealed to him himself. He had 
 few books and no teachers. Man and nature were the 
 volumes which he read most easily and studied most 
 assiduously. 
 
 He was not profoundly versed in the lore of the past, 
 but the facts of the present were indelibly stamped upon 
 his mind. His philosophy was direct and simple. He 
 did not waste time in elaborating systems for the future 
 or reasons for the past. How things came to be as they 
 were he was at no trouble to explain. What should 
 be the ultimate outcome of the mixture of good and 
 evil which we call life, he gave little thought to deter- 
 mining. The duty of the present and its relations to the 
 nearer future he perceived with the utmost clearness. 
 
 The accident of stature first opened the way to leader- 
 
A CHANOE OF BASE. 419 
 
 ship. The desire to be foremost spurred him to renewed 
 exertion. Slowly he awoke to the knowledge of power. 
 Uncultured of mind and uncouth of limb, none looked 
 to him for a leadership in thought. Yet his words were 
 like winged arrows. He used the simple dialect of the 
 people, and spoke directly to their hearts. 
 
 The peril of the near future rested like a shadow 
 upon his life. To him the nation was the sum of all 
 excellence. Flaws in it were like spots in the sunshine.. 
 He revered the Constitution no less than its most de- 
 voted worshipper. To him it was the guarantee of all 
 that made liberty desirable. He hated slavery as an 
 enemy of the dominant race. He felt himself wronged 
 through generations by its blight. It was not pity for 
 the slave that moved him to oppose the system, so 
 much as dread of the system itself and its paralyzing 
 and debasing effects upon every grade of society exposed 
 to its influence. He felt its injustice, not merely to those 
 who served without reward, bvit also to those who, by 
 its influence, were shut out of the struggle of life — the 
 fair competition for its rewards. 
 
 He did not profess to be more profoundly versed in 
 the philosophy and history of this question than others. 
 On the contrary, in this respect he followed gladly 
 where others led. He seconded rather than directed 
 in any considerable degree the efforts to awaken in- 
 terest in the character of slavery and to combine the 
 people of the North in philanthropic movements in, 
 behalf of the slaves. Justice rather than pity marked 
 his attitude toward them. By the most fanatical he 
 was even regarded as lukewarm in the cause of which, 
 he was destined to become the one immortal leader and 
 exemplar. He was no impassioned advocate of mercy. 
 It was not his mission to deal with the philosophy of the 
 primai-y cause or resultant effects of social movements. 
 The function reserved to him was to perceive with 
 
420 HOT PLOWSHARES. 
 
 unequaled clearness the consequence of admitted facts, 
 to impress them upon the popular heart as no one else 
 had ever done, and then to find a way to avoid the peril 
 that impended. Sprung from the people, his reverence 
 for their will and belief in their ultimate decision were so 
 great that he was sometimes deemed a demagogue. He 
 was not one, however, that bowed to the half-formed 
 will of the masses, but one who sought to bring them 
 up to his own conviction — not with reproaches and 
 sneers, not Avith arrogance and scorn, but with unceas- 
 ing humilit}^, a never-failing good temper, and a famil- 
 iarity and sincerity of statement that in the end always 
 won his way to the popular heart. As a philanthropist 
 he was inferior to thousands ; as a student of the facts 
 of history and politics he was easily distanced by scores 
 of his contemporaries ; as a fervid and impassioned ora- 
 tor he was excelled by many ; but as one who realized 
 the peril of the hour and had ]30wer to make the voice of 
 the people in very truth the voice of God, he was easily 
 foremost. In capacity to devise a way of escape from 
 peril, and to lead the people willingly and gladly along 
 the narrow path by which alone safety was possible, he 
 was unapproached by any man of his day. 
 
 The party representing the anti-slavery idea, which 
 had been based on the declaration that " the re- 
 pression of slavery " was desirable, recoiled from its 
 first conflict with the slave-power less demoralized by 
 defeat than amazed at the near approach to victory 
 which it had accomplished. Yet this result had been 
 achieved, as we have already shown, more by the acci- 
 dental co-operation of discordant elements than by the 
 harmonious action of a consolidated and homogeneous 
 party. No sooner had it demonstrated its power than 
 incongruous elements began to develop within it. Not 
 only the strife of ambitious leaders, but the radical di- 
 vergence of factions animated by mutually antagonistic 
 
A CHANGE OF BASE. 421 
 
 impulses, promised not merely to prevent a complete 
 and stable organization, but also to render futile all 
 hope of future victory. What was needed was a mor- 
 dant that should cause all these factious to adhere to a 
 common purpose — to remain faithful to a common end. 
 This solvent of hostile ideas was first obtained when the 
 uncouth backwoodsman was chosen by his party associ- 
 ates to represent them and uphold the principles of the 
 yet inchoate party in an oratorical conflict with the 
 subtlest, strongest, ablest of the champions of state sov- 
 ereignty and the peculiar institution which flourished 
 under its protection. All unconscious that his words were 
 the master-key of the situation, Abraham Lincoln rose at 
 once from an obscurity which is all the more remark- 
 able because it contained no appreciable hint of the 
 eminence that awaited him, to the very front rank of 
 his age, when he put forth as the basis of the moment- 
 ous struggle in which he was about to engage this pro- 
 position : 
 
 "A house divided against itself cannot stand . . . 
 The American nation must be all free or all slave." 
 
 On that issue the battle was joined anew. From 
 that hour the conflict was waged on no other ground. 
 The most fanatical and the most conservative elements 
 of the free state civilization met here upon a common 
 level. Thenceforward Abraham Lincoln was the un- 
 questioned leader of the movement for the overthrow of 
 slavery — the generalissimo of all the forces mustering for 
 its destruction. For the first time a means had been 
 found to harmonize all differences of sentiment and se- 
 cure the utmost unity of purpose and action on the part 
 of all who were opposed to the "peculiar institution," 
 which held in its degrading touch one half the land, and 
 threatened with its demoralizing influences the other 
 moiety. The great dilemma — "all free or all slave" — 
 stared the American people in the face as the unavoid- 
 
432 HOT PLOWSHARES. 
 
 able fact of the near future. To the people of the North 
 it came like a revelation sustained by irrefragable proofs. 
 The disruption of the treaty which the slave-power had 
 itself proposed ; the seizure of Kansas through the co- 
 operation of the established government ; the Fugitive 
 Slave law, and the aggressions upon personal liberty 
 thereunder, all pointed to the dilemma which this clear- 
 sighted child of the people placed before them for con- 
 sideration. It needed no argument and admitted of no 
 hesitation. There was but one question: If free or 
 slave, which ? In every man's consciousness it became 
 a ceaseless refrain. To the objection that nothing could 
 be done except through a violation of the Constitution, 
 there was but one answer: "Free or slave?" There 
 was in this no attack upon the "compact made between 
 the states," or "the sacred pledge which the fathers 
 gave." It was no appeal to a "higher law," and yet 
 there was no farther room for the excuse: "It is no 
 concern of ours." "Mason and Dixon's line" was no 
 longer the boundary of evil consequences resulting from 
 slavery. "All free or all slave " stood at the threshold 
 of every Northern home, and compelled father, brother 
 and son to decide upon the dread alternative before they 
 crossed the lintel. All who regarded slavery as an 
 evil, an injustice or a sin were by this one thought mar- 
 shaled under the banner of this new leader. From this 
 text he never swerved. 
 
 Undoubtedly the contest between Lincoln and Doug- 
 las was the most momentous oratorical struggle that 
 ever occurred. Both men were firm believers in the 
 views they advocated, and each represented a new idea. 
 The one idea was a subtle evasion, a specious make- 
 shift, designed to avoid apparent objection to the ex- 
 tension of slavery, and, under the guise of absolute 
 impartiality to all parties, sections and ideas, to render 
 possible its peaceful establishment on the plains of the 
 
A CHANGE OF BASE. 423 
 
 West, It was a measure which no Southern champion 
 of slavery could ever have devised. It was noteworthy 
 for its subtle appreciation of the spirit and genius of the 
 North. As a piece of mere political shrewdness it is 
 almost without a parallel in history. Those in whose 
 behalf it was conceived and put forth could only half 
 appreciate its specious strength. Against argument it 
 stood well-nigh impregnable. The distinctions on which 
 it was based were so subtle, its discriminations were so 
 keen, that it was hardly susceptible of popular refuta- 
 tion, except from the standpoint of its consequences. 
 But the proposition which Mr. Lincoln put forth, while 
 offering the most perfect possible reply to the theory of 
 "squatter sovereignty," was also one which put not 
 only the expounder of that doctrine but even tli6 man 
 who was merely tolerant of slavery, on his defense. It 
 was at once a parry and a thrust. It was like a turn 
 of the wrist of the expert swordsman. It seemed so 
 easy that we forgot the power, the skill, the intellect 
 that lay behind its elucidation and its application. It 
 set over against the perils of slavery the blessings of 
 lil^erty. Through the dread of slavery it impelled, and 
 by the love of liberty it induced co-operation in any 
 movement that should most readily and easily destroy 
 the one and establish the other. It was a trumpet-call 
 that mustered at once all the forces of liberty against 
 the life of slavery. 
 
 From that moment all else in the struggle of parties 
 was forgotten. Whether the whole land should be free 
 or slave was the only question worthy of consideration — 
 an issue that overbore all minor differences. The South 
 recognized it as the summons to the last great battle. 
 They perceived the power of the new leader even before 
 his own associates became aware of it. To the latter 
 he was known simply as a valiant soldier who had 
 met the champion of slavery on his chosen field, and in 
 
424 HOT PL WSIIAEES. 
 
 the face of assured defeat had planted deeply and se- 
 curely the' seeds of ultimate victory. They thought of 
 him only as one who, single-handed and alone, had won 
 from the enemy an important stronghold. The chiefs in 
 the anti-slavery movement had no thought of acknow- 
 ledging him as their leader. Seward and Sumner and 
 Wade and Gi*eeley and Chase and Giddings and Gerrit 
 Smith and AYendell Phillips, and a hundred more almost, 
 would have laughed at the idea of this uncouth child 
 of the prairie stepping up before them and occupying, 
 before all the world and for all time, unquestioned pre- 
 eminence as "the great Emancipator." Even now the 
 especial admirers of each are fond of putting their 
 names before that of the unpretentious giant of the 
 Sangamon country as leaders in the great anti-slavery 
 conflict. But the force of a blow must be judged by its 
 results, and the power of the man who gives it by the 
 ease with Avhicli it is delivered. Judged by this rule, 
 Abraham Lincoln established an unquestioned right to 
 the foremost place as a leader when by a single sentence 
 he made victory not only possible but inevitable — fused 
 a thousand discordant motives into one, and brought 
 the anti-slavery struggle down from the domain of hu- 
 manitarian theory to the level of tangible universal 
 interest. He discovered nothing, but he transmuted 
 weakness into power. 
 
 There are those, too, in whose minds the feats of 
 knight-errantry eclipse the splendor of victories that 
 change the face of history. To such minds the glory of 
 the partisan leader vastly outshines the laurel of the 
 unseen and undemonstrative director of mighty forces. 
 To these the anti-slavery struggle presents as heroes 
 and leaders the names of certain gladiators — combatants 
 of the press and forum, who stimulated public thought, 
 pricked the public conscience and did yeoman work in 
 tearing down the citadel of established dogma. They 
 
A CHANGE OF BASE. 425 
 
 were men without whose aid the pubUc sentiment on 
 which the great strategic movements of the day were 
 based could never have existed. But having done that 
 they could do no more. Prophets and forerunners and 
 pioneers — pathfinders who pointed out the way of liberty 
 — their day had almost passed — their work had all but 
 ended when the practical genius of Lincoln combined 
 the forces they had raised and marshaled them for the 
 grand assault. To some the bright swords and waving 
 plumes hid the calm, grave face of the leader. 
 
 The South, with surer prescience, saw its enemy afar 
 off. It recognized the master-stroke aimed at the 
 corner-stone instead of the outworks of the citadel. 
 It perceived in him the leader of the grand assault 
 upon the position which slavery occupied, and stub- 
 bornly refused to credit any denial that was made 
 of the purpose of those who stood with him. When, 
 shortly afterward, he was made the heaxl of the party 
 organization, they did not hesitate to consider it a 
 declaration of war against their pet institution. And 
 they were right thus far at least. Abraham Lincoln 
 was chosen to be President because the Republican 
 party had determined to do all that might be done, 
 without actual violation of the Constitution, to destroy 
 slavery. To deny that fact is to re-echo a quibble 
 which, while it might not be reprehensible in a heated 
 controversy, is unworthy the attention of the student 
 of a mighty revolution. It was from an impulse of 
 self-defense, therefore, that the press and poUticians of 
 the South leveled their batteries of invective, of ridi- 
 cule, of infamy against him, in the vain hope of de- 
 stroying him before his power was understood and 
 appreciated by his friends. So the great, kindly, pure- 
 hearted Saul became a "monster," a "baboon," a 
 "clown," a "beast"— all that Avas infamous and foul, 
 and remains such to this day to many thousands to 
 
426 HOT PLOWSHARES. 
 
 whom his Ufe was a most beneficent providence. In 
 nothing did his greatness show more clearly than in 
 the fact that nothing provoked him to anger, and he 
 made answer to no aspersion. Unfaltering in his devo- 
 tion to the principle that liberty and slavery could not 
 co-exist, unswerving in his faith in the wisdom and 
 fidelity of the people, he trod alone the pathway which 
 his genius first discerned, along dizzy heights, through 
 fateful fens, in the darkness and in the light ; never 
 going too fast to enable the whole people to follow 
 his course, and never moving too slow when once as- 
 sured of the support which was necessary to success ; 
 undaunted by fear and unblinded by ambition, until 
 the end was reached and his work was accomplished. 
 Slavery avenged itself through him. The child of the 
 "poor-white" of the Kentucky knobs liberated not 
 the slave only, but those whom the slave had been 
 made the instrument to degrade. Not Emancipator 
 only, but Liberator, will he be hailed when the centu- 
 ries look back upon him. 
 
 It has become the fashion in these later days to look 
 upon Lincoln as the accident of an accident rather than 
 as the man of the age — the greatest of all who have 
 borne the name American. Little souls who came near 
 his great life — who viewed his nature as the insect scans 
 the bark of the oak along the rugate surface of Avhich 
 he creeps, with a self-satisfied contempt of the rude 
 strength and solid core that lies within — have been 
 winning for themselves a sort of immortality and an 
 infinitude of contempt by trying to paint the man 
 whose perfections they could never apprehend. Our 
 literature has been overrun with a horde of puny 
 drivelers made purblind by the glory of a life whose 
 light was so serene and steady that they counted it but 
 a reflection of the lurid conflict amid which he lived. 
 It was not because one mas gciieined or auother 
 
A CHANGE OF BASE. 427 
 
 paltered that Abraham Lincohi came to the leadership 
 of the hosts of freedom. Neither was it through the 
 merit of any or all of his advisers that he succeeded in 
 accomplishing the task set before him, but chiefly through 
 his own consummate genius and unmatched . power. 
 It was not luck but intellect that brought him from 
 obscurity to the forefront of the greatest movement in 
 history. The men who stood beside him were pigmies 
 in practical power when compared with him. He was 
 so great that he needed no padding, and was careless of 
 his fame. As he came from the people so he left him- 
 self fearlessly in their hands. It has been customary, 
 while admitting his prudence, sagacity and self-control, 
 to depreciate his intellectual power. The change of 
 position which he eftected by a single phrase, was so 
 easily done and seemed so evident when once put forth, 
 that few have stopped to think that the intellect of 
 Sumner, the prophetic grasp of Seward, the foresight of 
 Chase and the brain of a thousand others who seemed 
 his compeers, had been thitherto utterly unable to form- 
 ulate a common ground of opposition to slavery, which 
 should commend itself to the mind and conscience 
 of the people. He alone, of all the men of that time, 
 had the sagacity to discover the key of the posi- 
 tion, to unite all the discordant elements in the attack 
 upon it, and to hold them up to the conflict until the 
 victory was won. By that thought he fused all the 
 discordant elements into one. It was one of those 
 strokes of power which mark the highest genius. By 
 this alone he would have estabhshed his claim to 
 rank as much above his associates in intellect as he is 
 admitted to have stood, in sagacity, devotion and self- 
 forgetfulness. Standing on a level with the lowliest, he 
 towered conspicuously above the greatest. Those who 
 saw the apparent ease with which he achieved these 
 results only half realized his greatness. Their regard 
 
438 HOT PL WSHARES. 
 
 was dissipated by a thousand insignificant details. 
 Only the future can properly estimate the brain that 
 consolidated the opposition to slavery, held the na- 
 tion to the work of putting down rebellion, and called 
 his cabinet together only to consider the wording of 
 a proclamation that was to change the status of a 
 race forever. He bestrode our land like a Colossus, 
 all unconscious of his own power, frankly esteeming 
 others at their just value — incapable of detraction or 
 envy, and trusting his fame, with a magnificent un- 
 concern as to the result, to the future. Pure, simple, 
 unassuming, kindly, touched with sadness and relieved 
 with mirth, but never stained with falsehood or treach- 
 ery, or any hint of shameful act ; his heart as tender 
 as his life was grand ; he stands in history a little child 
 in his humility, a saint in purity, a king in power. 0ft- 
 spring of the sadly smitten South ; nursling of the favored 
 Xorth ; giant of the great West — his life was the richest 
 fruitage of the liberty he loved ! His name is the top- 
 most which a continent has given unto fame 1 
 
CHAPTEK XXXV. 
 
 BLINDFOLD AND BAREFOOT. 
 
 Beechwood Seminary stood just without the pur- 
 lieus of one of the busy httle towns that are hidden 
 among the New England hills. The ceaseless groan 
 of water-wheels, the breath of wheezing engines, the 
 hum of lathes, the whir of spindles, the ring of pulsing 
 hammers and the hiss of glowing forges filled the steep- 
 sided ravine along which the village was builded. It was 
 a gobhn's cave set in a quiet, peaceful scene. Its people 
 were slaves who worked for the gnomes of trade. ^Motion 
 and force were incarnate in their lives. They wrought 
 with dull hands magical transformations. Earth became 
 crystal beneath their touch. The misty fibre that the wind 
 blew here and there became the snowy web that wrapt the 
 limbs of beauty or the cable that bade defiance to the 
 storm. Kature shrunk away from her busy, boastful rival. 
 Where she had ended her work, science and art began 
 theirs. They mocked at her tardy processes, and scorned 
 her incomplete results. They stole her secrets ; scat- 
 tered her treasures ; prisoned her forces, and made of 
 the once silent glen a busy, bustling, throbbing hive of 
 crowded, wearied, weighted life. On either side the 
 hills rose sharp and stern. From base to summit they 
 were clothed with a garment of verdure that even in 
 winter hid half their ruggedness. The laurel thrust its 
 contorted limbs across the gray cliffs and softened their 
 outlines with its verdure. The spruce and hemlock 
 screened the savageness that the birch and maple would 
 have left uncovered Avhen the summer departed, so 
 that the beholder almost wondered that civilization 
 429 
 
430 no T PLO W8RAMES. 
 
 was content with the narrow stretch which it had con- 
 quered for itself along the banks of the boisterous 
 torrent. Less than a mile away, where the mountain 
 swept down into a broad plateau, not only overlook- 
 ing the bustling town but also commanding an out- 
 look up and down one of those noble valleys that the 
 icy rivers of the north cut through the granite ledges 
 in their pathway to the steaming sea, stood Beechwood 
 Seminary. By what chance this glaring three-storied 
 caravansary, with its green blinds only breaking the 
 vast parallelograms of white Mith which it faced the 
 four cardinal points, came to be located in a spot of 
 such surpassing lovehness, no man knoweth. It was 
 just far enough from the town to feel its life, near 
 enough to the mountain to partake of its solitude, 
 and high enough above the valley to command all its 
 beauty. With true Yankee disregard of nature, the 
 original forest had been cut away in front, and the 
 grounds of the institution "adorned," the catalogue 
 said, "with rare and elegant shrubbery" — some stunted 
 evergreens and a few hardy decidua Avhich clung to the 
 wind-swept terrace, doubtfully enough in winter, and 
 leaved and bloomed in summer, weakly and sadly at- 
 tempting to remedy the violence done to nature in the 
 silly conventional attempt at improvement. A white 
 picket fence enclosed the rectangled lawn known as the 
 seminary grounds. At the back of it, however, nature 
 had held her own. The quaint old farm-house whicli 
 once occupied this classic spot had not been torn away, 
 but rose up by successive steps from the ver}^ midst 
 of the old orchard, beyond which was a narrow belt of 
 rocky pasture land skirted by a gray-lichened wall half 
 hidden under the brown-leaved undergrowth, and above 
 and beyond the dark resinous woods where the pine 
 cones and needles lay thick beneath, and the light was 
 tempered l)y the inlocked foliage above. Thrift had done 
 
BLINDFOLD AND BAREFOOT. 431 
 
 all that could Avell be done to mar the face of nature, 
 but its beauty still survived. 
 
 It was upon this scene that Hilda looked the morning- 
 after the events described in our last chapter. She 
 stood at one of the back windows of the seminary and 
 gazed upon the mountain glowing in the sparkling 
 splendor of a wintry morning. The season was a late 
 one, and the snow had not yet come, but glistening 
 rime rested on fence and wall, and transformed the 
 white birch limbs into stems of silver filigree. The 
 blades of grass and the brown leaves which the autumn 
 winds had piled here and there were touched with 
 points of light. The background of evergreens was 
 strengthened by the contrast and enriched by the sharp 
 shadows that the newly risen sun threw over it. 
 
 Hilda was now almost eighteen. She had grown 
 lithe and graceful in form, and her girlish impetuosity 
 of manner had been tempered by four years of training 
 at Beechwood. Yet in her great dark eyes was the 
 same unshrinking directness, and her quick decision 
 of movement showed that she had inherited not a little 
 of her father's steadfastness of purpose. Unfailing health 
 had left its matchless impress on her ruddy cheeks, 
 and given to her eyes a light that was almost saucy in 
 the revelation that it made of buoyant vitality. Her 
 soft, Hquid eyes glowed with evident enjoyment as 
 she gazed upon the bright scene without, though a far- 
 away look in their depths showed that her thoughts 
 were wandering. Yet the little trace o\ care that was 
 in them as she glanced out upon the sunlit mountain, 
 was so foreign to her wont that it hardly tempered 
 their vivacious brightness. A rich, warm-tinted morn- 
 ing robe encompassed her shapely figure, and her wealth 
 of soft dark hair was wound in a shining coil behind, 
 save only a fringe of rebellious ringlets that escaped 
 control and clustered about her wide, full brow. There 
 
482 HOT PLOWSHAMES. 
 
 was a careless ease of manner that told better than words 
 could, that she had slept on roses. Life had brought 
 neither trouble nor care. A cloud had appeared on its 
 horizon, but it was only a little one, and so very far off 
 that she hardly felt its shadow. There was something 
 in form and gesture that recalled her father. Bright 
 and sunny in temperament, she had yet enough of his 
 thoughtful coolness to constitute a nature not easily 
 moulded, or likely to be turned aside from a purpose 
 once conceived. 
 
 She had kindled in the open grate a fire of materials 
 that had been placed ready for her hand the night before 
 — snowy bits of pine, long, slender splints of creamy ash 
 and heavy pieces of maple, with closely-curling cones of 
 rich birch-bark for kindling. The flames roared up the 
 chimney and awakened her from her revery. She went 
 and stood before the fire, stretching out her shapely 
 hands to catch the grateful warmth. Then she drew 
 back her robe, and held one slippered foot alter the other 
 toward the flame. After a few moments she looked at 
 her watch, and stepping lightly across the floor to a half- 
 open door, said softly : 
 
 "Amy!" 
 
 She listened until she heard the regular breathing of 
 a sleeper, then glanced quickly within, and, with a 
 smile, closed the door and withdrew, 
 
 " Heigho !" she said, "I do believe I am the only girl 
 at Beechwood that likes to see the sun rise, and I am 
 not sure that I would if it did not give me such a nice, 
 quiet time to write to Martin. Poor fellow !" she added, 
 "he must be having a very sad time." 
 
 She drew a little stand before the fire, and, arranging 
 her writing materials, sat for a moment gazing at the 
 bright flames as they leaped up the chimney's black 
 throat, ere she began to write. This was her greeting — 
 her orison to her absent lover : 
 
BLINDFOLD AND BAREF()(n\ 4:.:, 
 
 "My Dear Martin : I have risen very early to write to 
 you for it seems to me that you are anxious and timibled, 
 though I cannot tell why you should be. Surely your 
 father's loss cannot be so very great as to be any good 
 cause, and I cannot think that his illness is really se- 
 rious-in the sense of danger, I mean. Of course, it is 
 painful and unpleasant, but you will be able to do for him 
 so much more than you would otherwise be allowed to un- 
 dertake, that you must really enjoy showing hun how well 
 and willingly you can serve him. I wish I could be with 
 you and I would come at once if Papa had not enjoined 
 me to stay until he came to fetch me. Dear Papa, how 
 thoughtful he has always been, and how careful of my 
 happiness! But he will come soon. I know he will, for 
 I have dreamed of him every night for almost a week ; 
 and three successive nights, you know, is a st«;e sign, or 
 all the wisdom of the witches goes for nothing. You used 
 to call me a witch, and so cannot deny me the powder of 
 divination. It is odd, the repetition of this dream. Every 
 time I see Papa in the stern of the dear old Sea Foam. 
 The sails are set; she is standing in through the breakers 
 along a narrow channel. The wind is abeam, brisk bu 
 not heavy. The moon is at the full, and makes it as light 
 as day. Papa holds the tiller, and keeps her head m the 
 track the moon makes on the waves. Beyond a narrow 
 point the sea is as smooth as glass, and the glimmer of 
 the moonlight on it is steady and full. It seems as if the 
 Sea Foam were going to sail right on into the moon itselt. 
 I know the place very well. I have heard Papa and Un- 
 thank tell of it so often that I could not fail to know it. 
 It is the old inlet-Hargrove's Inlet-where the buccaneers 
 used to go in and out in the old days. Papa used to say 
 that he was prouder of having found that narrow pas- 
 sage through the breakers, by which his rugged kinsmen 
 used to come and go upon their lawless errands on the 
 main, than almost anything else that he had done. It 
 seems that he and Unthank are the only ones that know 
 
434 IK) T PL W.^IIAIiEf^. 
 
 it now, though I have heard him tell the bearings over so 
 often that I almost think I could take the Sea Foam in 
 there myself. 
 
 "That is all there is of it ; but every night I see the same 
 — the brave old boat ; the shining, seething sea ; my father 
 holding the tiller as easily as if he guided a toy, and 
 watching the course with the moonlight shining on his 
 dear face. I am sure he will come pretty soon, not be- 
 cause I dream about him, but because I think of him so 
 much. Oh, he is sure to come to me, and then we will 
 both come to you. I keep my trunk all packed up, so 
 that there need not be any delay, and twenty times a day 
 I go over the pretty little things I will say to him when he 
 comes in, when we start off and all along through the sun- 
 set hills as we fly quickly Qji our way to dear old Sturm- 
 hold. 
 
 " "Why have you not written me ? It has been just an 
 age since a letter came. Oh, I know ! Of course you are 
 so busy you have hardly time to breathe. I don't wonder 
 that you have no time to write. Then, you are expecting 
 me every day, too. Tell your father how sorry I am for 
 him, and kiss your dear mother for me, I want them to 
 think as well of me as they can before I come, for I am 
 sure to impair their good' opinion by some prank ere I 
 have had time to outwear the freshness of their welcome 
 home. I wonder why Papa was so particular to charge 
 me to stay here till he came or until I heard from him ? 
 He never did so before. However, I shall stay. He knows 
 that, and he will come here the very first thing, 
 
 "This is Saturday, and is a holiday. I am going to post 
 this after breakfast, and then go for a stroll in the woods. 
 It is cool this morning, but when the sun is well up, the 
 open nooks among the evergreens will be warm and cosy. 
 At any rate, I am going, just to be alone, and smell the 
 pines. It is just the sweetest place in the world to sit and 
 think — to paint pictures and dream dreams. Amy says it 
 is sombre and lonesome among the rocks and under the 
 
BLINDFOLD AND BAREFOOT. 4ar) 
 
 trees, but I do not see how it could be improved — unless 
 one's lover could be there, too. 
 
 "Well, good-by, dear. Amy has waked, and come like a 
 half-frozen ghost and curled herself up between my red 
 wrapper and the fire. I never saw such a cold, bloodless 
 creature as she is. She has the most wonderful eyes, and 
 hair that is as black as jet. She is very proud of it, and 
 well she may be, for the great shining coils lie like a crown 
 upon her small, shapely head, and make her slender neck 
 seem slenderer still. Her dark olive skin has not a trace 
 of flush, and its dull pallor contrasts so strangely with the 
 great black eyes and mass of jetty hair that it sometimes 
 makes her look almost weird. This effect is no doubt 
 aided by the smallness of her features and the thinness of 
 her lips. She seems like a child almost, and yet they 
 call her ' Queenie, ' because of her haughty and dignified 
 bearing. She is a strange compound of pride and passion 
 — strength and weakness. She is thin-blooded, and, I 
 fear, cold-hearted, yet I cannot help loving and pitying 
 her. We have always been great friends, yet I should al- 
 most doubt that she had any real affection for me were it 
 not for her terrible jealousy of you. It is funny that my 
 best friend should be my lover's worst enemy. Of course, 
 I count it no hardship to choose between you ; though it 
 does make me feel very sad to think that I shall be with 
 her only a few months more, for I am really the only 
 friend she has, and I am afraid she is not likely to find 
 new ones. Poor girl ! I cannot but think how much hap- 
 pier is my lot than hers. Good-by. She will not let me 
 write any more, and I do not think I ought to write such 
 long letters, when I do not get even a line in reply. Re- 
 member me to the servants, and think of me often when 
 you visit dear old Sturmhold. How I long to be there 
 with you— yours always and altogether. Hilda." 
 
 For more than four years the cosy corner room, from 
 one window of which she looked down the river, and 
 from the other out upon the mountain, had been Hilda's 
 
436 HO T PL WSHARE8. 
 
 habitation during the term-time at Beechwood. It 
 was on the second floor, opened on the roof of the 
 old farm-house, and had been chosen by her because 
 the view reminded her of home, she said. Her father 
 had stipulated that she should not be removed from this 
 room, nor on any account debarred from the privilege of 
 wandering at will on Saturdays in woods and fields, on 
 foot or on horseback, wheresoever she would. This 
 privilege had been accorded with hesitation ; but Hilda 
 had soon become such a prime favorite, not only with 
 the principal and teachers, but also with her mates, 
 that it soon ceased to attract attention, the more es- 
 pecially as it came to be applied to many of the 
 other scholars as well. The room which opened off 
 from Hilda's had been occupied for the same time by 
 Amy Hargrove. Between these a very singular friend- 
 ship had arisen. While both were brunettes, the dull 
 pallidness of Amy's complexion was in strong contrast 
 with the ruddy bloom that tinged the cheeks of Hilda. 
 Both were considered beauties — one bright and cheer- 
 ful, and the other cold and haughty. The one had 
 many friends, the other few. They were alike in but 
 one thing — they were both excellent scholars, and rivals 
 for the honors of their class. Everybody wondered at 
 their intimacy. They seemed to have so little in com- 
 mon, and yet they were almost inseparable. The fact 
 was that their friendship was based as much upon the 
 accident of contrasting physical conditions as anything 
 else. Hilda's abounding vitality seemed almost a ne- 
 cessity to the meagre, thin-blooded little creature whom 
 she took under her charge and petted and cared for 
 almost like a child. She laughed at her whimsicalities, 
 submitted to her pretensions, and when it was neces- 
 sary, disregarded her fantasies. She had none of that 
 self-consciousness that made her jealous of any of the 
 really brilliant parts of her friend. She pitied her from 
 
BLINDFOLD AND BAREFOOT. 437 
 
 her heart ; for, despite her arrogance and assumption, 
 she was alone in the world. She had no near kindred, 
 and the one vexation of her life was the fact that 
 her guardian paid no heed to her existence save in 
 providing amply for her comfort. She, too, had been 
 secured special privileges at Beechwood. Her pony was 
 not inferior to Hilda's ; but she loved far better to have 
 the two harnessed together and driven through shady 
 lanes by another, than to mount and ride, as Hilda de- 
 lighted to do, over the steep mountain roads. Despite 
 these dissimilarities, there was rarely any difference be- 
 tween the friends. The one was happy to subserve the 
 other's pleasure; the other was careful not to try her 
 good nature too far. It was the everlasting puzzle of 
 the strong and the weak; the broad and the narrow; 
 the great and the small. Their natures were comple- 
 mentary, and for that very reason perhaps had so long 
 harmonized. 
 
 The day of which we write was one of the rare occa- 
 sions when the occupants of the two adjoining rooms 
 did not agree. Ever since Hilda's engagement to Mar- 
 tin, Amy had been jealous of the young man's share 
 in her companion's affection. It always put her in a 
 pet to have Hilda write to him, and she spared no op- 
 portunity of manifesting, as far as she dared, her dis- 
 approval. On this day she had made up her mind that 
 Hilda must drive with her to a town some miles down 
 the river, to visit a friend whom she had met the sum- 
 mer before. As we have seen, this did not comport 
 with Hilda's plans, and the result was that before the 
 wayward httle creature had dressed for the day she had 
 worked herself into a fever of fretfulness. Hilda laughed 
 at her angry expostulation, and when she stamped her 
 little foot in rage, reminded her of a sheep at Sturm- 
 hold which was addicted to the same impatient gesture. 
 The result was that the fiery little queen retired to her 
 
438 HOT PLOWSHARES. 
 
 own room, closed and locked the door between, and 
 when the bell for breakfast rang the excuse of a raging- 
 headache which she gave for non-attendance Avas by 
 no means without foundation. She was prostrated by 
 that curse of natures in which the nervous far predomi- 
 nates over the physical — a sick-headache. Her room was 
 darkened, and she became a solitary prisoner for the 
 nonce. Hilda, reproaching herself for her refusal to 
 comply with her friend's wishes, would have become 
 her nurse, but the spoiled creature would not permit 
 her to even enter the room. 
 
 She, therefore, rode into the town to post her letter, 
 meeting the country mail upon the way, and wondering 
 whether it contained any messages from her loved 
 ones. As she passed along the narrow busy streets 
 that led to the post-office she found herself curiously 
 watched by those she met. The postmaster, a fussy, 
 important man with spectacles and thin gray hair — 
 a deacon in the church and one of the social and re- 
 ligious lights of the little town — drew her into con- 
 versation as she handed in her letter, and, on some 
 artful pretext, kept her waiting while more than one of 
 the townspeople came in and regarded her with a 
 strange eagerness. Dropping into a store to make some 
 slight purchases she noted the same unusual watch- 
 fulness on the part of all. There was some whispered 
 conversation between the proprietor and a few men who 
 stood near the stove, accompanied by meaning glances 
 in her direction. She caught the clerk who waited on 
 her telegraphing with his eyes, evidently in response to 
 their looks of inquiry. The hot blood rushed to her 
 face as she became conscious that she was the object 
 of observation and remark. Thinking there might be 
 some disarrangement of her attire which was attract- 
 ing attention, she turned full upon the little knot at 
 the stove, with an angry light in her eyes, ?i,ii^ thea 
 
BLINDFOLD AND BAEEFOOT. -130 
 
 deliberately Avalked past them to a mirror which hung 
 against the wall at the back of the store. Save her 
 flushed face and flashing eyes the glass showed noth- 
 ing unusual in her appearance, and the picture that 
 was flashed back at her was certainly not one that need 
 object to scrutiny. She was used to admiration. She 
 had i-eceived it all her life. Her father had petted her 
 and praised her beauty always, and every one who came 
 under his rooftree soon found that the shortest path 
 to his approval was unstinted praise of his daughter. 
 Since she had been at Beechwood she had been the 
 belle of the little town. Everybody in it knew her. Her 
 favor had been a matter of competition with several of 
 the young men, even after it was generally understood 
 that she was already engaged. She was probably better 
 knoAvn through the country by her long Avalks and rides 
 than any other girl at Beechwood. She knew admira- 
 tion, and rather liked it. But this was not admiration. 
 What could it be ? 
 
 As she left the store she encountered a knot of men 
 on the sidewalk. They tried to seem not to be noticing 
 her. She knew them. They were a lawyer, a doctor, an 
 editor and the son of a wealthy mill-owner. As she 
 went toward her horse, which she had hitched near the 
 post-ofiice, they all gazed after her, and at once en- 
 gaged in an animated conversation. Could they be 
 talking of her ? For the first time, she was allowed to 
 lead her horse up to the platform that ran in front of one 
 of the stores, and mount without aid. It was no inconve- 
 nience. She had as soon do it as not. She was so expert 
 a horsewoman that only the shghtest advantage of sur- 
 face was needed to enable her to leap into the saddle. 
 She did not care about the attention, either. She was 
 too sincere by nature to desire to be a flirt. She loved 
 Martin too earnestly to even seem to favor another. She 
 liked attention ; she desired to please, and was glad to 
 
440 H02 PLOWSHARES. 
 
 be thought beautiful and attractive. It gave her father 
 pleasure. She was glad to be dowered Avith beauty for 
 Martin's sake, too. Besides that, she enjoyed seeing 
 others happy, and was glad to be the cause of their hap- 
 piness. Yet she had never sought such attention, and 
 would not have missed it had it not been universally 
 accorded up to that time. Almost every week for four 
 years, saving the vacations, she had ridden at least 
 once into the town, and never in all that time had she 
 been without a knight to offer his hand for her foot 
 when she mounted to ride aAvay. Indeed, it had been 
 an honor for which there had more than once been 
 sharp competition. Now she mounted alone. Yet a 
 half a dozen familiar faces were at the windows of the 
 shops peering out at hef. Not one of the men who 
 stood scarceh' ten steps away had ever allowed her to 
 do so before. The young mill-owner seemed quite to 
 have forgotten her existence. Yet he had lately been so 
 pronounced in his attentions that she had wondered if 
 it were not her duty to tell him of her relations with 
 Martin, so that he need have no excuse for continuing 
 them. What could be the matter? There must be 
 something wrong with her attire. She looked herself 
 over nervously, as well as she could. Lifted her habit 
 to see if by chance it failed to fall properly. Wondered 
 if a ghmpse of her skirt had shown beneath its border. 
 Her face burned with shame at the thought. She leaned 
 forward in the saddle and breathed freer when she found 
 that w^as not the cause. Yet what could it be ? 
 
 She turned her horse's head, and, with a sharp stroke, 
 started on a swift gallop for the seminary. 
 
 Hardly had she gone a hundred yards when she saw 
 the good pastor of the village church beckoning to her 
 and calling after her. She reined in her horse and he 
 came out to her — into the middle oi the street — the 
 good man who had only bowed and smiled as she had 
 
BLINDFOLD AND BAREFOOT. 441 
 
 ridden past him hitherto. There is trouble in his 
 face, but he is kind— very kind, indeed. She almost 
 weeps as he takes her hand, raising his hat with scrupu- 
 lous poUteness, and looking anxiously into her face as he 
 asks many questions, all very kindly and gently, of her 
 father, of the fire at Skendoah, and all the other things 
 that bear on her life. It is very strange she thinks. 
 But meantime he talks on. What a sturdy, resolute 
 face he has ! As he talks, he rests his arm over the 
 horse's neck. Is the whole town watching them ? She 
 thinks so. He does not see it, however. He is not re- 
 proving her for her gayety, either, as he has done some- 
 times, but is telling her how trials should be borne. 
 What can he mean? And when he has finished and 
 shaken her hand once more, and she is about to start, 
 he turns again and enjoins upon her anew to come to him 
 if she ever needs a friend. "Come right to my house, 
 my dear," he says, with his honest face aglow, "at any 
 time ot night or day. You will always be welcome- 
 just as welcome as if it were your home. Kemember, 
 now." What a strange injunction, and how solenmly 
 yet kindly given! What an odd look of inquiry and 
 embarrassment was in his eyes, too ! He really seemed 
 oppressed with sympathy for her. Yet she needed none. 
 Ah, could it be ? Her father— had anything happened 
 to him ? Her heart stood still with terror as the thought 
 struck her. But no, it could not be. It was not sorrow 
 that she had seen in the eyes that stared at her. Sym- 
 pathy is sweet and tender and kind. This Avas hard and 
 furtive and mean. It was a low, jeering, hateful stare, 
 that meant— oh, what did it mean '? Anger and pride 
 and shame repeated again and again the futile question. 
 Her eyes flashed ; her face flushed and paled by turns ; 
 her hands clutched the reins nervously, and she bit her 
 nether lip until the blood started forth in her vexation. 
 
442 HOT PLOWSHARES. 
 
 Then she gave her horse the rein and dashed over the 
 frozen road to the seminary. 
 
 Had the world gone mad ? From ever}^ window the 
 faces of her schoolmates Avere peering forth with the 
 same curious expression. Some were lit with furtive 
 sympathy, and some bore the same sinister leer she 
 had met in the town. The very servant who took her 
 horse as she dismounted scanned her face and figure 
 curiously as he did so. She ran up the steps and en- 
 tered the hall. A dozen expectant faces were turned 
 upon her with the same indefinable, searching glance. 
 She rushed up the stairway and flew to her room. She 
 saw them peeping at her from the rooms, and was con- 
 scious of opened doors and watchful observers after she 
 had passed. Was she bewitched ? Was there any strange 
 thing in her appearance — any horrible gaucherie of dress 
 or manner — that caused her to be observed and talked of 
 in such an unaccountable way V Had she been trans- 
 formed in a day ? 
 
 She rushed to her room and ran at once to the mirror 
 to find, if she could, a clew to the mystery. Her attire 
 was faultless. She caught a hand-glass from the drawer, 
 and turning from the mirror inspected her di-ess from 
 top to toe. She walked away from the glass ; she turned 
 one side and then the other ; raised one arm and then 
 the other; lifted her trailing habit, inspected even her 
 shoes — but could see nothing that should cause remark. 
 Amy was passing back and forth in the room. B}' a 
 side glance in the mirror she detected on her face the 
 same speculative look she had seen on others ; only in 
 her case it was linked with something she had not 
 seen elsewhere. There was a cold, hard look — anger, 
 almost disgust, upon her proud, regular features. Her 
 thin lips were surely half parted in a sneer. Hilda 
 dropped the glass and sprang toward her friend. Amy 
 drew back and raised her hands, as if to avoid her 
 
BLINDFOLD AND BAREFOOT. 44:^. 
 
 touch. Hilda noticed that she held some books and 
 trifles of her OAvn that in their community of use had 
 been usually kept in this room rather than her own. 
 She glanced around and saw that everything belonging 
 to her companion had been removed — books, pictures, 
 bits of needlework, trinkets which they had hung upon 
 the walls or laid upon the tables, in girlish attempts at 
 decoration. On the bed in careless confusion was heaped 
 a mass of like trifles belonging to herself, which had 
 in the same manner found lodgment in Amy's room. 
 Slowly it dawned upon her. Amy had returned her 
 trinkets and was taking away her own. Her amaze- 
 ment was increased a thousandfold. She grew faint 
 and dizzy with mysterious apprehension. Was the world 
 slipping from beneath her feet? Was mankind flying 
 from her presence ? Did she bear a leper spot that all 
 should shun and jeer or hate ? She could not think — 
 only feel and fear and dread. Every nerve seemed 
 burdened with indefinable agony. The blood tingled in 
 every vein. Her heart thrilled with pain. Her head 
 was a crucible of fire. She must, she would know what 
 it meant. 
 
 "'Oh, Amy, Amy !" she said in the shrill, wiry tones 
 which only intensest agony can give, "what is it? Do 
 tell me what makes you look at me so strangely — and 
 the others — the girls — everybody ?" 
 
 Amy pointed coldly to the glass, her hps now parted 
 in an unmistakable sneer, showing the small white teeth 
 close shut beneath them, while her eyes flashed with 
 angry fire. 
 
 Hilda shot one more glance of inquiry at the mirror. 
 
 " What is it ?" she cried in despair. " Do tell me ! I 
 can see nothing." 
 
 "Yet it is very plain to others." 
 
 Again Hilda looked, 
 
 " Oh, what is it ? Please tell me ! Do you not see 
 
444 HOI PLOWSHARES. 
 
 you are killing me ? Why does everybody shun me to- 
 day ?" 
 
 "Because they have only just learned the truth, I 
 suppose," said the other coldly. 
 
 "The truth! What do you mean?" The question 
 was asked in open-mouthed wonder. "What have you 
 learned — what has anybody learned, that they did not 
 know before ?" 
 
 "Really one would think you did not know 1" said 
 Amy with a mocking laugh, as she entered her own 
 room. 
 
 Hilda sprang forward. 
 
 " Amy, speak ! What is it ? I know nothing !" 
 
 She was entering her classmate's room, as she spoke. 
 Amy turned upon her as she reached the threshold and 
 pushed her violently back. 
 
 " Stand back !" she cried. " Stand back ! Do not dare 
 to come into my room ! Do not touch me ! The very 
 sight of you is contamination !" 
 
 " Oh, Amy — Amy !" wailed the poor girl. "What do 
 you mean? What has happened? Why are you so 
 angry with me?" 
 
 "Why?" shrieked the friend, now transformed into 
 a demon of hate. "Why? Because I do not choose 
 to associate with such as you ! Because I am a lady ! 
 Because you have imposed upon and outraged us ! Be- 
 cause the man you call your father — " 
 
 " Stop, Amy Hargrove !" The frenzied girl was trans- 
 formed into an angry goddess in an instant. "Stop!" 
 she repeated and strode toward the venomous little figure 
 with an air of menace that made it shrink away in fear. 
 " Say what you please of me, but do not dare to utter one 
 word against my father." 
 
 " Your father ?" sneered Amy, still retreating. 
 
 " Yes, my father I Is it anything strange that I should 
 refuse to hear my father defamed ?" 
 
BLINDFOLD AND BAREFOOT. 445 
 
 "Meaning, I suppose, Captain Hargrove !" lisped the 
 white-faced vixen, while her eyes gleamed like burning 
 coals with hate. 
 
 " Of course. You know my father. Everybody knows 
 him !" — wonderingly, but yet defiantly. 
 
 " Everybody thought they knew him," replied the other 
 with a shrug. " Now they know better." 
 
 "What!" exclaimed Hilda, with a surprised, hysteri- 
 cal laugh. "Are you crazy. Amy ? Pray, who is my 
 father, then ?" 
 
 " Ah, indeed ! That is not important now. Your 
 mother is known !" meaningly. 
 
 "My mother?" 
 
 " Oh, yes ! Your mother ! Don't try to put on that 
 look of innocence. The game is played out. We know 
 who your mother was — or rather what she was ?" 
 
 "What she was ? My mother ? What do you mean ?" 
 cried Hilda, her hands clasped before her and her voice 
 Quivering Avith wonder and dread. 
 
 "What do I mean ? I mean that we know now that 
 your mother was a slave — George Eighmie's negro wife !" 
 
 There was a shriek — a fall ! Amy sprang quickly for- 
 Avard, closed and locked the door, braced herself against 
 it, and stood shivering and pallid, with chattering teeth 
 and eyes upturned in terror. Did she fear something 
 that lay inanimate and still upon the other side, which 
 the thin panels hid ? 
 
CHAPTER XXXVI. 
 
 BORN OF THE SPIRIT. 
 
 Beechwood Seminary had a wide reputation. It 
 not only aflbrded exceptionally fine advantages for the 
 education of young ladies, but it was eminentl}' respect- 
 able. To have been admitted to its classes was of itself 
 a certificate of social rank. To have graduated from 
 Beechwood was to hold a master-key to good society 
 everywhere in the land. Twenty years had passed since 
 the Misses Hunniwell began with three boarders, whom 
 they taught in the parlor of their father's house, upon 
 the front of which the seminary building proper now 
 abutted. Their father had been a merchant who had 
 saved from ruin, in the "crash" of '37, only this old 
 homestead and the little hill-side farm, whose chief value 
 was that it furnished firewood and shelter. His daughters 
 had been well educated, and Avere too proud to descend 
 from their former high social position to any menial 
 avocation, and too "capable," as the saying of that 
 region is, to be dependent upon others. Their mother 
 was dead. So between them they managed the house- 
 hold and the scholars, and managed both so well that 
 their fame soon came to the ears of others — parents 
 and pupils. 
 
 Then the father died. Their pupils filled the house, 
 and some even obtained board at the neighbors'. They 
 builded a separate school-room ; it was soon more than 
 full. Then a small legacy fell to them. They bor- 
 rowed what was really a large sum in those times, and 
 erected the comfortable structure that now bore the 
 name of Beechwood Seminary. In a few 3'ears the 
 
BORN OF THE SPIRIT. 447 
 
 debt was extinguished. One of the sisters died, and 
 the other wrought with still gi-eater pride and devo- 
 tion because of her memory. It was a high-priced and 
 high-toned institution; but it was a thoroughly good 
 one. Its founders contemplated their own advantage, 
 yet they were strictly honest, and would have scorned 
 to take pay for anything without giving a fair equivalent 
 for it. They were, above all things else, ladies. They 
 were descended from one of those old families of the 
 colony whom the age of vulgar shops and factories 
 overtook and drove in upon themselves. They were 
 types of that aristocracy which somehow or other grew 
 up and stood, proud and cold and self-respecting, among 
 the barren hills which mechanic art invaded with its 
 army of hand-workers — men and women — whose labor 
 was to build the foundations of the aristocracy of to-day. 
 The Hunniwells were an old family. Their blood was 
 very clear and very blue. The chilly purity of that 
 creed whose great expounder had once dwelt almost in 
 sight of the seminary, had left its impress on their 
 hearts. To "be a lady forever''' was a Scriptural in- 
 junction that followed hard upon the decalogue in their 
 minds. To be in all things "under the breath of good 
 repute" was a prime pre-requisite to favor with them. 
 They pitied the poor. They would cheerfully serve the 
 humblest. Suffering never cried to them in vain. Con- 
 science and sincerity were to be seen in their soft, 
 refined, yet shai-ply cut faces, as clearly as the blue 
 veins that showed through the silky skin. The calm 
 gray eyes were full and strong, but they were kind 
 and, in a way, tender. They were interested in their 
 neighbors of the busy borough that had grown up so near 
 the old farmhouse by them. They patronized the pub- 
 lic schools which nestled about among the hills. Rarely 
 did one of these close a term that one of the sisters 
 with a few of their pupils did not honor the closing day 
 
448 HOT PLOWSHARES. 
 
 with their presence. The white slender fingers pointed 
 out errors on the blackboard or the slate. The silky 
 brown curls that framed the calm, refined faces and 
 softened their serene severity, rose and fell with the 
 little nods of approval which they gave for the encour- 
 agement of merit. Their aristocracj^ was not one of 
 scorn or self-assertion, but of infinite self-respect. They 
 did not like new things or take kindly to new ideas. 
 The proprieties of the olden time ruled their convic- 
 tions. They kept aloof from "isms" that smacked of 
 question of the old doctrines. As the delegated guard- 
 ians of the pupils intrusted to their charge, they held 
 it a sacred doctrine to see that these imbibed, while 
 under their care, no doubtful dogma. They were not 
 ascetics. They did not shut their pupils away from 
 the society that surrounded them, but required them 
 to attend church upon the Sabbath, encouraged them 
 to attend the prayer-meetings, and with the parents' 
 assent allowed them sometimes to attend social gath- 
 erings and to receive, with scarcely a show of restraint, 
 the visits of the young men of the neighborhood on 
 certain specified evenings. The Misses Hunniwell were 
 ladies and had no young ladies at their school whom 
 they could not trust. So, too, they wei'e not unreason- 
 ably severe in regard to girlish escapades, recognizing 
 that young life must break from its leading-strings now 
 and then. Their picnics, "recreation evenings" and 
 holidays were festal occasions full of sweet innocent 
 pleasure, not only to their pupils but to the favored 
 youths who were deemed worthy of admission to this 
 hill-side Eden. 
 
 Since the death of the elder sister, and especiall}- 
 since the coming of Hilda and Amy, even the former 
 seemingly light discipline had been somewhat relaxed. 
 Hilda, especially, had become a prime favorite, de- 
 spite her apparent disregard of some of the minor 
 
BORN OF THE SPIRIT. 449 
 
 proprieties. Much was forgiven, because of the free, 
 untrammeled hfe of Sturmhold. The privileges wliich 
 Captain Hargrove liacl demanded as tlie condition of 
 her coming had been granted with some rehictance. 
 Perhaps no man of less evident gentility — certainh' 
 no man whose Southern birth and lineage did not 
 entitle him to ask such a thing as a concession to the 
 home life and custom of his daughter — could have ol)- 
 tained the consent of the lady principal of Beechwood 
 to the keeping of a pony for his daughter's use. It was 
 with no little misgiving that it was granted. After a 
 time it seemed to prove so innocent a pleasure, and Hil- 
 da's abounding health as well as her frank good nature, 
 cheerful application and marked superiority in her studies 
 had so thoroughly overcome the good lady's fears, that 
 more than one sleek pet stood in the stable of the insti- 
 tution. She was not at f^ll averse to the added income, 
 though no temptation of gain could have induced her to 
 lower, in the least degree, tlie standard of excellence or 
 the tone of exclusiveness and propriety which clung 
 around this pride of her lonely life. Since these innova- 
 tions had come she had even allowed herself a pleasant 
 luxury, which she had never before dreamed of indulging. 
 Having now to keep an assistant for the man-of-all- 
 work, who spaded the garden, milked the cows, pre- 
 pared the wood and did the purveying for the institu- 
 tion, she had set up her carriage in a modest way, 
 instead of relying on the village livery when she needed 
 a vehicle for any purpose. So it happened that Beech- 
 wood had come to be regarded as not only a respect- 
 able and exclusive institution, but even in a sense a 
 luxurious one. All this added to its prosperity and 
 popvilarity until the number of pupils who were refused 
 admission, year by year, almost equaled the number 
 accepted. 
 
 Yet let it not ho. supposed that there was any lack of 
 
450 HO T PL WSIIARES. 
 
 wholesome discipline at Beeehwood. Woe to the j'oung 
 lady who transgressed in any really important featurx' 
 its regulations. She found that beneath the gentle na- 
 ture of the principal there was a will of iron. Conceal- 
 ment of any fault or evasion of any duty was certain to 
 receive merited reproof and humiliation. Falsehood in 
 word or act was the most heinous sin. The unworthy, 
 incorrigible or persistently neglectful were Aveeded out 
 with the most summary firmness. She was tender in 
 her care but inflexible in her requirements. Among the 
 things most rigidly prohibited was all mention of the 
 question which had grown to be the absorbing topic 
 of the day. Holding herself to be the parent pro teiii- 
 pore of her pupils, she considered it a sacred duty to 
 see to it that the home teachings of each were not per- 
 verted while under her care. Having pupils from the 
 South, as well as the North, she counted it needful, 
 both for her own interest and as a trustee of their inte- 
 rests, not only that discussion and dissension should be 
 avoided, but that ideas which might be repugnant to 
 the respective parents should not be imbibed by them 
 while under her control. So while the life about her 
 became a seething mass of heated controversy, Beech- 
 wood felt none of its influence. To this fact Miss 
 Hunniwell owed no little loss of prestige among the 
 people of the town. She was said to be bitterly pro- 
 slavery in her views, and the seminary was regarded 
 by some of the most rancorous of the abolition fanatics 
 as a nursery of the most pestiferous doctrines. 
 
 This opposition naturally inclined this self-reliant wo- 
 man to a more positive and pronounced hostility to that 
 sentiment which had gradually worked its way into 
 so many of the institutions of the North. So, when a 
 family of colored children found their way into the school- 
 house of the little village, she ceased her customary visits 
 there, and so far ovei'stepped her own rule as not only 
 
BORN OF THE HPIRIT. 451 
 
 to speak somewhat bitterly in reference to it in private 
 conversation, but also to refer to it in her customary 
 Wednesday afternoon talks to her pupils. She did not 
 like slavery. She even regretted its existence, and was 
 truly sorry for the slave's hard fate. But, on the other 
 hand, she did not like the negro. She thought he had 
 a right to the proceeds of his own labor — to be a man 
 and have a home — but that did not make him white, 
 or entitle him to be the equal of the white man. She 
 gave liberally to the Colonization Society, and hoped 
 the day would come — indeed, she prayed for it daily — 
 when Christianized slaves would be reshipped to Africa 
 by the million as missionaries, who should convert their 
 barbarian kinsmen to Christianity. She took no note of 
 probability or possibility. She never stopped to con- 
 sider of their fitness, and it did not once occur to her 
 that the untaught slave was, at best, a queer emissary 
 to bear the message of Christian freedom to the conti- 
 nent whence Christian hands had ravished slaves for 
 centuries to minister to Christian greed. Her only feel- 
 ing was that they ought not to have been taken from 
 thence, and, being here, ought to be gotten rid of as 
 soon as possible. There were very many who sympa- 
 thized with these views, but in the region where she 
 dwelt the antipathy to slavery as an act of personal in- 
 justice to the slave was fast overcoming the antipathy 
 of race and color. 
 
 It was to this community and to this woman that the 
 report had come, so well supported that none could 
 doubt, that a favorite pupil of this exclusive institution 
 was a threefold social leper— illegitimate, the daughter 
 of a slave — perhaps a slave herself — and cursed with 
 that befouling taint, the blood of Africa. The metro- 
 politan journals had brought the news, now fully con- 
 firmed, of the death of Captain Hargrove in the attempt 
 to remove the slaves from Mallowbanks, together with 
 
452 HOT PLOWSHARKS. 
 
 the further information, derived from papers found upon 
 his person that removed all possible doubt, that the 
 daughter of George Eighmie and Alida had been en- 
 tered as a pupil at Beechwood. The village paper, 
 which was rampantly Abolitionist in its tone, had referred 
 to it with a sly touch of gratification at the position 
 in which the principal Avould find herself, combined with 
 a really sympathetic allusion to the 3'oung lady herself. 
 Another journal, of opposite proclivities, published in a 
 village a few miles awa}^ had discoursed upon it at 
 considerable length, taking occasion to express its en- 
 tire confidence that Miss Hunniwell had been imposed 
 upon by the accomplished kidnapper and the girl whom 
 he had represented as his daughter. It added that the 
 latter was said to be gifted with that rare beauty which 
 the quadroon sometimes possesses, but was easily re- 
 cognized as having colored blood when the fact was once 
 suggested to an observer. Three letters had also come 
 by that morning's mail to the lady principal, which 
 brought vividly before her mind all the horrors of the 
 fact she had learned. Two of these were from South- 
 ern patrons. They were bitterly indignant at the fact 
 that their daughters had been made the victims of such 
 an infamous fraud, and demanded their instant return 
 to their homes. They denounced her in unmeasured 
 terms for the very sin she hated most — deception. She 
 felt that their anger was justified. She was angry herself 
 at the imposition which had been practiced upon her, 
 and utterly appalled at the disgrace which must ensue 
 to her beloved seminary. The other letter was from 
 jVFr. Robert Gilman, in his capacity of attorney for the 
 heirs of Eighmie, informing her that they had positive 
 information that "a certain negro girl, belonging to the 
 estate of said Eighmie,'' was kept and harbored at the 
 seminary under her charge, under the name of Hilda 
 Hargrove, having lieen entered there as the daughter of 
 
BOHN OF THE SPIRIT. 453 
 
 Merwyn Ha grove, deceased, who had the said girl in 
 his possession, claiming to be the testamentary heir of 
 said Eighmie, ough in fact held only to be an adminis- 
 trator de son tort of said estate. A reward of one thou- 
 sand dollars was offered if she would hold and detain the 
 said negro girl until the duly authorized administrator 
 could take measures to reclaim the same as the property 
 of the estate. He added that the administrator would 
 arrive in a very short time— perhaps nearly as soon as his 
 letter— fully prepared to substantiate his claim and take 
 the necessary steps to recover possession of the slave. 
 
 A cry of horror escaped the lips of the teacheras she 
 threw the letter from her, almost before she had finished 
 its perusal. 
 
 In an instant she was transformed. The anger of her 
 patrons, the pecuniary loss, the shame that would at- 
 tach to Beechwood and its loss of prestige — all Avere 
 forgotten in the horrible vision that rose up before her 
 of the fate that impended over her favorite pupil. Till 
 that moment she had not been conscious of any excep- 
 tional fondness for Hilda. Her beauty, her winsome 
 frankness and her aftectionate disposition had made her 
 a favorite with all ; but this foster-mother of twenty gen- 
 erations of cdimmcB, this alma mater of a thousand spot- 
 less girls, would have counted herself unworthy of her 
 trust had she admitted in her heart an hour before that 
 she could love one of them in any great degree more than 
 another. She would have dismissed from her employ at 
 once any teacher who had manifested a like partiality 
 for any particular pupil. All her hfe she had been as 
 impartial as Rhadamanthus, and had fixed her pride 
 upon and given her care and tenderness in almost equal 
 degree to all. Now, the heart of this gray-haired, child- 
 less woman burst the bound of habit, and cast aside all 
 the wisdom and pride of her life. She forgot every one 
 that was under her charge save this lone child of a law- 
 
454 HOT PL W SHARES. 
 
 less union — the hopeless Pariah, the incurable leper, be- 
 fore whom waited only a life of shame and suffering — 
 this nameless waif of the Dead Sea of Slavery. She saw 
 it all — the chains — the block — the mart — the life of 
 shame — the death long waited for and welcomed because 
 an end of life. Within her breast the mother sprang to 
 life. Born of this spirit-travail Hilda became at once 
 her child — her one ewe-lamb — her very own. Her fath- 
 er's death had given her back the mother she had never 
 known. 
 
 "Oh, my darling! my darling !" cried the childless 
 woman, as she clasped her arms across her bosom and 
 walked back and forth across the study floor. "My child ! 
 My Hilda ! What shall I do ? How shall I save you ?" 
 
 That moment she caught the fire of the enthusiasts. 
 In that hour she became a fanatic. The one thought 
 which was seething in the heart of the people had found 
 entrance to her own, and drove out all others. No ar- 
 gument, no exposition of theory had ever touched her 
 calm, conservative nature ; but the very thought of 
 this Nessus robe, which must forever encase the fair 
 young form in the room above, overturned at once her 
 life-long convictions, destroyed all thought of prudence, 
 and set her in battle array against an institution of 
 which Hilda's peril was but an incident — rare, perhaps, 
 but possible. With her nature it was not enough to feel 
 or b'elieve,. She must act. She ceased her rapid walk 
 across the room, took the letter of the attorney from 
 the floor, and carefully read it again. Her soft cheek 
 burned and her eyes flashed with anger. She sat for 
 a long time with her head resting on one hand, her lips 
 close shut, and the letter crushed in the clinched fingers 
 of the other. She was thinking — thinking what she 
 could do, what she must do. She had decided without 
 thought what she ought to do. She hated this attorney 
 who could speak so coolly of the fate that impended 
 
BORN OF THE SPIRIT. 455 
 
 over her favorite. Yet he was a good man, au honest 
 man; a loving, tender-hearted father and a conscien- 
 tious attorney. In writing this letter he had performed a 
 simple duty which the law imposed upon him. If he had 
 known her thought, he would no doubt have been sur- 
 prised. He would have felt that she was unjust, and he, 
 in his turn, would also have been unjust. Cruelty was 
 as foreign to his nature as to hers. He was only the 
 product of a system she could not understand, as she 
 was the creature of a development of which he kne^v 
 nothing. 
 
 She heard the shriek and then the fall in the room 
 above. In au instant she comprehended what had 
 passed. She knew that the fatal message had reached 
 Hilda's ears. She sprang to her feet, rushed out of 
 her study, ran along the hall and up the stairs with 
 the crumpled letter in her hand. The curious pupils, 
 who had come from their rooms at the sound of the 
 shriek, shrank away from her as she passed them in 
 amazement. She did not speak to them nor look at 
 them. No one had ever seen her manifest excitement 
 before. A teacher, with a white, terrified face, met her 
 at the head of the stairs, and asked her a question. 
 Miss Hunniwell thrust her rudely aside without reply, 
 passed straight on to Hilda's room, turned the knob 
 without knocking, entered, and closed the door behind 
 ' her. Without there were pale faces, quivering lips and 
 hushed, wondering whispers. The premonition of a sad, 
 mysterious tragedy that was being enacted in the midst 
 of them had hushed the chatter of an hour before. 
 
CHAPTER XXXVII. 
 
 THE FREE3IAS0>iRY OF THE OPPRESSED. 
 
 Miss Hunniwell was for a moment half-be wildeixnl 
 at the sight which she beheld on entering Hilda's room. 
 She had pictured to herself when she heard the shriek, 
 and as she flew along the hall and up the stairway, a 
 crowd of curious, chattering girls, whose witless tongues 
 had brought to Hilda's ears the knowledge of calamity. 
 She expected to find them standing about their fainting 
 companion, themselves p^-le and tearful over the result 
 of their own thoughtlessness. But they were not there. 
 The room was still and empty save for Hilda, lying in- 
 sensible upon the floor, still clad in her riding-habit. 
 The little jaunty cap she wore with it, which had be- 
 come familiar to every wayfarer on the mountain roads 
 for miles around, had fallen off", and her wealth of dark 
 hair, released from its coil, was trailing on the carpet 
 by her side. In falling she had caught the coverlet, and 
 had dragged it half oft' the bed. It Avas the last uncon- 
 scious efibrt at self-protection. Her arm now lay re- 
 laxed and motionless. Her white ftice was upturned, 
 and the fitful, stertorous sobbing which shook her frame 
 was the only sign of life about her. Kindly nature had 
 given way, and the over-strained heart was for a tim(? 
 unconscious of its agony. But she was entirely alone. 
 Could it be that her tormentors had fled ? The teacher 
 did not deem it possible. She had come at once on 
 hearing her cry. Thei-e was no time for any one to have 
 escaped from the room. After a moment she became 
 aware of something unusual in the appearance of the 
 room. She could not at first determine what it was. 
 456 
 
THE FREEMASONRY OF THE OPPRESSED. 457 
 
 She glanced quickly about to make sure of the change 
 she felt rather than saw. The Avardrobe, bureau, bed — 
 all were in their accustomed places. The table in front 
 of the fireplace and the little desk of bird's-eye maple, 
 with trimmings of wild cherry, at which Hilda always 
 wrote her letters, was in its accustomed place beside the 
 window that looked out upon the mountain. Yet there 
 was something strange and unexpected — something that 
 disquieted and surprised her. What could it be? It 
 was not the pale face and relaxed form upon the floor. 
 She had anticipated that. All at once she noted with 
 surprise that the door that opened into Amy's room was 
 closed. She had not seen it shut for years — not since 
 the two girls had become intimates. She had not looked 
 for this, but in an instant she comprehended what had 
 occurred. She had not been for a score of years teacher 
 and confidant of all the girls that thronged the halls of 
 Beechwood without knowing the innermost nature of 
 every one of them. The clew to the situation was in 
 her hand. She divined instinctively the scene that had 
 taken place. She saw, as it were, the cowering, hateful 
 presence beyond the close-shut door, as well as the 
 white-faced form upon the floor. A smile of sorrowful 
 contempt parted her thin, soft lips as she thought what 
 hand had struck the blow, and realized how doubly 
 harsh arrogance and pride must have made it. 
 
 "Poor child !" she murmured, " she has had a bitter 
 foretaste of what is in store for her." 
 
 Then she tucked the gray curls behind her ears, a 
 quick, instinctive gesture of pi'eparation, and addressed 
 herself to the task of restoring the prostrate figure to 
 consciousness. A fainting girl was no new thing to her. 
 She had seen scores of them, and knew exactly what 
 was to be done. In an amazingly short time Hilda was 
 sitting upright by the bedside, her teeth chattering, the 
 dripping locks thrust back from her brow, her riding-cap 
 
458 HOT PL WSHARES. 
 
 hanging upon one side, and the long coil faUing down 
 her back, and slowly untwisting, while her great won- 
 dering eyes sought those of the teacher, full of fear 
 and full of questioning. But no questions were per- 
 mitted. The nurse who had her in charge was both 
 skillful and tender. Silence was imposed before she 
 could open her lips to frame an inquiry. Very soon 
 her habit was removed, a light wrapper substituted, 
 and Hilda was lying on the bed watching the teacher 
 as, with housewifely care, she shook out and hung 
 up the clothing that had been cast aside. Then Miss 
 Hunniwell went out into the hall. She knew the ad- 
 vantage of leaving the dazed brain to work its way out 
 of the mists of unconsciousness alone. She closed the 
 door behind her, and stood upon the landing at the head 
 of the stairway, gazing down into the sunlit hall be- 
 low. Several of the pupils took occasion to leave their 
 rooms, cross the hall, or descend the stairs as she waited. 
 All of them stole quick, curious glances as they passed. 
 Miss Hunniwell did not heed them, though with the 
 teacher's instinct she saw them all. Then she pulled a 
 cord that rang a bell in some distant part of the house, 
 and, after a moment's waiting, gave an order to the 
 servant who answered her summons. "When she re- 
 turned Miss Hunniwell took from her hands the tray she 
 brought and re-entered Hilda's room. She saw at once 
 that reason had resumed its sway. She judged that 
 Hilda's memory had, in part at least, come back. The 
 teacher wondered how much she remembered — how 
 much she knew. She feared the effect upon her reason 
 if all the sad truth were told at once. She kncAV that it 
 was a case demanding all her care and pity. Love and 
 duty were all enlisted in behalf of the fair victim of un- 
 toward fate. Hilda looked at her with surprise as she 
 locked the door and came toward the bed with the tray 
 in her hand. She seemed struggling to recall the events 
 
THE FREEMASONRY OF THE OPPRESSED. 459 
 
 of the day. When she was bidden to partake of the 
 simple fare set before her, she looked up and said : 
 
 "Oh, Miss Hunniwell, please tell me what has hap- 
 pened !" 
 
 "Hush, my dear, hush!" said the teacher, as she 
 lifted a warning finger. " You must keep still now. By- 
 and-by I will answer all your questions." 
 
 The calm voice and composed look soothed the ex- 
 cited girl at once. So she ate and drank obedient to 
 the teacher's behest, somewhat languidly, it is true, but 
 not Avithout relish ; for, despite the rebellion of her over- 
 strained nerves, Hilda was young and healthy, and such 
 natures not only quickly recuperate, but feel the de- 
 mands of appetite all the more keenly for the burden 
 they have borne. So she ate the toast and drank the 
 tea, and wondered what had happened that she should 
 be thus attended as an invalid. The teacher said no- 
 thing, but her manner was so tender and caressing that 
 Hilda even found herself wondering at it, and the tears 
 that filled her eyes were tears of gratitude. She knew 
 that some evil impended over her. She remembei-ed 
 dimly the curious glances she had encountered in the 
 village. She half recalled some terrible words that Amy 
 had spoken. She had scarcely comprehended them at 
 the time. She had only vaguely felt that she had^become 
 — she knew not what — a something terrible — so terrible 
 that even her best friend regarded her with aversion. 
 She was conscious that she was not as she had been the 
 day before. The world was now her enemy. Hence- 
 forth she was to be an outcast. She could not state the 
 cause, but she felt the fact. All the world would stare 
 at her hereafter as the men in the village had done that 
 morning. 
 
 The pity in the teacher's eyes confirmed all this. She 
 knew that her unwonted tenderness meant that she had 
 po other friends. She thought dimly of Martin as lor. i 
 
460 - HOT PLOW SHARE 8. 
 
 — separated from her forever. She did not blame him. 
 Why, she knew not, but she felt that she had become 
 a leper, and that even her teacher waited on her thus 
 at the risk of mortal contagion. She was very grateful 
 to her. She wished that she might die then and there, 
 and not live to know the agony she felt was in store for 
 her. It would be so sweet to die with the knowledge 
 that some one still loved her. She remembered that 
 when the darkness came on she had felt herself all alone 
 in the universe. The world had seemed to be slipping 
 away from her, and she herself falling away down into 
 darkness — vmfathomable, boundless. She had come back 
 — back into the world. No, not into the world — into 
 the light — into life — her world — her narrow life, into 
 which no one else might ever come. Even this gentle- 
 hearted teacher might only approach its dim, intangible 
 border. No loving presence could share with the deso- 
 lation in which she must hereafter dwell. The best 
 could but give her sympathy and pity, where everybody 
 had given love and honor hitherto. She did not under- 
 stand it, but she accepted it as a doom of which she 
 had somehow become conscious. It seemed like a ter- 
 rible dream, but she knew it was a more terrible reality. 
 She could not define it. The words that Amy had used 
 had slipped away from her ; but they Avere terrible 
 words, and her look of hate and disgust had been still 
 more terrible. She wondered if the teacher loved her. 
 That good lady had taken away the tray, and now stood 
 by the window gazing out upon the mountain. She was 
 trying to decide what she would say to Hilda — what she 
 would tell her of all that she had learned. Hilda raised 
 herself on her elbow and looked at her. Would she — 
 would anybody love her hereafter ? Would Martin ? — 
 Ah ! how her brain reeled. She remembered now. That 
 was the question she had asked herself when the dark- 
 ness fell upon her. It was of him she had thought in 
 
THE FREKMA80NRY OF THE OPPRESSED. 4G1 
 
 that moment ere she fell into the abyss of silence. She 
 must give him up. Love could only be to her a name. 
 It had been a matter of course hitherto. She had not 
 known how bright the sunshine was until the eclipse 
 had come. Could it have been only a terrible dream ? 
 
 She glanced at the door that led into Amy's room. It 
 was shut close. Her eyes swept about the room. All 
 that had been Amy's was removed. Ah ! how terrible 
 must be the contagion with which she was smitten so 
 suddenly. Her eye fell upon the heap of trinkets Amy 
 had cast in reckless disorder upon the bed. Everything 
 confirmed her fear. It Avas — it must be — all too true. 
 Only her father was left her now. Her father ! What 
 was this horrible fear ? "What had she heard ? What 
 had Amy said about her father ? 
 
 Hilda uttered a moan, and the teacher sprang to 
 her side. She saw that memory had now fully re- 
 turned, and her cheek blanched at the thought of all 
 that this fair child must face. She threw her arms 
 about her and kissed her again and again — not without 
 a thrill of terror at what she did. Could it be ? Was 
 
 this fair thing a groan came from her lips. Even 
 
 the guard which years of discipline had set upon them 
 could not repress her anguish. Hilda heard — saw — felt 
 the truth. Her very lips grew white. Her nostrils quiv- 
 ered and her eyes glared with terror, but not for herself. 
 She had forgotten her own Avoe. Her father alone filled her 
 consciousness. He was in peril — perhaps suffering, dying. 
 
 She caught the teacher by the shoulders ; held her 
 fast at arm's length, and gazing into her frightened face 
 cried in tones of fierce, threatening agony : 
 
 " My father ! My father ! What about my father ?" 
 
 There was a moment's silence. The teacher could 
 not answer. She could only Avonder dimly, how much 
 the girl knew — hoAV much she guessed, Hilda's fingers 
 buried themselves in the soft white shoulders of the 
 
46S HOT PLOWSHARES, 
 
 slender, gray-haired lady. She even shook her like a 
 child as she said in hoarse, terrible tones 
 
 " Speak quick — my father !" 
 
 The teacher recovered her self-control with an effort. 
 She looked calmly into her questioner's eyes and an- 
 swered : 
 
 "He is dead !" 
 
 The glaring eyeballs grew glassy in their fixed stare. 
 The strained muscles relaxed — 
 
 "Dead! Dead!" 
 
 A dazed, incredulous expression succeeded to the 
 strained glare in her eyes. "Dead! Dead!" she re- 
 peated dully and vacantly, as if she could not compre- 
 hend the meaning of th,e words. 
 
 Then the teacher with gentle force bore her back upon 
 the pillow and kindly and tendei-ly told her all that she 
 knew of her father's death — carefully avoiding all allu- 
 sion to what she had learned in regard to Hilda herself. 
 Tears came to her relief very soon. Sorrow succeeded 
 to terror. She turned her face to the pillow and 
 wept in an agony of grief. After a time the teacher 
 left her, hoping that her overwrought system might 
 find relief in sleep. She was not mistaken; after an 
 hour of silent weeping Hilda slept. The teacher had 
 locked the door as she passed out, to secure her from 
 interruption. Once the door of Amy's room opened, 
 and she peered in with a sinister look upon her thin, 
 pinched face. Close beside the bed she saw a letter. 
 With stealthy steps she crept forward, seized it, and re- 
 treated to her own room. A half-hour afterward she 
 came again. There was a glow of malignant triumph 
 on her face as she crept forward and deposited the letter 
 where she had found it. Then she closed and locked 
 the door, and threw the key as far as she could out of 
 the window. The letter was that which Mr. Gilmau 
 had written to the mistress of Beechwood. 
 
The B'UEEMASOmiY OF THE OPPRESSED. 463 
 
 Two hours had passed Avhen Hilda awoke. The terror 
 of the morning had all departed. Sorrow for her father's 
 death had swallowed up all other thought. She had for- 
 gotten Amy's words. She remembered dimly that some- 
 thing had separated them, but she cared little for it. 
 The world was nothing to her if her father was not to 
 be in it. She thought of Martin, and wondered dimly 
 why he had not come to her. She did not care very 
 much. It would hardly have been a consolation, yet 
 she wished he had come. Then her thoughts wandered 
 away to the scene of her father's death. She felt an 
 unconquerable desire to see the place where he had 
 fought and died in defense of his honor. She knew that 
 he had not engaged in the removal of the slaves from 
 any especial regard for their well-being. Indeed, she 
 knew his almost savage aversion to the victims of 
 slavery, as well as the institution itself. He had done 
 this simply to redeem his pledge to his dead brother. 
 She could not help exulting, even in her sorrow, over 
 his steadfast devotion to the pledge he had given. She 
 must see the scene of his sacrifice. She must go and 
 weep upon his grave. She had given him up. She knew 
 he was dead. Of that she had not a doubt. Yet his 
 presence seemed still to fill the world. She rose to bring 
 his portrait from a frame on which it rested on the little 
 bureau. As she did so her foot crushed a paper lying 
 at the bedside. She stooped and picked it up. Without 
 looking at it she went to the bureau, and resting her 
 arms upon it, gazed long and lovingly at her father's 
 face. Then she pressed the picture to her heart — 
 kissed it again and again — dimmed it with her tears 
 — wiped the cold, bright surface of the daguerreotype 
 with her handkerchief, and watched the beloved fea- 
 tures as they emerged again from the misty film that 
 overspread the plate. 
 
 By-and-by she noted the letter which she still held. 
 
464 HOT PLOWSHARES. 
 
 She saw her father's name. She did not stop to ask to 
 whom it belonged, but read on, line after line, vmtil her 
 cheek blanched with terror. The old horror of the 
 morning had come back — no longer vague and indis- 
 tinct, but clear and tangible. The terrible truth was 
 here revealed without the shadow of concealment. She 
 was not only bereaved, but debased. The father she had 
 adored was not her father. Could it be ? She would 
 not beheve it. And yet it seemed as if there could be 
 no mistake. It had been learned from documents found 
 on his person. Had his own lips bidden her to disbe- 
 lieve his life ? She could not. She would not. x\nd then, 
 what was that about herself? It mattered very little 
 now that she was doubly fatherless. Yet it was terrible 
 to contemplate. 
 
 She pushed back her hair, and gazed long and anxiously 
 at her reflection in the mirror. She scanned the clear 
 white of the eye— pearly to the very edge of the dark iris. 
 Then she thrust back her sleeve and noted the texture of 
 the soft Avhite skin — traced the course of the blue veins 
 through its transparent whiteness — the nails pink and 
 pearly to the very base — caught the mass of hair that 
 trailed down her back, and held it betwixt her eye and the 
 light, noting its soft, silken texture and the rich broAvn 
 tinge that it gave forth. Was it possible ? Had her 
 father deceived her when he told of her mother — of the 
 orchards of Italy and the russet-coated pears of Pied- 
 mont, for which she moaned so piteously when the 
 touch of death was on her wasted frame ? "Was the 
 ivory miniature tl!at hung in her bosom a lie ? She drew 
 it forth and gazed upon it — held it up beside her face 
 and scanned the reflection in the glass — placed it beside 
 the little frame, and asked herself, could he have dealt 
 falsely with any one — least of all with the memory of 
 the fair wife whose love never lost its potency ? "Xever ! 
 never!" she said to herself, and her dark eye flashed 
 
THE FREEMASOXRY OF THE 0PPRE8SE1). 405 
 
 with pride. Falsehood could not inhabit that citadel of 
 honor. Then she was his daughter — the daughter of 
 that fair woman whom he loved — and this foul taint — 
 it was all a lie — a terrible nightmare — a horrible mis^ 
 take ! Yet it was he that said it. It was his cold, dead 
 lips that had sent to her the message of dishonor. It was 
 he who had left as his sole heritage, perhaps, the know- 
 ledge of illegitimacy— the curse of servile parentage — > 
 the horror of a tainted blood ! How she loathed herseli 
 as she thought of it ! She tore open her robe and 
 gazed upon her palpitating bosom. She wished that 
 she might tear out the heart that throbbed beneath it. 
 She would willingly pour out her very life if the one 
 drop that corrupted its red tide — the one drop of darker, 
 baser blood — might only flow forth and leave her dead 
 body undefiled. Oh, it was terrible ! At once bereaved 
 and debased forever ! Even the fair white breast seemed 
 foul and loathsome as the tettered leper's skin. But ii 
 there should be a mistake — a doubt ? Ah, that were 
 more terrible still ! A doubt ! With the suggestion 
 came the thought of Martin. A doubt — only a doubt, 
 perhaps, but a doubt so terrible that it stabs love to 
 death ! She walked back and forth across the room. 
 Her stockinged feet gave forth no sound. The moan of 
 her unsyllabled agony dies upon her lips. She must 
 give him up, too ! Father, mother, lover — even her own 
 identity— gone at one fell swoop of fate ! Ah, she can 
 never come to his arms now ! All the bright visions of 
 love-crowned life are swept av/ay. Doubt is as bad as 
 certainty. Even if she could hide it fate might reveal 
 the hideous fact. The brand she had escaped a child 
 might bear ! Ko ! no ! no ! Love was not for her ! 
 Midnight had fallen on her moi-ning. 
 
 A knock at the door startled her. She stood and 
 listened in silence. A strange terror seized upon her. 
 Then the knock was repeated, and a note was thrust 
 
466 HOT PLOWSHARES, 
 
 under the door. She gazed at the wliite missive in 
 aflfright. After a time, half smihng at her fears, she 
 picked it up and read : 
 
 "Dear Miss Hargrove: Yon are in great peril, hut 
 you have friends who will help you. The hloodhounds are 
 on your track. Meet me at the hack gate of the seminary 
 at the time of evening prayers. Do not leave your room 
 on any account during the day. You are surrounded hy 
 enemies. Trust no one. Prepare for a long journey, hut 
 take as little as possible. Dress warmly, plainly. Remem- 
 ber, you promised to trust me. God bless and strengthen 
 you. Yours hastily, 
 
 "Gilbert Anderson." 
 
 The letter was scrawled hastily in pencil. It was 
 from the minister in the village. Thank God, she had 
 one friend — yes, two. Yet, stop; they were friends 
 only from pity. It were better she had none. What 
 did it mean ? In danger ? What peril could threaten 
 her ? At once it flashed upon her. She caught up the 
 lawyer's letter and read its woful sentences again. Ah, 
 it was plain noAv ! The administrator had arrived. He 
 had come for her. She was a slave. The law would 
 give her to him. What mattered her past life — her 
 present surroundings ! They only served as a back- 
 ground to make the future more terrible. The law knew 
 her only as a slave — a chattel — a thing. The law Avas 
 her enemy henceforth. 
 
 And now a new, overmastering terror got hold upon 
 her — the terror of the hunted fugitive. Bereavement, 
 debasement, the loss of love, friends, everything was 
 forgotten in one idea — how the terrible doom of the 
 future might be avoided. Strangely enough, she did 
 not once think of death as a refuge. Flight, escape, 
 was all that filled her mind. She ran to the window 
 and gazed out upon the mountain. The dark ever- 
 greens seemed to offer shelter. If she could only get 
 
THE FREEMASONRY OF THE OPPRESSED. 407 
 
 among them she would be safe. " Surrounded by ene- 
 mies." Whom did he mean ? Who could be her enemy ? 
 Not Miss Hunniwell, certainly. A slight noise in the next 
 room caused her to start. Ah, he was right ! She had 
 enemies — one at least, and if that one, why not many ? 
 She threw up the window and leaned far out to see if 
 she could not discover anything that betokened peril. 
 Was the house guarded ? How would the law lay its 
 hand on her ? Would all her pretty little keepsakes be 
 torn from her ? Would they put shackles on her wrists ? 
 Would she be sold in the market-place? Would her 
 charms be bartered for gold? Of course. She was a 
 slave, and a slave can have no right. All that she had 
 — aye, all that she teas — the law would give to a mas- 
 ter ! She felt as if she could not wait until the night. 
 She must leap out and fly at once. She remembered 
 how she had climbed down from the roof that lay 
 just below her window. She clambered unconsciously 
 upon the window-sill. A quick, shrill whistle startled 
 her. It was from the copse upon the hill-side, hardly 
 a bow-shot away, but above the level of the casement. 
 She glanced hurriedly along the dark belt of ever- 
 green. Nothing. Another whistle — soft, quick, fur- 
 tive. It fastens her glance upon one spot — the darkest 
 covei't on the hill-side. Out of the thick verdure flashes 
 a gleam of white — a token, a signal — quickly with- 
 drawn. She gazes where it was in sickening terror. 
 There is a motion of the branches. Fear keeps her 
 still. She watches the opening, paralyzed with horror. 
 While she looks a face appears, framed in the green 
 foliage. It looks into her eyes, but she is not afraid. 
 The freemasonry of slavery has already taught her its 
 signals of distress and succor. The hailing-sign of uni- 
 versal brotherhood catches her eye. She knows that 
 the face is that of a friend. It beckons to her. She 
 shakes her head. It importunes with eager eyeSc She 
 
4G8 no T PLO W SHARES. 
 
 still refuses. It gesticulates wildly, it pleads, it begs. 
 She slips off the windoAV seat, writes a hasty note, ties 
 it about a bit of stone she has brought in from one of 
 her rambles, and throws it as far out upon the mountain- 
 side as she can. She sees the Face run toward it 
 cautiously ; pick it up ; read it ; nod assent, and then 
 suddenly steal away. She wonders at its strange cau- 
 tion, but she trusts the Face implicitly. Degradation 
 had begun its work. To her the Face meant fellowship, 
 fraternity. Between them was a tie the sword could not 
 cut asunder. The fire could not burn nor many waters 
 quench her trust. The face was black ! 
 
CHAPTER XXXVIII. 
 
 OUT OF THE TOILS. 
 
 As Hilda turned from the window a new view of the 
 situation flashed upon lier. The hour of passive suffer- 
 ing had gone by ; the time for active resistance had 
 come. She walked across the room and tried the door. 
 It was fastened from the outside. She was a prisoner. 
 At first she rebelled at the thought. It occurred to her 
 to burst it open and defy the world. She was not afraid 
 to do so. The blood of the Hargroves surged into her 
 face, and as she caught sight of the reflection in the 
 mirror she knew that the look of fierce determination 
 painted on it had come from the brave man she had 
 been wont to call her father. It was all a base lie, and 
 she would yet crowd it down the throats that uttered 
 it. But how ? 
 
 That was the question. She was in danger. They 
 would take her for a slave. She must escape from her 
 pursuers. Not only her own future but her father's 
 honor demanded that. Her father's honor ! He had 
 given his life for it, and she would give hers to 
 save it from taint. All else was naught to her. All ? 
 Her hand pressed her heart as the thought of Mar- 
 tin swept through her brain. Then there came for the 
 first time a terrible, sickening fear. Could it be that 
 he had heard this story of unutterable shame, and had 
 cast her out of his heart ? She tried to spurn the 
 thought, but it Avould return. Why was he not here ? 
 He must have heard — he must have known. And yet, 
 why should she blame him ? If he were at her feet beg- 
 469 
 
470 HOT PLOWSHARES. 
 
 ging for her consent, she would not unite her destiny 
 with his — no, not for worlds. The dread shadow that 
 hung over her should not rest upon another life by any 
 act of hers. And yet she would have been glad to 
 know that " in evil as well as good report " he loved 
 her still. She did believe — she would believe that he 
 did. Some terrible calamity must have kept him away 
 — some accident — ah ! there were a thousand things 
 that would account for it. 
 
 She caught a daguerreotype case from the table, gazed 
 ujion it eagerly, kissed it and hid it in her bosom. She 
 would keep it forever — the shadow of a love that might 
 never be renewed, but yet full of bliss in its meraor3\ 
 She went and opened the little desk at Avhich she had 
 spent so many happy hours in writing to this playmate- 
 friend — this brother-lover of hers. She would write one 
 more — the last. She brushed the dust from the purple 
 baize cover ; touched her pens and paper tenderly ; 
 thought again of the refined and delicate surround- 
 ings which she had always enjoyed, and wondered 
 vaguely what her life would be like thereafter. It did 
 not matter. She would do what honor dictated, and no 
 cowardly thought should make her weak. Across her 
 memory flashed the picture she had seen in her dream 
 — her father standing at the tiller, and the moonlit 
 track that led to death. She could die or live, she said 
 to herself; but, dying or living, she would be worthy of 
 that memory. 
 
 Then she drew forth the paper and wrote. It was the 
 thin tinted paper, which was accounted the very finest in 
 that day. It was made in the old mill in the village be- 
 yond, the rumble of whose wheel she could almost hear. 
 The genial owner was very proud of his best " laid 
 paper," and had presented her with a generous store of 
 it one day when she went to visit his daughter, in that 
 happy past that was already so far away that it seemed 
 
OUT OF THE TOILS. 471 
 
 to have belonged to some one else. She put away these 
 soft memories and wrote : 
 
 "My Dear, Dear Martin." 
 
 She had never doubled this tender epithet before. She 
 paused a moment and looked at it. Then she drew her 
 pen through one of them. A moment after she oblite- 
 rated the possessive. "Xotmine," she said to herself. 
 " Only the Martin that I thought was mine, but still 
 dear." Then she tore the sheet into little fragments 
 and began again. Her pen did not rest until the sheet 
 was finished : 
 
 "Dear Martin: You of course know what has hap- 
 pened, or soon will know. True or false, it must separate 
 us ; viuless, indeed, its falsity can be clearly shown. Even 
 then it may well be that you would shrink from uniting 
 your life with one on whom such a cloud had rested. I do 
 not believe you would. I do not think you would hesitate 
 to stand beside me and brave even the worst that fate may 
 have in store for me. I know you are noble and courageous. 
 If you had not been I could not have loved you, and my 
 father would not have trusted you. But because you are 
 all that I love and honor, I must not bring you shame — 
 no, nor even the shadow of it. Strong as is my love, I 
 could not endure the possibility of distrust ; and you 
 would not ask me to do violence to my own sense of honor 
 even at the dictate of aflFection. Besides, I will not hide 
 from you my fear that what I believe will never be proved. 
 You know the mystery my father always preserved in re- 
 gard to Alida and her children. I even shudder at the 
 fear that my trust in him may itself be broken. Ah, poor 
 crazed Alida ! If it should be that she is in triith my 
 mother, then indeed — but it cannot be ! Yet, now that I 
 am bidding you good-by, Martin dear, let me ask you to 
 be kind to her, to shield and protect her, as if, indeed, she 
 were my mother. You know I cannot do it. I must even 
 fly for my own safety. The law — they say so, at least- — • 
 
472 HOT PLOWSHARES. 
 
 the law claims me as a slave. Ah ! how often we have 
 thought of such things, little dreaming they would ever 
 come near us. I remember now all the stories I heard 
 when that strange Mr. Brown was here. How long ago it 
 seems, and I wondered then if they could all be true. And 
 now I am one of those strange things myself — a slave — a 
 soulless mortal, an irresponsible immortal. I am another's 
 property to have and to hold, fast bound and fast held 
 by the riveted chains of the law. This hand that writes 
 to you is not mine. You have called it yours, but it can 
 only be yours by pu.rchase now. These lips that you have 
 kissed — I suppose their beauty only adds to my value in 
 dollars and cents. 
 
 " But do not fear, Martin. I shall never be a slave. Death 
 is a bridegroom who is always ready. No fear and no force 
 can keep me from his arms if I must go to them to save 
 myself from dishonor. Do not be afraid. She who has 
 loved you — who always will love you — has not a drop of 
 blood in her veins that would not run gladly out to save 
 herself from such a fate. 
 
 "Yet, Martin, I would almost as soon live or die a slave, 
 as to remain even in luxury and ease knowing that he whom 
 I have worshipped as my father had deceived me — was not 
 my father — and that the shame they seek to fix upon me 
 now, was mine to bear forever and to give with my life, 
 unto my offspring ! No, not that ! Sooner than that, I 
 would bury shame and suffering in a shameful grave. No 
 other life shall take such blight from mine. 
 
 "But I must say farewell, Marty. The dear old days 
 come back as I write — when we were boy and girl — brother 
 and sister — soul-wedded lovers from the first. God bless 
 you, Marty ! We shall never meet again I fear — we dare 
 not meet — unless — unless a hopeless hope prove true. 
 
 "I am going away — how or where I do not knoAv, and 
 you must not seek to know. Do not follow me — do not 
 try to find me. If the sunshine ever falls upon my life 
 again, I will come to you. Till then — or forever, as it may 
 
OUT OF THE TOILS. 473 
 
 be — as it must be, unless — ah, why will I hope ! Farewell, 
 Marty ! Say farewell when you read this, as if, indeed, 
 you kissed my dead lips — to know me forever after only 
 as a sweet memory. I cannot tell you, dear love, how I 
 suffer ; yet, even now, it is more for you than for myself. 
 Again, and always, let me say — adieu. Hilda." 
 
 She bowed her head upon the desk, and drowned her 
 dead love in tears. Her frame shook with sobs ; and 
 love that knows not laws, nor customs, nor constitu- 
 tions, nor the sacred "rights of things " for a time took 
 tribute of her fair young life. Then she started suddenly 
 and dried her tears unconsciously. Fear came upon 
 her once more. The sun was wearing westwardly. She 
 sealed her letter hurriedly. Hardly had she done so 
 when there was a knock at the door. She tried to say 
 come in, but the words died on her white lips. The 
 key turned in the lock, and the teacher entered. She 
 bore a waiter on which was a bountiful repast. She 
 closed and locked the door, set the waiter on the table, 
 and came and stood beside Hilda, gazing at her search- 
 ingly. She stooped to kiss her, but Hilda drew away 
 from her, while a hot tide surged over cheek and brow. 
 The teacher read the address of the letter on the desk, 
 and then glanced quickly around the room. Her eye 
 fell on the lawyer's letter. She tried to seize it, but 
 Hilda was too quick for her and snatched it away. 
 
 "You have read that?" asked Miss Hunni well, her 
 voice shaking in spite of her boasted self-control. 
 
 "Yes," said Hilda sullenly. She had risen, and was 
 standing defiantly in the corner by the window. 
 
 As she spoke, she saw a man wearing a broad- 
 brinnned slouch hat pass along the carriage-way to the 
 rear of the house. She saw, too, the black face watch- 
 ing him from the thicket above. 
 
 " You know then ?" said the teacher inquiringly, 
 with her hands clasped tremblingly before her. 
 
474 HOT PLOWSHARES. 
 
 " I know it is a lie !" said Hilda vehemently. 
 
 "Oh, no doubt, no doubt," said the teacher reassur- 
 ingly ; " but you know that — that you are in danger ?" 
 
 For answer Hilda pointed to the figure approaching 
 the carriage-house. Miss Hunniwell uttered an excla- 
 mation of indignant surprise. 
 
 "The wicked wretch!" she exclaimed. "Does he 
 think that he can prevent your escape by prowling 
 around the premises in that style ? If he thinks he is 
 going to take you away from Beechwood and into — into 
 — Oh ! I beg your pardon, dear." 
 
 Hilda had cast herself into her arms, and was weep- 
 ing on her shoulder. 
 
 " Hush ! What is that ?" exclaimed the teacher. 
 
 Hilda looked up in surprise, but followed her gaze as 
 well as tears would permit. 
 
 The stranger stood in the driveway scanning curi- 
 ously the rear of the seminary. As Miss Hunniwell 
 spoke a small white packet fell at his feet. He glanced 
 around in surprise ; then picked it up, unfolded it, and 
 seemed to be reading. He looked toward the window 
 near which they stood, nodded his head in that direction, 
 and then walked quickly away. The teacher stood for 
 a moment thoroughly amazed. Then her face lighted 
 with intelligence and scorn, as she nodded toward Amy's 
 room and said : 
 
 "Enemies without and spies within! Poor girl! poor 
 girl ! But thej' shall not get you. That man has been 
 here twice to-day. He is the man referred to in that 
 letter — the administrator of somebody, who Avants to 
 get hold of you. But he shall not. He has no warrant, 
 and cannot get any before morning, and you will be far 
 enough away before then or I shall miss my guess." 
 
 " What will you do ?" asked Hilda. 
 
 "Never mind, dear. Eat 3'our dinner while I send 
 away the spy," said the teacher, shaking her head wisely, 
 
OUT OF THE TOILS. 475 
 
 She left the room. Hilda heard her knock at Amy's 
 door, and a moment after heard them both leave the 
 room and pass along the hall. . Soon the teacher re- 
 turned, smiling at her own shrewdness. 
 
 " I have informed one of the teachers that she is to 
 keep Miss Amy Hargrove in her room until after 
 prayers," she said. "Xow we can lay our plans, and 
 there is no time to lose. I have already telegraphed 
 for a lawyer and Mr. Jared Clarkson ; also to Mr. Kort- 
 right." 
 
 "Martin?" asked Hilda, turning pale. 
 
 "Yes, certainly. He will be here by to-morrow 
 night at the farthest." 
 
 " Oh, Miss Hunniwell, why did you do it ?" 
 
 "Wliy, I thought you would want him here, above 
 all," answered the teacher in surprise. 
 
 " Oh no, no ! I cannot see him ! He must not come ! 
 Do you not see," she continued, and a deep flush had 
 taken the place of pallor in her face; "if— if— it should 
 be — as they say i*" 
 
 "Ah, poor child! but it is not," said the teacher 
 positively. 
 
 "But — but can we prove it is not so?" asked Hilda 
 plaintively. 
 
 "True, true," said the teacher, walking back and 
 forth and wringing her hands distractedly. "Oh, what 
 an infamous thing! What a horrible, wicked law for 
 a Christian people to obey ! But we will not obey !" she 
 exclaimed hotly, as she stopped suddenly before her 
 pupil. " We will take you away from them ; we will 
 defy the law. Did not Mr. Clarkson do it last year? 
 We will do it here ! I will do it. I will appeal to the 
 people. I will go myself. I will help tear down the 
 jails. We will defy the world if need be ; we will rescue 
 you. You shall go to Canada, where people are free. 
 Thank God, there is one place they may be !" 
 
476 HOT PL WSHARES. 
 
 The delicate woman was transformed into a fury by 
 the sense of injustice and wrong. Her hands were 
 dinched, and the bhie veins showed through her soft, 
 fair skin, Avhile her eyes burned with a strange, wild 
 light that no one had ever dreamed could slumber in 
 their blue depths. 
 
 "Thank you a thousand times," said Hilda, as she 
 clasped the teacher in her arms and kissed her, while 
 her tears fell on the hot, red cheeks. " You are very 
 kind and good, but I must not risk such chances." 
 
 " What can you do ?" 
 
 "I must go away." 
 
 " But how ? You saw how the house is watched ?" 
 
 " It must be done," said Hilda. Then she showed the 
 note from Anderson and told how she had received it. 
 
 "Aye," said the teacher bitterly. "He distrusted 
 me. They thought I would give you up. Even the 
 servants are truer than I have been to the right and 
 liberty." 
 
 Hilda soothed her self-reproaches, and after a little 
 the woman's wit coupled with the teacher's experience 
 perfected a plan very much more feasible than the one 
 the minister had devised. Hilda donned her most ser- 
 viceable garments. Her bank account was turned into 
 bank-bills by the teacher ; a valise was hastily packed, 
 and she was ready. Miss Hunniwell stood at the door 
 of the dining-room and noted that all the pupils entered. 
 Then she closed the door and a muffled figure stole down 
 to the side entrance. The principal's carriage happened 
 to be waiting there. The driver stood carelessly by. 
 While the pupils sang the usual hymn that preceded the 
 evening repast at Beechwood the muffled figure came 
 out of the door and entered the carriage. The driver 
 closed the carriage door and strolled carelessly along, 
 leading his horses by the bit to the front entrance. 
 After a short time Miss Hunniwell, equipped for a drive. 
 
OUT OF THE TOILS. 477 
 
 came down the wide steps with a market-basket in her 
 hand. She entered the carriage; tlie driver took his 
 place on the front seat, and just as the dayhght faded 
 from the sky, drove leisurely through the streets of the 
 little village, turned northward at the end, and with a 
 chuckle brought the snug roadsters down to their work 
 as if they had a long trip before them. 
 
 Ten miles away there was a busy town, at which two 
 trains met at ten o'clock that night— the one going 
 eastward and the other westward. A young girl feft a 
 carriage which was standing by the platfornT and en- 
 tered one of them just as it moved away. The driver 
 was busy with his horses. A gray-headed woman 
 watched her anxiously from the carriage-door as she 
 went along the platform, passed the dimly-lighted sta- 
 tion and was then lost to view. 
 
 Evening prayers at Beechwood came at eight o'clock. 
 Then all met in the chapel, the organ pealed forth its 
 notes, and soft, young voices uttered songs of praise. 
 The day's record was made up, announcements for the 
 morrow made, and then the day at the seminary was at 
 an end. Each pupil retired to her room ; an .hour was 
 allowed for preparation for repose, and then silence 
 settled on the throng of white young souls beneath its 
 roof. Until evening prayers. Amy Hargrove was kept 
 a close prisoner in the teacher's room to which she had 
 been sent by Miss Hunniwell; returning then to her 
 own room she found all still in the adjoining apartment. 
 She applied eye and ear to the key-hole. She could only 
 see the flicker of the fading firelight ; she could hear 
 nothing. She tried to open the door, and then first 
 remembered that she had locked it. Then she took the 
 key from her own door, and after some trouble turned 
 the bolt. She opened the door and entered cautiously. 
 The firelight showed that the room was empty. Hilda's 
 
478 HOT PLOWSHARES. 
 
 things were scattered about. The door was locked. So 
 was the wardrobe and the trunk. So, too, the httle 
 desk. Amy moved carefully about, examining every- 
 thing. Then she sat down upon the rug by the 
 hearth and thought. It was evident that Hilda had 
 fled, but where ? — how ? She could not understand. Of 
 course Miss Huuuiwell would not like to have her ar- 
 rested there. No doubt she pitied her. Indeed, she 
 pitied her herself, or would have done so, but for the 
 fraud that had been practiced on her. She could almost 
 forgive that and pity her still but for the envy in her 
 heart. Why was it that everybody loved Hilda, and 
 seemed only to distrust and avoid her ? Even the South- 
 ern girls in the school were all sorry for Hilda now, 
 and were angry at the man who had come to assert his 
 right and do his duty as an otBcer of the law. Of course 
 it was a pity that Hilda had been brought up to think 
 herself free and white ; but it was silly to make such a 
 fuss about her now that they knew that she was neither. 
 "While she thought of these things Amy was startled by 
 a slight noise at the window. Some one was quietly 
 forcing an entrance. The sash was pried up ; a hand 
 was thrust in. Her heart stood still with terror. She 
 understood it all in an instant. She had never dreamed 
 when she wrote the note she had thrown to the man 
 in pursuit of his slave, informing him that " the person 
 he was seeking was in the room adjoining," and, in 
 answer to his look of inquiry, had motioned toward 
 that window, that any one would try to enter except 
 by the door and with lawful warrant. She had been 
 instigated by envy, and a meddlesome desire to have 
 her own ingratitude justified after a fashion by the 
 capture of this slave-girl, who had outstripped her 
 in the regard of her fellows, as well as in the 
 studies they had pursued together. Now she feared 
 that her interference would be revealed. What if the 
 
OUT OF THE TOILS. 47& 
 
 kidnappers should be discovered and themselves ar- 
 rested ? Then she would be exposed, covered with in- 
 famy—perhaps held guilty with them. She would 
 warn them now, and have them go away as quietly as 
 possible. She was terribly frightened. The sweat stood 
 in drops on her forehead and her hmbs refused to move. 
 The window was raised now, and a man stepped lightly 
 within. She noticed that he wore coarse woolen socks 
 over his boots to lessen the sound. She looked up at his 
 face, and saw that it was strangely muffled. At length 
 she found strength to rise. She must warn them at 
 once. Suppose Miss Hunniwell were to return ? She 
 ran quickly across the room, and laid her hand on the 
 man's arm. She had no fear of him. It was her infor- 
 mation that had brought him there. 
 
 " Hush 1" she said in a low whisper. 
 
 She started, however, when an arm was thrown about 
 her waist, but before she could cry out something soft 
 was pressed against her face; there was a pungent, 
 choking odor; a strange sweetish taste in her mouth; 
 the world seemed suddenly to grow dark and close 
 about her; then as quickly to grow light and expand 
 to infinite distance. She felt herself slipping away 
 from existence, and then— she knew no more. 
 
CHAPTER XXXIX. 
 
 THE CHURCH SHLITANT. 
 
 The administrator of George Eighmie was very far 
 from being a bad man. He considered his cousin's 
 relation with Alida, and the attempt to free his slaves 
 and devote the proceeds of his estate to the benefit of 
 the children resulting from that union, an outrage, not 
 only upon society in general and the peculiar institu- 
 tion of the South in particular, but especially upon his 
 own kith and kin. This -feeling at least was but natural, 
 and simply represented the general sentiment of the 
 community in which he dwelt, intensified somewhat by 
 that feeling of personal resentment which the heir-ex- 
 pectant always feels when his hopes are blighted by 
 unanticipated claimants. He bore no ill-will to Alida 
 or her children, but he believed them to be legally and 
 justly the slaves of his long-deceased i-elative, and, as 
 such, rightfully subject to the claims of the heirs. This 
 belief was an inherited one. He had been little more 
 than a boy when his cousin died, and the sentiment had 
 grown stronger and stronger in his breast with every 
 succeeding discussion of the subject in the family coun- 
 cils. He had been selected for his present position, after 
 the long years of litigation, because he was cool, coura- 
 geous and intelligent. He was a man of substance, 
 though not of great wealth— thrifty, energetic and re- 
 spectable. He was a member of the church, consistent, 
 earnest and devout. He would no sooner have com- 
 mitted what he deemed a wrong than the saintly-faced 
 Miss Hunniwell herself. Nay, he would have resisted 
 what he thought to be injustice just as stubbornly, and 
 ■ 480 
 
THE CHURCH MILITANT. 481 
 
 with the same immutable conviction that he was doing 
 right thereby. He was a law-abiding man ; upright and 
 fair in his dealings with others, and no more desirous of 
 securing his own rights than of rendering righteousness 
 to others. It was his duty, as he was instructed and 
 believed, to reduce to possession the assets of the estate 
 he had sworn to administer. It was especially his duty 
 toward the rightful heirs to reclaim Alida and her chil- 
 dren, because they had been advised that it was possible 
 that complications might arise through the suit already 
 begun by Jared Clarkson, as the guardian of Alida, 
 which would be entirely avoided if the children of 
 Eighmie were brought within the jurisdiction of the 
 courts of the state in which he died. He had no doubt 
 that Hilda was the daughter of Alida, and he had de- 
 termined to obtain possession of her person, and take 
 her to Carolina before Clarkson or others of her friends 
 could have an opportunity either to place her beyond 
 the reach of the law or to interpose any legal barrier 
 to her removal. He did not regard Hilda as having 
 any rights at all, except the slender one of personal de- 
 fense which the law allowed the slave. He was ready to 
 admit that it would be hard for her to come down from 
 the luxurious position she had occupied as the petted 
 daughter of a wealthy and refined gentleman to a state 
 of servitude, and he would have felt no little pity for 
 her on that account. Were her state of subjection 
 once clearly acknowledged, and her claims as the heir 
 of Hargrove abandoned and extinguished, he would 
 willingly have consulted her happiness by consenting 
 to release the claims of the estate upon her person for 
 a nominal consideration. In short, Sherwood Eighmie 
 M^as an honest, upright. Christian gentleman, who had 
 no more doubt of the righteousness of slavery than 
 of any other tenet of his faith. He did not wish to 
 secure the girl from any motive of cruelty or revenge. 
 
482 MOT PLOWSHARES. 
 
 He would have treated her kindly, accordhig to his 
 ideas of kindness, had she fallen into his hands ; but he 
 did not regard it as any injustice or inhumanity on 
 his part to perform to the letter the duties his position 
 devolved upon him. He was a just man even to his 
 own slaves, treating them fairly rather than indul- 
 gently. He expected and exacted service, and he held 
 himself bound as a Christian master to give good sup- 
 port, attention in sickness, and a reasonable amount of 
 relaxation to those who served. He would have fought 
 for one of his slaves only less readily than for his chil- 
 dren, and would have resented their ill-treatment by 
 another to the limit of the law or the extent of his 
 power. He would have done this, however, not so much 
 out of consideration for tlie slave himself, as because he 
 regarded it as the duty of the master, and also because 
 any interference with his servant was an infraction of 
 his right as master. In short, he was a good, fair, 
 average man, shaped and fashioned by one set of ideas, 
 as Harrison Kortright had been by another. Submitted 
 to the same influences, the two men would not have 
 been unlike in character. Growing up as they did, they 
 seemed to stand at the very antipodes of thought. 
 
 The fact was well known both to himself and his 
 lawyer that Miss Hunniwell was not inclined to the ex- 
 treme doctrines of the Abolitionists, and from this it 
 was inferred that perhaps the best method to secure his 
 end was to speak her fair, and obtain if possible her 
 co-operation in getting possession of the " person held 
 to service or labor "whom he sought. He could not 
 understand, nor could his counsel, why any one not a 
 rampant Abolitionist should object to rendering to 
 him what the law not only gave him the right to have, 
 but commanded him to take and keep as a part of the 
 estate of his intestate. He had arranged it so that his 
 attorney's letter should reach her just at the time it did. 
 
THE CHilRGH MILITANT. 483 
 
 In fact, he had himself brought it the day before and 
 mailed it in the village. He had been at slight pains to 
 conceal his identity, and had brought with him from 
 Baltimore two men who were ready to perform his bid- 
 ding in all things. They were men of experience, too, 
 for they had more than once been engaged in the re- 
 capture of slaves in several of the border states. 
 
 As regards Miss Hunniwell, both he and his legal 
 adviser had made the common mistake of the Southerner 
 in estimating the N'orthern character, — by supposing her 
 to be entirely mercenary in her impulses. That any- 
 thing beside her material interests would affect her 
 action in the matter he never once dreamed until he 
 stood in her presence and heard her indignant refu- 
 sal to accede to his request. Even then he was unable 
 to appreciate the motive that controlled her action. 
 He accounted her show of indignation as resulting from 
 a careful balancing of profit and loss, and sought to con- 
 *^ince her that refusal would be far more disastrous to 
 "Her school than assent to his demand could possibly be. 
 
 When her soft cheek flushed and her clear blue eyes 
 flashed at this, and she requested him to leave the 
 premises without delay, he simply thought he had blun- 
 dered in the method in which he had broached the 
 subject. It was not until his second visit, when he 
 came armed with his proofs, which were merely re- 
 ceived as evidences of a wicked purpose by the mis- 
 tress of Beechwood, that he mistrusted that her refusal 
 arose from the fact that she, too, had imbibed the pes- 
 tiferous notions of the Abolitionists. When she openly 
 avowed not only her purpose to harbor and maintain 
 the slave without regard to his demands, but also de- 
 clared that she would do all in her power to prevent his 
 getting hold of his property at all, then he first per- 
 ceived that, like all the rest of " the Yankees," she was 
 at heart an enemy of "the South," and thoroughly 
 
484 HOT PL WSHARES. 
 
 determined to obstruct the execution of any law designed 
 to protect the interests of her people. Thereupon he 
 had at once determined to use any means short of actual 
 violence to secure possession of his slave. He had a 
 good idea of Hilda's appearance, for she had been pointed 
 out to him in the town that morning as " the daughter of 
 that poor Captain Hargrove that was killed by the slave- 
 holders lately." 
 
 He at once took measures to apply for a warrant, 
 and set his men to watch the institution to prevent 
 the escape of the fugitive. He had strolled restlessly 
 about the building, not so much with the idea of secur- 
 ing the prize as to see what avenues there were for her 
 escape. The note which Amy had thrown at his feet 
 first put in his mind the- idea of forcibly seizing and car- 
 rying away his slave. He knew he was in a community 
 intensely hostile to his purpose, who would spare no 
 pains to outwit, delay and thwart his plans. In a legal 
 struggle he dreaded their activity, shrewdness and fer- 
 tility of resource, especially aided, as he saw it would 
 be, by an almost universal public sentiment ; but he 
 thought that a bold, quick stroke would meet with little 
 or no resistance, and estimated that he would be able 
 to remove the girl should he once get her in his power 
 without serious inconvenience. Like most Southern men 
 of that time, he counted all Xorthern men as cowards, 
 and had no doubt that himself and his two assistants 
 would present a show of force that would effectually 
 prevent all attempt at a rescue. 
 
 Upon mentioning the matter to these worthies he 
 found them entirely of his opinion. They at once pro- 
 ceeded to reconnoitre the rear of the seminary, and 
 announced their readiness to undertake the enterprise 
 that very night. Their plans were quickly matured. 
 One of them had noticed a ladder lying beside the car- 
 Tiage-house which was all that was needed to give access 
 
THE CHURCH MILITANT. 485 
 
 to the roof below Hildca's window. A carriage was easily 
 obtained, which one of the assistants was to drive, while 
 the other, with the aid of Eighmie, was to secure the 
 girl. It seemed a very simple matter. None of them 
 had any fear as to the result. Indeed, they thought it 
 more than likely there would be no resistance or pursuit, 
 but Sherwood Eighmie hardly rehshed the idea of a 
 stealthy entrance into the house. He would much have 
 preferred to go in by the front door, regardless of all 
 remonstrance, and carry away what he was entitled to 
 take. The entry by the window smacked to him of 
 burglary ; but his two assistants, with whose lives this 
 method was more in harmony, overruled his objection 
 by dwelling on the obstacles he was likely to meet Avith 
 from a hostile community and the very slender prospect 
 of obtaining justice by strictly legal methods. Besides, 
 they argued that a bold and dashing movement of this 
 kind would greatly increase the prestige of the South, 
 and as they could easily be beyond the state line before 
 any pursuit was made, there was really only a show of 
 danger in it — just enough to make it enjoyable. This 
 advice was not altogether disinterested, since these wor- 
 thies would be able, as they well knew, to demand a much 
 greater sum for engaging in such an adventure than if 
 they should merely follow their employer about as an 
 unnecessary body-guard while he awaited the slow pro- 
 cess of the law to put him in possession of his own. 
 To climb a ladder, crack a window or forcibly remove 
 an unwilling slave-girl from a harbor of refuge, were 
 none of them acts that they regax'ded with any especial 
 horror. So they ridiculed the hesitancy of their prin- 
 cipal, made light of his objections, piqued his vanity 
 and appealed to his prejudice until they carried their 
 point, and it was decided that the capture should be 
 made an hour after evening prayers at the seminary. 
 A little after dark two vehicles moved out of the vil- 
 
486 HOT PLO W SHARES. 
 
 lage towaixl the seminary. In the first of these was the 
 worthy pastor, whose face glowed with the anticipation 
 of doing a good act. The man and horse were oddly 
 matched, and yet there was not lackmg a sense of fit- 
 ness between them. The divine, a great broad-shoul- 
 dered, Saxon -visaged man, sat in the light, covered 
 buggy, his soft felt hat pulled well down over his ears, 
 the robe tucked close about him, and urged forward the 
 staid, shambling bay with an occasional cluck, which 
 had no eft'ect upon that animal, which merely kept on 
 at the same steady pace. Yet a close observer could 
 see at a glance that there was good material both in 
 man and horse. The broad, firm Jaw and cool gray 
 eye bespoke a man who, if somewhat slow in making 
 up his mind, would never waver from a decision once 
 made. The firm grip of the bare broad hand that 
 grasped the reins showed that even in a physical con- 
 test he would be no mean opponent. The horse was a 
 dark blood-bay, whose powerful shoulder and long, 
 sloping quarters showed that his stride was capable 
 of being quickened until it reached a rate by no means 
 despicable even among frequenters of the turf. In his 
 careless way the dominie was a horseman, and, despite 
 his seemingly careless driving, was not accustomed to 
 take anybody's "dust" on the country roads he tra- 
 veled. His horse knew all his moods, and would not 
 only endure his perpetual nagging, but when his master 
 was in serious earnest, pricked up his ears, stretched 
 out his long neck, and threw the dirt in a st3'le that 
 made urging superfluous. He was a sagacious beast, 
 too, and at the word of command backed from the 
 stall into the shafts, and, with the buggy attached, out 
 of the barn into the little yard behind the parsonage. 
 He was even trusted to trot round to the front door with- 
 out a driver, there to wait while the dominie changed 
 his clothes and prepared for the road. Left unfastened 
 
THE CHURCH MILITANT. 487 
 
 by his absent-minded master on the highway for a time 
 longer than he deemed needful for a pastoral call, he 
 sometimes trotted leisurely home and waited at the 
 stable-door for his master's return. In short, Mr. Ander- 
 son and his horse were well suited to the plan he had de- 
 vised, which was nothing less than to take Hilda twenty 
 miles and more across the country before sunrise to a 
 state that had never felt the foot of a slave except on 
 his way to freedom — the only state of the North from 
 which one never was returned to bondage. 
 
 He had laid his plans with great care. The man-of- 
 all-work at the seminary he knew to be good and true, and 
 a member of his church. To him he had revealed just 
 enough of the facts to enable him to understand Hilda's 
 danger and his pastor's desire to avert it. Through 
 him he had conveyed to her the note she had received, 
 but he had neglected to inform him of the means he in- 
 tended to take to thwart the designs of the enemy. For 
 this reason he had received no intimation of the change 
 of heart of the Principal, and the change of the plan 
 of escape through her co-operation. The coachman 
 thought he was simply carrying out the design of his 
 pastor when he drove through the town, in open day 
 almost, with the prize which the slave-master coveted. 
 So the good-natured divine's eyes shone with the warmth 
 of benevolence behind his gold-bowed glasses as he clucked 
 to his bay horse, and imagined himself a knight-errant 
 bound to the relief of a sore-distressed damsel. 
 
 As he drove on down the river road that ran in 
 front of the seminary, he heard the rattle of wheels be- 
 hind, and looking around he saw a two-seated carriage 
 containing three men. He could not see very well at 
 a distance, but he knew the team with a horseman's 
 instinct, and wondered where it could be going in that 
 direction at that time of day. Half unconsciously he 
 drew rein, and scanned the occupants of the carriage 
 
488 HOT PLOWSHARES. 
 
 more closely as they came near. He recognized them 
 instantly. They were enemies — enemies of all that was 
 good and tender in humanity — traffickers in human flesh 
 — man-slayers, women-stealers — the enemies of God, be- 
 cause they were the enemies of His poorest poor. 
 
 These thoughts went through the good pastor's mind 
 as he looked through the little window at the back of 
 his buggy into the face of his brother in the church, 
 Sherwood Eighmie, deacon of the church at Rawdon, in 
 Clayburn County, Carolina. Strange that a few degrees 
 of latitude should put honest men so far asunder in belief 
 as to what constituted righteousness ! 
 
 The dominie did not think of this, however, but be- 
 gan to wonder what their mission in this direction could 
 be. Little by little the essential elements of the plan of 
 the kidnappers dawned upon him. Both were after the 
 same game, he thought, but he had the advantage — he 
 knew them and they did not know him. He would foil 
 them. Then it occurred to him to wonder how they ex- 
 pected to get possession of the prize. It did not take 
 him long to conclude that she was to be betrayed by 
 the teacher. It was common report that Eighmie had 
 been twice to the seminary on that day, and as nothing 
 w^as known of the result of his visits, this conclusion, 
 though it seems to be harsh to us who know the truth, 
 was by no means unnatural to one in his state of know- 
 ledge. That Hilda was to be betrayed he felt assured, 
 and that he must save her he felt still more convinced. 
 
 It was now quite dark, and they were more than a 
 mile beyond the seminary. Once or twice the party 
 behind had halted. Then the dominie had stopped, too, 
 and watched them through his little window. The others 
 had not been unmindful of this maneuver. 
 
 "That old duffer's a-watching us. Colonel," said one 
 of the assistants, speaking to Eighmie. 
 
 "What makes you think soV" 
 
THE CHURCH MILITANT, 489 
 
 " Think ? I know. When we go fast, he throws out 
 a leg and gits away from us ; when we slow up, he shuts 
 off steam, and when we stop altogether, he anchors just 
 ahead of us." 
 
 "Oh, pshaw! you're too suspicious, Barnes. How 
 do you suppose that man knows any more about us 
 than we do about him ?" 
 
 " I don't know liow, Colonel ; but I '11 lay a fiver that 
 he knows us, knows our business here, and guesses, if 
 he don't know for certain, that there 's some sort of 
 devilment brings us this way at this time of night." 
 
 "Eeally, Barnes, you're getting nervous. You seem 
 to think these Yankees know everything." 
 
 "Don't you have any trouble about Jim Barnes. He 
 never showed no white feather yet, and he ain't likely 
 to now." 
 
 "But you were so eager for this plan — " 
 
 " So I were. Colonel ; so I were — not exactly as hot 
 for it as Bill Marsden, but I thought it a heap better 'n 
 the one you had in mind." 
 
 "Of course it is," said the one called Marsden, sul- 
 lenly. "I 'd rather have a hundred men after me than 
 a lot of screechin' gals at my heels." 
 
 "There ain't no doubt about this bein' the best way," 
 said Barnes; "but they ain't neither of 'em clear of 
 difficulty. You see, Colonel, I 've been on this sort of 
 expeditions before, and I tell ye what it is, these Yankees 
 are mighty knowin' folks." 
 
 "They are said to be very inquisitive," said Eighmie, 
 laughing, "but they haven't troubled us yet." 
 
 "That's just where our Southern folks make a mis- 
 take about the Yankees," said Barnes oracularly. "It 
 ain't so much the number of questions they asks as 'tis 
 the amount of things they '11 find out without askin' 
 questions, thet makes the Yankee difterent from the 
 rest of mankind. Now, here we 've been in this little 
 
490 HOT PLOWSHARES. 
 
 town two days, and there hain't hardly been three ques- 
 tions asked all on us, but you can jest bet your bottom 
 dollar there hain't a boy in Blankshire don't know who 
 we are, where we come from, and thet Ave 're atter that 
 gal they call Hildy Hargrove up there at Beechnut Semi- 
 nary, or whatever its name is." 
 
 "That 's so," said Marsden. " You can read that in 
 their faces, men, women and children, when we go 'long 
 the street. Ye see. Colonel, we 're three strangers in a 
 little 'huddle,' as they call it, where strangers ain't 
 over-abundant as a rule, so they put things together 
 and find out all about us while a Southern man 'ud be 
 gettin' an introduction." 
 
 "That maybe," said Eighmie ; "but that's no rea- 
 son why the man in that buggy ahead should be watch- 
 ing us now." 
 
 "It may not be any reason," said Barnes, doggedly; 
 " but they 're nigh about all against us here, an' when 
 you 've got sech a thing on hand as we have to-night, 
 it 's well enough to be lookin' out for accidents." 
 
 " Well, what do you propose ?" asked Eighmie. 
 
 "We 've got to throw that fellow off his guard some 
 way, and I think the best plan is to go by him. It may 
 make us a little late, but we 've got to chance that ; 
 and, mind you, we ain't any worse off if this plan 
 falls through in that way than if we hadn't started 
 out on it." 
 
 "Well, go ahead," said Eighmie. 
 
 Barnes touched the horses with his whip, and almost 
 at the instant they broke into a trot ; the dominie's 
 horse did likewise, and for a quarter of a mile, de- 
 spite a constant acceleration of speed, the two vehicles 
 kept at about the same distance apart, until finally the 
 bay turned sharply into a lane leading up to a farm- 
 .house on the hill-side, in whose window a bright light 
 was burning. 
 
THE CHURCH MILITANT. 491 
 
 "What do you think now?" asked Eighmie with a 
 quiet laugh. 
 
 "Mebbe you're right," said Barnes; "but I'm al- 
 ways suspicious of a Yankee, and you '11 find. Colonel, 
 that the safest way of dealing with 'em is to credit them 
 with knowing all that you know and a little more be- 
 sides." 
 
 The others laughed at Barnes' justification of his 
 caution, and dismissed all farther thought of its cause. 
 
 Hardly had the other vehicle passed the opening of 
 the lane, however, when the bay horse again slackened 
 his speed to a walk, and the dominie, peering out at the 
 side, watched the carriage until it disappeared from 
 sight around a little hill that effectually hid from view 
 the road along which they had come. Then he stopped 
 the bay, listened a moment to make sure that he was 
 not mistaken, reined his horse to one side of the narrow 
 lane, backed until the near wheel touched the wall, gave 
 the bay the word, and in a moment was whirling along 
 the road they had come at a gait anything but ministe- 
 rial. In five minutes he was in front of the seminary. 
 It was considerably past the hour when he had hoped 
 to arrive. The evening prayers were over, and the 
 pupils had dispersed to their rooms. Many of them had 
 retired, as the darkened windows showed. It would not 
 do to drive up the frozen avenue. Still less would it do 
 to go on a hundred yards and take the wood-road that 
 led up to the rear of the building. He knew every inch 
 of ground. The wood-road was narrow and rocky. If 
 he had abundance of time, the sagacious bay would 
 pick his way along it almost noiselessly, but haste was 
 necessary now. Hilda must be waiting. At any mo- 
 ment the enemy might return. He passed through the 
 gate, turned out of the avenue upon the lawn, crushing 
 an arhor vitce beneath each wheel as he broke through 
 the scanty hedge, drove noiselessly along the turf until 
 
492 HOT PL WSHARES. 
 
 he reached the opening between the carriage-house and 
 the kitchen, looked hastily about, and, seeing no one, 
 let the horse take its way to the rear of the premises, 
 and turned hira down the wood-road to a clump of ever- 
 greens half a dozen rods away. By this thicket the 
 horse and buggy were completely hidden. He lowered 
 'the top of the buggy, threw the robe over the dash- 
 board, twisted the reins about the whip, stepped quickly 
 down, and hurried back toward the house. 
 
 The night was a cool one, and he swung his arms and 
 stamped cautiously upon the turf by the roadside to re- 
 store the circulation as he went. The stars shone 
 brightly, but there was no moon. As he neared the 
 rear of the building he moved more cautiously. He 
 fancied he heard a step in the bushes at his left, and 
 thinking it might be Hilda waiting for him, he stopped 
 and called her name softly. There was no answer, but 
 he was sure he heard a suppressed breathing. 
 
 "Hilda — my child — Miss Hargrove — don't be afraid. 
 It 's I, Mr. Anderson. Are you there ?" he said in a half 
 whisper. Then he listened. No answer. He could 
 hear his heart beat. The stars seemed blinking in 
 mockery at his anxiety. He was sure a human being 
 was crouching near him. A thrill of terror swept 
 through his frame. Could it be that the kidnappers 
 had an accomplice watching outside ? Had the poor 
 girl been seized because of his delay ? A thousand pos- 
 sibilities occurred to him ere he had breathed twice. 
 Then a touch of fear came. It was a strange position 
 for him, a minister of the Gospel, to be in. Suppose he 
 should be set vipon and overpowered '? Suppose he 
 should get into a conflict with these Southern despera- 
 does ? Suppose — He shook his broad shoulders and 
 threw away his fears. He Avould suppose nothing. He 
 had come to do right — God's right — and he would do it 
 whatever the result. His hands shut tight and lus te(?tU 
 
THE CHURCH MILITANT. 493 
 
 met under his tawny beard like the jaws of a vise. 
 He was no child to be frightened at a shadow. He 
 marched with the step of a grenadier to the corner of 
 the carriage-house and stood there listening. A solitary 
 pine growing just at the corner of the stable screened 
 him from view in all directions. There was no light at 
 the back of the house except in Amy's room, and a soft 
 flickering one in Hilda's. Presently the former was ex- 
 tinguished. Then he watched the door expecting Hilda 
 to appear. He was afraid to approach the house and 
 knock lest he should destroy her chances of escape. 
 Then he remembered her girlish escapade of climbing 
 down the roof, and thought perchance she might have 
 recourse to the same method again. He heard the 
 horses munching their food in their stalls, and wondered 
 if it could be that, not findiiig him at his post, she might 
 not have saddled her horse and fled without waiting for 
 his aid. It was like her to do so. She was not the girl 
 to sit quietly and meet an evil fate. The cold stung 
 him as he waited and speculated on his strange posi- 
 tion. Should he go or stay ? He had forgotten those 
 whom he had come to circumvent ; he thought only of 
 the girl whom he meant to succor. He had almost lost 
 hope, but still he waited. Something had evidently 
 gone wrong ! He did not know the time, but it was 
 past nine o'clock, for the lights were all extinguished. 
 He had just decided to wait no longer when he heard a 
 sound tliat put all thought of leaving out of his mind. 
 
 There was a step upon the gravel walk beyond the 
 carriage-house — soft and stealthy, but a man's step — 
 then another. Then two men came from beyond the 
 carriage-house bearing something between them. Very 
 cautiously they passed through the open gate within a 
 yard of where he stood, and went round the rear of the 
 building to the other side of the wing. What was it 
 they were carrying ? He could not imagine. He waited 
 
494 HOT PL W8HABE8. 
 
 till they had passed out of sight, and then stole softly 
 along and peered around the corner of the house. Not 
 twenty feet away two men were raising a ladder to the 
 roof beneath Hilda's window\ The whole scheme flashed 
 upon him at a glance. The other man was waiting in 
 the carriage. These were to bring the girl, and before 
 morning poor Hilda w^ould be on her way to servitude 
 without hope of rescue. It all depended upon him. 
 He was one to two — aye, one to three, and unarmed 
 at that. But then he had been a champion wrestler at 
 old Bowdoin in his youth. He had grown up a fisher- 
 man's son on the coast of Maine, and had matched his 
 muscle against wind and tide in many a storm. He 
 would do what he could. But for his remissness Hilda 
 would have been beyond danger now. He had no idea 
 what he would do. A thousand plans flashed through 
 his mind. He did nothing — only waited. 
 
 One man was half-way up the ladder when a stone 
 fell from the orchard wall not a rod from where he stood. 
 There was a rustle in the bushes, too. The man upon 
 the ladder paused. The watcher at the corner could 
 hear their words as they whispered to each other in the 
 chill night air. 
 
 " What 's that. Colonel ?" 
 
 There was a moment's silence. 
 
 "Nothing, I reckon — a stone loosened by the frost, or 
 a eat, maybe." 
 
 They waited a moment more, then the man ascended. 
 " Now," thought the minister, " is my time," and yet he 
 hesitated. He felt a stone beneath his foot, and reached 
 down and picked it up. He clutched it eagerly in his 
 right hand. It made a deadly weapon in that brawny 
 fist. He felt himself a match for the man at the foot 
 of the ladder, however he might be armed. He took a 
 step forward, then paused, holding his hand before him 
 irresolutely. "No," he thought, "I will not subject 
 
THE C BURGH MILITANT. 495 
 
 myself to temptation. Only as a last resort will I use a 
 weapon." He dropped the stone in the pocket of his 
 overcoat. 
 
 There was a low, tremulous moan. The man at the 
 foot of the ladder ran quickly up to the eaves. The 
 minister sprang forward and saw the other one step out 
 of the window of Hilda's room with a limp, white figure 
 in his arms. 
 
 "She's all right. Colonel," he heard him say. "She 
 won't make no more fuss. You jes' steddy the ladder 
 while I bring her down." 
 
 The minister stood spell-bound. The horror of the 
 scene overpowered his faculties. He could neither move 
 nor cry out. One man was at the foot of the ladder and 
 the other half-way down before he awoke to the neces- 
 sity of instant action. Colonel Eighmie heard a step, 
 and turned his head quickly over his shoulder, still 
 keeping his grasp upon the ladder. The minister took 
 five steps like a whirlwind, and his fist fell with the 
 force of a sledge-hammer at the base of Eighmie's ear. 
 
 " Scoundrels ! Kidnappers !" he hissed through his 
 set teeth. 
 
 Eighmie staggered and fell, half overturning the lad- 
 der as he did so. 
 
 " No ye don't," said the voice of Barnes, as he sprang 
 up the ladder with his limp burden. 
 
 It was too late. Hardly had he reached the eaves 
 when the ladder, disturbed by the fall of Eighmie, 
 slipped, turned, and the top began to slide slowly along 
 the tin gutter against which it rested. Barnes saw that 
 he must drop the girl or fall with her to the ground and 
 into the hands of he knew not how many enemies. It 
 did not take him long to decide between a negro girl 
 and himself. In an instant his arms were free ; and, 
 clutching the ladder with one hand and the spouting 
 with the other, he threw his feet against the upright 
 
496 HOT PLOWSHARES. 
 
 •portion of the huilding and swung himself hghtly upon 
 the roof which he had lately quitted. Gilbert Anderson 
 looking upward, saw the Avhite figure as it fell, and 
 springing forward, caught it before it reached the 
 ground. The shock brought him to his knees, but he 
 rallied and started to run toward where his horse was 
 waiting. As he did so, Barnes, who began to realize 
 the weakness of the attacking party, and who, even 
 when engaged in an unlawful enterprise, was, as he had 
 quietly declared, "no part of a coward," swung down 
 from the eave-spout and dropped to the ground. Anderson 
 had just turned the corner when he started in pursuit. 
 He was a little shaken by his fall, and not noticing the 
 ladder which lay in his way he stumbled over it, and 
 fell heavily to the grountl. By the time he reached the 
 corner of the house Anderson was almost out of sight. 
 Only a flutter of white down the lane served to guide 
 him in his pursuit. 
 
 Even with the burden which he bore Anderson would 
 have found it easy to outstrip his pursuer had he gone 
 up the hill instead of trj'ing to utilize his buggy as a 
 means of escape. The time occupied in placing the 
 half-unconscious girl in the vehicle enabled Barnes, 
 who had no idea of yielding peaceable possession of his 
 booty, to approach almost within striking distance be- 
 fore Anderson could back his horse out of the bushes and 
 take his seat in the buggy. He stood holding the reins 
 in his left hand, which also supported the young girl 
 upon the seat. His right hand clasped the stone in the 
 pocket of his overcoat. He could just see the outlines 
 of the man's figure as he stood in the shadow of the 
 pines. The right hind wheel of the buggy was between 
 them. 
 
 "Halt!" shouted Barnes. "Give up that gal or I 
 fire 1" 
 
 The hand flew from the pocket ; the stone whistled 
 
THE CHURCH MILITANT. 497 
 
 tlu'ough the air ; there was a flash, a shriek ; the minis- 
 ter sprang into the buggy, and the sparks flew out of 
 the cold rocks along the wood-road as the frightened 
 bay sped homeward. The figure that lay across his 
 lap, hidden by the robe, moaned and shivered, but 
 never once replied to his repeated assurances of safety. 
 When he reached the highway Anderson raised the. cover 
 of the buggy but did not check the speed of the excited 
 horse until the wheels rattled up the entrance to his 
 own barn. Then he leaped out, looked carefully around, 
 and, taking the girl in his arms, he bore her into the 
 house. As he laid her upon the lounge in the cosy sit- 
 ting-room his wife saw that his hands Avere stained with 
 blood. As he stood looking at the ominous stain she 
 sprang forward, and, lifting the bowed head, they gazed 
 into the thin, pinched face, now bloodless and pallid, of 
 'Amy Hargrove, 
 
 "Why, husband !" cried the wife, " this is not Hilda! 
 What does it all mean ?'' 
 
 "I— I— don't— know!" said the minister in amaze- 
 ment. I^or did it matter. A physician who was soon 
 called pronounced the wound dangerous, and prescribed 
 silence, darkness and the strictest care. The bullet of 
 the slave-catcher had just missed the heart of the 
 informer. 
 
 Ten o'clock brought the southward train and the full 
 moon. Other strangers came likewise to Burlingdale. 
 The battered sign that hung at the door of the unpre- 
 tentious inn creaked on its hinges in surprise as they 
 passed beneath it. The rooms were full for once, and 
 the smiling landlord thought to himself, as he looked 
 over his register, that a fugitive slave Avas almost as 
 good for an inn-keeper as a circus. Two of the new- 
 comers were evidently officials. They had that unmis- 
 takable uniform of self-importance that leads one to con- 
 
498 HO T PLO WSHARES. 
 
 sider whether Hfe would be worth Mving should reform 
 at length fix the limits of life as the measure of official 
 tenure. They inquired for Mr. Eighmie, and when told 
 that he was not in looked knowingly at each other. 
 
 They were the United States marshal for the district 
 and his deputy. They had a warrant under the broad 
 seal of the District Court running in the name of the 
 Chief Justice of the United States, commanding them to 
 take the body of a certain slave-girl Hilda, otherwise 
 known as Hilda Hargrove. They evidently understood 
 the situation, or thought they did, for after some re- 
 freshment they started out on foot toward the seminary. 
 A young man had taken the same direction a few 
 minutes before. He turned off into the wood-road ; they 
 advanced straight on, arid, turning into the grounds, 
 walked up the avenue to the house. Just as they reached 
 it they met Marsden and Eighmie. There was a hurried 
 consultation, not altogether pleasing to the officer of the 
 law as it seemed. After a moment he said angrily : 
 
 "So it seems, gentlemen, that instead of waiting for 
 the assistance of the law you have attempted an abduc- 
 tion and been roughly handled." 
 
 "We found the girl was about to escape, sir," said 
 Marsden. 
 
 "Very likely," said the marshal, incredulously. 
 
 "Oh, but we did, sir !" said Eighmie seriously. 
 
 "Well, even if you did, it is no excuse for your viola- 
 tion of the law. I can have nothing to do with it." 
 
 "But the girl, sir," said Eighmie, "and the rascals 
 who set upon us ?" 
 
 " I understand you took the girl out of the house, and 
 she was then taken from you ?" 
 
 "Yes; and there was a shot fired, and we believe 
 Barnes must have been killed." 
 
 "Very likely. People who will insist on being kid- 
 nappers must expect to get their necks broken. I will 
 
THE CHURCH MILITANT. 499 
 
 have nothing to do with it. There is no use of disturb- 
 ing the seminary people any more. Indeed, you have 
 disturbed them too much now for your own good. I 
 should advise you, gentlemen, to make yourselves scarce 
 before morning." 
 
 "Just what I've been telling him," said Marsden 
 quickly, " but he won't take any advice." 
 
 "I will not go until I know the fate of Barnes," said 
 Eighmie stubbornly. " I may have acted imprudently. 
 If I have violated the law, I am ready to sufter for it ; 
 but I will not desert a man who shared the danger at 
 my request." 
 
 "Helpl Murder! Help !" came from the wood-road 
 as he spoke. 
 
 They all ran quickly in the direction of the sound. 
 In the middle of the lane, by the little clump of ever- 
 greens near which the minister's horse had stood, a 
 man was kneeling and supporting on his arm the head 
 of another. The moon was shining full upon the face 
 of the prostrate man. They scrambled over the wall, 
 the marshal and his deputy ahead, the others following. 
 
 "Barnes !" said Marsden, as soon as he caught sight 
 of the face. He knelt down and put a hand upon his 
 breast. "Dead!" 
 
 The man who was supporting the other had no hat. 
 His face was pale, and his teeth chattered as he looked 
 from one to another of the observers. 
 
 " What does it mean ?" he asked. 
 
 "It means murder, young man — that's what it 
 means !" said Eighmie excitedly. 
 
 "Murder?" 
 
 " Yes, murder." 
 
 " "Who could have done it ?" 
 
 " You were the first that found it out it seems," said 
 Marsden, with a sneer. 
 
 "I?" 
 
500 HOT PL WSlIARES. 
 
 " Yes, you !" 
 
 "But I know nothing about it. I stumbled over him 
 as I came along just now," 
 
 " Just now ?" said Marsden, still sneering. " This is 
 a pretty time of night for a stroll, ain't it ?" 
 
 The young man laid the dead man's head carefully 
 upon the ground, and, rising, folded his arms, and said 
 with dignity : 
 
 "Gentlemen, if any one has any suspicion of me, I 
 am willing to answer to the law ; but I will not endure 
 such remarks from any but an officer of the law." 
 
 "You are right, too," said the marshal. "I am an 
 officer — the United States Marshal. When did you find 
 this body ?" 
 
 "Just a moment ago." 
 
 "What were you doing here at this hour ?" 
 
 The young man's face flushed, and he stammered as 
 he tried to answer. 
 
 " Tell the truth," said the marshal, " or do not speak 
 at all. Where is your hat ?" 
 
 "I don't know," he answered confusedly. "It must 
 have fallen off when I stumbled." 
 
 "Quite likely," said Marsden, with a sneer. "Per- 
 haps this is it ?" 
 
 He drew a crushed and battered hat from under his 
 knee beside the dead man as he spoke. The other 
 assented silently by taking it, brushing off the dust and 
 striving to restore it to its original shape. It was sodden 
 on one side. His hand was moistened as he brushed, 
 and he carelessly wiped it against his sleeve. 
 
 The marshal watched him keenly. 
 
 "What is your name ?" he asked. 
 
 " Martin Kortright." 
 
 "That is he," said Eighmie excitedly. "I knew he 
 was one of her friends. He did it, you may be sure. 
 He 's her lover, sir." 
 
THE CHURCH MILITANT. 501 
 
 "Hers— whose ?" 
 
 " Hilda's — the girl we 're after— the one we had when 
 we were attacked." 
 
 '' What of her ? Where is she ? What do you mean ?" 
 said Martin, striding over the prostrate form and clutch- 
 ing the arm of Eighmie. 
 
 "Stand off!" said Eighmie. "Stand off! Oh, you 
 know where she is! And you know about this, too," 
 pointing to the body of Barnes. " Why don't you arrest 
 him, Mr. Marshal ? Are you going to let him escape ?" 
 
 "I am sorry to say I must arrest both him and you, 
 gentlemen. This is a matter for the state courts ; but, 
 as a felony has been committed, if not two, I must take 
 you into custody and deliver you to the state authori- 
 ties. Come." 
 
 As he turned there was a rush into the undergrowth 
 at the road-side, and Marsden fled up the mountain-side. 
 
 "Never mind," said the officer to his deputy, "we 
 will hold these two. The fool thinks he can get away, 
 but he hasn't a ghost of a chance." 
 
 He laid his hand on Martin's shoulder as he spoke, 
 and the deputy in like manner took hold of Eighmie. 
 
 "You need not hold me," said Eighmie. " I will go 
 wherever you wish." 
 
 " So will I," said Martin. 
 
 "Come on then, gentlemen," said the marshal; "but 
 let us see if this poor fellow is really dead. Take hold, 
 and let us carry him to the seminary." 
 
 The officers and their prisoners bore the inanimate 
 form carefully around to the front of the building, and 
 laid him down upon the broad, white steps just as a car- 
 riage drove up, and the mistress of Beechwood aUghted. 
 
CHAPTER XL. 
 
 CLEANSED FROM BLOOD-GUILTINESS. 
 
 "Dead ? Impossible !" was the exclamation of Miss 
 Hunniwell, after a hurried explanation by the marshal. 
 " Who could have killed him ?" 
 
 "We have felt bound to hold this 3'oung man, who 
 was found with the body," said the marshal almost 
 apologetically. 
 
 The lady glanced keenly at Martin and asked, with 
 that mixture of command and interrogation which the 
 successful teacher is sure to acquire : 
 
 "Who found him with it ?" 
 
 " Well, I and my deputy — that is, he gave the alarm 
 and we ran to the place and found him supporting this 
 man's head." 
 
 " And you — where were you when he called ?" 
 
 " We were just entering the grounds." 
 
 "Just entering these grounds! Why, how long ago 
 did this happen ?" 
 
 " Only a short time — perhaps twenty minutes." 
 
 " And pray, sir, what were you doing on my premises 
 at this hour of the night ?" 
 
 "I am the United States Marshal for this district," 
 said the official, somewhat pompously. 
 
 "Well?" ejaculated the unrelenting inquisitor, as 
 she looked down upon him from the steps. 
 
 The moonlight showed a flush upon his cheek as he 
 answered : 
 
 "I have a warrant for the arrest of a certain fugitive 
 slave, and was directed by the claimant to meet him 
 here upon the arrival of the train," 
 
CLEANSED FB OM BL OB- G UIL TIN ESS. 503 
 
 " And this young man — who is he ?" 
 
 "I am Martin Kortright, ma'am," said he, answer- 
 ing for himself, and removing his hat as he did so. 
 
 "Ah! I am very glad to meet you," she said, step- 
 ping forward and giving him her hand. "You came 
 upon the train in answer to my telegram V 
 
 "Yes, ma'am," he replied. 
 
 " And you came out here — why ?" 
 
 "I was somewhat alarmed by your dispatch, and 
 thought I would come and look at the place Avithout 
 waiting for morning." 
 
 " I see ; and in so doing you fell among thieves," said 
 the lady severely. " I do not understand what has taken 
 place in my absence," she continued, "but whether 
 this man be dead or alive, this is not a fit place for him to 
 remain. Bring him in." 
 
 She had rung the bell on her arrival, and a teacher 
 with a pallid face that told of the teiTors that had af- 
 flicted the gentle flock at Beechwood during the absence 
 of the mistress, now answered her summons. Miss Hun- 
 niwell took the candle from her trembling hand, and, 
 standing beside the open door, motioned to the men to 
 enter. As they ascended the steps she directed her 
 coachman to drive at once for a physician and an officer 
 of the law. 
 
 The latter portion of her message was altogether need- 
 less. The anger of the good minister had grown into a 
 flame when he learned the gravity of Amy's hurt. How 
 the mistake should have arisen, or whether it was a mis- 
 take, he could not tell. The more he thought upon it 
 the stronger grew his suspicion that Hilda was yet in 
 danger. He lost no time, therefore, in letting certain 
 of his neighbors, including the officers of the law in the 
 village, know that a crime had been committed. The 
 fear which he had entertained for a time as to the re- 
 sult of his own. action had passed away, and he now 
 
504 HOT PLOWSHARES. 
 
 only felt a renewed anxiety for the safety of Hilda and 
 the capture of her abductors. The atmosphere of the 
 httle village was already charged with explosive mate- 
 rial. The presence of the slave-hunters and something 
 of the nature of their errand was well known in the 
 town, and in many a household the evening prayer that 
 night had contained an especially earnest petition for 
 "them that are in bonds." The whole village seemed 
 to rest in anticipation of exciting events. Men and 
 women were awake and eager to know what had hap- 
 pened. Almost before he knew it the good minister 
 found himself returning to the scene of the night's ad- 
 venture with a band of resolute men, whose action was 
 all the more significant because there were no threats 
 or boasts to be heard among them. The constable had 
 a pistol, or was supposed to have one, but except for 
 walking-sticks and extemporized clubs wrenched from 
 picket-fences or cut with the ever-ready pocket-knife 
 from the overhanging elms that lined the streets, very 
 few of them were armed. As they approached the 
 place where the road leading to the seminary turned 
 off to the left the sound of a vehicle rapidly driven over 
 the frozen ground reached their ears. Then the hoof- 
 strokes of a double team were heard upon the bridge. 
 Some boys who had pushed on ahead of the main com- 
 pany gave the alarm. 
 
 "That's them!" "It's Bassett's grays!" "The 
 kidnappers !" and other like cries were heard as the 
 boys leaped the fences and sought shelter from attack. 
 Instinctively the men formed a line across the road, 
 and as the wagon rolled out of the darkness of the 
 covered bridge into the moonlight, Marsden, who was 
 the sole occupant of the carriage, could distinctly see 
 their earnest faces and the hurried preparations that 
 were being made to obstruct his course. For an instant 
 he half-checked the horses in their sweeping trot. Then 
 
CLEANSED FR OM BL OU- G UILT1NES8. 505 
 
 he saw that it was too late. There was no room to turn. 
 He might burst through. At all events it was his only 
 chance. The obstruction was forty yards away, and once 
 past that barrier it was only twenty miles to the state 
 line. Behind him was — he knew not what of danger. 
 He drew the reins tighter, and gave the lash to the 
 sprightly grays. As he neared the line the men wavered. 
 It was no light matter to stand in the way of the infuri- 
 ated team. Marsden rose up, lashed the horses, and gave 
 a shrill yell of defiance. Just before he reached the corner 
 a new barrier suddenly arose across his way. Two men 
 had lifted a white picket gate from its hinges, and now 
 held it suspended between them above the roadAvay. 
 Seeing their purpose, a dozen sprang to their aid. It 
 was impassable, reaching high above the horses' heads, 
 and shifting to this side and that as their course seemed 
 to vary. The only chance was to try and break it down. 
 He headed the horses square against it. The pole 
 burst through the narrow palings. The men who held 
 it were thrown down, but the frame of the gate was 
 against the horses' legs. Their feet were caught be- 
 tween the slats. They stumbled and fell. A dozen 
 hands seized the wheels before they had ceased to re- 
 volve. Marsden, thrown forward and half-stunned, was 
 a prisoner before he had time to draw a weapon, and 
 was marched off, with his hands tied, to the town-hall 
 under charge of a trusty guard. 
 
 His attempt at escape had failed. After climbing 
 the hill-side a short distance, he had realized the fu- 
 tility of trying to escape in that manner, and stealing 
 back to the road, had sought to use the method which 
 had been decided upon in case of success, without wait- 
 ing to ascertain any more definitely the fate of his com- 
 panions. 
 
 After this the company, now much diminished in num- 
 bers, moved on. Meeting the coachman from the semi- 
 
506 HOT PLOWSHARES. 
 
 naiy, the minister asked him a few hurried questions, to 
 which the man gave most confusing replies. All that he 
 could gather from him was that some one was dead, or 
 at least badly injured, at the seminary, and he had been 
 sent for the doctor. Directing him where the physi- 
 cian might be found, they proceeded. Before they 
 reached the grounds the carriage passed them on its re- 
 turn. Then they halted for consultation, and it was 
 determined that the better way would be to quietly sur- 
 round the building, after which the constable and a few 
 others should go forward to reconnoitre. Nothing could 
 be done, that worthy said, until a warrant was issued. 
 This the justice would fill out upon the minister's in- 
 formation as soon as he could procure the names of the 
 kidnappers from the register at the hotel. All they 
 could do in the meantime was merely to prevent the 
 escape of the offenders. So the mob waited in patient 
 silence for the ponderous wheels of the law to move 
 round. 
 
 While these things were occurring in the village an 
 equally strange scene had been enacted in the semi- 
 nary. Following the direction of Miss Hunniwell the 
 men bore their unconscious burden along the hall and 
 into one of the reception-rooms, leaving a row of crim- 
 son drops from the door to the side of a low settle on 
 which she directed that he should be placed. Won- 
 dering eyes and pallid faces jjeered over the banisters 
 above at this strange procession. Water was brought 
 and a sponge ; and Miss Hunniwell, tucking back her 
 lace-edged sleeves, took the basin and washed the blood 
 from the coarse pale face. As she did so she noted a soft, 
 uncertain breath. The marshal found a dim pulsation at 
 the wrist also. The left temple was crushed and torn. 
 Out of the severed fibres came a slender, fitful stream 
 of red. Martin pressed his finger hard upon a point 
 just in front of and above the ear and it ceased. Then 
 
CLEANSED FU OM BL OB- G UIL 2 IN ESS. 507 
 
 they poured a little brandy down his throat. His res- 
 piration became more regular and decided. Then the 
 surgeon came — a gruft', fearless man, with the freedom 
 of speech and positiveness of manner that the old coun- 
 try practitioner gets. He examined the wounded man 
 carefully ; tried the skull, to find any fracture or depres- 
 sion; caught up the severed artery and dressed the 
 wound. 
 
 "He'll get along," said he grimly, when his exami- 
 nation was completed. "A concussion of the brain with 
 a considerable loss of blood. That 's what saved him 
 probably, though it has left him weak. It was a close 
 call — would have killed most men ; but these cattle never 
 die when they ought to." 
 
 " Can he be removed ?" inquired Eighmie anxiously. 
 
 " When, to-night V" asked the physician, looking keenly 
 at his interrogator. 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "No indeed!" 
 
 " When do you think ?" 
 
 "Well, I should say fully as soon as his employer 
 will be likely to have any use for him." 
 
 "I don't understand you, sir." 
 
 "You probably will before you are through with to- 
 night's business." 
 
 "I am ready to answer for all my acts, sir," said 
 Eighmie somewhat defiantly. 
 
 " Oh yes !" sneered the doctor, " we 've heard of your 
 Southern bravado before, but you '11 need something 
 more 'n that this time, or I 'm mistaken." 
 
 "Come, come, gentlemen," said the marshal, "this 
 is no place to discuss these things. What we want to 
 know and what Miss Hunniwell wants to know is, what 
 we had better do with this man." 
 
 "If you ask my opinion as a Tiiau," said the doctor 
 savagely, " I would say pitch the carrion out-doors and 
 
508 HOT PLOWSHARES. 
 
 cheat the gallows by letting him die, before he has a 
 chance to be hanged." 
 
 " That is the humanity of which the Yankee is for- 
 ever prating," said Eighmie sneeringly. 
 
 "A fair match for the chivalry of which you boast," 
 hissed the doctor in reply. " If I ain't mistaken you're 
 the man that came here to drag a young girl into slavery 
 after killing her father." 
 
 " The man who claimed to be her father was killed." 
 
 "Yes, shot in the back without being allowed to sur- 
 render." 
 
 "But that was in the heat of passion, sir. All our 
 good people regret it now." 
 
 "And do you suppose that we have no heat of pas- 
 sion ? Damn it, sir '."'cried the doctor, white with 
 wrath and striding toward Eighmie, "I'd be very glad 
 to help hang the whole of your hellish crowd to a tree 
 without judge or jury." 
 
 " See here, doctor !" said the marshal, stepping be- 
 tween them ; "what is the matter ? I never saw you in 
 such a mood as this before. I thought you were a 
 moderate, reasonable man." 
 
 "Don't talk to me of reason. Everybody knows I 've 
 never been an Abolitionist or anything of the kind, but 
 I 've seen that to-night that makes me actually blood- 
 thirsty. I 'm a law-abiding man, but, as certain as God 
 lives, if the girl dies, I 'm ready to make one of a crowd 
 to hang every scoundrel that had a hand in this business 
 higher than Ilaman." 
 
 "Doctor, you are raving," said the marshal, pushing 
 him back. 
 
 " Oh, I am, am I ?" said the doctor. " Well, let me 
 tell you, sir, I mean every word of it, and I don't draw 
 any distinction between a Southern slave-hunter and a 
 Northern nigger-catcher, either." 
 
 "If you mean me, sir," said the marshal angrily, 
 
CLEANSED FR OM EL OB- UIL TLNES8. 509 
 
 "I came here to perform a sworn duty. I am just as 
 much bound to execute the law as you are to obey it. I 
 have no more interest in this matter than you." 
 
 "Except double fees in case of conviction," sneered 
 the doctor. 
 
 " I didn't make the law," said the other doggedly. 
 
 "Ko, you only volunteered to do the dirty work that 
 was cut out for you." 
 
 "What do you mean by murder, doctor ?" asked Miss 
 Hunniwell, laying her hand upon his arm, and looking 
 into his face with anxious solicitude. 
 
 "Where have you been to-night, madam?" inquired 
 the doctor, turning sharply upon her. 
 
 She stammered, and her face flushed. She was not 
 used to prevarication, and yet she dare not reveal the 
 truth. 
 
 "I — I — have — been out with a friend — I have just re- 
 turned." 
 
 "Oh, I see!" he said incredulously. "So you don't 
 know what these gentlemen have been about here at 
 Beechwood in your absence ?" 
 
 "I can only imagine that it must be something very 
 terrible." 
 
 " Terrible ? Yes, I should think so. Well, I don't 
 know all about it myself, but I do know that these nig- 
 ger-hunting gentry have made it just about an even 
 chance whether one of your girls lives to see the sun 
 rise or not." 
 
 "Is it Hilda — Hilda Hargrove ?" asked Martin, im- 
 petuously grasping the doctor's arm as he spoke. 
 
 "No, it wasn't Hilda — 'twas the other one — the little 
 black-eyed creature that Avas always with her." 
 
 " Amy ?" asked the teacher. 
 
 " Yes, that 's her name." 
 
 " But Hilda — where is Hilda then ?" persisted Martin, 
 keeping his hold upon the doctor's arm. 
 
510 HOT PL WSHARE8. 
 
 "That I can't tell j-ou, young man, if you shake me 
 all night. Perhaps this gentleman can give you some 
 information," jerking his thumb toward Eighmie as he 
 spoke. "Whether they made a mistake, or thought it 
 just as cheap to kidnap two girls as one, I don't know, 
 but I guess they '11 have a chance to explain before 
 they 've done with it." 
 
 Martin turned toward Eighmie, but as he was about 
 to speak he felt the teacher's hand upon his arm. 
 
 "Do not be troubled," she whispered hastily ; " Hilda 
 is safe." 
 
 While this was passing footsteps were heard advanc- 
 ing along the hall. The constable entered, and said : 
 
 " I have a warrant for Sherwood Eighmie." 
 
 " That is my name," said Eighmie, stepping forward. 
 
 "Also," said the constable, "for James S. Barnes." 
 
 Eighmie pointed to the Avounded man. 
 
 " Not able to be moved ?" asked the constable of the 
 doctor. 
 
 "Not under a week — more likely a fortnight," said 
 the physician. 
 
 "Well, come on, then," to Eighmie. 
 
 "Wait a moment," said the other. Then, turning to 
 the doctor, he produced a roll of bills, and said earn- 
 estly: "Doctor, I don't know how this thing is going 
 to end, but I want you to see that this man is taken 
 care of. He was injured in my service, and I must not 
 desert him." 
 
 "Oh, I will see that he is cared for," said the doctor, 
 though he isn't worth it. Give the money to ^liss Hun- 
 niwell, sir. She will need to get nurses and delicacies. 
 Never mind me. I wouldn't work a bit better for all 
 the money in your purse. After it 's all over I '11 put 
 in my bill. But you may rest assured that I will do 
 my very best for the poor devil professionally, though, 
 
CLEANSED FR OM BL OD- G UILTINE8S. 511 
 
 personally, I houestly think no man ever needed hanging 
 worse than he." 
 
 "What he did," said Eighmie, "was at my instiga- 
 tion. I won't shirk any responsibility, whatever the 
 result." 
 
 "Well, I will say that is a manly thing," said the 
 doctor heartily, "and I do hope that we have seen the 
 worst side of this night's work." 
 
 "Thank you," said Eighmie simply. "I would like 
 to ask a favor of you if I might." 
 
 " Anything I can honestly do in your behalf you may 
 r£ly upon my doing. Professionally, you need have no 
 fear that I will not do my best for the patient." 
 
 "It is not that," said Eighmie hesitantly, "but 
 would you mind — the young lady — I don't suppose 
 you know how I feel about it. Of course, I am sorry 
 for the hurt she has received, but I would rather die— I 
 would even rather she would die — than have it thought 
 — than have her think — that I would kidnap a free 
 white girl in order to make her a slave." 
 
 " Yet you intended to abduct one as white as she." 
 
 "Yes, a slave." 
 
 "No," said the doctor, shaking his head solemnly; 
 " I can't understand it. To my mind the evil that is 
 done, even if the worst result, is less than the evil you 
 intended. Nevertheless, I will tell Miss Amy how much 
 you regret the mistake, though I doubt if she will under- 
 stand your feeling any better than I do." 
 
 "Perhaps not," responded Eighmie; "yet I should 
 be glad to have her know I did not intend her any 
 harm." 
 
 Then they went away, leaving only the doctor, Mar- 
 tin, the mistress of Beechwood and the still unconscious 
 man upon the settle. 
 
 It was necessary that the doctor should return, as 
 Amy needed close attention. He had just begun to give 
 
512 HOT PL WSBARES. 
 
 directions for the care of Barnes to Martin, who con- 
 sented to watch with him that night, when the minister 
 entered and declared his intention of caring for the sick 
 man, avowing his own responsibility for his condition. 
 After this explanation, Miss Hunuiwell gave Martin 
 Hilda's letter, and he returned to the village onl}^ to 
 learn that the shadow which had seemed to lift from 
 his pathway so unexpectedly had only closed about it 
 more darkly than before. 
 
 For the teacher this eventful night had still another 
 surprise. As she left the reception-room to go to the 
 chamber a dark form stepped out of the shadow of the 
 stairway and addressed her in tones of respectful en- 
 treaty : 
 
 "Please, ma'am, will you tell me where our Miss 
 Hilda is, and if she 's got safe away ?" 
 
 "Who are you?" asked the startled lady, in a low, 
 cautious tone. 
 
 "I'm Marse Hargrove's ole servant, ma'am, Jason 
 they call me — sometimes Jason Unthank — 'kase my ole 
 marster's name was Unthank, you know." 
 
 " I have heard Hilda speak of you frequently, Jason," 
 
 "Of course yer has, honey. Why I brought her up, 
 mostly — Marse Merwyn an' me — atter the young missus 
 died." 
 
 "You knew Hilda when she was a child, Jason?" 
 said the teacher, with a new interest in her tones. 
 
 "Knew her! Lor' bress yer, yis. Wasn't I down 
 there in the Indies when she was born ? I 'spect I 
 seed her 'fore she was a day ole, an' hain't hardly 
 hed my eyes offen her sence dat time — only when I 'se 
 been off on a v'y'ge with Marse Captain, or something 
 of that sort, yer know." 
 
 " Oh, Jason, if we had only known this before, all 
 this trouble and bloodshed might have been avoided." 
 
 " Please, ma'am, what 's it all about ? What 's Marse 
 
CLEANSED FR 031 BL OB- G UIL TINE 88. 513 
 
 Eighmie an' his crowd a-pesterin' Miss Hilda 'bout, any- 
 how ?" 
 
 " They claim she is a slave. " 
 
 "Who says dat? It's a lie ! My Miss Hilda a nig- 
 ger ! Bress her heart, dat she ain't. Jes' let me know 
 who says dat, ma'am, an' ole Jason '11 settle wid him 
 for it. Dam rascals ! I couldn't understan' what 'twas 
 all about, but I seed she war in a heap of trouble. So 
 I waited roun', an' when dey tried to carry her off, yer 
 know, I was jis' a gwine ter lay Marse Eighmie out wid 
 a rock when in rushed dat other feller, grabbed Miss 
 Hilda 'way from 'em an' run. Den I was all struck in 
 a heap, an' hardly knowed which one ter lite on ; but I 
 knowed that Marse Eighmie an' his crowd didn't mean 
 her no good, an' 'lowed dat 'tother man couldn't be any 
 wuss. Besides, I heard him callin' to her ez ef he wuz 
 friends with her. So I didn't stop to ax no questions, 
 an' when one of Marse Eighmie's men begun shootin' at 
 him I jes' turned in on him myself That 's the reason 
 yer had to send fer the doctor fer him, I 'spect," he con- 
 cluded coolly, with a sly nod toward the room where 
 Barnes was lying. 
 
 "Hush, Jason, you must not speak so loud," said 
 Miss Hunniwell, herself hardly able to control her con- 
 flicting emotions. "Come in here; I must talk with 
 you." 
 
 "Yes, ma'am," said Jason as he followed her with 
 the peculiar noiseless tread of the well-trained body- 
 servant, which, without being stealthy, seems always 
 to come and go without any appeal to our consciousness. 
 She opened the door of the little library or office that 
 adjoined her own room, A fire was smouldering upon 
 the hearth, which Jason deftly coaxed into a cheerful 
 blaze. The mistress of Beechwood plied the old ser- 
 vant with questions until fully convinced that he was 
 able to reUeve Hilda not only of the fear of enslavement 
 
514 HOT PLOWSHARES. 
 
 but of the still greater horror of a corrupted hneage. It 
 was with no little difficulty, however, that she restrained 
 his impatience to learn the whereabouts of Hilda : 
 
 "You see, ma'am, I'se got ter find her. Marse Cap- 
 tain jes dat las' minute 'fore I jumped abo'd de sloop, 
 when he jes made me put him down an' leave him 'kase 
 'tweren't possible for both on us ter git oft'— though I 'd 
 a heap ruther staid an' died with him thar, I would, 
 ma'am, an' no mistake — that very minute Marse Har- 
 grove tuk out ob his bosom dis yer package I'se got 
 here," — striking his breast pocket as he spoke — "an' he 
 says to me, ' Jason, don't you miss givin' dat into Miss 
 Hilda's own ban's yourself. It 's my last words, my 
 will an' test'ment, Jason; my last blessing to my dar- 
 ling, Jason, which she must have or she won't be happy 
 no more as long as she lives.' An' I swar to him right 
 thar, ma'am, jes' a minute afore I seed him shot dead, 
 dat I wouldn't let no man's nor woman's ban' tech dat 
 ar letter till I give it into Miss Hilda's own dear ban's ; 
 an' I won't nuther. So yer see I'se got ter see Miss 
 Hilda, an' right away too." 
 
 The man's excitement had made him forget the better 
 language of his later years and brought the dialect of 
 his youth to his tongue. 
 
 "Why didn't you come and give it to her before?" 
 asked the woman tearfully. 
 
 " I was afeared to, ma'am. You know this trouble I 
 was in with Marse Merwyn, an' I was afraid de law 
 might take hold on me, yer know. Some of de papers 
 do say we 'd all be took back dar to be tried yet — 
 which jes' means hangin' straight out in sech a case yer 
 know. Then thar was Marse Eighmie. I seed him 
 a-hangin' round here, an' I 'lowed he was atter me, 
 never once dreamin' he was tryin' to git my pore Miss 
 Hilda to make a nigger on her. Ef I 'd only knowed 
 that, ther' wouldn't been no trouble 'bout him an' his 
 
CLEANSED FR OM BL OB- G UILTINES8. 515 
 
 crowd now. Jason would hev settled with the las' one 
 of 'em a heap better 'n he did with dat mean white 
 critter in yon, too." 
 
 "Jason, Mr. Anderson thinks he is the one that in- 
 jured that man? He feels very badly about it," said 
 Miss Hunniwell. 
 
 "Mr. Anderson — that 's the man that thought he was 
 helping Miss Hilda. I remember hearing him speak his 
 name now. He 's a perfect gentleman, that man is ; 
 but, pshaw ! that rock he threw wouldn't a-stopped that 
 low-down cuss a quarter of a minute ef Jason hadn't a 
 tuk a hand in 'bout dat time." 
 
 "But you ought to let him know, so that he will not 
 feel so badly. He 's nursing him now, because he thinks 
 it his duty to help restore the man he has injured." 
 
 "Certain, ma'am, certain. I'll do that, and I'd be 
 glad to do the nussin', too, after I 've seen Miss Hilda, 
 you know. I hain't a doubt I 'd do it a heap better than 
 Mr. Anderson. I seed him when he come in, an' he 
 don't look like he was cut out for a nuss, nohow." 
 
 "But I don't know where Hilda is," said Miss Hun- 
 niwell. 
 
 " You don't know ? Didn't this man, Mr. Anderson, 
 take her away in his buggy ?" 
 
 "No, that was another young lady they got by mis- 
 take." 
 
 " Then whar has my young mistis gone ?" 
 
 " I took her away in my carriage just before dark." 
 
 " An' yet don't know where she is ?" suspiciously. 
 
 "Just so, Jason. I took her to the depot, and saw 
 her take the train." 
 
 " Where was she goin' ?" asked Jason, picking up his 
 hat, that was lying at his feet, as if about to start in 
 pursuit. 
 
 "I don't know," was the answer. 
 
516 HOT PL WSHARES. 
 
 " Don't know ? Didn't she tell yer whar she was 
 goin' ?" asked the man almost angrily. 
 
 " She not only did not tell me, Jason, but she posi- 
 tively refused to do so." 
 
 "Den I mus' find her," said Jason, with a long-drawn 
 sigh. " I promised Marse Merwyn, an' I '11 do it ef I 
 don't nebber hev ary other day's rest while I live." 
 
 "But, Jason," began Miss Hunniwell. 
 
 "Don't talk ter me; don't talk," said Jason shaking 
 his hand toward her and turning away his head. "I'll 
 jes' keep a-trampin' day an' night till I find dat ar gal — 
 dat Miss Hilda. Dat I will, an' dar ain't no use in 
 talkin' 'bout it. I 'm much obleeged to ye, ma'am, but 
 I might jes' ez well be gittin' 'long. Dar ain't no sense 
 in waiting heah." 
 
 He started toward the door as he spoke. 
 
 " But where will you go, Jason ?" 
 
 "Oh, it don't matter — anywhar. P'r'aps de Lord 
 will kinder show me de way for de pore chile's sake. I 
 don't take much stock in de Lord myself, kase it 'pears 
 to me He's mighty onreliable. Take Him up one side 
 an' down de other, an' I can't see ez it makes more 'n 
 about a good average — fair to middlin' ez they say about 
 cotting." 
 
 "Jason," said the teacher sternly, "you must not 
 speak in that manner." 
 
 "Can't help it, ma'am ; I p'intedly can't. What the 
 Lord let that low-down, poor, way-off Eighmie crowd 
 kill Marse Hargrove for ?" 
 
 "I cannot tell, Jason; but you know He had some 
 good purpose in it, and He will guide you in your search 
 for Hilda if you will only follow where He leads." 
 
 "It may be, ma'am, but I don't see ez He 's a-doin' 
 any leadin' now, nor anything else, only mixin' mat- 
 ters up so that it looks as ef they 'd never git straight 
 agin." 
 
CLEANSED FR OM BL OD- G UILTINE88. 517 
 
 "That is because you will not wait and trust Him, 
 Jason. You want everything done in your own way." 
 
 "I wants dat little gal got outen her trouble. Dat's 
 what I want, ma'am ; an' I wants it done right away, 
 too." 
 
 "That is all right for you to wish, Jason; but you 
 must follow God and not try to lead Him. Just think, 
 now. The whole world is before you. You don't know 
 whether Hilda has gone east or west or north or south." 
 
 "I reckon yotc knows which way the train was goin' 
 that she got on, don't yer ?" 
 
 " I don't even know that, Jason. I was so fearful for 
 her, and so flustered by the danger she was in, that I 
 could do nothing but watch and see that she was safe 
 upon the train, and then close my eyes in grateful 
 prayer. There were two trains at the station. When 
 I looked again both were going out. "Which Hilda was 
 on I don't know." 
 
 " She 's done gone back to Sturmhold, dat 's whar 
 she 's gone," said Jason, after a moment's pause. 
 
 " That 's where she has not gone," said the teacher. 
 "You forget that she was hiding — hiding away from 
 Mr. Eighmie, and hiding away from Martin Kortright." 
 
 "What 's she hidin' from young Marse Martin for ?" 
 
 "Because she was afraid that — that what they said 
 about her father might be true." 
 
 "I see," said Jason, "I see. She was afraid there 
 might be jes' one little drap of colored blood in her 
 veins, an' she 'd rather die tlian see Marse Martin agin 
 ef ther was. I don't blame her nuther — I don't blame 
 her. It 's the cuss of Cain, shore, an' it 's no wonder 
 that blessed chile should feel like hidin' away when 
 she thought she hed it jes' like ole Cain hisself when 
 he hear de Lord a callin' atter him. Yis, you're 
 right. She 's hid jes' ez safe ez a young partridge. 
 Marse Martin '11 try powerful hard, but he won't find 
 
518 HOT PLOWSHARES. 
 
 her — never ! Miss Hilda 's too peart for dat. She 's 
 her pappy all over, Miss Hilda is, only she looks power- 
 ful like her ma, pore dear. He won't never find her 
 ez long ez she keeps on hidin' ; no mo' will Jason 
 nuther. Ther ain't no give up in that gal more 'n ther 
 was in her pa — not a bit. When she 's once sot her 
 head on anything she '11 stan' to it till the very last. 
 We won't never find her, none of us, ma'am, unless the 
 Lord does take hold an' show us whar she 's hid. Pore 
 gal ! pore gal !" 
 
 The faithful servant sank down upon the floor, 
 thoroughly crushed with disappointment. Miss Hunni- 
 well arose, and, putting her hand upon his shoulder, said : 
 
 " There, there, Jason. Don't be cast down. There 
 is a chance, a hope, wliich we must not lose sight of. 
 She has promised to write tome." 
 
 "Yer don't say," said Jason, raising his head. 
 "When?" 
 
 "At least within a year. Sooner, if she is in trouble 
 or need of any kind." 
 
 "An' will yer let ole Jason know where de pore 
 chile is?" 
 
 " Just as soon as I hear." 
 
 "Bless God, ma'am, I'll stay right here an' wait. 
 Don't ye want ter hire a boy, ma'am ?" said he, with a 
 quick rebound from grief to joy, peculiar to his mercu- 
 rial race, as he sprang to his feet and bowed laughingly 
 before her, like a slave-boy seeking a home at the 
 Christmas time. Though past middle life Jason retained 
 the activity of youth and like all his race defied the 
 closest observer to determine his age. 
 
 "Yes, I do," said Miss Hunniwell, entering into the 
 humor of his request, and catching at once at this 
 means of serving Hilda most eflectually. "I want 
 some one to nurse this wounded man, and after that to 
 help about the stable and the house." 
 
CLEANSED FR 031 BL OD- G UIL TINE 8 S. 519 
 
 "Auywhar, ma'am, anywhar. There's mighty few 
 thmgs Jason can't do, and it '11 need a power of work 
 to keep him contented till he hears from Miss Hilda. 
 But there 's one thing I 'd like ter know, ma'am." 
 
 "What is that, Jason?" 
 
 " Ef that warn't our Miss Hilda they were tryin' ter 
 git away with, who was it ?" 
 
 " It was a young lady that occupied the room next to 
 hers," said the teacher, " Miss Amy Hargrove." 
 
 " Yer don't say ?" exclaimed Jason in astonishment. 
 
 " Yes, and the man in yonder shot her, so that there 
 is great danger that she may die." 
 
 "Yer don't say?" repeated Jason in open-mouthed 
 amazement. " Yer don't say ? An' it warn't our Hilda 
 at all but that other one that was run off with an' hurt. 
 An' yer say she 's like ter die, ma'am?" 
 
 " So the doctor fears." 
 
 " Wal now, ma'am, p'r'aps I might as well take back 
 what I said about de Lo'd a while ago. 'Pears like He 
 must ha' knowed what He war about atter all," said 
 Jason with a peculiar solemnity of tone and manner. 
 
 Gilbert Anderson, walking back to his snug home in 
 the gray morning, with the sense of blood-guiltiness lifted 
 from his soul, uttered the same sentiment in more re- 
 fined language. 
 
CHAPTER XLI. 
 
 THE PROOF THAT HEALETH DOUBT. 
 
 Jared Clarksox was greatly disturbed by the dis- 
 patch from Miss Hunniwell — "Come at once for Miss 
 Hargrove's sake." Accustomed as he was t(? accept 
 responsibility, he had somehow shrunk in an unac- 
 countable manner from the trust imposed on him by 
 Merwyn Hargrove. The sight of the sealed parcel 
 lying in his safe had more than once filled him with 
 apprehension. Every time that he had been required 
 to act under the instructions Hargrove had given him 
 he had done so with peculiar reluctance. It was as if 
 he had a premonition of evil connected with them. 
 More than once he had determined to shift this burden 
 upon Kortright, and but for the invalid's condition 
 would no doubt have done so before this time. Even 
 as it was, he hesitated to comply with the teacher's ur- 
 gent request, and instead of taking the train at once 
 drove over to Sturmhold for consultation with Kort- 
 right, taking with him the sealed package and Har- 
 grove's letter in regard to it. 
 
 The two men talked long and anxiously of the events 
 which had occurred, and speculated not a little as to 
 what the trouble that threatened Hilda might be. 
 
 "lam sure I cannot imagine," said Clarkson, "nor 
 why they should have sent for me. That they should 
 telegraph for Martin is very natural." 
 
 "I suppose to seek your advice because you were 
 her father's friend, and are, in a sense, his representa- 
 tive now," answered Kortright. 
 
 "I have thought of that," said Clarkson, "but it 
 520 
 
THE PR OF TEA T IIEALETH D UB T. 531 
 
 seems improbable tbat her father Avould have intrusted 
 her with the pecuhar character of our relations." 
 
 "Well," said Kortright, with decision, "Hilda evi- 
 dently needs your aid, and you must go, and go at once, 
 too." 
 
 "Then, if that is settled," said Clarkson, "I think it 
 best that this parcel should be opened, and I do not 
 wish that to be done except in the presence of another 
 trustworthy friend of the deceased besides myself." 
 
 He took the package from his pocket as he spoke. It 
 was indorsed in the handwriting of Hargrove : 
 
 "This package will be opened by the person to whom it 
 may be intrusted only when such person shall, in the exer- 
 cise of a sound and honest discretion, believe that the time 
 has come when it is absolutely necessary for him to know 
 the exact truth in regard to the children of the late 
 George Eighmie and Alida, his wife. If no such occasion 
 arises previous to the marriage of Hilda, or before she at- 
 tains the age of twenty-one years, it is my desire that this 
 parcel be placed in her hands with its seals yet unbroken. 
 Signed, Merwyn Hargrove." 
 
 It was sealed with his monogram and the bristling 
 boar's head crest which the old buccaneer had adopted 
 as a boastful emblem of lowly origin and dangerous 
 strength. Clarkson handed the parcel to Kortright, who 
 read the superscription carefully, and remarked doubt- 
 fully as he returned it : 
 
 " You are sure the time has come ?" 
 
 "I am very sure," answered Clarkson. "I cannot 
 act intelligently in any matter touching Hilda without 
 the knowledge this envelope contains." 
 
 "Perhaps not," said Kortright, "though I don't ex- 
 actly see why. It doesn't impress me that her present 
 trouble is in any way connected with the Eighmie chil- 
 dren." 
 
522 HOT PL W SHARES. 
 
 "Oh, it must be, directly or indirectly, else I should 
 never have been summoned," said Clarkson. 
 
 "I cannot understand why you think so," Kortright 
 replied. 
 
 "Well, let me show you," said Clarkson, settling 
 himself for one of his favorite monologues. "You know 
 that there were two of these children — the Eighmie 
 children I mean. One of these Captain Hargrove, in 
 conformity with the desire of his half-brother, deprived 
 of her identity, hid, ' transformed ' he calls it in his 
 letter. The other he tells us he could not trace. The 
 latter I have found. I am now, as I fully believe, able 
 to lay my hands on the son of George and Alida Eigh- 
 mie. He having been born before the emancipation of 
 his mother and the second marriage of his parents in 
 this state, even though formall}^ legitimatized by the 
 father under our laws, it is somewhat doubtful what 
 his legal status might be adjudged to be. This being the 
 case, I have already taken steps to extinguish the title 
 of the man who recently claimed him as a slave by taking 
 a bill of sale to myself You see," he added, smihng at 
 his own conceit, "I am getting aristocratic. I come of 
 a slave-holding stock and am now a slave-owner myself 
 It is no wonder that Southern gentlemen are partial to 
 one having so much in common with them, despite my 
 fearful reputation as an Abolitionist, is it ?" 
 
 Kortright's only reply was a smile, and Clarkson 
 went on : 
 
 "The proof that the young man to whom I refer is 
 the veritable Hugh Eighmie for whom Captain Har- 
 grove sought so long and unsuccessfully, is almost per- 
 fect. I had hoped to present him to Hargrove on his 
 return, when, no doubt, he could very soon have made 
 the chain complete. Before the opportunity came, how- 
 ever, he was stricken down in the performance of his 
 duty. Ever since that event I have been in great trouble 
 
THE PR OF THAT HEALETH D UBT. 523 
 
 as to what I ought to do in reference to this young man. 
 He and his sister are unquestionably the true heirs of 
 George Eighmie, unless illegitimate. I am the more 
 troubled because of the fact that I was enabled to iden- 
 tify Hugh by his mother's instant recognition of her son 
 when she had but a passing glimpse of his features, and 
 that, too, by a very imperfect light." 
 
 "Indeed, you surprise me !" said Kortright. 
 
 "Yes," said Clarkson, "we have been accustomed to 
 regard Alida as a poor, feeble creature, whose wits 
 are not to be relied on, ever since you brought her to 
 my house in the big snow-storm — let me see, now just 
 about ten years ago, isn't it ?" 
 
 " Ten years and a few days," said Kortright, solemnly 
 shaking his head. "Ah, Mr. Clarkson, there have been 
 great changes in that time." 
 
 "Yes, indeed," returned the other, "wonderful 
 changes. It is hardly possible that another decade can 
 bring the like." 
 
 There was a moment's silence, full of thoughtful retro- 
 spect to these men to whom the sunset of life was draw- 
 ing near. They were not old men, but the era which 
 they spoke had taxed their lives with burdens and 
 activities no other past had ever known. After a time 
 Clarkson continued : 
 
 "Well, as I was saying, we have never looked upon 
 Alida as altogether right in her mind since that time." 
 
 Kortright nodded, but made no other response. 
 
 "Hargrove himself thought her thoroughly demented 
 even before, and attributed her insanity solely to grief 
 at the loss of her children; but it was not until the 
 recognition of her son in the person of a hunted fugi- 
 tive, that she came to her present hopeless condition. 
 Since that occasion I suppose she has manifested no 
 evidence of sanity, or even of active intellection, at all." 
 
 Kortright glanced uneasily at the door, and said : 
 
524 HOT PLOWSHARES. 
 
 "I don't know about that. Would you mind turn- 
 ing the key in the door, Clarkson ? I have something 
 to tell you that I would not have Mrs. Kortright know 
 for a good deal." 
 
 Clarkson opened his eyes with surprise, but did as he 
 was requested. When he returned Kortright motioned 
 to him to sit down in the invalid chair by the side of the 
 couch so that he could lay his hand upon his knee, and 
 said : 
 
 "Do you know, I cannot understand that woman — 
 Alida? She has evidentl}^ always been given to hallu- 
 cinations. No proof could ever satisfy her, for a great 
 while at a time, that Hargrove, who literally sacrificed 
 his whole life to carry out her husband's fancies, was 
 really her fi'iend." 
 
 "That," said Clarkson, sententiously, "was because 
 he had no real sympathy with her or her race — at least 
 with the race the taint of whose blood has blighted her 
 life. Besides that, he never reposed any confidence in 
 her." 
 
 "Whatever the cause, that was the fact, but it could 
 not be for any such reason that she took an incurable 
 dislike to us." 
 
 " Has she done so ?" 
 
 " Yes, indeed. You see I am such a victim to this 
 rheumatism now, that day and night have lost their 
 normal relations so far as I am concerned. I wake by 
 night and sleep by day, or vice versa, as the case may 
 be. Sometimes I am awake for tAvo or three days and 
 nights in succession, and then perhaps I sleep almost as 
 long. For this reason, I stay here in the library all the 
 time. It 's the only part of this great house that ever 
 seemed home-like to me anyhow. I lie upon my couch 
 here, or crawl into my chair, and think or read, sleep 
 or wake, without disturbing any one. Martha occupies 
 the bedroom adjoining, but she is a sound sleeper, and 
 
THE PR OF THAT HEALETH D UBT. 525 
 
 hears nothing unless I call her name. Well, it wasn't 
 long after we came here that I found that this woman, 
 Alida, was a very different creature at night from what 
 she seems to be or is in the daytime. I was lying 
 here on my couch one night when she came in, went 
 straight to that desk there — the one the Captain used, 
 you know — raised the lid, and appeared to be hunting 
 around for something which she could not find. Then 
 she went to the shelves there, took down one or two 
 books, and seemed to be searching through them for 
 something that she expected to find between the leaves. 
 Failing in this, she came here to the grate, warmed her 
 feet one after the other, in the meantime knitting her 
 brows, and seeming to be in great distress, as if unable 
 to recall something she had once known. She paid no 
 attention to me, not appearing to be aware of my pres- 
 ence. Of course I was very much surprised at this 
 manifestation, and fully intended to have spoken of 
 it the next day, but something drove it from my 
 mind, and her visits soon came to be so frequent that 
 I became interested in them, and even looked forward 
 to the night, when my ailment was very painful, with a 
 sort of enjoyment. It was not always the same, this 
 novel entertainment, and I soon found great relief in 
 trying to decipher the causes of her varying moods. 
 By careful watching I came to understand much that 
 she does, or, at least, to form a good idea of what it 
 means to her. She rarely speaks, but now and then 
 uses an exclamation that aids me in arriving at a con- 
 clusion with regard to her thoughts. 
 
 "It is very strange," said Clarkson. "She is evi- 
 dently a somnambulist." 
 
 "No doubt," assented Kortright, "but do you not 
 see this strange thing beside — the waking woman is 
 weak and silly, almost dead to what is going on about 
 her ; but the sleeping woman is active, alert and evi- 
 
5^6 no T PLO WSHARES. 
 
 dently alive to circumstances, sentiments, antipathies 
 and preferences which are of the past or which she fits 
 into a past which is the present to her. She is not always 
 unconscious of surrounding objects, but always mistakes 
 them, when she does notice them, for something con- 
 nected with the train of thought she seems pursuing," 
 
 " It is very remarkable," said Clarkson. 
 
 "The scene with the desk and books is the one most 
 frequently enacted. I have been through the desk again 
 and again, and turned over every book upon the shelf to 
 which she always goes. A queer thing about it is that 
 if I disarrange the papers at the left of the desk she 
 seems at once worried and disturbed, and will not leave 
 it until she has placed the packages back just as they 
 were. Those at the right hand she seems to pay no 
 attention to at all. It is queer, too, that one volume 
 of the set of books she always examines is missing. 
 One time I had them changed and other books put in 
 their places. She was greatly excited by that ; pulled 
 the books out, threw them on the floor, and finally 
 seemed to half awake, or rather to assume her ordi- 
 nary waking condition. There is this strange thing 
 about her condition, she is most awake when she is 
 soundest asleep. She sees, hears, thinks ; but she sees 
 and hears and thinks only with reference to a state of 
 facts that exists but in her memory or imagination. 
 The silly, furtive leer she has in the daytime came into 
 her eyes ; she looked cautiously at me, and finally stole 
 out on tiptoe, turning every now and then to glare back 
 at me. It seemed to distress her so that I had the 
 books restored the next day." 
 
 "You amaze me," said Clarkson. " Do you think it 
 safe that she should wander about unguarded in this 
 manner during the night ?" 
 
 "Candidly," said Kortright, with an amused smile, 
 "I do not, but what would become of my entertain- 
 
THE PR OP THA T lIEALE'l II DOUB T. 527 
 
 ment if she were confined ? I assure you it is of great 
 advantage to me. I always forget my pain while she is 
 here, and usually fall asleep afterward trying to unravel 
 the charades she has acted." 
 
 "Have you ever succeeded?" asked Clarkson curi- 
 ously. 
 
 "Oh, yes, indeed; and I have thus learned some 
 very strange things," answered Kortright. "It was 
 by that means that I discovered her antipathy to my 
 family, especially toward Martin. When 1 am very bad, 
 sometimes, one of the family will insist upon watching 
 with me, as they say, which usually results in their 
 going to sleep and my watching them. As I am on 
 this side the fireplace," he continued, "they naturall}'^ 
 sit on the other, which brings them directly in her path 
 when she comes to lean upon the mantel to warm her 
 feet at the fire and recall what she has forgotten. Mar- 
 tin was the first one she found there one night when 
 he was comfortably sleeping on his watch. "When she 
 had peered around the back of my invalid chair in 
 which he sat, in the half-awake manner that any inter- 
 ruption of her wonted routine produces, and seemed to 
 recognize who it was, she became so terribly excited 
 that I really feared she would attack him. However, 
 she left the room without awaking him, and that night, 
 for the first time, returned again. It was perhaps an 
 hour afterward. I had wakened Martin and sent him 
 to bed, on the false pretense that I was more comfort- 
 able. When she re-entered the room the impression 
 of his presence was evidently still fresh in her mind. 
 She shook her fist at the empty chair, gnashed her 
 teeth, and then suddenly burst into a laugh. I was 
 afraid she would wake Martha, but fortunately she did 
 not. Then she went through a pantomime that I could 
 not understand, and which yet seemed to have a regular 
 order, and to be connected in her thought with Martin, 
 
528 HOT PLOWSHABES. 
 
 for at the end she ran quickl}^ to the door, stopped and 
 Mstened as if fearing pursuit, shook her hand at the 
 chair again, and stealtliilj^ disappeared." 
 
 " This is really astounding," exclaimed the listener. 
 
 "Wait a moment," said Kortright. "The next 
 night, as it happened, Martha had insisted on silting up 
 with me, and was asleep in that same chair. Alida dis- 
 covered the intrusion as hefore. After a while she 
 seemed to recognize my wife's identity, and for a time 
 a look of hesitation, almost tenderness, passed over her 
 face as she stood in the firelight gazing into the placid 
 face of my watcher. Finally she exhibited toward her 
 the same evidences of aversion, however, she had shown 
 toward Martin the night hefore. As she went out, 
 I made haste to awaken wife and get her to bed, so 
 that I might have a good opportunity to watch Alida's 
 conduct should she return. She did return, and Avent 
 through the performance of the night before without 
 varying a movement. After this she frequentl}^ re- 
 turned, especially if anything interfered with the usual 
 routine of her first visit, and went through this same 
 mimicry of an event that has evidently left a most 
 vivid impression on her mind, until I have learned 
 to interpret every gesture, and know as well what she 
 is thinking of as if she uttered articulate sounds in- 
 stead of using this strange pantomime. She sometimes 
 does utter a Avord or two, but even without that I think 
 I should have solved the riddle finally since the subject 
 of it was most intimately connected with my own life." 
 
 "No!" exclaimed Clarkson incredulously. "What is 
 the subject of this strange hallucination, do you suppose ?" 
 
 "She lives over again her own experience on the night 
 of the burning of the factory and Paradise Bay." 
 
 "How can that be?" asked Clarkson; "she could 
 hardly have seen the flames from here." 
 
 " She set the fire herself!" said Kortright earnestly. 
 
THE PR OF TEA T IIEALETH DOUBT. 529 
 
 " You do not mean it ?" 
 
 "There is no doubt of it. Slie performs all the acts 
 the incendiary must have performed : turns on the 
 water ; sets the fire under the stairway ; watches the 
 tlame ; turns the lever of the waste-gate ; flees and turns 
 in to do still another act of vengeance at Paradise Bay." 
 
 "Are you sure you are not mistaken?" asked Clark- 
 son. "Is your brain in good working order, or do your 
 own fancies color what you see ?" 
 
 "I am not fanciful, and I have worked too long over 
 this riddle to question its solution now," said Kortright. 
 
 "What could have been her motive ?" asked Clarkson. 
 
 " It could only have been a bUnd jealousy of Martin," 
 responded Kortright. " I have recalled since this began 
 the fact of her aversion for him even as a boy. It was 
 probably due to her insensate jealousy of all those for 
 whom Hilda manifested any attachment." 
 
 "Well, what is your conclusion?" asked Clarkson 
 after a moment's thought. "Do you think her an im- 
 postor ?" 
 
 "Not by any means," was the ready response. "I 
 am no scientist, but I have heard that the brain is really 
 two brains and that certain parts of it may act without, 
 or even in opposition to, the action of the remainder. 
 Now my explanation is that the woman is crazy beyond 
 all doubt. Every part of her brain is diseased and ab- 
 normal ; but one part may be said to sleep during the 
 day, and the other, weaker and duller, during the night. 
 During her somnambulistic state the most active and 
 positive elements of her nature are at work, and she 
 loves and hates Avith all the intensity of her earlier 
 days. I am inclined to think that she acted the incen- 
 diary in this half-unconscious state. Only a little while 
 before Hilda had been home for her vacation. The 
 young people had been together here a good deal, and 
 had probably been very lover-like. This had fired her 
 
o30 no T PL WSHAitES. 
 
 weak brain to frenzy, and had intensified all her former 
 hatred for my son." 
 
 "What is her feeling toward you ?" 
 
 " She has never seemed to recognize me fully. I could 
 not account for this at first, but finally concluded that 
 it was because of my reclining position on the couch. 
 Then, again, I have sometimes thought that she half mis- 
 takes me for Hargrove, who was himself accustomed to 
 occupy a couch here in the libraiy a good portion of the 
 time instead of the bed in the room adjoining. Indeed, 
 it was that fact that first suggested to my mind the ad- 
 visability of doing so myself." 
 
 "You think she has sane and lucid intervals, then?" 
 
 "Well, I should hardly want to say that, but I think 
 she has intervals when certain past facts are very clearly 
 recalled to her memory," answered Kortright. 
 
 "Ah! that indeed," said Clarkson meditatively, as 
 he rose and pressing one hand upon his neck threw 
 his head quickly back as if to relieve an accustomed 
 pain. Then he walked up and down the room in deep 
 thought, his hands behind him and his head bowed 
 on his breast, but with a step as nervous and elastic 
 as if the years had not touched his frame nor care bowed 
 his spirit. Kortright, chained to his pillow by disease, 
 followed the footsteps of his friend with a look akin to 
 envy. Presently he stopped at the foot of the couch, and 
 looking down at the wan, keen face before him, he said : 
 
 "Squire Kortright, do you know it is very strange 
 that we should come to speak of this woman and her 
 mental status at this time ?" 
 
 " Why so ?" asks the other. 
 
 "Because," answered Clarkson, "it is the strength of 
 one of her impressions that makes me feel it incumbent 
 upon me to open this package." 
 
 "How is that?" asked Kortright, with a languid 
 interest. 
 
THE PR OF TliA T ItEAL ETII DOUBT. 531 
 
 "Do you know that she has always claimed that 
 Hilda is her daughter ?" 
 
 "Oh, yes," said the sick man, laughingly; "every- 
 body here knows of that crazy notion. She even goes far- 
 ther, and declares that her name is Heloise — sometimes 
 Heloise and sometimes Marah. It seems that her own 
 child was known by both of these names — the first be- 
 stowed by the mother, and the latter by the father, who, 
 at her birth, had begun to taste the bitterness of his folly. 
 In her quieter days she will stand gazing at Hilda's pic- 
 ture, painted when she was a child, you know, and will 
 go into a fearful rage if any one calls it Hilda." 
 
 "Well, Kortright," said Clarkson firmly, "I believe 
 her." 
 
 "You believe her? You believe what ? I don't un- 
 derstand," said Kortright, with a puzzled expression. 
 
 " I believe that Hilda is Ahda's child !" 
 
 "The devil you do!" exclaimed Kortright, springing 
 up with an alacrity he had not known in many months, 
 and gazing into Clarkson's face in unfeigned astonish- 
 ment. "I beg pardon," he said presently; "I haven't 
 used such a word before in forty years, but will you 
 allow me to ask, Jared Clarkson, if you are insane as 
 well as Alida ?" 
 
 A flush passed over Clarkson's face which Kortright 
 was too much amazed to note. There had been rumors 
 at one time and another afloat in the community that 
 the brain of this gifted man was at times somewhat dis- 
 ordered. The inquiry of Kortright was therefore a 
 barbed arrow, which struck home all the more surely 
 because it was evidently not intended to do mischief. 
 
 "Nevertheless," he answered quietly, "I do believe 
 it, and have long believed it. Alida has always asserted 
 it with the utmost positiveness, and, so far as I know, 
 Hargrove never denied it." 
 
 "Denied it? Of course he never did. Would you 
 
533 HOT PL WSHARE8. 
 
 think it neces.saiy to deny a crazy servant's claim to 
 one of your children ? The thing is too ridiculous even 
 to be laughed at !" exclaimed Kortright with indignant 
 scorn. 
 
 "And yet I do believe it," persisted Clarkson. "You 
 must admit, Mr. Kortright, that it is hardly an argu- 
 ment to compare one of our quiet households with one 
 so full of mystery as this at Sturmhold." 
 
 "Mystery? Yes, mystery enough; but none of his 
 making, Mr. Clarkson. He was a man as open as the 
 day save where others were concerned — so simple and 
 faithful that he never once thought of peril to himself or 
 his child in the trust he undertook for the sake of that 
 miserable, slack-spirited half-brother that was enslaved 
 by this woman's pretty ftice." 
 
 " You are warm in your praise, and it is commend- 
 able that you should be," answered Clarkson; "but if 
 what you say is all true, why was Hilda so constantly 
 mixed up with this mysterious trust ? First, she is pro- 
 vided for by the contract with you. Why should that 
 be when his will made her his sole heir ?" 
 
 "That is easily explained," said Kortright. 
 
 "Explained! Oh, yes, I know. But why the need 
 of explanation?" demanded Clarkson. "Then, too, 
 this very parcel is to be delivered into her hand, under 
 certain contingencies." 
 
 " Of course, in order that she may continue her 
 father's watch-care and benefactions, no doubt." 
 
 " That is the most reasonable explanation that can 
 be given, if we exclude Alida's claim," said Clarkson; 
 "but the fact is that no explanation — no hypothesis ot 
 a probable cause — nothing but the plainest and barest 
 proof can prevail, in my mind, over the maternal in- 
 stinct of this woman, who, at all times, whether sane 
 or insane, has steadily and stubbornly asserted the 
 fact." 
 
THE PR OF Til A T IIEALETII DOUBT. 533 
 
 "Well, then, in Heaven's name, break the seal and 
 have the proof!" exclaimed Kortright, pointing to the 
 envelope on the table. 
 
 Clarkson lifted the envelope with a trembling hand. 
 Taking a sharp knife from his pocket he carefully cut 
 around the seals, leaving them still unbroken, and after 
 opening the whole length of the packet, drew forth two 
 smaller parcels from within. He read aloud the indorse- 
 ment of the first : 
 
 "To be delivered to Hilda, withovit delay, whenever the 
 accompanying package is opened and examined by any 
 person authorized so to do. M. H." 
 
 "That looks a good deal as if Hilda and the other 
 were one and the same, doesn't it ?" said Kortright in 
 a sneering tone. 
 
 "Wait," said Clarkson, as he raised the other and 
 read the superscription : 
 
 "The papers herein contained will sufficiently establish 
 the identity of the daughter of George Eighmie and Alida, 
 claiming to be his wife. They are all originals. 
 
 (Signed) Merwyn Hargrove." 
 
 " Open it ! open it !" Kortright exclaimed impatiently. 
 
 Clarkson did so and drew out a bundle of papers. 
 Hastily glancing at the filings on the backs, he opened 
 them one after another. At first his face showed only 
 surprise. Then it grew pale. 
 
 "Well, what is it?" asked Kortright, reaching out 
 his hand. 
 
 Jared Clarkson made no answer, but extended the 
 papers to him, and sitting down by the table, buried 
 his face in his hands. A sob that was almost a groan 
 escaped him. Whether his conjecture was right or 
 wrong, what he had found occasioned him only sorrow. 
 
 Harrison Kortright took the package, searched about 
 the pillow for his glasses, put them on and looked 
 
534 HOT PL WSHARES. 
 
 through the file of papers carefull}^ one by one. There 
 were ten of them — all alike. 
 
 "Pshaw! what is all this nonsense?" he said at 
 length; but his hand trembled and his voice quavered 
 as he spoke. 
 The papers were term-bills, and read : 
 "Captain Merwyn Hargrove, 
 
 In acct. with Beechwood Seminary, 
 To Board and Tuition of Hilda Hargrove.^* 
 
CHAPTER XLII. 
 
 THE EFFECT OF A SIDE i^IGIIT. 
 
 Hilda rode out of the station unconscious of the di- 
 rection she was taking — not knowing nor caring whither 
 she went. Slie was going away hardly expecting ever 
 to return. The cloud above her seemed impenetrable. 
 She could not keep the touch of her old life. She must 
 bury herself. This was her only refuge, not so much 
 from the danger of enslavement as from the scatli of 
 scorn and debasement. She did not know where or how 
 it could be done. She only knew that she must flee 
 away from present peril. She must have opportunity 
 to transform herself— to bury her identity — to begin a 
 new existence. 
 
 It was a foolish notion, but Hilda did not know the 
 world. She only knew what she wished to do, and like 
 the father of whose name they sought to rob her, she 
 counted not the obstacles. She looked out of the car 
 window, saw the fields and woods fly past, in the Aveird 
 winter moonlight. Surely she was safe. The desert of 
 life would hide her. She did not hear the conductor 
 when he came through the train, and, spying a new 
 face, stopped at her seat and said : 
 
 "Ticket!" 
 
 She only saw the white, ghostly world without, flying 
 by and standing sentinel between her and a dreaded 
 fate. 
 
 " Ticket !" touching her shoulder lightly. 
 
 She started, turned and glanced up at him quickly, 
 as if she thought he suspected her. She wondered if 
 they could telegraph ahead and have her detained at 
 535 
 
536 HOT PLOWSHARES. 
 
 the next station. She had heard of such thhigs being 
 done in case of criminals. She wondered if she would 
 be considered a criminal because she was fleeing from 
 the law. 
 
 " Ticket !" repeated the conductor, extending his hand. 
 
 "I — I forgot to get one," she said faintly. Then she 
 caught nervously at her pocket-book and handed him a 
 bill. 
 
 " Where to ?" inquired the oflicial, bending down an 
 ear. 
 
 Where, indeed ? She had no idea where she was 
 going or which way the train was moving. She stam- 
 mered, flushed, and was sure she was betraying herself. 
 
 " Straight through ?" 
 
 She bowed her head. - He had a roll of bills between 
 every two fingers of his left hand for convenience in 
 making change — ones, twos and fives, all separate. He 
 thrust the ten-dollar bill she had given him into his 
 vest-pocket, gave her a two, a one, and some change, 
 handed her a check for Boston, and went on. She was 
 rather pleased with her destination. By-and-by the 
 horror began to wear away. The danger from which 
 she fled was momently receding. She began to feel 
 more comfortable — almost bold. After a time she slept, 
 but uneasily, and with frightful dreams. As the sun rose 
 they came into Boston. The city was still asleep. The 
 hoar-frost was thick upon roof and spire, and the 
 sunshine gilded every pinnacle. She took a carriage 
 to the Revere. How bright and clean the crooked, 
 rough-paved streets seemed to her! This was Boston 
 — the seat of culture and the cradle of liberty. What 
 a mockery the title Avas ! The blue smoke rose sharp 
 and clear against the sky from thousands of happy 
 homes, but she was a fugitive. Against a cloud to the 
 northeastward she dimly saw the top of a gray column 
 once. She guessed that it was the monument on Bun- 
 
THE EFFECT OF A tilDE LIGHT. 537 
 
 ker Hill, and there flashed through her mind all that it 
 commemorated. The city was very proud of that gray 
 granite shaft. The commonwealth boasted itself the 
 possessor of the blood-stained soil on which it stood. 
 The nation pointed to it as a memento of the struggle 
 that gave it birth. The world accounted it a pillar of 
 liberty — the memorial shaft of a new civilization. Yet 
 imder its shadow she Avas a fugitive, fleeing from bond- 
 age and degradation. 
 
 "Revere House, ma'am !" 
 
 The driver opened the door, and stood waiting for his 
 fee. A servant came and took her modest bag. She 
 was ushered into the reception-room — narrow, stuffy, 
 with furniture that seemed as if once it had been new. 
 The servant placed her bag on the table, and asked if 
 she would have a room. She turned to look out of the 
 window upon the funny triangle that is called a square 
 in Boston. The clerk came and inquired her name. She 
 started, flushed and paled. Her name ? What was it ? 
 What should she say ? 
 
 The clerk waited. He thought he had startled her 
 by his abruptness. 
 
 "I beg pardon, ma'am— what did you say was the 
 name ?" 
 
 "Oh, yes; my name, of course." She smiled, opened 
 her portemonnaie, and seemed to be seeking for a card. 
 " Well, never mind. Louise Amis, Springfield." 
 
 "Miss?" 
 
 "Of course," with a smile. 
 
 "A-m-y?" 
 
 "No — A-m-i-s." 
 
 " Oh, yes — Amis. Any baggage ?" 
 
 "Not now. I shall be here only a short time. Will 
 you let me know the precise address of Miss Fanny 
 Goodwin? It is somewhere on Rutland Square, but I 
 have forgotten the number." 
 
538 HOT PL WSHARE8. 
 
 " An acquaintance ?" asked the clerk carelessly. 
 
 "A school friend." 
 
 "Indeed!" 
 
 He started off. Just as he reached the door she 
 called him back. 
 
 " How very stupid of me !" she said. " I suppose 
 you want pay for your room in advance ?" 
 
 "That is our rule where guests have no baggage," 
 politely. 
 
 "I ought to have known; but I never traveled so 
 far alone before," she said innocently and truthfully. 
 
 She took out her portemonnaie, carelessly showing it 
 to be well lined with bills — thanks to Miss Hunniwell's 
 foresight. She gave him twice as much as he asked. 
 He went away, and the 'servant came and showed her 
 to a room. Her first lesson in dissimulation was over. 
 She was safe, and had time to breathe before taking 
 another step. She read the morning paper. There 
 was a brief notice of some excitement in Blankshire by 
 reason of an alleged attempt at kidnapping. There 
 were not more than ten lines, and only a vague allusion 
 to herself. It seemed strange that what was of such 
 importance to her should be of so little moment to the 
 Avorld. She ate her breakfast, went out and Avandered 
 about the narrow streets, bright and quiet, with the 
 Sabbath hush upon them. She saw Faneuil Hall, the 
 Common, the quaint old graveyard full of headstones 
 whose names are an epitome of history. She wandered 
 into a church. The notes of the organ soothed her. 
 The accents of a grand old hymn whose echoes seemed 
 burdened with greetings of good cheer from the brave 
 hearts of the past strengthened and consoled her spirit. 
 Then she returned to her room in the hotel with a 
 dazed, unreal feeling, as if she were not herself but 
 another. She laid down upon the bed to think. She 
 did not know that she was at all fatigued, but hardly had 
 
THE EFFECT OF A SIDE LIGHT. 539 
 
 her head touched the pillow when she fell asleep, won- 
 dering even in her dreams how she could be an out- 
 cast in a city founded as a refuge and consecrated to 
 liberty and equality. 
 
 When she awoke the day was already declining. A 
 boy was calling an "Extra." She looked out and saw 
 the crowd buying with avidity. She opened the win- 
 dow and listened. "All about the kidnapping!" she 
 heard him cry. She called a servant and procured a 
 copy — a small, square sheet printed on one side only. 
 Could it be that her flight was sufficient to stir the 
 drowsy Sabbath quiet of the city ? Had fate pursued her 
 so quickly ? Would not the world give her sanctuary in 
 its great throbbing heart ? Must she indeed flee into 
 the wilderness ? Sure enough, it was all there. The 
 world had waked to the terror that haunted her life. 
 She read it all — a whole column by telegraph, with 
 staring head-lines, and another of editorial remarks. 
 She read all about herself — some of it truth and some 
 of it queer conjecture. Her father's life and death were 
 commented on. Her position, supposed wealth, accom- 
 plishments and beauty were all stated. The descrip- 
 tion given was very accurate. She almost feared she 
 might be recognized. Then she read — what was this ? 
 Amy, Mr. Anderson, Martin ! Wounds ! Bloodshed ! 
 Great excitement ! Talk of lynching ! Jared Clarkson 
 to arrive to-morrow ! 
 
 Her head swam as she read, but she still read on to 
 the end. Then she bathed her hot face, combed her 
 hair, putting up the curls she had been accustomed to 
 wear, and throwing it out upon each side by the use of 
 puff-combs which she had never used before. She was 
 Merwyn Hargrove's daughter still, she said to herself, 
 and she would not flinch from anything that might im- 
 pend. She surveyed herself in the glass, and smiled 
 at her own apprehension as she read over again the 
 
540 HOT PL WSIhiRES. 
 
 concluding statement in regard to the events described : 
 "It is believed that Miss Hargrove has fled to Canada 
 or is still hidden in the vicinity. Her complete disap- 
 pearance is certainly a mystery." 
 
 When she went down to dinner her flushed cheeks 
 and bright eyes enhanced her usual charms. More than 
 one glance of admiration followed her as she was shown 
 to a seat. The tables were full. Two gentlemen and 
 a lady sat at the one with her. The gentlemen were 
 reading the Uttle "Extra" and discussing the news 
 from Blankshire. A great many in the room seemed 
 to be engaged in like manner. She heard some at a 
 table back of her talking upon the same subject. At 
 first she was frightened. Then she saw that every one 
 was too absorbed in the "event to suspect her of being 
 one of the actors in it. 
 
 "This is horrible!" said the young man who sat 
 opposite. 
 
 "It is a very aggravated case, as far as concerns the 
 rank and station of the intended victim. Otherwise it 
 is no worse than a hundred cases that have occurred 
 under this infamous law." The speaker was a gray- 
 bearded, grave-faced man who sat at the end of the 
 table. ■ 
 
 "Well, I am glad the girl got aAvay, anyhow," said 
 the young man. 
 
 " So am I," said the lady heartily. 
 
 Hilda felt her cheeks burn and tears come into her 
 eyes. She wished they knew how grateful the fugitive 
 was for their sympathy. 
 
 "And I am very sori*y," said the grave elderly man 
 in a soft, earnest tone. 
 
 Hilda started and turned a pale, frightened face to- 
 ward him. 
 
 " I beg your pardon, young lady, I am not so cruel as 
 you think me," 
 
THE EFFECT OF A SIDE LIGHT. 541 
 
 The color came back to her face, and she bent her 
 head over her plate to hide her confusion. 
 
 " Yet I cannot but regret," he continued, "the escape 
 of the kidnappers' intended prey. I know enslavement 
 would have been unutterably sad to her, but it is only 
 by such shining examples that the nation can be awak- 
 ened to the enormity of slavery. What I say seems 
 heartless, no doubt, but I verily believe that the ap- 
 plication of this infamous law to just such a case as 
 this would do more to arouse the land, to awaken 
 conscience, to weaken slavery and promote the cause of 
 liberty, than the return to bondage of a thousand men 
 and women who have fled from oppression, and are at 
 the best only toilers Avho have rebelled against an un- 
 toward fate. In this case it is different. We see one 
 snatched from a home of luxury, from the most polished 
 society, from friends and love, and sought to be thrust 
 into nothingness. I admit that it would be terrible to 
 her — death itself would be preferable — but I certainly 
 believe that her sufferings would be worth ten thousand 
 lives in the beneficent results that would flow therefrom. 
 We mourn the virgin martyrs of the arena and the 
 catacombs, but none the less we know that their blood 
 was in truth the seed of the church, and thank God 
 that it was shed. I meant the young lady no harm, but 
 I wish the slave release from bondage. The loss of one 
 life is as nothing to the evil that keeps a race in degra- 
 dation." 
 
 Hilda gazed into the soft gray eyes, and seemed to 
 feel a new light in her soul. As she listened to his 
 words she forgot all feeling of apprehension for herself. 
 She gazed at him in a fixed, absorbed manner, which 
 he mistook for inquiry, and resumed, addressing him- 
 self unconsciously to her, while the others listened with 
 respectful attention. 
 
 "You see," he said thoughtfully, " the world is ruled 
 
542 II T PL WSHARES. 
 
 by great examples. Influence is only the power of ex- 
 ample ; but if the example be petty the influence will 
 be weak. Religion itself is but the force of the highest 
 example. The power that thrills the life of eighteen 
 centuries is not the word of God. The Logos of the 
 Apostle was weak and vain until it was framed in the 
 life of Jesus Christ. The cross and the crown of thorns 
 gave vitality to Christian truth. Without the Man 
 Christ Jesus the written word would have been naught 
 to us. The sacrifice of Virginia overthrew the tyrant. 
 Jeanne d'Arc led and triumphed through the unfear- 
 ing intensity of her devotion. Always it has been 
 an example that has moved the world forward and 
 overthrown evil. "By-and-by slavery will demand a sac- 
 rifice — so notable, so cruel and so needless — that the 
 whole land will be smitten with horror, and the institu- 
 tion will disappear in the blaze of public wrath. It is 
 not abstract truth that moves men's hearts, but alwa3"S 
 the concrete. This young woman's father might have 
 been a shining example, and his death would have done 
 a vast injury to slavery, but no one seemed to under- 
 Btand just the cause of it. While he seems to have 
 been bitterly opposed to slavery he was yet animated 
 by a feeling of angry defiance, rather than of sacrificial 
 oflfering up of himself for the good of another." 
 
 "I think he was animated by a sense of duty and 
 of honor," said Hilda quietly. 
 
 "There can be no doubt of that," rejoined the 
 stranger, in the same persuasive tones, and with the 
 same clear light in his great gray eyes; "but a sense of 
 duty may impel to acts which, although meritorious, are 
 yet not impressive. I may eat my dinner from a sense 
 of duty, but others will wait for an appetite before they 
 follow my example. Honor, too, is apt to be tainted 
 with selfishness, and it is only the example of self-sac- 
 
THE EFFECT OF A SIDE LIGHT. 543 
 
 rifice that lives and moves the world to noble deeds. 
 This man — w^hat was his name ?" 
 
 " Hargrove," said Hilda absently, 
 
 "Yes, Hargrove, Merwyn Hargrove — I remember 
 seeing him once a few years ago — was of the type that 
 heroes are made of, but he was too self-bounded, too 
 oblivious of the world outside of the tasks he seems to 
 have set himself to accomplish, to make a good martyr. 
 He perhaps released more slaves than any man living, 
 and actually sacrificed more money to do it than any 
 Northern philanthropist has ever thought of doing. He 
 did his work thoroughly, too. He took the slaves to 
 Hayti and purchased for them there a tract of land of 
 which each had his due share in fee. He freed them, 
 and provided for their safety and support. At the 
 same time, he did this, not because of his love for the 
 slave, nor even because of his hatred for slavery — 
 though that was no doubt intense — but for some reason 
 noble and chivalric enough perhaps, but applicable only 
 to himself He was a hero, but not a martyr." 
 
 " A hero but not a martyi-," murmured Hilda. "You 
 may be right." 
 
 " The distinction is a fair one," continued the stranger. 
 "Moreover, the martyr will yet appear. The encroach- 
 ments of slavery are daily coming home to our Northern 
 life. The blood that furnished martyrs under Bloody 
 Mary runs in our veins, and the day is not far distant 
 when the Martyr will appear. He will testify of the 
 truth in such a way that all men will believe." 
 
 " I think I know the man," she said absently. 
 
 The stranger gazed at her a moment in silence, and 
 then remarked slowly and solemnly : 
 
 "I also have seen one whom I have sometimes thought 
 might bear testimony of the truth for us all. Whether 
 one shall suffice, or shall only be a forerunner of 
 
544 HOT FLO WSSARES. 
 
 many whose blood must purge away our sin, God 
 knoweth." 
 
 "Why do you say o?/r sin ?" asked the younger man. 
 
 "Because," replied the other, " it is ours. We make 
 a grave mistake when we seek to cast tlie blame of 
 slavery on the South. A cancer does not belong to the 
 limb on which it appears, but to the whole body that 
 suffers from the poison that it generates. We of the 
 North are even more responsible for the evils of slavery 
 than they of the South, because we perceive and admit 
 them and they do not." 
 
 " But do they believe it right ?" 
 
 "Unquestionably. They not only believe it right, 
 but they believe it to be the onl}^ way in which the two 
 races can co-exist upon this continent." 
 
 "But why should they attempt to get hold of tliis 
 young lady in this manner ? Her friends would no doubt 
 have raised more money than she is worth as a slave." 
 
 " You forget that Hargrove was a very wealthy man. 
 This is probably an attempt to induce her to release all 
 claim on his estate." 
 
 " Indeed !" said the young man in surprise. 
 
 " I merely judge that from the fact you have men- 
 tioned; but if she is Hargrove's daughter, they have 
 made a mistake." 
 
 " You knew him ?" 
 
 " No, but I have heard Jared Clarkson speak of him 
 more than once. He came of fighting stock, and if she 
 has his blood they may have caught a tartar." 
 
 "I hope the Lord they have!" said the young man 
 fervently. 
 
 "So do I," said the lady earnestly. "They might 
 have waited till she was out of mourning for her father, 
 anyhow." 
 
 This feminine view of the situation provoked a burst 
 
THE EFFECT OF A SIDE LIGHT. 545 
 
 of laughter, in Avhich Hilda could not help joining de- 
 spite the sad thought it evoked. 
 
 Then the conversation drifted off into other chan- 
 nels. Hilda finished her meal without feeling any fear 
 of detection. Indeed, she thought she would have felt 
 rather glad to be recognized. Her fear seemed so petty 
 and foolish. She blushed as she tried to fancy what her 
 father would have thought of her cowardly flight. But 
 he should have no more cause to blush for her. She 
 felt the blood of the Hargroves coursing through her 
 veins, and she would show the world that she was her 
 father's daughter and worthy of his name, as he had 
 said in his will. When the meal was over, she went to 
 her room to think of the future in the new light the 
 hour had cast upon it. 
 
CHAPTER XLIIi. 
 
 THAT NOTHING BE LOST. 
 
 Some of the events that occurred in and about Burl- 
 ingdale during the week that followed the attempted 
 abduction are worthy of record, though they may not 
 seem directly to concern the chief characters of our 
 story. 
 
 Beechwood Seminary was in a tumult after the enact- 
 ment of a double tragedy at its very doors. The crimson 
 drops along the hall and down the steps were cleansed 
 without delay from the polished ash, but in a hundred 
 tender hearts they were ineftaceably fixed. Not a 
 slippered foot crossed where this line of horror had 
 been without a thrill of fear. The broken ladder, 
 the battle-ground beneath the window, the blood-stains 
 in the steep wood-road, the recollection of the com- 
 panion who had been ravished from their midst, just 
 missing a bloody death ; the mystery surrounding the 
 fate of that other schoolmate, who had vanished out 
 of their hfe and left no trace — these were too fertile 
 themes for girlish imagining to permit the routine of 
 task and recitation to go on from da}"^ to daj'^ with any 
 profit. Indeed, the principal was soon convinced that 
 it would be at the risk of very serious peril to the health 
 of her pupils should they remain during the balance of 
 the term. The nervous strain to which they had been 
 exposed began almost inmiediately to show itself on 
 some of the more susceptible of them. The conscien- 
 tious teacher did not hesitate an instant when the 
 health of her jjupils was set over against her own ad- 
 546 
 
THAT NOTHING BE LOST. 547 
 
 vantage. Within a week the shivering brood were 
 scattered to their homes, and the tragedy of Beechwood 
 was rehearsed over and over again at a hundred distant 
 firesides by pale-faced narrators, who shuddered as they 
 boastfully declared, "I was there, you know." There 
 were none left at the seminary save a few scholars 
 whose homes were most remote, two or three teachers, 
 the slowly-recuperating invalid and his dusky nurse. 
 For the first time in a quarter of a century the routine 
 of Beechwood was broken up. In the midst of term- 
 time its halls were silent. The vacation antedated the 
 Christmas holidays that year by almost a month. To 
 each of her patrons Miss Hunniwell forwarded a brief 
 statement of the causes which led to this decision on her 
 part, discounting the term-bills which she sent out in ac- 
 cordance with the abbreviation of the school-year i-esult- 
 ing therefrom. In a vain attempt to hold what it deemed 
 its own, Slavery had thrust its ghastliest shadow into a 
 hundred households. Every family altar seemed violated 
 by the invasion of Beechwood. The sanctuary of the 
 vestal virgins had been invaded. The treasury wherein 
 a hundred families had placed their most priceless 
 jewels had been broken, and one had been reft thence 
 by force. Many a mother shuddered as she pressed her 
 loved one to her bosom, and thought that she might 
 have been the victim. Many a father's look grew stern 
 as he considered the danger his child had shared, and 
 uttered to himself again the question which the prophet 
 of the prairie had propounded to his counti-ymen, "All 
 free or all slave V" Many a brother's heart was conse- 
 crated by the blood of one innocent beautiful victim to 
 do knightly service against the monster that lived on 
 human lives. 
 
 Upon the second day after the abduction Jared Clark- 
 son arrived in the little village. The excitement, which 
 
548 HOT PL WSSABES. 
 
 was already intense, was greatly heightened b}'^ his pres- 
 ence. He seemed worn, depressed, disheai'tened. To 
 the swarm of friends and co-workers in the cause of 
 libert}', who crowded around him and hailed his coming 
 with delight, his language and manner were most un- 
 satisfactory. He had come solely upon private busi- 
 ness, he said. Instead of gladly lending his presence 
 and eloquence to give eclat to a demonstration intended 
 to improve the occasion and deepen the anti-slavery 
 sentiments of the community, he pleaded fatigue, head- 
 ache and important and burdensome engagements. He 
 finally compromised with the committee by agreeing to 
 attend the meeting if not asked to speak. To this 
 they readily assented — a compromise made only to be 
 broken. The result wd^s a speech so full of sorrow and 
 despair that they who heard it wondered if they really 
 were listening to that ever-jubilant prophet of victory 
 whose optimism nothing had been able to daunt until 
 that hour. They knew not that Jared Clarksou spoke 
 with a burden of sorrow he had never known before — 
 a burden to which he dared not refer lest some un- 
 guarded expression might enhance the woe of an inno- 
 cent victim. He knew full well the curse that rested 
 over the fugitive girl. To him all classes and con- 
 ditions of men were alike. To him the Gospel message 
 had come with the force and vitality it bore in that 
 earlier time, when, in one day, it melted the chains of 
 five thousand bondsmen of a noble Roman. Race or 
 color were no disabling conditions of his favor. He 
 knew that there were some like him — but, oh, so few ! 
 He well knew that if the One Divine should come to 
 earth clad in the livery of a dusky skin, while there 
 were thousands, aye, millions, who would give Him 
 charity — the dole of condescending pity — there were 
 almost none who would or could make Him welcome in 
 home and heart. He knew — none better than he — how 
 
THAT NOTHING BE LOST 549 
 
 the brand of color made its possessor an outcast in the 
 land of his birth. He knew how it barred the way to 
 rank and station and opportunity — how it paralyzed the 
 hand of friendship and blighted the heart of love. He 
 knew, too, — oh, the bitterness of that knowledge ! — how 
 his heart burned as it throbbed against the papers in his 
 pocket — for he dared not part with them lest another 
 should learn the fearful truth. He knew that, some- 
 where in the dark, cold night, somewhere in the cheer- 
 less, crowded, crushing world, Hilda, the child of luxury 
 and love ; Hilda, petted and beautiful and bright ; 
 Hilda, the daughter of the dead friend, who had trusted 
 him with the cursed secret of her birth, in order that 
 he might shield her from sorrow and harm ; Plilda, 
 his ward in Heaven's Chancery, was fleeing none knew 
 whither or to what — refuge or death ! No wonder that 
 his voice faltered. Of all the slaves the earth had 
 known there was but one that lived in his memory in 
 that hour — the one for whose safety he was surety to a 
 dead friend. No wonder his brain throbbed with agony ! 
 No wonder his heart was bursting with despair ! The 
 woe he was charged to mitigate was beyond human 
 power to assuage. Already it had borne fruit in the 
 heart of its victim. The leper had fled into the wilder- 
 ness, crying back with the agony of blighted hope and 
 shattered love, "Unclean! Unclean!" Is it any won- 
 der that he forgot slavery in pity for the one slave whose 
 life was in his hand's? The prophet of denunciation 
 forgot to curse, and uttered only a wail of hopeless 
 woe. The public were disappointed. His friends were 
 disgusted. They had come for blood, and received in- 
 stead only an oblation of tears ! 
 
 Martin Kortright was disappointed also. He had 
 waited, chafing liked a caged hyena for two days, because 
 a telegram from his father bade him wait until Jared 
 
550 HOT PLOWSHARES. 
 
 Clarkson came. Already he had lost a day in the search 
 to which his life must be given. He felt strong and 
 confident. There were two things he would do. He 
 would first disprove the lie. His Hilda — his love, his 
 lily — he had no fear of stain upon her birth. He would 
 trace her lineage. He would prove her purity. And, 
 when that was done — ah ! then he would find her, would 
 give the record into her hand, and offer up his life for a 
 kiss — a smile — aye, for the bare knowledge that she was 
 no longer to be an outcast among men. He was not 
 cast down. He did not /lo/^e— he was confident— he was 
 sure. His only sorrow was that he did not know where 
 Hilda was, so that he might assuage her grief. He was 
 only anxious to begin his labors, that he might by a 
 day, by an hour, hasten his triumph and shorten her 
 woe. To him came Jared Clarkson at length, with 
 his look of despair and the confirmation of the tale of 
 horror. But love did not falter. 
 
 "It cannot be," said Martin. "There is some mis- 
 take. I shall unravel it." 
 
 Then he gave the lie to all his vows, and started off 
 to seek, not the truth he boasted that he would dis- 
 cover, but the love he longed to comfort. He laughed 
 at her behest that he should wait until she came. He 
 would defy her will — so bold is love ! He would over- 
 turn the world, he said — so strong is love ! He would 
 find her wheresoever she might hide — so sure is love ! 
 He would rest from his search only when he might fall 
 into the grave— so true is fond young love ! 
 
 Martin's incredulity as to Clarkson's conclusion was 
 based first upon an invincible determination not to be- 
 lieve, and second upon the testimony of Jason whose 
 story he had heard. To him he referred this trustee of 
 a woeful secret, and sped away exultantly to Sturmhold 
 to make such preparation as was needful for the search 
 
THAT NOTHING BE LOST 551 
 
 he had already begun — for mail and telegraph had al- 
 ready conveyed his messages of inquiry to every con- 
 ceivable place Avhere the fugitive could have sought 
 shelter. Jared Clarkson heard the story and hoped. 
 He visited the seminary and talked with Miss Hunni- 
 well. He believed in woman's intuition, and her buoy- 
 ant faith strengthened the hope he sought to cherish. 
 He even tried to forget the damning testimony already 
 in his possession. He was a man of business habits, 
 however; prudent, sagacious, painstaking, though over- 
 credulous when once he had accepted any hypothesis. 
 He cross-examined Jason carefully : 
 
 " You remember when Hilda Avas born ?" 
 
 "Perfectly, sah." 
 
 " It Avas in the West Indies ?" 
 
 " At Kingston, sah." 
 
 "Do you know the name of the house at which they 
 were stopping?" 
 
 " It was a private house, sah ; a minister's. I stayed 
 on the sloop, but Avent up to the house to see if any- 
 thing Avas Awanted nigh about every day." 
 
 "Did you see the child christened ?" 
 
 " That I did, an' one of the man's daughters where 
 they lived was its god-mammy, too. She did look pow- 
 erful nice, all in white, Avid the little baby in her arms." 
 
 "Was the child healthy ?" 
 
 "Powerful puny, sah; an' Miss Retta were poorly, 
 too. Atter it war a few months old Ave took 'em both 
 aboard the sloop, an' tried cruisin' roun' for a spell, but 
 they couldn't stan' it nohoAV — not even to go roun' the 
 island, you know. So we put back, an' Marse MerAvyn 
 an' me come to the States for awhile to look after some 
 of that pesky Mallerbank business, that hain't never 
 been nothin' but trouble an' trouble, an' no good comin' 
 out on 't. When Ave Avent back Miss Retta Avarn't no 
 better, an' the doctors an' all hands persuaded her to 
 
553 HOT PLOWSHARES. 
 
 leave the baby wid Miss Rickson — that was the name 
 of the family, sail — while she come back with Marse 
 Merwyn." 
 
 " The child remained with Miss Rickson how long ?" 
 
 " Wal, it must have been nigh onto two years — 
 p'raps more. She hadn't been back so very long when 
 Miss Retta died." 
 
 "Were you with Captain Hargrove when he brought 
 his daughter away from Kingston ?" 
 
 "He didn't bring her!"' 
 
 "Who did?" 
 
 "Miss Rickson were on her way to England, you 
 know, wid her folks, an' she brung de little lady on to 
 NcAv York. Leastways dat 's what I heard." 
 
 " You did not see "Miss Rickson when she brought 
 the child on, then ?" 
 
 "No, sail. The Captain went down a few days afore. 
 I stayed at Sturmhold 'kase he was just packing off all 
 de ole servants dat he 'd done set free an' settlin' ob 'em 
 in de West, an' hirin' new ones. Dat Avas de time he 
 brung Miss Lida back wid him." 
 
 "Who had the care of the child after it was brought 
 to Sturmhold?" 
 
 "Wal, pretty much everybody. Bein' the only one 
 she ruled the whole house ; but, of course. Miss Lida 
 was the nurse." 
 
 "Was she as fond of the child then as afterward ?" 
 
 " Law, yes, sah ; an' that jealous of Miss Retta she 'd 
 Stan' an' glare at her while she was pettin' that chile 
 like she war ready to eat her up." 
 
 "When did you first hear Alida claim that Hilda was 
 her child ?" 
 
 "Wal, it must have been a year or two atter Miss 
 Retta died." 
 
 " What did you say to her then ?" 
 
 " Told her I 'd slap her mouf ef I ever heard her talk- 
 
THAT NOTHING BE LOST. 553 
 
 ing such a thing again — ef she did set up for a white 
 woman." 
 
 "What did she say in reply ?" 
 
 " Oh, nothin' at allc She 's jes' a pore, no-Vount, 
 silly creetur'', anyhow. Marse Merwyn was powerful put 
 out that I 'd threatened to slap her mouf, an' told me I 
 warn't never to pay no 'tention to anything she said." 
 
 " She had a child ahout Hilda's age, did she not ?" 
 
 " There was some few months difference atwixt 'em. 
 I don't mind which was the oldest now." 
 
 " Did Alida's child resemble Hilda ?" 
 
 " Well, it did have dark eyes an' hair, but not such 
 eyes and hair as our Hilda — not by any manner of 
 means." 
 
 "Now, Jason, tell us honestly, what became of Alida's 
 daughter ?" 
 
 " Lida's gal ! Lida's gal !" exclaimed Jason, springing 
 from his chair. " I hain't got no right to tell you any- 
 thing 'bout her, Marse Clarkson. I knows yer don't 
 mean no harm, but I jiromised Marse Merwyn I 
 wouldn't never mention the lightest word 'bout that gal 
 'cept I had his written orders ter do so, or Miss Hilda 
 axed me wid her own sweet mouf atter he war dead. 
 An' I can't break no promise ter Marse Merwyn, no- 
 how." 
 
 "Well," said Clarkson, "I have here his written ap- 
 peal to you to enlighten me upon this point." He drew 
 forth Hargrove's letter and read the passage referring to 
 Jason. 
 
 "Dat ain't givin' me no leave," said Jason, skeptically. 
 " It says I can tell, but don't once say I shall tell." 
 
 "Jason," said Clarkson solemnly, "Captain Hargrove 
 left a parcel with me which he said would inform me of the 
 identity of the daughter of George and Alida Eighmie." 
 
 "Then you don't need to ax Jason," said the man 
 shrewdly. 
 
554 HOT FLOWSJIABES. 
 
 "The information is not direct, but jet it is entirely 
 conclusive to my mind. The package contained only 
 the bills for Hilda's tuition here at BeecliAVOod." 
 
 " That 's queer !" said Jason, with a puzzled look. 
 
 " In other Avords, 3" our old master says to me this 
 paper will tell you who is Alida's child, and hands me 
 one of Miss Huuuiwell's bills for Hilda's board and 
 tuition. What do you say to that ?" 
 
 " Wal, Marse Clarkson, 'tain't my place to say nothin' 
 'bout it, 'cept I has Marse Merwyn's orders, an' I ain't 
 a-goin' to, nuther; but ef I shmcld say anything," he 
 added slyly, "I'd say that 'cordin' ter my notion, 
 there 'd been a mistake somewhar or somewhar else." 
 
 " And you refuse to tell me what you know ?" 
 
 "Unless yer has Marse Merwyn's orders." 
 
 "Then I must follow the light I have and regard 
 Hilda as the daughter of Alida," 
 
 " 'Pears like yer all mighty anxious to make a nigger 
 outen the pore gal," said the old servant sullenly. "But 
 Jason 's had his orders, an' he ain't a-goin' ter break 
 'em for no man's foolishness, dat he ain't." 
 
 This conversation had the effect to confirm Clarkson 
 in his previous belief, and to cause the teacher to ap- 
 peal anew to God for a solution of the mystery. 
 
 The wound Avhich Amy Hargrove had received proved 
 to be less serious than at first supposed. The shot had 
 glanced around, instead of passing through a vital part. 
 Upon the second day the doctor was able to announce 
 that the hurt was not a serious one. Eighmie and 
 Marsden were thereupon released on bail, so heavy, 
 however, that they were compelled to remain in the 
 village in order to satisfy the apprehensions of their 
 bondsmen. The injured girl Avas at first the object of 
 unbounded sympathy ; but her conduct was not alto- 
 gether Avhat those who came to condole with her ex-r 
 
THAT NOTHING BE LOST. 555 
 
 pected. Some very uncharitably declared that she was 
 rather proud than otherwise of her part in this mid- 
 night adventure. She had no word of blame for the 
 men who had been guilty of lawless violence, or of the 
 institution at whose doors all seemed anxious to lay the 
 blame for her suffering. 
 
 "It was all a mistake," she said in a quiet, matter- 
 of-course tone. "They are gentlemen and did not 
 intend me any harm. They would have brought me 
 back as soon as they found I was not the slave they 
 were seeking." 
 
 Indeed, she seemed to blame only two people for the 
 harm that had befallen her — Hilda and Mr. Anderson. 
 Of the former she would say nothing. ;iS[o expression of 
 sympathy for the unfortunate girl, nor any burst of in- 
 dignation against her intended captors could elicit a 
 word of regret or disapproval from the quiet figure that 
 occupied the bed in the dimly-lighted guest-chamber of 
 the parsonage. Those who watched her at such times 
 could only note that the little weazened face grew a 
 trifle whiter and harder in its outlines ; the naiTOw 
 brow contracted and the black eyes rolled from side to 
 side under the half-shut lids with suppressed excite- 
 ment. Of the minister she only said that he no doubt 
 meant well enough, but his interference at that par- 
 ticular time was very unfortunate for her. The message 
 which the doctor brought from Eighmie gave her evi- 
 dent pleasure, and she insisted on being given a pencil 
 and a sheet of paper that she might reply. The doctor 
 protested angrily, but she had her way, and wrote : 
 
 "Sir : I am by no means sure that I am not more in 
 fault than you. Of course, you would never have made 
 the attempt but for the information I gave. In doing what 
 I did I bad no thought that yo;i would try to obtain pos- 
 session of the impostor from whose pretensions I had been 
 an especial sufferer by such means. I was angry at the 
 
556 HOT PL W SHARE 8. 
 
 fraud practiced upon me and others, and intended sim ply- 
 to notify you that the girl you sought was still in the 
 house. I am sorry, on many accounts, that I did so, but 
 beg to assure you that I entertain no unkindly feeling 
 toward you because of the result. 
 
 "Respectfully, Amy Hargkove." 
 
 The grim old doctor carried the missive to the man to 
 whom it was addressed, after having perused it care- 
 fully, who inquired in astonishment : 
 
 " Who is this young lady ?" 
 
 "One of your own sort, I suppose,'- answered the 
 blunt physician. "She comes from the South, is an 
 heiress, and probably sympathizes with you in your 
 disappointment. " 
 
 "She is a lady, anyhow," responded Eighmic with 
 severe emphasis ; " and anything that I can do to com- 
 pensate her for the injury I shall cheerfully do." 
 
 After the first day Amy was undisturbed by visits of 
 condolence. Miss Hunniwell came once or twice, but 
 she was a poor dissembler, and kncAv enough of Amy's 
 treachery to her friend to feel a profound disgust for 
 her, which if not expressed could hardly be said to be 
 concealed. She was kindly cared for by the minister's 
 household ; a few formal inquiries were made each day, 
 but by some means or other the idea had gotten out that 
 if not actually concerned in the plot to abduct Hilda she 
 was by no means averse to its success. 
 
 For herself, she asked no questions. If she noted the 
 unfriendly coolness that came to pervade the manner of 
 all who approached her, she made no sign. She obeyed 
 the instructions of the physician to the letter — remained 
 absolutely quiet, avoided all conversation, and before 
 the excitement attending her injury had subsided Avas 
 pronounced able to be removed to the seminary. Then, 
 for the first time since her injury, she burst into tears, 
 and begged to be allowed to i-emain for a few days 
 
THAT NOTHING BE LOST. 557 
 
 longer. She gave no reason, nor was any asked. Her 
 distress was too apparent not to awaken the sympathy 
 of the good parson and his wife. Their hearts were 
 touched by her grief, and they not only assented to her 
 wish, but sought to make the days of her convalescence 
 as pleasant as they could. As soon as she was able she 
 wrote a letter, to which she began to inquire for an an- 
 swer almost before it had been mailed. 
 
 The people of Burlingdale and its vicinity felt a cer- 
 tain proprietary interest in the attempted abduction. 
 The town had in no way been celebrated above its 
 neighbors thitherto. Its people had been good and bad, 
 rich and poor, notable and insignificant, in the due pro- 
 portion of the average New England village. One 
 murder away back in the time of Shay's war had made 
 the whole region where the house had stood more 
 famous than the muster of the rebels. It was only a 
 vulgar murder of the meanest sort, however. There 
 had been a fair average of suicides and accidents, 
 some big fires and a "pretty sizeable" dam-breaking, 
 but nothing to compare with this affair at Beechwood 
 in the elements of a first-class sensation. In less than 
 forty-eight hours after it became known every inhabit- 
 ant of Burlingdale felt that it was an honor to dwell 
 in a town that was the scene of such a tragedy. Every 
 man, woman and child had seen all that was visible, 
 heard all that could be found out, guessed until their 
 powers of invention were exhausted, and waited in dig- 
 nified and expectant silence for what the morrow would 
 bring forth. But the morrow was wretchedly barren. 
 So was the next day and the next, until the people 
 began to murmur. Before the week was ended, public 
 indignation could no longer be restrained. Not only 
 the people but the local press declared that the course 
 which had been pursued by all those Avho might reason- 
 
55g HOT PLOWSHARES. 
 
 abl)^ be supposed to have aii}- knowledge of the aftair 
 had been most extraordinary. 
 
 In all that had occuri'ed since the commission of the 
 crime, it was vmiversally declared that the public had 
 been treated very shabbily. There had been a reserve, 
 almost a mystery, attaching to the actors in the tragedy 
 which was regarded as nothing less than an attempt to 
 defraud it of prescriptive rights. A thousand questions 
 had been left unanswered, and the most persistent inquiry 
 in every quarter had failed to throw light upon them. 
 
 It was high time, everybody felt, that such persons 
 should understand that the public had some privileges 
 which they were bound to respect. A crime was a 
 matter in regard to Avhich the people had a right to 
 be informed. The officers of justice were but the ser- 
 vants of the people. Jared Clarksou should remein- 
 ber that fame was inconsistent with secrecy. As a 
 public character he was bound to render an account of 
 what he did and what he knew to those whose approval 
 made him famous. So, too, with a minister of the 
 Gospel. There should be no mystery in his life. A 
 doctor should remember also that the suspicion of com- 
 plicity with crime was a debasement of his profession. 
 The public clamored for knoM^ledge, and all were warned 
 that those who stood in the path of its desire would 
 find that they were standing in their own light also. 
 Each and all of those having any knoAvledge of the crime 
 or the parties thereto were exhorted to enlighten the 
 public in regard to it, under penalty of its displeasure. 
 These were some of the questions to which categorical 
 answers were demanded day by day but not vouchsafed : 
 
 " What had become of Hilda ?" 
 
 "Whoshot Amy ?" 
 
 " Who was it that came so near killing Barnes ?" 
 
 " Why had Martin Kortright left as suddenly as he 
 had comeV" 
 
THAT NOTHING BE LOST. 559 
 
 "What interest had Jared Clarkson in the matter?" 
 
 "Wliy should lie be closeted with Sherwood Eighmie 
 for hours at a time ?" 
 
 " What had he in common Avith the slave-hunter ?" 
 
 "Why did the prosecution of these notorious offend- 
 ers lag?" 
 
 "Why had the prosecuting attorney been more than 
 once in private consultation with Clarkson and Eighmie ?" 
 
 "What were the documents drawn up between Clark- 
 son and Eighmie, witnessed by the State's Attorney, 
 and acknowledged before a notary ?" 
 
 "Had Jared Clarkson bought up the unholy claim of 
 another slave-owner to his chattel ?" 
 
 " Was the peace of individuals to be purchased at a 
 sacrifice of public justice ?" 
 
 "Did a crack-brained philanthropist propose to cure 
 the evils of slavery by constantly interfering to protect 
 its emissaries from the penalty of violated laAV ?" 
 
 "Why did not the Doctor tell what he knew ?" 
 
 "Was Miss Huuniwell a party to the conspiracy to 
 defeat the ends of justice ?" 
 
 " Why was Gilbert Anderson so strangely silent, and 
 how did he chance to be driving on the unused road in 
 the rear of the seminary that night ?" 
 
 These and very many other questions were asked by 
 press and people, far and near, and a myriad of guesses 
 were hazarded by the gossips in reply to each ; yet none 
 the less did the public feel itself aggrieved, and all the 
 more busily did it seek to penetrate the mystery that 
 hung about the strange events. 
 
 Jared Clarkson had made up his mind as to the duty 
 that lay before him even before his arrival. Painful 
 to any one, it was especially repulsive to him. He 
 knew that in a free government there were but two 
 remedies for bad laws — their strict enforcement or ab- 
 
560 HOT PLOWSHARES. 
 
 solute defiance. He hated all that smacked of slavei-y, 
 or rather he abhorred it with a vehemence that made 
 simple hatred pale. Wrath and disgust swept through 
 his heart like a whirlwind whenever he thought of 
 this Minotaur, for whom a lab3'rinth had been builded 
 in the fairest portion of our land. He hated the Avor- 
 sliip of this beast of blood only less than he pitied 
 the victims. He knew that he would be blamed for 
 Avhat he proposed to do, but he had never shrunk 
 from duty because of public clamor. The reprehen- 
 sion of friends and foes had been alike insufficient to 
 deter him from the path his conscience had marked 
 out. But even if he had been the veriest coward 
 that ever shrank from disapproval, he could not then 
 have hesitated. Had hot Merwyn Hargrove commit- 
 ted to his charge the trust in which he himself had 
 been faithful unto death ? He could not shrink while 
 the picture Jason had painted of that last moment was 
 yet fresh in his memory. His exemplar Avas sleeping 
 under the shadow of the water-oak by the Mallowbank 
 landing in an unmarked grave. He was calling to his 
 representative to do even as he would have done under 
 like circumstances. What would he have done '? That 
 Jared Clarkson determined to do, whatever the risk of 
 blame ! What would he do — Merwyn Hargrove — Avere 
 he then and there present i* It needed not much study 
 to decide. So thought the sorroAvful heritor of his 
 Avretched secret. 
 
 The public rumor Avas not Avithout foundation. Sher- 
 Avood Eighmie and his counsel had conferred Avith Jared 
 Clarkson and the State's Attorney. There had been 
 much skillful fencing, and the diplomacy of the profes- 
 sion had been exhausted upon each side, in the attempt 
 to learn Avhat hand the other held Avithout disclosing 
 their own. This Avas continued for a long time in A-ain. 
 
THAT NOTHING BE LOST. 56l 
 
 At length subtei'fuge was apparentl}^ thrown aside, and 
 
 Eighmie's counsel made specific answer to Clarkson's 
 
 oft-repeated question : 
 
 "What reason have you for believing that Hilda Har- 
 grove was the daughter of your intestate ?" 
 The answer was : 
 
 1 — There was no evidence of the birth of a daughter to Cap- 
 tain Hargrove and his wife. Kingston had been ran- 
 sacked for evidence of the birth and christening in vain. 
 
 2 — The introduction of Hilda to the household at Sturm- 
 hold was exactly contemporaneous with the disap- 
 peai'ance of Heloise Eighmie. 
 
 3 — Lida had always claimed her as her own child. 
 
 4 — The former servants, except Jason, were discharged, 
 and he was a party to the substitution. 
 
 5 — Hargrove well knew of Lida's claim upon the child, 
 and never denied it. 
 
 6 — In a letter written by himself to Jared Clarkson, 
 which was found upon his person after death. Captain 
 Hargrove had stated the fact that he desired his 
 executors to expend all that might be derived from the 
 estate of George Eighmie, or so much thereof as might 
 be required, in discovering and freeing Hugh Eigh- 
 mie, and that the balance of said estate, together with 
 a sum equal to what had been expended in rearing 
 the daughter of George and Alida, in all respects as 
 if she had been his own child, including her expenses 
 at Beechwood Seminary, "where she now is," should 
 be paid to the said Hugh Eighmie in some manner 
 so as to conceal from him all knowledge of the source 
 from whence it came. "As to the daughter," the 
 writer remarked, "she is already amply provided for 
 by the operation of my will." 
 
 7 — The will thus distinctly alluded to contained no name 
 or reference to any one except the executors ap- 
 pointed thereby and "Hilda Hargrove, a daughter, 
 who has never failed in duty or affection, to whom I 
 
SeS HOT PLOWSHARES. 
 
 leave my whole estate, well knowing that she will 
 honor my name and memory by wise use thereof." 
 
 And now said Eighmie's counsel, not without evident 
 &,pprehension : 
 
 " What do you rely upon to rebut this chain of cir- 
 cumstances ?" 
 
 Jared Clarkson responded with equal frankness : 
 
 " The presumption of legitimacy, and the open, con- 
 stant and unmistakable acknowledgment of the father." 
 
 "And nothing more?" asked the counsel, with ill- 
 concealed anxiety. 
 
 "That is enough," responded Clarkson evasively. 
 
 Neither party underestimated the strength of the 
 other. Eighmie was fettered by the fact of crime com- 
 mitted. Clarkson was' weighed down by fear of the 
 truth. Neither party dared defy the other. 
 
CHAPTEK XLIV. 
 
 FACING THE ORDEAL. 
 
 When Hilda reached her room it seemed as if the 
 world had taken on a new aspect. Every nerve tingled 
 with indignation. Fear had been swallowed up in 
 anger. There was a tinge of shame, too, in her thought 
 as she remembered how she had fled at the first hint of 
 danger. She wondered what her father would have 
 said had he witnessed her flight. Then the memory of 
 her dream came back and she saw him again with the 
 light of the moon upon his face as he held the sloop upon 
 her course and went calmly on to meet his cruel fate. 
 As the shadows gathered above the city and she heard 
 the bells ring out the invitation to evening worship she 
 seemed also to see the face of that strange Mr. Brown, 
 which was so fixed in her memory that she could 
 never forget it. Very sad and very stern it seemed, as 
 if it looked in pitying scorn upon her weakness. Then 
 she thought of all who were behind her in the struggle 
 — true-hearted Harrison Kortright and his wife ; Martin, 
 whom she could ever command, though she must never 
 love him any more ; Jared Clarkson, whom even her 
 father trusted ; Gilbert Anderson, who would even have 
 taken life in her defense ; the prudent and devoted 
 teacher ; and Jason, who had come, no doubt, to warn 
 her of her danger. Oh ! she had a host of friends, and 
 it was weak and silly of her to flee from them. The 
 tears flowed fast as she thought of them, and she won- 
 dered that she could ever have been so distrustful. The 
 world, which in the morning had seemed so barren of 
 all friendship or truth, now seemed overflowing with 
 sympathy and devotion. 
 
 563 
 
564 HOT PLOWSHARES. 
 
 Then the thought of her duty came. Duty to whom? 
 First of all, to her father and his memory. She had 
 pledged herself, even in the first gush of her agony, to do 
 honor to his name. How should she do it ? By dis- 
 playing the same spirit. None should ever say her acts 
 belied her parentage. She paced back and forth across 
 her room in the deepening gloom, her hands clasped 
 tightl}' and her veins throbbing with defiant exulta- 
 tion. The future seemed to open before her a vista of 
 light as she thought. If indeed it should — a shiver of 
 dread passed through her frame at the thought — if it 
 should be that she were not his daughter — if she were, 
 in fact, the daughter of George Eighmie and of the poor 
 weak creature who aimlessly wandered about the cor- 
 ridors of Sturmhold — wliy then, indeed, a still grander 
 duty lay before her. In that case she owed even more 
 to that man who had given her his name, his filial 
 love — aye, even his life. Then, too, she would owe a 
 broader duty to that people whose misfortune had put 
 its taint upon her life — whose primeval curse had 
 blighted her love. The sacrificial spirit took hold upon 
 her. Perhaps, she thought, it might be her destiny to 
 become one of the great examples which should help to 
 alleviate the thralldom of a race and lift a shadow from 
 a nation's life. Whatever might be the truth in regard 
 to herself her duty pointed still in one direction. She 
 must return and face her destiny. Bond or free, rich or 
 poor, it should not be said that the daughter of Merwyu 
 Hargrove, or the daughter of that friend for whom he 
 rendered up his life, failed to do honor to his memory. 
 
 But what was the first thing to be done ? How should 
 she begin to act the worthy part for Avhich she had been 
 cast ? She wished that she might fly back to her room 
 in the seminary. She wondered if it were empty, or 
 had another occupant already. Then she began to think 
 how she mijxht return and reach it unperceived. She 
 
FACING THE ORDEAL. 565 
 
 knew not why, but somehow it seemed as if she must 
 begin her new life in the very place where the old one 
 ended. Where the old one ended ? Had it ended ? 
 She smiled as she thought how she had buried the 
 Hilda of two days before. Even Martin — dearly re- 
 membered as he must ever be — she had given him up. 
 She had no hope that the doubt would ever be cleared 
 away. In fact, she half expected that it would be 
 confirmed. She could hardly help believing that her 
 life had been grafted upon that little life which had 
 exhaled almost as soon as it was begun. She had vague 
 memories of a tropical home — was it memory, or was 
 it the weird necromancy of that loved story-teller who 
 had painted for her so many pictures of the lands his 
 eyes had seen ? She could not tell. She only knew 
 that the sweet, unruffled life she had led had given way 
 to one full of woe and suffering perhaps, but one that 
 she did not shrink from facing. The ordeal was pre- 
 pared. The smoking plowshares lay along her path. 
 The judges were in waiting. Yes, her old life was 
 ended — cut sharply in twain, but she longed to graft 
 a new one upon it. She would join and unite them so 
 that the point of severance should hardly be perceptible 
 to other eyes. The luxury, the ease, the freedom she 
 had enjoyed, what were they but a preparation for the 
 duty that lay before? She must go back to her old 
 haunts and begin anew. 
 
 But how ? Again and again the question recurred. 
 She wished she had the gray-bearded man she had 
 met at dinner to advise her. Then she remembered 
 having heard her father say that advice was a good 
 thing M'hen one already knew what he meant to do. 
 She thought what he would do were he in her place — 
 the dear wise father, who had always left her to 
 decide for herself Surely he had not done this with- 
 out a purpose. He meant that she should decide, 
 
566 EOT PLOWSHARES. 
 
 and not only decide, but act on her own judgment 
 in the future, as he had encouraged her to do in the 
 past. Ah, it was cruel ! The lady at the table had only 
 half stated the rapacity of her pursuers. Xot only had 
 they not waited for her to take off her mourning, but 
 they had not even allowed her time to put it on. The 
 tears flowed at the memory of her affliction. She re- 
 proached herself that even the sorest trouble had caused 
 her to neglect to testifj^ her grief to the whole world. 
 Henceforth her garb should bear witness to her sorrow. 
 She would wear only weeds all her life long. Sackcloth 
 should enswathe her form even as woe must overshadow 
 her life. 
 
 All at once she forgot her despondency. She was 
 young, and her buoyant nature laughed at trammels. 
 Her tears were none the less bitter because they were 
 so easily wiped away. She sprang to her feet, laughing, 
 softly and quietly. Then she made haste to light the gas ; 
 searched in her bag and brought out some black stufl'; 
 combed her hair smoother still upon her brow ; plaited 
 the dark stuff along her cheek, which had grown pale 
 with the woe of the last two days ; smiled contentedly, 
 and then sat down at the table to examine the contents 
 of her purse. She found that they were ample for 
 all her present needs. Miss Hunniwe'd, more prudent 
 than herself, had foreseen her need, and had transformed 
 the larger portion of the deposit her father had made 
 in her behalf into ready money, in anticipation of the 
 need of a prolonged concealment. It was strange 
 what a change had come over her. Calmly, even 
 smilingly, she prepared for her couch. She slumbered 
 peacefully, and on the morrow was astir early among 
 the city shops, cheapening, buying and directing, as if 
 danger and sorrow were unknown to her. Neverthe- 
 less, her cheeks were strangely pale, and her demeanor 
 quiet and subdued, 
 
FACING THE ORDEAL. 567 
 
 A few days afterward a lady in widow's weeds 
 got off the train at Burlingdale. She was fair and 
 young — that much might be seen through her heavy 
 veil. She asked to be driven to the seminary, and 
 handed the hackman her check, for which he received 
 a trunk unusually large and new, on which a name 
 was stamped in large letters. Many read, but none 
 seemed to recognize it. There was an unusual crowd 
 at the station, but no one paid any attention to the 
 new arrival. The people were so excited over the affair 
 at Beechwood that they had no time to notice any 
 one not specially connected with it. The lady was 
 alone in the hack, and on the way to the seminary 
 the driver told her all about the matter — all that Avas 
 known, at least, as well as some guesses of his own 
 at the unknown. The stranger seemed much shocked, 
 and at one time appeared almost inclined to retract 
 her order and go to the hotel. The driver, in his rough 
 way, was very sorry for his fare — she was so young 
 and tender, and yet wearing widow's weeds. She seemed 
 entirely broken down with sorrow, and never raised 
 her veil nor spoke above a subdued monotone during 
 the trip. He made some cautious inquiries regard- 
 ing her affliction, but a quick sob and the sudden 
 thrusting of a white handkerchief under the gold-bowed 
 glasses which she wore told the good-natured fellow 
 that his inquisitiveness was very painful. So he de- 
 sisted, and gave his attention to his team. Arrived at 
 the seminary, she sent her card to the principal, and 
 waited in the reception-room until she came. Many 
 of the pupils, who were busy with preparations for 
 departure, glanced in at the door half curiously. She 
 did not look at them, nor once lift her veil. Miss Hun- 
 niwell came with a look of mild surprise upon her 
 face and the card of the new-comer in her hand. As 
 soon as she had entered the room the strange lady rose 
 
568 HO T FLO W SHARES. 
 
 and closed the door. Then turning to the teacher, she 
 raised her veil. The teacher regarded her with a puz- 
 zled look, as if seeking to bring back to her memory 
 some half-forgotten face. Then she shook her head 
 almost imperceptibly. 
 
 "Don't you know me ?" asked the stranger. 
 
 The teacher started, came closer, and peered anx- 
 iously into the pale face framed in the dull black of 
 the widow's weeds. The stranger took off her glasses. 
 Miss Hunniwell started, and would have screamed, but 
 a plump white hand was clasped firmly over her mouth. 
 Then there were tears and embraces and anxious in- 
 quiries, as Avhen friends long parted meet again. The 
 door was opened after a time, and Miss Hunniwell and 
 her guest passed along the hall together. The stranger's 
 veil was down, but the teacher's agitation was clearly 
 perceptible. She took the stranger to her own room, 
 where she soon left her to attend to her own duties. It 
 was a matter of great surprise when she directed the 
 lady's trunk to be taken to Hilda's room ; but she ex- 
 plained that it was an old pupil who once occupied that 
 room, and had now come back to seek seclusion in her 
 deep affliction. She had explained to her, she said, the 
 unfortunate associations of the room, but she did not 
 seem to mind them at all. No other room would seem at 
 all homelike to her, and she especially desired that she 
 might be allowed to have that. So the strange widoAv lady 
 was soon duly installed in the room Hilda had chosen 
 when she came, hardly more than a child, to select the 
 place in which she would pass the years of her school-life. 
 
 After a time the teacher brought Jason to the room. 
 The lady had put aside her widow's veil and removed 
 the glasses she had worn. Her hair was brushed 
 smoothly down upon her forehead, and only a faint line 
 of white about the throat relieved the sombre depths 
 of the mourning which she wore, She advanced and 
 
FACING THE ORDEAL. 569 
 
 offered her hand to Jason. Her lip quivered and her 
 eyes filled with tears as she did so. 
 
 The faithfid servant gazed at her a moment in aston- 
 ishment. Then he suddenly seized her by the arms, 
 peered keenly into her face, and exclaimed : 
 
 "If it ain't Miss Hilda ! Bless God, our Httle Miss 
 Hilda !" 
 
 Before she could prevent, he had seized her in his 
 arms, and was carrying her about the room, as if she 
 had been a child, tears rolling down his face, and his 
 lips uttering half-incoherent bursts of gratitude. 
 
 "There, there, Jason," said she, gently releasing her- 
 self at length. "I am very glad to see you again, but 
 you must not try to toss me about in that fashion. I am 
 not as light as I once was." 
 
 She gave him her hand as she spoke, which, with the 
 characteristic freedom of the old servant of the plan- 
 tation, he kissed and fondled, while his eyes seemed to 
 devour her features. 
 
 "Ah, Miss Hilda," he exclaimed, "I thought I 
 wouldn't never git a sight of you no more. You jes' run 
 off, nobody knows how nor whar, an' leave Jason here 
 without a Avord — jes' bound to wait till you comes back 
 in your own way, whenever you gits ready, for all the 
 world like your pa. I declai'e, child, you 're his own gal, 
 sure. Here 's Marse Eighmie comes a-tearin' round 
 atter ye, an' all at once, jes' when he thinks he 's got 
 yer safe, whar is yer ? Then, atter a little, Avhen every- 
 body thinks yers done gone an' hid, jes' as ef yer 'd been 
 a sure enuff nigger, as all on 'em tries ter make out, 
 why, here you is !" 
 
 Despite the fact of Hilda's evident sorrow, and that 
 he had not seen her since her father's tragic death, he 
 could not repress his joy. But his mood changed in- 
 stantly, as he saw her lip tremulous with grief at this 
 allusion. 
 
570 HOT PL WSHAllES. 
 
 "There, there, honey," he said soothingly; "don't 
 you go to feehng bad now. You know there ain't 
 nothin' that would make Marse Merwyn gladder 'n jes' 
 ter know what his little gal 's done — come right back 
 here into the jaws of the lion that 's a-huntin' atter her, 
 as you has, chile. Bless yer dear heart, you 's yer pa all 
 over again, that yer is, an' Jason knows it. That was 
 always the way with him, you know — here one minute 
 an' there the next, axin' nobody's advice, an' tellin' no- 
 body what he was gwine ter do till it was all over an' 
 done. There, there, dear, don't take on so — please don't, 
 honey," said Jason, as she snatched away her hand, 
 and, sinking on a chair, sobbed aloud with a sorrow she 
 had before had no opportunity to indulge. 
 
 After a time she checked her grief, and said with a 
 choking voice : 
 
 "Have you no message for me, Jason, from — from 
 my father?" 
 
 "There, now, what an old stupid he is!" exclaimed 
 Jason reproachfully. " Here I 've been a gwine on about 
 nuffin', an' this dear chile jes' a hungerin' for dem las' 
 words her pa sent her. 'Clar it does seem as if Jason 
 was gittin' to be a straight-out fool an' no mistake." 
 
 The faithful servitor had opened his vest as he spoke, 
 and from an inside pocket now drew forth a letter 
 which he handed to Hilda with an air of reverence that 
 could not have been greater had she been a queen and 
 he an humble liegeman kneeling at her feet. 
 
 "There, Miss Hilda, that's what I ought to have 
 given you before, only I Avas that glad I done forgot all 
 about it. Marse Cap'n give me that jes' the las' 
 minute 'fore he made me come away. Do Lo'd knows, 
 Miss Hilda, I didn't want to do it nohow, an' I wouldn't 
 if he hadn't jes' forced me to. There warn't no sort of 
 use on 't — none in the world. If he 'd jes' have let me 
 take a crack or two at that crowd in dead earnest in- 
 
FACING THE ORDEAL. 571 
 
 stead of firin' all round 'em as we 'd been a doin'', 
 there 'd a been plenty of time to have got him aboard 
 an' off before they 'd have rallied up to stop us. But 
 he wouldn't do it, Miss Hilda — he p'intedly wouldn't — 
 but jes' give me this letter an' told me not to let no 
 man or woman catch so much as a glimpse of the least- 
 est corner of it till I put it in your hands, Miss Hilda. 
 And I hain't. Now, i'^^p^o, 'tis, an' Jason's filled his 
 last orders. There ain't nothin' more for him to do 
 now — nothin' more." 
 
 "Thank you, Jason," said Hilda, as she took the let- 
 ter and glanced at the superscription. "You are a 
 good, faithful fellow," she added, as the tears streamed 
 down her cheeks. She pressed the letter passionately to 
 her bosom, as if to still with its touch the beating of 
 her heart. She reached out her other hand and patted 
 the cheek of the faithful servant. He caught it and 
 covered it with kisses. 
 
 "You must not say there is nothing more for you to 
 do, Jason. Papa sent you away, no doubt, that you 
 might take care of me. He knew I would need you 
 when he was gone." 
 
 "I'll do it. Miss Hilda — anything you want in the 
 wide world I '11 do. If you '11 jes' let Jason serve you 
 like he did Marse Captain, that 's all he wants." 
 
 " You shall always do that, Jason." 
 
 "Thank ye. Miss Hilda, thank ye; but you must 
 promise not to run ofl' an' leave me no more," said he, 
 half doubtfully. 
 
 "Oh, never fear!" said Hilda, as she turned to the 
 window and l)roke the seal of her father's letter. Hardly 
 had she glanced at its contents when an expression of 
 surprise escaped her lips. She read a little farther, and 
 a cry of pleasure came bubbling from her heart. An 
 instant after she rushed across the room, with the 
 crumpled letter close clasped to her bosom, fell upon 
 
573 HO T PL W81IABES. 
 
 her knees beside the bed, and cried, as the tears rolled 
 down her cheeks : 
 
 " Thank God ! thank God ! Poor Papa ! Dear Papa ! 
 Thank God ! Thank God !" 
 
 The teacher stole away and left the faithful servant 
 alone with his young mistress, to tell the story of the 
 father's tragic death. 
 
 Martin Kortright returned to Sturmhold burning with 
 zeal in his lady-love's behalf. To his parents he told 
 over and over again the story of what had occurred 
 at Beechwood. He laid before them all the plans his 
 ardent brain had devised for discovering whither she 
 had flown. Already Jie had secured the co-operation 
 of detectives, and he proposed before a week had passed 
 to put her likeness and a full description in the hands 
 of the police of every city in the country. To all this 
 Harrison Kortright imperatively objected. 
 
 "If she were a runaway servant or a lost child, that 
 would do. But you must remember, my son, that it 
 is Hilda Hargrove of whom we are speaking. Just read 
 that letter of hers once more, and you will see that the 
 girl who wrote it doesn't need to be hawked around the 
 country like a lost poodle. She means to do something, 
 and wants to be left alone to do it in her own way. 
 Heaven knows she has people enough hunting after her 
 already, and you would only add to her troubles if you 
 began a pursuit. Let her alone, my son. Let her have 
 time to get over her grief and terror, and detei*mine on 
 the course she will pursue. She has sufficient for her 
 present needs, and knows very well that she has only 
 to indicate a want in order to have it gratified." 
 
 " But she will think I have no spirit if I sit down and 
 wait for her to clear up this mystery all alone," said 
 Martin. " If I could only let her know what Jason is 
 able to prove, she would come back at once." 
 
FACING THE ORDEAL. 573 
 
 " I am not so sure of that," rejoined his father. " She 
 is not running away from the slave-catclier so much as 
 from the fear that she may be something worse than a 
 slave herself." 
 
 "Jason's testimony settles that also," interrupted 
 Martin. 
 
 "I am afraid Jason's story is hardly conclusive," 
 said the father. "Jared Clarkson knows that I don't 
 put a particle of confidence in the inference he draws 
 from the papers in his possession. I am sure that 
 Hilda is Merwyn Hargrove's child. Not only did he 
 acknowledge her as such, but she resembles him as closely 
 as one person can another. She has all his coolness and 
 courage, as well as his quiet candor and undoubting self- 
 reliance. Even he could detect nothing of her mother 
 about her except in appearance. Now, if Clarkson put 
 the same reliance in Jason's story that you do, he would 
 have telegraphed at once to relieVe my anxiety. I heard 
 from him twice yesterday, but nothing to indicate that 
 he has changed his impressions in the least." 
 
 "But Hilda ought to know what Jason says, and 
 have the letter he refuses to give to any one else as well 
 as the package Clarkson has for her." 
 
 "That is true," said the old man, "but you are not 
 the one to take it to her. If she knew you were on her 
 track, can you not see that she would just rush deeper 
 and deeper into obscurity ? It is you and your love that 
 she dreads more than all the slave-hunters in the world. 
 If you should pursue her before this doubt is settled, she 
 would not hesitate to destroy herself in order to escape 
 from you," 
 
 I' My God !" exclaimed Martin, "what shall I do ?" 
 "Do?" said his father reproachfully. "You are the 
 last one to ask that question. If ever a woman had a 
 right to demand obedience from her lover, that woman 
 is Hilda Hargrove at this time." 
 
574 HOT PLOWSHARES. 
 
 "She doesn't expect me to obey and leave her to suf- 
 fer, does she ?" asked Martin impetuously. 
 
 "She expects, and she has a right to expect, that you 
 will obey her wishes when they are fair and reasonable 
 ones." 
 
 "But hers are not reasonable," said the son, with 
 some show of irritation. 
 
 " Let us see," said the father. " She tells you frankly 
 that she would die before she would marry with a doubt 
 upon her birth. You, in your impetuous love, might at 
 first think otherwise, but there could be no surer way of 
 securing the unhappiness of both than by overcoming, 
 if you could, this objection. You are as sure of her love 
 as if you looked into her heart, but you know also that 
 you can never change Irer determination." 
 
 " But I cannot wait in idleness while she is in trouble 
 — perhaps in peril," protested the young man, as he 
 strode back and forth across the room with clinched 
 hands and a brow knotted with agony. 
 
 "Wait you must, my son, because she bids you. If 
 there were no other reason at this time, you are bound 
 to regard implicitly her lightest wish. But you do not 
 need to be idle. Your waiting and separation may 
 continue for many a year, but whenever the cloud 
 is lifted, as it will be some time, you may be sure 
 she will keep her word. You should remember that 
 she may need a good deal of money to carry out her 
 plans, and we must be ready to meet her requirements. 
 We are her trustees — you and I. You must continue 
 to do the work I am no longer able to perform." 
 
 " There is nothing to do about the estate. It is aU 
 in good condition, and almost taking care of itself" 
 
 " You speak of her father's estate, my son. It is time' 
 you learned that Hilda has even a closer relation to us. 
 One half of all that stands to-day in my name belongs 
 to her." 
 
FACING TEE ORDEAL. 575 
 
 Harrison Kortright then explained the facts which 
 the reader ah-eady knows. 
 
 "Does Hilda know this ?" asked Martin, drawing a 
 long breath, when his father had concluded. 
 
 "I do not know," was the reply, "but I take it for 
 granted that she does. You know her father always 
 had great confidence in her. I doubt if he kept any- 
 thing from her except that miserable matter of his 
 brother's children." 
 
 "You think, then, that she wishes me to stay 
 here and look after her interests as you have done 
 hitherto ?" 
 
 " It is reasonable to suppose that she would desire to 
 have her matters in such shape as to yield whatever 
 funds she may require, is it not ?" 
 
 "I suppose so," answered Martin moodily; "but 
 how shall I know her wants, or she know that I am 
 obeying her request ?" 
 
 " I suppose she will expect that without any informa- 
 tion, but I see no reason why you should not communi- 
 cate with her," said the father. 
 
 " How ?" asked Martin, stopping short in his walk. 
 
 "By advertisement," replied his father. "You may 
 be sure that Hilda will see it. She will not miss a line 
 that concerns any one connected with this matter." 
 
 So the father and son devised some brief personals 
 which Hilda only would understand, and know that 
 they were messages from home. 
 
CHAPTER XLV. 
 
 A MASKED BATTERY. 
 
 Hilda's first thought after having secured unsus- 
 pected refuge in her old quarters was to find out exactly 
 what had been done, in order that she might determine 
 what she ought to do. She no longer felt any a,ppre- 
 hension on her own account. Her father's letter had 
 entirely relieved her mind as to that, hut it also de- 
 volved upon her the continuance of that task which had 
 cost him his life. The son and daughter of George and 
 Alida Eighmie were not onlj^ commended to her care, 
 but she was especially charged to discover, if possible, 
 the former, and to see to it that the latter remained in 
 utter ignorance of her birth and origin, unless circum- 
 stances made such a disclosure imperatively necessary. 
 On the next day, therefore, Mr. Clarkson came to the 
 seminary at the request of Miss Hunniwell. After his 
 first surprise at the presence of the young lady whose 
 guardianship had been so unwillingly thrust upon him, 
 he bethought him of the package he was charged to de- 
 liver into her hands, and returned to his hotel for it. 
 Having delivered it to Hilda, he seemed at once to be re- 
 lieved of a great burden. After she had glanced over its 
 contents, he began to tell her what he had done, or 
 rather what he had determined to do. Very fortunately 
 for her, he said, the enem}'^ had made a false move. In- 
 stead of trusting to the law, the}^ had gone outside of 
 it, and had tried to assert their rights with a strong 
 hand. This fact he proposed to utilize in effecting a 
 compromise, by which the collateral heirs of George 
 Eighmie should release all claim upon the children of 
 Alida. 
 
 676 
 
A MASKED BATTERY. 577 
 
 "I suppose," said Hilda tlioughtfully, "that it will 
 be best for me to remain concealed while you are en- 
 gaged in this negotiation ?" 
 
 "Oh, of course," exclaimed Clarkson. "Your ab- 
 sence was the most fortunate thing that could have 
 occurred. ' ' 
 
 "Have they discovered the strange mistake they 
 made ?" she asked. 
 
 "Mistake?" 
 
 "Yes — in regard to the identity of the daughter of 
 George Eighmie ?" 
 
 "I do not understand your meaning," said Clarkson, 
 with a puzzled look. 
 
 " I mean, do they know who she is ?" 
 
 "Well," said Clarkson with some embarrassment, 
 "they suspect the truth, of course, but they i-eally 
 knoM'' no more than when they came." 
 
 "Indeed," said Hilda, " that is very fortunate. Then 
 I should suppose the best thing to do would be to throw 
 them still farther off the scent." 
 
 " Of course ; but how ?" asked Clarkson. 
 
 "I might show myself," suggested Hilda. 
 
 "Show yourself, my dear," he cried, starting up in 
 alarm. "It Avould disarrange everything. It would be 
 fatal. Do please remember that the Avarrant for your 
 arrest is still in the marshal's hands." 
 
 "Well, suppose it is, what then ?" asked Hilda in sur- 
 prise. 
 
 "You would be seized in an instant if they knew 
 of your presence." 
 
 "What if I were?" persisted Hilda. "They can 
 do me no harm." 
 
 "Perhaps not," said Clarkson thoughtfully, "but 
 what good can result from it ?" 
 
 " The legal proceedings would take some time, I sup- 
 pose ?" 
 
578 BOT PLOWSHARES. 
 
 "Several daj'^s, at least." 
 
 " They might be delayed, protracted ?" 
 
 "Of course." 
 
 "How long?" 
 
 " For some weeks, probably." 
 
 " Well, in the meantime — " 
 
 "In the meantime, you would be in jail." 
 
 "In jail?" 
 
 "Yes; that is, you would be in custody, unless re- 
 leased on a writ of habeas corpus.''^ 
 
 " Well, it would be all right in the end." 
 
 "Probably, but is it not better to relinquish all claim 
 to the estate of Eighmie, and thereby put an end to 
 their pursuit ? By that means, too, the facts remain 
 solely in our possession."* 
 
 " I see. I must guard against that. It was Papa's last 
 wish that I should conceal the facts, if possible, forever." 
 
 " If you will allow me," said Clarkson, " I think there 
 has been entirely too much concealment in this matter." 
 
 " That may be, but we must still continue it for her 
 sake." 
 
 " For her sake ? Whom do you mean ?" 
 
 " Why, the one we have been speaking of all this 
 time — George Eighmie's daughter." 
 
 "I was in hope," said Clarkson scornfully, "that 
 when she was once out of danger she would have the 
 moral courage to avow the truth." 
 
 "How can she, when she does not know it?" asked 
 Hilda artlessly. 
 
 " But she does know it," said Clarkson impatiently. 
 "Miss — Miss Hilda — I — I must say that I am disap- 
 pointed in you. I will gladly do all in my power to 
 rescue you from your present peril, because of my pro- 
 mise to your — to Captain Hargrove, I mean— but after 
 that you must understand that I will have nothing to 
 do with any false pretenses." 
 
A MASKED BATTERY. 570 
 
 " But how can I help it ?" 
 
 " You Avill be your own mistress." 
 
 "Well?" 
 
 " You will have an ample fortune." 
 
 " Well ?" 
 
 ' Why not stand up and defy this infamous race-pre- 
 judice ?" 
 
 " What would you have me do ?" 
 
 "Nothing now; but when the danger is over, and 
 you are in the secure possession of what you will 
 receive, I would have you repay the debt of gratitude 
 you owe to Merwj^n Hargrove, not by keeping up the 
 miserable sham he urged upon you, but by showing the 
 world his noble conduct in its true significance." 
 
 " I do not understand you, sir," said Hilda, shrink- 
 ing from his vehemence. 
 
 "You do not understand?" he said angrily. "Say 
 you will not, rather. I mean that you should be brave 
 enough and strong enough to avow the truth — to say to 
 the world, ' This man was so true and noble that he 
 conquered every prejudice in order to fulfill his pledge. 
 He even took to his heart one cursed with the blood of 
 a despised race — gave her a daughter's place and a 
 daughter's love.' In other words, I would have you 
 avow your own parentage." 
 
 " My parentage ?" cried Hilda in amazement. 
 
 " Yes, I would have you reward the devotion of a 
 poor, crazed mother, and acknowledge with pride 
 the heroism of that brother — " the speaker paused, 
 looked hastily about, and then added in a lower tone — 
 "that brother who has devoted his strength to the ser- 
 vice of the race whose degradation has blighted his 
 life." 
 
 Hilda shrunk from him as he spoke in undisguised 
 dismay. Then she turned impetuously upon him : 
 
 "Why, Mr. Clarkson," she exclaimed, "what do you 
 
580 HOT PL W8EARES. 
 
 mean by such language ? Do you think my father was 
 a Mar ? Do you think his solemn declaration to you 
 was a falsehood ? Do you impeach his dying message 
 to me?" 
 
 " It is because of his declaration that I speak thus I" 
 
 Hilda looked as if she doubted his sanity. Finally 
 she opened the packet in her hand, ran over its contents 
 hastily, and said : 
 
 "Mr. Clarkson, my father tells me here that he has 
 informed you of all the facts concerning the daughter 
 of Alida." 
 
 "So he did, by means of the parcel accompanying 
 that which you hold." 
 
 "Will you be good enough to allow me to examine 
 that parcel ?" 
 
 Clarkson looked at her half-suspiciously ; then drew 
 the package from his pocket, and after showing the super- 
 scription, handed her the bills it contained. She glanced 
 at them carelessly, and extended her hand for more. 
 
 "That is all," said Clarkson. 
 
 "All? Was there nothing more, absolutely nothing?" 
 
 " Nothing but this wrapper, which had evidently 
 been used to inclose other papers." 
 
 He handed her a sheet of paper loosely folded to in- 
 close others. It was indorsed in her father's distinct 
 and positive hand : 
 
 Indosures. 
 
 1. Letter from A. E. 
 
 2. " " S. M. 
 
 3. " " W. K. 
 
 4. " " M. H. to W. K. 
 
 5. Affidavit of J. U. 
 
 6. Statement of acct. of W. K. 
 
 7. Letters H. E. to W. K. 
 8 " M. H. to W. K. 
 
 9. Letter of instructions to W. K, 
 10. " Bills of M. H. 
 
A MASKED BATTERY. 581 
 
 " And nothing more ?" asked Hilda, with a perplexed 
 look. 
 
 " ^N'othing more," said Clarkson wonderingly. 
 
 Hilda sat down and rested her head npon her hand in 
 thought. She turned the papers over and over, as if 
 seeking to unravel some mystery. In the meantime, 
 Clarkson sat watching her with a curious, pitying look. 
 Once or twice he half started, as if he feared she were 
 about to destroy the papers he had given her. After a 
 time she rose, crossed to where he sat, and handing him 
 the package she had received from him which was ad- 
 dressed to her, she said quietly : 
 
 " Will you please read that ?" 
 
 When he had concluded she gave him the letter she 
 had received by the hand of Jason. 
 
 " And that also, if you please." 
 
 The effect on Jared Clarkson was astonishing. In- 
 credulity, amazement, joy, and finally mortification, 
 were depicted in turn upon his countenance. After a 
 time he rose, and with a deep blush upon his fine, frank 
 face, extended his hand and said : 
 
 " I crave your pardon. Miss Hargrove. I am sorry to 
 have been so poor a counsellor." 
 
 Then Hilda broke down and wept passionately. The 
 long struggle was over, and nature would have its way. 
 She had passed the dread ordeal and must fain weep 
 over her deliverance. Clarkson stood by, absently pat- 
 ting her head and smoothing the masses of her hair, to 
 soothe her agitation. 
 
 "I very greatly regret having caused you so much 
 pain, my dear," he said in a low, fatherly tone. 
 
 She looked up into his face half smiling through her 
 tears, and said : 
 
 "It only shows how true a friend my father chose to 
 aid me in the task he left unfinished," 
 
582 HOT PLOWSHARES. 
 
 Clarkson stooped and kissed her forehead. 
 
 After this there were some grave consultations in the 
 widow's room at the seminary. An eminent lawyer came 
 more than once ; Jason was carefully examined, and be- 
 fore another day had passed Sherwood Eighmie and his 
 confederates found a legal network Avoven about them 
 which portended unexpected difficulties. Actions for 
 conspiracy and libel were brought against them in the 
 name of Hilda Hargrove, based upon affidavits sworn to 
 by her, and requiring very heavy bonds on the part of the 
 defendants. In the meantime the demeanor of Clark- 
 son underwent a change that no one could account for. 
 Instead of depression and gloom his mirth was almost 
 hilarious. There was no longer any display of anxiety, 
 and the compromise which he had set on foot was en- 
 tirely neglected. The strange widow lady after two 
 days' sojourn found that the associations of her old 
 room were not so soothing as she had expected. Be- 
 sides that she had received a great many visits for one 
 seeking seclusion, and it was a matter of little wonder 
 to the remaining pupils of the seminary that she had 
 concluded to seek a more tranquil home. So she was 
 driven to the station and took the train westward. By 
 some strange chance Jason left upon the same train, 
 but he rode in the second-class car and paid no heed to 
 the young widow whose veil fell in decorous folds almost 
 to her feet. 
 
CHAPTEK XL VI. 
 
 CLAMOR IN THE HOME NEST. 
 
 The news of the attempted abduction at Beechwood 
 awakened the utmost excitement at Skendoah. A thou- 
 sand things had contributed to produce this result. While 
 Squire Kortright might be termed the tutelary deity of 
 the place, yet there was a sort of traditional belief, very 
 largely due to the significant winks and nods of the 
 old man Shields, that the master of Sturmhold was 
 associated with Kortright in the enterprise out of which 
 the town had grown. Moreover, Merwyn Hargrove had 
 been a sort of lion in the region where he lived. There 
 was something very attractive in the half isolation 
 which he maintained, as well as in the mysterious tales 
 that had from time to time connected his name with 
 both good and bad achievements. But whatever his 
 life had been, the manner of his death would have fixed 
 his place in the esteem of his neighbors beyond all cavil. 
 Coming as it did upon the heels of their own great ca- 
 lamity, and being allied to it still more closely in cause, 
 they gladly looked upon him as a martyr in whose name 
 and fame they had each a sort of proprietary interest. 
 Added to these facts was the farther one that the rela- 
 tion subsisting between Martin and Hilda was very 
 well understood throughout the region, and we shall 
 not find it hard to realize the excitement which the 
 story of Eighmie's attempt and Hilda's flight aroused 
 in the little village. Martin and Hilda for their own 
 sakes were well-beloved. The villagers had seen them 
 grow up from childhood, sustaining to each other always 
 the most intimate relations. Their mutual aflectioa 
 
584 HOT PLOWSHARES. 
 
 had been a matter of pleasant jest and kindly gossip 
 long before either of them had suspected its existence. 
 Hilda's beauty and Martin's staunch sincerity had deep- 
 ened this impression until almost every villager felt as 
 shocked and outraged by the news as if his own heart's 
 dearest treasure had been ravished from his possession. 
 Their sorrow and anger had manifested itself in every 
 conceivable form. Since the return of Martin, the office, 
 which was now wholly under his control, had been 
 thronged almost all the time with sympathizing friends 
 and visitors. 
 
 A public meeting had been held, and in speeches and 
 resolutions the people had testified at once their lo5^alty 
 to principle and also their determination to make the 
 most of their own local celebrities. A band of young 
 men had been organized whose purpose was declared to 
 be the rescue of Hilda should she ever be so unfortunate 
 as to fall into the hands of her persecutors. To say 
 that the story of her origin was disbelieved in Sken- 
 doah, but states the truth too mildly. It was scouted 
 at as a transparent fraud by every man, woman and 
 child in Skendoah and vicinity. No one there had 
 any more doubt of her right to inherit as the daughter 
 of Merwyn Hargrove than of the fact that he had named 
 her sole legatee in his will. This universal feeling was 
 intensified still more by the knowledge that Jared Clark- 
 son had become her champion and defender. However 
 poorly they might have esteemed her cause, the fact 
 that he had espoused it would have secured for her their 
 sympathy. When this was added to the other causes 
 mentioned we can well believe the statement of the local 
 press, that "Skendoah was ablaze with excitement." 
 Had volunteers been called for at any hour to go to 
 her rescue the town would have been almost depopulated 
 of its male inhabitants. 
 It was in the middle of the afternoon — the very busiest 
 
CLAMOR IN THE HOME NEST. 585 
 
 hour of the day in the office where Martin Kortright 
 was at work — the office from which his father had so 
 long directed those operations . that had linked his name 
 forever with the town's prosperity. The plain black- 
 lettered sign, "Skendoah Mills," that hung over the 
 door had never been changed. Though the son was in 
 charge of the great interests embraced by this propri- 
 etorship, it was understood that he was as yet only the 
 right hand of the father. In fact all business papers 
 were still signed "Harrison Kortright," though exe- 
 cuted by "Martin Kortright, Attorney." 
 
 Despite the hum of labor upon all sides, the young 
 man's thoughts were busy with Hilda. As he gave direc- 
 tions in regard to the purchase of supplies, the sale of 
 stock, the rebuilding of the burned factories, now well 
 under way, and a thousand other details essential to a 
 great enterprise, he wondered where she was, and 
 whether she would approve the course he had decided 
 upon. He had yielded to his father's views chiefly be- 
 cause he could really see nothing else to do, but also very 
 largely from a conviction that Hilda would realize how 
 much harder it was to obey her than to follow his own 
 inclinations and seek to discover whither she had flown. 
 He had an impression, too, that spies were on his track, 
 and that if he should succeed in finding her it would 
 be only to increase her peril. So he worked on with the 
 sad, pale face that had haunted him ever since he heard 
 of her flight coming between him and the paper when 
 he wrote, dimming his eyes and dulling his brain. 
 
 To the people of Skendoah this conduct on Martin's 
 part was the subject of unstinted praise. They would 
 not for a moment admit that he did not know her 
 hiding-place. That notion was to them absurd. They 
 believed that he knew, and kept away in order that she 
 need not be traced through him. 
 
 "They won't ever git that gal by foUerin' up his 
 
586 HOT PLOWSHARES. 
 
 tracks," said Shields, pursing up his thin lips and 
 glancing approvingly over the razor-like edge of his 
 nose at Martin through the office window. "Both of 
 'em are too much like them they 're named after to be 
 caught in that way. Here he is pokin' 'round here as 
 innocent and careless as you can imagine, and Hilda 
 nowhere in the world that anybody knows on. Now, 
 mark my words — the first you know that young man '11 
 take it into his head to travel and drown his grief, 
 and the next thing you '11 hear there '11 be a wedding 
 somewhere over the water, and they '11 snap their 
 fingers at slave-catchers. And Skendoah '11 stand by 
 'em, too, and furnish them the money to have a good 
 time — furnish it regular every week, and lots of it, too. 
 Bless their hearts, if anybody ever deserved it, it 's just 
 them two." 
 
 There was a suspicion of moisture about the old man's 
 eyes as he spoke. He had hardly gone a hundred 
 yards from the office Avhen he heard a tumult in the 
 street leading toward the depot. What could it mean ? 
 A carriage was coming slowly along tlie street, beside 
 which walked and ran and shouted an ever-increasing 
 crowd. Hats and handkerchiefs were waving in the 
 air. Men forsook their shops and women their houses 
 to join the cavalcade. Crowds poured out of the fac- 
 tories, and all was clamor and confusion. At length 
 the driver whipped his horses into a quick trot, the 
 crowd was left behind, and the carriage drove up to 
 the office door. Jason sprang from the driver's seat 
 and assisted a lady in deep mourning to alight. As she 
 touched the ground she threw aside her veil, and 
 showed a bright soft blush upon her cheeks. She ran 
 up the steps, pushed back the door that stood ajar, and 
 saw Martin gazing blankly upon the page before him. 
 His pen Avas idle, and his thought was not of business. 
 In the room beyond slu; could hear the clerks busily 
 
CLAMOR IN THE HOME NEST. 587 
 
 calling to each other from the books they were posting. 
 The clamor outside came nearer while she paused. The 
 blush grew deeper. She held her breath, and stole on 
 tiptoe up to him. Looking over his shoulder she saw 
 the page before him held but one word, "Hilda." 
 There was a rustle — the perfume of a remembered 
 presence — a pair of soft hands were about his neck, 
 warm lips pressed his own, and a voice whispered : 
 
 "Martin !" 
 
 There was a quick uprising and a fond embrace. After 
 a time the blushing, tearful face, framed in dull black and 
 translucent white, smiled up from its resting-place upon 
 his breast and said : 
 
 "I have come !" 
 
 The clamor swelled louder and louder without. Some 
 one had bethought them of the town bell, and its deep, 
 sonorous peal rang joyfully out over the excited town. 
 The water was shut off. The wheels were still. The 
 square in the middle of the town was alive with eager 
 faces. After a time Martin appeared in the office door 
 with Hilda upon his arm. Then the crowd went wild. 
 Cheer after cheer went up. The one piece of ordnance in 
 the town was dragged forth from its dusty hiding-place 
 beneath the stairs of the town hall and mingled its re- 
 verberations with the clangor of the bells and the shouts 
 of the people. Harrison Kortright, in the library at 
 Sturmhold, heard its echoes faintly. For almost a week 
 sleep had hardly visited his eyelids. He started up on 
 his couch, listened for a short time to the recurrent 
 shocks, smiled peacefully, and said to the plump matron 
 by the bedside : 
 
 " They 've heard from Hilda." 
 
 Then he laid his head upon the pillow and slept. 
 
CHAPTER XL VII. 
 
 A FLICKERING LA]^IP. 
 
 It was a boisterous cavalcade that set out for Sturm- 
 hold that afternoon. The Father, it is true, had been 
 but a short time dead, but the Daughter was alive again. 
 She was like one risen from the dead. She had come 
 through the ordeal unscathed. The hot plowshares she 
 bad been called upon to tread beneath her feet had not 
 scorched even the tender soles. When they were ready- 
 to leave the village, they found a procession ready to es- 
 cort them. Men, women and children, almost the entire 
 population of Skendoah, with the brass band in the lead, 
 discoursing triumphant music, marched out of the little 
 square down the narrow street, across the bridge and up 
 the hill beyond. The blue waters of Memnona glittered 
 in the sunshine. Hats and handkerchiefs and banners 
 waved adieu. Shouts and laughter and tears spoke their 
 well wishing. Smiles and tears testified the pleasure that 
 even in her sorrow Hilda gathered from this good-will. 
 A few carriages and a gay group of horsemen escorted 
 the lovers homeward. The air was chill, but the De- 
 cember sun was bright ; the roads were hard, the pace 
 was brisk, and, despite the trace of sorrow, jocund Love 
 led the procession. Sorrow for the dead could not quench 
 the joy of the living. The old life was ended ; the new 
 begun. Trustor and trustee were of the past ; the cestuis 
 que trust had come into their own. All that the past had 
 sown, the present had come to reap. 
 
 As they drew near the gray-turreted mansion, one by 
 one the friends who had borne tb-m company thus far 
 bade them farewell with cheerfu vvords, bright smiles 
 5SS 
 
A FLICKERING LAMP. 589 
 
 and wind-blown kisses. Despite their joy at her return, 
 they felt that only Love might accompany the bereaved 
 daughter within the home made sacred by the memory 
 of one who would not come again, despite her prayers and 
 tears. Leaning upon Martin's arm, and shielded by the 
 veil which had been her refuge from peril, Hilda entered 
 again the temple filled with her father's memory. Oh, 
 how divine the fragrance that clings about the home 
 where love hath dwelt ! The dim, faint memory of a 
 mother's waning life mingled here with the abounding 
 richness of a father's love. His presence was every- 
 where — upon the graveled walk, beside the gate, within 
 the door — wheresoever she turned her eyes she beheld 
 him — her loved, her lost. She saw the servants through 
 her tears — those who had served him. She thanked them 
 with gentle obeisance for the greeting which they gave 
 his daughter. She half resented the presence of Harrison 
 Kortright and the gray -haired dame who greeted her with 
 motherly effusion in the hall. Even Martin seemed to be 
 almost an intrusion at that hour. She broke away from 
 them and rushed along the hall to the great stairway. 
 Then she turned quickly, threw her arms about Martin's 
 neck ; kissed him through her tears, as if she would do 
 penance for her thought ; hid her head upon his breast 
 and wept in his embrace. As she turned away she saw 
 a head thrust out of a door beyond, and a quick, furtive 
 look of surprise and hate shot past her and rested upon 
 Martin. She recognized her old nurse and went forward 
 and spoke pleasantly. A dull, vacant stare was all she 
 received. Then she fled away to her own room, locked 
 the door, and, for the first time since her bereavement, 
 gave way to the sweet, sad luxury of sorrow. 
 
 Of tha- great house which he had builded, three rooms 
 had almost bounded the solitary life of Merwyn Har- 
 grove — the room in which his wife died, that in which 
 his daughter slept and the library where the treasures 
 
590 HOT PL WSHARE8. 
 
 of his unfortunate brother's life were. These con- 
 stituted his home — ah, liow empty now that he would 
 fill it no more with his strong life ! This had been her 
 childhood home. What pleasures had not thronged all 
 the familiar nooks ! Safety, repose, love — home. All 
 good things had come to her within its walls. Without, 
 sorrow and danger and unutterable horror ! Love had 
 met her on this very threshold. In this room she had 
 bent down from her father's arms to press the first kiss 
 on his lips who was now her lover. 
 
 The room adjoining — if the unclosed folding-doors 
 could be said to have separated them — was her father's 
 — the holy of holies, into which she had come each 
 morning since her recollection — a white-robed wor- 
 shipper — a welcome priestess, with her morning greet- 
 ing, to receive her morning kiss. From the tower 
 adjoining this — her mother's sunny boudoir it had been 
 in her life, and nothing there had been disturbed — a nar- 
 row stairway led down to the library, opening with curi- 
 ous art behind a case of books that seemed only to have 
 been thrust out from the wall to make room for the vol- 
 umes upon its crowded shelves. 
 
 How often in her childhood she had risen in the 
 night and sought her father in the library ! How her 
 bare feet pattered down the lonely staircase, and bounded 
 across the warm tufted carpet to the outstretched arms ! 
 How often she knew nothing of the return until she 
 waked to find her father's arms about her in the morn- 
 ing ! Oh, tender, strong-armed father ! Oh, watchful, 
 loving heart I How his presence thrilled her memory 1 
 How his absence chilled her heart ! She knelt by his 
 bedside and wept and prayed. How grateful was her 
 heart that he had been ; how disconsolate that he was 
 not 1 Ah, how passionately she kissed the white, cool 
 pillow — kissed it because his head had pressed it, be- 
 cause it would press it no more 1 
 
A PLtCKERlKG LAMP. 591 
 
 After a time they called her to the evenmg meal. She 
 begged to be left alone. Then Mrs. Kortright came. 
 She would not see her. Jason came afterward, and^ 
 with the privileged persistency of the old servant, 
 knocked until she answered — knocked until she wiped 
 her tear-stained eyes, and opened the door a little way 
 that he might speak to her. He did not ask her to eat — 
 he did not try to persuade, but told her that on the stand 
 before the hearth in the library he had placed a lunch. 
 There was a good fire there that would last all night. If 
 she should get cold or hungry in the night she would re- 
 member the stairway in the tower. The fire made it 
 look "mighty cosy" there, he said, "most as if Marse 
 Merwyn himself were there." She thanked him grate- 
 fully for his deft attention. Then he went away and left 
 her to live over again the life the dead had shaped and 
 blessed. It was not until long afterward, when the night 
 had grown still and her limbs were numbed and chill as 
 if with long embracement of the dead, that youth and 
 health conquered her sorrow, and she stole down the 
 stairs to the library. 
 
 N'o sooner had Hilda arrived at Sturmhold than Harri- 
 son Kortright, with subtle forecast of her wishes, di- 
 rected everything to be removed from the library that 
 could in any manner suggest its occupancy by another 
 since her father's death. During the short time he had 
 been there he had often thought that she might be an- 
 noyed at his presence. Yet he had remained because it 
 seemed his duty to occupy the mansion, and no other 
 room was so home-like and comfortable to him. In truth 
 he seemed to be nearer to the man whose interests he 
 had undertaken to guard there than elsewhere. As soon 
 as she came, however, his couch was taken away, and 
 the lounge that Hargrove had used substituted in its 
 place. His easy-chair and all that could betoken his 
 presence was removed. So when Hilda came softly down 
 
592 HO T PLO WSBARE8. 
 
 the stairway, opened the half-concealed door and stepped 
 into the room, she almost felt as if her father would step 
 forth from some dim alcove to give her welcome. 
 
 The wood-fire had burned low, but a great mass of 
 glowing embers dispensed a comfortable warmth. An 
 easy-chair sat beside the hearth. A shaded lamp cast a 
 soft radiance through the room. She sat down and 
 warmed her chilled hands. After a time she lifted the 
 snowy cloth and began to eat the luncheon that had 
 been provided for her. The keenness of her sorrow had 
 passed away. A sweet drowsy mood, full of tender 
 memories, came over her. Little by little consciousness 
 receded, and she slept. Thought shaped itself into a 
 dream. She was still sitting by the fire in the library, 
 but now she was waiting' for her father's coming. She 
 watched the door, expecting every moment that it would 
 open and admit him. She grew weary with delay, and 
 wondered why he did not come as she dreamed that he 
 had promised. She fancied that some great danger 
 beset him. She thought that he was calling to her, but 
 she could not go. Her limbs were leaden, but each sense 
 was marvelously keen. The wall of the library seemed 
 to open, and she saw beyond. Gradually the personality 
 of her dream changed. Her father faded from her 
 thought, but the sense of peril still remained. Now it 
 was Martin over whom it impended. She was still in 
 the library. He was in his own room — the room in tlie 
 tower tliat matched her mother's boudoir. She knew 
 that he had chosen that since he had lived at Sturmhold, 
 because it had been their play-room in childhood. How 
 strange our dreaming fancies are ! She dreamed that 
 the fii-e rolled out upon the hearth and spread — a livid, 
 seething torrent — to the foot of the stairs that led up to 
 her lover's room. It charred the floor, curled about the 
 steps, caught the banisters, blistered the wall, and gnawed 
 its way slowly upward. 
 
A FLICKERING LAMP. 593 
 
 Then .she saw a figure — who could it be ? It seemed 
 that she ought to recognize it, but she did not, A figure 
 with Avild eyes, disheveled hair, and garments strangely 
 disarrayed. She saw it steal along the hall, burst into 
 the library, rush to her father's desk, tear open the lid, 
 grope nervously about for a while, and then, with a sud- 
 den, eager cry, snatch something from within, and press 
 it to her bosom. The dream had merged into reality. 
 Hilda was wide awake. She saw a woman standing by 
 her father's desk whom she did not know. She had 
 forgotten for the moment that he was dead. She thought 
 a robbery — a wrong to him— was being committed, and 
 sprang forward to prevent it. She clutched the woman 
 by the arm and shrieked for help. The startled rob- 
 ber turned on her assailant. A brand had rolled out 
 upon the hearth and burst into a blaze. Hilda's pale face 
 and black robe stood revealed by its light. A strange 
 look of terrified recognition flashed across the woman's 
 face. The wild, frenzied glare died out of her eyes. She 
 ceased to struggle, shivered, and shrank away. 
 
 " Rietta ! Rietta !" she said in a voice hoarse with ter- 
 ror. Then, with a shriek of mortal fear, she sank down 
 upon the floor a shivering, chattering, shapeless mass, 
 and Hilda recognized her old nurse, the crazed and piti- 
 able Alida. 
 
 Hilda's cries brought the household to the library. 
 When they raised Alida to bear her away, a curiously- 
 wrought key dropped from her hand. As they went past 
 the room in the base of the tower the smell of fire began 
 to pervade the house. The door was locked. They burst 
 it open and found the flame, half-smothered by its own 
 hot breath, creeping slowly up the stairs. It was soon 
 quenched, and the unconscious sleeper above knew not 
 how near the stealthy foot of death had come to him, 
 until he heard a terrified voice calling at his door : and 
 
594 HOT PLOWSHAHES. 
 
 when he answered he heard a fervent " Thank God," as 
 Hilda tripped across tlie liall to her own room and was 
 back in the hbrary ahuost before Mr, Kortright had 
 noted her absence. Martin soon joined them. Hilda 
 told the story of the night, and Mr. Kortright of many 
 other nights. Then Jason came with the key that had 
 dropped from Alida's hand. He said it was the key of 
 the strong box that Merwyn Hargrove had built into the 
 wall of Sturmhold. He had lost it just before he went 
 away, and had more than once bewailed the fact. Then 
 they wondered how Alida came to have it at that time, 
 and Mr. Kortright went to examine the desk. Upon the 
 left a secret drawer lay open to his gaze ; what seemed 
 the framework of the desk, having turned inward on a 
 hinge, disclosed a tiny recess in which a bundle of papers 
 still lay. Mr. Kortright took them up, and, after merely 
 glancing at the indorsements, handed them to Hilda. 
 There were ten of them, and the indorsements corres- 
 ponded with those upon the wrapper in the possession of 
 Jared Clarkson, as Mr. Kortright noted at once. In the 
 meantime Jason was searching among the same books 
 Alida had been wont to examine, for the missing volume. 
 Hilda remembered having seen it in her father's room. 
 When she had brought it, Jason turned it over until he 
 found a blue mark drawn around the paging. This was 
 the combination on Avhich the safe was locked He drew 
 the heavy desk away from the wall, and quickly threw 
 back a panel of the wainscoting and revealed a small 
 vault filled with papers, A brief examination showed 
 that this hidden store-house contained neither deeds nor 
 bonds nor any evidence of debt or thing of appreciable 
 value, but only the records of love — letters and mementos 
 of the wife he had never ceased to mourn — the letters 
 they had exchanged as lovers, and afterward as husband 
 and wife. There were some letters in a cramped Italian 
 hand from Hilda's grandfather, and a large package of 
 
A FLICKERING LAMP. 595 
 
 them from Miss Fanny Errickson, in regard to the little 
 nursling which had been left in her care. This was 
 the name which Jason had persisted in calling Rickson. 
 By these, Hilda's history might be traced almost day by 
 day from the hour her mother left her, in Kingston, until 
 the good lady, then on her way to England after her 
 father's death, had written: "I send this by Captain 
 Hargrove, who has been laughing and crying by turns for 
 an hour, over the sturdy little girl I have brought him 
 instead of the puny babe he remembers. She is indeed 
 a beautiful child, and I hope that in the happy life before 
 her she may not quite forget her volunteer nurse, who 
 only wishes she might never part with her little Hilda." 
 
 " It is strange," said Martin, ": that Alida should have 
 known where the key was hidden." 
 
 " Good reason why she knew," exclaimed Jason. " She 
 put it there herself. I could most take my oath Captain 
 Hargrove never knowed of that little till. I never heard 
 of it, certain. Besides, he told me himself the key was 
 lost." 
 
 "But how did she know where to find the combina- 
 tion?" 
 
 " Jest watched till she found where he kept it," replied 
 Jason. " I told Marse Merwyn that woman was always 
 spyin' round. But he said it didn't make no sort of difler- 
 ence. There was nothing for her to find out, and she 
 was a poor, no-'count creature at the best, and could do 
 no sort of harm to any one. It seems she did find out 
 something, though, and might have done a power of 
 harm." 
 
 " What do you suppose Avas her purpose ?" asked Hilda 
 of Harrison Kortright. 
 
 "It is hard to tell," said he with a sigh, "just what 
 she meant to do. She had undoubtedly M^atched your 
 father at his desk, and was perhaps aware of the nature 
 of his communication to Clarkson. Her malady, per- 
 
596 EOT PLOWSHARES. 
 
 haps, was less serious then than now. She had dwelt 
 upon the idea that you were her daughter until it had 
 become the controlling idea of her disordered mind. She 
 probably removed these papers from the envelope and 
 substituted others, not, perhaps, thinking of the charac- 
 ter of those put in their places so much as the abstrac- 
 tion of these." 
 
 "But why should she wish the key to this vault ?" in- 
 quired Hilda. 
 
 "For the same reason, probably," said Kortright. 
 "She seems to have thought that if she could destroy 
 the evidence that you were the daughter of Merwyu 
 Hargrove, you would of necessity be considered as her 
 child." 
 
 " So you think her purpose was to destroy them ?" 
 
 " Originally that was her design, without a doubt. Of 
 late, in her nightly intervals of semi-lucidity she seems to 
 have had a distinct purpose. Her crazed brain remem- 
 bered that there was something at the left of the desk 
 that she wanted. She had half-forgotten what it was 
 and where she had hidden it. She dimly remembered, 
 also, that there was something in that set of books that 
 was somehow connected with lier general design. I doubt 
 if she knew what it was. She no doubt opened the drawer 
 to-night by accident, or the sight of Martin may have 
 stimulated her memory so that she recollected where it 
 was. The possession of the key may, perhaps, have en- 
 abled her to recall what it was she Avished to find in the 
 i)ook she was accustomed to examine on her nightly visits 
 to the library, or it may be that she only knew that your 
 father always looked at the book before opening the safe, 
 and had no distinct idea what it was she sought." 
 
 " Poor Alida !" sighed Hilda. 
 
 Aye, poor indeed ! Her life had exemplified the fearful 
 possibilities for horror that a system destined to swift de- 
 struction held. After a life of shame and sorrow and 
 
A FLICKERING LAMP. 597 
 
 misery her poor crazed brain was .soon to be at rest. 
 When one came searching for her a few days afterward, 
 in order that a mother's crime might be in part atoned, 
 he was just in time to gaze upon a still, cold face, note a 
 birth-mark, which the abundant iron-gray hair had hid, 
 and stand by her open grave. 
 
 "Poor Lida," repeated Hilda, as she thought of the 
 woes that had beset the life of one Avhose worst fault had 
 been an unreasoning love for her. Tears fell fast as she 
 thought what Alida had suffered and she herself had es- 
 caped. 
 
 Aye,, weep gentle heiress of sweet memories ! The last 
 plowshare is overpast. Ah, not the last ! The children 
 of George Eighmie, whom your father has given you in 
 charge to watch over — what of them ? 
 
CHAPTER XLVIII. 
 
 SOME BITS OF GOSSIP. 
 
 AiiY Hargrove had at length an answer to her letter. 
 It was very brief, merely referring her to a letter which 
 the writer had sent to Miss HuuniAvell. So, in response 
 to her request, the teacher visited her convalescent 
 pupil, taking with her the letter alluded to. It was 
 from the president of the Bank of the Metropolis, and 
 was in response to one of the circular letters she had 
 sent out announcing the discontinuance of the school for 
 the time being, and inclosing bill for Amy's board and 
 tuition. 
 
 She had also suggested that because of the injury Amy 
 had received she might require more than her usual 
 allowance for the term. It was in this manner that all 
 of Amy's bills had been paid, and all communication 
 with her guardian had been made through the president 
 of the bank. To this letter Miss Hunniwell received 
 the following reply : 
 
 "Madame: I have yours of the 8tli lust., and inclose 
 draft for the amount of your bill. In response to your 
 farther suggestion, it may be well for me to state that the 
 remainder of the sum deposited with me for the benefit of 
 Miss Amy Hargrove amounts to $674.43, which will be 
 paid to your order or to hers. In case she should desire to 
 draw on us, however, we should require your indorsement 
 as a guarantee that the money actually readied her hands. 
 
 "I deem it proper to state here that no farther responsi- 
 bility will be assumed on account of the young lady by 
 the person who made this deposit. It is needless, there- 
 fore, to advise prudence in its expenditure. It will in-oh- 
 598 
 
BITS OF GOSSIP. 599 
 
 ably suffice to carry her through the next term, when it 
 would be wise for her to seek some means of self-support. 
 
 "To avoid needless inquiry, it may be well for me to 
 add that I am strictly prohibited from disclosing the name 
 of the party who provided this fund, save upon his written 
 request or that of his legal representatives. 
 
 "With the utmost sympathy for the young lady and 
 yourself, I am your obedient servant, 
 
 "Willis Kenyon, President^ 
 
 Amy's pinched, cold face became ashen in its pallor 
 as she read this letter, and tossing back her curls looked 
 up at the teacher with a wild terror in her great black 
 eyes. Her lips grew white, and a shiver passed through 
 her frame as she asked huskily : 
 
 " What does it mean V" 
 
 "I do not know," said the teacher kindly. 
 
 There came to Jared Ciarkson, while yet at Burling- 
 dale, by the hand of a brisk young attorney, a letter 
 from Matthew Bartlemy to this effect : 
 
 "My Dear Sir: I can hardly make out what you are 
 all doing up there in Blankshire. Why you haven't put 
 Eighmie where he can have a chance to cool his heels in 
 solitude before this, I cannot imagine. However, I suppose 
 you know. I 'm almost sorry for the man, too. He wouldn't 
 have been half the fool he is if his counsel, Bob Gilman, 
 was not so powerful sharp that he can't use the little 
 sense the Lord gave him. He was just possessed with the 
 idea that Hilda was George Eighmie's child, and had been 
 adopted by Hargrove as his own in order to conceal her 
 identity. I don't know why he took up the notion unless 
 it was just because that was a thing no human being that 
 had a grain of sense would ever think of doing. I knew 
 Gilman had that idea years ago, and I must say I was foolish 
 enough, one while, to be a little afraid it might be true. I 
 even went so far as to sound Hargrove on it myself. But, 
 
600 HOI PLOWSHAMES. 
 
 bless your heart, I never was more ashamed of a thing in my 
 life. Why there wasn't a quiver in his eye nor a flush on his 
 face as he spoke of it. A half-amused, half-pitying smile stole 
 round his mouth as he referred to it, evidently not dreaming 
 that any one but a crazy woman cou^ld entertain such an 
 idea. I didn't say anything about it when I came back, 
 because I had a notion that some time or other Gilman 
 would burn his fingers with it, just as he has. That letter 
 to you that was found on Hargrove's body clinched this no- 
 tion in his mind, and I must say it did squint that way 
 mighty strong. If I had not known better I might have 
 weakened then. But I knew a man had better try to walk 
 on water than think of standing on that hypothesis. So I 
 only laughed to myself, and watched to see where I could 
 put in to advantage in Oilman's game. I had no fear for 
 Hilda, though I cannot quite understand that letter. Har- 
 grove was a mighty careful man about his papers, and I have 
 no doubt you have the whole riddle at your fingers' ends 
 before now. What has become of Hilda, though, it puzzles 
 me to make out. It isn't like the girl to run away. She 
 don't come of running stock, and always seemed to have 
 spirit enough to do credit to her blood. From what the 
 papers say it looks as if there was something you were 
 afraid of. Knowing it cannot be Hilda, I have wondered 
 if it could be that Eighmie's mistake was nearer what he 
 wished than the game he expected to bag. 
 
 "However, I will not try to make any guesses at this dis- 
 tance, bv\t tell you why I send the bearer to you now. He 
 brings almost conclusive proof — indeed I think it is conclu- 
 sive — that the mother of Alida was never a slave, conse- 
 quently Alida was not a slave, and Eighmie's marriage 
 with her was valid. This evidence consists of the sworn 
 confession of a woman who has lately died, to the effect 
 that she was delivered of an illegitimate female child at the 
 house of Dr. Gant, which she left in his care — or rather to 
 his pity — for, though she gave him a hundred dollars more 
 than he stipulated for his services, she made no conditions 
 
BITS OF GOSSIP. 601 
 
 about the child. Indeed, she avers that she never saw it 
 but once, and expressly told him she had no desire to see it 
 again. She had been sent to Dr. Gant under an assumed 
 name, in order to conceal her disgrace, and never in- 
 formed the doctor what her real name was. She thought 
 little of the matter until many years afterward, when, a 
 childless widow, she began to mourn for the babe she had 
 so inhumanly cast away among strangers. Before that, 
 however, the doctor had died, and her agent could get no 
 clue to the girl's identity. He happened to strike on me, 
 and told me enough of the story to awaken my suspicion 
 that the daughter was Alida. As the woman was still alive, 
 at that time, and was not exactly ready to admit the whole 
 truth, however, I only hinted at what I knew. At the same 
 time, I made up my mind that if I heard of Salathiel Jenkins 
 being in this state I would get the ti-utli out of him so far as 
 he knew it. There were one or two old things hanging over 
 Jenkins that I knew would incline him mightily toward 
 truth-telling if he could hope thereby to keep me from 
 hooking on to him. After a while I got hold of Jenkins sure 
 enough, and he gave the affidavit which Mr. Torrens will 
 show you. I ought to have said before that the bearer is 
 Alfred Torrens, Esq., of Gleason, Torrens & Torrens, Attor- 
 neys, Washington — a most respectable firm. You probably 
 know the old man Torrens, as he is very much of an Aboli- 
 tionist, though not quite as rank as you. This affidavit closes 
 up the gap pretty closely. The dates agree with the woman's 
 confession, and the doctor's letters, to which he refers, give 
 the name by which the woman was known while under 
 Gaut's care. It evidently lay on the doctor's conscience, for 
 Jenkins says he tried repeatedly to find the girl, but he 
 always blocked the way by telling him that he had forgotten 
 what he did with her. I suspect there was some blackmail- 
 ing, if not some kidnapping done by Jenkins in the matter. 
 The woman has left property, I think, to this daughter, or 
 her descendants, under some sort of impossible conditions 
 which Mr. Torrens will explain to you if he sees fit. I 
 
G02 HO T PLO W SHARES. 
 
 infer that the gist of them is that the beneficiaries t^liall take 
 the testatrix's name, and that her youthful frailty shall be 
 entirely concealed. Whether you can aid him or not de- 
 pends, I think, on whether you understand Hargrove's let- 
 ter to you. If you do you probably have the clue in your 
 hand. If you do not, the Lord only knows where the young 
 man will have to go to find that necessary bit of thread. 
 
 "My chief interest in the matter is that it cuts Gilman's 
 folks out of all chance to recover Mallowbanks or mulct 
 Hargrove's executors in damages for his spoliation of the 
 estate in manumitting the slaves. We can close the whole 
 thing up now, and when the little girl Hilda comes of age or 
 marries, she can step right into an unincumbered inherit- 
 ance, which I hope she will enjoy, as her father had trouble 
 enough over other people's folly. By the way, please give 
 the child my regards, and' tell her that when it does come 
 off — her marriage, I mean — old Matthew Bartlemy will ex- 
 pect an invitation, and is going to come all the way to 
 Sturmhold to drink her health and dance the first set with 
 the bride. Though I svispect the son of that clear-headed 
 Dutch- Yankee, Kortright, v/ill find the gal and marry her 
 before you find even which way she has gone. 
 
 "Please write me all that you think would make me feel 
 good about your experience with Oilman's clients. He 's 
 so sick of his relief expedition now that he has taken to his 
 bed. I don't allow that he shall forget it Avhile I live either. 
 'I suppose the suits here might as well be closed out 
 now. You might get a power-of-attorney out of Eighmie, 
 allowing me to enter judgment. If you have him by the 
 wrist, as I suppose, he will no doubt be in a 'disposing 
 mind,' as the law phrases it, and let you have about any- 
 thing you choose to ask for. Yours faithfully, 
 
 "M. Baktlemy. 
 
 " P. S. — I will send in my bill against the estate as soon 
 as I have everything completed. I suppose this matter will 
 set you^ against slavery worse than ever, and I admit that 
 it is a pretty hard thing. After all, it is not fair to judge 
 an institwtion by its worst features or its accidental results. 
 
BITS OF GOSSIP. G03 
 
 One miglit just as well denounce the town-meeting because 
 there are paupers in New England, as declaim against slavery 
 because such cases as Alida's are possible. Such fool busi- 
 ness as running all over the North hunting niggers, whether 
 it is lawful or not, will soon end the whole matter. The 
 fact is that slavery only exists now by the tolerance of the 
 North. They have the power and a constantly-increasing 
 numerical predominance. Our fire-eaters laugh at this, but 
 when the tug comes, it is the most men and the most money 
 that wins. I think that in less than twenty years this ques- 
 tion will be decided. If it ever comes to an open rupture 
 with the North, likely niggers will not be worth fifty cents 
 a head when the controversy is over. The whole political 
 atmosphere seems to me feverish and excited. If the Seces- 
 sionists and Abolitionists could all be hanged, we might 
 have peace long enough for those that are left to die of old 
 age. That would be hard for you and your friends, but I 
 don't see any other way. By the way, what do you think 
 of that fellow Jason ? Do they ever raise such servants any- 
 where except in a state of slavery ? That man only cost 
 Hargrove about six hundred dollars, and he 's worth his 
 weight in gold. Tell Miss Hilda never to let him go out 
 of her service under any circumstances. Yours, 
 
 "M. B." 
 
 Gilbert Anderson, before he attempted the rescue of 
 Hilda, was an unknown country minister. Ten years of 
 honest work among the New England hills, though not 
 without results of which we need not be ashamed, had 
 certainly been barren of fame. Within a week there- 
 after the East and the West were engaged in clamorous 
 rivalry for his possession. His unquestioning manhood 
 had struck a chord in the hearts of the people that was 
 to make him welcome throughout the land. Without 
 knowing it he had become a hero. Telegrams and let- 
 ters poi;i-ed in upon him at a rate he had never dreamed 
 of. It was evident that this modest yet self-reliant ex- 
 
004 HO T PLO WSHARE8. 
 
 pounder of the Divine Word would ere long leave the 
 little hamlet in the Kew England hills to take part in the 
 endless Armageddon within the walls of some great city. 
 
 Jared Clarkson was charmed with the manly earnest- 
 ness and simplicity of this country clergyman. The 
 more he saw of him the deeper grew this favorable im- 
 pression, and, with characteristic heartiness, he neglected 
 no opportunity to speak of him in his letters in terms 
 that were certain to enhance the regard of those who 
 read. During his entire stay in Burlingdale the good 
 pastor's library was his favorite resort. Upon the last 
 of his accustomed visits Mr. Torreiis accompanied him, 
 and while Clarkson disputed with the pastor about theo- 
 logy in the library, the young lawyer conversed with 
 Amy Hargrove in the parlor. 
 
 Of what they spoke none ever knew, but when, two 
 days afterward, Mr. Torrens started on his return, Amy 
 Hargrove went with him. From that day none who 
 had known her ever heard her name again. A few 
 months afterward Gilbert Anderson received a draft 
 almost equal to a year's salary. It was mailed in New 
 York, but there was no clue to the source from which it 
 came. He was greatly troubled about accepting so large 
 a sum from an unknown donor. His wife insisted that 
 it was meant as payment for what they had done for their 
 strange, involuntary guest, and, considering the facts, not 
 at all excessive. As it came at a time when such a wind- 
 fall was peculiarly acceptable in making preparation for 
 the new field of labor in the far western city, his objec- 
 tion was at length overruled and the draft was cashed. 
 After all, the good woman's speculations were more 
 fanciful than real. 
 
 The affair at Beechwood is one of those mysteries that 
 are never cleared up to the satisfaction of the public. 
 There were many guesses at the truth, but none ever 
 
BITS OF GOSSIP. G05 
 
 knew whether they were right or wrong. The data on 
 which tliey were based consisted chiefly of tliese facts : 
 Sherwood Eighmie and his confederates were allowed to 
 depart on merely nominal bail. This bail was forfeited, 
 and the suits, public and private, were allowed to die of 
 sheer indifference on the part of the prosecution. When 
 Eighmie returned to his home the litigation between 
 "Eighmie et al. and Hargrove's executors" was dis- 
 missed on the plaintiffs' motion and at their cost. From 
 these facts the people in and about Burlingdale concluded 
 tbat public justice had been bargained for private right. 
 They could only have been half right at best, but those 
 who held these views were stimulated thereby to a more 
 active antagonism to slavery. These facts occasioned 
 much comment also in the region where Sherwood Eigh- 
 mie lived, but he kept his own counsel. There it was 
 generously believed that public sentiment in Blankshire 
 had balked the law, and that, in order to save himself 
 and his fellows from troublesome and endless prosecu- 
 tion in a hostile community, he had agreed to surrender 
 his rights, and had chivalrously kept his word. In the 
 minds of all who accepted this view, it tended not a little 
 to fasten the conviction that the South could not look for 
 any justice at the hands of the North, but only envy, 
 chicanery and hate. Kot long afterward Eighmie entered 
 into possession of Mallowbanks, by what right no one 
 knew ; but, as nobody appeared to dispute his possession, 
 he continued to hold it. Years afterward there was found 
 upon the Register's books of Clayburn county the record 
 of two quit-claim deeds of the plantation known as Mal- 
 lowbanks, situate in said county, properly described by 
 metes and bounds, one executed to Hilda Hargrove by 
 Heloise Eighmie, and the other to Sherwood Eighmie 
 by Hilda Hargrove. As these constituted color of title 
 in him, his possession became, in the course of years, 
 an indefeasible right. 
 
CHAPTER XLIX. 
 
 THE HARVESTING. 
 
 Another year had passed. Tlie Man and the Houi 
 had come. The cuhnination of half a century's thought 
 was at hand. It was a bright day in October. Where a 
 majestic current bursts its way through solid granite 
 Avails, nestling in the shadow of overhanging mountains, 
 was a little hamlet turbulent with wild excitement. The 
 pomp of war was strangely interspersed with the garb of 
 peace. Turmoil and frenzy, bravado and fear, were cu- 
 riously mingled. A piebald soldiery mimicked with quaint 
 oddity the duties which the veteran performs uncon- 
 sciously. A little squad of men in blue uniforms, under di- 
 rection of a grave-faced man of middle age, constituted 
 the centre of attraction. A cordon of sentinels was drawn 
 around an open space near the river-bank. A long low 
 building, with a double doorway that occupied almost the 
 whole front, stood at the end of this space. Outside this 
 line of sentinels pressed the populace, citizen soldiers and 
 rustics, old and 3'oung, crowding upon each other to see 
 Avhat was within. 
 
 It was not much, j-et none who saw it — aye, none Avho 
 read of it in the journals of that day — will ever forget it. 
 Within that narrow space an old man lay upon the ground. 
 A blood-stained blanket underneath his helpless limbs. A 
 son upon his right hand dying. Upon his left another, dead. 
 The sun beat upon his bare head. Eager crowds ques- 
 tioned and jeered. The blood oozed through the matted 
 liair and ran slowly down his neck. A wound upon his 
 forehead was half hidden by a handkerchief, grimy and 
 
THE HARYESTIXG. 607 
 
 discolored. Sweat and dust and blood were upon his face 
 and hands. The surgeons said he could not live. 
 
 This old man, with less than a score of followers, had 
 startled the world from slumber. In every Southern state 
 the call to arms was heard. Patrols were doubled. Slaves 
 were watched. Terror came to every home in a dozen 
 states. The sunshine hid unnumbered perils. The womb 
 of night was big with horrors. Thousands were in hourly 
 fear. Millions slept in terror many a night thereafter. 
 He had fallen. His insane attempt had failed. The 
 magazine on which the South had builded was yet un- 
 fired. The insurrection of a day was at an end. The 
 flags of two states waved triumphantly over him. The 
 Stars and Stripes proudly attested the supremacy of the 
 Constitution and the laws. A few dead bodies were in 
 sight. Here and there others lay upon the public way — 
 within the shattered building, on the rocks in the turgid 
 river — some black, some white. Even death could not 
 protect them. Insult pursued their poor still clay. Men 
 shot the dead. Pools of blood were about the streets. 
 
 Even in his weakened, broken plight the old man was 
 leonine in look and gesture, A word of comfort to the 
 dying son, of pity for the one already dead, but of his 
 OAvn sad hurt no word. No murmur of complaint, no moan 
 of pain. To those who stood over him plying his ebbing 
 strength with fierce inquisition, his replies were clear and 
 calm. To those who uttered curses, he found breath to 
 administer reproof Even cowards were compelled to ad- 
 mire his courage, and those who hated most to admit his 
 sincerity. " The bravest man I ever saw, " said one whose 
 own courage many a bloody field afterwards attested. 
 "No man ever lived before who was at all like him," said 
 another, who bent over him that day and sought to drag 
 from his lips the story of some great conspiracy — some 
 Catilinian revolt against " the best government the sun 
 ever shone upon." In vain. At the top and bottom, 
 
608 HOT PL WSRARES. 
 
 the beginning and the end, there was but one man — one 
 thought, one name — John Brown. Not boastful nor am- 
 bitious ; not seeking power or wealth ; not looking to 
 overthrow a nation or found a dynasty — the one man 
 "unlike all other men" had drawn unto himself a few 
 whose hearts were fused with the fervor of his own high 
 purpose, and had undertaken a movement perilous and 
 rash beyond any in history. 
 
 The Martyr had appeared. Self-immolated he lay 
 upon the soil of Virginia. The world knows the story. 
 That "strange Mr. Brown," as Hilda had called him. 
 "Old Brown, of Ossawatamie," as his enemies named 
 him. "Old man Brown," as the most friendly of the 
 metropolitan journals of that day termed him. "Cap- 
 tain John Brown," as he modestly avowed himself upon 
 his capture — the incarnation of a thought that already 
 colored with its fervid glow the life of one-half of a great 
 people — John Brown had offered himself and the poor 
 lives that clung to his a sacrifice for liberty and a protest 
 against slavery. " Guilty," said they who saw only the 
 blood that flowed. "Mad," said they who pitied. "A 
 fool," cried those who measured his act by their own 
 weak spirit. " Unlike all other men," said the statesman 
 who saw and wondered. " John Brown," is all the world 
 has yet found to say of him. Uncomprehended, because 
 the world has so few standai'ds by which he might be 
 measured. Eevered as a martyr through one-half the 
 land. Execrated as a monster by the other. Looked 
 upon with reverence in many thousand Xorthern homes. 
 A name of terror at every Southern fireside. To the 
 North the forerunner of justice and liberty. To the 
 South the incarnation of bloodshed, rapine, woe ! To 
 the one his act meant aggression. To the other his execu- 
 tion meant defiance. When he died, throughout the 
 North the church-bells tolled and praj^er was uttered for 
 the passing soul. In the South thanksgiving was offered 
 
THE HARVESTINO. 609 
 
 for deliverance from evil. John Brown ! Monster and 
 Martyr ; Conspirator and Saint ; Murderer and Libera- 
 tor ; Cause and Consequence ! Animating one-lialf the 
 land to emulate his example ; stimulating the other to 
 meet aggression ; inciting both to the shedding of blood ! 
 
 Brave, humble, single-hearted, simple living. Seeking 
 not his own gain. Cruel in the scathing intensity of 
 his hate for wrong. Grand in the impossibility of his 
 attempt. Sublime in his faith that through his death 
 the purpose of his life would be performed. The climax 
 of one age and the harbinger of another ! 
 
 Upon the bridge that spans the river stands a restless 
 crowd gazing at a half-naked body that lies upon a rock 
 midway of the rushing stream. It is long since dead, but 
 many a shot is fired at the bare breast and cold, set face 
 that overhangs the eddy that boils beneath. 
 
 " D'ye see that mark upon his face ?" said one. 
 
 "For all the world like 'Lathiel Jenkins," answered 
 his fellow, curiously. 
 
 " Don't you know him ?" 
 
 "No." 
 
 "Why, it's that boy .'Lathiel used to own— the one 
 that run away." 
 
 " You don't say ?" 
 
 "Yes; I knew he'd go to the bad. He was always 
 saying he 'd ' rather die than he a slave.'' " 
 
 " Well, he 's had his choice," said the other carelessly. 
 
 " Yes," was the reply. "It 's a pity, too. He was a 
 right likely boy if he hadn't been so high-strung. " 
 
 Skendoah has a holiday once more. The wheels are 
 still ; the looms silent ; the factories closed. The houses 
 are decked with flags. Martial music echoes through 
 the streets. A thousand bayonets catch the sunbeams. 
 The tread of serried ranks is almost drowned by the 
 clatter of attendant feet upon the sidewalks. There are 
 
610 HO T PLO WSRARES. 
 
 moist eyes and quivering lips. Mothers and wives and 
 sisters are sacrificing to the sentiment of freedom. Sken- 
 doah has given of its best and bravest. A thousand 
 households have yielded up a chosen life — a first-born or 
 a best-beloved. In the front rides one with grave, flushed 
 face, still young. The end of preparation and of waiting 
 has come at length. He is not one man but a thousand. 
 Behind him are the ripening years. The labors of a 
 generation have brought forth fruit. The lost lake yields 
 up iti^ treasures. The busy years have transmuted into 
 gold the waters of Memnona. Skendoah sends its heroes 
 forth, equipped for the soldier's work, and Martin Kort- 
 right leads them. 
 
 The train is filled ; the engine puffs and shrieks ; the 
 crowd cheers lustily ; the tears are hidden and the sighs 
 are drowned. In an open barouche stands a fair young 
 wife whose eyes are bright and dry, waving a farewell. So 
 long as the train is in sight the spotless signal of her 
 love waves good cheer to the departed. When the last 
 glimpse of it is lost she bows her head upon the shoulder 
 of the gray, decrepit man who sits beside her, and 
 utters to the coachman the one word, "Home!" Ah! 
 how sobbingly weak and vain it sounds ! Sturmhold once 
 more has lost its master. As they drive through the 
 thronged streets — past the silent factories, across the 
 bridge above the empty channel, and see the soft spring 
 sunlight kissing the blue waters of Memnona, Harrison 
 Kortright waves his hand toward the quiet lake, the 
 clustered homes, the silent caverns where the gnomes of 
 labor sleep, and says : 
 
 "This day cometh the Harvest !" 
 
 The nation faces the ordeal the Past has prepared. 
 Hot Plowshares lie along her path and she is led 
 blindfold and barefoot to the trial. The ages wait to sit 
 in judgment ! 
 
 [the end.] 
 
BULLET AND SHELL 
 
 aaiar as t\)t Soltricr saiu it : 
 
 CAITT, MARCH AND PICKET ; BATTLE - FIELD AND BIV(1UAC ; 
 PRISON AND HOSPITAL. 
 
 By GEORGE F. WILLIAMS. 
 
 OF THE 5th and 146TH REGIMENTS NEW YORK VOLUNTEERS, AND WAR CORRESPONDENT 
 
 WITH THE ARMY OF THE POTOMAC, THE ARMY OF THE SHENANDOAH, 
 
 AND THE ARMY OF THE CUMBERLAND, 
 
 3Uusti-att& 
 
 WITH ENGRAVINGS FROM SKETCHES AMONG THE ACTUAL SCENES 
 
 By EDWIN FORBES, 
 
 " Histories of the war by generals and civilians are numberless, but the story 
 of the struggle from the stand-point of the private soldier is only just beginning 
 to find its way into print. . . . It Is a pleasure to be able to heartily endorse 
 'Bullet and Shell.' "—Chicago Tribune. 
 
 " Many of the Incidents belong to the hitherto unwritten history of the re- 
 bellion."— iVeiv York Times. 
 
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 novel."— C/iicago Inter-Ocean. 
 
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 been told so graphically."— P/ii/a. Evening BuUetin. 
 
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 and frequent close personal glimpses it gives of men whose renown has passed 
 into history."— C/itcafiro Times. 
 
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 Civil War that has been published. . . . Presents in brilliant lights and deep 
 shadows a photograph of actual army life."— Boston Globe 
 
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 dotes and incidents which make up so large a part of army life and so small a 
 part of ordinary army histories. Though a large volume, it has more pith than 
 padding, and to old soldiers especially it will prove most entertaining."— i)e(roit 
 
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 ble delineations. . . . We know of no more stirring and soul-inspiring book. 
 It is a story to delight the old soldier's heart."— iV. T. Commercial Advertiser. 
 
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 French Etching Club."— Boston Literary Woiid. 
 
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A CONCISE HISTORY 
 
 OF THE 
 
 American People. 
 
 By JACOB HARRIS PATTON, A.M. 
 Author of " The Natural Resources of the United States," etc. 
 
 Twenty five years ago, Prof. Patton, then a teacher of histor}-, began 
 collecting materials and casting into shape this important work, very much 
 on the plan later adopted in " Green's History of the English People." The 
 complete work, in two volumes, is a History of the United States from the 
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