WASHINGTON 
 
 rnia 
 1 
 
 JANET A. FAIRBANK 
 
 1
 
 COLLEG- 
 l.os ANGELES

 
 THE CORTLANDTS 'of 
 WASHINGTON SQUARE
 
 The Cortlandts 
 
 Washington Square 
 
 BY 
 JANET A. FAIRBANK 
 
 GROSSET & DUN LAP 
 
 PUBLISHERS NEW YORK 
 
 Made in the United State* of America
 
 COPYRIGHT, 1922 
 BY THE BOBBS-MERRUJ- COMPANY 
 
 Printed in the United States of America.
 
 To 
 K.F. 
 
 S135497 *
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 CHAPTER PAGE 
 
 I NEWS :.i:.-;. I 
 
 II TRANSPLANTED : > , . n 
 
 III TAKING ROOT 33 
 
 IV ESCAPADES 43 
 
 V ROYALTY 56 
 
 VI WAR AND A DEBUT 70 
 
 VII A PROMISE 85 
 
 VIII LETTERS . 102 
 
 IX OUT AND IN in 
 
 X SERIOUS BUSINESS 123 
 
 XI HOSPITALS 131 
 
 XII WASHINGTON 'SIXTY-ONE 149 
 
 XIII FLIGHT .163 
 
 XIV CHRISTMAS IN WASHINGTON SQUARE .... 170 
 XV DENSLEY HOWARD 183 
 
 XVI DENSLEY HOWARD (Continued) 198 
 
 XVII TRAGEDY 208 
 
 XVIII ACTION 217 
 
 XIX ADVENTURES 235 
 
 XX GETTYSBURG 255 
 
 XXI OVER NIGHT 269 
 
 XXII EN ROUTE 284 
 
 XXIII RIOTS 299 
 
 XXIV HENDRICKS AND PETER 312 
 
 XXV COMPANIONSHIP 323 
 
 XXVI A PROPOSAL 330 
 
 XXVII COURTSHIP 336 
 
 XXVIII MARRIAGE 356 
 
 XXIX HONEYMOONING . . 375 
 
 XXX THE END OF THE RAINBOW ......... 382
 
 THE CORTLANDTS of 
 WASHINGTON SQUARE
 
 THE CORTLANDTS 
 OF WASHINGTON SQUARE 
 
 CHAPTER I 
 
 NEWS 
 
 A LITTLE girl of ten years was clearing the snow 
 from a path leading to the side door of a farm-house 
 so small that it barely emerged from its brilliant 
 setting. Its walls, a soiled yellow-white, poked out 
 of the drifts with an air of innocent disreputability, 
 and its long roof dipped deep into the solid snow. 
 The child put an amazing amount of effort into her 
 work, and the feathery stuff flew from her wooden 
 shovel, in wide and glittering parabolas, as she finished 
 each stroke. She did not pause until she reached the 
 gate; then she straightened her slim back experiment- 
 ally, and breathed deep of the frosty air. She looked 
 critically back at the cleared path and dug her shovel 
 into the deeper snow outside the fence, but this was 
 heavy work, and, moreover, not hers, so after a tenta- 
 tive gouge or two, she gave it up and retreated to the 
 gate, -which stood open, sagging on primitive hinges'. 
 With a wide sweep of her mittened hand she cleared 
 the top rail of its encumbrance of snow, and swung 
 herself up to perch there. She sat, a funny, hunched 
 little figure in a tight jacket, and a full and too short 
 skirt which betrayed to a censorious world extraordi- 
 
 I
 
 2 THE CORTLANDTS 
 
 narily knobby long legs. She was a red-haired child, 
 with an eager wedge of a face that took no color 
 from the keen wind off the New York hills; against 
 the pallor of her cheeks her lips showed brilliantly 
 red, and her eyes gloomed deep and ceremonious above 
 an impudent nose. On the whole, she looked rather 
 a difficult little girl ; the old gate creaked, protestingly. 
 She gazed out indifferently at the sharp winter 
 landscape. . . . Yesterday in church the minister 
 had talked of missionaries. . . . Yellow sands 
 and black skins, across wide and tumultuous seas 
 . . . strange foods, and flaring flowers . . . palm- 
 trees. . . . The child turned up her narrow palm 
 and scrutinized it. Palm-trees? She turned her hand 
 over and held it experimentally above the snow heaped 
 on the gate-post; it threw a soft violet shadow with 
 a sharp edge. ... Of course palm-trees in a 
 thirsty land! Her opportunity for reading had been 
 limited, but from stern and daily Bible lessons she had 
 a definite, if unadjusted, impression of the Orient. 
 Lovely words ran in and out of her mind. . . . 
 A land of milk and honey, cows and bees, nothing 
 so strange in that, and spicery and balm and myrrh, 
 whatever they might be, borne by that vague animal, 
 a camel. . . . Cedars in Lebanon. . . . 
 Dates. Once she had eaten a date, an odd and de- 
 licious albeit somewhat musty morsel. . . . Oases, 
 and strangely convivial wells. . . . Savages, all- 
 delightful thought sinners! Suppose she were a 
 missionary : a lady missionary, with sleek and obedi-
 
 NEWS 3 
 
 ent black hair, and beautiful, more lovely even than 
 her mother, so that it would be easy to save souls. 
 She would live in a little house, and have a great many 
 children, missionaries did, she had mistily gathered, 
 and no one in the whole of Africa, a large place, 
 she reflected triumphantly, would save souls as well 
 as she. She would have to cross the ocean, and be 
 shipwrecked. This was accustomed ground, for she was 
 an inland child, and was always playing shipwreck. 
 Sometimes she was the captain gloriously going down 
 with the ship; sometimes his wife, saving him in spite 
 of himself; sometimes just a little girl, just Ann, 
 straining out over the prow of a laboring boat, the 
 only one to see the light that meant disaster. . . . 
 Sharks thick in African waters, and reefs. . . . 
 
 A lean little boy, whose red stockings and cap made 
 a brilliant splash of color in the white landscape, came 
 whistling down the road. The little girl paid no atten- 
 tion to him, and when he reached the gate he paused 
 with elaborate casualness to scoop up a handful of 
 snow. 
 
 "Mad?" he inquired, stopping to roll a snowball in 
 his mittened hands. 
 
 She swept a careless glance over him. "I guess 
 so," she returned indifferently. 
 
 "Well, you hadn't ought to be! You wanted me 
 to kiss you." 
 
 "They are always doing it in books. I wanted to 
 se^ what it was like." 
 
 '"li wasn't my fault. I didn't want to much."
 
 4 THE CORTLANDTS 
 
 "You don't need to, again." 
 
 The boy colored resentfully. "A girl with red 
 hair," he scoffed. 
 
 There was a pause, while the old gate wriggled in 
 its bed of snow. 
 
 "Your mother coming home to-day?" 
 
 "Yep." 
 
 "You'll catch it for going through the ice !" 
 
 "I expect so. ... I had on my best jacket." 
 
 "The ice is always thin over the spring. Didn't 
 you know that?" 
 
 The girl laughed. "What d'you think I was doing 
 there, silly? It's no fun skating where it's thick!" 
 
 The boy looked at her with reluctant admiration. 
 "You're a queer 'un," he remarked, as he kicked up 
 a cloud of soft white snow. There seemed to be 
 nothing to detain him, yet he lingered, and turned, on 
 a sudden impulse. "Say," he said, "is it true that 
 your mother is going to marry the minister?" 
 
 The girl's calm eyes kindled. "Who says so?" she 
 demanded. 
 
 "Ma." 
 
 "Well, Peter, you can tell her that she doesn't 
 know nothing not nothing! That minister he's so 
 ugly and my mother !" 
 
 The boy hesitated no longer but went on his way 
 with an air of braggart relief. He had made a hard 
 ball of his handful of snow, and now he flung it. It 
 hit a corner post of Ann's 'fence with a loud smack. 
 He took up his whistle again, and his frosted breath
 
 NEWS 5 
 
 rose in a series of gay clouds above his red cap, while 
 behind him Ann drooped on her gate. She hated the 
 sanctimonious minister, and his dreary black clothes. 
 She wondered what she might do if her mother de- 
 cided on this undesirable step, and dimly she perceived 
 that she could do nothing; the fearful impotence of 
 childhood weighed her down, and her queer little 
 face clouded. Somehow, before this calamity, even 
 the rich fictitious world of her fancy seemed barren. 
 Here was something from which pretending shrank. 
 
 After a while the sound of sleigh-bells floated across 
 the frozen fields to her, and she brightened. They 
 heralded her mother's return from New York City, 
 a good seventy miles away, and she fixed eager eyes on 
 the turn in the road; in a moment old General and 
 the cutter rounded the big bare elm which overhung 
 the schoolhouse at the four corners, and Ann leapt 
 from her perch, transfigured by excitement. 
 
 "Ma is coming!" she screamed shrilly over her 
 shoulder. "Ma is coming!" 
 
 The house door opened and a tall spare woman 
 appeared. As she stood for an instant on the thresh- 
 old, the interior of the kitchen shone behind her, warm 
 and cozy, and Ann caught a whiff of baking bread, un- 
 believably enticing. 
 
 "Ma's here, Mrs. Allen, look !" 
 
 Mrs. Allen emerged and came down Ann's path, 
 wrapped like a mummy in a dull-colored shawl. The 
 fresh wind blew whirlpools of light snow across the 
 frozen crust of the fields, but not a hair on Mrs. Allen's
 
 6 THE CORTLANDTS 
 
 sleek head stirred. She looked with constitutional dis- 
 approval first at the child, and then at the approaching 
 sleigh; if Ann had been older she might have found 
 something defensive in her determined suppression of 
 emotion. 
 
 "It is high time she came," she said. "And she'll be 
 cold, driving all the way over from Whartley Town- 
 ship on a day like this." 
 
 Ann silently reviewed the past fortnight, and gloom- 
 ily reflected that if cold her mother would probably 
 be cross. The little girl shot a soft glance at her com- 
 panion, ingratiation in every line of her; she hoped 
 an account of her misdeeds would not immediately be 
 offered, it was extraordinary how many things could 
 go wrong in two weeks, but she had small expecta- 
 tion of anything so desirable happening. 
 
 And then, suddenly, she realized that the woman 
 in the approaching sleigh had something foreign about 
 her. Her pretty face, with its cheeks whipped a bright 
 red by the cold wind, was the same, but there was a 
 sort of flowing opulence in her appointments which 
 made her seem alien. A great many ribbons and 
 ruffles were dancing and snapping in the breeze, and 
 the hired man who drove the farm horse was lost 
 behind a surging billow of crinoline. She thought 
 that her mother had never looked so beautiful; her 
 pale hair shone richly gold against a coat of black 
 fur. Before she could spring to meet her, Mrs. Allen 
 grasped her shoulder so hard that it hurt; as Ann 
 wriggled free she caught an aghast murmur. 
 
 "My land, a sealskin sack!"
 
 NEWS 7 
 
 Suddenly affection for the pretty creature in the 
 sleigh overcame Ann, and she plunged eagerly out 
 into the deep snow of the road, calling, unexpectedly 
 to herself : "Ma ! You'd never marry that old minister! 
 Say, ma, would you?" 
 
 Her mother laughed, a gay thrill that brought two 
 dimples into play, and showed a -.flash of white teeth. 
 "No, Ann, never!" she called back, withdrawing 
 her hand from a tiny muff she carried, in order to 
 wave it gaily. Mrs. Allen snorted disapprovingly, and 
 Ann turned to glower upon her. She resented the 
 too probable shattering of all this happiness. 
 
 The cutter drew up before the cleared path, and 
 Ann's mother stepped lightly out upon the firm snow 
 that creaked under her feet. She leaned forward over 
 her flowing skirts and kissed her daughter daintily; 
 suddenly her radiant face clouded. "My, Ann," she 
 exclamed, "you look homelier than ever." And she 
 sighed fretfully as she stood looking at her. 
 
 Mrs. Allen intervened. "Minnie Byrne," she be- 
 gan sternly, "where did you get those clothes?" And 
 catching sight of a necklace of seed pearls that hung 
 lustrously in the opening of the sealskin sack, she 
 paused, speechless. 
 
 Ann flung herself in front of her mother. "Ma 
 looks just lovely!" she declared, and she ran her hand 
 caressingly down the fur of her mother's sleeve. "My, 
 how soft!" 
 
 "It is all right," the newcomer declared breathlessly. 
 "You don't know what has happened to me." 
 
 Mrs. Allen continued to gaze at her with a severity
 
 8 
 
 which Ann suddenly realized partly masked a disquiet- 
 ing fright. "Considering that you went to the city to 
 see about investing the last two thousand dollars you 
 had in the world, and have come back here all tricked 
 out like this, I should say that you had lost your wits, 
 Minnie Byrne." 
 
 "Well, I haven't . . . I've spent a good part 
 of the two thousand, though." 
 
 "I thought as much," Mrs. Allen observed. She 
 steadied herself with one hand on the gate; the fear 
 in her voice was now plain to see upon her rugged 
 face. 
 
 "And that isn't all," the newcomer hurried on, "I've 
 done something worse than that. . . . I've been 
 married !" 
 
 This declaration was received in startled silence. 
 Ann, strangled with an emotion that was half terror 
 and half affection, yet somehow wholly protective, 
 clung to her mother's nervous hand, while Mrs. Allen 
 stared at her, white-faced. Over the side of the cutter 
 the hired man gaped, friendly and interested. 
 
 Feeling the disapproval of her audience, the bride 
 flung up a spirited head. "You are all ready to blame 
 me, aren't you?" she demanded. "Well, you wait 
 until you hear whom I've married !" 
 
 "I hope you have married some one who can care 
 for you, Minnie, in a worldly way, as well as 
 spiritually." 
 
 "I've married Hudson Cortlandt," she said, and 
 laughed. 
 
 Even Ann knew this was a name to conjure with,
 
 NEWS 9 
 
 and stared wide-eyed at her mother. Mrs. Allen 
 leaped at a possible explanation. "Some one has been 
 imposing on you!" she cried. 
 
 "No, it is true. . . . Why shouldn't he marry 
 me?" 
 
 They went into the farm-house kitchen, rigid in 
 spite of the tropical heat of the wood fire that leaped 
 in the stove, and the cross-examination continued. 
 
 "How did you get to know him?" 
 
 Mrs. Cortlandt blushed. "Well," she said, "the 
 first afternoon I was in New York I was walking in 
 Union Square, and I saw a fine gentleman ahead of 
 me drop a wallet. Of course I picked it up, and 
 there was his name Hudson CortlandL ... I 
 had just read in the papers that President Pierce had 
 appointed him minister to Switzerland, and I wanted 
 to see how he looked. ... I was glad I was the 
 one to find it. I ran after him, and that was the 
 beginning." 
 
 "What did he think of you, so free as that?" 
 
 Mrs. Cortlandt dimpled sweetly. "Well, he thought 
 I was pretty," she said daringly. "And after he had 
 thanked me, he walked on with me, and asked me my 
 name, and if my husband were in New York, and I 
 told him that Michael was dead, and then he took me 
 back to the St. Nicholas Hotel. He asked me if my 
 room was satisfactory, and it wasn't, very, so he came 
 into the hotel with me and spoke to the manager 
 about it, and after that there was nothing they 
 wouldn't do for me, and he stayed to talk with me 
 for a while, in the parlor. . . . When he went
 
 iio THE CORTLANDTS 
 
 away he asked me to go driving with him the next 
 afternoon and almost every day after that he took me 
 somewhere, and ten days later we were married!" 
 
 "It will be a change for you, Minnie, and for Ann." 
 
 Suddenly Mrs. Cortlandt's round blue eyes filled 
 with miserable tears. "That is the worst of it!" she 
 declared. "He doesn't know about Ann." 
 
 "What do you mean, he doesn't know?" 
 
 "Well, I didn't happen to mention her at first, 
 and after, when I saw he fancied me, I thought I 
 wouldn't tell him just then, and it was always like 
 that. ... I was afraid," she ended in a miserable 
 whisper. 
 
 "And you deceived him?" 
 
 "I just didn't tell him; that isn't deception, really. 
 He might not have married me, Mrs. Allen, and I 
 should have had to come back to this, forever!" 
 
 "And what do you intend to do now ?" 
 
 "I shall take Ann back with me, and he'll see her. 
 . . . He'll have to. ... We are sailing for 
 Europe next week." 
 
 Ann leaped to her feet, transfigured, but her mother 
 looked at her resentfully. "Don't jump about, Ann," 
 she said impatiently, and added, turning to Mrs. Allen : 
 "If only she were pretty!" 
 
 And so it happened that the ducking of Ann's best 
 coat in the mill-pond became an unimportant event, 
 and it was not necessary for her to explain to an 
 uncomprehending parent the allurement of skimming 
 lightly over the surface of thin ice.
 
 CHAPTER II 
 
 TRANSPLANTED 
 
 THE delight of her first ride in a train speedily 
 crowded the sorrow of parting from Ann's mind. She 
 sat straight and taut on the hard seat beside her 
 mother, her lips compressed, her eyes blazing. In- 
 side and out, the swift and unreal thing was mar- 
 velous; she felt excitement run through her as water 
 ran through the brooks in the spring, a wild delicious 
 torrent of excitement. Mrs. Cortlandt left her alone, 
 except that now and then she tried the effect of poking 
 her unfortunate hair this way or that, or twitched her 
 clothes in a fretful effort to change the look of the 
 child's eager, staring face. She cried for a few mo- 
 ments, and then, murmuring that she must not make 
 her eyes red, she ceased definitely. After that she 
 gazed moodily out of the window at the flying white 
 landscape, and often she sighed piteously, with a 
 sobbing catch in her breath, like a frightened child. 
 
 To Ann, used only to the tranquillity of a sleepy 
 village, the confusion at the terminal was amazing. 
 The haste with which people left the car gave her a 
 sense of calamity, the keener because it was unex- 
 plained. She seized her mother's bag and hurled her- 
 self into the crowded aisle; people drew back, frown- 
 ing, but she gained the freedom of the platform with 
 an exhilarating feeling of triumph. 
 
 II
 
 12 THE CORTLANDTS 
 
 A ferry-boat ! Occasional copies of Harper's Illus- 
 trated Weekly had reached Milton Center, and Ann 
 was prepared for the extraordinary look of these 
 maritime monsters, but no wood-cut could have pre- 
 pared her for the sickening and delightful feeling of 
 uncertainty under her feet. She seized her mother's 
 arm appealingly, in an ecstasy of excitement, and the 
 pallid lady said absently, "Yes, horrid, isn't it?" 
 Ann abandoned her and wormed through the group 
 of people at the bow. Ice cakes! Actually ice cakes, 
 that slipped away from the blunt prow of the ferry, 
 and now and then crunched delightfully. She leaned 
 on the rail and gloated. This was better than sharks. 
 . . . How prettily the round white cakes rode the 
 blue surface of the water! Away off to one side she 
 looked and looked, and could see no opposite shore. 
 . . . The sea ? Her eyes ached from the blueness. 
 . . . Coming toward them down the river, with 
 swelling canvas set, was a slender and towering ship; 
 she cut the water smartly, and it fell away before her 
 in a trim and shining roll on either side. She passed 
 so close that the child could see the quick moving 
 figures of men, swarthy of face, and foreign. One 
 leaned on the rail and waved at the lumbering ferry- 
 boat He had rings in his ears! Ann waved back, 
 unseen; she was pledging herself to romance. The 
 water in the wake bubbled creamily, it was like the 
 top of the milk pail, at home, and gold print on the 
 stern said Santa Lucia, Venczia. 
 
 Ahead of them the shore sloped swiftly back from
 
 TRANSPLANTED 13 
 
 the water-front; and in the foreground the high 
 steeple of a church shepherded a huddled collection of 
 buildings. The late afternoon sun mellowed the red 
 brick surfaces of the nearer houses, and picked out 
 the snow-covered roofs in blocks of black and white. 
 Ann had never known that a city could be like that, 
 miles of it, overwhelming and intriguing. Behind the 
 town the open country lay; she could just make out 
 woods and farms; familiar things and friendly. 
 Suddenly the portentous ferry-house swallowed them 
 up. Ann shrank back from the jarring grind of the 
 landing, convinced that no mere boat could stand such 
 treatment! The crowd swelled forward, and her 
 mother reclaimed her rebukingly. Outside the ferry- 
 house they paused, aghast. Not wishing to break the 
 news of Ann's existence to her husband on the ferry- 
 dock, Mrs. Cortlandt had not notified him of the hour 
 of her arrival, and for all her fashionable clothes, she 
 was almost as dazed by the city's confusion as Ann, 
 who frankly gaped, and adored it. There were dozens 
 of darting sleighs, more, in a few feet, than in all 
 Milton Center, and the air was clamorous with their 
 bells. The people on the sidewalks, leisurely ladies 
 in wide crinolines and fine gentlemen with glossy 
 side-whiskers and high hats, seemed as unreal to her 
 as pictures in Godey's Ladies' Book. The child clung 
 tightly to her mother's hand, abashed, but she pulled 
 her forward, nevertheless. 
 
 The Knickerbocker stage was waiting as they came 
 from the narrow tunnel of the ferry-house. The four
 
 14 THE CORTLANDTS 
 
 big horses that drew it pranced in the trodden snow, 
 and the bells on their necks glistened in the sunlight. 
 Mrs. Cortlandt and Ann climbed in and seated them- 
 selves on the long bench that ran down the side of 
 the coach. The little girl was eager to start; she 
 looked impatiently from the driver on his high throne 
 in front to the conductor at his place on the steps in 
 the rear, and kicked her feet restlessly in the straw 
 of the floor. Beside her, her mother sat trembling 
 visibly; it was evident to the most casual beholder 
 that Mrs. Hudson Cortlandt was badly frightened. 
 
 At length they started, with a jingling of bells and 
 a plunging of horses that made the people on the street 
 turn to watch them glide past. Ann pressed her face 
 to the window, now and then impatiently wiping away 
 the cloud of her breath on the glass. It was an amaz- 
 ing thing to her to see rows of houses close together; 
 and the newer parts of Greenwich Village, where th& 
 buildings were of the opulent three-story-and-basement 
 order, filled her with a breathless awe. Everything 
 she saw enchanted her; even the bare ailantus trees 
 seemed a better thing, in their novelty, than the tower- 
 ing elms she had known. 
 
 She was loath to leave the stage with further dis- 
 tricts unexplored, and at the same time she longed to 
 mingle with the people on the sidewalks. The streets 
 where the New York boys were snowballing seemed 
 to her a better place to play than a village common. 
 She wondered what they would think if they knew 
 she could throw as well as any of them.
 
 TRANSPLANTED 15 
 
 Washington Square was her mother's destination, 
 for here, on the fringe of the town, the Cortlandts 
 and a few other leading families had recently built 
 themselves new houses. The place was enclosed with 
 a high iron fence, which gave the little park an air of 
 gentility. Ann looked with darkening eyes at the 
 ample, dignified houses, rose pink against the snow. 
 
 "Does my new father live here?" she demanded. 
 A lonely feeling made her voice break. Suddenly she 
 realized for the first time the threat of a strange rela- 
 tionship. She wondered if he, too, would have glossy 
 side-whiskers, terrifying and dominant. 
 
 Her mother nodded. "His brother does," she said, 
 "Mr. Hendricks CortlandL Your my Mr. Hud- 
 son Cortlandt lives with him." 
 
 It was the largest of the houses that she timidly 
 approached, and, clinging tremulously to Ann, sum- 
 moned courage to climb the wide steps, and pull a sil- 
 ver bell handle mysteriously set beside the glass door. 
 A black man came to admit them, and Ann looked at 
 him gapingly, unable, in her surprise, to return his 
 gleaming smile. He was the first negro she had seen, 
 and she felt that life was indeed opening before her. 
 Mrs. Cortlandt paused. 
 
 "Is Mr. Hendricks Cortlandt at home?" she asked 
 and her voice trembled. 
 
 "Yas'm. He is in de library." With a dexterous 
 turn, the man shut the front door behind them, and 
 opened one on the right-hand side of the wide hall. 
 Ann had a quick impression of a lofty room, all
 
 16 THE CORTLANDTS 
 
 lined with books, she had never dreamed that there 
 could be so many, and of the late afternoon sun com- 
 ing through the windows in long yellow streaks so 
 that a fire under a narrow marble mantel glowed red. 
 Then she saw a tall oldish man rise from his chair 
 and come forward. Immediately she liked him, in 
 spite of her breathless nervousness. 
 
 "Well, my dear," Ann heard him say, "back 
 again?" And then his eyes fell on her. He looked 
 at her in kindly perplexity. "And who is this young 
 lady?" he asked. 
 
 The little girl glanced expectantly at her mother, 
 but no sound came from her white lips, so she said, 
 as cheerfully as she could : "I am Ann," and, catching 
 no gleam of intelligence in his attentive eyes, she added, 
 "Ann Byrne, you know." 
 
 Mr. Cortlandt continued to look at her blankly. 
 Slowly a realization of who she might be dawned on 
 him, and he turned his steady gaze on his sister-in-law, 
 as she trembled before him. 
 
 "Your child?" he inquired coldly. 
 
 Mrs. Cortlandt sank into a chair; she was manifestly 
 struggling with tears. "Yes," she admitted briefly. 
 
 "A child ! But my brother said you had no family. 
 . . . Does he know, madam ?" 
 
 As her mother was now frankly crying, Ann took 
 up the burden of their sorry tale. "She didn't tell 
 him," she confided. "I am a surprise, and it is too 
 bad I am not pretty."
 
 TRANSPLANTED 17 
 
 The head of the house of Cortlandt straightened up 
 scornfully. "Ah," he said, "I see." 
 
 There was an uncomfortable silence in the library: 
 it was broken by Ann, who volunteered cheerfully, 
 "She has to tell my new father, now, all about me." 
 
 Mrs. Cortlandt looked up to nod a miserable assent 
 to this announcement. 
 
 "It might have been less embarrassing, if you had 
 done so earlier. He was insane about you." 
 
 "I was afraid." 
 
 "I see. We shall have to tell him, however. Is 
 this the only one, madam?" 
 
 "Oh, yes," Mrs. Cortlandt said, in shocked surprise, 
 "of course, if there had been more I should have told 
 him!" 
 
 "Let me look at you, young lady." He put a gentle 
 hand under Ann's sharp chin, and turned her face 
 toward him. 
 
 "She has never looked like me," her mother 
 mourned. "She is like her father, in every way." 
 
 "This makes the man important. . . . What 
 was your first husband?" 
 
 "He ran a newspaper, just a country one. He 
 always expected to do better, but then he died." 
 
 Ann wriggled away from the stranger's improprie- 
 tory touch. "My father was Irish," she volunteered, 
 "and he was very clever, and he had red hair, like 
 me!" 
 
 "Machree got into trouble in Fenian riots, I never
 
 1 8 THE CORTLANDTS 
 
 knew just what he did, but he had to leave Ireland. 
 . . . We were only married a few years. . . . 
 He was always expecting to do something he didn't: 
 he was a great man to plan, but it is true, he was 
 clever. ... He was always getting into trouble, 
 and he never would listen to what I told him. . . . 
 What do you think Hudson will do?" 
 
 "There is only one way to answer that/' Mr. Cort- 
 landt said simply. He crossed the room with long 
 determined strides to summon the man in the hall. 
 "Tell Mr. Hudson his wife is here," he directed. 
 
 Mrs. Cortlandt alternately turned the curl of fair 
 hair that hung from beneath her bonnet about her 
 slender fingers, and dabbled at her eyes with her hand- 
 kerchief. "I am frightened," she confided unnecessar- 
 ily. 
 
 Mr. Cortlandt turned to Ann. "We have only just 
 finished supper," he said. "Suppose you and I go and 
 see if there is any left." The child glanced Irreso- 
 lutely at her mother. Mrs. Cortlandt looked very 
 small and miserable, crouched in a chair by the win- 
 dow, where the gray light of an early winter twilight 
 faded her blonde radiance to drab. Ann wanted to 
 stay with her, but suddenly she realized that she was 
 devastatingly hungry. Her mother caught her eye. 
 
 "Go with him, Ann, for mercy sakes!" she urged 
 irritably. 
 
 Mr. Cortlandt laughed, for some unexplained, 
 grown-up reason, and led her away through folding- 
 doors into what seemed indubitably, fairyland. Her
 
 TRANSPLANTED 19 
 
 first impression was of a great glare of light; 
 it was like noon-day in the big empty room, and 
 she blinked, bewildered. There were none of the 
 engulfing shadows and obliterated far corners to which 
 she was accustomed; the hard radiance seemed to her 
 antagonistic. Directly under an overpowering brass 
 chandelier was a square table covered with a cloth so 
 white that it glistened like snow: this, then, was the 
 dining-room. In Milton Center one sewed, read and 
 sometimes slept in such an apartment, but this one 
 seemed sacred to the business of dining. She looked 
 about her with avid curiosity. On the center of the 
 table a blue glass vase on a marble base held a handful 
 of roses, actually roses, in January! On one wall 
 was a huge black walnut sideboard, with a deer's head 
 and horns, all made of polished wood, surmounting it. 
 It was loaded, inexplicably, with numerous shining 
 silver dishes, and in the center there was a glass bowl 
 larger than a milk pan, cut so that it quivered in tiny 
 glittering points like flames. Hung high on the walls 
 were dark-colored pictures of frowning men and smil- 
 ing ladies, in massive gilt frames that caught the light 
 in long golden streaks. 
 
 "What is it?" Ann demanded breathlessly, pointing 
 to the fixture from whence the glory sprang. 
 
 "The chandelier?" Mr. Cortlandt inquired, be- 
 wildered in his turn. 
 
 "No, the light. It isn't candles, it isn't paraffine, 
 it" 
 
 "Oh, that! . . . It is gas."
 
 20 THE CORTLANDTS 
 
 "Oh !" She recalled weary hours filling lamps. ''Do 
 you put it in, like oil?" 
 
 "No. . . . I'll tell you about it, but first we 
 must have supper. Are you hungry?" 
 
 Ann gasped. It was extraordinary, but the enor- 
 mous appetite which had ravaged her but a moment 
 before was gone. "I don't know," she confessed. 
 She could not have said why, but she was horribly 
 afraid that she was going to cry ! 
 
 Mr. Cortlandt drew a chair out for her and, pulling 
 a bell cord, he summoned the black man and told him 
 to bring food. "You didn't have gas in er Milton 
 Center?" he suggested. 
 
 Ann shook her head ; her eyes were swimming with 
 tears, and met Mr. Cortlandt's miserably. 
 
 Suddenly he pulled his chair closer to hers, and be- 
 gan to talk to her, rapidly and continuously: at first 
 she was so occupied in fighting down her inconvenient 
 emotion that she paid little attention, but presently she 
 understood that he was, with extraordinary kindness, 
 telling her all about gas, where it was made, how it 
 was stored and distributed, and the changes its use had 
 made in cities. She began to listen attentively. She 
 forgot all about the delicious things she was eating as 
 the tale ran on ; she was more interested than she had 
 ever been before in all her life. 
 
 After that they began to talk of Milton Center, and 
 she spoke of Mrs. Allen casually. 
 
 "You lived with her?" Mr. Cortlandt leaned for- 
 ward.
 
 TRANSPLANTED 21 
 
 "Yes. . . . Isn't your brother a Christian?" 
 
 Mr. Cortlandt sat back suddenly. "I hope so," he 
 said. "Why do you ask?" 
 
 "Well, Mrs. Allen took ma and me to live with her 
 because she was a Christian," Ann explained. "She 
 often said so. ... She said she hoped she was 
 laying up treasures in Heaven. And I hope so, too." 
 
 "Your mother had no money at all?" 
 
 "Oh, yes, ma had two thousand dollars. That is a 
 great amount of money. Mrs. Allen always said it 
 was a sacred trust: that was when ma wanted to 
 spend it, you see." 
 
 "Yes, I see. And what did you do in Milton Center, 
 Miss Ann?" 
 
 "I went to school. I don't like my teacher, not 
 much. And of course I did chores." 
 
 "What sort of chores?" 
 
 "Just helping 'round ; feeding the chickens, an' help- 
 ing get supper, an' washing up." 
 
 This was dear and familiar ground, and Ann 
 
 chatted pleasantly on. Her heart warmed toward Mr. 
 
 Cortlandt in reward for his kindly interest; and she 
 
 , poured out unstintingly the simple story of her life 
 
 " and her mother's. It was a good half -hour before she 
 
 thought of returning to the library. 
 
 As Mr. Cortlandt slid back the folding-door, the 
 sound of a man's voice, harsh and angry, burst in on 
 them. "My new 'father?" Ann demanded, frowning. 
 
 Her friend nodded, and she peered into the room 
 under his arm. A tall man was striding furiously
 
 22 THE CORTLANDTS 
 
 about, and sure enough, he had side-whiskers, un- 
 usually flamboyant ones. "It isn't that I resent the 
 child," he was storming. "It is the deceit I can not 
 forgive. The child, of course, is a responsibility, I 
 am not a man to shirk that, but I hate deceit!" He 
 turned, as his brother opened the door. "Do you 
 know what she has done?" he demanded. 
 
 Mr. Hendricks Cortlandt nodded, and held Ann 
 back, as she would have pushed indignantly past him. 
 "There's only one, you know, Hudson," he said pa- 
 cifically. "There might just as well have been six.'* 
 
 His brother paused, arrested. "Six?" he repeated. 
 The word had the force of an explosion. 
 
 The older man laughed, and Ann wondered why. 
 "Of course," he said, "it would have made no differ- 
 ence had there been, since it is the deceit that you 
 resent, and not the children." 
 
 "Minnie," her husband roared at her, frantic appeal 
 in his voice, "are there others?" The bride was so 
 overcome by his violence that she merely shook her 
 head speechlessly, but Ann flung off her friend's re- 
 straining hand and burst into the room. She con- 
 fronted her stepfather fiercely; her hands were 
 clenched into little fists. 
 
 "Don't you dare speak to my mother like that !" she 
 said. She kept her voice very low, to be sure that the 
 terror she felt should not break into it. 
 
 Hudson Cortlandt glared at her, eye to eye; then 
 he swung away, and appealed to the world at large. 
 ''Is this the child my wife asks me to take to my
 
 TRANSPLANTED 23 
 
 bosom? This red-headed, gawky girl? This spit- 
 lire?" 
 
 ''The deceit would have been less, I have no doubt, 
 had she not had red hair," his brother interposed 
 peaceably, and to her amazement Ann found her- 
 self laughing convulsively, in spite of her anger and 
 fright. 
 
 Hudson came suddenly down to earth. "Well," he 
 announced, "Minnie will have to choose between us, 
 the child or me." 
 
 There was a sudden silence in the room, broken only 
 by the culprit's sobs. Her husband then addressed 
 himself directly to her. "I won't have her, that's flat. 
 . . . If you'll leave her, I'll take you with me; 
 if not, I'm done with you !" 
 
 Something in her mother's lifted face frightened 
 Ann, and she found resolution for further defiance. 
 "We don't want to go with you," she declared passion- 
 ately. "You can go off to Europe by yourself. . . 
 We'll stay here." She ended on a softened note, and 
 she turned her eyes slantingly on her new friend. She 
 thought that he received this declaration somewhat 
 coldly, and her heart skipped a beat miserably. He 
 was looking at his brother with an expression that 
 terrified her. 
 
 "What do you wish, Mrs. Cortlandt?" he demanded. 
 
 "I don't know!" she sobbed. "I am so unhappy! 
 How can I go?" . . . How can I stay?" She 
 looked imploringly from Ann to her husband, before 
 she buried her face in a minute pocket handkerchief.
 
 24 
 
 Hudson Cortlandt was softened by this wailing ap- 
 peal. "I am willing to look after the girl," he said 
 uncomfortably. "You could leave her in good hands." 
 
 Mrs. Cortlandt looked up with a gleam of returning 
 cheerfulness. "I suppose I might," she murmured. 
 
 "I don't see why you can't send her back where 
 she came from; it will be the same for her as if you 
 had never married me, except that her keep will be 
 paid. . . . We sail in a week," he added briskly. 
 He was obviously glad not to break with the pretty 
 creature he had married. He turned to his brother, 
 with a specious relief in his manner. "It is all per- 
 fectly simple after all, isn't it?" 
 
 Mr. Hendricks Cortlandt looked at him for a mo- 
 ment, and Ann wondered if it was something in his 
 steady gaze that caused the younger man to drop his 
 eyes uneasily. At length he said, "I shall be alone 
 here, when you are gone. . . . It is possible that 
 I might, for a time, undertake the responsibility of 
 Miss Ann, with the understanding, of course, that 
 you will, later on, relieve me." He turned to the silent 
 child. "Would you like to stay with me?" he asked 
 gently. 
 
 Ann felt the tears burn against her eyelids, so she 
 only nodded. She felt miserably certain that he did 
 not want her. He turned to Mrs. Cortlandt. "I assure 
 you, madam, that your daughter will be as well cared 
 for as lies in my power. Perhaps a little girl in my 
 home may prove a blessing. Eh, Miss Ann ?"
 
 TRANSPLANTED 25 
 
 The child was spared the difficulty of an answer, for 
 at the moment when she felt that a supreme effort of 
 some sort was expected of her, the library door swung 
 open, and a high dear voice cried, "Do I intrude, 
 Hendricks?" 
 
 "Gad!" said Hudson. "It's Clarissa!" Ann was 
 conscious of a general dismay, and that it centered 
 mysteriously on her. 
 
 She had never known any one could be so lovely 
 as the lady who appeared in the high doorway. Her 
 hair was warmly brown, and shining; it hung about 
 her face in artful and complicated arrangements, and 
 her eyes were shining and quick and pretty, above her 
 bright pink cheeks. Her throat was very long, and 
 so white that it seemed almost dazzling where a black 
 velvet band clasped its slimness, and her shoulders were 
 white, too, and sloped beautifully down to a ridicu- 
 lous puff of a pale blue sleeve half-way to her elbow. 
 Her skirts were very wide, and Ann had never seen 
 so tiny a waist. Compared with its brittle elegance 
 her mother's hard country thinness had a common 
 look. She laughed as she came down the room, 
 showing pretty white teeth. 
 
 "A family jar already, Hudson?" she demanded, 
 sending quick and amused glances from her embar- 
 rassed brother to his limp bride. "Doves in their 
 little nest, you know!" She turned to Mr. Cortlandt 
 and her darting look dropped to Ann, who stood 
 pressed close beside him.
 
 26 JHE CORTLANDTS 
 
 "Why, where did you find that, Hendricks?" she 
 queried, her voice suddenly shrill, and all the smiling 
 sweetness gone from her eyes. 
 
 "This is Miss Ann Byrne, Clarissa, and fate has sent 
 her to me." 
 
 Ann moved clumsily forward as she heard her- 
 self thus singled out, but the shining creature before 
 her made no move in her direction. Instead she looked 
 at her brother in frozen amazement, and a quick flush 
 dyed even her white throat. 
 
 "You mean?" she began, and paused. 
 
 "She is Hudson's stepdaughter, but it has been ar- 
 ranged that she is to stay here with me." 
 
 Mrs. Renneslyer swung around to her younger 
 brother, with a great swirl of blue gauze skirts. "So !" 
 she cried. "This is what your mad marriage has done ! 
 lA child, left here with Hendricks !" 
 
 "I believe that I am glad to have her, Clarissa," Mr. 
 Cortlandt intervened. "Already I am charmed with 
 her." 
 
 "Charmed?" Her eyes swept Ann from her un- 
 tidy red hair to her shabbily shod feet, and she laughed 
 incredulously. "You are making the best of it, 
 that is evident, but why should she stay with you? 
 Can't Hudson assume his responsibilities ? If you want 
 a child about, and I am sure I don't understand why 
 you do, there's my Hendricks, or little Fanny Cort- 
 landt." 
 
 "That will do, Clarissa!" Mr. Cortlandt spoke so
 
 TRANSPLANTED 27 
 
 sternly that Ann shrank back, frightened. "To what 
 are we indebted for the honor of this visit?*' 
 
 "I have a loge at Tripler's Hall to-night; I came 
 in to see if Hudson and my charming new sister- 
 in-law would care to share it with me. It is Madame 
 Rachel." 
 
 "Oh!" cried Mrs. Hudson. "She is that famous 
 French actress, isn't she? I could be ready in a very 
 few moments, fifteen, at the most!" 
 
 Mrs. Renneslyer swept her with indifferent eyes. 
 She was no longer flushed : indeed, she looked rather 
 white, except for the determined pink of her cheeks. 
 "Very well," she said, indifferently. She established 
 herself in a chair by the fire, arranging her skirts with 
 considerable pomp, and opening a fan which dangled 
 from her waist, to shield herself from the flames. 
 
 Mr. Cortlandt seated himself opposite her, leaning 
 toward her with a curious look of an antagonist. 
 "Go with your mother, Ann," he said. "You can 
 doubtless help her hurry." 
 
 And so Ann's future was decided. When she was 
 alone with her mother, during the last precious week 
 of their companionship, she found that the only way 
 to avoid mutual tears was not to mention the coming 
 parting, so she obligingly refrained. There were 
 plenty of other things to think about. In the first 
 place she was plunged into an orgy of buying. She 
 and her mother both had completely new wardrobes. 
 The pretty bride bought lavishly, in spite of her
 
 28 THE CORTLANDTS 
 
 imminent visit to Paris, and Ann became the be- 
 wildered possessor of woolen dresses with stiffening 
 in the full ankle-length skirts, pantalettes that tied 
 on above her knee, and hung, white and prim, below 
 them, and, actually, a taffeta, in checks of green and 
 black, with white ruffles in the sleeves, and black 
 velvet bands about its low-cut neck. Milton Center 
 had never known its like; Ann could scarcely rec- 
 ognize herself when she stood, arrayed in it, before 
 the tall pier glass in the drawing-room. But she was, 
 she decided gloomily, no prettier, for all her fine 
 clothes. 
 
 The days flew by. On one of them Mr. Cortlandt 
 ordered out his smart cutter and drove Ann away 
 out to the colored orphan asylum at Forty-second 
 Street and Fifth Avenue, so that she might bestow 
 upon the worthy poor those old clothes which she had, 
 in Milton Center, packed with so much respect. She 
 found the role of Lady Bountiful embarrassing, but 
 delightful, and came home in high spirits. On an- 
 other afternoon she and her mother interviewed gover- 
 nesses. It seemed that Mrs. Renneslyer had vetoed a 
 school. "Until she is tamed," she said coolly, and 
 so, to Ann's great delight, it was decided that she was 
 to be educated at home. Mrs. Cortlandt was quite ill 
 at ease before the elegant creatures who came to see 
 her, but finally chose one who had, in her youth, been 
 in France. "Ann can get the accent, but not the 
 morals," she told Mr. Cortlandt, quite like a woman 
 of the world.
 
 TRANSPLANTED 29 
 
 People came and went during the swift interlude, 
 but the child retained no clear memory of them. Mrs. 
 Renneslyer was the only one whose initial impres- 
 sion persisted through later familiarity; Ann always 
 remembered the malicious prettiness of her first ap- 
 pearance. At her brother-in-law's request, Mrs. Will- 
 iam Cortlandt brought her daughter Fanny to see 
 the newcomer, but the two children were shy of each 
 other, and Ann had no time for contemporaneous 
 intimacy in her last days with her mother. Mrs. 
 Hudson was inclined to like this sister-in-law. "She 
 doesn't make me feel uncomfortable, as Clarissa does," 
 she confided to her daughter, and Ann could readily 
 understand that, as Fanny's mother was a stout and 
 breathless lady, with none of Mrs. Renneslyer's over- 
 powering elegance. Moreover, she looked at her 
 brother-in-law's beautiful bride with reluctant but en- 
 dearing admiration, although any reference to Ann's 
 indefinite visit in Washington Square turned her 
 flushed cheeks purple. 
 
 "She is a widow, just as I was/' Mrs. Hudson in- 
 formed Ann. "Except that her little girl is pretty. 
 Fanny is sweet, isn't she? I hope you will try to be 
 like her, Ann: she is such a little lady. Hudson says 
 that when her father died, years ago, his wife wanted 
 to come here to live, and that he and Mr. Renneslyer 
 made horrid bets as to whether she would land Mr. 
 Hendricks Cortlandt as a second husband or not. 
 . . . She didn't, of course, and I am sure I don't 
 wonder, although Hudson says that she was quite
 
 30 [THE CORTLANDTS 
 
 pretty, once." The bride preened herself before her 
 mirror, secure in her young good looks. "Funny, isn't 
 it, that Mr. Hendricks Cortlandt has never married?" 
 
 "Why hasn't he?" Ann demanded. 
 
 "Hudson says it is because he has never unbent 
 enough to fall in love, but I don't know. ... It 
 doesn't sound sensible; it is so easy to fall in love. 
 . . . Perhaps he is shy, under that mangnificent 
 manner!" She laughed delightedly at the possibility 
 that the formality which- made her uneasy masked a 
 human weakness. "Do you like me in blue?" she 
 asked her little girl, who adored her in anything. 
 
 Ann clung to her in a way that was flattering but 
 disconcerting. She followed her miserably about the 
 house; stood beside her bureau when she curled her 
 blonde hair; helped her to button the complicated new 
 frocks, and to pack her finery into two shiny new 
 trunks. She was always under her stepfather's feet, 
 but she bore it stolidly, and was relieved to find that 
 he, too, suppressed his irritation at her constant pres- 
 ence. 
 
 Notwithstanding all their preparations, however, it 
 was not until they clung together at the dock that 
 the mother and daughter suddenly admitted the serious 
 nature of their separation. Mrs. Cortlandt shed a 
 Ifew gentle tears, and prettily besought her brother- 
 in-law to be kind to his charge, but Ann only hung 
 desperately about her mother's neck, dry-eyed and 
 silent. In looking back on the leave-taking it always 
 seemed to her that in the moment before the gang-
 
 TRANSPLANTED 31 
 
 plank was withdrawn, she grew appreciably older. 
 She never forgot the feel of her mother's cool fresh 
 cheek against her own, or the last lovely glimpse of 
 her, young, agitated and charming, as she leaned out 
 over the stern, between the churning side-paddles, cry- 
 ing and smiling together, and waving and kissing both 
 her hands to the old man and the child on the dock. 
 
 The Arctic ordinarily took fifteen days to make the 
 voyage to Liverpool, and Mr. Cortlandt to\d Ann that 
 at least as much time again must be allowed before 
 letters from the travelers could be expected, but the 
 child was impatient to hear, nevertheless. She often 
 interrupted her dreary morning lessons with questions 
 about London and Paris, those towns soon to be 
 sublimated by her pretty mother's presence, and was 
 reproved for it. It made no difference, however, as 
 a report of the affair to her guardian resulted in his 
 bringing out delightful books of pictures of the places 
 the travelers would shortly see: cities, and rivers, 
 and mountains. She felt that she could scarcely bear 
 it to wait for the time to come to rejoin them, amid 
 these new and extraordinary scenes. 
 
 Her mother had been gone only a fortnight, when, 
 one snowy afternoon, Mr. Cortlandt returned home 
 earlier than was his custom. Ann knew at once, as 
 soon as she had run to meet him, that something ter- 
 rible had happened, because he was so sorry for 
 her. The compassion in his eyes awakened all the 
 bravery in her soul. The worst had happened : there 
 had been a collision at sea, and a scattered few pas-
 
 32 THE CORTLANDTS 
 
 sengers, picked up by another ship, had returned to tell 
 the tragic tale of the doomed Arctic, which had sunk 
 off the banks, while only two days out from New 
 York. For a time Mr. Cortlandt refused to give up 
 hope, and every day he went to the offices of the 
 Collins' Line, where anxious men and women 
 clamored for assurance that their friends or relatives 
 were among the few picked up; but as time went on he 
 was forced to abandon any expectation of the rescue of 
 his brother and his bride. 
 
 Back in America, President Pierce then cast about 
 among his supporters for another minister to Switzer- 
 land, and in Washington Square Mr. Cortlandt de- 
 voted himself to comforting a passionately rebellious 
 child. Her sorrow, he knew, would pass, and for him- 
 self he felt a curiously poignant regret at the sudden 
 end of his lovely and foolish young sister-in-law, 
 a deeper regret, possibly, than if she had been less 
 lovely, and more wise.
 
 CHAPTER III 
 
 TAKING ROOT 
 
 ANN took the shock of her mother's death in a 
 curiously adult fashion that touched Mr. Cortlandt 
 deeply. She defensively fenced off discussion of her 
 bereavement, and endeavored to carry on the pleasant 
 and amusing life she had begun with him before the 
 bad news came, but under the strain of this pretense 
 her irregular little face grew white and drawn, and 
 her eyes, under her shock of red hair, became entirely 
 unchildlike in their tragic intensity. Nothing could 
 have bound her closer to the old man than this reti- 
 cence, for he, too, found grief something that it was 
 impossible to chat about, and he said to himself that 
 under strain his young foundling was showing breed- 
 ing. He was at a loss to know what to do with her, 
 however; it seemed brutal to leave her alone in the 
 big Washington Square house; she had a trick of fol- 
 lowing him out on the steps when he left for his office 
 in the morning, and smiling determinedly at him as he 
 drove away, that brought a lump into his throat. 
 
 Acting on his suggestion, Mrs. William Cortlandt 
 made an effort to approach the girl. She was willing 
 enough to do it, for her heart was too kind not to re- 
 spond to the appeal of a lonely child, but she was forced 
 to report no success. 
 
 "She absolutely was short with me, Hendricks, 
 
 33
 
 34 THE CORTLANDTS 
 
 imagine that! I could get nowhere with her, even 
 when I told her that it was ungrateful of her so to 
 ignore your wishes." 
 
 Mr. Cortlandt sighed. The reticence which delighted 
 him in Ann he often found sadly lacking in his sister- 
 in-law. He took up the matter with the child, how- 
 ever. "Ann," he said, forcing himself, with some dif- 
 ficulty, to speak directly to a disagreeable point, "why 
 were you so stiff-necked with Mrs. Cortlandt? She 
 meant to be kind to you, and one should not be prig- 
 gish with those who mean to be kind." 
 
 Ann shot to her feet, and stood, tense and erect, 
 at his knee. "I know," she said. "I was horrid to her. 
 . . . I couldn't help it. ... You see she 
 hated rny mother she and Mrs. Renneslyer. . . . 
 So I can't talk to them about her. . . . There's 
 only you. . . . You and Mrs. Allen." She broke off, 
 and the old man could see that she was struggling 
 with inconvenient tears. He put his hand on hers, 
 and after a moment she went on. "I've been think- 
 ing. . . . Mrs. Allen is used to me; she had me 
 with her almost all my life, you see, and she is all 
 alone, like me. ... I could be a help to her, 
 some. ... I know she would take me. . . . 
 I am almost certain she would." It was out at last, 
 and she turned swiftly away from him, so that Mr. 
 Cortlandt could not tell if she were crying or not. 
 
 He was curiously moved himself. There was 
 something so valiant in Ann's abdication that he 
 wanted to take her in his unaccustomed arms, and bid
 
 TAKING ROOT 35 
 
 her defy the world. He looked at her slim back 
 and her stiffly held head, and wondered if tears were 
 streaming down her face. Suddenly he was ashamed 
 of the half formed thoughts he had harbored as to 
 how he would ever succeed in unburdening himself 
 of the inheritance of his brother's stepchild. He had 
 never seen Mrs. Allen, but now he thought of her 
 with an antagonism that amazed him. . . . He 
 wanted Ann himself! All at once this realization shot 
 across his bewilderment, simplifying everything. He 
 wondered how he could ever make the child under- 
 stand his need of her. . . . Her shoulders moved 
 convulsively, and at once, without any further delib- 
 eration, he went over to her. "What am I doing?" 
 he wondered, as he went He put his hands on Ann's 
 shoulders, and turned her to him. Yes, she was 
 crying. "Mrs. Allen can't have you !" he said at once, 
 almost roughly. "I want you myself." 
 
 Ann dashed the tears from her eyes, and looked up 
 at him for an instant "Why?" she said. "Why do 
 you want me?" She strained away from him, repel- 
 lent and hard. 
 
 All at once hopelessness swept over Mr. Cortlandt 
 "How could I hope to win a child's affection?" he 
 wondered. Undoubtedly she preferred Mrs. Allen. "I 
 want you because I've come to care for you, my 
 child," he said heavily. "I am quite selfish about it." 
 He looked steadily down at her lifted face, and saw 
 joy transfigure it, in a flashing glimpse, before she 
 flung herself upon him, and gave way to an outburst
 
 36 THE CORTLANDTS 
 
 of sobs. He gathered her into his arms, and let her 
 cry in peace; he made no effort to stop her, he only 
 smoothed her rough red hair with a clumsy hand, 
 and once he pressed his lips to it, shyly. 
 
 After that there was no question of Ann's future: 
 the old man and the child understood, whatever be- 
 wilderment the rest of the family might have about 
 their relationship. Mr. Cortlandt frankly abandoned 
 himself to the joy he felt in his vicarious parenthood. 
 He came home early in the afternoons, in order to 
 teach Ann to drive, and he delighted in her fearless- 
 ness. It was not easy to control his fast pacer, and he 
 was proudly conscious that people on Fifth Avenue 
 turned in amazement to look after the child with the 
 flying red hair who drove a shining cutter so reck- 
 lessly. It was, however, in the long winter evenings, 
 when he took advantage of the freedom from social 
 engagements which his mourning gave him to read 
 aloud to Ann, that he most enjoyed her. They 
 dipped into all kinds of books; he found this experi- 
 menting with a child's imagination to be a pure de- 
 light, and Ann flowered intellectually under so stimu- 
 lating a companionship. 
 
 The first time they went to Grace Church for the 
 Sunday morning service the child was the recipient of 
 many curious glances from under demure bonnets. 
 She looked extraneous and insignificant in the big 
 Cortlandt pew, and was possibly aware of it, for when 
 the service began she hunched herself nearer its other 
 occupant, where she might lean against him and share
 
 TAKING ROOT 37 
 
 his hymnal, after the pleasant Milton Center fashion 
 where books were few. When he put a friendly and 
 protecting arm about her thin shoulders an audible 
 flutter was evident behind them, and Mr. Cortlandt 
 smiled, briefly and sardonically. He wished, that first 
 Sunday morning, that Ann had been endowed with her 
 mother's beauty, so that a mere glance at her would 
 constitute a triumphant answer to speculations about 
 her. Across the aisle he could, without turning his 
 head, see his niece Fanny's glossy brown curls, scal- 
 loped over a shell-pink cheek, and catch the immovable 
 line of her docile profile, outlined against her mother's 
 sealskin sack. She sat very still, and lifted a politely 
 attentive face, while Ann made no attempt to achieve 
 such resignation. Her small body wriggled continu- 
 ously under the strain of the long service. 
 
 Just ahead of them was his sister's pew, with Mrs. 
 Renneslyer, very lovely in black cashmere tempered 
 by an ermine cape, sitting straight and alert at one 
 end, and her husband, red- faced and jovial-looking, 
 slouched down in his corner on the aisle. Between 
 them was their son Hendricks, named for his uncle, 
 and destined from his cradle, as Mr. Cortlandt well 
 knew, to be his heir and his favorite. With Ann's 
 lack of beauty in mind, it gave him some satisfaction 
 to look at his nephew, for young Hendricks at thir- 
 teen resembled neither his beautiful mother nor his 
 dashing father. He was a fat child, with somnolent 
 eyes, and lips that pouted, as he endured the sermon. 
 "Clarissa shouldn't throw stones," her brother reflected.
 
 38 THE CORTLANDTS 
 
 When they came out on the steps, they found a 
 light snow falling. The thin flakes scurried about aim- 
 lessly under a leaden sky, and caught in the carved gray 
 stone of the doorway, in ridges of pure white. A 
 great many sleighs were waiting outside the fence; 
 there was a pleasant, unchurchly jingle in the air, as 
 the cold horses shook themselves, or pranced about, 
 arching their necks under the strings of bells that 
 circled them. Close by the gate was an especially 
 fine turnout, opulent with buffalo robes and white 
 horsehair plumes. Its spirited horses pawed the snow, 
 and switched their flowing tails nervously; the 
 coachman who held the reins found it difficult to keep 
 them standing. It was Mr. Hendricks Cortlandt's 
 sleigh, and people paused to watch him take possession 
 of it 
 
 He turned to young Hendricks, who stood stiffly 
 waiting beside his mother. "Like to ride up with me ?" 
 he asked him. It was a long established custom of his, 
 to drive his nephew home from church on Sunday. 
 
 "Yes, sir," the boy said, relieved. He would have 
 climbed into the back seat, had his uncle not restrained 
 him. 
 
 "In front, Hendricks, if you please, with Tom. 
 Ann rides with me." 
 
 With a quick clean spring the country child was 
 established, and Mr. Cortlandt followed her with a 
 somewhat malicious smile. As he tucked the fur robe 
 about her he knew that with so simple an effort he 
 had done much to establish Ann as his favorite.
 
 TAKING ROOT 39 
 
 Behind them the relations, in the Theodore Ren- 
 neslyer's smart sleigh, were dismally discussing her. 
 "We are fools to allow it!" Mrs. Renneslyer said 
 angrily. "If the girl had looks I declare I should be 
 convinced of the necessity of our taking steps!" 
 
 "Yes," agreed Mrs. William, "but what steps, 
 Clarissa?" And for once her sister-in-law had no 
 answer ready. 
 
 "I like her," Fanny volunteered from the front seat, 
 where she sat perched on Mr. Renneslyer' s knees. "She 
 makes up stories, and we play them, like actors!" 
 Her starry eyes shone at some childish recollection. 
 
 "Does Fanny see much of her?" 
 
 "More than I like, but Hendricks insists on it." 
 Mrs. William leaned closer to her elegant sister-in- 
 law, and lowered her tone so that the child might not 
 hear. "Ann is very undisciplined, a shocking ex- 
 ample, and she is a great reader, too." 
 
 "A dangerous trait in a woman !" 
 
 "Yes, and Hendricks allows her to take any book 
 she likes from his shelves. Yesterday I found her 
 deep in Jane Eyre!" Mrs. Cortlandt shuddered, but 
 not from the cold. 
 
 "Heaven knows what ideas the girl has in her head !" 
 Mrs. Renneslyer said, tossing hers scornfully. 
 
 Her husband swung around, to join in the conversa- 
 tion. "She's not so bad as you women make out," 
 he expostulated. "She's got spirit, by gad. No wonder 
 Hendricks likes that ! And I'm not so sure, Clarissa, 
 that you are right about her looks. Those queer big
 
 40 THE CORTLANDTS 
 
 eyes of hers! Give her time to grow up to 'em, and 
 then see!" 
 
 The ladies laughed, for here they were on sure 
 ground. "Don't be more ridiculous than you can help, 
 Theo," his wife said briefly. "You are getting to 
 be a silly old man; you see beauty in anything femi- 
 nine!" ' 
 
 Even Fanny tossed her meek head. "Ann pretty?" 
 she echoed. "Oh, Uncle Theo, what an idea!" 
 
 "You'll have to find some better reason than that 
 for Hendricks' infatuation." 
 
 "Well, by gad, she's fond of the old boy, you know. 
 . . . I sometimes think that she is the only one 
 of the lot of us who is." 
 
 "Why, Theodore, we all adore him!" Mrs. Cort- 
 landt cried, scandalized. 
 
 "We all revere him, you mean. ... I suppose, 
 really, Hendricks is a human being, underneath all 
 his formality." 
 
 "Nonsense, Theo!" 
 
 "You see? Ann thinks he is, I have no doubt, and 
 I'll take odds he likes it." 
 
 The women looked at each other uncomfortably; 
 there was more in this conjecture of Theodore Ren- 
 neslyer than they liked to admit. 
 
 When Hendricks came home for dinner he con- 
 fided to his mother that Mr. Cortlandt expected Ann 
 to call him uncle. "Just like Fanny and me," he 
 added arrogantly. "Some day he'll be sorry, you'll 
 see."
 
 TAKING ROOT 41 
 
 "Hendricks," she said crisply, "it is much more 
 likely to be you who is sorry." 
 
 "Why?" ' 
 
 "A child in that house! It is strange, isn't it, to 
 think that he may sacrifice his own flesh and blood 
 for her?" 
 
 "Do you mean that uncle may give her all his 
 money?" 
 
 Mrs. Renneslyer shrank from this crudity, and lifted 
 a languidly protesting hand. "I said nothing so 
 definite. I only meant to warn you. After all, your 
 future is at stake." 
 
 "But he has made a will, I heard you tell father 
 so last summer, leaving it all to me." 
 
 Hendricks' mother looked at him sharply; she was 
 beginning to find his smugness irritating. "There's one 
 thing you may find out," she said sharply, "and that 
 is that there is many a slip between a will and a 
 codicil." She felt more cheerful after having thus 
 plunged her son into bewilderment; as she went up- 
 stairs to lay aside her dolman, she was unreasonably 
 relieved. After all, she told herself, family was the 
 thing that counted with her brother; she was certain 
 that he would never seriously consider supplanting his 
 nephew with a common child of a nobody. 
 
 After supper in Washington Square, when Mr. 
 Cortlandt would have settled down to his book, Ann 
 stood stubbornly before him. He looked up, ironically 
 inquiring.
 
 42 THE CORTLANDTS 
 
 "Why don't those people like me?" she demanded 
 'defensively. 
 
 "What people?" 
 
 "Oh, those Renneslyers, that fat boy and his 
 mother, and Fanny's mother, too." 
 
 "Possibly they think that I am growing too fond 
 of you." 
 
 Ann shot a sidelong glance at Mr. Cortlandt: no, 
 he was not smiling. "If that is the reason, I don't 
 mind," she declared happily. "I don't want any one to 
 like me, only you!"
 
 CHAPTER IV! 
 
 ESCAPADES 
 
 ANN never achieved that perfect behavior which 
 she felt was to be expected of her guardian's ward; 
 she was always in scrapes of one sort or another, and 
 yet never did she see her naughtiness ahead of her; 
 it always leapt upon her in the dark, as it were, taking 
 her unawares, and defenseless. 
 
 She settled down to work with her governess ani- 
 mated by a firm determination to make the best of it, 
 for, in her early appreciation of Mr. Cortlandt's kind- 
 ness, she felt that it was almost happiness to submit, 
 for his sake, to something which she found so unpleas- 
 ant. When Fanny Cortlandt was added to the class, 
 she was half sorry, as her pleasure in the other child's 
 society took the edge off the sacrifice she made her 
 gnardian. She hated her governess with a passion 
 which absorbed her; at all her ideas of polite behavior 
 she turned up a nose that nature had equipped all too 
 well for that gesture, and she tormented the unfortu- 
 nate young woman into a nagging which very nearly 
 drove them both distracted. Nevertheless, she quickly 
 learned all that this first incumbent had to teach her, 
 and was enormously bored at being forced to listen to 
 Fanny's instruction on points which she had already 
 mastered. 
 
 43
 
 44 THE CORTLANDTS 
 
 It was on a day when the spring call was sounding 
 clearly in the trembling air, that Ann first disgraced 
 herself. Fanny was struggling with the tables of eight. 
 There was a robin on the railing outside the window, 
 and the discouraged instructress was droning on "six- 
 teen twenty-four thirty-two." Ann felt that she 
 could not endure it another moment. 
 
 "I want," she said, "to get a drink of w r ater." 
 
 The governess was a Christian young woman, and 
 she looked up at the uneasy child with resigned de- 
 spair. "Very well," she said, and continued, "forty 
 forty-eight." 
 
 Out in the hall the door was opened wide, and a 
 great gust of soft air was blowing through the house. 
 Ann instinctively turned toward it; she had no plan 
 as she poked her head out the door, and almost no 
 plan as she ran down the Square, hatless and suddenly 
 mad. She did not pause until she reached Broadway ; 
 there, lost in the crowd, she felt safe from pursuit. 
 "Eight sixteen thirty-two!" she said aloud, de- 
 risively. She wanted to fling her arms about, and 
 shout. Instead she paused, and gaped at a jeweler's 
 window, which was resplendent with sets of coral, 
 and cameos set in pearls. Why did grown people want 
 things like that? Ann wondered, and then she remem- 
 bered her mother's delight in the jewels her affluent 
 new husband had given her, and understood. . . . 
 She wished that she had something of her mother's to 
 keep. . . . She wondered if all her pretty things had 
 sunk quite to the bottom of the ocean. . . . De-
 
 ESCAPADES 45 
 
 fensively, she flung away from the window: this was 
 no way to enjoy her freedom ! 
 
 "Yes, sir," she heard a man say, as he passed with 
 a companion. "Trinity spire is the highest point in 
 New York! Beautiful view from there." 
 
 Immediately she knew what she wanted, and she 
 started off down Broadway, undeterred by a knowl- 
 edge of the miles which stretched between her goal 
 and her. She was a weary child when she at length 
 arrived where the church shepherded its clustering 
 gravestones- far away down-town, but it had never 
 occurred to her to give up her quest The stairs seemed 
 very long and steep as she toiled up them, but once 
 at the top, she exulted over the wide panorama. She 
 strained her young eyes to follow, hi the slate-gray 
 sea, the course of a ship that was going, as her 
 mother's ship had gone, out into the unknown; she 
 longed to be aboard it, or in one of the small sailing 
 craft that skimmed about below her, in the ruffled lead 
 color of the river. The city, too, was full of interest; 
 there were countless places which she had not yet 
 seen. The tiny square patches of budding green in the 
 wilderness of houses meant parks whose existence she 
 had not even guessed; the avenues that cut narrow 
 swathes through the city led to enchanted goals for 
 future expeditions. . . . Her eyes ran curiously 
 over the miles of monotonous flat tops of houses, 
 broken, here and there, by the spire of a church, thrust 
 up like a spear above all else. ... It rested her, 
 to hang on the railing, and speculate about the un-
 
 46 THE CORTLANDTS 
 
 known in that way; a delightful interest in other peo- 
 ple's lives awoke in her, and beguiled her so that she 
 forgot to be apprehensive about her reception in Wash- 
 ington Square, when she should, at last, return. 
 
 In after years she never could remember just how 
 she managed to get home again, but she knew that 
 Mr. Cortlandt had forgiven her, and that, after a 
 frank statement of her hopeless boredom during les- 
 sons, he had replaced the Christian young lady by an 
 earnest German instructress, who undertook the tam- 
 ing of Ann with a sort of holy fervor, and who for 
 years adored and tyrannized over her in an ecstasy 
 of sentimentality. 
 
 Fanny and Ann speedily became intimate ; they were 
 thrown together from the beginning, and they com- 
 plemented each other in a way that was a delight to 
 both of them. Fanny was a timid child, inclined to 
 an unadventurous life which proved monotonous, even 
 to the docile girl herself, while Ann was always a 
 rebel, only too willing to lead her protesting friend into 
 exciting paths she never would have explored by her- 
 self. During the first six months of Ann's stay, Fanny 
 was in trouble oftener than she had been in all her 
 life before, but the more ingenious child fascinated her, 
 and she looked at her with adoring eyes. As for Ann, 
 she loved Fanny dearly, and that was all there was 
 about that ; her reason was not in the least concerned in 
 the matter. 
 
 She never could manage to get on with young Hen- 
 dricks Renneslyer, although, at her guardian's request,
 
 ESCAPADES 47 
 
 she made sporadic efforts to establish pleasant rela- 
 tions. He did not like her, and she knew it. He 
 hated anything conspicuous or unconventional, and he 
 complained that his uncle's protegee was both, as, 
 indeed, it must be admitted that she sometimes took 
 pains to be, in his reproving presence. Now and then, 
 in the winters of her childhood, he took her skating 
 in the new Central Park, but Ann knew that it was 
 only because his mother had insisted that he should, 
 and she always wondered why this special favor 
 should be shown her by the coldly beautiful Mrs. Ren- 
 neslyer. She could skate very well indeed; even be- 
 fore she left Milton Center she could cut her initials 
 on the ice, and there were always plenty of people 
 who watched her on the park lake. She was vastly 
 Hendricks' superior, and she took a malicious pleasure 
 in cutting figures around him. He was a heavy 
 pompous boy in his early adolescence, and he treated 
 Ann as though she were a mere infant; she grinned 
 to herself, in her increasing maturity, as she recalled 
 his clumsy rushes after her, and his impotent protests 
 at the ridiculous position she put him in. She knew 
 that he greatly preferred his cousin Fanny to her, but 
 she did not object to that; what she could not endure 
 was her friend's adoration of him. 
 
 It was not until the autumn Hendricks went away 
 to Harvard College that his smoldering resentment 
 flared into open dislike. New York City was at that 
 time in the throes of religious excitement, and Ann 
 was on fire with desire to go to the mushroom prayer-
 
 48 THE CORTLANDTS 
 
 meetings, which had sprung up in various quarters of 
 the town, and where great crowds of people gathered 
 daily to hear Whitfield's ardent exhortations. She 
 began to think about her soul in those days, and one 
 afternoon her guardian came home to find her crouch- 
 ing over a leaping fire, with fascinated eyes fixed on 
 the blaze. 
 
 "What are you doing there, my dear?" he asked. 
 
 Ann answered solemnly, "Thinking about hell-fire, 
 uncle." 
 
 He laughed, but he would not be cajoled into taking 
 her to hear the revivalist. "I couldn't think of such a 
 thing, Ann, I am too old to expose myself to anything 
 so upsetting. And you can not go alone with Frau- 
 lein in that excited crowd, mind that. You'll have to 
 take young Hendricks along, if you must go." 
 
 The boy protested hotly. 
 
 "Why can't you go to a regular church?" he de- 
 manded. "Those prayer-meetings; a lot of common 
 people all singing and shouting! Grace Church is 
 good enough for me." 
 
 He found the revivals even worse than he had 
 feared. He hated the crude emotion of them, and 
 shrank from the uncontrolled ecstasy of conversion 
 and repentance, while Ann, on the contrary, thrilled 
 to the dramatic exaltation about her. He twitched 
 her coat nervously when she lifted her clear voice in 
 the hymns; it rang out pure and sweet; she liked to 
 hear it, and to be a part of the great moved audience.
 
 ESCAPADES 49 
 
 It made no difference to her if people turned to stare 
 at her. 
 
 She was immensely interested in the personal 
 prayers offered by members of the congregation. The 
 intrepid person thus inspired wrote his plea upon a 
 piece of paper, folded it, handed it to an usher, and 
 at a later period in the service had the hectic pleasure 
 of hearing his words read out before all the crowd. 
 Ann longed to ask a boon, and searched her brain 
 for days for something she might demand, but it was 
 not until she came very near the turning, on this road 
 to salvation, that she hit on her appeal. Standing 
 well away from young Hendricks, she managed, be- 
 fore he could stop her, to slip into the hand of an 
 usher a piece of paper upon which was written, in a 
 round schoolgirl's hand, "Prayers are earnestly re- 
 quested for a boy who thinks himself as good as 
 God." 
 
 A few moments later, when this was read out by 
 the trusting minister of the gospel, Ann was unable 
 to suppress the pride of authorship, and turned, in 
 a flutter of excitement, to the stolid youth beside her. 
 
 "It's you, Hendricks," she cried, "it's you!" And 
 thus effectively demolished any chance of the young 
 man's conversion. 
 
 It was after this that Mr. Cortlandt had laid a ban 
 on further attendance at the prayer-meetings, and 
 young Hendricks shortly after went away to college. 
 It seemed to Ann entirely unreasonable that the boy
 
 '50 THE CORTLANDTS 
 
 and his mother should resent her prayer, and look on 
 it as a sinister attack, but somehow, without being told, 
 she was certain that they did. 
 
 The one sure thing she could anchor all her mem- 
 ories to, was the indelible fact of her guardian's affec- 
 tion for her, and as she grew older she developed a 
 keen desire to reward him for it. It was mainly for his 
 sake that she wished to be pretty. She was, she sup- 
 posed, clever, enough ; at any rate, the aunts referred 
 to her scornfully as a blue stocking, and at fifteen she 
 was often aware of knowing more about her lessons 
 than Fraulein did, while the musical young lady who 
 taught her the piano assured her that in spite of her 
 slapdash method she was better at her pieces than 
 painstaking Fanny. Every one knew that she could 
 ride any horse, however wild, and swim through the 
 heavy surf at Newport, but all these advantages 
 weighed as nothing in the balance against her lack of 
 good looks. She hated her slender height, and her 
 impudent nose, and her too thin arms. 
 
 It is true that sometimes, when she looked in the 
 tall mirror over her bureau, it seemed to her that her 
 face was somehow growing up to her eyes, and that 
 her red lips were less incongruous in the warm white 
 of her face, but as her ideal was at that time a plump, 
 pink and white young lady with glossy black ringlets, 
 like Qara Louise Kellogg's in Rigoletto, she was un- 
 aware of any growing beauty. Moreover, her mother's 
 adverse judgment of her clung, that mother whom 
 she tenderly recalled as a miracle of prettiness, and in
 
 ESCAPADES 51 
 
 addition to this, the stigma upon red hair had not 
 then been removed, and Mrs. William's estimate of her 
 flaming mane reached her through Fanny. 
 
 "It is such a pity," that brown-toned young woman 
 said, "that it does not grow darker. Mama says you 
 will never get you a husband on account of it." 
 
 Ann tossed her despised head. "La !" she exclaimed. 
 "Who cares?" Her voice, however, was dispirited. At 
 fifteen she had known no men, and as for the boys she 
 met at occasional children's parties, she resented their 
 sleek good manners almost as much as they did her 
 tomboy ways, and Fanny, who danced but passably 
 well, had more partners than light-footed Ann. 
 
 It was about this time that she grew rebellious at 
 being considered a child. She had not dropped, with 
 other childish ways, her early habit of pretending, but 
 gradually her dreams had altered their character. She 
 was no longer a wild red Indian, a dashing sailor, 
 a swashbuckling soldier. Furtively, persuasively, a 
 change had come, and she enrolled herself as a lovely 
 princess; ... a second Helen of Troy; . . . 
 a much sought belle and beauty. She lived each book 
 she read, as heroine, and often shed secret tears over 
 the tragic plights to which she reduced herself. If 
 any one had called her romantic she would have denied 
 it with an indignation that would have been largely 
 protective, but as a result of the richness of her inner 
 Jife she longed for wider emotional horizons. She 
 and Fanny talked much of coming out into gay New 
 York society, and she speculated a great deal about
 
 2 THE CORTLANDTS 
 
 the dinner parties and evening receptions her guardian 
 so often disappeared to enjoy; it was quite in vain 
 that he told her she missed very little; she continued 
 to watch his departures with wistful eyes. 
 
 Her immaturity did not become unbearable to her, 
 however, until the Japanese Embassy visited New 
 York. Those first diplomats from mysterious lands 
 across the wide Pacific were objects of general curios- 
 ity; the newspapers heralded them, and people flocked 
 to see them. Ann plagued Mr. Cortlandt with ques- 
 tions about them. 
 
 "Are they really so small?" she demanded. "And 
 have they slit eyes, like the Japanese doll you gave 
 me when I first came ? Do they actually wear dresses, 
 like women? Are they yellow? How yellow? Are 
 they interesting?" 
 
 Her guardian laughed. "They are not," he declared. 
 "They smile and say nothing, and I smile, and say 
 nothing, and it is all a great bore." 
 
 "But Joseph says you are going to entertain them ; 
 you are to give them a reception !" 
 
 He sighed. "Unfortunately, I am. . . . Some 
 one had to do it, and four of us drew lots for it, at the 
 Century Club. I lost." 
 
 "You won, you mean !" 
 
 She ran to tell Fanny the great news, and amazed 
 that good child by declaring- her intention of going 
 down-stairs to mingle with the guests. 
 
 "You can't do that, Ann. Uncle would never allow! 
 such a thing, at your age!"
 
 ESCAPADES 53 
 
 "Wait and see," Ann boasted. "I am sure he will 
 want us to be there." 
 
 He did not, however, as the ladies of his family 
 were united on the impropriety of such conduct, and 
 Ann was forced to confine her observations of the 
 swarthy men in their gorgeous Eastern clothes to such 
 glimpses as she could snatch when hanging over the 
 stair rail, in a rage of curiosity and disappointment. 
 Looking down, her eyes lighted on the top of Mr. 
 William Cullen Bryant's head; it was unmistakable; 
 no one's else was so massive and so bald, nor had such 
 a bush of grizzled hair flowing over the coat collar 
 behind, almost as long as the great gray beard in 
 front. Ann knew him well, for he was often at her 
 guardian's house ; she liked him both because he some- 
 times read his poems aloud, so beautifully that they 
 sounded like music, and because he walked back and 
 forth to his newspaper office in all sorts of weather. 
 She had little use for indoor people, and when it rained 
 she liked to think of the hearty old man, with his head 
 bent to the storm; she had a feeling of kinship to 
 him. She made a curious sibilant noise against her 
 teeth, and the poet looked up quickly, and laughed. 
 He was carrying in one hand a plate of escalloped 
 oysters, and in the other a bright red apple. 
 
 "May I come up?" he called softly. 
 
 "Oh, do!" Ann whispered back, undeterred by 
 Fanny's aghast plucking at her skirts. She made no 
 false apologies at accepting the oysters he offered 
 her. The apple he reserved for himself.
 
 54 THE CORTLANDTS 
 
 "I was intending the oysters for a somewnat more 
 mature lady," Mr. Bryant said, "but if she knew their 
 fate, she would not, I am sure, regret them." 
 
 Ann lifted a skeptical face. "Hum," she said, 
 "better not tell her, though. . . . Have one, 
 Fanny, they're good." 
 
 Their benefactor laughed, and set his apple down 
 on the step beside Ann. "I'll go fetch some more," he 
 offered, "and we children will all have supper to- 
 gether." 
 
 "Well," commented Ann dryly, "if you want to 
 play that you're a child, this is the place to come. 
 . . . Don't you think it's mean ?" 
 "Mean?" 
 
 "Yes, not to let us go down there, and meet 
 those Japanese? I've never seen one, near to, and 
 Japan is a long way off." 
 
 Mr. Bryant laughed again, in an incomprehensible, 
 mature fashion, and sauntered off down-stairs. 
 . . . Ann finished her oysters ; shared with Fanny, 
 there were not very many. . . . She looked over 
 the rail again, but this time the hall was empty. "Can't 
 see a thing," she complained. Her bitter look fell 
 on the poet's frugal supper. "Aren't grown peo- 
 ple queer?" she demanded. "An apple!" She held it 
 up scornfully. "And he can have anything he wants! 
 It's an awful waste !" 
 
 She looked up to see Mr. Bryant returning, laden 
 with more plates of escalloped oysters. Behind him 
 was a diminutive young man, in a saffron robe em-
 
 ESCAPADES '55 
 
 broidered in rose color, carrying ice-cream. The chil- 
 dren scrambled to their feet; they were tongue-tied 
 with shyness; for once even Ann had nothing at all 
 to say, but it became evident that it was just as well, 
 as the stranger made no effort to speak, either. He 
 bobbed his shorn black head, and smiled, and they did 
 the same, and presently the four of them were seated 
 on the stairs, Mr. Bryant munching his apple, while 
 the young people devoured ice-cream and sponge cake. 
 In spite of the fact that he was unable to tell them so, 
 the girls divined that this was the Oriental's first 
 introduction to these delicacies, and they beamed sym- 
 pathetically upon him, unaware that Mr. Bryant looked 
 at them with much the same kindly expression, as he 
 turned their defeat into a triumph.
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 ROYALTY 
 
 IT WAS in the autumn following Ann's sixteenth 
 birthday that the Prince of Wales made his historic 
 visit to America. He was, at that time, unquestion- 
 ably the most romantic figure in the world, and the 
 tremendous affair of his crossing the Atlantic Ocean 
 was made much of. His stay in Canada, his happy 
 and gracious responses to official greetings, his delight- 
 ful enthusiasm and delicious naivete, were all recorded 
 at great length in the New York newspapers, and 
 wood-cuts of his candid and temperamental young 
 face were to be found looking out of every magazine. 
 When it was finally announced that he was actually 
 coming to visit the United States, and would spend a 
 few days in New York, the excitement among fashion- 
 able people ran high, and the plans made for his enter- 
 tainment were of a more metropolitan order than ever 
 attempted before. There was to be a parade, a public 
 ball was to be given for him at the Academy of Music, 
 and a dinner and reception were arranged for at the 
 Brevoort Hotel. This plan left but one evening free, 
 and after some discussion it was decided that Mr. 
 Cortlandt, who was chairman of the committee in 
 charge of the prince's visit, should entertain him at a 
 private banquet. Ann was in a great state of excite- 
 ment at the prospect of having the prince at dinner. 
 
 56
 
 ROYALTY 57 
 
 "We shall both fall in love with him!" she told 
 Fanny ecstatically. 
 
 "Well, anyway," said Fanny, "mama says I may 
 make my debut at the ball. She is getting me a pink 
 tarlatan dress for it." 
 
 "Then I shall go, too! I shall ask your mother to 
 order me a dress like yours." 
 
 When she did so, Mrs. William looked at her in 
 ruffled amazement. "Ball?" she echoed, "at sixteen? 
 Stuff and nonsense !" 
 
 "But Fanny is going." 
 
 "Fanny is seventeen: and at any rate, miss, it is 
 high time you learned that there are some things Fanny 
 should have, and you shouldn't." 
 
 The girl took this blow in silence. She was staggered 
 by Mrs. William's belief that her daughter, as a 
 bona-fide member of the illustrious Cortlandt family, 
 had a divine right to certain privileges denied to Ann 
 Byrne, once of Milton Center. It seemed fair enough, 
 however, when she considered it dispassionately, and 
 this realization threw her into a panic. If her guardian 
 agreed with his sister-in-law, she didn't want to know 
 it; she wished to live in her fool's paradise as long 
 as she could, and she could not bring herself to mention 
 the ball to him, although she cherished a secret hope 
 that he might issue an ultimatum to the effect that 
 she was to go. He did not speak, however, and on the 
 great night she even brought herself, in her new humil- 
 ity, to watch the affair of Fanny's dressing. 
 
 The pale rose tarlatan gown was charming, with its
 
 58 THE CORTLANDTS 
 
 wide ruffles caught, here and there, by tiny bunches 
 of rose-buds; the debutante looked very pretty as she 
 stood tremulously awaiting her shawling. Her sleek 
 brown hair was circled by a flat wreath of shining 
 green leaves, and a little round bouquet trembled in 
 her gloved hands. 
 
 "It is too bad, Ann," she murmured compunctiously, 
 as her mother hurried her off to the coach which 
 waited, like Cinderella's, to bear her to the prince's 
 ball. 
 
 Ann cried a little before she went to sleep that 
 night, for she felt herself an outcast, and she awakened 
 very early, to hear the home-coming carriages roll 
 through the Square. She crept to the window and 
 looked out ; the night was drearily breaking into morn- 
 ing; it was the first dawn. She wondered what the 
 prince was like. ... It was small consolation to 
 know that Fanny would probably only have bowed be- 
 fore young Albert Edward; Ann had dreamed of 
 floating about the ballroom in his arms, their steps 
 matched in the elegant polka, and she felt that, could 
 she have been there, in some miraculous way endowed 
 with beauty and with charm, she would have achieved 
 it. It was her imagination's heights that she missed, 
 not Fanny's poor successes. 
 
 It was on the following evening that the prince was 
 to dine with Mr. Cortlandt, and Ann came down to 
 breakfast determined to carry her disappointment 
 through magnificently. Unfortunately, early as she
 
 ROYALTY 59 
 
 was, Mrs. Cortlandt was before her : it was incredible 
 that the woman, after spending the night ranged 
 against a chilly wall, watching, with anxious eyes, for 
 Fanny's partners, could be up and out in time to come 
 bustling into her brother-in-law's sunny breakfast 
 room, full of plans for the evening's entertainment. 
 She had already interviewed the cook, and when Ann 
 came in she was saying, "We shall have oyster stew, 
 of course, Hendricks, and she does lobster so well 
 that I decided on that, but I couldn't sleep last night, 
 after I finally got home, worrying for fear we should 
 have had terrapin. . . . Do you think we made a 
 mistake ?" 
 
 Mr. Cortlandt smiled. "No," he said, "he'll get all 
 the terrapin he can eat in Baltimore and Washington. 
 . . . Good morning, my dear. You are as late as 
 though you had gone to the ball." 
 
 Ann stooped and kissed him. "I couldn't seem to 
 go to sleep," she said unsteadily. 
 
 "You might as well have spent the night dancing. 
 . . . By the way, why didn't you go? I had no 
 idea that Fanny would be there until I saw her. You 
 should have gone with her." 
 
 Ann flung a triumphant glance at Mrs. Cortlandt. 
 "I thought you didn't want me to go," she murmured. 
 She was tremulous in her joy at being reinstated. 
 
 "Nonsense! Don't I always want you? How 
 about to-night? You are coming to the dinner, of 
 course?"
 
 60 THE CORTLANDTS 
 
 "Hendricks, don't be absurd! A child like Ann at 
 a formal dinner party! For the Prince of Wales! 
 Why, even Fanny isn't to be here !" 
 
 "Oh, uncle, may I come?" 
 
 "Hendricks, it isn't possible, at this hour. . . . 
 The table is full, and pulled out as far as it will go. 
 The dining-room won't hold any more people. . . . 
 Besides, Ann has no proper dress." 
 
 Mr. Cortlandt smiled ruefully at his ward. "The 
 Fates seem to be against us, my child. ... I 
 should have inquired; it was careless of me, but I don't 
 understand why you didn't tell me if you wanted to 
 come. It could have been quite easily arranged." 
 
 Ann smiled mistily at him. "Never mind," she said 
 softly. "So long as you want me to be there, it's all 
 right." She escaped from the breakfast room and 
 the details of the dinner as soon as she could, however, 
 for Fanny's mother's triumph over her was more than 
 she could bear. She wished that she might go away 
 somewhere until everything was over, and the prince 
 had gone. A lump rose in her throat at the realiza- 
 tion of her needless disappointment, and she flung on 
 her hat and jacket, determined to get away from a 
 house dominated by Mrs. Cortlandt. 
 
 On the door-step she met a servant in livery. He 
 touched his ha^ antv offered her the note he carried. 
 "From Mrs. Vanderdyken," he said, and departed. 
 
 Ann's eyes widened. Mrs. Vanderdyken, she knew, 
 was expected at the dinner, and she guessed, immedi-
 
 ROYALTY 61 
 
 ately, that something must have happened to prevent 
 her coming. Into her mind came a daring idea, and 
 her lips pressed together firmly, as the glorious pos- 
 sibilities of it developed. Her eyes were black in her 
 white face. She tore open the note: her intuitions 
 had been correct; the elegant Mrs. Vanderdyken had 
 sprained an ankle, and was forced to send her regrets, 
 at this late hour. Ann hesitated a moment longer on 
 the door-step, it was the hesitation of one who 
 plans, not one who fears, and then she darted away in 
 the direction of the little house in Eleventh Street, 
 where she had, the night before, assisted Fanny Cort- 
 landt to dress for the ball. People turned to look at 
 her as she sped through the streets, swift, and pos- 
 sessed, and absorbed. 
 
 The maid who answered the door told her that Miss 
 Fanny still slept, but Ann persisted. "I'll come in," 
 she said, and she smiled radiantly at the girl. "I won't 
 wake her. I'll just go up and wait." 
 
 She crept up the narrow stairs along the wall, hold- 
 ing her breath when now and then they creaked under 
 her careful feet The bedroom door was shut, and a 
 heavy silence lay on the upper floor ; after an instant's 
 pause, Ann turned to the little dressing-room where 
 Fanny had arrayed herself. The finery she had laid 
 aside after the ball was carelessly bestowed upon the 
 chairs and couch ; it lay heaped together, the pair of 
 prim little pink slippers, the wreath of leaves for the 
 hair, the long silk stockings, the faded bouquet, and,
 
 52 THE CORTLANDTS 
 
 collapsed into themselves in a corner, the hoops that 
 had distended the glory of the festive gown, now 
 hanging limp, without its crinoline, across a chair. 
 
 Ann wasted no time in observation. She seized the 
 unwieldly hoop-skirt with a firm but feminine hand, 
 and using its gaping interior as a carpet bag, she hastily 
 crammed into it the pink tarlatan dress, the little pink 
 slippers and the stockings, the wreath of leaves for 
 the hair, and the fluffy white petticoats. In a moment 
 the deed was done, and she confronted the problem of 
 transporting her plunder from Eleventh Street to 
 Washington Square. She admitted to herself that the 
 sight of a great girl of sixteen bearing a naked hoop- 
 skirt through the streets of New York was not to be 
 considered, royalty or no royalty. 
 
 After cautious reconnoitering she ventured out into 
 the hall with her unwieldy bundle. Then, taking her 
 courage in both hands, she stole down the stairs, hold- 
 ing the great balloon of the hoop out before her, and, 
 noiselessly opening the front door, she succeeded in 
 pushing the unwilling skirt through the opening, and 
 the vestibule was reached. Eleventh Street lay before 
 her, long and empty and observant; Ann felt eyes 
 lurking behind every pair of prim window curtains, 
 and she almost lost her courage. The only vehicle in 
 sight was a fish cart, which had paused before the 
 house while the man bargained with Mrs. William's 
 cook at the rear door below. Ann leaned, and listened ; 
 she caught sounds of a conversation that promised to 
 be lingering, so she carefully deposited her treacherous
 
 ROYALTY 63 
 
 bundle on the floor, and started cautiously down the 
 high steps. Immediately behind her the hoops col- 
 lapsed; a pink slipper skimmed past her, and rico- 
 chetted to the curb. Ann pursued it ; she stood beside 
 the fish cart when she again had it in her hand. She 
 cast a quick but innocent glance over the sleeping 
 house-front, and then she lifted the cover of the cart 
 and peered within, as though consumed with dutiful 
 interest in her aunt's dinner. The box was very nearly 
 empty. At one end of the malodorous space a few 
 lobsters lurked, draped with seaweed, and that was all. 
 She glanced at the area way, and caught the sound of 
 Jaughter, and her mind was made up. It was the 
 work of a moment to re-collect Fanny's finery, and 
 to repack the hoop. Clasping it in her slender young 
 arms, she started down again, feeling cautiously for 
 each step, under the enormous burden of the crinoline. 
 Her breath fluttered in her throat, and she laughed 
 nervously to herself, although the situation did not 
 strike her as in the least funny. With a desperate 
 earnestness, she assaulted the fish cart with the hoop- 
 skirt, and gradually the thing yielded; it elongated 
 itself sufficiently to begin to enter the box of the 
 wagon, and then it became but an affair of muscle, 
 and the deed was done! When the fish man emerged 
 from the areaway, he found a breathless young lady 
 just closing, with a firm hand, the door of his cart. 
 
 "I see," she said, in a high strained voice, "that 
 you have some fine lobsters this morning." 
 
 "Yes'm," replied the fish man laconically. He waP
 
 64 THE CORTLANDTS 
 
 not an observant individual. "Can I show them to 
 .ye?" 
 
 "Oh, no, thank you. I have looked at them. Will 
 you kindly bring them around to 23 Washington 
 Square? I think Mr. Cortlandt's cook will want 
 them." 
 
 The fish man brightened, for Washington Square 
 trade was worth wheeling his cart some distance to 
 secure. "Thank ye, miss, I'm sure," he said, and he 
 got himself into his shafts without more ado. 
 
 Ann had feared further neighorbood traffic, but 
 the fact that his supply was so nearly exhausted saved 
 her; the little procession of the fish cart in the street, 
 and the girl on the sidewalk proceeded unmolested. 
 
 When the man paused before Mr. Cortlandt's door 
 Ann was a little way behind him, she quickened her 
 steps with an effect of pursuit, and arrested him as 
 he would have opened the box where his lobsters 
 lay. 
 
 "Oh !" she cried. "Wait a moment ! There is a lady 
 just around the corner who wants to speak to you. 
 I think she wants to buy something from you." 
 
 The fish man straightened himself alertly; it seemed 
 an extraordinarily lucky morning for the sale of his 
 wares. 
 
 "Around the corner, did ye say, miss?" 
 
 Ann had now come up to him. She stood with 
 her hand on the door of his little wagon. "Yes," she 
 said positively, "just around the corner, the first
 
 ROYALTY 65 
 
 house. . . . I'll watch your wagon while you are 
 gone, but you had better hurry." 
 
 He went at once, with a touching trust in the im- 
 perious young lady who was controlling his destinies. 
 As for Ann, she cast one imploring look over the 
 fagade of her guardian's house, and then tore open the 
 door of the wagon. A burst of crinoline sprang out 
 at her, and she laid violent hands upon it. She tugged, 
 and it resisted; she coaxed, and it sprang back again, 
 and in the meantime, the plodding fish man neared the 
 corner. She gave a despairing pull, and all at once 
 the entire skirt leaped upon her, scattering various 
 articles of Fanny's apparel to the four winds of Wash- 
 ington Square. The fish man rounded the corner, 
 thank heaven he had not looked back ! and the house- 
 front still beamed kindly down on her. She disengaged 
 a clinging lobster from a rib of the hoop, and fled 
 incontinently into the areaway. Contrary to rules, 
 the door was not locked, and she plunged headlong 
 into the haven of her guardian's house. 
 
 The bewildered fish man, on returning fruitlessly 
 from the corner, found his cart deserted, and the doors 
 gaping. On appealing to the cook in behalf of his 
 lobsters, he received only the irritated refusal of a 
 temperamental genuis engaged in a masterpiece; he 
 made no sales in Washington Square that day, and 
 as for the strange young lady, he never set eyes on 
 her again. However, and this is the most curious 
 part of his experience, when he came to clear out
 
 66 THE CORTLANDTS 
 
 his wagon, he found, shining bright among the sea- 
 weed, a bright new dollar, and, wound about the last 
 remaining lobster, a long pink silk stocking that was 
 surely an exotic in a fish cart! 
 
 At half after six o'clock that night Mrs. Cortlandt 
 was nervously awaiting the arrival of His Royal High- 
 ness, and Mrs. Vanderdyken. The other guests were 
 there, decorously assembled before young Albert Ed- 
 ward should enter, and Mrs. William was by no means 
 certain how she should manage the situation if the 
 lady's entrance followed that of the prince. She cast 
 agitated glances at her calm brother-in-law, and it was 
 with tremendous relief that she heard a little stir in 
 the hall. She turned with an effusive welcome on 
 her lips to greet the delayed guest. 
 
 The door swung fully open, but Joseph's voice did 
 not sound the glorious name of Mrs. Vanderdyken in 
 the ringing British fashion which, in the morning, she 
 had instructed him to adopt. Instead the horrified 
 Mrs. William caught the unmistakable sound of a 
 chuckle. There was a faint murmur of excited move- 
 ment without, and then the doorway was filled by a 
 vision of youth and beauty that was bewilderingly 
 familiar, and irritatingly different, but that was as- 
 suredly not Mrs. Vanderdyken. Ann, elegant and sud- 
 denly lovely, her rich hair piled on her small head, her 
 wide pink skirts spreading out from a miraculously 
 slim waist, leaned confidentially toward her. 
 
 "Mrs. Vanderdyken has sprained her ankle," she 
 murmured low, "and I am taking her place."
 
 ROYALTY 67 
 
 She caught her guardian's eye, and swept past the 
 astonished hostess, into the midst of the guests. 
 It was too late to stop her, but it was possibily as well 
 for the decorum of the prince's dinner party that the 
 full enormity of the girl's act did not immediately 
 dawn on Mrs. William; it was some time before she 
 recognized in Ann's charming costume the dress which 
 she had, with so much care, prepared for her Fanny 
 to wear to the prince's ball. 
 
 Mr. Cortlandt looked at Ann with twinkling eyes; 
 he was amused at her defiance, and delighted at the 
 sudden revelation of her beauty. Ann saw at once 
 that she should have nothing to fear from him, and 
 she drew a quick breath of relief. He comprehended 
 the situation immediately, and explained, as he pater- 
 nally circled the drawing-room with her, that, in the 
 sudden emergency of Mrs. Vanderdyken's ankle, he 
 had allowed his ward to come to the table, in spite of 
 the fact that she was not yet "out." She had no more 
 than politely greeted the ladies present, when the prince 
 was announced, and the little excitement of her arrival 
 was over. She stood modestly at one side, watching 
 the flurried curtsies of the New York matrons, and 
 wondering, nervously, if the sachet she had tucked into 
 her bodice was sufficiently strong to overcome an odor 
 of fish that clung mysteriously about her. She felt 
 no concern about her bare young neck and arms, beau- 
 tifully white above her pink tarlatan, but she bent her 
 knees a trifle, under Fanny's short skirts, so that the 
 horrid secret of her cotton stockings might not be
 
 68 THE CORTLANDTS 
 
 exposed to a censorious world: only the tips of her 
 slippers showed beneath her crinoline, silken and ir- 
 reproachable. 
 
 She had a few moments' talk with the prince, after 
 the dinner was over. He came across to her, and asked 
 why he had not seen her at the ball. 
 
 "Because I was not there," she answered demurely. 
 "I am too young." 
 
 "But you are here ?" 
 
 Ann looked at him with speculative eyes. "I have 
 a great mind to tell you how that happened," she said 
 daringly, and in response to his urging she did tell 
 him all the disgraceful story of the fish cart. The 
 heir to the throne of England laughed so much that 
 Mrs. William came to take him away, and Ann had 
 only a word with him again as he was leaving. 
 
 "I wish you had been at the ball," he said, taking 
 her hand cordially as she regained her poise after a 
 somewhat shaky curtsey. "In Canada they made me 
 dance with all the old chaps, but here I could choose 
 the prettiest girls. I am sure you must dance beauti- 
 fully. Good-by, I shall never forget the fish cart!" 
 
 Mr. Cortlandt was very kind to her; she had been 
 right in thinking herself forgiven. He soothed Mrs. 
 William's justifiable irritation with promises of new 
 frocks for Fanny, and he admitted Ann's plea that 
 she was now grown up. It was decided that she might 
 make her debut on her seventeenth birthday, only six 
 months away.
 
 ROYALTY 69 
 
 "Silly little moth!" he said sadly. "Some day, my 
 dear, some day you will look back, and say it was a 
 wise old man who told you that childhood was not 
 such a bad time. . . . But then it will be too 
 late!" 
 
 Thus did Ann snatch victory from defeat, but it 
 was not of her approaching majority that she thought, 
 as she dreamily removed Fanny's gorgeous raiment. 
 Instead she tremulously recalled the eager look in the 
 eyes of the English boy, as he told her he wished she 
 had been at the ball, because there he had danced with 
 the prettiest girls; and the tempo of her inner con- 
 sciousness was quickened by dreams of royal mar- 
 riages, red carpets and crown jewels.
 
 CHAPTER VI 
 
 WAR AND A DEBUT 
 
 MOMENTOUS things happened in the winter before 
 the opening of the Civil War, and Ann Byrne spent 
 a thrilling six months hearing them discussed. Night 
 after night a number of her guardian's friends met 
 in the library of the Washington Square house to talk 
 over the affairs of the day, and the girl almost always 
 managed to be included in the group; she became a 
 pet of Charles A. Dana, who was amused at her 
 un feminine interest in politics, and delighted in dw*- 
 ing her into the discussion. 
 
 Sympathy for the cause of the South centered in 
 New York, for a good proportion of the newspapers in 
 town defended the doctrine of secession, and feeling 
 ran high. In the beginning, Mr. Cortlandt himself be- 
 lieved that any state had the right to secede from the 
 Union if its people voted to do so, but he was unalter- 
 ably opposed to any extension of slavery. As for Ann, 
 she read Uncle Tom's Cabin four times in as many 
 months, and became as violent an abolitionist as any 
 of her guardian's friends who came over from New 
 England to argue their beliefs with the more temperate 
 New Yorkers. Over at the Renneslyers', the atmos- 
 phere was very difficult. Hendricks' father delighted 
 in defending the complaisant administration at Wash- 
 ington, and Ann was amazed at Mr. Cortlandt's pa- 
 
 70
 
 WAR AND A DBUT 71 
 
 tience in listening to him. She tried very hard, on 
 her part, to maintain dignified relations which should 
 signify disapproval, but was unable to do so, because 
 Mr. Renneslyer simply would not have it ; always after 
 he had fallen out with her, he would make it his busi- 
 ness to regain her favor. His public rejoicing over the 
 general election in New England and New York State, 
 which followed the national election, and showed a 
 marked increase of secession strength, cost him a pair 
 of parlor skates, and his participation in an anti- 
 interference mass meeting, a visit to Barnum's Mu- 
 seum. Ann was by no means proof against such 
 seductive measures to gain her favor, and they 
 wandered among the animals and the freaks as happy 
 as two children, admiring the wild beasts and marvel- 
 ing at the minuteness of twenty-four-inch Commodore 
 Xutt. The girl liked to go out with Mr. Renneslyer. 
 His flamboyant looks amused her; his luxuriant side- 
 whiskers, parted and brushed back, shone with 
 pomade, and his ties and collars were always the most 
 extreme of their kind. She could not help liking him, 
 although she could not understand this weakness in her 
 guardian. 
 
 From the time she first heard of him Ann had 
 been a champion of Abraham Lincoln, although she 
 could not have said why. Certainly she got none of 
 her enthusiasm from the people about her, for even 
 Mr. Cortlandt had a New Yorker's distrust of a leader 
 from the rural West. She overheard Mrs. Rennes- 
 lyer say to Fanny's mother, "The girl likes the creature
 
 72 THE CORTLANDTS 
 
 because he comes from the same sort of unspeakable 
 environment that she did." Sometimes Ann won- 
 dered if she were not right. She was aware of a 
 sense of kinship with the plain Illinois politician; she 
 felt sure that they knew the same things about life, 
 and that, owing to the hard country upbringing they 
 had in common, they were more deeply wise than the 
 sophisticated men and women who surrounded her. 
 
 When the news of Mr. Lincoln's nomination reached 
 New York, Ann was the sole member of a gathering 
 at her guardian's house who did not regret his suc- 
 cess. "My ward," Mr. Cortlandt had said, smiling 
 somewhat wryly, "is a great admirer of the rail 
 splitter. She has never agreed with the rest of us 
 in our belief that Mr. Seward is the man to save the 
 situation." Ann was somewhat embarrassed, but she 
 was proud of herself, too, and of her capacity to pick 
 a winner. 
 
 The election of Abraham Lincoln was the signal 
 for greater defiance on the part of the Cotton States, 
 and much uneasiness was felt as to the future. Ann 
 always remembered a solemn conference of her guar- 
 dian's friends in regard to an editorial by Mr. Greeley 
 called "Going to Go," which appeared the second day 
 after the election. In it he deplored the idea of dis- 
 union, but stated his belief that if the people of any 
 state, after due deliberation, voted to secede, the na- 
 tional government had no right to question the action. 
 
 "You are right, Greeley," said Mr. Cortlandt. "Of 
 course you are right We all agree to that, but it's
 
 WAR AND A DfiBUT 73 
 
 a pretty complicated thing, this withdrawal from the 
 Union, and your editorial' is sure to give a lot of 
 comfort to the South." He was entirely correct in 
 this assumption, for less important papers followed 
 the great man's lead, and the secessionists were 
 mightily cheered. 
 
 In December South Carolina finally took the greatly 
 discussed step, and withdrew from the United States. 
 ,This move had been so long anticipated that it was 
 received with surprising calm, but a few days later 
 the North awoke to a real shock on hearing that Major 
 Anderson, who was stationed in Charleston Harbor, 
 had retired from the untenable Fort Moultrie to Fort 
 Sumter, which was, he stated, better prepared to with- 
 stand attack. This news was quickly followed by the 
 announcement that the secretary of war had resigned, 
 because President Buchanan had refused to order 
 Anderson back to Moultrie, and ugly stories began to 
 leak out of late transfers of government arms and mu- 
 nitions to the Southern States. After this there was 
 appreciably less talk, in the North, of conciliation or 
 compromise. Immediately after Anderson's move 
 the federal arsenal at Charleston was seized by volun- 
 teer troops acting under state authority, together with 
 all the harbor and island defenses, except Sumter. 
 Without a protest from the secessionists who filled 
 the offices, the custom house and the post-office were 
 also taken over by the state government, and the flag of 
 South Carolina was raised over them on December 
 thirty-first.
 
 74 THE CORTLANDTS 
 
 Before many weeks five other Southern States had 
 seceded, while in New York the men who were friendly 
 to the South were openly triumphant. Mr. Cortlandt 
 was very unhappy in those days, for he was torn be- 
 tween his judgment and his emotions: he used to tell 
 Ann that he envied her her whole-souled intolerance 
 of the slave-holders. "It is a terrible thing to sit here 
 in New York, comfortable and impotent, and watch 
 this great country torn apart," he said. "I am sorry 
 that I have lived to see it." 
 
 Arsenals, forts and revenue cutters were taken over 
 almost daily during the last weeks of December, 1860, 
 and early in the new year a ship sent to bring supplies 
 to Fort Sumter was fired on, and forced to turn back. 
 The political complexion changed rapidly in the North, 
 and the very people who had lamented Mr. Lincoln's 
 election because the South looked on it as a threat, 
 ROW deplored the fact that he did not come out in 
 belligerent pronunciamentos against the Seceding 
 States. It was a time when events moved rapidly, and 
 opinions reversed overnight. 
 
 In January Mayor Wood, encouraged by the clamor 
 of the pro-secessionists, recommended to the common 
 council that the city of New York, too, should secede, 
 and become a free town. This amazing suggestion 
 aroused the indignation and the ridicule of every one ; 
 and newspapers which had been advocating the south- 
 ern point of view became, in consequence of this gen- 
 eral change of opinion, appreciably less partizan. Many 
 of the pro-secessionists came over to the other camp,
 
 WAR AND A DfiBUT 75 
 
 among them, to Ann's great delight, Theodore 
 Renneslyer. In spite of this swing of public sentiment, 
 however, not a month passed before forty thousand 
 merchants signed a petition to the president urging 
 a peaceful settlement of the national difficulties, and 
 the Chamber of Commerce appointed a delegation to 
 take it, in a body, to Washington. 
 
 All these efforts to stem the overwhelming tide were 
 in vain. As the spring drew on, Major Anderson's 
 situation in Fort Sumter grew critical, and civil war, 
 until recently a thing which might be argued about, 
 loomed close and passionate. Ann found the prospect 
 of it so exciting that she almost forgot her approach- 
 ing debut. It was with a divided mind that she 
 ordered her new frocks, and her bonnet which the 
 milliner assured her was an exact copy of the one 
 worn by the beautiful Empress Eugenie. 
 
 In February a convention of the Seceded States was 
 called in Montgomery, Alabama, where a provisional 
 framework of the Confederate States of America was 
 adopted, and Jefferson Davis was elected president. 
 His inaugural address antedated Abraham Lincoln's 
 by a trifle more than a fortnight. 
 
 On the whole, apathetic incredulity was the senti- 
 ment which seemed most widely diffused in the North, 
 but there were still optimists who hoped for a peace- 
 ful solution. "As long as they haven't fired on the 
 flag, I don't see why we should worry," Mrs. Rennes- 
 lyer said repeatedly, regardless of Ann's impatience, or 
 her brother's stern silence.
 
 76 THE CORTLANDTS 
 
 Mr. Cortlandt went over to Washington for the 
 inauguration, and would have taken Ann with him, 
 had not an inconvenient and belated attack of measles 
 kept her at home. He left some days before the event, 
 as he wished to consult with various people in the 
 capital, and he arrived to hear that Brigadier-General 
 Twiggs, Commander of the United States troops in the 
 Department of Texas, had turned his entire army over 
 to the seceding state government, together with all 
 equipment and munitions in his control. 
 
 "This is the final touch," Mr. Cortlandt wrote Ann, 
 "One-half the total military force of our country is 
 in what we must call enemy hands. . . . Wash- 
 ington is in a state of terror. Invasion may be looked 
 for at once, in case of trouble, and the loyal senators 
 and congressmen agree with me that all rests in the 
 hands of Abraham Lincoln. I wish I felt, as you 
 instinctively do, that he has the capacity to handle the 
 situation. ... In his Indianapolis speech he has 
 indicated that he considers it within the rights of the 
 United States to hold and retake her forts and other 
 property. I fully agree with him in this. Please God 
 he has the resolution and fortitude to live up to this 
 sentiment; in voicing it he has shown greater courage 
 than any other political leader, including Mr. Seward, 
 whose nomination I so earnestly desired." 
 
 When he came back to New York, Ann found him 
 in a much more hopeful state. He thought highly of 
 the inaugural address, and he had met and talked with 
 the new president, and advised with him in regard to
 
 WAR AND A DfiBUT 77 
 
 some of his appointments. "He is a shrewd man," 
 he told the girl, "shrewd, and able, and something 
 more. . . . He has a gift of speech, but that is 
 not all. . . . He is a great humanitarian, and a 
 dreamer. ... It may be that he will prove the 
 man for the hour. But what an hour! It will take 
 all his humor, and all the jokes he can extract from 
 his professional funny men." 
 
 "Uncle, don't you think that I had better postpone 
 my party until all this trouble is over?" She won- 
 dered why he looked at her for so long a time, before 
 he answered her. 
 
 "No, my dear. . . . Youth. ... We shall 
 have the party as planned, no matter what comes 
 after." 
 
 Ann beamed radiantly upon him. "And perhaps 
 by the thirteenth of April everything will be all right 
 again," she said hopefully. 
 
 Throughout the latter part of March and the early 
 part of April it looked as if Ann's optimistic judg- 
 ment was justified, for nothing of great importance 
 happened. The invitations to her debut were en- 
 graved, and deliberately delivered by the ladies of the 
 family, who drove about in the warm, early spring 
 sunshine, leaving them at the houses of their friends. 
 If Mr. Cortlandt was but half-hearted in sharing in 
 these preparations, he did not say so, and only Ann 
 knew that he was not relieved at the lull in political 
 affairs. 
 
 It was on the day before the reception that the calm
 
 78 THE CORTLANDTS 
 
 broke in a most startling manner. Major Anderson 
 had been in communication with Washington, and 
 every one knew that he had requested supplies to be 
 sent to him at once, but no one really believed that 
 the troops of the Confederate States would actually 
 attack; the situation had been a threatening one for 
 so long that people had grown used to it. When, how- 
 ever, the news reached New York that Fort Sumter, 
 flying the American flag, had been fired upon, it lighted 
 the city like a torch. Sympathy with the secessionists 
 was forgotten, or discreetly silenced, and indignation 
 arose shrilly from all quarters of the town. So insis- 
 tent was the clamor that it seemed almost as if the 
 guns turned on the little fort near Charleston could 
 be heard echoing across New York. 
 
 The general impression was, however, that the de- 
 fenders of the post could easily subdue the attacking 
 party. The papers were full of vainglorious tributes 
 to northern arms and northern courage, and the fash- 
 ion of the hour was to scoff at this foolhardy attempt 
 of the rebels. Mrs. William suggested, it is true, 
 that it might be well to recall the invitations Mr. 
 Cortlandt had issued, but he indignantly refused to 
 consider such a thing, and Mrs. Renneslyer agreed 
 with him. 
 
 "What ?" she cried. "Announce to the creatures that 
 we take them seriously! They'll think that we are 
 afraid of 'em, next!" 
 
 Therefore, in spite of the fact that the bombardment 
 continued, and that Major Anderson was slow in
 
 WAR AND A DfiBUT 79 
 
 crushing the forces attacking him, the preparations 
 for Ann's party went on, and, notwithstanding the 
 troubled times, on the evening of April thirteenth the 
 Jine of family carriages reached all the way from Mr. 
 Cortlandt's door to Fifth Avenue; even there it turned, 
 like a column of artillery, and stretched away up that 
 aristocratic street almost to the resplendent portals of 
 the Brevoort Hotel. 
 
 Ann stood beside her guardian, and in his opinion 
 she was the loveliest thing in all New York, in that 
 budding April weather. Her gown was white, of 
 course, and taking advantage of her unusual height, 
 the dressmaker had given a great spread to the skirts. 
 The girl's slim body and small brilliant head rose above 
 them as above a cloud ; she floated, rather than walked. 
 Her hair had not darkened with the passing years; 
 it was as uncompromisingly red as it had been on the 
 day she accompanied her frightened mother to New 
 York. She wore it in a great roll on her neck, and 
 it was drawn smoothly down beside her sensitive, 
 irregular face, in which the lips were so daringly red. 
 Under the parted waves on her forehead her gray 
 eyes seemed almost black; they were Irish eyes, and 
 had in them always a deceptive hint of melancholy. 
 
 Mrs. Renneslyer received with her brother on this 
 important occasion, and in spite of her instinctive 
 antipathy to Ann, she was forced to confess that the 
 girl did her guardian credit. She said, very sweetly, 
 to Mr. Cortlandt, that she was extraordinarily lovely. 
 She had written to young Hendricks to come over
 
 8o THE CORTLANDTS 
 
 from Harvard for his uncle's reception, and she won- 
 dered what effect Ann's sudden transformation might 
 have on him. She rather suspected a soft tendency 
 toward love surprisingly implanted in her son, some- 
 how she had counted upon his inheriting her metallic 
 quality, rather than his father's well-known warm- 
 heartedness, and she wondered if, after all, this im- 
 pressionability might not be turned to advantage. 
 The debutante heard of his expected arrival with care- 
 less attention, but Mrs. Renneslyer observed that little 
 Fanny Cortlandt spent much more time than usual, that 
 night, over her toilet, and as she slipped about her 
 uncle's rooms, sweetly attending to the comfort of his 
 guests, she thought that there was an unaccustomed 
 color in her cheeks, and that her eyes, which constantly 
 strayed to the door, were unusually bright. She 
 frowned, briefly but decidedly. Fanny was not her 
 idea of a brilliant daughter-in-law. 
 
 As the evening wore on, the reception took on more 
 the aspect of a ball. The older men gathered in the 
 doorways, grave-faced above their shirt-fronts, and 
 painstakingly avoided the subject of the bombardment, 
 while the dowagers occupied chairs against the walls, 
 fanned themselves, and whispered that "all this talk 
 of war is fearfully exaggerated," and that "Major 
 Anderson can, of course, hold his own." The young 
 people, irresponsible and gay, took possession of the 
 floor: the house was full of whirling couples. Ann 
 had no lack of partners, and she whispered to Mrs. 
 Renneslyer and Mr. Cortlandt, as they stood, waiting
 
 WAR AND A DEBUT. 81 
 
 by the door, that she felt just like a popular young 
 lady in a novel. She smiled into her guardian's eyes 
 when she sashayed toward him, in the figures of the 
 quadrille, and Mrs. Renneslyer shrewdly observed her 
 f evident popularity, as, after her pleasant habit, she 
 talked a great amount of smiling nonsense to various 
 young men, and wondered, audibly, at her son's non- 
 appearance. 
 
 It was almost midnight when Fanny Cortlandt told 
 her aunt, with a little gasp of relief, that young 
 Hendricks had arrived, and almost immediately he 
 appeared in the doorway. He had grown somewhat 
 taller, and his clothes were artfully cut, so that he 
 did not appear frankly fat; his round face was filled 
 with open dismay. 
 
 "Why, what has happened?" his mother said 
 anxiously. 
 
 The boy looked about him dazedly, as though for 
 a moment he could not adjust himself to the fact that 
 dancing and gaiety were going on. "You haven't 
 heard, sir, have you ?" he said to his uncle, solemnly. 
 "Fort Sumter has surrendered!" 
 
 "Oh!" cried Mrs. Renneslyer shrilly. "That means 
 war!" Her pretty face blanched at the thought. 
 
 Mr. Cortlandt stood, for a moment, staggered ; then 
 he advanced into the middle of the room, and made an 
 imperative gesture that silenced the musicians. Only 
 one inattentive violin trailed on for an instant, after 
 the others were still, in a foolish travesty of the air. 
 
 "My friends," he said, and his cold formal voice
 
 82 THE CORTLANDTS 
 
 shook, "we have had enough of dancing! Fort 
 Sumter has fallen !" 
 
 A hubbub of exclamation arose about him. Young 
 men dropped their clinging partners, and drew to- 
 gether, frowning nervously. A few of the girls 
 showed signs of tender tearfulness, and Mrs. Vander- 
 dyken, who was the mother of four sons, one of whom 
 had recently graduated from West Point, burst openly 
 into tears. 
 
 Ann looked at Hendricks with a new respect. 
 "Oh," she cried, "if I were only a boy!" 
 
 "Yes," he said importantly, "I shall fight, of 
 course." As he spoke he took in, for the first 
 time, her new maturity, and his face dropped. Of 
 all the strange events of this curiously unreal evening, 
 the change in Ann was perhaps the strangest; there 
 was something about her that awoke his sluggish 
 spirit, something beyond his whispered comment to 
 Fanny, "Why, Ann's grown pretty!" 
 
 In the crowded, overheated room, with its drooping 
 hothouse roses and its flaring lights, a new sentiment 
 was suddenly diffused. Execrations of the South 
 arose on every hand, and threats ripped like bullets 
 across the hum of excited talk. A little group of 
 men burst from the supper room, Mr. Renneslyer in 
 the lead, flushed of face, and noisily threatening; they 
 were louder than any, in their resentment. Ann 
 pressed through the crowd to where the musicians 
 stood idle, their instruments dangling in their hands;
 
 WAR AND A DEBUT 83 
 
 she found the leader with his face flushed, and his 
 fists clenched. 
 
 "Mein Gott!" he said to her. "Dot mean I fight!" 
 She whispered a direction to him, and suddenly the 
 opening strains of America rose, high and sweet, over 
 the ardent confusion. Here and there a daring voice 
 took up the words, but a leader was needed, and the 
 song would have died had not Mr. Renneslyer, who 
 was standing near the musicians, chanced to turn his 
 roving eye on Ann's excited face. Without a mo- 
 ment's thought he caught her up in his arms, and 
 swung her to a chair, where she stood above the crowd, 
 tremulous and frightened, until the thrill of the mo- 
 ment caught her again ; then she laughed down at Mr. 
 Renneslyer's efforts to lead, and began to sing the 
 words which Mrs. Allen had taught her long ago; 
 they were among the few things in her far-away child- 
 hood that she had not forgotten. 
 
 "My country, 'tis of thee, 
 Sweet land of liberty, 
 Of thee I sing!" 
 
 She was curiously exalted, almost as though she 
 were a part of a fighting force. The words, which had 
 never meant anything to her before, were suddenly 
 vitally important. She accented them passionately. 
 
 "Long may our land be bright, 
 With freedom's holy light !"
 
 84 THE CORTLANDTS 
 
 Before the end every one was singing with her, in 
 a great burst of sound that was strangely satisfying to 
 the emotion of the moment When it was over she\ 
 paused, and drooped, suddenly abashed, and there was 
 young Hendricks below her; in his eyes was an ex- 
 pression that bewildered her. He held out both his 
 hands, and she would have jumped lightly down, only 
 he caught her clumsily in his arms, and set her care- 
 fully on the floor again. She thought that he was 
 trembling. Or was it she who shivered, nervously ? 
 
 "Gad, Ann !" he said feelingly. "What a beauty you 
 are!" 
 
 She looked at him unbelievingly. "I?" she de- 
 manded incredulously. Her amazed face was dis- 
 tinctly provocative. 
 
 There had been a sudden sweep of guests toward 
 'the door, and in the corner where the musicians had 
 played the two were momentarily alone. The boy 
 was breathing unevenly and hard, as though he were 
 quite carried away by the extraordinary events of the 
 evening. He reached out suddenly, and drew his com- 
 panion behind the window curtains ; meeting no oppo- 
 sition from the startled girl, be bent and kissed her.
 
 CHAPTER VII 
 
 A PROMISE 
 
 AT SEVENTEEN the loss of a night's sleep is a com- 
 paratively unimportant matter, and no one would have 
 known, the morning after her birthday party, that Ann 
 had not been plunged in dreamless slumber. Instead 
 of that, however, she lay wide-eyed in the dark, the 
 music of America running through her head, accom- 
 panying her noting thoughts. From the tangle of 
 them one astonishing fact arose clear: a man had 
 called her beautiful. 
 
 She would not frankly face the fact that she had 
 been kissed, and not for worlds would she have ad- 
 mitted to herself why she lay with her hand against 
 her cheek. Her amazement was genuine, but her 
 opinion of herself was not changed by young Hen- 
 dricks' sudden madness; she looked on his burst of 
 admiration as peculiar to him, and found it extraor- 
 dinarily endearing. Her opinion of him had subtly 
 changed; she was no longer inclined to find him 
 ridiculous, and she developed, on the instant, a large 
 toleration of his irritating qualities. He was strangely 
 glorified by his approval of her, and so, all unknow- 
 ing, little Ann Byrne enrolled herself in one of the two 
 great classes into which her sex is divided ; her impulse 
 was to respond to love, rather than to withdraw 
 from it. 
 
 85
 
 86 THE CORTLANDTS 
 
 All night long a multitude of sounds smote Tier 
 windows, so after a while she abandoned the possi- 
 bility of sleep, and, wrapping a quilt about her, she 
 leaned, slim and childlike without her crinoline, over 
 the railing of the balcony that ran across the front of 
 the house. There she could hear more clearly the 
 noises of the gathering crowds that swarmed the 
 streets, fired by the despatches from Sumter, and eager 
 to swallow the entire South at a gulp. Over the 
 undertone of the city, Ann heard shouts; now and then 
 she caught the sound of a song, and once a far-away 
 strain of instrumental music. The Square was de- 
 serted, but as she watched she saw a stealthy pair come 
 loitering along the sidewalk, with clinging arms and 
 lagging feet. At the next house they paused, and the 
 girl, leaning curiously over her railing, could see how 
 they still lingered, and how eagerly the woman lifted 
 her face to the man's slow kiss. 
 
 "The baggage !" Ann murmured. She impulsively 
 drew back into the house, but her retreat was protec- 
 tive rather than rebuking. She felt bruised and 
 breathless ; womanhood was coming upon her too fast. 
 Inside the house again, she determinedly tried to think 
 of the momentous fact that Fort Sumter had been 
 captured, but instead she found herself recalling the 
 expression on young Hendricks* face when he said 
 that she had grown to be a beauty. Over the trees 
 in Washington Square the dawn soared up on rose and 
 silver wings, but Ann found that by closing her own
 
 A PROMISE 87 
 
 eyes she could see Hendricks* quite plainly, with their 
 intent and troubling expression. 
 
 In the meantime, the young man himself had not 
 been enjoying his usual complacent peace. It is true 
 that his sleep was not interrupted, for Hendricks was 
 not the sort of person to be kept awake by mere emo- 
 tions, and the Sunday morning church bells roused him 
 about ten o'clock. He awoke with the consciousness 
 that something was wrong, and as he recalled the 
 climax of his eventful evening he was sorry he had 
 left Cambridge and its safe remoteness. He won- 
 dered, as he lay blinking at the dazzle of the sunlight 
 reflected from the bowl of water on his washstand to 
 the white ceiling above him, if Ann would tell his 
 uncle that he had kissed her. He writhed uncom- 
 fortably on his soft bed at the thought, and then a 
 memory of the girl's amazing prettiness and the satis~ 
 faction he had had in kissing her, drove his fears away. 
 And war! The thought came harshly athwart his 
 softer recollections, and abruptly he jumped out of 
 bed. He knew that his mother would expect him to 
 accompany her to church, and he dressed with some 
 expedition. The fact that he would have to sit imme- 
 diately in front of his uncle and Ann, conscious, all 
 through the service, of their eyes upon him, made him 
 uncomfortable. He brushed his back hair with some 
 precision, in spite of the fact that Mrs. Renneslyer 
 was impatiently calling to him to hurry. 
 
 There was a great crowd at church ; inside the ushers
 
 88 THE CORTLANDTS 
 
 had taken an unprecedented step, and allowed strangers 
 to go into pews which were not rilled, but in spite of 
 this relief, the congestion at the gate was so great 
 it was with some difficulty that Mrs. Renneslyer 
 maneuvered her great skirts. She paused in the 
 vestibule to shake herself into shape, and to adjust 
 her veil. 
 
 "Outrageous!" she kept murmuring. "That rabble, 
 at church !" 
 
 Thanks to Hendricks' delay, the service had already 
 started when they arrived. His mother looked venom- 
 ously at him, in hopes of bringing the responsibility 
 for this calamity home, but he stalked up the aisle, 
 impervious to her, and absently passed his hand over 
 the back of his head. Mr. Cortlandt sat in the corner 
 of his pew, his white head held stiffly erect, after his 
 manner at divine worship, and Ann was snuggled close 
 beside him. Hendricks could see little of her except 
 the scoop of her brown straw bonnet, with a glint of 
 her chignon below it. The rest of the pew was filled 
 with strange people, obviously, Hendricks thought, not 
 of their class. 
 
 Ahead of him his mother stopped abruptly, horror 
 in her attitude, and his father murmured soothingly, 
 "Steady, old girl, steady," just as he did when driv- 
 ing his spirited horse. The boy dragged his eyes 
 from the Cortlandt pew, and saw that the space sacred 
 to the devotions of the Renneslyer family had also been 
 invaded by outsiders; two dispirited young men sat 
 miserably there. Such a thing had never occurred
 
 A PROMISE 89 
 
 before, and he was a little frightened, as he had been 
 when a child, at the prospect of an explosion. Noth- 
 ing happened, however, for, with a withering look at 
 the usher, Mrs. Renneslyer sailed into what was left 
 of her pew, and composed herself for worship; it was 
 as though the lesser clay squeezed in beside her did 
 not exist, except that all through the service she found 
 satisfaction in flouncing movements which repudi- 
 ated it. 
 
 People looked very solemn, Hendricks thought, and 
 they joined in the service with an extraordinary 
 fervor. 
 
 Behind him Ann's voice rang distinct and clear in 
 the hymn, and reminded him, first of her song the 
 night before, and then of the revival meetings long 
 ago. He began to dislike her again, under the force 
 of this reminiscence, and he had lost himself in wonder 
 at his behavior at the ball, when the minister gave out 
 the text of the sermon. 
 
 "Matthew ten, thirty-four Think not that I am 
 come to send peace on earth ; I came not to send peace, 
 but a sword' !" Hendricks jumped in his seat, and a 
 flutter of nervous movement agitated the congregation. 
 "I came not to send peace, but a sword." Up above 
 him the minister stood, white-robed and remote, speak- 
 ing in a deep voice that reached some far place in his 
 soul, and tortured it. "My brethren, this is no ordi- 
 nary Sabbath ; to-day is a momentous one in the history 
 of our nation. Fort Sumter has fallen." Every one 
 inside the church already knew of that appalling 1
 
 90 THE CORTLANDTS 
 
 fact, but in spite of that, a suppressed outburst of 
 emotional sounds arose. People coughed, Hendricks 
 could see that ladies were wiping their eyes, across 
 the aisle his Aunt Emily was quite open about it, 
 and even his father, hardened sportsman that he was, 
 breathed deep and audibly. His mother seized his 
 arm, and leaned upon him, while she drew her skirts 
 away from the stranger on her left. All over the 
 church there was a murmur of movement 
 
 Hendricks frowned. He hated this atmosphere of 
 hysteria ; he wished his mother would let go his arm ; 
 he didn't think much of the way the minister was 
 talking, extemporaneously, without his usual sedate 
 notes. . . . Nevertheless, he couldn't help listen- 
 ing. ... As a matter of fact, he couldn't re- 
 member ever listening like that in church before. 
 . . . The old boy evidently believed there would be a 
 war, all right. The prospect had begun to seem remote 
 to Hendricks, but he felt that people were making a 
 good bit of fuss over anything so simple as teaching 
 the southerners a lesson. . . . He would just as 
 soon go to fight, he thought, but he didn't hold with 
 stirring up a fellow like this. . . . He supposed 
 Ann was in a great state over it, being only a silly 
 girl. . . . 
 
 He was glad that the sermon, if it could be called 
 that, was a brief one, but he found the hymn following 
 it harder to bear. The music reached into his vitals 
 and twisted them brutally. Behind him Ann's voice 
 soared.
 
 A PROMISE 91 
 
 "The Son of God goes forth to war, 
 A kingly crown to gain. 
 His blood red banner streams afar. 
 Who follows in his train?" 
 
 What a lot of noise the congregation made! 
 "They met the tyrant's brandished steel" . * , 
 
 I 
 
 It sounded like a multitude singing. 
 
 "A noble army, men and boys, . . . 
 Who follows in their train f" 
 
 At last it was over. The boy breathed deep in his 
 relief. He turned half round, and met with Ann's 
 eyes; they were blazing with excitement, but at the 
 same time there was something humid about them, and 
 he swung back reluctantly. She was pretty, he real- 
 ized, above the tumult of his sensations. 
 
 Outside, he found his uncle waiting for him. "I 
 won't take you home with me to-day, my boy. Your 
 mother will want you." 
 
 Hendricks flushed. He wondered if this was a re- 
 buff, but decided that the old man's sad eyes were 
 kind. "Perhaps I may see you later," he suggested 
 tentatively. 
 
 Mr. Cortlandt shook his head. "Not to-day, I am 
 afraid. There are some gentlemen coming to my 
 house this afternoon, to talk over this war business.
 
 92 THE CORTLANDTS 
 
 I can not say when we shall be finished. Tomorrow, 
 if you please, Hendricks." 
 
 Ann did not look at him at all. She stood demurely 
 beside her guardian, tense and remote. She gave the 
 < young man only her profile, but he found her irregular 
 little nose charming. He was very gloomy as he duti- 
 fully accompanied his parents home, for the giddy 
 sweep of his emotions had left him rather cross. 
 
 In the morning he amazed his mother by coming 
 down to breakfast before nine o'clock, he who ordi- 
 narily slept until noon, when the tyranny of chapel at 
 eight was removed from his life. "Where are you 
 off to so early?" she asked. 
 
 "I thought I would go over to Uncle Hendricks'," 
 the boy said, flushing. He dumbly resented his 
 mother's penetrating gaze. 
 
 "What did you think of Ann?" 
 
 Hendricks lifted his cup, drank hastily of the too-hot 
 coffee, and said, "She's pretty." 
 
 Mrs. Renneslyer nodded. "She is all of that. 
 . . . Your uncle is devoted to her, Hendricks." 
 
 "I know. Queer, isn't it, when she isn't even re- 
 lated to him?" 
 
 Mrs. Renneslyer's white fingers played a nervous 
 tattoo on the edge of the table. 
 
 "That is the worst of it," she exclaimed. "If Hud- 
 son's pocketbook had not been picked up by a pretty 
 fool in Union Park, Hendricks would never have heard 
 of Annl"
 
 A PROMISE 93 
 
 There was a moment's silence, while young Hen- 
 dricks made havoc with the beefsteak and potatoes. 
 It did not seem to him to be the moment to voice a 
 faint gladness that Ann had not remained buried in 
 the country, far from his ken. His mother looked 
 rather sharply at him, as she continued, "There is no 
 use shutting our eyes to the fact that he adores her. 
 We shall just have to meet it ... If she gets 
 it all she will be a great catch." 
 
 Hendricks grinned at the idea of Ann Byrne in 
 this light. "I suppose so." 
 
 "There will be plenty of suitors, when people see 
 how devoted your uncle is to her." 
 
 "I suppose so." 
 
 Mrs. Renneslyer allowed her son to eat in peace 
 for a moment. Then she shot a question unexpectedly 
 across the table at him. "Do you like her, Hen- 
 dricks?" 
 
 The young man flushed again. "She is pretty," he 
 said, appraisingly. "And she is a bit soft on me, I 
 don't mind telling you." 
 
 Mrs. Renneslyer looked skeptically at him. Of late 
 a germ of doubt had crept into the perfection of her 
 maternal affection. "What makes you think so?" she 
 demanded, definitely. 
 
 Hendricks smiled patronizingly at her, and she with 
 difficulty mastered an inclination to smack him, grown 
 man that he was. "Oh, a fellow can always tell," 
 he answered vaguely.
 
 94 THE CORTLANDTS 
 
 "Well," she said crisply, "worse things than that 
 could happen to you!" And with these mystifying 
 words she allowed him to escape. 
 
 As he crossed from Union Square to his uncle's 
 house he found the city in a tumult : now that he had 
 grown accustomed to the idea of the fall of Fort 
 Sumter he thought that it was rather silly to be so 
 excited, and he wondered at his own exhilaration on 
 hearing the news. He bought a paper from a boy 
 who was selling them as fast as he could deal them 
 out; in the head-lines he read that the president had 
 issued a call for seventy-five thousand men to enlist in 
 the army. 
 
 "Damned nonsense!" he said to a man who also 
 paused to buy. "The New York police could do 'em 
 up! That man Lincoln is scared." 
 
 "Scared?" echoed the stranger pugilistically. "I 
 reckon, Bub, he's more'n likely to be mad!" 
 
 Hend ricks walked on, with an affectation of a great 
 and superior calm. "Bub" indeed, and only that 
 morning he had cut himself while shaving! 
 
 All about him the town clamored for revenge. A 
 rumor was abroad that the Seventh Regiment had 
 volunteered for a month's service, and Hendricks was 
 impressed in spite of himself. In the Seventh was 
 enlisted the flower of the city, and he felt, obscurely, 
 that if the regiment of the New York dandy responded 
 to the call of the rail splitter, there must be something 
 in the man after all.
 
 A PROMISE 95 
 
 In Washington Square he found Ann pouring her 
 guardian's coffee; she handled the big silver urn with 
 a stately little air that impressed him. He looked fur- 
 tively at her, in her bright green taffeta dress, with a 
 black velvet Greek key pattern on the enormous skirt, 
 and he saw, with a distinct shock, that she was still 
 charming. Unconsciously he had been counting on her 
 returning to her old days of gawky girlhood, and he 
 was unable to cope with this fresh beauty in the morn- 
 ing sunlight. His uncle greeted him with his cus- 
 tomary air of preoccupied affection, and Hendricks 
 threw Ann a grateful glance. She did not meet his 
 eyes, however, and he was left with it on his hands. 
 Mr. Cortlandt smiled across the table at his ward. 
 "You may tell him, Ann," he said. 
 
 The girl kindled immediately. "What do you think 
 uncle has done?" she demanded. 
 
 "I don't know," the boy answered sulkily. He was 
 cross because she would not look at him. 
 
 She flung an announcement at him with the sudden- 
 ness of a bomb. "He has found you a place in the 
 Seventh Regiment!" she cried triumphantly. 
 
 "Ann made me do it," Mr. Cortlandt said, laughing. 
 "I had to send a note over to my friend the colonel 
 before I was dressed!" 
 
 "Think of it, Hendricks, you can v fight!" the girl 
 cried. "Oh, I wish I were a man!" 
 
 Her guardian smiled. "Hendricks will fight for 
 you, my dear."
 
 96 THE CORTLANDTS 
 
 For the first time that morning Ann looked full at 
 the uncomfortable young man. 
 
 "Aren't you frightened almost to death that it will 
 be all over before you get there?" she demanded 
 tragically. 
 
 His enthusiasm grew under her eager eyes. "How 
 long before we can start?" he asked his uncle. 
 
 Mr. Cortlandt frowned impatiently. "I am afraid 
 that it will take four or five days." 
 
 "Oh," Hendricks said, crestfallen, "the war will be 
 all over in a week !" 
 
 His uncle rose. "We shall hope so," he said dully, 
 and added, "Come with me, Hendricks. I wish to 
 talk with you." 
 
 The young man followed him miserably, with re- 
 viving fears. He lifted a nervous eyebrow at Ann, 
 on his way to the door, but she was apparently inter- 
 ested only in the contents of her coffee cup, and he left 
 her unreprieved. 
 
 In the library, where the flowers from the ball were 
 fading, Mr. Cortlandt faced him with considerable 
 sternness. "I am not satisfied with you, my boy," he 
 said. 
 
 Hendricks' face lengthened. "But," he stammered, 
 "I don't know what you mean." 
 
 "Your work at Harvard has been poor," his uncle 
 went on, "and at that, I suspect your mother of show- 
 ing me only your better reports. You have wasted 
 your time at college, and I am not sorry to have you 
 leave. A campaign will harden you, I hope. . . .
 
 A PROMISE 97 
 
 You must do me credit, Hendricks. Thirty-five years 
 ago I was an officer in the Seventh." 
 
 "Oh," murmured Hendricks, vastly relieved, "I'll 
 do that, of course, sir." 
 
 "And when the war is over, soon, please God, I 
 want you to understand that you are to come back 
 here to New York, and go to work." 
 
 "And my education ?" 
 
 Mr. Cortlandt smiled. "Really, Hendricks, it is 
 asking too much to expect to rouse me by this respect 
 for something that is non-existent! You are not a 
 successful student, but that does not necessarily mean 
 that you will not be a successful business man. I shall 
 find something for you to do, and life must be your 
 teacher. You have your own way to make." 
 
 Hendricks' magnificent little air shriveled. "You 
 expect to do nothing for me, sir?" he managed to in- 
 quire. 
 
 "Well, I won't say nothing. . . . Ann is to 
 have the bulk of my fortune, of course." 
 
 "Mother said so," the boy blurted out. 
 
 "In that case, my sister has shown her customary 
 acumen. She will not be disappointed." 
 
 "Oh, yes, she will," young Hendricks exclaimed. 
 "It is one thing to suspect, and quite another to 
 know !" 
 
 He made his way gloomily out of the room ; to find 
 himself actually cut off was catastrophic. He stood 
 for a moment in the hall, trying to adjust himself, 
 and to recall what it was that his mother had said to
 
 98 THE CORTLANDTS 
 
 him at breakfast, in regard to this calamity. She had 
 appeared to have in mind some panacea that was not 
 clear to her son. 
 
 Suddenly, as he stood frowning, Ann appeared on 
 the stairs above him. She leaned confidingly down 
 from the landing. "Uncle scold you?" she demanded, 
 smiling demurely. 
 
 "No," Hendricks said shortly, as he glanced about 
 for his hat. 
 
 Ann ran hurriedly down a few steps. "Are you 
 going so soon ?" she blurted out. Then she caught her 
 lip with her teeth, as if she regretted her words. 
 
 He looked at her irresolutely, and once more the 
 conviction that she was amazingly pretty popped into 
 his head ; he was always rediscovering this fact at in- 
 convenient moments, and he resented it. He would! 
 have preferred to believe that the girl who had de- 
 prived him of his inheritance was as ugly as the 
 stepsisters in Grimm's tales. "I don't know," he said, 
 desperately, "what I shall do." He was very much 
 puzzled, and he wished that his mother had the com- 
 fortable habit of plain speech. 
 
 Ann sidled down a step or two, sliding her hand 
 along the stair rail. "You'll have to get your uni- 
 Iform," she suggested brightly, "and all that." 
 
 "I suppose so." 
 
 She looked at him with eyes that were starry with 
 her new appreciation, and she came down the last 
 remaining steps in a little rush. "Imagine it, a uni- 

 
 A PROMISE 99 
 
 form, and everything! You will sleep in a blanket, 
 Hendricks. I just wish I had the chance to!" 
 
 Young Hendricks was conventionally shocked. "A 
 girl !" he protested. 
 
 "It is not my fault that I'm not a boy. I am sure 
 I wish I were!" 
 
 A sudden consciousness of his manhood rose in 
 Hendricks. "I am glad you are not," he said stoutly, 
 and caught her hand in his. 
 
 Ann stood arrested: in her perfect stillness there 
 was the threat of one poised for flight. "You 
 shouldn't!" she gasped, her glance holding his. 
 
 "Why not? You are the prettiest girl I know." 
 
 Her lips drooped, and in her eyes were all the sor- 
 rows of the world. "I am not, really," she pleaded. It 
 seemed to Hendricks she grieved that he should be so 
 deceived. 
 
 He slipped a blundering, unaccustomed arm about 
 her waist, and an acrid little shiver ran through the 
 girl; suddenly she turned to him, and buried her face 
 in his shoulder. The boy held her for a moment, half 
 frightened, half cautious; then he bent and pressed 
 his lips to her hair. She felt his touch and started 
 back; as she lifted her face, he caught it in both his 
 hands, and kissed her cool lips. 
 
 This time she fought him off valiantly enough, and 
 faced him furiously, with flashing eyes and uneven 
 breath. He was frightened, as he met her accusing 
 glance.
 
 ioo THE CORTLANDTS 
 
 "It is all right," he said lamely. "I couldn't help 
 it. ... I am awfully gone on you, Ann," he 
 added, feeling that the situation demanded something 
 in the nature of a declaration. 
 
 "Really?" she queried. "Because if you are, it's 
 all right!" 
 
 "Then I am," he assured her. 
 
 "And and we are engaged?" she demanded, her 
 eyes very wide and innocent, as they searched his. 
 
 "Why why " He was wondering if this had 
 been what his mother had meant. 
 
 "Uncle won't mind," she assured him. "He lets 
 me do every single thing I want." 
 
 "And do you want to be engaged to me ?" 
 
 "I don't know. ... I guess so." 
 
 He wanted to talk with his mother. He was sure 
 that she must approve of what he was doing. "Well, 
 then," he said condescendingly, "we will be." 
 
 "It doesn't seem right, so quick, like this," Ann 
 protested. "I thought it took a long time to get 
 engaged." 
 
 "Oh," reassured the boy, "it is always quick, when 
 a woman likes a fellow." He swaggered, pardonably. 
 
 She looked at him with adoring eyes. "I am glad 
 you are going to war," she said unexpectedly. 
 
 "We had better not tell any one until I get back." 
 
 "A secret engagement! ... I should like to 
 tell Fanny, though." 
 
 "Better not," he hinted darkly. 
 
 "Why?"
 
 A PROMISE 101 
 
 "Well, I don't want to seem conceited, but I do think 
 she likes me quite a lot." 
 
 "Oh," exclaimed Ann, "that is romantic too!" 
 And in her voice there was envy of Fanny, and her 
 unrequited passion. 
 
 Hendricks Renneslyer walked home with his head 
 in a whirl. He had left college, he was going to war, 
 he was disinherited, and he had engaged himself to 
 be married. He felt that he had put in a full morn- 
 ing's work, look at it as he would.
 
 CHAPTER VIII 
 
 LETTERS 
 
 A WEEK after the "heroic Seventh" marched out of 
 a flag-hung city, Ann received her first love-letter. 
 She snatched it from Joseph's hand with a thrilling 
 sensation of joy that comes only with the first. The 
 friendly old servant chuckled sympathetically as he 
 watched her hurry up-stairs with her treasure : he 
 divined what others never suspected, and he went about 
 his duties with his devoted head full of thoughts of 
 wedding cake and bridal veils. 
 
 Ann, alone in the big house, locked the door of her 
 room behind her, before she coaxingly lifted the heavy 
 seal, with its flaunting Renneslyer crest; somehow it 
 would not have done to break it. With a fluttering 
 breath she drew out the enclosure, and read : 
 
 Washington, April 26th, 1861. 
 DEAREST ANN: 
 
 We have arrived in Washington and everything is 
 all right now. We marched right up to the White 
 House last night when we first came, and you can 
 believe the president was glad to see us! He came 
 out on the steps, and we saluted him, and he made us 
 a little speech. He is the longest man you ever saw, 
 just like the funny drawings of him, and very 
 absent-minded, for he didn't seem to pay half as much 
 attention to us as you would have thought he would, 
 after all our trouble in getting here, and of course we
 
 LETTERS 103 
 
 are not very comfortable, sleeping right on the floor 
 of the capitol, without even beds. We are to be here 
 for a whole month. You would think they would 
 have taken more trouble about us. 
 
 We haven't had any chance to fight yet, and I 
 suppose you think that is hard luck. It isn't a bit like 
 what you saw when we marched away from LaFayette 
 Place, with every one making a great fuss over us, 
 and cheering so we couldn't hear the band. I saw you 
 on the steps of the Astor Library, and wanted like 
 anything to run over and say good-by again, only, of 
 course, there was discipline, and people looking, too. 
 Of course it was all right, your throwing me a kiss 
 like that, but the man next me thought you meant it 
 for him. You never saw anything like the girls all 
 the way to Jersey City Ferry, and I think you 
 ought to be more careful. They were half of them 
 crying, like Fanny, and some of the men were, too, 
 even though you didn't, and one awfully pretty one 
 threw her glove at me, and called out "Good luck!" 
 but I thought about you, and threw it back again. I 
 do love you, Ann, but I wish people wouldn't look at 
 you so in the street. I suppose it is your hair, and 
 you can't help it, but even after I had my uniform, 
 they paid more attention to you than they did to me. 
 Of course a man doesn't want the girl he is engaged 
 to to look conspicuous. 
 
 No one slept any on the boat going to Annapolis; 
 we all sang songs like Columbia, Gem of the Ocean, 
 and made jokes, and wondered if any more men had 
 been killed in Baltimore. I suppose the Boston was a 
 good enough boat, but it did seem awfully slow, when 
 we didn't know but that when we got there we would 
 find that the rebels had taken the city. You can 
 believe we were glad to see the good old stars and
 
 104 THE CORTLANDTS 
 
 stripes! We were the first troops to occupy Annap- 
 olis, although a Massachusetts regiment came along 
 soon, and we left on the train together. They are 
 smart men, and brave, I am sure, but of course they 
 are not gentlemen, and they can eat anything. Most 
 of the food wasn't fit to swallow, and I am sure I 
 don't know what we should have done if it had not 
 been for the lunch boxes our men of the Seventh took 
 with them. 
 
 I must tell you that just before I left I told my 
 mother about our being engaged, and she was pleased, 
 all right. I thought she might mind your being just 
 a Byrne, and me being a Cortlandt, but she didn't. I 
 think it is very broad-minded of her. Don't you? 
 But all our family are broad-minded, of course. I 
 don't know about telling Uncle Hendricks. It might 
 be a good idea to get it over while I am away, so he 
 can get used to the idea, but we don't have to worry 
 about that. Mother will do whatever is best. 
 
 Washington is a nice place. Some day I wish we 
 might live there. 
 
 To-morrow is my twentieth birthday, and I never 
 remember when I didn't have a cake before. 
 
 Your very own, 
 
 HENDRICKS. 
 
 Ann read the letter once, leaping and eager, and 
 then again more broodingly, with lingering attention 
 to the endearments, and to the ending, "your very 
 own Hendricks." What an odd thing to own, she 
 thought involuntarily, to own as she did the string 
 of seed pearls her guardian had given her, or her 
 blue bonnet L'Impcratricc, just out from Paris. And 
 he had written "live in Washington," quite casually,
 
 LETTERS 105 
 
 like that, when it was not conceivable that she should 
 ever live anywhere but in her guardian's house, there 
 in her straight ordered room, with its unlittered bureau, 
 and its towering walnut bed. Being engaged, she felt, 
 was enough. It was romantic, but it was sufficient. 
 
 Hesitatingly she opened her little writing desk, and 
 prepared to answer Hendricks' masterpiece. Ordi- 
 narily she wrote with fluency: indeed, her drawback 
 as a correspondent had hitherto been that her thoughts 
 outran her pen, and were lost in her hurried, impulsive 
 handwriting that was so difficult to read, but to-day 
 her courage was gone, vanquished by the staggering 
 consciousness that a love-letter was expected of her. 
 She began to write haltingly. 
 
 DEAR HENDRICKS 
 
 If I wrote "dearest" it wouldn't seem as if it were 
 I that was writing. I shall save it, but I am glad 
 you didn't. 
 
 Your letter was exciting. It is more fun being a 
 man thsn a girl. 
 
 She paused, wondering what compensation a man 
 could have for never being called pretty, and added: 
 
 At least, sometimes I think so. 
 
 New York is exciting too, just now. The night 
 after you left there was a big mass meeting in Union 
 Square, with four stands for speakers, and flags and 
 bands and things all about. Uncle spoke from one 
 stand, and I sat beside him on the platform, and I 
 am afraid you might have thought I was conspicuous,
 
 io6 THE CORTLANDTS 
 
 but I can't help my horrid hair. There was an enor- 
 mous crowd of people, and to sit and look down on 
 all those solemn faces, turned up to the flaring lights, 
 made prickly feelings run up and down your spine. 
 And when they cheered, it was just all you could 
 bear; somehow you were simply wild to do something, 
 but you didn't have any idea what. The veterans 
 from the War of 1812 were there, in their uniforms, 
 with their swords buckled on, and some of them were 
 lame, or had only one arm, and when they marched 
 by I cried and cried, although I almost never do. 
 Somehow the fact that we are at war makes empty 
 sleeves horribly tragic ! 
 
 She was writing easily now, and enjoying herself. 
 
 Uncle spoke beautifully, all about what we owe to 
 our country, and they raised quite a large sum of 
 money, and ever so many men volunteered. Aren't 
 you glad you were in the very first lot? I am. 
 
 I had an experience coming home, not much of a 
 one. Somehow or other I was so excited that I ran 
 on ahead of uncle, when the meeting was breaking up, 
 and lost him in the crowd, and there I was, with the 
 night awfully black away from the lights on the 
 stands, and, oh, millions of people swarmed about, 
 singing and shouting, yes, and swearing, too, some 
 of them. For a minute I was scared, and then I 
 thought about you, and I knew you would be funny 
 and cross if you could see me, and that helped, and 
 then a rough-looking man took hold of my arm, and 
 said, "Ain't you too pretty to be out alone, miss?" 
 I tried to wrench myself free, and couldn't, so I just 
 turned and looked at him, and after a minute he 
 stopped laughing, and then he had the very kindest 
 face you ever saw, only so unhappy. And when he
 
 LETTERS 107 
 
 saw that I was really frightened, he let go my arm, 
 and I said, "I've lost my uncle. Would it be very 
 much out of your way to take me to Washington 
 Square? I have never been out alone at night, be- 
 fcre." And he said no, he wasn't very busy just then, 
 and he was the fastest walker you ever saw; in a 
 minute we were clear of the crowd, and just streaking 
 for home. He seemed very queer and jerky, almost 
 as if he were embarrassed, so I asked him all about 
 himself, and he said his wife was dead, and that he 
 hadn't any family, and I said he must be lonely, and 
 he said he was just a bad lot. Then I said, "Isn't 
 that splendid? You can volunteer without hurting 
 any one, can't you?" And he laughed a little, but not 
 as if he thought anything was funny, and just before 
 we came to the house he said, "Well, I'm going," 
 and I said "Where?" and he said, "To fight the 
 damned Johnnies! I reckon you are right, goin' to 
 war is better than goin' to hell !" It was the first time 
 any one had ever said "Damn," to me, right out like 
 that, and do you know, I liked it ! And he wouldn't 
 come in and let uncle thank him, and he never said 
 anything else at all, and I am afraid he will be shot, 
 and it will be all my fault. 
 
 They have started a Union Defense Committee that 
 meets every day in the new Fifth Avenue Hotel, and 
 uncle is never at home any more. He spends all his 
 time working for the war, and I am sure he is sorry 
 he is not young enough to fight, but I am glad, for 
 uncle is different, somehow. 
 
 Your mother came to see me, and kissed me, and 
 told me a great many things about you. She made 
 me feel that I am indeed a fortunate girl. I think 
 I ought to tell you that I do feel that. I haven't told 
 uncle, because somehow I am sure it will make him feel
 
 io8 THE CORTLANDTS 
 
 sad, but why should it? Dear me, I couldn't wait 
 to grow up, and now I almost wish I hadn't. 
 
 Your father is sweet to me. I am sure he will like 
 me. Last night he took me to Niblo's Gardens to see 
 a wonderful man named Rarey train wild horses. 
 Your father said I should learn his method, so that I 
 might try it on you! But truly he was marvelous, 
 and it is no wonder that all the kings in Europe went 
 to see him, and that good young Prince of Wales. 
 
 The Battery Park is all full of soldiers' tents, and 
 three days ago one hundred ladies met in the New 
 York Hospital for Women, to organize a new sort of 
 committee, to be called the "Sanitary Commission." 
 .They intend to teach women how to nurse the wounded 
 men, if the war goes on, and to prepare hospital sup- 
 plies, and all that The men are making fun of it, 
 because they think it is too big an idea for just women 
 to carry out, but I think women are a whole lot smarter 
 than men think they are! Anyway, Ann Byrne has 
 been put to work in New York, scraping lint ! 
 
 Joseph is knocking at the door to tell me that uncle 
 wants me. 
 
 ANN. 
 
 Mr. Cortlandt was standing at the window of his 
 library, looking out into the faintly misted green of 
 Washington Square. His upright figure drooped; he 
 looked old and discouraged. 
 
 "What is it?" Ann cried from the threshold. "Has 
 there been a defeat ?" 
 
 Her guardian turned, a steady melancholy in his 
 deep eyes. "No," he said, "it is not that. . . 
 Is this true, what my sister tells me?"
 
 LETTERS 109 
 
 "What?" 
 
 "That you are engaged, and to young Hendricks ?" 
 
 "Yes, uncle." She crossed the room to him with 
 lagging feet. "I I hated to tell you. ... He 
 wants me to be engaged to him." 
 
 "Engaged? So soon! And young Hendricks! 
 Why?" 
 
 "Well, he thinks I am rather nice." 
 
 "Good lord, of course you are rather nice ! Is that 
 all?" 
 
 Ann slid her hand into his. "No," she confessed 
 confusedly. "If you won't laugh, I'll tell you." She 
 put her fresh lips very near his cheek, and murmured, 
 "He thinks I am pretty! He really does." 
 
 Mr. Cortlandt took her by her slender shoulders, 
 and looked into her shamed eyes. "It is my fault," 
 he said heavily. 
 
 "What is your fault?" 
 
 "You are in love with him for that! Pretty? 
 ... I have brought you up wrong, Ann. Instead of 
 trying to keep you unspoiled, I should have told you 
 each morning that you are a beautiful creature! I 
 should have protected you in that way." 
 
 "Do you mean it, uncle? Am I really like that?" 
 
 "My dear, you really are!" 
 
 She smiled at him radiantly. "Now imagine !" she 
 said quaintly. "And I have been so afraid that 
 Hendricks would wake up!" 
 
 "Do you love him?" 
 
 "I think so, uncle. ... He says I do."
 
 no THE CORTLANDTS 
 
 "It may be years before he can afford to marry. 
 He must make his own way." 
 
 "There's no hurry," Ann said hastily, and then 
 added sweetly: "Aren't you a little glad to have me 
 marry into your family?" 
 
 Mr. Cortlandt looked deep into her lifted eyes, "My 
 dear child," he said unbelievably, "my family isn't 
 good enough for you." And he kissed her smooth 
 cheek, and sighed.
 
 CHAPTER IX 
 
 OUT AND IN 
 
 THE Seventh Regiment volunteered for one month 
 only; in five weeks it was back again in New York. 
 Ann was enormously glad to see Hendricks, but she 
 had been looking forward so ecstatically to his return 
 that when he appeared she was possibly a trifle dis- 
 appointed. In her thoughts she had endowed him 
 with extraneous charm, and looking at him she was 
 conscious of a sudden sinking of her spirit. How- 
 ever, Hendricks put a uniformed arm about her waist 
 and kissed her rather shyly, and with the humility of 
 his caress her sense of unworthiness came flooding 
 back. Who was she, she marveled, to be chosen by the 
 family hero out of a world of women? She made him 
 tell her all about his brief campaign. They spent hours 
 in the high dim library talking of it, and Ann glowed 
 with martial excitement. She always thought of 
 Hendricks as a soldier, ready, at the call, to sacrifice 
 his life for his country, and she felt that it was only 
 right for him to have everything he might want, in- 
 cluding her, as that was his strange wish. She was ex- 
 traordinarily supple and unselfish with him in these 
 days, but, while she understood that the Seventh Regi- 
 ment was to be demobilized immediately, she would not 
 frankly face the fact that once her lover was mus- 
 tered out, he would be merely a civilian again. When 
 
 in
 
 H2 THE CORTLANDTS 
 
 he came in one day, his uniform exchanged for a 
 smartly checked coat and waistcoat and loose snuff- 
 colored trousers, she looked at him aghast, and turned 
 in his arms so that his lips pressed her hair instead 
 of her cheek. 
 
 "How queer you look," she said querulously. 
 
 "It is good to get out of that uncomfortable uni- 
 form, I can tell you," Hendricks returned indignantly. 
 
 "Oh, uncomfortable!" 
 
 "You've gone crazy about uniforms in this war, 
 that's what's the matter with you, Ann! Now you 
 listen to me. I have something to tell you." 
 
 She looked up eagerly; already the members of the 
 Seventh were volunteering into other regiments, and 
 she thought Hendricks was about to announce that he 
 had done the same thing. 
 
 "You have reenlisted already!" She clasped both 
 her hands about his arm and lifted an adoring face. 
 
 "Don't be silly! The president will have eighty- 
 five thousand men under the new call; let them take 
 their turn at it, I have done my share." 
 
 "But those men are enlisting for three years, Hen- 
 dricks." 
 
 "Yes, or the duration of the war, Ann. You'll 
 see, it will be all over in six months." The girl's 
 hands dropped, while bleak indifference swept into 
 her face. Hendricks' tone was defensive as he added, 
 "I've got a position* in a bank, third assistant receiv- 
 ing teller, and I am going to work to-morrow morn- 
 ing. They will pay me sixty dollars a month."
 
 OUT AND IN 113 
 
 "Will they?" Her tone was as unconcerned as a 
 mere stranger's. 
 
 "Well, you might take an interest, Ann!" His 
 voice was indignant, but he put a timid boyish hand 
 on her sleeve. "That is seven hundred and twenty 
 dollars a year. When I'm making a thousand I think, 
 we might be married." 
 
 Ann drew her arm away precipitately. "Oh, mar- 
 ried!" she said, as startled as though the idea were 
 entirely new to her. 
 
 "Plenty of people live on that." 
 
 "I suppose so. ... I don't know much about 
 it, Hendricks, but things do seem expensive." 
 
 "It is the war," the boy said importantly. "When 
 that is over they'll come down again." 
 
 Ann swept out the wide skirt of checked silk which 
 she was wearing. "Uncle paid six dollars a yard for 
 this material," she said, "and my new black velvet 
 jacket cost one hundred twenty dollars. Shocking, 
 isn't it?" 
 
 "Well, I should think you could give up silk and 
 velvet, Ann, to marry me." 
 
 "Yes, of course I could. . . . But I can't think 
 about it with the war still going on! Really, Hen- 
 dricks, I can't take an interest in marrying anybody 
 while we are fighting." 
 
 And this was a fairly accurate description of her 
 state of mind. Her imagination was entirely caught 
 by the great drama and she had little interest in self- 
 centered love-making.
 
 114 THE CORTLANDTS 
 
 Late in May the Union Army moved on Alexandria, 
 where the Rebel flag flew in plain sight of all Wash- 
 ington, and in the successful occupation, Colonel Ells- 
 worth, the leader of the New York Fire Zouaves, was 
 killed. His death made a great sensation in New 
 York, where he had been a popular figure, and as a 
 result, there was a great rush for enlistment. As the 
 summer drew on, and the gravity of the struggle be- 
 came evident, the crowd of young men about the offices 
 in Lafayette Hall daily became more dense; the 
 ranks of recruiting regiments were rapidly filled. 
 Each regiment had its separate bivouac; before long 
 the outskirts of the city were dotted with encamp- 
 ments. Every fair afternoon Mr. Cortlandt came 
 home early in order to ride on a tour of inspection 
 of one camp or another, and Ann, somewhat to 
 Hendricks' disquiet, always accompanied him. On the 
 boy's first free day he went with them, and the three 
 of them rode rather silently, for three is a poorer 
 number on horseback than it is anywhere else, to an 
 encampment on Harlem Heights, where tents of vari- 
 ous types were scattered prodigally about, and men in 
 a naive conception of zouave dress loafed in front of 
 them. 
 
 Ann looked well on horseback. Her waist, in her 
 long pointed basque, was extraordinarily slim, and her 
 full skirts flowed gracefully, undulating with every 
 movement of the horse. She wore a small black hat 
 with a feather that curled down over her chignon, and 
 she carried her head alertly, looking about her with
 
 OUT AND IN 115 
 
 smiling eyes. Her mare was high-spirited, and camps 
 were filled with things she distrusted, eddying bits 
 of paper and sudden crashes of noise. Ann, her knee 
 curved tight to the pommel, laughed at her quick 
 shies, and tickled her side with the edge of her heel, 
 so that she danced protestingly, but the soldiers looked 
 at her in anxious admiration; they straightened up as 
 she passed, pulled down their belts, and set their caps 
 at a more rakish angle. 
 
 "Ann," Hendricks protested, "I think you are 
 awfully conspicuous." 
 
 The girl flashed a quick grin at him. "Yes, isn't 
 5t fun ?" she said. And Mr. Cortlandt told him shortly 
 not to be absurd. 
 
 As soon as the regiments were ready, they were sent 
 off to Virginia, where the Federal Army was advanc- 
 ing slowly, and engaging in unimportant clashes with 
 the enemy. The North was eager for victories, and 
 hailed the taking of Fairfax Court-House as an im- 
 portant event. Great crowds hung about before the 
 newspaper bulletin-boards, following the movements 
 of the New York troops engaged in the advance; en- 
 thusiasm was in the air, and the women at the Sani- 
 tary Commission redoubled their efforts. Ann scraped 
 so much lint in a day that she was, herself, amazed. 
 
 In July, in an engagement at Manassas Junction, 
 there came the first death in the war of any one Ann 
 had known. Young Philip Vanderdyken, with whom 
 she had danced at her debut, was shot and buried on 
 the field. This brought the tragic thing close ; she was
 
 u6 THE CORTLANDTS 
 
 greatly shocked, and for a time she seemed almost to 
 have transferred to him her feeling for her lover. 
 Hendricks and his bookkeeping seemed incredibly 
 remote. 
 
 The boy dropped into the Washington Square house 
 one hot afternoon when his work was over and found 
 only his cousin Fanny. Mr. Cortlandt's darkened li- 
 brary was gratifyingly refreshing, and as he sank into 
 the most comfortable chair, he allowed himself the 
 luxury of complaint. 
 
 "Where is Ann?" he demanded accusingly. 
 
 Fanny flushed sensitively as she answered that she 
 did not know, and, murmuring something about the 
 heat, she hurried off to make him some iced lemonade. 
 He drank it with a delightful sense of being ministered 
 to, which, curiously enough, increased his resentment 
 toward Ann. 
 
 "She knew I was coming to-day," he said, darkly 
 irascible. 
 
 Now and then he would get up from his seat, stalk 
 over to the window, and open the shutter so that he 
 might look out. Every time he did so, the sun leaped 
 fiercely in, shattering the illusion of coolness, and 
 when he had again thrown himself into his chair, 
 Fanny would, after an uneasy interval, steal across 
 the room and close the shutter gently so that Hendricks 
 should not notice it. She cast an apprehensive glance 
 at him, each time. 
 
 "I can't think where she can be," she murmured 
 sympathetically, again and again.
 
 OUT AND IN 117 
 
 The outer door opened, and there was a murmur of 
 a girl's clear voice in greeting. Old Joseph's footsteps 
 receded, but still the culprit did not appear ; there was 
 something reluctant in her delay. It was a good min- 
 ute before her slim figure and wide crinoline was 
 brilliantly outlined against the gloom of the doorway. 
 She was apparently unaware of the disapproval she 
 faced, for she smiled impersonally at the two cousins. 
 "Hello," she said. Nodding her head at Hendricks, 
 she crossed over to the piano, and seated herself before 
 it. "I heard a new song to-day." She was pulling 
 the gloves off her warm white hands, with a flirt of 
 the crisp ruffles at her wrists. 
 
 "What is it ?" Hendricks glanced uneasily at Fanny 
 for verification of his impression of Ann's indifference. 
 
 Ann struck a martial chord, and then began to play, 
 brilliantly, the simple tune of Yankee Doodle. She 
 ran through it once, before she took up the words. 
 
 "Yankee Doodle is the song 
 Americans delight in. 
 Good to whistle, dance or sing 
 And just the thing for fightin' !" 
 
 She broke off, and left the piano abruptly. "Want 
 to whistle, Hendricks?" she inquired innocently, as she 
 went to investigate the lemonade pitcher. 
 "Where have you been? It is six o'clock." 
 "The Twenty-Fourth Infantry marched away to- 
 day," Ann observed impersonally. There was noth- 
 ing to show that this fact had constituted the proverbial 
 last straw on the load of her endurance.
 
 ii8 THE CORTLANDTS 
 
 "I know," Fanny said placidly, "we had hard work 
 to get their havelocks finished in time. Even Ann 
 worked on them," she added brightly, in an effort to 
 lighten Hendricks' gloom. 
 
 "I am glad to hear that," Hendricks said, in heavy 
 approbation. 
 
 "You don't know what else I did," Ann said de- 
 fiantly. She was unreasonably irritated at the sight 
 of Hendricks' lounging in his uncle's most comfortable 
 chair, lemonade in hand. 
 
 Fanny interposed nervously, miserable in the face 
 of a situation that was becoming strained. "You 
 worked all the morning." 
 
 "Oh, yes, I worked. ... I can work much 
 faster than you, Fanny, when I try. ... I fin- 
 ished ever so many havelocks, and, I put a note in 
 the last one." 
 
 Hendricks bounced from his chair, his face crimson 
 with indignation. "You did what?" he stormed. 
 
 Ann tilted the empty lemonade pitcher regretfully. 
 "Pigs," she said reproachfully. 
 
 "Oh, Ann!" Fanny murmured, deeply shocked. 
 At the fashionable gatherings where she sewed for the 
 soldiers it was whispered that notes were things in- 
 dulged in by "vulgar girls, girls from the country." 
 'She would have suffered torments before she would 
 have so betrayed her caste. 
 
 "What made you do a thing like that? What did 
 you say?" the young man demanded* fiercely. 
 
 "Oh, I said I hoped my havelock would keep him
 
 OUT AND IN 119 
 
 safe from harm. . . . And that I hoped he would 
 kill ever so many Rebels." 
 
 "Did you sign your name?" Fanny inquired, awe- 
 struck. 
 
 "I just wrote Ann," 
 
 "Your first name, to a stranger?" 
 
 "He didn't seem like a stranger. . . . When I 
 saw them marching away I would have given anything 
 to know which one had it." 
 
 "When you saw them marching away," repeated 
 Hendricks in a voice of doom. "Did you go over to 
 Broadway to see them ?" 
 
 "I did." 
 
 "With uncle?" 
 
 "No." 
 
 "Alone in all that crowd?" 
 
 The girl's impatience flared out. "Oh, what dif- 
 ference does it make? . . . They marched down 
 the street singing John Brown's Body . . . and 
 all the flags were hanging out . . . and every one 
 was shouting! ... I saw a woman crying be- 
 cause her husband had gone. . . . And I shouted, 
 too, and waved my handkerchief; I wouldn't have 
 cried, not even if uncle had gone. . . . All 
 around me men were shouting 'On to Richmond !' ' 
 She drew a passionate breath, and pressed her hands 
 tightly against her breast. "And there you were, 
 Hendricks, making money. Money !" She threw her 
 hands out in a gesture of desperation. "You never 
 seem to think of the war at all, and I can't get away
 
 120 THE CORTLANDTS 
 
 from it for a minute! . . . You know, Fanny, 
 every morning, on our way to the Sanitary Commis- 
 sion we go through all that crowd at the recruiting 
 office, young men wild to go, and you have only 
 to pass the armory any time all day long, to see soldiers 
 drilling there. ... I can't think of anything else; 
 it seems all the time as if marches were beating in my 
 head!" 
 
 "Ann, I don't think the neighborhood of the armory 
 these days is any place for a young lady," Hendricks 
 said stiffly. "And if you will take five minutes longer 
 to get to the Sanitary Commission rooms you can go 
 the other way and avoid all that rabble at the recruiting 
 office." 
 
 "That is what I tell her, " Fanny murmured 
 feebly, but Ann swept on. 
 
 "You think all those things are important, you 
 two! What difference does it make what I do, 
 when there is a battle going on now? At noon I 
 stopped before the bulletin-board at The Tribune 
 office, and that is what it said, now! This very 
 minute! At Bull Run. Men dying! And we sit 
 here!" 
 
 Hendricks smiled at her with affectionate toler- 
 ance. "There are at least sixty thousand men in 
 Washington," he said soothingly. "General Scott can 
 handle it, all right. We are sure to win." 
 
 He was cut short by the clatter of horses' feet and 
 the confusion of a sudden stop before the house. Ann 
 leaped to the window to look.
 
 OUT AND IN 121 
 
 "It's uncle!" she cried. "Something must have 
 happened 1" She ran out to meet him, leaving Fanny 
 white- faced and tremulous. It was only a moment 
 before she returned, with her arm through Mr. Cort- 
 lanclt's, half supporting him. 
 
 "What is it?" gasped Fanny, frightened. 
 
 "Defeat!" Ann flung at Hendricks, and she faced 
 him with blazing eyes. 
 
 "A rout," her guardian supplemented, "a shameful 
 rout! . . . Five hundred men lost!" 
 
 "Oh !" cried Fanny, unheeded tears running over her 
 cheeks, "the Fire Zouaves!" The casualty in New 
 York's picturesque heroes brought the thing terribly 
 close. 
 
 "Scott should never have yielded to the demand 
 for a decisive engagement. . . . He hadn't 
 enough discipline." 
 
 "Or enough reserves, uncle!" Ann turned a scorn- 
 ful glance on Hendricks. 
 
 "I suppose you want me to reenlist?" he demanded 
 truculently. 
 
 "Ann, how can you?" Fanny protested, futilely, 
 sheer terror in her unnoticed face, while Mr. Cortlandt 
 laid a restraining hand on Ann's arm. 
 
 "I want to go, all right," the boy said. "You know 
 that, don't you, Uncle Hendricks? Do you think I 
 .should?" 
 
 Mr. Cortlandt was silent for a moment; he entirely 
 disregarded the impatient little pushes Ann gave him 
 from time to time. "Hendricks," he said, at length,
 
 [THE CORTL'ANDTS 
 
 "I hate to have you go God knows, to-night we know 
 what may happen, but the country needs the young 
 men." 
 
 Suddenly Ann melted. She clung to Hendricks as 
 she had never done, and lifted an ardent face to his. 
 "Oh, Hendricks, dear, dear Hendricks!" She could 
 feel his resolution in the big breath he drew. 
 
 The old man watched them sadly. "When you 
 come home, you will be in a position to marry, Hen- 
 dricks. ... I will do better by you than the 
 bank." 
 
 "When you come home, Hendricks, when the 
 Rebels are all beaten, I'll marry you if you haven't a 
 cent!" 
 
 "Well," he said gloomily, although his arm tightened 
 about Ann, "that settles it." 
 
 "Oh," she cried, undeterred by the presence of her 
 guardian and Fanny, "I love you, Hendricks! I do 
 love you, after all!"
 
 CHAPTER X 
 
 SERIOUS BUSINESS 
 
 HAVING made up his mind, Hendricks Renneslyer 
 lost no time in severing his connection with the bank, 
 and the next day, while Ann was only beginning to 
 taste the joy of having bent him to her will, he an- 
 nounced that he had joined the Fifty-Fifth New York 
 Volunteers. A week later he was under canvas on 
 Staten Island, endeavoring to absorb sufficient informa- 
 tion in regard to drills and maneuvers to enable him 
 to perform his duties as second lieutenant with some 
 likelihood of success. 
 
 It was a polyglot assortment of men he enrolled 
 himself among. The Fifty-Fifth was originally a 
 French Militia Regiment, known as the "Guarde La- 
 fayette," with a peace footing of about three hundred, 
 whose duty it had been to parade, in the picturesque 
 red of the Zouave Corps, in Fourth of July celebra- 
 tions, and at funerals. When the regiment volun- 
 teered for the war the ranks were filled, in a hit or 
 miss fashion, with rough young Irishmen from the 
 lower wards, Germans from their adopted firesides, 
 and Americans who had not gone out in the first rush 
 of enlisting. Three months after the war began, it 
 was no longer an easy task to complete a regiment; 
 already the crowd around Lafayette Hall, where the 
 recruiting was carried on, was scattered, but the hour 
 
 123
 
 124 THE CORTLANDTS 
 
 of the mercenary was not yet come, and the Fifty-Fifth 
 was filled by unbought volunteers. It took four weeks 
 to secure them, but it was done. 
 
 The officers were largely exiles 'from France, whose 
 military experience was far greater than that of the 
 average American officer. Hendricks was given a com- 
 mission as a matter of course, owing to his brief con- 
 nection with the illustrious Seventh, whose members 
 were leading half the companies that left New York. 
 He was greatly bewildered by his new duties, for his 
 month's service had not, after all, taught him much, 
 but he managed to pick up some useful information 
 from a soldier in his company who had served in 
 Africa and the Crimea, and when the Fifty-Fifth was 
 ready to march, he had a fair parade ground idea of 
 his duties. 
 
 Ann exulted in his importance. She was always 
 begging her guardian to take her across the bay to 
 see him drill with his men, and she thought about him 
 constantly. When the sun shone hot she wondered 
 if he were drilling on the open parade ground, and 
 when it rained in the night she could not sleep, because 
 she was certain his tent must leak. This, she decided, 
 with a vivid sense of relief, was love. It was, indeed, 
 as near it as she had come. 
 
 Hendricks' second military departure was strangely 
 different from his first. It was only four months 
 since the Seventh Regiment had marched away, in a 
 jubilee of adulation, but in that time war had become 
 an ominous thing. When the Fifty-Fifth broke camp.
 
 SERIOUS BUSINESS 125 
 
 and started for the front, Ann had no exultant thrill. 
 As she stood beside her guardian, overlooking the 
 double line of marching men, their opera bouffe uni- 
 forms bright in the hot August sunlight, she found 
 to her amazement that her breath caught in her throat 
 in something very like a sob. She stole a guilty glance 
 at Mr. Cortlandt, and saw that his eyes, too, were 
 rilled with tears. An officer rode by with the flag of 
 the regiment, and a roar of hurrahs drowned out the 
 insistent drums. 
 
 Ann seized Mr. Cortlandt's arm. "Uncle," she 
 gasped, "I don't want them to go !" She had a sudden 
 clear vision of young Philip Vanderdyken, lying shot 
 through the head on the field of battle. She was all 
 at once fearful that she might never see Hendricks 
 again. 
 
 At the train she puzzled him by her inarticulate 
 depression. She clung to him desperately, so that he 
 was embarrassed at such public demonstration, and 
 she did not smile nor wave her hand as the train 
 drew away ; she only looked at him, profoundly. 
 
 Back in Washington Square Mrs. William Cort- 
 landt was awaiting them. 
 
 "Hendricks," she said at once, "I have come for 
 some money." 
 
 "Sanitary Commission again?" Mr. Cortlandt 
 asked, smiling. Ann knew that he liked his sister-in- 
 law better than he ever had before, now that she was 
 devoting herself to war work, and indeed, the girl did 
 too.
 
 126 THE CORTLANDTS 
 
 "No, this time it is for an Army Hospital." 
 
 Ann drew nearer, fascinated. There was talk of 
 opening a hospital for soldiers in New York, and she 
 found the prospect infinitely exciting. 
 
 "Has it been decided to equip one?" Mr. Cort- 
 landt asked. 
 
 "Yes. .We expect to take care of the boys from 
 near-by camps, there are many ill with fever, you 
 know, and, of course, there is even a possibility of 
 our getting some of the wounded, if the war goes on 
 through the winter." 
 
 "Oh!" cried Ann rapturously. "How wonderful!" 
 No one paid any attention to her, however. 
 
 "Hendricks, I don't know what you will think. 
 , . . When we get the hospital ready, I have 
 made up my mind to nurse in it." Mrs. William 
 looked as frightened as a daring little girl. 
 
 Ann's eyes widened. To nurse! To bathe brows, 
 and to moisten fevered lips; to read poetry, and to 
 place flowers by sick beds! That was life. She, too, 
 would be a nurse! 
 
 "It is a new work for gentlewomen," her guardian 
 said doubtfully. 
 
 "Yes, but so are hardships of campaigning new 
 work for gentlemen!" 
 
 It amazed Ann to hear Fanny's conservative mother 
 championing something her guardian thought uncon- 
 ventional, and she flung herself into the talk, eager 
 to help her. "It's the next best thing to fighting, to
 
 SERIOUS BUSINESS 127 
 
 be a nurse, uncle!" she declared. "And when the 
 hospital is opened I shall work there, too." 
 
 Mrs. William turned on her, ingratitude in every 
 line of her plump figure. "Indeed you shan't, miss!" 
 she cried. "What an idea! A young girl!" 
 
 "Well, young men are fighting !" The girl appealed 
 to her guardian. "Uncle, I may, mayn't I ?" 
 
 He shook his head, smiling. She could see that he 
 did not take her request seriously. "Hendricks 
 wouldn't like it, I am sure," he chaffed, and she felt 
 herself flushing up, sharply. 
 
 "La ! I should think he wouldn't !" exclaimed Mrs. 
 William, and swept on with her plans for transforming 
 a dwelling house into a hospital. The subject of Ann's 
 participation appeared to be disposed of, but the girl 
 knew better. As she sat silently by, absently taking 
 in the conversation, she was quite determined as to 
 one thing; when the hospital was opened she would 
 work in it, no matter what opposition she overcame. 
 She watched Mr. Cortlandt draw a generous check, 
 with exultation; it brought her opportunity so much 
 the nearer. 
 
 Letters came through promptly from Hendricks. He 
 wrote that Washington was greatly changed in the 
 two months he had been in New York. "We spent 
 our first night in a big barracks just across from the 
 station, which has been built since I was here. It 
 was as bare as an empty barn, and we could smell the 
 new pine wood. We slept right on the bare floor, 

 
 128 THE CORTLANDTS 
 
 and I never knew before I had so many hips and 
 elbows. ... In the morning we were awakened 
 early by, what do you think? Rebel guns! The 
 Frenchmen who had seen service abroad jumped up 
 crying 'Mon Dieu! C'est le feu!' and you could hear 
 our fellows taking it up. 'It's cannon/ But they 
 weren't firing at us, so we had breakfast." 
 
 Apparently the Fifty-Fifth, trained by experienced 
 men, had made a good impression in Washington, for 
 the crowd had cheered as it marched up Pennsylvania 
 Avenue, and marveled at the spectacle of new troops 
 already familiar with the rudiments of drilling. Hen- 
 dricks' first letters concerned themselves mainly with 
 complaints of the confusion existing in the Commissary 
 and Quartermaster Departments; the men of the 
 Fifty-Fifth were left for twenty-four hours in their 
 new encampments without rations, tents, or wood for 
 fires, and their lieutenant was justifiably indignant. 
 "It was warm weather and no rain, so it didn't hurt 
 the men to sleep out, and those of us who had brought 
 food shared it, and we got along all right, but things 
 are in bad shape down here. . . . Our officers 
 are very strict with us and we drill six hours a day, 
 rain or shine, but the other regiments are not half 
 so hard worked, and a good many of the officers are 
 no good. The one camping next to ours is commanded 
 by a politician from Pittsburgh, a big fat man and 
 very jolly, who drills under an umbrella when it rains, 
 and there is a Wisconsin regiment here whose colonel 
 conducts platoon drill with his book in his hand because
 
 SERIOUS BUSINESS 129 
 
 he doesn't know the commands. A lot of men have 
 been made officers because they gave money for boun- 
 ties to recruit their companies; they really know less 
 about their work than some of our privates do, and 
 of course all this is very bad for discipline. Men don't 
 like it; we are too near the enemy; often we drill 
 to the sound of their artillery. 
 
 "A funny thing happened last night It was our 
 major's turn to command the Grand Guard of the 
 Brigade, and he sent me, in the middle of the night, 
 to make the rounds of the camps. My men and 1 
 went into twelve of them without being stopped, or 
 even challenged. We walked around freely every- 
 where, and in one regiment we found seven sentinels 
 asleep, rolled up in their blankets. At last we went 
 right into the tent belonging to the colonel of an 
 Indiana regiment. It wasn't guarded or anything, and 
 we carried off the flag of the regiment, which was 
 sent the next day to General Peck, to be returned with 
 a reprimand. Our officers call men like that 'paste- 
 board colonels.' 
 
 "We are camped in the woods on the bank of a 
 rapid little stream named, very appropriately, Rock 
 Creek ; it is a very pretty place. There are steep ravines 
 all about us, and little waterfalls in the river. From 
 the field where we drill we can see miles of farm- 
 land, all dotted, near at hand, with the white tents 
 of the army." 
 
 Ann read this letter aloud to her guardian and he 
 was greatly pleased with it.
 
 I 3 o THE CORTLXNDTS 
 
 "It is making a man of Hendricks," he said exult- 
 antly. "Is there anything more?" 
 
 "Yes," the girl answered, "there is a post-script. 
 He says, 'Make Uncle Hendricks bring you over to 
 Washington to see us/ ' 
 
 "Well, my dear, perhaps I shall, one of these days." 
 It seemed to Ann that she could not possibly wait.
 
 CHAPTER XI 
 
 HOSPITALS 
 
 THE first Army Hospital in New York was no 
 sooner opened than the need for it was evident; the 
 camps were fever ridden, and a score of men was sent 
 in on the opening day. Indeed, the reputation it estab- 
 lished was of so high a character that doctors with the 
 army spoke enviously of it, and in spite of its remote- 
 ness from the front, the fact that it was actually ready, 
 with a staff of nurses and doctors waiting for pa- 
 tients, made the War Department decide to use it. 
 The men came, exhausted from their wounds and the 
 journey, and Mrs. William Cortlandt, who proved to 
 be an excellent nurse, brought home tearful tales of 
 heroic and suffering youth to which Ann listened with 
 shining eyes. Romance hovered over the commonplace 
 building that housed the wounded, and it was not long 
 before the girl suggested that she might be allowed to 
 serve as Mrs. William's assistant. This seemed to her 
 to be a position sufficiently chaperoned to be acceptable, 
 but Mrs. Renneslyer told her plainly that she consid- 
 ered it highly improper for Hendricks* future wife to 
 consider doing any such thing, and his father pinched 
 her cheek, saying facetiously that the sight of her 
 would never reduce a sick man's fever. Even Mr. 
 Cortlandt irrelevantly conversed with her on the im-
 
 I 3 2 THE CORTLANDTS 
 
 portance of conservative behavior, and Mrs. William 
 said, flatly, that she wouldn't undertake the responsi- 
 bility of having a young girl about. 
 
 She did not attempt to overcome this concerted 
 opposition, but she said rebelliously to Fanny, "I wish 
 I was old. I wish I was twenty-five! Then I could 
 do anything I liked. And I will anyway, you'll see ! 
 Some day I'll get my chance." 
 
 About a fortnight after Hendricks' departure, her 
 opportunity came. She was working at the Sanitary 
 Commission, when a call came from the hospital for 
 more bedding. 
 
 "Let me take it down," she volunteered eagerly. 
 "I can have the carriage here in ten minutes." 
 
 They piled the seats high, but at the hospital it was 
 all quickly unpacked, and Ann had no excuse to linger, 
 fascinated, in the yawning doorway. In no time at all 
 she was on her way back, lost in gloomy disappoint- 
 ment, when suddenly, while crossing a street, the 
 horses shied violently to one side. Ann roused her- 
 self bewilderedly, and looked hurriedly about her. 
 A man was standing in the middle of the road close 
 beside her; he swayed toward her as she passed, so 
 that for an unpleasant instant she feared that he would 
 be caught by the carriage. She thought that he must 
 be drunk, and she looked back curiously. He lay, a 
 crumpled blue heap, in the roadway. He was a soldier ! 
 In a moment she was kneeling beside him, turning his 
 pallid face toward her, with hands that trembled. 
 
 "Oh, what is it?" she cried. "Did we run you
 
 HOSPITALS 133 
 
 down ?" Her colored driver made frantic gestures and 
 inarticulate sounds to indicate that they had not, but 
 she paid no attention to him. 
 
 The soldier looked gravely at her. He did not 
 seem to notice that he lay unconventionally in a dusty 
 roadway, or that a beautiful young woman knelt, 
 agonized, beside him. "No, ma'am," he said gravely. 
 "It's just that I am a little weak. . . . At the 
 ferry there were so many of us hospital cases, they 
 thought I might walk." 
 
 "Oh!" Ann cried, rapture in her voice. "Are you 
 wounded?" 
 
 "No, ma'am. I'm just sick. . . . Light case 
 of typhoid, doctor said." 
 
 "I see." At that period of the war typhoid had 
 not yet proved itself to a be a greater foe to the 
 soldier even than shot or steel, and Ann's tone was 
 relieved. "You can't go on lying here, you know. 
 Where were you going? I'll drive you there," She 
 signaled to her coachman to come to help him get 
 up. 
 
 He closed his eyes wearily. "Hospital," he said 
 weakly. 
 
 "Oh," Ann pleaded, "don't faint! Please don't 
 faint!" 
 
 "I won't," the soldier promised, and kept his word, 
 even when the coachman hauled him up into the open 
 carriage, while Ann stood at the horses' heads to keep 
 them perfectly quiet. He was, however, alarmingly 
 white as he lay back against the cushions. Ann longed
 
 134 THE CORTLANDTS 
 
 to ask him a hundred questions, but when they started 
 he lurched helplessly against her, and instead she put a 
 hesitating arm about him. He slumped down on her 
 shoulder, and they drove in this fashion back to the 
 hospital, under the thick green arch of the summer 
 trees. Ann felt amazingly self-conscious; she knew 
 that it was unworthy of her, but she couldn't help it, 
 and in spite of it she enjoyed herself. This was war 
 as she had dreamed it ; a helpless soldier wounded, or, 
 if not actually wounded, at least ill, and dependent 
 upon her. ... It was all too soon when the hospi- 
 tal was reached, and her patient roused himself. 
 
 "I'll see if they have a stretcher, and can carry you 
 in," Ann volunteered. 
 
 "No. . . . I'll walk. ... I feel better 
 after my ride." And he was better; he managed to 
 descend, with only Ann's eager help, but he clung 
 gratefully to the gate-post when he reached it. He 
 looked wistfully up the walk that led to the door. 
 "I'll never make it," he said childishly. "But don't 
 leave me, will you?" 
 
 Ann's eyes filled with unexpected tears. "Never," 
 she promised. She held him up manfully. She wished 
 that he were a little boy, so that she might gather 
 him up in her arms, tuck his head comfortably down 
 on her shoulder and carry him, but instead she half 
 led, half dragged him up the walk. She was amazed 
 at his weight and horribly afraid she couldn't manage 
 to get him safely inside the hospital. The flight of 
 steps before the door seemed to her impossible.
 
 HOSPITALS 135 
 
 An orderly looked out of the open doorway. "John !" 
 he bawled, as he sprang forward. He brushed Ann 
 aside as though she were the merest incident in the res- 
 cue of her sick soldier. He took one of the man's hands, 
 and pulled his arm around his neck, jerking him away 
 from her, so that the blue-clad body sagged against 
 him heavily, and the soldier moaned a little. Ann 
 sprang to his other side, but almost immediately John 
 appeared. He was a nurse, Ann could tell that, be- 
 cause his apron was bloody from the operating-room, 
 but his technique was the same as the orderly's, for 
 he, too, ignored Ann. He put a capable arm around 
 her soldier, and between them the two men hustled 
 him up the steps, and through the open doorway. Ann 
 followed forlornly; she felt very superfluous. In the 
 hall she paused, but not one of the three looked back, 
 or apparently thought of her again. 
 
 "Well," she murmured. "Well !" She was possessed 
 by a feeling of extraordinary flatness, and she was 
 hurt, too, which she knew was unreasonable of her. 
 The hall was completely empty, but she feared that 
 Mrs. William might, at any moment, come bustling 
 into it and banish her. There were benches against the 
 wall, and she dropped down on one, disconsolately. 
 "Men," she said to herself, "how horrid they are!" 
 Her eyes filled again, and she luxuriated in her tears. 
 
 "In trouble?" A great, shaggy gray man, comfort- 
 ably shabby and amazingly kind-looking, enveloped 
 her in an expansive personality. 
 
 Ann looked up at him and nodded drearily.
 
 136 THE CORTLANDTS 
 
 The stranger sat down beside her, quite as if he 
 had known her all his life. "Tell me about it, sister," 
 he said buoyantly. His red face beamed down upon 
 her, above a wild bush of gray beard. 
 
 "I want to be a nurse," she replied, unexpectedly to 
 herself, and as she voiced the grievance, she knew that 
 what she resented was not the casual manner of the 
 two attendants; it was being shut out from their 
 paradise. 
 
 "And why not ?" demanded her new friend, oratori- 
 cally. "Nothing is more noble! These young men! 
 . . . Bands with cymbals and bugles and drums, 
 making everything ring ! And sabers rattling on thou- 
 sands of men's sides ; they wear pistols and their heels 
 are spurred, handsome American young men, all 
 eager to fight! You've seen them?" 
 
 Ann nodded again, round eyed, and he swept on. 
 
 "They pass through Washington, I have seen them 
 there. All good riders, full of the devil, nobody shaved, 
 everybody sunburnt, masculine and healthy! Noble- 
 looking fellows proud on good horses! Going off for 
 deadly rendezvous with other young men, just as fine- 
 looking. And then ? I've been in the hospitals. The 
 most pitiful sight is when they are first brought in, 
 pale as ashes, all dirty and torn, rugged young men, 
 all weak and bloody, uniforms dirty, and all bloody. 
 All wounds bad, some frightful, full of maggots 
 and festering. I have to hustle around to keep from 
 bursting out crying." 
 
 "But what do you do? What can I do?"
 
 HOSPITALS 137 
 
 "Can you nurse?" 
 
 "I never have." 
 
 "No, you are too young. The men like middle- 
 aged nurses and mothers of families." 
 
 "But if I can't nurse, is there anything else?" 
 
 "I should say so," he fairly shouted. "I believe 
 the reason I am able to do good among the wounded 
 boys is that I am so strong and well, and so> are you, 
 and beautiful, too. Men come in faint and wounded; 
 they need nourishing things to eat. I am going now to 
 buy oyster soup for those that came from the Phila- 
 delphia ferry. It will give them an addition to their 
 dinner. They like home-made biscuits, too, and sweet 
 cookies and jelly; you could go through the hospital 
 every day doing good deeds. Often they have no 
 money ; you could give them small sums to buy a glass 
 of milk when it is peddled through the wards. They 
 all want to write home; you can give them letter 
 paper, and write for them if necessary. You can read 
 to them, and talk cheering talk to them; save lives 
 by keeping men from giving up ! You can do errands 
 for them." Encouraged by Ann's fascinated stare, 
 he drew a little note-book from his pocket. "I keep 
 a list here of things they want, and buy them for 
 them. And so it goes. Want to help?" 
 
 "Oh, yes," Ann gasped. 
 
 "Come along then, I'll get you started. Live in 
 New York?" 
 
 "Yes. Do you?" 
 
 "No, I live in Brooklyn, but I'm going back to
 
 138 [THE CORTLANDTS 
 
 Washington. I have a call to serve in the hospitals 
 there. What is your name?" 
 
 "Ann Byrne." 
 
 "Well, Annie, good luck ! My name is Whitman, 
 Walt, ever hear of me?" 
 
 "No." Her ignorance spoke eloquently of the per- 
 fection of her upbringing. 
 
 He chuckled. "No, but you will. All these United 
 States will. I am a poet/' he explained grandilo- 
 quently. 
 
 "I know some poets," the girl ventured. "Mr. Will- 
 iam Cullent Bryant, Mr. James Russell Lowell, and 
 Mr. Ralph Waldo Emerson." 
 
 Walt Whitman laughed delightedly. "There is a 
 man," he cried. "And I can call him friend! But 
 come, we must hurry, or no oysters for my boys!" 
 He hustled Ann unceremoniously through the nearest 
 doorway, and the girl paused, aghast. It was an old 
 drawing-room in which she found herself, good sized 
 iind frivolously ornamented, with the sun pouring in 
 the high uncurtained windows. The glare of light 
 revealed mercilessly all the horror of a war hospital 
 ward. Rows of cots ran up and down the room; 
 they were crowded close, for a new lot of wounded 
 had just been brought in. There was incredible con- 
 fusion everywhere. Doctors and men nurses rushed 
 about, patients who were able to walk wandered for- 
 lornly here and there, and attendents were passing a 
 luncheon of boiled rice and molasses. The air was 
 very bad, for already gangrene was making hospital
 
 HOSPITALS 139 
 
 wards places of torment. The men lay sprawling on 
 the beds, more often than not still in their dirty uni- 
 forms, inexpressibly forlorn and unkept. Ann could 
 scarcely bear to look at them; she had not imagined 
 that soldiers could be pathetic, but all the triumphant 
 quality was gone from these men. She wanted to cry, 
 looking at them; she was afraid that she would, and 
 set her jaw hard, to control its trembling. 
 
 "This is what you must do," Walt Whitman 
 whispered. He gave her a little pad of paper and a 
 pencil. "Follow me." 
 
 He approached the nearest cot, and bent over a man 
 who lay there: he radiated vitality and helpfulness. 
 "Can I do anything for you?" he asked. "Is there 
 anything you want?" 
 
 "I want my dinner," the patient answered ungra- 
 ciously. "I can't relish molasses." He had a bandage 
 tied about his head, and over one eye. 
 
 "I thought you might like to write to your folks." 
 
 "Write home? To Massachusetts? I'd like that first 
 rate, but there's no paper, and anyway, I can't see. 
 The damned Rebs got my eye." 
 
 Ann moved uncertainly forward. "Oh, please let me 
 write for you," she gasped; and she wrote, at his 
 dictation, how her patient had been hurt in street fight- 
 ing in Baltimore, and how he would like to be at home 
 again. Her nerves steadied somewhat under this oc- 
 cupation, and when she had finished, her amazing new 
 friend had disappeared. However, the man in the next 
 cot was clamoring for water, so she fetched him a glass
 
 I 4 o THE CORTLANDTS 
 
 from the pitcher, and then settled down again to write 
 another letter, this time for a lad whose arm was 
 horribly smashed; the fresh blood on his bandages 
 turned her momentarily sick. Following Mr. Whit- 
 man's example, she made a little list of the things the 
 men wanted, and promised to bring them on the mor- 
 row. 
 
 There seemed no end to the things she could do, 
 and when Fanny's mother found her she was so deep- 
 ly immersed in her new service that she simply paid no 
 attention to her horrified protests. After an interval 
 Mr. Cortlandt arrived, ominously stern-looking, but 
 when he found Ann sitting by the bedside of a white 
 youth whose operation loomed close ahead of him, 
 reading aloud to him from the last installment of The 
 Adventures of Philip, he could not take her away. 
 Instead, as he met the agonized panic in the boy's 
 glance, he bade her stay until the doctors were ready 
 for him. 
 
 The operating-room was overcrowded, and a pass- 
 ing nurse whispered to Ann to keep her patient 
 amused, as it would be a long time before they would 
 be ready for him. Amused! Ann looked pitifully 
 down at the boy on the cot; he lay with his eyes 
 screwed shut, and his lower lip caught tight in his 
 teeth ; agony was plainly written on his face. She laid 
 aside her Thackeray, and bent over him ; little drops of 
 perspiration dotted his forehead, and his breath came 
 raggedly. With an unaccustomed hand that trembled, 
 she mopped his face with her handkerchief. At the
 
 HOSPITALS 141 
 
 touch his eyes flew open ; they were both tormented and 
 terrified. 
 
 "Does it hurt so much?" Ann whispered, herself 
 scarcely able to bear it. 
 
 Her patient nodded almost imperceptibly; he wet 
 his lips with his tongue before he tried to speak. "It 
 is my back," he gasped. "Tell them to hurry, won't 
 you?" 
 
 Ann flew to the nearest doctor, and clamored for 
 immediate attention. "He is suffering terribly," she 
 cried. "You must take him in and operate." 
 
 The doctor looked at her gravely. "There's no use," 
 he said. "He can't live anyway, and there are a dozen 
 men ahead of him we have a chance to save." 
 
 "You mean you'll just let him die?" 
 
 "We are doing the best we can. . . . We are 
 so tired in there that we can scarcely stand. We've 
 been operating since dawn. ... I examined that 
 boy's wound myself. Even if he had been operated 
 on at once, he couldn't have been saved, and now that 
 gangrene has set in !" He shook his head sadly. 
 
 "You mean he just has to die?" 
 
 "We all do, some day. . . . The time comes 
 when no one can do anything to prevent it. . . . 
 Go back and keep him as happy as you can. . . . 
 Keep him hoping, that's the thing. You're new at 
 this game, aren't you?" 
 
 Ann nodded, white-lipped. 
 
 "Well, the thing to do is to see that there isn't any 
 unnecessary unhappiness; God knows there is enough
 
 142 THE CORTLANDTS 
 
 we can't help. Don't you let that boy know he is 
 dying. Never mind about his soul, keep his heart 
 up." He rushed off to his operating-room, and Ann 
 returned to her task. 
 
 She was amazed at the cheerful sound of her voice 
 as she assured her patient that his operation could wait. 
 "You are all right," she said. "It hurts, I know, 
 but it will be better soon." She could not look at him, 
 as he hung on her lying words, but she brought him 
 water to sip, and bathed his face and wrists until his 
 tension relaxed somewhat. She coaxed his mother's 
 name from him, and wrote a little message for her, 
 more hers than the dying boy's. 
 
 After a while he said, "I wish you would go on 
 reading to me. I like the sound of your voice." Ann 
 gratefully took up the magazine and continued her 
 reading; the troubles of Catherine had lost their poig- 
 nancy, but she turned page after page, with no idea 
 of what she read. 
 
 Presently, when the dark was beginning to gather 
 in the corners of the room, and the attendants had 
 lighted the lamps on the mantle, the doctor to whom 
 she had spoken came back. When he saw her, he 
 walked across to her, and leaned over the cot. "How 
 long have you been reading?" he said. 
 
 "I don't know. Hours, I think." 
 
 "You can stop, now." 
 
 The magazine dropped to the floor with a little 
 crash, yet the figure on the cot did not stir. "Is he 
 dead?" Ann whispered.
 
 HOSPITALS 143 
 
 The doctor nodded, and beckoned an orderly over 
 to him. "We'll get him out while the men are eating 
 their supper. Did you have any trouble with him?" 
 
 Ann shook her head. She could not believe that 
 while she had sat so close to him, death had snatched 
 him away. Death ! She had always supposed it came 
 with pomp and a beating of wings, not stealthily, like 
 a footpad in the dark. . . . Death! She was 
 tremulous and shaken. . . . As she forced herself 
 to look down on the boy, she wished that he had not 
 died with a grimace of agony on his face. She felt 
 sick, and swallowed convulsively for an instant. He 
 did not look different, she thought, and yet, everything 
 was changed. . . . He was no more. . . . 
 Her lips whispered the words stupidly. . . . And 
 it could not be more than a half-hour since he had 
 spoken to her ; since she had been able to serve him. 
 . . . It was incredible. 
 
 "Did you get any information about his folks?" 
 
 Ann found her lips so dry that she could scarcely 
 speak. "I have a note for his mother." 
 
 The doctor nodded quick approval. "That's good," 
 he said. "It means a lot. Just add a line, and tell 
 her he didn't suffer any. . . . You look about 
 beat. Ever see any one die before?" 
 
 Ann shook her head. She was suddenly sorry for 
 herself, and came near to bursting into tears. 
 
 "You'd better go home," the doctor advised. 
 "You've done a good job here. When are you coming 
 back?"
 
 144 THE CORTLANDTS 
 
 Ann's eyes dropped to the still form the orderly 
 was covering with a sheet. ... It seemed an 
 indefinitely long time ago that work in the hospital 
 had looked like a desirable adventure. . . . She 
 shivered uncontrollably. "To-morrow," she said, her 
 voice very low. 
 
 The safe pleasantness of the Washington Square 
 house enveloped her in peaceful restfulness. As she 
 climbed the steps, a vision of her cool room rose 
 before her, incredibly enticing after the emotional 
 strain of the day. All the way home she had been 
 planning what she could say to the dead boy's mother ; 
 that task still confronted her, but she was glad she 
 had it to do. She would, she thought, tell her guardian, 
 very quietly, that her patient had died, and then she 
 would get out her little desk, at which she had written 
 only frivolous notes, and letters to Hendricks. . 
 She put out her hand to ring the bell, but before she 
 could sound its friendly jangle, the door was flung 
 open, and there was Mrs. Renneslyer on the threshold. 
 Ann shrank back; there was no one she would not 
 rather have seen at the moment. 
 
 "I know all about where you have been, miss," the 
 lady cried, and swept the girl into the library, where 
 Mr. Cortlandt was reading his afternoon paper. Ann 
 thought that there was more of reluctance than reproof 
 in his manner, as he looked up at her. 
 
 "I'm glad I went, uncle," she said defiantly. "You 
 know, yourself, that I was useful." She could not 
 say any more; she could not bring herself to mention
 
 HOSPITALS 145 
 
 the dead soldier in Mrs. Renneslyer's scandalized pres- 
 ence. 
 
 "Yes," Mr. Cortlandt admitted judicially, "you 
 were." 
 
 "Hendricks," his sister said severely, "don't encour- 
 age her! How could you do such a thing, Ann, after 
 we had all agreed it was improper?" 
 
 "Because I know you are all wrong," the girl 
 answered, with a spirited lift of her head. "Uncle, 
 you saw me there. Is there anything improper in 
 what I was doing?" 
 
 "Well, it is unconventional, my dear, for you to be 
 there at all." 
 
 "So is war unconventional! If I were a boy I 
 should run away to enlist, I suppose, but as I'm not, 
 all I can do is to help take care of men who are 
 hurt. It's horrible being a woman, when there's a 
 war !" She swung on Mrs. Renneslyer, "Go there your- 
 self, and look at them, and tell me then whether it 
 seems important if I am conventional or not !" 
 
 "I couldn't bear to set my foot in a hospital, Ann, - 
 and my boy under arms! My nerves would never 
 stand it, and yours shouldn't, either!" 
 
 "Well," said the girl dryly, "I guess I haven't any 
 nerves." Death! She had seen death that day, and 
 they talked to her of nerves ! "Uncle, may I go back 
 to-morrow? See what I've promised to bring them!'* 
 She produced the crumpled piece of paper upon which 
 she had, early in the day, written her list, and read 
 from it, triumphantly, " 'Licorice, raspberry vinegar'
 
 146 THE CORTLANDTS 
 
 to make a cold drink you know, uncle, 'a pipe and 
 tobacco, horehound candy, a German Lutheran clergy- 
 man/ that man was very ill, I'm afraid he may not 
 live until morning, 'tooth picks, a comb, oranges and 
 apples, pickles, plug tobacco.' ' 
 
 "Plug tobacco!" Mrs. Renneslyer interrupted in- 
 dignantly. "And you but seventeen!" 
 
 Mr. Cortlandt took in Ann's helpless vexation, and 
 he smiled. "Yes," he said, "you may go back." 
 
 "She will become the talk of the town," his sister 
 warned him. 
 
 "In that case," Mr. Cortlandt responded dryly, "it 
 is just as well that there will be something fine to say 
 of her." He drew Ann close to him, and she pressed 
 her cool cheek against his gratefully. She didn't want 
 to talk about her tragic experience until Mrs. Ren- 
 neslyer had gone. 
 
 "I met a nice man there to-day," she volunteered 
 placatingly, in hopes of creating a happier atmosphere, 
 "a Mr. Whitman." 
 
 "Mr. Whitman?" her guardian smiled whimsically. 
 "Not Walt, I presume?" 
 
 "But yes," said Ann eagerly, "that is just who he 
 was. He says he is a poet." Her eyes wandered to the 
 shelves where poetry was stored. 
 
 Two things happened very quickly. Mrs. Renneslyer 
 shot up out of her seat as though it had suddenly 
 become red-hot, and Mr. Cortlandt demanded sharply, 
 "What did he say to you?" It seemed to Ann that he 
 turned pale, but she knew that she must be mistaken.
 
 HOSPITALS 147 
 
 "We talked about the wounded men," she said rea- 
 sonably, "and he told me what I could do for them." 
 
 Mrs. Renneslyer cut in here, "You see, Hendricks, 
 what the hospitals mean? Walt Whitman !" 
 
 "But," Ann protested, "I liked him. He is a nice 
 man." 
 
 "Nice?" demanded Mrs. Renneslyer explosively. 
 "Good heavens!" 
 
 Her brother frowned at her reprovingly. ' 'To the 
 pure/ Qarissa, remember." 
 
 "You don't like him, do you, uncle?" 
 . "No." 
 
 "Why not? I did." 
 
 "I don't know him." 
 
 "That's no reason. He is good, and kind. Don't 
 you like his poetry, is that it? Is he a bad 
 poet?" 
 
 "No, I think he may be a good one. Mr. Emerson 
 thinks so, and Mr. Dana, of The Tribune, is a great 
 champion of his. But his subjects !" He broke off, 
 and now Ann thought his face was flushed. "We 
 won't discuss it." 
 
 "I congratulate you on your wisdom," Mrs. Ren- 
 neslyer said coldly, and Ann held her peace. She 
 realized that the introduction of her new acquaintance 
 into the conversation made her hospital service more 
 bleakly undesirable than before. 
 
 Ill at ease, she wandered over to the bookcase; be- 
 hind her back, she could feel that two pair of eyes 
 were riveted upon her. Affecting nonchalance, she
 
 148 THE CORTLANDTS 
 
 stood looking over the shining titles. A thin little 
 volume caught her attention. 
 
 "Enfants d'Adam?" she read aloud. "Did he 
 write about Cain and Abel ?" 
 
 "Ann," her guardian said ceremoniously, behind her, 
 "we are waiting supper for you. Perhaps you would 
 better go up and dress!" 
 
 And later, when she returned to get the book, it was 
 gone. It made no difference, however, for she still 
 had her letter to write.
 
 CHAPTER XII 
 
 WASHINGTON 'SIXTY-ONE 
 
 HENDRICKS had been gone for a month and had 
 written several persuasive letters before Mr. Cortlandt 
 found it possible to go to Washington, and by that time 
 Ann was so deeply involved in hospital service, that 
 she had some difficulty in getting away. As they left 
 the dock on the Baltimore and Ohio ferry, they each 
 had a delightful sense of a holiday well earned. 
 
 Hendricks met them at the station; the first thing 
 Ann saw, as she leaned to look out of the car window, 
 was his beaming smile. He had, she observed, grown 
 a mustache, and she had a startled sense of not liking 
 it. She had been looking forward with impatience to 
 seeing him again, but now that the meeting loomed 
 imminent she was curiously reluctant. As she walked 
 sedately down the car aisle behind her guardian she 
 was struggling with a puerile sense of panic. 
 
 Hendricks enveloped her in a huge embrace, and 
 kissed her; he held her at arm's length, rejoicing. "She 
 looks tired out, sir," he said, as he took his uncle's 
 hand. "Too much hospital nonsense!" 
 
 The color flew into Ann's face as she jerked her- 
 self free, but she said nothing; she did not even so 
 much as glance at her guardian, for she was afraid 
 lest he, too, might be criticizing Hendricks adversely. 
 
 They drove at once to the hotel, in an open barouche 
 
 149
 
 150 THE CORTLANDTS 
 
 which enabled Ann to look eagerly about her. Just 
 outside the station were frame barracks ; new and raw 
 in the warm October sunlight. 
 
 "That must be where the Fifty-Fifth spent its first 
 night, Hendricks !" she cried, her eyes shining, and he 
 nodded, pleased that she remembered. 
 
 The town was full of uniforms, and important, 
 hurrying orderlies. "This place has learned to make 
 haste," Mr. Cortlandt observed approvingly, as they 
 narrowly escaped a collision with a soldier on a gal- 
 loping horse. 
 
 The hotels were all overcrowded, but Hendricks had 
 reserved rooms for his uncle, and, after a few mo- 
 ments' wait in a swarming lobby, where Ann was pleas- 
 antly conscious of admiring glances flung at her by 
 young men in uniform and older ones in black Prince 
 Alberts, they went up-stairs. Their rooms were on a 
 corner; from the windows she could see the massive 
 portico of the Treasury Building, and beyond, the 
 shrubbery surrounding the White House, gold colored 
 and ruddy brown. Below her was the fascinating pano- 
 rama of the street; men and women passed to and fro 
 constantly, horsemen trotted through the crowd, 
 negroes on street corners were offering flowers and 
 fruit for sale, and from somewhere came the inspirit- 
 ing sound of a band. Ann opened her window. The 
 soft air enveloped her sweetly, and the strain of the 
 fifes came shriller. As she looked the street was 
 cleared for troops to pass ; the band swung around the 
 corner, with a massive crash of drums and horns,
 
 WASHINGTON 'SIXTY-ONE 1 5 1 
 
 and behind it came a regiment of cavalry. The officers 
 were splendidly mounted, but the horses the men rode 
 were not so good, and the lines were ragged as they 
 made the turn. 
 
 "Not enough drill," Mr. Cortlandt commented 
 grimly. 
 
 They marched on, company after company, while 
 the music of the band grew gradually fainter; at the 
 end was a group of mounted negroes, and a long string 
 of baggage wagons, each with four horses and a rear- 
 guard. Ann gasped. This was warfare. 
 
 Mr. Cortlandt put his hand on her shoulder. "Hen- 
 dricks has the day off," he said, "and he suggests we 
 ride over to Arlington." 
 
 "Where Colonel Lee lived?" 
 
 "Yes. General McDowell has his headquarters in 
 the old Lee mansion, and a mile or so beyond twelve 
 thousand of our men are encamped at Upton Hill. 
 We might take a look at an outpost." 
 
 "Oh, what a heavenly plan!" 
 
 In half an hour they were riding through the streets 
 on their way to the long bridge; ahead of them the 
 Washington monument, blunt topped, but impressive, 
 swam in an Indian summer haze, indefinite of outline 
 and exquisite, against the spinning blue of the October 
 sky. Ann's horse pranced pleasantly as she reined 
 him in ; the sun was warmer than it had been in New 
 York, and infinitely more relaxing; she was con- 
 scious of a charming sense of well being, and she 
 smiled, with exactly the same affectionate good com-
 
 1 52 THE CORTLANDTS 
 
 radeship, first into her uncle's eyes, and then into Hen* 
 dricks'. 
 
 The opposite bank of the river brought the fighting 
 abruptly nearer: the roads were cut into deep ruts 
 by the heavy ammunition wagons, and the grassy sides 
 were trampled by the feet of marching multitudes. On 
 either hand the fences were torn away, and abandoned 
 fires, which still smoked drearily, showed where men 
 had camped the night before. 
 
 They rode on between wide fields where the grain 
 stood in shocks, and woods where the air quivered 
 with the glint of yellow falling leaves, until they came 
 to the gates of what had been Robert E. Lee's estate. 
 His house was high above the Potomac, set, like a 
 challenge, directly opposite Washington. 
 
 Ann had never before seen anything so elegant as 
 the grounds; the driveway made leisurely turns 
 through shady groves, and past sunny open spaces 
 where an occasional flower showed a brave color. On 
 every hand, however, there were traces of war. Great 
 circles were stamped under trees where saddle horses 
 had been tied, and the gardens had been trampled into 
 hopeless disorder. Tents for the guard had been set 
 up between the arches of rose vines, and saddled and 
 bridled horses were tied at intervals along a brick 
 wall where the ivy hung thick and glossy, but was torn 
 away in great bare patches. 
 
 On the edge of a clearing a gleam of white caught 
 Ann's eye ; it was a broken pedestal, standing in a for-
 
 WASHINGTON 'SIXTY-ONE 153 
 
 mal recess among fir trees ; its statue was gone, and on 
 its stubby shank it bore a roughly lettered legend "To 
 II with traitor Lee." Farther on Hendricks rode 
 off through the trees and came back triumphantly with 
 camellias in his hand. He gave them to Ann; they 
 were exquisite things, one the clearest pink and one 
 faintly yellow; it was the height of incongruity to find 
 them placidly and perfectly blooming, and the girl 
 wondered, as she slipped them under a button of her 
 habit, for what woman they had first been planted, 
 and if, only last spring, she had pruned their shining 
 stalks. 
 
 The house loomed up ahead, thrusting a pale buff 
 shoulder toward the curve of the driveway; it was a 
 huge place, with an ample central building and wide- 
 flung wings. It was, Ann thought, the sort of place 
 a man would build for future generations, for his 
 sons' sons, to inhabit, and looking at it, she felt 
 sorry for Colonel Lee, as she called him, giving him 
 the title he had borne in the United States Army. 
 
 "It must have been hard to give all this up," her 
 guardian said, voicing her unspoken thought "He 
 must have cared a lot." 
 
 "Dirty traitor!" Hendricks said briefly, and reach- 
 ing up, he seized a graciously bending bough, and, rid- 
 ing on, held it until it was torn from the tree, when he 
 dropped it carelessly. 
 
 Mr. Cortlandt frowned. "He did what he thought 
 was his duty, Hendricks. Make no mistake about Lee.
 
 154 THE CORTLANDTS 
 
 He is an honorable man, mistaken, but a gentleman, 
 although an enemy." 
 
 Ann's eyes shone on him for his generosity; she 
 felt inexpressibly melancholy, as she slipped down 
 from her horse quickly, before Hendricks, red-handed 
 from his rape of the bough, could touch her. There 
 was a terrace before the house, and on one side of the 
 entrance a peacock clipped from box stood, grown 
 somewhat shaggy, but eloquent of better days. His 
 fellow was gone, only the mutilated stalks, cut off at 
 the roots, showed where once he had preened, in ele- 
 gant artificiality. On the plaster wall to the right of 
 the door was a rude soldier's sketch of a hanging of 
 Jeff Davis, done in heavy black lines, and with some 
 skill in caricature. 
 
 The general was glad to see them, and showed them 
 over the lower floor of the house, which remained 
 much as the Lee family had left it, when they took 
 flight. Here and there a heavy damask curtain had 
 been torn from a window, and lay in a crumpled 
 heap on the floor, and in almost every room some 
 pieces of the delicate Sheraton furniture had proved 
 inadequate to the repose of heavy soldiers: wrecked 
 chairs were shoved into a corner, or lay broken in the 
 fireplaces, and glass from secretary doors lay in shat- 
 tered piles where it had fallen. Traces of men's occu- 
 pation were everywhere. A saddle straddled the back 
 of an Empire sofa in what had been the drawing-room, 
 and boots sprawled on the Aubousson carpet. The din- 
 ing table was littered with soiled glasses, empty bot-
 
 WASHINGTON 'SIXTY-ONE 155 
 
 ties, rinds of cheese, and pipes, while newspapers lay 
 about, spread open, everywhere. 
 
 The general apologized for the confusion. "I'd 
 hate to have Mrs. McDowell see what sort of house- 
 keeper I am," he said, smiling at Ann. "But we do 
 a deal of business from this place. I've sent all the 
 George Washington silver, and the vases the French 
 government gave him, all the relics of his I could 
 find, over to the Interior Building for safe-keeping. 
 They belong to Mrs. Lee of course ; she inherited them 
 from her father, who had them direct from Mr. Wash- 
 ington himself. I'd hate to have had anything hap- 
 pen to them, but the rest of the stuff I can't bother 
 about." 
 
 The younger officers took the girl out to the terrace 
 before the columned front of the house, and she paced 
 back and forth with them, holding the long skirt of 
 her habit above her shining black boots, while Mr. 
 Cortlandt and General McDowell talked of dull things 
 like equipment of troops. 
 
 Across the blue ribbon of the Potomac lay the 
 Capital a magic white city. 
 
 "How foolish they are," Ann cried, "to think that 
 we would ever let them take that!" 
 
 The young soldiers echoed her gaily. With 
 their lives at stake, they boasted boyishly of what 
 they proposed to do to the Johnnie Rebs. 
 
 Ann's attention was caught by the clusters of new 
 buildings, which showed up white and raw, here and 
 there in the environs of Washington.
 
 156 THE CORTLANDTS 
 
 "What are they?" she asked curiously. 
 
 A grave-faced captain answered her. "The barracks 
 over yonder? The government is building hospitals." 
 
 "But there are acres of them !" Ann cried aghast. 
 
 "It'll be a bloody business, ma'am, before we're done. 
 The trouble with you northerners is you underestimate 
 us." 
 
 He turned away as he spoke, and Ann whispered, 
 "Who is he?" 
 
 "He's from Tennessee. There's no better Union 
 man in the army, though." 
 
 The captain caught the words, and turned. "Yes," 
 he drawled, "I reckon I'm a good Union man, all 
 right. ... I had a right smart start in business 
 in Chattanooga, a home there, and all that, and now 
 my family's been turned out, of course. They're in 
 Chicago, my wife and two little girls, in a boarding- 
 house. An' here I am, in a blue uniform, fightin' 
 f'r the North, against my own brothers, an' my wife's 
 'father. . . . Yes, I reckon I've earned a right to 
 be considered a good Union man. I've paid the price." 
 
 Ann looked at him with shining eyes, in the em- 
 barrassed silence which followed his outburst. She 
 longed to tell him that she thought him an heroic 
 figure, but instead she only murmured, inadequately, 
 "I wish I lived in Chicago. I'd love to know your 
 wife." Then the gaiety swelled out again, as ir- 
 repressible as youth. 
 
 When they rode on several of the officers received 
 permission to go with them, and Hendricks was
 
 WASHINGTON 'SIXTY-ONE 157 
 
 crowded away from his coveted place by Ann's side. 
 She smiled at him ruefully, but he made no attempt 
 to hide his resentment, and Ann, in an effort to mask 
 his silent gloom, forced herself to chatter feverishly. 
 She was enormously irritated with him, and amazed 
 that he could wilfully make himself so unattractive. 
 Through her mind flashed a wonder if she would 
 spend a good part of her life diverting attention from 
 a sulky Hendricks, but she banished it, sternly. 
 
 There was incredible confusion in the advanced 
 post. Men were setting up tents, artillery wagons were 
 struggling through deeply rutted roads to the front, 
 fires were started, and rations were being cooked. The 
 visitors sniffed frying salt pork wistfully. There was 
 no fighting going on, as the Confederates had with- 
 drawn from Upton Hill without a contest, so it was 
 possible to ride straight through the camp to where the 
 sentinels kept a meticulous watch, and where, just 
 ahead, the enemy might be pointed out. There Ann 
 saw, for the first time, a Rebel flag; it flew above an 
 opening in the trees, and the smoke of enemy camp- 
 fires rose in friendly fashion, here and there along the 
 line, but that was all ; no men were visible. 
 
 They came across the colonel, making the rounds 
 of his outpost, and he begged well-known Mr. Cort- 
 landt, the pretty girl and the group of brilliant young 
 staff officers to come back to his tent for refreshment, 
 before returning to Washington. 
 
 "Try our camp fare," he urged. "It is rough, but 
 it is what your army fights on."
 
 158 THE CORTLANDTS 
 
 Ann accepted at once, eager to sample the soldiers' 
 rations, but when, after some delay, the collation was 
 prepared, it proved to be a rather elaborate luncheon, 
 served with champagne from a box under the colonel's 
 camp bedstead! 
 
 They were very gay over it ; even Hendricks' gloom 
 lightened with his second glass, but when they had 
 finished they had to hurry back to Washington, lest 
 Lieutenant Renneslyer should overstay his leave. The 
 escort of young officers parted from them regretfully 
 at the gates of the Lee mansion, and Ann and Mr. 
 Cortlandt and Hendricks trotted steadily on, making 
 the best time they might, picking their way over the 
 rough roads of the long downward slope. They had 
 little opportunity for conversation until the bridge was 
 reached, when they pulled the horses down to a walk. 
 Then Hendricks spoke, with an air of one who un- 
 burdens himself of something he has long had on his 
 mind. 
 
 "Ann, I'm not sure I shall allow you to go on with 
 this hospital work. I don't half like it." 
 
 "Allow !" cried the girl, flashing an angry glance at 
 him. "What a word!" 
 
 "Surely I have a right to decide what is best for 
 you!" 
 
 Mr. Cortlandt coughed deprecatingly, but no one 
 noticed him. Ann was frankly aghast. Was this what 
 it meant to become engaged, she wondered? Must 
 she submit to Hendricks' judgment, she who so sel- 
 dom agreed with him?
 
 WASHINGTON 'SIXTY-ONE 159 
 
 "I wouldn't stop working in the hospitals, even 
 if uncle told me to," she said, with heightened color. 
 
 Mr. Cortlandt hastened to intervene. "In that case, 
 my dear, I shan't interfere. . . . But I think you 
 are wrong in this, Hendricks. ... I entirely ap- 
 prove of her work. It has my sanction." 
 
 At this important support, the boy allowed the sub- 
 ject to drop, but he relapsed into gloom again, and did 
 not emerge when he left them, on the outskirts of 
 town. 
 
 At the hotel Ann learned that there was to be a 
 reception that evening at the White House. 
 
 "Couldn't we get invitations?" she demanded of 
 Mr. Cortlandt. 
 
 He laughed. "We wouldn't need any, my child. 
 The whole world is free to walk in." 
 
 "Then we will go?" 
 
 "It will be a frightful crush." 
 
 "I don't care. We needn't stay long, uncle, but I 
 must see the president." 
 
 "That's a good reason for going, I'll admit," he 
 allowed, yielding with a sigh. 
 
 The crowd was extraordinarily varied. Congress- 
 men from agricultural districts, bearing timid rural 
 wives on their arms, clumped in, in thick boots. Ele- 
 gant young men from foreign embassies sauntered 
 through the throng, detached and amused at this spec- 
 tacle of democracy, generals in gala uniform stood im- 
 portantly about, fashionable creatures, dressed, like 
 Ann, in their best, maneuvered their vast skirts skil-
 
 160 THE CORTLANDTS 
 
 fully, shrewd-eyed gentlemen, who were in Washing- 
 ton angling for contracts, lay in wait for senators 
 or cabinet members, and plain people of the incon- 
 spicuous walks of life rubbed elbows with the rich and 
 great. Here and there were eddies of men and women 
 about some well-known person. Mr. Stanton's broad 
 shoulders and massive head rose above a close group 
 of his admirers, to whom he was pointing out the 
 necessity for haste in bringing the army to fighting 
 efficiency, and in a corner, partly withdrawn from the 
 crowd, the tall and venerably insignificant secretary of 
 the navy was explaining why he was as yet unwilling 
 to commit the government to the purchase of iron 
 boats now building at Boston. 
 
 The president stood at the door of the second parlor, 
 with a secretary beside him who gave him the names 
 of his callers. Ann's first impression was of his extra- 
 ordinary height, for he towered over the people about 
 him, and then the amazing charm of his face caught 
 her; tragic, humorous, distinguished and kindly, she 
 adored him, at first sight. He was obviously bored 
 at the tiresome ceremony of handshaking, but as 
 obviously determined to go through with it with pains- 
 taking courtesy; he had a routine of greeting, "I 
 am charmed to see you here," he said, over and over, 
 with a look of grave concern. When Mr. Cortlandt 
 turned up in line, however, his face brightened amaz- 
 ingly. "My dear friend," he said, "what a horrible 
 occasion for you!" He laughed, and became another 
 man from the care-worn host of a moment before.
 
 WASHINGTON 'SIXTY-ONE 161 
 
 Mr. Cortlandt presented Ann, and the president 
 shook her hand warmly, looking deeply into her ardent 
 eyes, with the penetrating glance of a man who is a 
 rapid judge of character. "You'll find Mrs. Lincoln 
 over yonder," he said. "I wish I could take you to 
 her." 
 
 The secretary spoke another name, and Ann and 
 her guardian were swept on. "That's over," Mr. 
 Cortlandt sighed, relieved. 
 
 Mrs. Lincoln was surrounded by a group of ladies, 
 whose crinolines and trains sheltered her from the 
 throng. She was dressed with great elegance, and 
 seemed a much more worldly creature than her hus- 
 band, but she responded to Mr. Cortlandt's salutations 
 somewhat vaguely, and paid Ann only the conventional 
 recognition of her bow. 
 
 The rooms were becoming more crowded, and Mr. 
 Cortlandt soon declared it was time to go back to the 
 hotel. As they stood under the high white portico 
 of the entrance, waiting for their carriage, they were 
 joined by three of the young staff officers who had 
 ridden with them in the morning to the advanced 
 post. 
 
 "We came over in hopes of seeing you again," 
 they told Ann joyously. "There is dancing at the 
 hotel every night, you know, and it is quite gay, as 
 the officers ride in from the outposts, when the fight- 
 ing is over, for the night." 
 
 Dancing! Ann's regrets at leaving the reception 
 vanished. She glanced at her guardian to see how
 
 162 THE CORTLANDTS 
 
 this suggestion appealed to him. He met her eager 
 eyes, and laughed. "Seventeen!" he said good- 
 naturedly. 
 
 It was exactly like a ball, at the hotel. A band 
 played perfect polkas and waltzes, and its leader called 
 out the quadrille figures like a general directing his 
 army. Ann had never had so delightful a time. Her 
 three officers were most attentive; they filled her card 
 with their initials, and brought other young men to 
 be introduced to her. When midnight came, and the 
 musicians brought the evening to a close with a final 
 glorious redowa, she was flushed and breathless, and 
 very happy. She had quite overcome the uncomfort- 
 able feeling Hendricks had left with her, earlier in 
 the day.
 
 CHAPTER XIII 
 
 FLIGHT 
 
 THE following day there was a great review of the 
 troops by General McClellan. Mr. Cortlandt and his 
 ward drove out to the field east of the capitol in an 
 open carriage; they attracted much attention, for the 
 distinguished-looking old man, with his aquiline face 
 and spare erect figure, and the blooming girl beside 
 him whose voluminous silken skirts filled all the car- 
 riage, were not a couple to pass unobserved. They 
 had no sooner taken their place on the side of the field 
 than their barouche was surrounded, and Ann found 
 several attentive young men at hand, eager to explain 
 the maneuvers to her. They were not very complicated, 
 for the officers wisely confined the movements to pass- 
 ing in review and defiling, but although the drill was 
 simple, the lines were wavering and uneven. There 
 were nine batteries of artillery, with fifty-four guns 
 of various models, all new and in perfect order, and 
 three thousand cavalry in line, only fairly well 
 mounted, but all very dashing and gallant-looking. 
 Ann was entirely satisfied with the martial effect ; she 
 was inclined to be impatient with her guardian, when 
 he talked of lack of sufficient training, and of shoddy 
 in the cloth the smart new uniforms were made of. 
 
 When the review was over and Hendricks was free 
 163
 
 164 THE CORTLANDTS 
 
 to join them, he found Ann chatting, with smiling 1 
 eyes and lips, with a slim young horseman in civilian 
 dress. As he approached he resentfully observed that 
 they were talking in French, and he marveled at Ann's 
 ease in the foreign language. When her brilliant 
 glance fell on her lover, it seemed to him that she 
 merely included him in her general radiant smile. He 
 approached sulkily and greeted her with an air of 
 stern proprietorship. The young Frenchman lifted 
 a supercilious eyebrow at his manner with so lovely 
 a lady. 
 
 "How do you do, Hendricks?" the girl said de- 
 murely. "I want to present you to the Due de 
 Chartres." Amazing girl, she said it as easily as if 
 titles had slipped from her tongue ever since she had 
 learned to speak ! 
 
 As Hendricks faced his first duke in the flesh, he 
 was seized by a paralyzing embarrassment that took 
 the form of making him appear sulkier than before. 
 He had never succeeded in mastering a foreign tongue, 
 and he cast resentfully about in his small French vocab- 
 ulary for words that would impress the elegant 
 young officer. As it happened, however, he said, 
 "Monsieur, " and halted, for the lack of verbs. 
 
 "It is my cousin," Ann murmured, as though no 
 warmer tie bound them. 
 
 "Ah, your cousin !" Realizing Hendricks' embar- 
 rassment, the young stranger spoke in careful English. 
 "I congratulate you, Monsieur." 
 
 "Thank you," Hendricks blurted out. "Is it because
 
 FLIGHT 165 
 
 I am her cousin or because I am going to marry 
 her?" 
 
 "So?" inquired the Frenchman. "In every way, 
 then, I offer you my felicitations !" He did not linger 
 after that, but rode over to join the little knot of 
 officers ab(}ut General McClellan, to whom he had 
 offered his services for the war. There seemed to 
 Hendricks to be a sort of foreign showiness in his 
 manner of reining in his spirited horse. He said so, 
 insularly. 
 
 Ann turned indignantly on him. "Why did you 
 have to spoil it all?" she demanded. 
 
 "Didn't you want him to know that we are en- 
 gaged ?" Hendricks' voice was stern. 
 
 "I didn't mind that, of course, at least, I hope 
 I didn't. . . . Only it sounded very awkward, 
 coming out with it, like that! Oh, look, Hendricks! 
 There is Mr. Lincoln, in that carriage with all those 
 children!" 
 
 She gazed eagerly, and when the president returned 
 Mr. Cortlandt's bow she bowed, too, and squeezed her 
 guardian's hand. She wished that she could salute 
 him, as Hendricks did. 
 
 "I think he is splendid," she declared, flushed with 
 enthusiasm. 
 
 That night the Fifty-Fifth New York entertained 
 distinguished guests at dinner in the officers' dining 
 tent. The soldiers had hung the canvas walls with 
 flags, the Tricolor and the Stars and Stripes were 
 crossed fraternally, and the French cooks of the regi-
 
 166 THE CORTLANDTS 
 
 ment outdid themselves, for the President and Mrs. 
 Lincoln ate with the officers' mess, together with a 
 large and imposing company. Ann's eyes sparkled as 
 she swept into her place between the major and Hen- 
 dricks. She told them, turning alertly from one to 
 the other, that she had never seen anything so brilliant 
 as the long table. It was bright with uniforms and 
 the gay toilets of the ladies, all focussed on the un- 
 gainly man in black civilian's clothes at the head of 
 the tent. The excitement went to her head somewhat, 
 and she amazed Hendricks by the rapidity and in- 
 consequence of her remarks. 
 
 He plucked at her sleeve, and whispered, "Ann, you 
 are talking too much." 
 
 The girl laughed; her clear eyes were tranquil. 
 "Nonsense," she said, "he likes it, your major." 
 
 The boy leaned forward to look. It was true, quite 
 obviously, for the man was looking into Ann's eyes 
 with a smiling attention, and something within Hen- 
 dricks whispered disquietly that Ann could make a fool 
 of his middle-aged major, he was all of thirty, had 
 she wished. 
 
 The meal was a miracle of field cookery, and the 
 president dined well. It was evident that he responded 
 gratefully to this break in the solemnity of his respon- 
 sible days. Hendricks was not near enough to hear 
 what he was saying, but he could catch the laughter 
 that followed his brief remarks; that end of the table 
 was very gay. 
 
 "What can he be saying, Hendricks?" Ann whis-
 
 FLIGHT 167 
 
 pered to him. "Don't you wish you knew ? See uncle 
 laugh! It is awfully good for him. Why is the 
 colonel standing up?" 
 
 "For the toast," Hendricks said importantly. 
 
 "Oh !" 
 
 "To the President of the Republic. May he quickly 
 see the reestablishment of the Union under his admin- 
 istration: not so soon, however, but that the Fifty- 
 Fifth may have an opportunity to contribute to it on 
 some field of honor!" 
 
 The regiment rose, shouting, and Ann shot to her 
 feet with a visible shiver of excitement. She looked 
 so pretty, in her flushed eagerness, that Hendricks 
 missed the greater part of the president's reply; he 
 only took in his closing remarks. "All I can say is, 
 that if you fight as well as you treat your guests, vic- 
 tory is assured to us! And since the Union may not 
 be reestablished before the Fifty-Fifth has had its bat- 
 tle, I drink to the battle of the Fifty-Fifth. And," he 
 added, half droll, half serious, "I wish that it may 
 be fought as soon as possible." Laughter, hand- 
 clapping and cheers rose clamorously about him as he 
 made his farewells, and as he went through the camp, 
 those left behind in the mess tent could follow his 
 progress by the shouting of the soldiers. 
 
 Mr. Cortlandt lingered to talk commissary with the 
 colonel, and the delay gave Hendricks his opportunity. 
 Ann made no objections to being drawn away from 
 the gallant attentions of an entire mess ; she went, with 
 the utmost docility, to stroll in the moonlight, but it
 
 168 THE CORTLANDTS 
 
 seemed to the boy that she was strangely quiet, follow- 
 ing so closely upon her animation at the table. He 
 adroitly drew her away from the crowded camp, along 
 the edge of the creek to a place where the trees grew 
 thick. On the verge of the black shade the girl paused, 
 with a little laugh that trembled. 
 
 "Come on," Hendricks urged impatiently. "It is 
 pretty here!" He seized her hands and pulled her 
 fforward. "I haven't seen you all day," he complained. 
 
 "There hasn't been time," Ann said listlessly. She 
 turned her head to catch the chorus of a song in the 
 camp behind them. "It is wet here," she complained, 
 as she stepped into the deeper shade. 
 
 Suddenly Hendricks flung his arm around her, and 
 crushed her to him; all his day's despondency flared 
 into a sudden gust of passion that surprised him as 
 much as it did the girl. She tried to push him away, 
 but in an instant his lips found hers and he was kissing 
 her fiercely. When he let her go they were both 
 breathless. 
 
 "Oh !" gasped Ann. "How rough you are !" It was 
 not too dark for him to see that her eyes blazed in 
 her white face. 
 
 Panic seized him. "I am sorry," he said humbly. 
 "Really, Ann. ... I didn't mean to." 
 
 They went back to the camp at once, so quickly that 
 Hendricks had only an impression of Ann's flying 
 draperies, and just ahead of him, her profile, cut keen 
 and black against the moonlight. When he reviewed 
 that five minutes, after his uncle had taken the girl
 
 FLIGHT 169 
 
 back to town, he could not remember that she had 
 spoken at all, but he recalled vividly, with a hot flush 
 of resentment, how she had leaped a tiny brook, rather 
 than take his hand. He told himself, as he settled 
 down to sleep that night, that the next day he would 
 get leave of absence and make it up with her, but 
 when he reached Washington, at noon, he found that 
 Ann and her uncle had already left for New York.
 
 CHAPTER XIV 
 
 CHRISTMAS IN WASHINGTON SQUARE 
 
 HENDRICKS wrote that he had been promised a 
 leave of absence for Christmas long enough to enable 
 him to come home, and preparations were made 
 for an unprecedented family celebration in Washing- 
 ton Square. The tree was taller and wider flung than 
 ever before, and Ann was determined that it should 
 outshine all previous ones. It arrived two days before 
 Christmas, and at once she climbed up on a high 
 ladder and began the work of trimming it Fanny 
 had strung yards of popcorn and cranberries, which 
 she draped from one branch to another, and she her- 
 self had gilded nuts and made festoons of colored 
 paper, which glittered gaily against the deep green 
 of the fir. Here and there she placed a foolish mar- 
 tial trinket, with Hendricks' name attached, and on 
 the very top of the tree, instead of the usual white- 
 winged angel, she fixed a blue-coated soldier, with his 
 cap tilted rakishly to one side. 
 
 "That's all right, anyway," she murmured to her- 
 self, and sighed. She made no move toward de- 
 scending. It was warm, up there near the ceiling, 
 and the air was heavy with the delicious scent of 
 Christmas greens. She sat down on the giddy top of 
 the ladder, chin in hand, and plunged into serious 
 thought. . . . Hendricks. . . . Why couldn't 
 
 170
 
 CHRISTMAS 171 
 
 Xe, when she tried so hard, recapture some of her 
 .sarly passion for him? . . . Why should her 
 thoughts always stick on that last unfortunate episode 
 of her visit to Washington, three months ago? It was 
 strange that no amount of dutiful letter-writing had 
 served to overlay it; she could not escape from a 
 recollection of it, and a sort of shuddering fear of 
 the future. . . . She wished, as she sat miserably 
 on her ladder, that Hendricks were not an only nephew 
 of Mr. Cortlandt, She thought that if she felt free 
 to jilt him, perhaps she would not want to. ... 
 Did she, she wondered, really want to ? She drew his 
 ring from her finger reluctantly ; her hand looked very 
 strange and empty without it. ... She resolutely 
 thought of some other girl wearing it, her ring, and 
 she hastily put it on again, overwhelmed with a stub- 
 born resolve to keep it. It was all very perplexing. 
 
 The door-bell jingled, and in a moment Fanny came 
 in, her hands full of packages, and her eyes shining 
 with happiness. 
 
 "What a lovely tree!" she cried. "What beautiful 
 trimmings !" She came over to the foot of the ladder. 
 "See," she said, "I've brought those socks I have been 
 knitting for Hendricks, a half dozen pair . . . 
 and mama's camp kit . , . What are you giv- 
 ing him, Ann?" 
 
 "I had my daguerreotype taken." Ann catapulted 
 swiftly and dangerously down the rickety steps, and 
 selected a flat purple velvet case from the heap of 
 presents at the foot of the tree. She opened it, and
 
 172 THE CORTLANDTS 
 
 looked at it with some satisfaction. "I look rather nice. 
 You would never know I had red hair: Hendricks 
 will like that," she commented, giving it to Fanny. 
 The picture showed a slim and elegant young creature, 
 who leaned romantically on a bit of rustic fence, and 
 whose large eyes were sad. 
 
 "I thought that possibly you might be married while 
 Hendricks is here." Fanny's tone was indifferent. 
 
 "No." Ann dropped the monosyllable without so 
 much as a glance. 
 
 "Aunt Clarissa said Hendricks wanted you to come 
 over and be married in camp." 
 
 "Unfortunately there was a wedding like that in his 
 regiment, brides' maids and wedding veils, and 
 everything, and Hendricks went. He thought it 
 was awfully romantic." 
 
 "It was." 
 
 "I suppose so, but I couldn't seem to take any in- 
 terest in it." 
 
 Fanny shot a speculative glance at her friend, and 
 Ann knew that she considered her love-affair but a 
 lukewarm thing. She was glad when Joseph came 
 into the room. He gave her a telegram, and stood 
 rolling his eyes admiringly at the tree. 
 
 Ann ripped open the envelope. "Uncle says I am 
 always to read them," she explained. "These days, 
 he doesn't like to have them wait." She drew out the 
 enclosure, and read. 
 
 "What is it, Ann?" whispered Fanny, frightened 
 at the flash of emotion in her friend's face.
 
 CHRISTMAS 173 
 
 "Hendricks can't come." She dared say no more, 
 lest her sense of reprieve should betray itself. 
 
 "Can't come ?" Fanny's wailing voice was desperate. 
 
 "No. He says his furlough has been canceled. 
 . . . Uncle will be awfully disappointed." 
 
 "And how about Hendricks? Won't he be disap- 
 pointed too? And all of us?" 
 
 "Yes, of course. . . . What a shame!" She 
 absently fixed a candle or two on the wide branches 
 of the tree. "I am awfully sorry, Fanny," she mur- 
 mured consolingly, after a moment's preoccupation. 
 
 At these words Fanny disconcertingly began to cry ; 
 she did not frankly abandon herself to grief, but she 
 did wipe her eyes, and she made surreptitious dabs at 
 her nose, in a pathetic effort to conceal her weakness. 
 Ann refrained from looking at her, considerately, and 
 the difficult moment would have passed in comparative 
 comfort, had not Mrs. Renneslyer chosen that inau- 
 spicious time to come into the room. 
 
 "Good morning, children," she called. "Ann, come 
 and kiss your mama-that-is-to-be ! Fanny why, 
 what in the world is the matter with you?" 
 
 At this sharp attack, her niece frankly abandoned 
 herself to tears; she sobbed openly, and left the con- 
 versational field to Ann. 
 
 "What is the matter with Fanny, Ann?" 
 
 "I am sorry. . . . Hendricks can't come. He 
 just telegraphed uncle." She held out the message, 
 wondering why guilt, of all sensations, should be the 
 one to possess her.
 
 174 THE CORTLANDTS 
 
 "It is an outrage!" Mrs. Renneslyer declared. 
 "Christmas Day, and no furlough ! Who ever heard 
 of such a thing? I wonder what your uncle will 
 think of his Mr. Lincoln now ?" Her indignant glance 
 fell on Ann. "You don't cry, do you?" she demanded 
 pointedly, as she searched the girl's face with hostile 
 eyes. 
 
 "I never do," Ann hastened to plead. "Except at 
 silly things, the theater, or a book." She envied 
 Fanny her facile emotion. 
 
 "Why he adores you so " Mrs. Renneslyer broke 
 off, and sighed. "Poor boy, alone, at this season!" 
 She sighed again and sank down on the sofa, only to 
 spring youthfully to her feet, almost at once. "Girls 
 I have an inspiration !" 
 
 Ann looked up questioningly, and Fanny stayed her 
 sobs to listen. "We could all go to Washington ! We 
 could have dinner with Hendricks to-morrow! I am 
 sure Mr. Lincoln wouldn't begrudge him that!" 
 
 "Oh, Aunt Clarissa !" Fanny murmured ecstatically. 
 She and Mrs. Renneslyer both turned to Ann. 
 
 "We might," the girl allowed, her mind on the prac- 
 tical details of the migration. 
 
 "Don't let your enthusiasm sweep you off your feet, 
 Ann." 
 
 "I was only wondering if uncle could find it possible 
 to go." 
 
 "Go where?" a deeper voice broke in. They all 
 looked up, startled, to see her guardian in the doorway. 
 
 "To Washington, Hendricks," Mrs. Renneslyer
 
 CHRISTMAS 175 
 
 flung at him. "We are all going over on the six o'clock 
 train." 
 
 Ann caught his bewildered glance. "Hendricks 
 can't come," she explained again, "and Mrs. Rennes- 
 lyer suggests that we all go to spend Christmas with 
 him." 
 
 The old man's face fell. "Too bad," he said de- 
 spondently. "I had hoped for one more Christmas 
 here together. . . . However, it can't be helped. 
 Hendricks is a soldier; he is not his own master." 
 
 "There is a reception at the White House on New 
 Year's Day, too," Mrs. Renneslyer put in. 
 
 "Uncle Hendricks, please?" 
 
 Mr. Cortlandt smiled. "You want to go, eh, 
 Fanny? How about it, Ann?" 
 
 "It will be Hendricks' last Christmas before he goes 
 to the front, uncle." 
 
 "That settles it. We shall go. ... Fanny, 
 run home and tell your mother. Clarissa, you would 
 better get about your packing, and make sure that 
 Theodore knows the train time, so that if he misses 
 it, you can have the satisfaction of putting him in the 
 wrong! Ann, what shall we do with our tree?" 
 
 "Could I send it to the hospital?" 
 
 He laughed at her vivid eagerness. "How did you 
 ever happen to think of that?" he teased her smilingly, 
 but his sister tossed her head impatiently, and Ann 
 knew that she would have preferred to see her oblivi- 
 ous to everything but the expected meeting. 
 
 Mr. Cortlandt went immediately to his office, as he
 
 176 THE CORTLANDTS 
 
 had arrangements to make before leaving town so 
 unexpectedly, and it was arranged that they would all 
 meet at the ferry in time for the train. There were 
 many things for Ann to attend to; she wrapped pres- 
 ents and such Christmas goodies as might be trans- 
 ported, with enthusiastic expedition, before she turned 
 to her personal packing. 
 
 As she climbed the stairs to her room she was aware 
 of a sudden drop in her spirits, and her feet lagged. 
 "Washington," she murmured to herself. "Hum." 
 This time she was fairly caught. Her trunk was wait- 
 ing for her; she took out her dresses and laid them 
 on the bed as a preliminary to packing, and there, in 
 the depths of her closet, hung the very yellow taffeta 
 she had last worn on the day of General McQellan's 
 review. She looked at it with startled eyes for a mo- 
 ment, and the whole distressing fiasco of her disillu- 
 sionizing visit flashed vividly before her. All at once 
 she knew that nothing would make her go to Wash- 
 ington. She carefully rehung her dresses in the closet, 
 one by one, and shut the door firmly upon them; 
 then she sat down to think. 
 
 When Fanny came hurrying in, an hour later, to 
 see if her friend was ready, she found Ann in bed, 
 with the covers tucked under her chin, and a wet towel 
 bound around her forehead. "Isn't it a pity?" she 
 murmured faintly; "I am not able to go." 
 
 "Ann! You must come! Hendricks will be dis- 
 appointed."
 
 CHRISTMAS 177 
 
 "It breaks my heart not to spend Christmas with 
 uncle," Ann said truthfully, "but it can't be helped." 
 
 Mrs. William Cortlandt came panting up-stairs to 
 see what caused the delay, but even her efficient sug- 
 gestions were useless, and in a few moments she gave 
 up, and hurried off to the ferry. The girl lay where 
 she left her, looking up at the ceiling with wide and 
 miserable eyes. 
 
 The next morning she was miraculously better, and 
 she told Joseph that she would spend the day in 
 the hospital. In the cold light of the winter morning 
 her emotion of the night seemed childish, and she came 
 very near sinking back into the comfortable belief that 
 she must care for Hendricks, because she was engaged 
 to marry him. She was disposed to regret having 
 missed the gaiety of a trip to the capital. 
 
 On her way along the Square, after her lonely 
 breakfast, something happened to disturb this pleasant 
 serenity; it was an incident trivial enough in itself, 
 but sufficiently upsetting to Ann to amount to an ad- 
 venture. On the corner of the little park, where the 
 paths met, she came face to face with a young man. 
 She had been subconsciously aware of his approach, 
 but she did not notice him particularly until he was 
 almost upon her; then she took in the fact that he 
 was a well set up youth, with eyes made bold by an 
 evident admiration of her. Their glances clashed, 
 Ann automatically looked away and passed on. Into 
 her mind flashed the unbidden thought, "I'd rather
 
 178 THE CORTLANDTS 
 
 marry him than Hendricks !" It was nothing ; it was 
 less than nothing, and yet to the girl the vagrant 
 disloyalty was startling; it amounted almost to in- 
 fidelity. She felt miserably unworthy of Hendricks' 
 single-minded affection, but in a curious fashion this 
 acknowledgment of guilt made her cling to 'him the 
 more, in a futile desire to make it up to him. She was, 
 however, suddenly glad, after all, that she had not gone 
 to Washington. 
 
 She was warmly welcomed at the hospital, as the 
 other volunteer women were, in the holiday season, 
 devoting themselves to their families, and the sick men 
 were forlorn enough until Ann appeared, her eyes 
 shining with the delight of giving so much pleasure. 
 She set up her tree in the hall where all the conva- 
 lescents might see it, and even the men in beds on the 
 first floor could catch a festive glimpse of it, through 
 open doors. On Christmas Eve they had a fine cele- 
 bration, and Ann felt that never before had she known 
 such complete "good will toward men." 
 
 The next morning she was back at her post again, 
 and her cheerful "Merry Christmas" was echoed en- 
 thusiastically up and down the wards. She ate her 
 luncheon with the convalescents, sharing with them the 
 multitude of good things that had been prepared for 
 the Cortlandt family celebration, and she did not go 
 home until late, for, as the night approached, she hated 
 'to return to her empty house. As she ran up the front 
 steps she smiled to see that the lights were brilliant. 
 "Good old Joseph!" she thought, as she rang. She
 
 CHRISTMAS 179 
 
 could hear the fire crackling when the door opened, 
 and she followed the cheerful sound; standing on the 
 hearth in the library was Mr. Cortlandt, smiling at 
 her amazement. 
 
 "Uncle !" she gasped, as she flung her arms around 
 him. "I was so lonely!" 
 
 "Did you think I would leave you all alone for 
 Christmas ?" 
 
 "But didn't you go to Washington, either ?" 
 
 "I did, and I saw Hendricks, which was my only 
 object in going. . . He spent the evening with us, 
 and I came home on the midnight train. ... I 
 told Joseph to have an especially fine supper " 
 
 "Oh, uncle!" gasped Ann, horror-struck. "I have 
 given away every single thing in the house !" 
 
 "So he said," the old man returned, smiling. "And 
 we are to eat a Christmas dinner composed of warmed- 
 over chicken! What do you think of that?" 
 
 "I am so sorry!" 
 
 "Nonsense ! Joseph is to open a bottle of that last 
 champagne I had out from France, and I bought some 
 flowers for the table, as I came through town. . . . 
 Run and put on your prettiest dress ! No, don't thank 
 me for coming. I am just a very selfish old man. I 
 wanted to eat my Christmas dinner with my girl!" 
 
 Joseph had set their places at a small table drawn 
 close to the fire in the shadowy library, and they were 
 very gay, in spite of the depleted menu. 
 
 "Do you remember, my dear, your first Christmas?" 
 
 Ann's eyes suddenly filled with tears. "Do I re-
 
 i8o THE CORTLANDTS 
 
 member?" she echoed. "It was after my mother had 
 sailed, but before we heard " she broke off, shivering 
 a little. "What a forlorn thing I was, uncle, and 
 how wonderfully good you were to me! . . . 
 Those days! I can remember how frightened I was 
 all the time, until you came home!" She reached 
 across the table and squeezed his hand affectionately. 
 
 When Joseph poured the champagne Mr. Cortlandt 
 told him to fill a glass for Ann, too, and he gave her 
 the toast, "Our soldiers, Ann, a merry Christmas to 
 them ! And to our country, and victory !" 
 
 They drank it, eye to eye across the narrow table, 
 and then they sat down to their creamed chicken and 
 sausage. Mr. Cortlandt exerted himself to be amus- 
 ing; it was a long time since they had been so gay, 
 and they decided, over their simple dessert, that this 
 was, after all, the best Christmas of them all. It was 
 not until after dinner, as they sat before the library 
 fire, that they touched on the subject of Hendricks. 
 
 "The boy looks well," Mr. Cortlandt said, his eyes 
 on Ann's face. "He seems older, and he is doing 
 good work; there is no doubt about his being an ex- 
 cellent soldier. I am very proud of him." 
 
 "I am so glad," the girl murmured softly. 
 
 "He was sorry not to see you." 
 
 Ann's face clouded. "I suppose so," she said. 
 
 "I want to ask you a question, my dear. Will you 
 answer it?" 
 
 Ann threw him a nervous glance. "Of course I 
 will."
 
 CHRISTMAS 181 
 
 "Did you really have a headache?" 
 
 She flinched back into her chair, but her eyes met 
 his squarely, as she shook her head. 
 
 "Didn't you want to see Hendricks?" 
 
 "I am not sure I care for him, uncle. . . . And 
 I am not sure I don't" 
 
 "But," Mr. Cortlandt interposed reasonably, "you 
 seemed greatly attached to him when he went away." 
 
 "Yes. . . . It's when he comes home that I 
 am not so sure." 
 
 "I am sorry, my dear. When you first became en- 
 gaged to my nephew I was not too well pleased, but 
 now ! In God's name, Ann, if you loved him when 
 he was a conceited puppy from school, why can't you 
 love him now that he promises to make a fine officer ?" 
 
 "Perhaps I do. ... I can't be sure." 
 
 That ended the matter. Ann couldn't be sure, and 
 that was all there was to be said. The cozy Christ- 
 mas evening ended in rather a chill of disappointment. 
 
 Late in February Hendricks obtained a second leave 
 of absence in order to come to New York, and only 
 Mr. Cortlandt's decided refusal to countenance it kept 
 Mrs. Renneslyer from clamoring for a hasty wedding 
 while her son was at home. Ann received the news 
 of his arrival with the proper expressions of pleasure, 
 but her guardian thought that her enthusiasm was 
 forced, and her sudden nervous docility depressed him. 
 He had an amazing sense of relief when a second tele- 
 gram announced that the regiment was at last ordered
 
 182 THE CORTLANDTS 
 
 to break camp, and that Hendricks' furlough had again 
 been canceled. 
 
 "Off to the front!" The whole family thrilled to 
 the words, in common with an anxious country, re- 
 lieved to see action at last, in the long dormant Army 
 of the Potomac. The New York papers were rilled 
 with reports of the home regiments, and Ann was able, 
 day by day, to trace Hendricks' progress through the 
 enemy's country. As a delayed and reluctant spring 
 rushed into a hot summer, she learned the dismal 
 trick of searching the published list of the dead, 
 wounded and missing, but the casualties of the Fifty- 
 Fifth were light in its early engagements. At inter- 
 vals letters came through from Hendricks, who 
 seemed much more concerned over a shortage of tents 
 than he was at having been under fire. He hated the 
 hot southern summer, and the dried-up southern fall, 
 but time passed and he remained unscathed. It seemed 
 a miracle to Ann, who saw so many wounded men in 
 the hospital that it was incredible to her any one 
 should escape. 
 
 She continued her work. As the numbers of sick 
 men doubled, she doubled her efforts; there seemed no 
 end to her vitality, no limit to her capacity to serve. 
 Hendricks, whom she had not seen for so long, became 
 a more and more unreal lover, but her engagement 
 was not the more desirable to her because of that. 
 She tried not to think of it, as the months ran on.
 
 CHAPTER XV 
 
 DENSLEY HOWARD 
 
 IT WAS a morning almost like summer, in the early 
 spring of 1863. The sunlight was as warm as a 
 friendly hand, but in the shade a thin disagreeable 
 coldness lurked. Ann lingered on the hospital door- 
 step, deep, under its portico, in wintry shadow; 
 she looked reluctantly back at the shining streets and 
 up at the sky, high, faintly blue, and delightfully 
 empty. She would like her life to be like that, she 
 though, remote and beautiful. 
 
 She was enormously tired, after two years of doing- 
 the same dreary thing day after day; her very soul 
 was weary of illness and of pain. Routine was always 
 the thing she found most difficult to bear, and there 
 is no routine more rigid than that which prevails in 
 a hospital. Ann sometimes thought that she would 
 not be so rebellious with it, had her life outside been 
 diversified, but there, too, nothing happened. Mr. 
 Cortlandt was overworked and weary, and Hendricks 
 had never once, in the two years since his reenlistment, 
 been able to get a leave of absence long enough for a 
 visit to New York. Every Sunday morning she wrote 
 to him, with painstaking regularity, that, too, had 
 become a routine, and now and then answers came 
 through ; it was her custom to pass these letters of his 
 
 183
 
 184 THE CORTLANDTS 
 
 about the family circle, for her lover was a temperate 
 writer; there were no intimacies for her eyes alone. 
 
 She sighed, and opened the door. A rush of bad ait- 
 swept out at her, and the gloom of the hallway yawned 
 before her. Ann shook herself petulantly. "If some- 
 thing would only happen," she murmured, half 
 aloud. 
 
 The first doctor she met said to her, "Miss Byrne, 
 have you seen our new patient?" 
 
 Ann shook her head, and he lead her across the 
 ward to point out a man who had been brought in 
 during the night. 
 
 "From Libby Prison," he explained briefly. 
 
 The girl's eyes opened wide; this was a dramatic 
 happening. "From Libby!" she exclaimed, and moved 
 eagerly forward. He was the first man to be received 
 at the hospital from the plague spot of Richmond ; she 
 bent commiseratingly over him, as he lay, white and 
 apparently unconscious, on his cot. "Poor fellow," 
 she murmured, "he looks very ill." 
 
 The doctor nodded. . . . "He was a bad ex- 
 change," he said brutally. "We can't pull him through, 
 I am afraid. . . . He was unconscious when he 
 came in from the train." 
 
 Ann studied the emaciated face on the pillow, and 
 thought that, in all her experience in the hospitals, she 
 had never seen any one in a more forlorn condition 
 than this newcomer. He was, in the first place, thin 
 beyond belief ; his cheek-bones stuck out like headlands 
 above a rough blond beard, and below it, the chords
 
 DENSLEY HOWARD 185 
 
 of his throat showed pitifully. His face was very 
 white, under its grime of travel; he might easily have 
 been dead as he lay there, and Ann put out a fright- 
 ened hand, and pushed the fair hair back from his 
 wasted temples. His skin was hot to the touch, and 
 with the hair swept back, his face looked young and 
 weak, in its defenselessness. Her touch roused the 
 man, and suddenly his eyes opened wide for a moment. 
 They seemed enormous, in his dead-white face, and 
 they were deliciously, penetratingly, blue. His lips 
 parted, and drew down in the ghost of a cynical smile. 
 
 "I never felt softer ones," he murmured. 
 
 Ann retreated swiftly, but the nameless patient 
 had already lapsed back into unconsciousness. 
 
 All day she had him in her mind, as she went about 
 her round of duties; it was extraordinary how often 
 she contrived to pass the cot where he lay. He was 
 less forlorn when he had been washed and brushed; 
 she almost thought that there was something familiar 
 about him, and she hoped, quite foolishly and femi- 
 ninely, that those very blue eyes were not destined to 
 close forever. Shortly after noon he revived again, 
 and a little brandy was put between his passive lips. 
 Ann stole over to watch the effect: she was near 
 enough to hear quite distinctly his protesting mur- 
 mur, "That's a damn bad liquor!" and she ran to the 
 office to get him a bottle of especially good old stock 
 provided by her guardian. A second spoonful of this 
 stirred him to something resembling a faint vitality. 
 He fixed his eyes on Ann's and said amiably :
 
 i86 THE CORTLANDTS 
 
 "You'll have me as drunk as a lord, if you give 
 ihe much of that on an empty stomach." 
 
 "I'll get you something to eat," she volunteered 
 eagerly. 
 
 The man frowned impatiently. "It is easier not," 
 he murmured. 
 
 "I'll feed you," Ann offered. She commandeered 
 a bowl of soup from a passing nurse. 
 
 Her patient obviously did not want the soup, and 
 equally obviously, disliked to say so, in the face of 
 Ann's eager helpfulness; it was an unfair advantage 
 that she often used, and now she made him take 
 almost the entire bowlful. 
 
 When she finally desisted, and the man lay flat again, 
 exhausted by the little effort of lifting his head, he 
 said politely, "Thank you. ... I wish I felt the 
 way you look." 
 
 "The way I look?" she repeated encouragingly. 
 She wanted him to talk. 
 
 The soup was having its effect, and there was more 
 strength to his voice as he said, "You are the most 
 living thing I ever saw. . . . You can't imagine, 
 after Libby, to find you!" Under his steady 
 gaze Ann played nervously and aimlessly with his 
 bowl and spoon. "Do you mind telling me where I 
 am?" he went on, affably. 
 
 "You are in an army hospital, in New York." 
 
 "New York? ... It goes to prove what I 
 have always said, the place has no atmosphere. . . . 
 P::t me in Paris, dying, and I'd know, and hate
 
 DENSLEY HOWARD 187 
 
 to die! ... Or Florence, there'd be something 
 there to whisper to my spirit, and keep me happy to 
 the verge. . . . Well, 'this is my own, my na- 
 tive land!'" 
 
 "I wish you would tell me your name." 
 
 "Densley Howard." 
 
 "Oh !" There was a startled note in Ann's exclama- 
 tion, but after her first instinctive movement she did 
 not draw back. Instead she met his eyes bravely and- 
 smiled, albeit a bit unnaturally. "We are neighbors," 
 she said. 
 
 "Are we?" his tone was indifferent. 
 
 "I am Hendricks Cortlandt's niece." 
 
 Howard smiled in his turn, polite, but wan. "I re- 
 member," he said. "The red-haired little devil who 
 used to shy stones at my horse, when the governess 
 wasn't looking!" He closed his eyes on that quite 
 definitely, and almost immediately he was asleep. 
 
 Ann stood gazing gravely down on him. He didn't, 
 she reflected, look bad. He looked, instead, although 
 the girl did not know it, like a stricken Saint Michael, 
 or an exhausted, defeated, Saint John. . . . He 
 looked extraordinarily young, too. She knew him to 
 be at least ten years her senior, and his reference to 
 the past brought up a contrasting picture of a slim 
 young god on a too-spirited horse, whose Byronic good 
 looks were a subject of alarm to the mothers in Wash- 
 ington Square. . . . She remembered vague but 
 persistent rumors of mysterious deeds. . . . He 
 was, in the language of the Square, "wild." . . .
 
 i88 THE CORTLANDTS 
 
 She wondered. . . . He didn't look wild, she 
 thought he had a look of almost boyish sweetness. 
 . . . He had lived for years in Europe, and she 
 recalled a chance grim comment of her guardian's that 
 that was the best place for him. . . . She had 
 heard that he had come home to join the Union Army, 
 but she had carelessly acquiesced in Mrs. William's 
 decision that this rumor of white deeds on the part 
 of a black sheep could not be authentic. . . . And 
 now, here he was, one of the first victims of Libby 
 Prison. Surely, nothing else mattered, and she didn't 
 care if it did! 
 
 The next morning she found the hospital ringing 
 with his exploits. "What do you think he made me 
 do!" a nurse demanded of Ann. "He made me bring 
 in a barber to shave him, and he dying as he lies there ! 
 He has had his beard all taken off. . . . He ar- 
 ranged with the man to come every day, and joked 
 with him about shaving him after he was dead !" 
 
 "He must be better." 
 
 "He is, but he's none too strong." 
 
 Nevertheless the newcomer hailed her weakly, as 
 she would have passed his cot with only a shy smile. 
 He looked like a stranger, with his lean jaws close 
 shaven; his eyes were enormous, and smudged in 
 with black shadows. 
 
 "Haven't you been brought up to say good morn- 
 ing?" he demanded, gaily. 
 
 Ann paused, while she solemnly selected a carnation
 
 DENSLEY HOWARD 189 
 
 pink from the handful she carried. She had chosen to 
 put on a new dress that day, and it was vastly becom- 
 ing to her. "I brought you this," she said, smiling 
 tentatively as she went to lay her flower on the table 
 beside his bed. 
 
 Unexpectedly, he caught her fingers, and she could 
 feel that his were ominously hot. "Thank you/' he 
 said. When she would have withdrawn her hand, he 
 drew it to his lips and kissed it. 
 
 The girl's eyes widened, and she caught her fingers 
 away tempestuously, but in the face of Howard's ap- 
 parent innocent pleasure in his friendly act she felt 
 that she was being gauche and awkward, so she said 
 nothing. She told herself that this gallantry was usual 
 in those European countries he had frequented. 
 
 "Do you know," the young man went smoothly on, 
 "I have a confession to make to you?" He paused, 
 and Ann's grave eyes interrogated him. "In the night, 
 when I didn't sleep, I lay and thought about you. 
 . . . You came in here, when I was just decently 
 dying, when I thought this business of life was all 
 over, and willed me to live. ... I couldn't go 
 on dying, after that, without being rude to you !" 
 
 "I am glad you have such good manners," Ann ven- 
 tured shakily. 
 
 "If it wasn't for you, I'd be in a long pine box by 
 this time, and my good brother Willy would be order- 
 ing mourning with a silver lining. . . . Well, you 
 willed me to live, and I don't even know your name !"
 
 190 THE CORTLANDTS 
 
 "Ami Byrne." 
 
 "Ann. . . . It's rather sweet. . . . Well, 
 Ann, what are you going to do about me?" 
 
 Ann hesitated. She looked deliberately up and 
 down the ward, gray white and dreary in the light that 
 came through rain-lashed windows. The patients 
 were many of them asleep, in postures of uncouth 
 abandonment: there a man with a week's old beard 
 snored with startling fitfulness, and here a giant from 
 the Far West alternately cursed and blessed the at- 
 tendant who changed his dressings. More keenly than 
 ever before during her two years of service, she real- 
 ized that illness is not attractive. Her glance dropped 
 to Densley Howard, and their eyes met. He held her 
 for a breathless moment; she could not have looked 
 away if she would. "I wish," she said unsteadily, 
 "that I could take you away from this horrid place." 
 
 "I wish you might. It's beautiful of you to think 
 of anything so delightful." Densley's eyes and lips 
 were transfigured by the sweetness of his smile, and 
 for a moment neither of them spoke. "We'll just 
 have to make the best of it here," he declared at length. 
 "Will you spend hours, every day, talking to me?" 
 
 Ann nodded, breathless at the thought. 
 
 "If I can only manage not to bore you !" 
 
 He managed this with ease. Interested Ann 
 might be, startled at his fitful tendernesses, or piqued 
 at his sudden indifferences, but bored never. At first, 
 when his weakness was pathetically apparent, she 
 bullied him shamelessly, and he submitted with a touch-
 
 DENSLEY HOWARD 191 
 
 ing docility. His nurse little suspected that his oblig- 
 ing appetite was due to the fact that Ann had threat- 
 ened not to sit with him unless he ate what they 
 brought him; he doggedly consumed fresh eggs and 
 warm milk, and his reward was a dozen fleeting inter- 
 views during the day. Ann made a prodigious num- 
 ber of excuses for passing his bed, and pausing. They 
 discussed the most commonplace things, but Howard 
 managed to give a new significance to them. 
 
 "The sun is out bright, isn't it ?" he said one shining 
 morning after a rain. "I suppose those red brick 
 houses in the Square are soft and pink as a foreign 
 plaster. They always had a fine texture." They had, 
 Ann observed on her way home that night, but she 
 had never noticed it before. She paused for a mo- 
 ment in front of Densley's house, closed since the 
 death of his father, years before, and she nodded and 
 smiled at the old nurse-caretaker, in an upper window. 
 She knew all about her, and her old-time affection for 
 Densley, for as she sat beside his bed they talked 
 sometimes of his boyhood, and even revived her scanty 
 memories of Milton Center, and her unimportant 
 childhood there. 
 
 "I don't remember much about it," she confessed. 
 "There was Mrs. Allen, of course, and there was a 
 boy named Peter. . . . He kissed me once." 
 
 Densley lifted a startled face. "The dickens he 
 did!" he exclaimed, and his eyes met hers intently. 
 "How did he happen to do that ?" 
 
 "I don't know," Ann said demurely. "I don't seem
 
 192 [THE CORTLANDTS 
 
 to remember much of anything else about him. . . . 
 I know there was arbutus in the woods at this time 
 of the year, though, and checker berries, too." 
 
 "I think," Howard commented dryly, "that I am 
 more interested in the fauna than the flora." It was 
 true however; her richer later life had wiped out the 
 recollection of her simple early experiences. 
 
 Densley Howard had not been in the hospital many 
 days when Ann began to be miserably aware of the 
 possible comment on her devotion to him. She caught 
 herself wondering if the men in the neighboring cots 
 were gossiping about it, and now and then she raised 
 her voice in order that they might realize how innocu- 
 ous their conversation was. She suspected the busy 
 nurses of undue interest, and, such was the state of 
 self -consciousness her sense of guilt plunged her into, 
 she kept a wary eye on the door in anticipation of a 
 visit of inspection from Mrs. William. Every morn- 
 ing and night she looked with increasing interest at 
 Densley's empty house, two doors away down the 
 Square. A delightful plan half formulated itself in her 
 bright head, and she wished that her guardian were at 
 home, so that she might discuss it with him; but the 
 president had sent for him, and he was in Washington, 
 sitting in daily conferences on the strained relationship 
 between the United States and England. The girl 
 was, for the time being, her own mistress. 
 
 She did not mention her misgivings to Howard, for 
 so complete was her respect for his sophistication that 
 she feared he might think her ridiculous. Somehow
 
 DENSLEY HOWARD 193 
 
 she felt that he was above the gossip of his associates, 
 or possibly inured to it. ... Instead, she told 
 him that she had seen his old nurse, and that once 
 she had gone in through the creaking front door to 
 tell her that "Mr. Densley" was better. 
 
 "You are better, you know," she added happily. 
 
 Howard shrugged one thin shoulder under the 
 blankets. "I have a reprieve," he said lightly. 
 
 "Maggie is sure that if you would only go home 
 you would get well at once," she ventured. 
 
 "Home ? You mean to Washington Square ? Back 
 to the house I was born in? That would be com- 
 plete." 
 
 "Of course," Ann said indifferently, "you would be 
 my neighbor." 
 
 Howard caught her glance, and held it: she had 
 never known anything like the breathless intimacy of 
 his look. When he spoke his voice was dreamily 
 reminiscent. "Ever since I went abroad to live," he 
 said, "I have wandered about, looking for the most 
 beautiful thing in the world, just then, and when 
 I thought I had found it, I always settled down to 
 live near it. ... I should like to live near you." 
 
 "You might be lonely there." Ann's look skilfully 
 included the harassing nearness of his fellow-patients. 
 
 "Do you mean that you wouldn't come to see 
 me?" 
 
 Ann hesitated. The fright in his voice was too 
 delicious to soothe immediately. "I shouldn't be al- 
 lowed to," she said demurely.
 
 I 9 4 THE CORTLANDTS 
 
 "Mr. Cortlandt?" 
 
 "He might let me come, but he is in Washington. 
 . . . He won't be at home again for two weeks." 
 
 "Two weeks ! It will be all over for me before that ! 
 . . . But it would be a good finish. . . . You 
 could confess when he comes home, confessions are 
 good for the souls of guardians, too." 
 
 "Do you mean that you are going to die ?" 
 
 Howard nodded. "A campaign and Libby weren't 
 just the best things in the world for a constitution 
 like mine, I imagine. . . . My mother died of 
 Jung fever, too. . . . She was years younger 
 than I. ... But we won't talk about it." 
 
 "No," cried Ann, "and we won't think of it ! You 
 shall get well!" 
 
 Howard's tender gaze quieted her. "I'll get out 
 of this place, at any rate," he said, throwing all the 
 energy he had into his voice, "and you shall do your 
 best to make my ugly house cheerful. I'll give you 
 carte blanche, you shall spend a fortune in paint and 
 flowers, we'll show Willy money can fly, before he 
 gets it all! Will you, Ann?" He stretched out his 
 hand, and clasped her nervous fingers. "Will you?" 
 
 Her eyes widened eagerly. "Oh, I should just love 
 to!" she said childishly. 
 
 "And you will come to see me, every day? For 
 hours?" 
 
 The girl smiled down at him; her expression was 
 suddenly mature, almost maternal. "Of course I 
 will," she said.
 
 DENSLEY HOWARD 195 
 
 Densley's face lighted like a boy's. "I knew you had 
 a capacity for rebellion !" he said gaily, and Ann was 
 immediately thankful for the luckless trait of her 
 refractory girlhood. It was not an entirely simple 
 decision for her to have made, as Densley seemed so 
 easily to assume: she foresaw a family condemna- 
 tion more severe than any she had yet evoked, when 
 it should become known that she was making daily 
 visits to Densley Howard, once the scapegoat of Wash- 
 ington Square! 
 
 "Tell me," he questioned, "don't you rather enjoy 
 feeling wicked?" 
 
 She swallowed her qualms, and nodded. "I am 
 afraid I do!" she confessed. 
 
 It was Ann who consulted the doctor about the 
 move, and to her consternation he confirmed Densley's 
 hopeless prediction. "I doubt if it would hurt him 
 to go," he said. "Of course he understands that he 
 may die any day, or possibly live for a month or 
 six weeks. . . . If he wants to go home I think 
 he may, and we can always use his cot here." 
 
 The girl hesitated no longer; if Howard had only 
 a few weeks to live, she determined to make them as 
 much to his liking as she could. 
 
 He told her what he wanted done to the house: 
 it seemed to Ann clear madness to remove the rich imi- 
 tation red velvet paper from the walls of the dignified 
 front room where old Mr. Howard had set up his black 
 walnut bedroom set, and lived and died in airless 
 luxury; but in the face of Densley Howard's desire to
 
 196 THE CORTLANDTS 
 
 reproduce, as nearly as possible, some clearly ugly for- 
 eign setting, she obeyed directions, and swallowed 
 her objections. After all, she said to herself, with a 
 sense of justice that often obtruded itself on her 
 judgments, she didn't have to live there! So the 
 paper was sacrificed, and the walls were whitewashed. 
 The heavy early Victorian furniture was exiled to 
 the attic, and in its place she put pieces from the mys- 
 terious packing boxes Densley had sent back when he 
 first went to Europe, before he had abandoned the idea 
 of some day making Washington Square his home. 
 The cracked unvarnished bureaus, and the queer carved 
 bed put together with wooden pins, seemed to the girl 
 fit only for a bonfire. However, Howard not only 
 gave her explicit directions, but, in the face of her 
 bewilderment,drew her curiously finished little sketches 
 of the things he wished about him ; in the end he made 
 her a plan of the room, showing the location of every- 
 thing; there was no excuse for any mistake on her 
 part. It seemed an extraordinary thing to the girl 
 that a man should be so concerned about mere furnish- 
 ings, and she thought that Howard must be a vastly 
 less dangerous character than she had believed. 
 
 His last request before he left the hospital, the 
 royal command to fill the place with flowers, was more 
 sensible, she thought, although her eyes widened at 
 his careless, "Be sure to have enough, dozens, with 
 long stems, not little set bouquets, as though you 
 were going to carry them to a ball." She took over 
 an armful of hothouse roses, which glowed sweetly
 
 DENSLEY HOWARD 197 
 
 in the cool white room, and stuck a branch of flowering 
 crab in the bay-window, where the afternoon sun 
 would wake it to a translucent glow. She glanced 
 about her with a sudden vivid pleasure: in spite of her- 
 self, she had accomplished a beautiful thing, and some 
 instinct deeper than her meager experience bade her 
 recognize it.
 
 CHAPTER XVI 
 
 DENSLEY HOWARD [Continued] 
 
 WHEN Densley Howard was finally established in 
 Washington Square, the importance of her hospital 
 service suddenly dwindled for Ann. She reported, as 
 usual, early each morning, and her associates did not 
 dream with what a divided mind she attended to her 
 duties: they only knew that she instituted a new cus- 
 tom of taking half her day off, which seemed excus- 
 able, in the riotous April weather. 
 
 The long afternoons, empty as a perfect gilded bowl, 
 were her own, to do with as she pleased, and she 
 poured into them the richness of association with Dens- 
 ley. He lat flat in his Italian walnut bed, his thin 
 face gray and ascetic, against the white pillows, and 
 his gay voice so weak that if she did not sit near him, 
 lAnn could not hear what he said to her. He looked 
 alarmingly ill, and yet, once the shock of seeing him, 
 < the daily realization of this fact, was over, there 
 was nothing to suggest it to his visitor: he did not 
 think of it himself apparently, for the eyes that sought 
 Ann's so persistently were full only of a conscious- 
 ness of her. . . . He never talked of his symp- 
 toms nor allowed her to burden him with inquiries 
 as to his condition. He settled that on the first day. 
 
 "Some one of these days," he said, "I shall just 
 die quite quietly. . . . There is no one to care, 
 
 198
 
 DENSLEY HOWARD 199 
 
 particularly. . . . And now, let us never speak 
 of it again. . . . That is settled." 
 
 Instead they talked of many delightful things, un- 
 important in themselves, but curiously intimate, in the 
 isolated companionship of the bare white room. Dens- 
 ley reviewed his life abroad, and discovered a wealth 
 of beauty to the untutored girl. He told her of the 
 mountain slopes of Taormina in the springtime, where 
 the shepherd's pipe rose sweet and shrill on the eve- 
 ning breeze; of Venice, which he said was the most 
 magnificent stage setting for happiness in the world; 
 of the Roman Campagna, where the distant moun- 
 tains swam always in a golden mist, and of Paris, 
 when the horse chestnuts bloomed over the paths where 
 the lovely Empress Eugenie walked. It was all magic 
 to Ann, and it was no wonder that the long spring 
 afternoons seemed all too short. 
 
 "How you feel things!" Densley murmured, his 
 eyes on her glowing face, "and how I should like to 
 have ten years, ten golden years, to show you the 
 world in, my dear !" 
 
 "Oh," Ann responded, "the world is so big! Ten 
 years isn't half enough!" 
 
 "Well," murmured Howard. "We have the entire 
 past, at any rate, and the present ; no one can cheat 
 me of that." 
 
 They talked, too, of other things which Densley as- 
 sured her she should love, once she came to know them, 
 and under his persuasive enthusiasm she gladly agreed 
 with him.
 
 200 THE CORTLANDTS 
 
 "Ever heard of Wagner operas?" he asked, early in 
 their intimacy, adding, as she shook her head. "And 
 these Cortlandts think they are cultivated people!" 
 
 "They are!" Ann protested indignantly. "Uncle 
 often takes me to hear opera." 
 
 "What opera? L'Elisir d'Amore? Ernani? La Trav- 
 iataf My dear girl, if that is all, you don't know what 
 opera is. ... You should hear Lohengrin!" He 
 began to whistle a phrase of the Swan song, but broke 
 off at once, for lack of breath. 
 
 "If I had a piano here," he complained, "and could 
 sit up to it for a few moments, I could show you 
 something. When I play Der Fliegcnde Hollander I 
 can give even myself a thrill, and that's the test !" 
 
 He had an amazing proficiency in all the arts. He 
 drew delightful little sketches, illustrative of passing 
 impressions, and he talked bewilderingly about paint- 
 ing-. He scorned the sentimental canvasses that Ann 
 unquestioningly sdmired, and upheld strange gods of 
 whom she had never rieard. He praised an unknown 
 called Manet, and, after some ^earcri m curiously hap- 
 hazard luggage, he produced a small painting of a 
 Spanish dancer. "Manet did it," he said, reverently, 
 "last year, when I ran across him with Baudelaire, 
 in Paris." 
 
 It seemed to the girl garishly bare and unshadowed ; 
 she thought it was not pretty at all, but she paid 
 Densley's intelligence the tribute of doubting her own 
 taste, and she put it away as he bade her, not, as he
 
 DENSLEY HOWARD 201 
 
 said, to wait until the master should become famous, 
 but because she treasured it as a gift from him. 
 
 It was not until the third day of this easy compan- 
 ionship that he asked her the question which she had 
 been dreading. She thought, when she came in, that 
 he looked more ill than usual, and she could not sup- 
 press a murmur of pity. 
 
 He frowned at her ferociously; the tenderness to 
 which she was accustomed had left his face, and the 
 warm certainty of his liking was all gone. "I have 
 had a blow," he said. 
 
 All at once she knew. "Some one has told you 
 about Hendricks," she answered. She looked across 
 at him appealingly from where she stood, forlorn, by 
 the door. 
 
 "Yes," he replied. "The doctor told me. He says 
 you are engaged to him, to Hendricks Renneslyer." 
 
 Ann nodded. "I am." 
 
 Howard motioned impatiently to her usual seat. 
 "Come and sit down," he commanded. "Let us get 
 to the bottom of this. ... It can't be." 
 
 "But it is." Her valiant smile was dreary. 
 
 "I saw him, at Fairfax Court-House." 
 
 "You saw him? You saw Hendricks? You never 
 told me! How did he look?" 
 
 "He looked stupid." 
 
 "Oh, that isn't fair ! He is a very good officer." 
 
 "Yes, good as the deuce ! Roars out his orders at 
 his men so that they shake in their shoes! Frowns
 
 202 THE CORTLANDTS 
 
 like a regular Zeus if anything crosses him. . . . 
 But, Ann, you must believe me, he would never 
 know why life is fair." The tenderness had come 
 back into his eyes, as for a profound moment they 
 held hers. 
 
 "But, is life fair?" she asked confusedly. "There 
 seems to me to be so much pain, so much unhappi- 
 ness." 
 
 "My dear, it is, because you are here, and some 
 day some glorified man will make you see it, but not 
 Hendricks Renneslyer. You must promise me, not 
 Hendricks Renneslyer." 
 
 "But why? Hendricks is good. He is, uncle 
 says so, safe." 
 
 "Good? Do you want to marry a man who is 
 good because he hasn't enough imagination to be 
 capable of temptation? Safe? Good God, Ann, if 
 you must marry a man as unsympathetic as Renneslyer, 
 you don't want him too safe, you'll never get rid 
 of him!" 
 
 "But, he is very fond of me." 
 
 "Is he? How extraordinary! I am fond of you 
 myself, my dear, although it never seems to occur to 
 you. ... I am mad about you. ... I think 
 about you constantly. . . . With so little time left 
 I begrudge the few hours I sleep, and long before 
 there is a chance of your coming I stand Maggie in 
 the window there, to watch for you." 
 
 "Ah," said Ann wisely, "that is because you are ill, 
 and see no one but me."
 
 DENSLEY HOWARD 203 
 
 Densley Howard looked steadily at her for a long 
 moment. "No," he said, "it is because I love you. 
 ... I love you. . . . Strange, isn't it, at 
 the end, like this ?" 
 
 Ann sat speechless, but he talked on, with his usual 
 sunny fluency. "I've been in love before, of course, 
 but it seems as if this time was more-- important. 
 . . . Still, you never can tell. Each time it is 
 different, and each time the present transcends the 
 past. . . . And yet, I think, with you, that I 
 might not have tired. ... I could have made you 
 gloriously happy for a while. ... It seems a pity, 
 doesn't it, when we believe that being happy is what 
 counts ?" 
 
 Ann started. "Is it, I wonder?" 
 
 Howard lifted himself higher on his pillows. "My 
 dear, it is! To be happy, to be free, that's life!" 
 
 "Uncle says that doing your duty, taking your 
 place in the community, is the important thing." 
 
 Howard laughed. "Your place in the community 
 is a cold comfort! Fill your life full, Ann, full to 
 overflowing, and then at any rate you will know 
 that you haven't missed anything! Look at my life! 
 I used to think that I was a moral to point a tale, 
 and yet, if I hadn't done just what I have, if I didn't 
 lie here dying because I have flung away my strength, 
 why, then I might never have known you. . . . 
 I should have missed these exquisite moments, Ann. 
 . . . Give me your hand to kiss, dear, I forget 
 what I was going to say."
 
 204 THE CORTLANDTS 
 
 Ann stretched out her hand unquestioningly : 
 Densley always kissed it when she came and when she 
 went, but this was different; although he only pressed 
 his lips once on the back of her hand, and again, 
 lingeringly, on her cupped palm, she felt that no kiss 
 had ever been so intimately caressing. His face was 
 flushed when he let her draw her fingers away; he 
 had a fictitious look of health and vigor. "You are 
 not made for duty, Ann," he said. "You are made for 
 joy." 
 
 She gladly flung herself upon the safe ground of 
 argument. "Hendricks expects me to be happy, of 
 course." 
 
 "But will you be? That is the question. Will you 
 be satisfied to let his standards govern your actions? 
 Wouldn't you want, ever, to talk to some one about the 
 things Renneslyer can't understand? Wouldn't you 
 ever have a feeling that you were so hedged in by 
 laws that you must break out just for the fun of break- 
 ing? Wouldn't you ever want to live fully?" 
 
 "I don't know," Ann murmured breathlessly. "I 
 am afraid I should." 
 
 "Of course you can't marry him ! I know you, my 
 dear. ... I suppose there will be the devil of a 
 row if you break with him?" 
 
 "Oh, yes," Ann admitted, and laughed. 
 
 "And you are dependent on all these Cortlandts. 
 . . . Listen to me, Ann, darling, marry me, and 
 cheat my smug- faced clergyman brother!" 
 
 Ann moved her chair hastily back, and cast a fright-
 
 DENSLEY HOWARD 205 
 
 cned glance at the door. She shook her head violently. 
 "I couldn't do that!" she protested decidedly. 
 
 "But why not? You don't need to love me, you 
 know. It would be very simple. . . . We'll just 
 have a minister in here some afternoon, and then, when 
 I am gone, you will come in for something that will 
 enable you to snap your fingers at the Cortlandts." 
 
 "But I don't want to snap my fingers at them," 
 she protested. "I adore my uncle. . . . He is 
 the only person I have ever been perfectly honest 
 with, except you." 
 
 "And do you adore me, a little?" His tone was 
 light, but his eyes were suddenly tragically intense. 
 
 She looked straight at him, with a troubled gaze. 
 "I don't know," she said, "but I think I could, easily." 
 
 Densley put out his hand, and held hers for a 
 moment, in a close dry clasp. She had not known that 
 he had so much strength left as she felt in his clinging 
 fingers. "That's all," he said weakly, as, after a 
 moment, his hold relaxed, and she drew her hand 
 away. 
 
 After that he read poetry to her, when their con- 
 versation flagged. Ann wondered if he, too, were 
 afraid of their silences. In spite of his labored breath- 
 ing he got through a vast amount of Keats and 
 Shelley, and he let her read him Tennyson, while he 
 lay exhausted, with his eyes fixed on her. She had 
 never voiced such sentiments before, even Tennyson's 
 demulcent Victorian passion seemed to her unre- 
 strained, and when she listened to Densley's voice,
 
 206 THE CORTLANDTS 
 
 thrillingly emotional, in spite of its weakness, the frag- 
 mentary love-making of the temperate Hendricks 
 seemed like the make-believe of a child. She told 
 Densley that she would break with him, and so she 
 made up her mind at last, with a vivifying sense of 
 relief. 
 
 "Why," she said one day, "did you come over here ? 
 Was it just to set me free? You don't talk as if Amer- 
 ica meant much to you. Why did you want to fight ?" 
 
 "I didn't," he confessed easily. "I hated it like the 
 devil. ... I remember the day I decided. I 
 was loafing along the Arno, thinking how fortunate it 
 was for me to be there, free, with no ties to draw 
 me into this miserable business, when all at once it 
 came over me that the war was being fought for free- 
 dom. ... I had had that on my flag from the 
 beginning, since I first rebelled, almost a boy, here 
 in New York. . . . And so I came back. . . . 
 And it has been too much for me. I expect it is the 
 only thing I ever did that was like my clergyman 
 brother." 
 
 As the days went on, Ann became nervously anxious 
 about her guardian's return ; she was afraid he would 
 not approve of her intimacy with Densley, and she 
 felt that she could not give it up. The day before 
 his arrival Howard detained her with a score of trivial 
 subterfuges: he looked very ill indeed, when she shut 
 out the last of the sunset, and lighted the candles on 
 the mantel-shelf. 
 
 "Come here," he said finally. "Come closer."
 
 DENSLEY HOWARD 207 
 
 Ann obeyed, and slipped her hand in his, with an 
 affectionate little pressure. She looked down at him 
 miserably, realizing his tragic state, and then she 
 smiled, to hearten him. 
 
 "That's right," he murmured. "There's sadness 
 enough, Ann darling. . . . Good night." 
 
 The giii hesitated. There was something in his eyes 
 that troubled her, and made her stoop swiftly to him, 
 and kiss him, very shyly, on his wasted cheek. 
 
 He did not try to detain her, nor to return her 
 caress. "Thank you," he said. "You have given me 
 something to think about. . . . Thank you, for 
 everything." 
 
 She hated to leave him, lying alone there in the big 
 room, with the flickering candles making scythe-like 
 shadows across the high walls, especially as she did 
 not know when she might return, if her guardian 
 should prove obdurate. Her heart was heavy as she 
 slipped out of the silent house. 
 
 Immediately after Mr. Cortlandt's arrival, early the 
 next morning, she told him of her escapade, and she 
 was surprised at his calm reception of her news. He 
 seemed more sad than angry, and he was very gentle 
 with her. As she poured out her confession, he took 
 both her hands and held them. 
 
 "You are not displeased with me, uncle?" 
 
 "Displeased? No. ... If you gave him any 
 happiness, poor boy. . . . Densley Howard died 
 in the night, Ann."
 
 CHAPTER XVn 
 
 TRAGEDY 
 
 ANN could not tell how much her guardian sur- 
 mised of her feeling for Densley, but she knew it was 
 for her sake that he, in the absence of any one in 
 authority, took charge of his neighbor's house, with 
 its sinister knot of crape on the silver knocker. It 
 was he who notified the inheriting brother in De- 
 troit, and who made the arrangements for the funeral, 
 although he left it to her to see that the house was 
 ready for the services. She set gratefully to work to 
 put in order the stuffy formal rooms on the first floor, 
 whose closed white doors had so often thrown back her 
 slender black shadow, as she hurried past them to the 
 stairs. 
 
 Only once did she venture into the dear familiarity 
 of the upper front room; the blinds had been closed, 
 and a thin gray light pervaded the spacious white 
 place. A tight bunch of pallid funeral roses stood on 
 the table by the bed, and a thick odor of more exotic 
 flowers hung in the air; the old nurse was having her 
 way at the end. Densley lay as she had seen him 
 last, except that the eager blue eyes, which had always 
 followed her persistently, were closed; it was strange 
 not to meet their shining response. . . . His 
 hands were folded on his breast; they were pitiably 
 
 208
 
 TRAGEDY 209 
 
 thin, but they were poignantly natural. . . . She 
 put out her own hand to touch them, but shrank back 
 from their cold unresponse. . . . He looked sad, 
 she thought, and older. Now that he had nothing 
 to give her he was subtly changed. He had loved 
 her very beautifully, she knew, but it seemed a curi- 
 ously long time ago, and she wondered, as she stood, 
 glowing, above him, if she had really loved him. . . 
 What was love, she questioned piteously, her eyes 
 fixed on that graven face as on an oracle. Was it a re- 
 sponse only, something other love called into being, 
 like a speech in a play, or was it a more vital thing 
 than that, a thing that ran out ahead of one, beyond 
 one's defenses? She could not tell, nor could Densley 
 Howard now enlighten her. 
 
 One thing, however, she did know, and that was that 
 she must break immediately with Hendricks Rennes- 
 lyer. She went straight to her own room, after this 
 mute farewell, and, sitting sternly upright before her 
 little desk, she wrote her letter to him. The problem 
 of how she should tell him that she found their en- 
 gagement to be a mistake had occupied her thoughts 
 for many wakeful nights, but now the difficulties 
 seemed smoothed away, while the feeling that she 
 was doing something Densley would approve of gave 
 her a consciousness of exaltation. 
 
 "And so, dear Hendricks," she finished, "I can not 
 marry you, because I know, now, that I do not love 
 you, and no one could be sorrier than I am about 
 it."
 
 210 THE CORTLANDTS 
 
 The specter of her guardian's disappointment stalked 
 in vain before her determination; she sent her letter 
 to the mail and would have told Mr. Cortlandt all 
 about it when he came in, had he not forestalled her 
 with astonishing news of his own. 
 
 "Ann," he said, immediately on his arrival, "I 
 have heard from the president. He wants me to go 
 abroad at once, to England. The Great Eastern 
 sails the day after to-morrow; I shall take it." 
 
 "Uncle," cried Ann, her personal difficulties for- 
 gotten, "may I go with you ?" 
 
 "I am afraid not, Ann. I considered it, but I am 
 going with other gentlemen, and in London we are 
 to join Mr. John M. Forbes of Boston." 
 
 "Mr. Lincoln is sending you to keep those English 
 shipbuilders from letting the Rebels have their iron 
 ships!" Ann guessed acutely. "I am so glad, uncle! 
 I know you will never let them do it." 
 
 Mr. Cortlandt smiled affectionately at her. "My 
 dear, I am flattered at your belief in my powers, but 
 Mr. Forbes has that matter very well in hand; I 
 am only to confer with him informally about it. . . 
 What the president really wants me to do is to go 
 first to England and then to France and Germany, to 
 acquaint European capitalists with the actual circum- 
 stances in this country, and with the resources of the 
 North. He believes it is only in this way that we 
 can destroy their partiality for the Confederates. I 
 don't want to go, Ann. I should prefer to work here. 
 There is more bad news from the front."
 
 TRAGEDY 211 
 
 Ann's frightened eyes interrogated him. "Chancel- 
 lorsville?" she whispered, unwilling to voice the pos- 
 sibility of loss at that important point. 
 
 "Yes. . . . Another defeat." 
 
 "But I thought we had twice as many men there 
 as the Rebels?" 
 
 "Lee is a great general, Ann, and the sooner we 
 Federals realize it the better. . . . They say the 
 loss of life is appalling; perhaps twenty-five thousand 
 men killed, and many more wounded." 
 
 Into Ann's mind rushed a realization of Hendricks 
 in deadly peril. After all, until they were reassured 
 of his safety in this present terrible battle, she would 
 not tell her guardian what she had written ; she would 
 spare him that much. So she flung herself into Mr. 
 Cortlandt's preparations for departure, and held her 
 peace. She was glad to be busy, and to have little 
 opportunity to think of Densley, who lay surrounded 
 by alien kinsfolk, in the house just along the Square. 
 She sat up very late that evening, as her guardian 
 allowed her to remain beside him in the informal con- 
 ference in the library. Mr. Greeley was there, and 
 Mr. Dana, who brought the heartening news that the 
 redoubtable Stonewall Jackson had fallen that day. 
 They smoked a great many cigars, and discussed her 
 guardian's mission at length. Ann was enormously 
 proud of him ; as she sat mutely witnessing his friends' 
 trust in him she found it easy to share their belief that 
 he was the only man to save the situation abroad. 
 
 As she took down her hair that night, and brushed
 
 212 THE CORTLANDTS 
 
 it for a long time in order to rid it of the odor of 
 tobacco which clung to it, her personal difficulties 
 seemed very trivial indeed. . . . Possibilities of 
 war with England. . . . Foreign loans. . . . 
 The friendship of France. . . . Somehow the 
 question of whether she should marry Hendricks or not 
 was extremely unimportant. . . . Suddenly, 
 however, she wished very much that she could tell 
 Densley of her uncle's mission, and talk it over with 
 him. . . . She was tired and it was late, but it 
 was a long time before she could sleep. High clouds 
 were scurrying about a moonlit sky, and she was afraid 
 that it might rain the next day, the day of Densley 's 
 funeral. 
 
 In the morning, however, the sun shone brilliantly; 
 the same high clouds moved majestically about a far- 
 away blue sky, and the breeze, even in the city, was 
 laden with the odor of fruit-trees in bloom. It was 
 the sort of day that Densley would have loved, and 
 Ann was sorry that he had not lived to see it. After 
 all, she thought, it would have been better for him 
 to be buried on the kind of rainy day he hated. 
 
 Her guardian went with her to the services in his 
 neighbor's house, but he could not take the time to 
 drive out to the cemetery, so Ann went alone, and 
 stood on the fringe of the small group of mourners. 
 She felt that the ceremony had strangely little to do 
 with Densley, who had talked so much of the joy of 
 life, and so little of this numbing sadness. She won- 
 dered at herself for not feeling a more acute grief;
 
 TRAGEDY 213 
 
 she clenched her hands until the nails bit into her soft 
 palms, and still she could not force herself to an 
 emotional crisis. . . . She thought, "I shall never 
 see him again. ... I shall never see him again," 
 and at the same time she could not help wondering 
 what would have been the situation had she accepted 
 Densley's mad suggestion to have a clergyman in, on 
 one of those uneventful afternoons. Her lips twitched 
 as she glanced at "the good Willy" in his correct 
 mourning, and wondered if he would have exhibited 
 quite so much conventional grief had she been beside 
 him, Densley's widow. . . . The dull thud of 
 earth falling on wood aroused her to sudden poignant 
 emotion; she had never felt like that in all her life 
 before. She wished that she were the sort of girl who 
 cried easily; it would be better than this sensation of 
 all the world falling away from her. . . . Floods 
 of tears, she felt, would be inadequate, and she hated 
 herself because she stood, still and composed, with her 
 white lips closely set. 
 
 In Washington Square a great confusion awaited 
 her; everything was in a whirl of excitement; even 
 old Joseph, who opened the door for her, was tremu- 
 lous with agitation, and Mrs. Renneslyer's voice, 
 breathless and shrill, came clearly out to her, from 
 the the drawing-room. She was there, elegantly emo- 
 tional upon a sofa, while Fanny was wiping her eyes 
 beside her, and Hend ricks' father was striding about 
 the room, red-faced and incoherently profane. Mr. 
 Cortlandt was standing, very still, in the window.
 
 214 THE CORTLANDTS 
 
 There was something ominous in the air, and Ann 
 halted abruptly. "It is Hendricks!" she cried. "He 
 is dead!" 
 
 Mr. Renneslyer reassured her. "Dead? Nonsense!" 
 he burst out. "Hendricks is a hero, that's all, 
 a regular hero! Damme, no one would have thought 
 it when he was a boy! I have had a letter from 
 his colonel: Hendricks distinguished himself in a 
 night attack conspicuous bravery, he says. They've 
 made him a captain, at twenty-two, by God!" 
 
 There was an instant's silence after this outburst 
 as Mr. Cortlandt came over to Ann, and took her hand. 
 She was glad that he stood so as to shield her face 
 from the others. 
 
 "You must be very proud, my dear," he said cere- 
 moniously. "We must all be proud of Hendricks." 
 
 The girl sank into a chair, dazed by the sudden 
 reaction. Into her mind came, unbidden, Densley 
 Howard's casual depreciation of Hendricks in action ; 
 she had an instant's clear vision of him, red-faced 
 and domineering. . . . But her guardian was 
 right, just now, for a while, she must be proud; she 
 should have no place for any other emotion. . . . 
 She put her hands to her face, to insure some privacy 
 from unfriendly eyes, and then over everything came 
 flooding gladness that Hendricks was not killed, dear 
 Hendricks, whom she found it impossible to be in 
 love with! 
 
 There came a great jangle at the door-bell, and 
 every one, already in an emotional state, started nerv-
 
 TRAGEDY 215 
 
 ously. Joseph brought in a note, and Mr. Cortlandt 
 ripped it open. "It is from Horace Greeley," he said. 
 "It is marked 'Important.' ' He glanced at the brief 
 enclosure, and turned suddenly white. 
 
 "What is it ?" Ann whispered. 
 
 Mr. Cortlandt did not seem to hear her; he might 
 have been alone in the room for any attention he paid 
 to the people gathered there. He reread the note 
 aloud, stupidly, as if he had not mastered its con- 
 tents. 
 
 "Dear Friend: It is my sad duty to inform you 
 that in the official list, sent me for publication, of men 
 who have gloriously fallen at the battle of Chancellors- 
 ville, the name of your nephew Hendricks Renneslyer 
 appears. I can say nothing to soften your grief, 
 nothing to . . ." His voice trailed off into silence, 
 as Mrs. Renneslyer interrupted his reading with a 
 loud scream, and Joseph burst into lamentations. The 
 room was suddenly filled with a clamor of sorrow. Ann 
 stood very still, half stunned by the shock. She looked 
 over at her guardian, and saw his face become old and 
 gray under her eyes. She went over to him, and 
 put her arms around his neck ; she was trembling vio- 
 lently, and Mr. Cortlandt slipped his arm about her, 
 and drew her close to him. 
 
 "Poor child," he whispered. "Poor child." 
 
 The girl's convulsive clinging suddenly went slack. 
 Behind her Mrs. Renneslyer's shrill grief arose, and 
 Fanny's outburst of sobs, but she disregarded them. 
 Standing there with her cheek against her guardian's,
 
 216 THE CORTLANDTS 
 
 she thought with the most extraordinary clarity. The 
 question of whether or not she should marry Hen- 
 dricks, which had for so long tormented her, was, 
 miraculously, gone, and in its place a conviction arose 
 that here was something important she could do for 
 the kind old man she adored, for whom she felt that 
 she could never do enough. For his sake, she could pre- 
 tend that she had loved Hendricks as well as he un- 
 doubtedly had deserved, as well as all these people 
 wanted to believe she had loved him. It seemed at the 
 moment not too difficult to carry off, because she was, 
 after all, as sorry to lose Hendricks as she would have 
 been had he been a well loved brother. Standing with 
 her face hidden, she could feel that her guardian, and 
 all of them, even Mrs. Renneslyer, assumed that of all 
 the grief -stricken persons in the room, she was the one 
 most concerned. She accepted this position willingly, 
 and the moment passed in which she could have 
 confessed the real situation between herself and Hen- 
 dricks.
 
 CHAPTER XVIH 
 
 ACTION 
 
 THE Great Eastern sailed the day after the receipt 
 of the news of Hendricks' death, and Ann dogged Mr. 
 Cortlandt's footsteps during this interval. She drove 
 about the city with him while he put his affairs in 
 order, waiting patiently outside office buildings and 
 banks, and he talked to her in snatches of Hendricks. 
 
 Everywhere people stopped to offer him condo- 
 lences, for Hendricks' name among the dead had given 
 the family the sympathy of the entire city. Ann 
 hated this public display of grief, and when she said 
 good-by to her guardian on the dock, she wished that 
 she might sail with him, away from it all. There 
 were tears in his eyes when he kissed her, and his 
 hands on her shoulder clung regretfully. The girl 
 was frankly crying as she urged him to take good: 
 care of himself, to come back quickly. She remem- 
 bered the time years ago when she had said farewell 
 to her pretty mother before she had sailed, and she 
 shivered in unreasonable dread of a tragic happening 
 on this voyage, also. 
 
 "I should have gone with you," she kept repeating 
 futilely. "I should have gone with you." 
 
 Harsh gongs began to sound; her guardian em- 
 braced his sisters and Fanny, and turned to her for a 
 last pressure of her hands and a deep look into her 
 
 217
 
 218 THE CORTLANDTS 
 
 eyes. "God bless you," he said, and he kissed her 
 again before he hurried off, up the gangplank. Al- 
 most immediately the ship began to move, and there 
 was a great confusion of getting under way. Fare- 
 wells were lost in the creaking of ropes and blowing 
 of whistles. Ann looked up and saw Mr. Cortlandt 
 leaning over the rail on the upper deck, waving down 
 to her. She stood very still, and waved back, a solid 
 black figure, and a little wisp of fluttering white. 
 ... It seemed to her but a moment when the figures 
 on board the Great Eastern became indefinite, and 
 merged into the general bulk of the ship. . . . 
 There was nothing for her to do but return to Wash- 
 ington Square. 
 
 There Ann found herself facing new obligations. 
 Mrs. Cortlandt and her daughter came to live with 
 her while her guardian was away, and Fanny talked 
 of Hendricks by the hour. Ann had a curious sensa- 
 tion of being pushed into passionate affirmation, be- 
 cause the other girl seemed wistfully to demand it 
 Mrs. Cortlandt proved herself an authority on the 
 etiquette of grief, and Ann submitted willingly enough 
 to her dictum that she should submerge her vivid 
 youth in crape and veils, for this was a part of her 
 obligation to the Cortlandt family which she willingly 
 assumed. Fanny's mother, however, did not stop at 
 that. There was little gaiety in New York in the 
 spring of 1863, but she gave the girls to understand 
 that had there been, they could not have taken part in 
 it. She talked a great deal of the balls and dinner
 
 ACTION 219 
 
 parties which they might be foregoing, had Hendricks' 
 death occurred in normal times. This was harmless 
 enough, although singularly irritating; the girl learned 
 to present a docile face to such fruitless conversation, 
 but when Mrs. Cortlandt announced that she consid- 
 ered it improper for her to go on with her service at the 
 hospital, as though nothing had happened, Ann re- 
 belled. Three days after Hendricks' death she was 
 back at her post, but the discussion in regard to her 
 work arose at every meal, insistent and acrimonious. It 
 seemed to her that she could never get away from it. 
 
 Moreover, she had none of the delightful privacy 
 she had enjoyed when living with her guardian: it 
 seemed to her that she had no opportunity to be 
 alone. Hendricks' mother made constant demands on 
 her, and Ann was so sorry for her that she listened 
 attentively, with more than the docility of a daughter, 
 to details of Hendricks' youth, details curiously un- 
 important, like those a stranger might have repeated. 
 She was told again and again of his little best suits, 
 and his lordly air when a child, which, after all, she 
 could herself remember. Mrs. Renneslyer suddenly 
 looked her age ; her pretty face sharpened, and she lost 
 her alert carriage. Ann was glad enough to do any- 
 thing she could for her; the thing she found hardest 
 to endure was her shame in the face of such genuine 
 grief; she preferred the acrimony of Mrs. Cortlandt 
 to the new softness of Hendricks' mother, or Fanny's 
 broken sweetness. Her spirit was willing, but her 
 nerves were feminine, and they all assumed her devo-
 
 220 THE CORTLANDTS 
 
 tion to the slain hero so unquestioningly, that there 
 were moments when she longed to cry out wildly to 
 them that she had not loved him. She felt that if she 
 might do this she would develop a more genuine 
 sorrow for his death. As it was, an unconquerable 
 feeling of resentment toward him edged its way into 
 her dutiful grief; she was horrified at it but she 
 could not help it. She did her best to be honest; she 
 tried to keep her mind on the triumphant Hendricks 
 of the early days of their betrothal, and she sternly 
 banished Densley Howard from her thoughts. That 
 poignantly intimate interlude sank into unreality; 
 it was as though it had never been, except that some- 
 where in Ann's heart there was a little door kept 
 firmly shut upon a smiling world which he had dis- 
 covered for her. 
 
 In the meantime, the Confederate Army of North- 
 ern Virginia marched triumphantly across Maryland, 
 and into Pennsylvania, and the North awoke to a 
 shock of real fright. The Army of the Potomac, 
 although weakened by losses and dissensions, advanced 
 pluckily to meet the invading enemy, but New York 
 was crowded with refugees from Baltimore and 
 Harrisburg who spread the fear that Washington 
 might be taken. Continual engagements made the 
 hospital situation acute. Emergency tents near the 
 front were filled to capacity and Washington had be- 
 come a city of the sick, but still there was not a suffi- 
 cient number of beds, and in order to relieve the 
 congestion, the wounded were sent on to New York
 
 ACTION 221 
 
 in great numbers. Additional quarters were hastily 
 made ready for them, but in spite of that, the wards 
 were overcrowded, and still strings of four-horse am- 
 bulances might be seen, day and night, on the streets 
 leading from the docks to the hospitals. 
 
 Ann made a new acquaintance who had just returned 
 from field hospital work in Virginia; after her experi- 
 ences there, she found New York nursing tame, and 
 said so. The girl drank in her reminiscenes eagerly, 
 and immediately developed an ambition to nurse at the 
 front herself. She returned to her early habit of day- 
 dreams; she imagined herself in heroic situations, 
 staunching wounds under actual fire. . . . Staying 
 Casabianca-like by a patient's bedside, while the Rebels 
 took the hospital. . . . Saving the life of the com- 
 manding general himself. . . . She grew ex- 
 tremely restless, and under her acute desire for 
 change, her difficult daily life became all but unbear- 
 able. 
 
 She was peddling lemonade through the wards 
 late one afternoon, when the doctor in charge, an old 
 friend who had seen her through the various ailments 
 of childhood, came up to her and took her heavy 
 pitcher away. 
 
 "I have something to tell you," he said. "Come 
 outside for a moment." 
 
 He led the way to the high steps of the building, 
 where they might overlook the little square courtyard 
 filled with the white tents of convalescents. With 
 June not yet gone, it was already arid with the city's
 
 222 THE CORTLANDTS 
 
 heat, and noisome with the odor of gangrene attendant 
 upon hospitals before the days of antiseptics. The 
 doctor looked narrowly at Ann's white face and dark 
 circled eyes. She had a flagellated look, he thought, 
 and wondered why. 
 
 "I wonder if you can stand a shock?" he questioned. 
 
 Ann turned frightened eyes upon him. "Not 
 uncle?" she gasped, with a sinking memory of the 
 tragedy, years ago, of the Arctic. 
 
 Doctor Small shook his head. "This is good news," 
 he said, "or, at least, a chance of it. You know that 
 lad who was brought in yesterday ? The leg amputa- 
 tion case?" 
 
 "The one who died in the night ?" 
 
 "Yes. He talked to me before he died. It seems 
 he knew you." 
 
 "Knew me?" 
 
 "Yes. He was in the Fifty-Fifth. He was, he says, 
 Captain Renneslyer's orderly." 
 
 "I wish I had talked to him ! He might have told 
 me something about Hendricks." 
 
 "He did tell me. He says he saw him, at Win- 
 chester." 
 
 "At Winchester? But that was after Chancellors- 
 ville!" Ann put both hands on the doctor's arm to 
 steady herself. "Was he himself? Did he know 1 
 what he was saying?" 
 
 "I think so. But, of course, I can't be sure of it." 
 
 "Could they have made such a mistake?" 
 
 "The first casualty list of every battle is incorrect 
 You know that."
 
 ACTION 223 
 
 "But, Doctor Small, how can we find out?" 
 
 "You can telegraph." 
 
 "That's useless. We've been telegraphing ever since 
 the message came, trying to get particulars of Hen- 
 dricks' death." 
 
 "Then you can only wait." 
 
 "Wait? Doctor Small, I can't wait! If my guar- 
 dian were at home he would find out, if he had to go 
 down to the Army of the Potomac himself !" 
 
 The doctor nodded. "I suppose so, but as he isn't 
 here, we must be patient." 
 
 Ann's thoughts were chaotic. ... If Hen- 
 dricks lived her guardian would be happy again. 
 . . . . Every one would be happy. . . . She 
 would be happy herself, and she would be freed from 
 her horrible assumption of grief, and of shame for 
 the position in which she found herself. She remem- 
 bered how old and broken her guardian had looked, 
 there on the dock before he sailed; she had cried 
 looking at him. She felt she must send the good news 
 to him as quickly as possible. 
 
 "I must write to my uncle," she said. "I must let 
 him know at once." 
 
 Doctor Small put a restraining hand on her arm. 
 "I wouldn't do that," he said gently, "wait until you 
 are sure. You will only make it harder for him if 
 you encourage him to hope, and then disappoint him." 
 
 This was good advice and Ann nodded soberly as 
 she received it. She went home at once. It was, 
 she decided, imperative that she find out whether Hen-
 
 224 THE CORTLANDTS 
 
 dricks lived or not. There must, she thought, be some 
 one who could go to Virginia. As she hurried 
 through the streets she tried to fix her mind on the per- 
 son, but in vain. She knew enough of conditions near 
 the front to realize that it required intense personal 
 interest to accomplish anything there ; it was not an er- 
 rand which one could intrust to a clerk. . . . Hen- 
 dricks' father was ill, he had had a bronchial cough 
 all the late winter, and had finally allowed Mrs. Ren- 
 neslyer to take him over to Washington for a cure in 
 that more balmy air, with the result that he was miser- 
 ably laid up there, in the hotel. . . . All the young 
 men she knew were off fighting. ... It was a pity 
 that she was a girl. . . . She considered, for a mo- 
 ment, putting the matter before Mrs. Cortlandt, and 
 urging her to take the trip, but at once she knew that 
 lady would only echo the doctor's sane judgment that 
 all they could do was to wait. Ann felt that it would 
 be more than she could endure if she was forced to 
 hear that unanswerable statement again. Her tired 
 nerves shrank miserably from the prolonged emotional 
 crisis into which her news would plunge the women 
 of her family. ... If only she might gc* herself 
 to look the matter up! She half paused, breathless 
 with desire, at the idea. . . . Once at the front, 
 too, it would be strange if she could not make some 
 connection with a hospital there. . . . She had 
 no conscious plan, yet time seemed curiously precious, 
 and when she reached Washington Square she broke 
 into a run.
 
 ACTION 225 
 
 At the door Joseph told her that Mrs. Cortlandt and 
 Fanny had responded to a call from the Sanitary Com- 
 mission ladies, and had gone there to work. "Miss 
 Fanny, she say to tell you to come too, Miss Ann. 
 They's a supper prepared by de ladies, and she say 
 dey need you." 
 
 The girl's first sensation was relief at postponing 
 the telling of her news; it would, she thought, give her 
 that much more time to find some one to go to Vir- 
 ginia. . . . There was a train at nine o'clock. 
 . . . Every one away, like this. ... It was 
 providential. 
 
 "I can't go, Joseph," she amazed herself by saying. 
 "I am leaving to-night, for Philadelphia." 
 
 "Philadelphia, Miss Ann? Where de Rebels is?" 
 
 "Perhaps Mr. Hendricks isn't dead, Joseph. I have 
 to go to find out" 
 
 There was a great flurry of exclamation and excite- 
 ment, while Ann ate her supper, and packed a 
 small traveling bag. It never occurred to any of the 
 servants that it was an unusual thing for her to do, to 
 go off into the night by herself, and the girl's con- 
 fidence grew as she realized that fact. Perhaps, she 
 thought, even Mrs. Cortlandt would not think it too 
 hopelessly strange. 
 
 Old Joseph insisted on accompanying her to the 
 ferry, and in the carriage he began to have a change 
 of heart. "It don't seem right to me, Miss Ann, 
 you going off all by you'self, dis-a-way," he protested 
 from time to time, unavailingly, and at the last mo-
 
 226 THE CORTLANDTS 
 
 ment, when he had carried her bag on board the ferry- 
 boat, he refused to leave her. "It's getting too dark, 
 Miss Ann, honey, f'r you to be on de water by you'self. 
 I'll see you on to de train." Ann was touched in 
 spite of herself, and was glad to have him with her, 
 too, as the water was very black away from the dock, 
 and almost all the passengers were men, who stared at 
 her persistently. She would not have admitted that 
 she was nervous, but she was grateful to the old negro. 
 
 He found a seat for her in the crowded car, and 
 stood beside her, bareheaded, as long as he could, 
 fencing off any one who might have wished to share 
 her seat, and talking of Hendricks when he was a 
 little boy. People looked curiously at the elegant 
 young woman attended by her deferential old servant, 
 but neither Joseph nor his mistress noticed them. 
 "Good luck, Miss Ann," he said, as the conductor 
 shouted "All aboard." "De Lord be with you, an' Mr. 
 Hendricks." 
 
 All night long there were delays and rumors of 
 trouble. Twice they were side-tracked for a train 
 of cavalry, cars rilled with shouting men and stamp- 
 ing horses, and once for a load of lowing beef cattle, 
 en route for the Army of the Potomac. Ann could 
 not sleep. After her fellow-passengers had settled 
 themselves into strange grotesques of repose, while 
 the candles in the spring sockets guttered dimly, she 
 sat looking at the full canals of New Jersey, placid 
 and unreal, in the dim light of a waning moon. . . . 
 She knew that she had involved herself in a fine
 
 ACTION 227 
 
 mess, running off in this way. ... If her guar- 
 dian had been at home, of course it wouldn't have 
 been necessary. . . . Her acquaintance at the hos- 
 pital had talked of assisting at emergency operations; 
 that was better than writing notes, and reading aloud, 
 under Mrs. William's eagle eye. . . . Adventure, 
 that was it ! . . . Surely, once Hendricks was found, 
 she could manage to get into a field hospital, if only 
 for a few days. . . . He must be alive, she was 
 sure of it. ... How overjoyed her guardian 
 would be, and Hendricks' mother, who could lay 
 aside the black which made her look so pathetically 
 old. . . . She wondered if Hendricks had her note 
 yet. . . . She smiled reluctantly at the ridiculous 
 figure she would cut, in her weeds, should he 
 actually face her with it. ... She was wide awake 
 when the dawn came; for a long time the blank sky 
 was faintly streaked with mauve, then all at once the 
 whole east burst dramatically into rose color, the sun 
 soared up with a rush of light and movement, and the 
 trees in the fields beside the track flung long black 
 shadows after the escaping train. Ann watched the 
 transformation eagerly. She was not sleepy, and she 
 wondered if Hendricks were miraculously awakening 
 to welcome this new day. 
 
 Philadelphia was a vastly different place from the 
 staid town she had known before, when visiting there 
 with her guardian. People thronged the streets, as 
 though it were a holiday, and bands playing martial 
 music promenaded through the crowd, followed by
 
 228 THE CORTLANDTS 
 
 huge canvas signs on which were printed the names of 
 the various regiments which men might join; it was 
 an enormous advertising campaign in the interest of 
 enlistment. The "Coal Men's Regiment," and the 
 "Union League Brigade" were especially active; it 
 seemed to Ann that their banners hung from every 
 house; that every boarding detailed the advantages 
 they offered. Before the recruiting office at Twelfth 
 and Girard Streets, there was such a dense throng of 
 men eager to enlist that she found some difficulty in 
 proceeding on her way to the Sanitary Commission 
 rooms. The building was placarded with signs : "The 
 Washington Grays," "Woodward's Light Battery," 
 "Fall In, Men," and an appeal to negro citizens, "Men 
 of Color, come forward." It was like the early days 
 of the war, in New York, only here there was an added 
 tensity because of the nearness of the enemy. All the 
 while, over the hoarse tumult of the crowd, the shrill 
 voices of newsboys could be heard calling: "Confeder- 
 ate Cavalry approaches Harrisburg!" And in inarticu- 
 late answer Ann saw the men press sullenly forward. 
 
 At the Sanitary Commission rooms the girl inter- 
 viewed the lady manageress, but she could learn noth- 
 ing definite. 
 
 "Miss Byrne? Yes? Oh, Mr. Hendricks Cort- 
 landt's niece? . . . Won't you sit down ?" 
 
 Ann did so reluctantly. "I hate to take the time 
 to," she admitted, smiling ingratiatingly at her inter- 
 locutor. "You see, I want to go to the front. Do 
 you kno.w where the Army of the Potomac is?"
 
 ACTION 229 
 
 "No one knows that, exactly; somewhere in south- 
 ern Pennsylvania, of course." 
 
 "I heard newsboys calling out that Lee has crossed 
 the Potomac." 
 
 "Yes. There will be another terrible battle soon. 
 You can see how busy we are, here. We weren't half 
 prepared for the losses at Antietam, but now we have 
 supplies enough on hand to care for ten thousand 
 wounded. The most sensible thing you could do would 
 be to settle down and help us." 
 
 Ann looked about her, at the busy room. It was 
 true that the women were hard at work; scores of 
 them were scraping lint and rolling bandages. A 
 feverish panic of haste possessed every one, and the 
 girl shivered a little at a sudden realization that at that 
 moment there were ten thousand whole and hearty 
 young men, who, to-morrow perhaps, surely within 
 a day or two, would, maimed and suffering, be in 
 need of such supplies. Somehow she couldn't get used 
 to the horror of it. "I can't wait," she said hastily. 
 "I must get in touch with the army, before the battle." 
 
 "But, my child, the front is no place for a young 
 lady. Surely you realize that?" 
 
 "I know, but my uncle is abroad, and we have just 
 heard that Hendricks Renneslyer, who was reported 
 killed, is alive. . . . There was no one else to go. 
 . . . I had to find out . . . We were en- 
 gaged, you see," she added, in the hope of softening 
 the stern eyes fixed on her. 
 
 "I see." She was still preoccupied, but kinder.
 
 230 THE CORTLANDTS 
 
 Before Ann could speak again a breathless young 
 woman came hurrying up to report that fifty gallons 
 of soup had been made and bottled in the restaurant 
 next door. 
 
 "And the lemons ?" the manageress demanded. 
 
 "We have ten cases of them already squeezed." 
 
 "Good! Keep the ladies working. We can't have 
 too much." She turned her attention again to Ann, 
 somewhat resentfully. "There are still lemons to be 
 squeezed, Miss Byrne," she said pointedly. 
 
 "But I can nurse !" Ann cried. "I have been work- 
 ing in the hospitals in New York ever since they were 
 opened!" She was filled with an enormous scorn of 
 women who were fit only for squeezing lemons. 
 
 "Nurse? So young? Extraordinary! In Phila- 
 delphia! However, that is neither here nor there. 
 . . . If you can nurse, I dare say we might find you 
 a place on our hospital train; it will start as soon as 
 we get orders." 
 
 Ann shook her head. "I can't wait," she said stub- 
 bornly. It was in the lull before the storm that she 
 wanted to make her inquiries; she had not come so 
 far only to arrive after everything was over. 
 
 "You would not be allowed to go beyond Baltimore 
 without a pass from the governor." 
 
 "How can I get a pass?" 
 
 "You would have to go to Harrisburg for it, and 
 it is a great question if ydu could succeed in reaching 
 the capital. You know Ewell is raiding in that neigh-
 
 ACTION 231 
 
 borhood. We fear that at any moment he may cut 
 off the city." 
 
 "Well," Ann murmured, regardless of high-bred 
 Philadelphia eyebrows lifted at her expense. "Harris- 
 burg next." 
 
 She was rather cast down at the delay, and she 
 was, moreover, afraid that Mrs. Cortlandt might suc- 
 ceed in reaching and stopping her. She looked about 
 her for possible aid, and her eyes fell on the only man 
 in the room. He was a young chaplain, gaunt of 
 figure and exalted of face. He was looking at her 
 when she noticed him ; his eyes were the sort in which 
 pity lies in ambush; he was a young man born to be 
 gulled. 
 
 Ann went over to him at once. "I wish you would 
 help me," she said, trustingly as a little child. She 
 was rather tired from her exciting journey, and her 
 face was white, and extraordinarily touching. 
 
 "Anything I can do!" stammered the young man. 
 "Are you in trouble?" 
 
 "Yes . . . great trouble." Ann turned a 
 melancholy gaze upon him and decided that he fancied 
 himself in the role of a Samaritan. She sighed deeply. 
 "I must get to the front," she said, "and I hear I 
 have to have a pass, to go beyond Baltimore." 
 
 "They are hard things to get, these days," he mur- 
 mured sympathetically, "and only fancy, I have one 
 here that isn't needed." 
 
 "You have a pass?"
 
 232 THE CORTLANDTS 
 
 He pulled a folded paper from his pocket, and, sure 
 enough, it was a pass. It bore the governor's neces- 
 sary signature, and it was made out to a Mrs. Edward 
 Blake. When she looked up at him, the young man 
 observed that the girl's gray eyes seemed suddenly 
 black. "Why isn't she, this Mrs. Blake, going?" 
 
 "Her son died before she could start. I went to 
 Harrisburg for the pass, but when I came back with 
 it, it was too late." 
 
 "Oh, the poor woman! . . . Don't you think 
 it seems a pity to waste it?" 
 
 He looked bewildered at this direct attack, so she 
 added smoothly, "Of course I know that the governor 
 would give me one, he is a great friend of my uncle's, 
 you see, but I can't bear to delay. . . . There's 
 going to be this battle. ... I want to get there 
 before it's fought. ... I want to find some one." 
 She paused, hopeless of making any one, even this 
 ruthful youth, understand her perfectly good reasons. 
 
 "Wounded?" he interposed unexpectedly. There 
 was an ecstasy of sympathy in his tone. 
 
 The girl looked at him appraisingly. What differ- 
 ence did it make, she thought, what methods she used, 
 if, in the end, she won her point? She nodded mourn- 
 fully. 
 
 "But you are already wearing mourning?" 
 
 Slowly one of Ann's thinly arched eyebrows stole 
 slightly above its mate, and one corner of her mouth 
 indented itself a very little, Yes, she decided, she
 
 ACTION 233 
 
 could make this young man do whatever she wished. 
 She met the melancholy expectation of his look, and 
 then her starry eyes dwelt upon a vague distance. 
 "Saving the flag," she murmured, with a nice mixture 
 of pride and grief in her tone. 
 
 He clicked his tongue commiseratingly, and Ann 
 thought that he might be about to offer her the consola- 
 tions of religion, so she said hastily: "If I could only 
 have this pass!" 
 
 "It wouldn't do you any good. It isn't made out 
 to you." 
 
 "Would any one know that ?" 
 
 "It wouldn't be right," the young clergyman said 
 firmly, but a wave of color swept from his inordinately 
 low collar to his blond hair. 
 
 "I suppose not." Ann drooped again, hopelessly. 
 
 His next remark was in the nature of a concession. 
 "Somebody might find you out." 
 
 "How could they? . . . And besides, no one 
 would ever know where I got it." 
 
 That was true. It was the merest accident that it 
 was in his possession. "I wish I could give it to you." 
 
 She turned pleadingly to him, and she laid one be- 
 seeching hand upon his arm. "Oh, do give it to me! 
 If you will, I can start for Baltimore at once. Please 
 let me have it, please!" 
 
 He looked at the slender white fingers irresolutely. 
 Somehow, his was not an arm upon which beautiful 
 young women often leaned, and he burned to be
 
 234 THE CORTLANDTS 
 
 worthy of this appeal. Ann swept her gray eyes up 
 to his. "You will, won't you?" she said confidently. 
 She held out her other hand, trustfully. 
 
 Her evident dependence was too much for him. He 
 put the folded paper in her outstretched fingers, and 
 tingled with a delightful feeling of wickedness. "Of 
 course," he said virtuously, "I shouldn't let you have 
 it, if it were not a case of life and death!" 
 
 "No, of course not ... I can never thank 
 you, but I'll never forget you! . . . Come on 
 down with me, and help me find my cab." 
 
 She wasted no time in farewells. Her cab was 
 waiting, and she vanished into its gloom with the 
 greatest expedition, but her pretty face popped out 
 again, as she called to her driver, "To the station, 
 quick!" She smiled at her benefactor, standing, 
 forlorn, on the sidewalk. When she careened around 
 the distant corner, she looked out again and saw that 
 he was still there, a stiff and reluctant figure which 
 had served her turn, and she waved her hand out of 
 the window with crazy gaiety.
 
 CHAPTER XIX 
 
 ADVENTURES 
 
 As SHE took her seat in the noon train, Ann ob- 
 served that there were fewer women traveling that 
 day; the car was filled for the most part with soldiers. 
 They were interested in her, that was quite evident, 
 for she never looked up without meeting a pair of 
 smiling boyish eyes, but she was disposed to be dis- 
 creetly shy with them, and she struck up a protective 
 acquaintance with a grizzled major who was return- 
 ing to his regiment with one empty sleeve. He suc- 
 ceeded in getting a dubious sandwich for her when 
 the train stopped, and he pointed out to her the sentries 
 guarding each railroad bridge they crossed; they 
 seemed to her very grim and competent He asked 
 her, after a bit, for whom she was wearing mourning, 
 and Ann plunged into an account of her amazing situ- 
 ation. 
 
 "I am wearing it for the man I was engaged to," 
 she said. "And then we heard a rumor that he is still 
 living. I had to find out, and we couldn't get any 
 news through, so I came on." 
 
 The major turned a sympathetic glance upon her. 
 "You must be awfully fond of him." 
 
 "Not that," Ann said impulsively. "I was going to 
 break my engagement, you see, and when news of 
 
 235
 
 236 THE CORTLANDTS 
 
 his death came and every one felt so badly, I didn't 
 say anything about it. It seemed too brutal. . . . 
 And so when I heard that he was alive I had to know. 
 You can't imagine the burden of pretending, and be- 
 sides it makes me ashamed." She broke off and 
 blushed a quick and bountiful red. She could not 
 imagine what had made her break out like that, and 
 confide her extraordinary troubles to a stranger. 
 
 He did not comment on them; instead he ran a 
 humorous eye over her abysmal mourning and said 
 dryly that he should think it would be a comfort to 
 her to know. 
 
 She consulted him about her probable destination. 
 "Where do you think the Army of the Potomac is?" 
 she demanded. 
 
 "I am ordered to Frederick Gty, as the nearest 
 railroad point. I should try to go there, if I were 
 you. It's your best chance for information. You 
 might even run into the Fifty-Fifth. No one knows. 
 You'll have to spend the night in Baltimore." 
 
 "The night!" Ann echoed, with a sinking heart 
 Nights on trains were all very well, but nights in 
 strange cities were more than she had bargained for. 
 "I don't know any one there," she faltered child- 
 ishly. 
 
 The major frowned. "I do," he said at length. 
 "I think the woman who runs the Eutaw House would 
 remember me. I was taken there when I lost my 
 arm, and she was very good to me. She'll look after 
 you, I am sure. I'll take you to her."
 
 ADVENTURES 237 
 
 "Oh, thank you!" murmured Ann. How would 
 the world revolve, she wondered, if it were not for 
 kindly men? 
 
 When the major shut the door of the rattling sta- 
 tion hack upon them, however, and they started off 
 into an unknown city, she had a brief pang of disquiet. 
 She wondered what Mrs. Renneslyer would say of 
 such indecorous behavior, and she shrugged an emanci- 
 pated shoulder. As things turned out she need not 
 have had even a passing misgiving, for it soon became 
 evident that the major had but one thought, and that 
 was to disburden himself of his unexpected charge as 
 quickly as possible. They had gone only a block or 
 two when he stuck his head out of the window, and 
 called to the driver to hurry. 
 
 "They say there's sure to be a battle just across the 
 Pennsylvania line," he told Ann. "The place is full 
 of rumors. . . . No one knows just where Lee 
 is, and there's Rebel cavalry raiding near Harrisburg. 
 . . . In this damned town they say we'll lose. 
 Baltimore is full of Rebels." 
 
 The hostess of the Eutaw House welcomed Ann 
 querulously. "Take you in?" she said doubtfully. 
 "Well, I don't see as I can do anything else. There 
 ain't a mite of room, but I'll have to manage." 
 
 The major, on this assurance, took a hasty depart- 
 ure. His back was scarcely turned when she inquired 
 shrilly, "Known him long?" 
 
 "Known who?" Ann asked bewildered. She was 
 beginning to feel dazed and tired.
 
 238 THE CORTLANDTS 
 
 "That major." 
 
 "No. Just to-day, on the train." 
 
 "Oh! . . . Well," the landlady surveyed Ann's 
 mourning, "many's the match made like that, these 
 times. . . . Here to-day, and gone to-morrow. 
 . . . There's a sofy in my room. I reckon you 
 can have that." 
 
 "I shan't sleep anyway," Ann said hastily. Noth- 
 ing seemed more impossible to her than that. 
 
 "That's what they all say," her hostess remarked, 
 with such sinister cynicism that Ann asked : 
 
 "What do you mean, all?" 
 
 "All of 'em who have the time to sleep. If they 
 hadn't a chance to rest any more than I have, then 
 I'd like to see how they'd feel about sleep! It's bad 
 enough running this hotel with our own boys filling 
 it up. Don't know what I'll do when the Rebs come 
 swarming over me." 
 
 Ann turned a startled face. "Do you think they'll 
 take Baltimore?" 
 
 "Of course they will, an' me an' my husband with 
 the hotel all done over new just before the war ! Some 
 Secesh boys were around last week, talking big, 
 but the Twenty-Third Wisconsin happened along, 
 an' cleared 'em out in short order. . . . Lie down. 
 . . . That's right . . . My! You've got a 
 sight of hair, even if it is red. . . . Shet your 
 eyes now, for heaven's sake, or I'll stand here talk- 
 ing all night." 
 
 Ann shut her eyes experimentally; she was certain
 
 ADVENTURES 239 
 
 chat she could not sleep : when she opened them again 
 the morning sun was streaming into the room, and her 
 hostess was standing over her, urging upon her the 
 necessity of haste, if she were still determined upon 
 her mad idea of catching the train to Frederick City. 
 As she slowly stretched out her slender arms and flung 
 back her hands with an energetic snap, Ann could hear 
 the clamor of newsboys from the street below. 
 
 "Ewell raids Cumberland Valley! Hooker orders 
 advance ! Great battle expected !" 
 
 She dressed in a bewildered flurry, and protested 
 impatiently as she choked down the hot coffee and 
 corn bread brought her by a weeping darky maid. 
 She had but one thought in her mind, to get to the 
 train before it started, for now added to her wish to 
 find out if it were true that Hendricks lived, was a de- 
 sire to drink more deeply this exhilarating draught of 
 excitement. If there was going to be an important bat- 
 tle she was determined, now that she was so near, to 
 be a part of it. Had her guardian been in New York 
 she would, perhaps, have hesitated, but with only the 
 scandalized aunts to consider, she determined to go 
 on. She would find out about Hendricks, and then, 
 somewhere, she would find a hospital. . . . Her 
 drive to the station dashing through the crowded 
 streets and swinging crazily around corners was 
 gorgeously exhilarating, and her spirits soared in re- 
 sponse. The station was the center of excitement, and 
 the streets leading to it were filled with people: they 
 tossed aimlessly about, regardless of the hot July sun,
 
 240 THE CORTLANUTS 
 
 and shouted and gesticulated. As she drove through 
 the crowd Ann caught scraps of news: the Confeder- 
 ates were concentrating their forces north of the Po- 
 tomac River, and Harrisburg was in great danger. 
 Here and there she heard execrations of General Lee, 
 but oftener a glimpse of an exultant face betrayed the 
 presence of a Secessionist Little groups of men in 
 blue uniforms marched past her, clearing the street as 
 they went, and once an army band swung along at the 
 head of a whole regiment, riving the warm air with the 
 shrill clamor of fifes. 
 
 The train stood puffing and ready before the 
 station, and six or eight soldiers hung out of every 
 window, shouting to their fellows on the platform, and 
 waving indiscriminate greetings. Ann was a Godsend 
 to them; the entire train waved at her, with wild 
 gaiety. She could scarcely make her way through the 
 crowd, and when she finally reached the ticket window 
 the agent hesitated over her request for transporta- 
 tion to Frederick City, but the eloquent plea of her 
 deep mourning, as well as the governor's signature on 
 the pass she mutely offered him, overcame his scruples. 
 When the train started she was sitting in it, surrounded 
 by admiring young soldiers who were joyfully dis- 
 posed to forget their threatened baptism of fire in the 
 presence of the pretty girl. There was no question, 
 to-day, of her withdrawing from their attentions ; the 
 boys were wildly excited at the prospect of an imme- 
 diate battle, and Ann was softened by a grim real- 
 ization that these skylarking youngsters might be
 
 ADVENTURES 241 
 
 among the ill-fated ten thousand for whom sinister 
 preparations were being made; she would not have 
 snubbed them even if she could have done so, which 
 was doubtful. They swarmed about her, firing eager 
 questions at her, and told one another that she was "a 
 plucky one, all right !" Their very numbers made her 
 at ease with them. 
 
 The train made poor time; often it backed mysteri- 
 ously up the track it had so laborously traversed, while 
 the boys shouted hilariously, "We've changed our 
 minds! We aren't going to fight the Johnnies, after 
 all!" and sometimes it stopped for long intervals, 
 for no apparent reason. When that happened the sol- 
 diers swarmed out along the right of way, shouting 
 and leaping like little boys. One of them brought a 
 stalk of goldenrod back to Ann, and she stuck it in her 
 belt It made a gay note of color on her black weeds. 
 She fidgeted uneasily at each new delay, for she was 
 still afraid of being turned back. Even a trainload of 
 forlorn Rebel prisoners, caught in a raid and rushing 
 northward, did not distract her for long. 
 
 At the Monocacy River, three miles from Frederick 
 City, they came to a final halt. The bridge was un- 
 safe, the train men announced, and every one was 
 hurried off the cars, into the blinding heat of a late 
 June afternoon. Immediately the officers began col- 
 lecting their men in some sort of order; as Ann stood, 
 bewildered, waiting- for events to shape her next move, 
 she saw the advance column march off down the 
 rutted, dusty road. The men walked lightly, almost
 
 242 THE CORTLANDTS 
 
 gaily, and the refrain of a popular song drifted back 
 to her as they went. 
 
 As she stood somewhat forlornly a young captain 
 came hurrying up to her. "Where are you going?" 
 he asked curtly. 
 
 "To Frederick City," Ann replied, turning wide and 
 confident eyes upon him. "I am trying to find Captain 
 Renneslyer. He was with the Fifty-Fifth New York. 
 Do you know where that regiment is?" 
 
 "No, and you can't go wandering around this 
 country. There's likely to be a battle almost any- 
 where, anytime. The best thing you can do is to go 
 back to Baltimore." 
 
 "I wouldn't think of doing that," Ann protested. 
 She disliked this disagreeable young man, and she ran 
 her eyes indifferently over his person, so that he might 
 know it. 
 
 "Sorry," he said, "but back you go. Get right into 
 this train again, the one you came down in. It will 
 be leaving in a few minutes." 
 
 "I won't do anything o'f the kind," Ann declared 
 furiously. 
 
 The officer laughed. "I'm in command here," he 
 reminded her. "It's an order." 
 
 Ann's defiance melted under his confidence. "I 
 don't want to go back," she said querulously. "Not 
 yet." Her plea died as he took her elbow in a firm 
 grasp, and propelled her to the train. She had an 
 uncomfortable idea that if she didn't get on board
 
 ADVENTURES 243 
 
 herself, he would lift her to the platform, so she 
 hastily scrambled up the steps. 
 
 "That's a good girl," the captain said, smiling fatu- 
 ously upon her. "You're too pretty to run any risk 
 of getting shot!" 
 
 To escape further humiliation Ann went into the 
 car, and sat down. She was vehemently angry, but 
 quite impotent. From her window she could see the 
 captain's back, and she scowled at it helplessly. There 
 was no one in sight to whom she might appeal. . . . 
 Presently a covered black wagon drove up to the 
 train, and a crooked old driver climbed laboriously 
 down to open the door in the rear. Ann watched him 
 curiously: there was nothing else for her to do. A 
 bevy of young women swarmed surprisingly out of the 
 wagon; it was incredible that it could have held so 
 many hoop skirts, and so many agitated and fluttering 
 girls. A calm nun followed them, prim and self-con- 
 tained and hot, in her coif and black habit; while 
 her flock boarded the train she stopped to speak to the 
 driver. The girls came trooping into Ann's car, 
 chattering excitedly. Two of them sat down in the 
 seat ahead of her, and turned to smile, in friendly 
 fashion. 
 
 "Where are you all from?" Ann demanded. 
 
 "The Convent School at Emmettsburg. We all live 
 in the North, and the Mother Superior is sending us 
 home just because she thinks there may be a battle 
 around here somewhere. Isn't it mean?"
 
 244 THE CORTLANDTS 
 
 The other girl interrupted eagerly, "There were sol- 
 diers in the convent grounds this morning," she de- 
 clared, round-eyed. "They gave their horses a drink, 
 and the Mother Superior sent milk out to the men." 
 
 "What regiment ?" Ann asked in idle curiosity. 
 
 "The Fifty-Fifth New York." 
 
 Ann shot to her feet "I'm going!" she declared 
 hotly. 
 
 "Going where ?" 
 
 "To find the Fifty-Fifth!" 
 
 "She has a lover in it !" one of the girls whispered 
 tomantically. 
 
 Stooping, Ann reconnoitered. The nun had turned 
 toward the train, and the old driver was beginning to 
 climb to his high seat. The captain's uniformed back 
 was plainly to be seen, two car-lengths away. The 
 engine came suddenly to life, and the long train jerked 
 violently: Ann caught the seat back to avoid being 
 thrown down, and then swung herself into the aisle. 
 . . . At the door she almost ran down the placid 
 nun. ... On the step she halted. The captain 
 was talking with the train conductor, whose gesticula- 
 tions toward the engine kept him facing that way, and 
 the bus was beginning to move off, in a leisurely and 
 inviting fashion. The train made a convulsive start, 
 and Ann leaped to the ground. The door in the end 
 of the departing bus had swung open with the jolt of 
 its first motion ; there was dark sanctuary within. She 
 cast a frantic glance at the unconscious officer, and 
 sprang after it. The horses were barely started ; she
 
 ADVENTURES 245 
 
 caught up easily, and grasping the hand rail in the rear, 
 she bolted into the dusty hot interior of the covered 
 wagon. Immediately she peered out; the train was 
 moving, and the captain had taken off his cap, in salute 
 to it, to her, Ann hoped, grinning. She settled her- 
 self deliberately in the most comfortable corner, and 
 marveled at the ease of her escape. She was delighted 
 to have won in her encounter with the captain; her 
 sense of triumph drowned any doubts she might have 
 had at the wisdom of her course. 
 
 It was a forlorn way they traveled, for the fences 
 had been torn from before the houses, to be used for 
 fuel, and the straggling gardens had been trampled 
 by careless hundreds. The convent bus circled around 
 Frederick City, with its needle points of church spires, 
 and the horses dropped to a walk along a badly worn 
 road that cut a straight swath across the fields; the 
 country rolled off on all sides of the little city, lovely 
 and fruitful, with sharp edged, broad hillsides of 
 golden standing crops. No landscape could have been 
 more peaceful, and it seemed to Ann impossible that 
 it should be the setting of a great and terrible battle. 
 . . . The road meandered pleasantly up and down 
 long hillsides. Through the open door in the back 
 Ann could see the mountains that half-circled the yel- 
 low fields. The range lay massive, and yet strangely 
 delicate, a soft violet color, in the swimming heat 
 haze. Now and then clouds sailing over it swept a 
 downy shadow across its mobile surface, and Ann 
 watched the marvel, entranced. Looking back at the
 
 246 THE CORTLANDTS 
 
 mountains she forgot all about her immediate dis- 
 comfort of heat and dust and hunger; she even found 
 it difficult to remember the urgency of her quest; she 
 wanted only to lose herself in magnificent and im- 
 personal beauty, and she luxuriated in the feeling of 
 unimportance it gave her. . . . She wished that 
 she had some one there with her, close beside her, with 
 whom she might share her joy. . . . Some per- 
 fect companion ; she had no actual visualization, only 
 a sense of un fulfillment. . . . Now and then the 
 ruts in the road jolted her back to her immediate sur- 
 roundings. She ate the gritty dust, and, as the long 
 summer day declined, she felt very tired. ... A 
 blood-red sunset turned the mountains moulten, and un- 
 der it the straw colored standing crops flushed pink. 
 . . . Another night. . . . Ann wondered un- 
 easily what her reception might be at the convent. 
 Suddenly the bus ceased lurching and groaning, and 
 ran smoothly over a good road. Ann looked out ; her 
 unconscious driver had turned in between iron gates, 
 and was taking her down a well-kept driveway. Her 
 view of the mountains was abruptly cut off. She stood 
 up and peered through a tiny peep-hole in the front. 
 All that she could see was the austere black outline of a 
 cross, high against the angry sky. . . . Across her 
 weary mind flashed a confused memory of Densley. 
 . . . He had talked of Catholic churches abroad. 
 . . . Crosses on cathedrals. . . . The driveway 
 swerved, and the peep-hole showed only the thick
 
 ADVENTURES 247 
 
 green of trees. ... In a moment they had ar- 
 rived before a high front stoop, and stopped. 
 
 A woman's voice asked, "Any mail, David?" 
 
 "No, Sister." 
 
 "Did you bring anything back with you?" 
 
 "No, Sister." 
 
 The bus vibrated uneasily, as the tired horses 
 gathered themselves together for a last effort, which 
 should carry them to the barn. Ann knew that the 
 moment of revealment had come, and she reluctantly 
 poked her abashed face out of the door. "Yes, he 
 did," she said falteringly. "He brought me." 
 
 The old driver got down off his seat with amazing 
 alacrity, and ran around to the rear of the bus. "Great 
 God Jehovah!" he murmured piously, when his eyes 
 fell on Ann. 
 
 On the top of the high steps was a pretty nun; 
 under her white coif her face looked extraordinarily 
 young and childlike. Her eyes met Ann's with an 
 unmistakable sparkle of amusement. "Did you get 
 in without David's knowing it?" she demanded. 
 
 Ann nodded, and ran up the steps. "I had to come," 
 she said, "I am looking for an officer, Captain Ren- 
 neslyer." 
 
 The nun nodded in her turn. "Come in," she said, 
 slipping her arm through the newcomer's, "and tell 
 the Mother Superior all about it." 
 
 Ann's heart sank, but when she was face to face 
 with the wise and kindly head of the convent school
 
 248 THE CORTLANDTS 
 
 she found little difficulty in telling her story, and she 
 thankfully agreed to stop for the night. She occupied 
 one of the scholar's empty cubicles, and the gay little 
 Sister brought her supper on a tray, chatting with her 
 while she ate it. She was full of the excitement of 
 soldiers in the convent close, but she knew nothing 
 of the personnel of the troops. 
 
 Ann slept for twelve hours, lost to the world and 
 her plight. When she awoke she glanced bewilderedly 
 about the white room where she lay. A girl sat look- 
 ing at her, very grave and silent. 
 
 "Oh," Ann said, after a moment's stare. "I re- 
 member." 
 
 "You came in here last night, dead beat." 
 
 "You're not a nun, are you?" 
 
 "No, but I reckon I'll likely be one. . . . I'm 
 just a boarding scholar here. . . . You know the 
 Sisters had a school, but they have sent all the girls 
 home who could get there. ... I live in Mis- 
 issippi. I've never heard from my folks in six months, 
 and so I'm here. That's all." 
 
 Ann stretched out a sympathetic hand. She could 
 not have believed it possible to have so complete a 
 sense of kinship with a Rebel. "I'm sorry!" she 
 murmured impotently. 
 
 The girl laughed harshly, and paid no attention to 
 the friendly hand. "You're a Federal, that's \vhat 
 you are! I don't want your pity! We'll beat you 
 yet!" All at once she crumpled up beside the bed in a 
 flood of tears; Ann had never seen any one cry so
 
 ADVENTURES 249 
 
 hard ; she felt her hand taken in a fierce grip. "Oh," 
 gasped the stranger, "I don't half know what I'm say- 
 ing ! I've got a lover. He is in the fighting, of Course. 
 And I never hear, not a word, ever!" 
 
 Ann murmured ineffectual comfortings; she envied 
 this girl the genuine passion of her grief. When she 
 had thought Hendricks lost, she had been unable to 
 feel like that. ... "I am looking for a soldier," 
 she announced. "That is why I am here." 
 
 "There were Federal troops here yesterday, the 
 Fifty-Fifth New York." 
 
 "I know. Did you see, or hear anything of, Cap- 
 tain Renneslyer?" 
 
 The girl shook her head. "No. I didn't go down." 
 
 There came a sharp knock on the door, and the 
 pretty nun thrust her face into the crack. "Good 
 morning," she said. "Do you know anything about 
 bandage making? And scraping lint?" 
 
 "Do I? I did nothing else for six months!" 
 
 "Then dress quickly, and come down. The battle 
 will be right here in Emmetsburg! General Hooker is 
 concentrating all his army here, the grocer's boy said 
 so! And every one knows that Lee holds the moun- 
 tain passes: the Confederates are just pouring down 
 every road. Listen !" 
 
 The girls did so. Ann was immediately conscious 
 of a dull rumbling sound, distant and continuous. 
 "What is it?" 
 
 "Federal cannon on the corduroy road. They have 
 been going by for an hour now. The Mother Supe-
 
 250 THE CORTLANDTS' 
 
 rior says that the convent will undoubtedly be used for 
 a hospital! Think of it! And we have no dressings. 
 All the Sisters are gathered in the refectory, cutting 
 the linen into strips. . . . Come quickly, and 
 show us howl" 
 
 Ann's intention had been to start very early in the 
 morning, but she could not refuse this urgent request. 
 For hours she showed the panicky nuns how to scrape 
 lint and roll bandages. She wondered what sort of 
 nursing the wounded men would get if they should 
 be carried into the convent. She was eager to be 
 gone, for she knew that she could never bring herself 
 to leave, once the place was really turned into a hospi- 
 tal, but the Mother Superior was quite firm in forbid- 
 ding any such thing. "You must stay here, my daugh- 
 ter, as long as the convent is tenable," she said 
 smoothly. "It may be that we shall all be driven out. 
 Your troops are mounting cannon in our peach 
 orchard." 
 
 Soldiers in blue swarmed all over the convent 
 grounds. They came from Michigan ; they were back- 
 woodsmen, friendly and noisy, and the nuns retired 
 before them to gather in the cupola, where they might 
 peep down unmolested. It seemed quite likely that this 
 spot might prove the center of a battle, and Ann's 
 nerves tingled at the thought. She looked at the mys- 
 terious mountains without a trace of her previous 
 enchantment, for down their dark defiles enemy sol- 
 diers were marching, sinister and dangerous. 
 
 Before supper the Mother Superior called together
 
 ADVENTURES 251 
 
 the half-dozen southern girls who remained in the 
 school. "I have decided to send you north, my daugh- 
 ters," she announced, "and Miss Byrne, too. I can 
 not take the responsibility of keeping you here." 
 
 The girls looked at one another with white and 
 recalcitrant faces, but only Ann ventured to protest. 
 "We can never get through to Frederick City, with 
 our artillery coming up the pike.'* 
 
 The Mother Superior smiled. "At ten o'clock every 
 morning a train leaves Gettysburg for the North, 
 and I have advices that the road is passable in that 
 direction. . . . You can all be accommodated in 
 the convent at Harrisburg until you have had time to 
 communicate with your families. You, too, Miss 
 Byrne. I can not take the responsibility of having 
 you remain here." 
 
 The idea of leaving Emmettburg, where a great bat- 
 tle was about to be fought, and going to an unheard- 
 of little junction like Gettysburg, was almost more than 
 Ann could bear. She longed for the courage to refuse 
 to be disposed of in so high-handed a fashion, but 
 there was a certain definiteness about the Mother Supe- 
 rior, and, immediately after breakfast, she allowed 
 herself to be packed, together with seven other girls, 
 into the convent bus. 
 
 She had been right, the road was blocked, but old 
 David drove them by mysterious by-ways across the 
 fields, and did not turn into the pike until he was well 
 ahead of the crowd, and had only mounted officers, and 
 now and then, an advance group of Buford's cavalry-
 
 252 THE CORTLANDTS 
 
 men, to contend with. Looking back, Ann could fol- 
 low the slow progression of the artillery by the cloud 
 of yellow dust that hung over it. The horses made 
 better time than they had done the day before, and the 
 girls were thrown against one another, as the bus 
 bumped over the rough corduroy road. The six south- 
 erners were delighted at the idea of going to Gettys- 
 burg, for a passing officer told them that he had heard 
 the place was in the possession of the Confederate 
 cavalry. Ann's pensive friend of the morning before 
 was radiant. "Now you'll see what real soldiers look 
 like," she told Ann, wrinkling her little nose at a 
 company of men in blue uniforms, plodding along in 
 the dust of their wake. 
 
 There was nothing for Ann to say; she hated the 
 thought of entering a conquered Pennsylvania town 
 with a bevy of Rebel girls, and her impatience at being 
 coerced rose high. She wanted to get out of the con- 
 vent bus, and join the blue-clad army, her army, 
 and her old regret at being a girl again overwhelmed 
 her. 
 
 About five miles out of town they left the Union 
 troops behind them. The road seemed all at once 
 amazingly tranquil and rural, with the convent bus 
 all alone on it. 
 
 Gettysburg was strangely quiet as they drove into 
 it There were no children playing in the streets, and 
 the square in the center of the town was deserted. 
 There were no soldiers to be seen, either; it was like 
 a place under a spell. At the station they found the
 
 ADVENTURES 253 
 
 Harrisburg train waiting to start, but no one could 
 say when. The nun in charge of the young women 
 decided to take them aboard, and there await events. 
 The cars were partly filled with refugees, little fam- 
 ily groups of men, women, children, and household 
 goods. Every one was talking excitedly of the possi- 
 bility of Ewell's cavalry holding the train up. The 
 girls took their seats unwillingly; they were anxious 
 to get a glimpse of a gray uniform, and they sulked 
 before their guardian Sister's face, and complained 
 behind her back. Ann hated them, and, rather than 
 talk to them, she made friends with a woman across 
 the aisle and listened to her tale of having seen a 
 Union soldier shot. 
 
 "It was right at the west end of Chambersburg 
 Street the day before yesterday," she said. "He 
 lay with his arms stretched out, and his face up to the 
 sun. ... It was awful hot. ... I hated to 
 see him lying there, and as soon as the Rebs went off 
 down the street, I ran out and dragged him into the 
 shade. He was dead, and he was Bert West. I'd 
 known him all his life. He volunteered in the Gettys- 
 burg cavalry, when Lee's men began to raid around 
 here." 
 
 Ann could see that the southern girls considered 
 this death an achievement. She felt that she could 
 not endure the brief time with them until the train 
 reached Harrisburg. 
 
 All at once the nun remembered that she had not 
 bought the tickets, and arose in a great flurry to get
 
 254 THE CORTLANDTS 
 
 them. Ann, observing her jailer's panicky rush to the 
 station, smiled grimly. All at once she was filled with 
 a sense of security; she rose tranquilly and strolled 
 to the rear door of the car. The girls, hating the 
 northerner, allowed her to go in silence, and she walked 
 calmly down the steps and across the platform. The 
 main street lay before her, hot and empty, and she 
 marched briskly off down it. It was as simple as that ; 
 no one noticed her departure; there was not so much 
 as an exclamation over it
 
 CHAPTER XX 
 
 GETTYSBURG 
 
 ANN found shelter in a little house on Chambers- 
 burg Street : she felt sure that it must be respectable 
 because it stood next door to a righteous-appearing 
 Lutheran Church, and she liked the look of the place 
 besides. There were red geraniums in the front yard 
 and a heavy green vine over the door. She liked its 
 hostess also. She had found her trimming the gera- 
 niums with an extraordinary placidity, in view of the 
 fact that there were said to be enemy soldiers in 
 Gettysburg. She welcomed a lodger whose resentment 
 over this fact was as high as her own, and Ann gath- 
 ered that her attention to her flower-beds was merely a 
 contemptuous gesture. 
 
 "The people over there," she said, pointing across 
 the street, "are Secessionists." 
 
 She took Ann into her stuffy little house and brought 
 her cold water from the pump in the back yard. When 
 the girl had washed away the dust of her journey, the 
 two settled down in the stifling parlor to talk, and 
 to watch from behind the Nottingham curtains for a 
 glimpse of Rebel soldiers. The little town remained 
 ominously silent: Ann could plainly hear the clamor 
 of the train to Harrisburg, when it finally started. It 
 was louder than anything else except the persistent 
 squeak of her hostess* rocker. 
 
 255
 
 256 THE CORTLANDTS 
 
 A little boy came running down the street shouting, 
 and as he came near they could hear that he was 
 calling: "The Rebs are coming!" Ann ran out into 
 the front yard to question him. 
 
 "There's a whole brigade with wagons; they're 
 after clothing and shoes. That's all I know ! Lemme 
 go on !" 
 
 The two women hastened to lock up the house ; dis- 
 regarding the stifling heat, they even closed the win- 
 dows and fastened the plugs in the frames. 
 
 "Shoes and clothing!" snorted the hostess. "If I 
 had my way the whole Confederate Army would go 
 barefoot and naked !" 
 
 Suddenly into the stillness of the house broke clamor- 
 ous sounds, shouts and the thunder of horses' feet. 
 
 "That's from the Emmetsburg Pike, it must be our 
 men !" 
 
 "It's Buford's Cavalry, it must be!" 
 
 They opened the door and the noise came louder. 
 It was infinitely reassuring. As they watched, the end 
 of the street was filled with a great cloud of dust, 
 and suddenly a front rank of cavalry broke through 
 it, and bulked huge and black against it. The men 
 thundered down the street four abreast, followed rank 
 on rank by their fellows. They sat their horses 
 jauntily and their blue caps were rakishly set. Women 
 waved their handkerchiefs to them as they passed by, 
 and the soldiers called out greetings, and laughed as 
 they rode to the attack. In five minutes they were
 
 GETTYSBURG 257 
 
 gone; in half an hour they came loafing back, gay 
 with triumph. 
 
 "We drove 'em out all right !" a blond Swede from 
 Illinois told Ann, as he stopped to drink the water she 
 offered him. "They ran all the way to the creek. 
 They were in a good position there ; we weren't strong 
 enough to attack 'em." 
 
 "Where are you going now?" 
 
 "We are ordered to camp on the ridge by the semi- 
 nary on the other side of town, but we are placing 
 vedettes on all the roads. They say General Reynolds 
 has been ordered to occupy the town : looks as if this 
 is the place all right. It's a pity you ladies aren't safe 
 away." 
 
 Ann laughed. "I can nurse," she said. "If there 
 is going to be a battle I can be useful." 
 
 "Why don't you report to the Medical Corps ? They 
 have taken over the seminary building for a hospital. 
 It's likely we'll need a big place like that before we get 
 through around here. Why don't you follow along 
 after us? We've a lot of sunstroke cases already." 
 
 Into Ann's mind rushed the tales she had heard of 
 field hospitals and the atrocious care men received in 
 them, care vastly different from the well equipped 
 wards in which she had worked. She reflected that 
 the Sanitary Commission would be along presently; 
 she might take charge, for a day or two, and show 
 them how to run a hospital. Her uncle would be proud 
 of her when he heard her story.
 
 258 THE CORTLANDTS 
 
 "I am going," she said to her hostess. "I have 
 worked for a year and a half in hospitals in New 
 York." 
 
 The woman smiled at her anxiously. "Reckon you 
 belong there, then," she said reluctantly, "but I kind 
 of hate to see you go off like this." 
 
 Her dubious glance followed Ann down the street 
 and gave the girl a warm sense of being looked after. 
 She thought that she would always remember this kind 
 friend bound to her by such exciting events. It was 
 not until she had crossed the town that it struck her 
 she did not know her hostess' name. 
 
 There was great confusion at the seminary, which 
 was being transformed from a school into a hospital 
 with a speed in which, it seemed to Ann, there was 
 a sort of panic. The sunstroke cases were all on the 
 top floor, close under the hot roof, where the beds 
 the students had left were ready for them. As she 
 passed through the intervening floors in her search 
 for the doctor in charge, it became evident to her that 
 the Union officers expected vast casualties and were 
 making grim preparations to care for them, but she 
 found the doctor rather indifferent to her proffered 
 assistance. He had, he said, half a dozen men nurses, 
 whom he had picked up in Gettysburg, and Ann's de- 
 lightful dream of running a hospital single-handed 
 until her friends of the Sanitary Commission arrived, 
 was shattered on the spot. Instead she set humbly to 
 work bringing cold water to the patients, and fanning 
 them as they lay exhausted. No one of them was
 
 GETTYSBURG 259 
 
 alarmingly ill, and as the darkness settled down they all 
 went to sleep. There was nothing for Ann to do, 
 and if she had known the name of her friend in town, 
 or even the street on which she lived, she would have 
 returned there for the night, but as she did not, she 
 found instead an empty room in the seminary, and 
 locked herself into it. 
 
 The seminary yard was crowded with troops; the 
 men lay about on the grass laughing and talking, so 
 Ann kept her curtains drawn until she blew out her 
 candle. Her window faced the mountains, and when 
 jhe threw it open she gasped in amazement. The 
 tiight was velvet black and the stars in the sky were 
 'iot shining dots; Ann could follow the outline of the 
 mountain range only where it cut arbitrarily against 
 them. The long swelling slope was invisible, but on 
 it were myriads of points of light, bright and hot like 
 the stars, only nearer and more flickering. They were 
 the camp-fires of the enemy, and as she looked at them 
 Ann thrilled with a sensation that was as much antici- 
 pation as fear. 
 
 The next morning the girl was awakened by picket 
 firing down the pike. She sprang up, dazed, and for 
 a moment glared about her wildly at her strange room. 
 There were no more volleys, but down in the yard be- 
 neath her window there was a great turmoil. Peering 
 out she saw that a wagon had been backed up to the 
 main door and that two or three men were being 
 taken from it on improvised stretchers. She flung on 
 her clothes and ran down to find that a group of
 
 2<5o THE CORTLANDTS 
 
 wounded pickets, the first casualties of the fight in a 
 railroad cut not far from the seminary, lay in one of 
 the recently cleared lower rooms. There were no 
 cots for them, and it was a fortunate man who had 
 a blanket between him and the floor. As Ann paused 
 in the doorway, her glance fell on the back of a 
 rough brown head that seemed to her extraordinarily 
 like Hendricks'. Her heart beat quickly as she stooped 
 to look. It was not he, but her fancy that he might 
 be there persisted and she scrutinized each man 
 anxiously. It seemed to her much more likely that he 
 should turn up here among the wounded, than that he 
 should have died on some other battle-field. 
 
 The doctor in charge of the hospital had little use 
 for women nurses, and he detailed Ann to work very 
 much like that which she had done in New York. In 
 the midst of the excitement of battle she sat down, 
 with her little professional air of sufficiency, and took 
 letters at the patients' dictation. She had never before 
 seen casualties in so forlorn a condition as these, 
 straight from battle, with their uniforms all torn and 
 bloody, and with dirt ground into their wounds. The 
 numbers alarmed her, too, yet more men were being 
 brought in continually; it seemed to her impossible to 
 win, when suffering such losses, and she became hor- 
 ribly depressed. At nine o'clock a report reached the 
 hospital that General Reynolds had arrived in Gettys- 
 burg in advance of the first corps, and that he had 
 mounted a fresh horse and galloped out past the sem- 
 inary to the front. Some soldiers reported they had
 
 GETTYSBURG 261 
 
 seen him, surrounded by a half-dozen aides. The hos- 
 pital corps felt the stimulus of this good news at once; 
 even Ann was certain that the horrid tide of wounded 
 would ebb with the arrival of the popular Union 
 leader. She had by this time stopped writing letters 
 to relatives at home, and was engaged in cutting- the 
 uniforms from horribly mangled men; the regular 
 nurses were unable to cope with the wounded, and 
 she was welcome to do what she could. She worked 
 feverishly, with entire preoccupation in her task, but 
 no matter how quick she was, she made little head- 
 way, and long lines of men lay on the floors without 
 any attention. Some of them moaned for water, and 
 others screamed horribly from the pain of their 
 wounds. 
 
 All around the seminary the battle raged, but Ann 
 had no time to wonder where the victory lay. She 
 was not certain which army had possession of the town, 
 but she knew that the ground in the front and about 
 the seminary building was held by Union troops. 
 There was great activity among them, and off to the 
 right a constant deafening sound of artillery. The 
 nearer guns had been placed in a grove; only the 
 smoke from them oozing through the tree-tops, white 
 and thin in the dead air, betrayed where they were 
 placed. The righting was so near now that often the 
 wounded came in without stretchers; they crawled 
 back from the front by themselves, or were roughly 
 helped by a less seriously hurt companion. 
 
 Ann did not know what time it was when the de-
 
 262 THE CORTLANDTS 
 
 vastating news came that General Reynolds had been 
 killed, but after that she worked grimly on, without 
 hope of a victorious issue from the fighting. The clay 
 seemed as long as an ordinary week ; she was conscious 
 of no sensation of hunger, and she forgot all about 
 lunch, but when some one brought her food she gulped 
 it down and was miraculously invigorated by it. It 
 was stiflingly hot in the seminary building, adding the 
 last touch of torture to the sufferings of the men. 
 
 By one o'clock the rooms on the lower floor were 
 so crowded with wounded that it was with difficulty 
 Ann could move about among them, and by two the 
 store of supplies which in the morning had seemed 
 to her adequate for any demand, had almost dwindled 
 to nothing. Even water was so scarce that she was 
 forced to be niggardly with it; and at best it was 
 only lukewarm stuff which her feverish patients scorned 
 while they clamored for it. Men lay for hours with 
 their wounds undressed, their lives ebbing away with 
 the seeping blood that stained their blue uniforms. 
 At three o'clock the last of the scraped lint was used 
 and an hour later every sheet and towel in the place 
 had been torn into strips to staunch wounds. Across 
 the yard to the south was a smaller building, and Ann 
 decided to search there for linen. When she opened 
 the door she faced a great gust of afternoon heat. 
 Her bonnet with its black veil lay where she had hung 
 it the night before, on a hook by the door, so she put it 
 on, as a protection from the fierce sun. The crape
 
 GETTYSBURG 263 
 
 brought Hendricks suddenly to her mind. It now 
 seemed to her highly probable that he was dead. The 
 extraordinary thing was, she thought, that any soldier 
 could live through any battle. She paused for a 
 moment on the step ; the yard below her was crowded 
 with excited violent men, and off to the right she could 
 see that the regiments holding the grove of trees had 
 been swept back to the ridge just in front of the 
 seminary. The reports of their carbines came very 
 loud. She plunged down into the whirlpool below her 
 and was flung back and forth, impotently. There was 
 much incoherent shouting, and suddenly, while she 
 looked, a band of men in blue uniforms swept over the 
 crest of the hill, almost upon her. Close on their heels 
 were men in gray. The Union leader held a flag 
 high over his head; the clear red and white colors 
 caught the sun beautifully. The men were in a panic 
 of retreat. As she looked one of them paused, brought 
 his rifle to his shoulder and sent a shot back in the 
 direction from which he had come, but having done so, 
 he hurried on after his fellows. They bore down on 
 Ann with an irresistible force, and she found herself 
 carried along with them until they all brought up 
 against the seminary fence on the other side of the 
 knoll. There they paused for a moment, breathing 
 hard, and Ann demanded spiritedly to be allowed to 
 go back to the hospital. A clamor of opposition arose 
 at the suggestion, and a young lieutenant appeared out 
 of the confusion.
 
 264 THE CORTLANDTS 
 
 "You can't go back," he said briefly. "The enemy 
 will have this hill inside half an hour. You must 
 come along with us." 
 
 It was in vain the girl pleaded her duties : the officer 
 was firm in his decision that she should not fall into 
 the hands of the enemy. Two soldiers lifted her over 
 the crisscross log fence, and, once on the other side, 
 the spirit of flight took possession of her, too, and she 
 hurried breathlessly along with her rescuers. They 
 were, she supposed, going back to the town, but as 
 she came down from the hill where the seminary 
 stood, she found that she had lost her sense of direc- 
 tion; she could not tell where she was going; she 
 could only follow blindly. She was in a world of 
 horrible confusion. ... A sudden pandemonium 
 of noise burst about her. . . . Stunning reports 
 that made her ears ring came too quickly upon one 
 another to distinguish the separate detonations, and 
 from a near-by knoll a rapid series of white puffs rose 
 gallantly against the shimmering blue of the mid-sum- 
 mer sky. . . . About her now the ground was 
 strewn untidily with haversacks, scraps of paper, can- 
 teens, cartridge boxes, and here and there portions of 
 loaves of bread. ... It was like a ghastly, de- 
 serted, picnic ground, except for heaps of huddled 
 figures, some of which stirred, impotently. 
 
 They bore on toward the town, although no one 
 seemed to know why. Rumors that the enemy already 
 held it shook the retreating troops. They were able 
 to make an entrance, however, and Ann found the
 
 GETTYSBURG 265 
 
 commonplace, homely streets inexpressibly heartening. 
 She thought that she would try to find her friend of 
 the night before, but she was too tired and too con- 
 fused to be coherent about it, and she allowed herself 
 to be swept along with the group of men who had 
 taken charge of her since she left the seminary. Unex- 
 pectedly, at an angle in the village street, they came 
 upon trouble. A band of Union men were lined up 
 across the pavement, their carbines at their shoulders. 
 They were arrestingly menacing, so Ann shrank into 
 a convenient doorway to watch them, just as the shat- 
 tering crash of their first volley awoke the echoes 
 along the house-fronts, and rattled the glass panes in 
 the windows behind her. All at once she found herself 
 alone, and suddenly she became terrified. She tried 
 to open the door against which she cowered, but it 
 was locked; she beat upon it fruitlessly, but no one 
 paid any attention to her. Her clenched fists were 
 bruised, but she continued to pound .the solid panel. 
 Obedient to an order the men before her knelt, their 
 carbines at their shoulders. At the ring of the officer's 
 voice, Ann swung around; above the men towered a 
 commanding figure; she looked, and swept her fingers 
 over her eyes, and looked again. Fear dropped away 
 before her incredulity. She could not believe her 
 eyes, but it was Hendricks, there was no doubt about 
 it, and she laughed aloud in crazy relief. As she 
 plunged toward him she could hear his voice braying 
 out an infuriated command. He turned as she came, 
 and fell back in stupefied amazement. It seemed to
 
 266 THE CORTLANDTS 
 
 her a long moment before recognition came into his 
 dum founded face. 
 
 "Ann!" he gasped at length. "Good God Ann!" 
 
 As for Ann, foolish tears were pouring down her 
 cheeks, and she could only nod, with a forced and 
 trembling smile. 
 
 Hendricks shifted his revolver to his left hand, and 
 shook her violently with his right. "What in hell 
 are you doing here ?" he demanded urgently. 
 
 His hand on her arm hurt, and Ann gulped down 
 her tears, and pulled back. "Oh, Hendricks, you aren't 
 dead, after all 1" she said incoherently. 
 
 He towered above her in furious question. "What 
 are you doing here?" he repeated, as he turned to 
 shake a clenched fist in the direction of the invisible 
 enemy. "What in God's name are you here for ?" 
 
 "You are not dead!" Ann repeated stupidly, and 
 added, with a flash of joyous self-revelation, "I'm 
 glad !" Self-respect came back to her, and clothed her 
 gloriously. 
 
 "You can't stay here," Hendricks was shouting. 
 He whirled her back under her portico. "It's no 
 place for a young lady, can't you see that? Why 
 didn't you stay in New York? Why don't you stay 
 with the Sanitary Commission? Why do you have to 
 follow me?" His voice rose and broke in a childish 
 crescendo of rage. "What'll I do with you now, in 
 God's name, with the Rebs taking the town ?" 
 
 "I'm all right," Ann protested unconvincingly, "now 
 that I've seen you."
 
 GETTYSBURG 267 
 
 "All right?" he echoed. He took off his cap and 
 flung it violently on the ground. "You've got to get 
 away ! You've got to make the Baltimore Pike, where 
 our people are coming up. I can't go with you! I 
 can't leave here!" He turned his attention momen- 
 tarily to his command, and roared a direction to the 
 men to fire "Lower! Lower!" Ann looked at him 
 attentively; his face had hardened into sterner lines, 
 and his nlbuth was firm set. She was extraordinarily 
 proud of him ; looking at him, she was animated by a 
 sensation of the sweetest affection, the most soft 
 sisterliness. He seized the thick hair on his forehead 
 and pulled it violently. 
 
 Some one came up to them, in the momentary isola- 
 tion of their interview, and Ann turned to see a slim 
 young man, whose trim figure, in the midst of the 
 battle grime, gave her a swift impression of elegance. 
 He saluted Hendricks, and said, "Is there anything I 
 can do? Your wife, it would give me pleasure to 
 conduct her to the rear." His English was tinged 
 with a faint alien accent, Ann thought, and the vivacity 
 of his brown eyes caught her attention even in that 
 crowded moment. 
 
 "Well, take her, then," Hendricks answered un- 
 graciously. "Some one must look after her ! Find our 
 army, Baltimore Pike. She can go through to the 
 rear. Go on, Ann. In God's name don't stand there ! 
 Go on !" 
 
 As she moved uncertainly forward, he leaped to- 
 ward his command and demanded of them whether
 
 268 THE CORTLANDTS 
 
 they were out bird-shooting. If that was why they 
 were aiming so high? 
 
 The stranger put out his hand, and pulled Ann 
 toward him. "Pardon," he murmured with amazing 
 conventionality. "It is well to make haste." He pushed 
 his arm through hers, and hurried her back down the 
 street, empty, under the enemy's fire. Now and then 
 a shattered pane of glass fell with a silver tinkle like 
 a shaken bell, curiously distinct through the heavier 
 crash of musketry. As they ran, Hendricks came 
 plunging after them. 
 
 "Ann!" he shouted. "Ann, who are you wearing 
 that mourning for ? Uncle ?" 
 
 "No," Ann called back. "For you !" And her last 
 glimpse of him showed him bursting from a haze of 
 bewilderment back into action.
 
 CHAPTER XXI 
 
 OVER NIGHT 
 
 AFTERWARD Ann could not have said how they 
 found their way out of the panic-stricken town of 
 Gettysburg. She had only confused memories of be- 
 ing pulled out of the road while groups of soldiers 
 charged past, of lurking under protecting porticos, of 
 dodging around houses, and in and out of back yards. 
 Once they almost tumbled over a pile of men lying 
 dead at a corner, and after that the girl concentrated 
 her attention on searching the ground before her, lest 
 she should stumble on some dying soldier; she could 
 almost feel the sickly softness of his body, as she fled. 
 She would have said that this nightmare went on for 
 hours, but when at last they won free of the settlement 
 the sunlight still lay in long tranquil lanes across the 
 fields, so she knew it could not have taken a very 
 long time, after all. 
 
 "Baltimore?" her escort murmured vaguely. "It 
 is where?" 
 
 "It doesn't make any difference where we go," Ann 
 urged him; "just so we get away from this horrible 
 town." 
 
 The farther fields were strangely empty and peace- 
 ful, in the golden light. Cattle grazed contentedly 
 there, unmindful of an occasional riderless horse that 
 wandered among them, with a dragging rein. Near at 
 
 269
 
 270 THE CORTLANDTS 
 
 hand small bands of men were running about; it *vas 
 hard to believe them anything but aimless. Fugitives 
 passed them in compact groups, or strung along singly. 
 Now and then two or three, fleeter than the rest, 
 seemed, in the midst of the confusion, to be competing 
 in a private foot race; oblivious and concentrated, 
 they shot past, breathing hard in the blazing late 
 afternoon. 
 
 To avoid them Ann and her escort bore to the left, 
 and came upon a road that led up to the hilltops beyond 
 the town; Union artillery was moving along it, and 
 the two fell in behind one of the six-mule wagons. 
 They made good progress ; in no time at all the village 
 was well behind them, while ahead was a peaceful 
 country cemetery, where Union troops were feverishly 
 tearing up the gravestones, and mounting guns upon 
 commanding positions. 
 
 Ann's protector was halted twice, but he produced 
 mysterious papers which cleared their way, and soon 
 they were free of the actual battle. A long straight 
 road stretched before them, crowded with incoming 
 Union troops; a heavy white dust rose over it, and 
 caught the mellow sunlight. It was the Baltimore 
 Pike. Ann paused, unwilling, but firm. 
 
 "You must go back," she cried, "back to your regi- 
 ment f" 
 
 "And you?" 
 
 "I shall be all right." She managed to smile, 
 shakily. 
 
 He looked at her with singularly intent brown eyes.
 
 OVER NIGHT 271 
 
 "I have no regiment. ... I am not even Ameri- 
 can. . . . Come, it is late," he added urgently. 
 "We must find your Sanitary Commission before the. 
 night. It should come up this road, from Washing- 
 ion." They plunged on, making the best time they 
 might, over ground deeply cut by the heavy artillery 
 wagons and congested with the traffic of the battle. 
 
 Officers with little knots of aides about them gal- 
 loped by, in a frantic hurry, and a column of cavalry, 
 carbines across their saddles, came near riding them 
 down. The men were flogging their blown horses 
 mercilessly, and they called out questions about the 
 day's battle. Ann's protector pulled her into the road- 
 side hedge to allow them to pass; the moment's rest 
 was like a tonic to the exhausted girl. After that the 
 two fugitives took to the fields, and gradually, as they 
 walked on, the firing became more impersonal. It was 
 very bad footing. Ann's skirts caught continually on 
 the stubble, and after a few minutes of this, when 
 stooping to loosen an entangled fold, she was con- 
 scious of feeling alarmingly dizzy. In the fields they 
 found other refugees from the battle. There were 
 men trying to find a short-cut to their regiments, men 
 looking for food, for water, or for a place in which to 
 die. Countless numbers of wounded had wandered 
 away from the fighting, but Ann no longer took in their 
 sufferings, and once she drank greedily from an aban- 
 doned canteen; the lukewarm water was inexpressibly 
 precious. . . . She was only half-conscious that 
 her elbow was being held in a close grasp, but now
 
 272 THE CORTLANDTS 
 
 and then, when her companion spoke to her, it seemed 
 to her that she was a long time in answering him. 
 
 When the world was filled with a red sunset glow 
 Ann's escort caught the rein of a wandering horse 
 that blundered against them, and with an encouraging 
 word to the girl, swung himself into the big cavalry 
 saddle. When he repeated what he had said, and 
 Ann understood that he wished her to climb up behind 
 him on the horse that loomed so high above her, she 
 shook her head childishly. 
 
 "I couldn't do that," she said decidedly, and she 
 looked longingly at the ground at her feet. It was 
 covered with little sharp stones, and she drooped, dis- 
 couraged. "I'd rather stay here," she murmured. 
 
 Her companion reached down, and shook her shoul- 
 ders sharply. "Come up at once," he said. His black 
 eyes glared at her ferociously ; he caught her arm, and 
 began pulling her toward him. 
 
 She never remembered just how she finally man- 
 aged to climb up. She had an indistinct recollection 
 of some confused argument about it, and of the un- 
 explained presence of a soldier, his head roughly tied 
 in a grimy bandage, who lifted her from below, to an 
 accompaniment of rough endearments, while her com- 
 panion dragged at her from above, but it all merged 
 mistily into the time that followed, when she sat ba^ 
 anced on the horse's wide back, her arms about a 
 stranger's neck, and her cheek against his shoulder 
 chafed by his rough uniform. . . . She gathered 
 that they were lost, but it did not seem important.
 
 OVER NIGHT 273 
 
 . . . With the angry red sunset, the firing reluct- 
 antly ceased, but for a time the twilight was hideously 
 peopled with voices ; it was not until they had for some 
 time traveled up a dark black lane, that they left every- 
 thing behind them. Ann had fallen asleep, her head 
 on the foreigner's shoulder, and he had turned in the 
 saddle to slip one arm about her yielding body, when 
 the horse stumbled heavily over some trifling obstacle 
 and he lurched unsteadily. 
 
 Ann roused herself unwillingly. "Where are we?" 
 The stranger shrugged, in the darkness. "Who 
 knows? The question is, are you exhausted?" 
 
 Ann did not answer, but it was, indubitably, the 
 question ; she was almost at the end of her strength. 
 
 A little farther on they came to a clearing on the 
 roadside, where the darkness was less enveloping. The 
 horse stopped, wistfully, and stretching out his nose, 
 he neighed. A startlingly quick answer came from 
 the gloom; there was a burst of raucous barking, and 
 the sound of a chain resisting the rushes of a dog. 
 "It must be that there is a house. Shall we see?" 
 Ann slipped down; she was so stiff that for a 
 moment she could scarcely stand, and she clung to the 
 stirrup leather helplessly. She wanted to go with her 
 protector when he left her to explore, for she was more 
 afraid of the dark than she had been of the Confeder- 
 ate guns ; while she waited she had hard work to fight 
 down her nervous terrors, and when her friend came 
 groping back through the gloom, and touched her 
 unexpectedly with his outstretched hand, it was with
 
 274 THE CORTLANDTS 
 
 difficulty that she stifled an impulse to scream. In- 
 stead, she seized his arm and held to it convulsively. 
 
 "It is all very well," he was saying reassuringly. 
 "It is a house, and a fire that we may yet save, but 
 the people have left. It must be because of the bat- 
 tle." He looked at her with great gravity, "Will you 
 come ?" 
 
 "Come?" echoed Ann, bewildered. There seemed 
 to be nothing else for her to do, but she hung back, 
 with a flashing thought of her guardian. "You mean 
 stay there, with you?" 
 
 "We have no choice. We are lost, you know, 
 and in this darkness it is impossible to find the road. 
 I know not but we may ride into the Rebel lines." 
 
 "But, is there nothing else to do ?" 
 
 "What? I ask you." 
 
 "I can't think of anything!" she said miserably. 
 "And I am monstrously tired !" 
 
 The house was very small and mean, but there was 
 a dwindling fire, and a pile of kindling beside it; in 
 a moment a blaze sprang up, and filled the room with 
 dancing light. . . . The young officer brought 
 bedding from an inner room, and, arranging it at a 
 comfortable distance from the fire, he insisted upon 
 seating Ann ceremoniously before he went to unsaddle 
 the horse. She sat upright on the soft heap for a mo- 
 ment, her body slim and straight as a pipe stem above 
 the great mound of her skirt, but she felt deliciously 
 drowsy, and the pile of rough blankets was very com- 
 fortable. She told herself primly that it would not do
 
 OVER NIGHT 275 
 
 to doze, but her escort did not return. ... It 
 seemed a long time. ... In a vague distance she 
 could hear him speaking comforting words to the agi- 
 tated dog. . . . She slipped down lazily upon the 
 blankets, murmuring that she must keep awake, then 
 roused herself for a moment, and wondered about her 
 hoops, i f they were, perhaps, showing too much white 
 stocking, and she pushed them down pettishly before 
 she slumped over again, helpless with sleep. . . . 
 She was indefinitely aware of her companion's re- 
 turn, and of his arranging something to shield her from 
 the heat of the fire. 
 
 She awoke reluctantly in the morning. . . . 
 She was stiff from her exertions of the day before, 
 and stupid from deep sleep; she stretched her sinuous 
 body luxuriously and smiled at the antics of her hoops. 
 Her first definite consciousness was the sound of rain 
 on the roof ; as she lay listening to it the strangeness 
 of her surroundings suddenly came home to her, and 
 she sat up, startled into complete wakefulness. For 
 a moment she thought that she was alone in the strange 
 place, and the glance she flung abroad had panic in it, 
 but as she met the steady gaze of her companion of the 
 night before, from his place across the room, she 
 smiled, like a reassured child. His dark face was hag- 
 gard, and dramatically intent upon her ; something de- 
 fenseless in its emotional betrayal touched the girl un- 
 expectedly. 
 
 He did not speak, but only continued to look at her, 
 so she said nervously, "Good morning." Then, wishing
 
 276 THE CORTLANDTS 
 
 to break the tension of that unquieting gaze, she 
 glanced beyond him through the window, where the 
 green hills loomed distinctly through the woolly 
 brown of the rain. "It is morning, isn't it?" she in- 
 quired. "Have we been here all night?" She 
 flushed with her question, hotly. 
 
 The man got stiffly to his feet "Yes," he said. "It 
 is the first dawn." 
 
 She glanced about her in the murk of the stormy 
 new day, and shivered, for the tiny room was as dreary 
 as her awakening realization of their predicament. "I 
 wonder where we are." 
 
 He smiled, under the dashing line of his black 
 mustache, and shrugged his shoulders. "We are out of 
 the world, you and I." 
 
 Ann's eyes widened. "Like babes in the woods,*'' 
 she agreed. "Only there are no robins. . . . 
 Well, I suppose it couldn't have been helped. . . . 
 I wonder if there is anything to eat?" 
 
 "I have heard chickens. It is possible there are 
 eggs." 
 
 "Eggs !" echoed Ann rapturously. "Do go and look 
 for them !" 
 
 She seized the opportunity of his absence to re- 
 arrange her tumbled hair, and to wash her face and 
 hands at a pump in the yard. She was greatly cheered 
 after these simple rites, and more ready to face her 
 decidedly unconventional situation. She hoped, nerv- 
 ously, that the foreign officer would not think it was 
 her habit to stay out over night with strange gentle-
 
 OVER NIGHT 277 
 
 men. When he came back she was miraculously 
 freshened, such being the recuperative power of 
 nineteen. 
 
 He had found eight eggs, and a forgotten pail half 
 filled with berries, and Ann discovered the remains of 
 a hoe cake ; it was not a bad breakfast, and they ate it 
 to the increasing accompaniment of the artillery'a 
 thunder, comfortably distant, and, after the preceding 
 day's experiences, not particularly menacing. 
 
 As she regretfully finished her last egg, Ann said, 
 "Do you know that I don't even know your name? 
 And yet !" She broke off with a smiling glance 
 about her. 
 
 "My name is Guido," he answered, "Guido Avez- 
 zana." 
 
 "Are you an Italian ?" Ann asked eagerly. She had 
 never met an Italian gentleman before, and with the 
 gleam of 'his smiling assent, her mind flashed unex- 
 pectedly to Densley Howard. This was, indubitably, 
 a part of what he had wanted for her, acquaintance 
 with romantic-looking foreigners. 
 
 "I am Piedmontese. ... I am in your country 
 as military observer for my king, for Victor Em- 
 manuel." 
 
 It had never occurred to Ann before that it was a 
 romantic thing to serve a king, but she liked the way 
 in which he announced his allegiance, and her beaming 
 eyes betrayed her. Avezzana leaned toward her as he 
 talked, interest in his own. 
 
 What they said was unimportant. She told him that
 
 278 THE CORTLANDTS 
 
 she had never been in Italy, no, nor in Europe, al- 
 though she spoke French rather well, really, and she 
 reluctantly admitted that she knew no Italian. It was 
 a beautiful language, she commented, and he replied 
 with a burst of liquid syllables, that, translated, made 
 Ann stiffen self-consciously. She told herself, sensibly, 
 that to say a language was not so beautiful as she was 
 too absurd a statement to notice, but her careless laugh 
 was a trifle delayed. Avezzana did not laugh, but he 
 smiled subtly, and his eyes remained intent. Under 
 their regard, Ann became at length, in spite of herself, 
 uneasily silent. 
 
 Even a half pail of berries topping off four eggs 
 each, will not last two healthy young people forever, 
 and as the last delicious morsel vanished, Avezzana, 
 who had not failed to take in Ann's morning freshness, 
 said suddenly, "Is it, then, that you love him so much ?" 
 
 In her amazement Ann dropped the pail ; it clattered 
 on the bare floor with an entirely disproportionate 
 amount of noise. "Love whom?" she demanded, 
 honestly puzzled. 
 
 "Your captain." 
 
 "Hendricks ?" Her white teeth showed in a reminis- 
 cent little grin ; it amused her to have the old question 
 so squarely put. 
 
 "You come through danger to see him." 
 
 "Yes, that's true." She smiled wickedly at his 
 confusion. 
 
 The young Italian regarded her with eyes that were 
 almost tragically intense ; it was evident that he found
 
 OVER NIGHT 279 
 
 the situation too much for him. "Why did you 
 come ?" he asked, and his voice took a deeper note. 
 
 She became somewhat nervous under his increasing 
 solemnity. "I came because we all thought he was 
 dead," she explained, "and then I heard he wasn't, 
 but I had to be sure." 
 
 "You wondered, possibly, if you were free?" 
 
 She nodded her bright head. "Exactly." 
 
 Avezzana leaned nearer, across the table. His man- 
 ner was somehow changed ; he was not less deferential, 
 but he was, in a subtle fashion, more intimate, and 
 without taking time for thought, Ann pushed her chair 
 back, instinctively. 
 
 "\Ve must be getting started," she announced. 
 
 Her companion continued to look at her; specula- 
 tion had leaped into his black eyes. "Do not make 
 haste," he urged. "It is a pity to leave this, our lit- 
 tle house." His voice caressed the place, and he held 
 Ann's eyes with his. Suddenly he stretched out his 
 hand, and touched her slim wrist where it showed, 
 white, below her black sleeve. 
 
 Regardless of the tension she sensed in the close 
 room, Ann laughed, and at the clear sound he drew 
 his hand away so quickly that she thought the touch 
 had, after all, been accidental. "It isn't much to boast 
 of, our little house," she commented lightly. "Al- 
 though it did keep us from the rains." 
 
 Avezzana frowned. "You will admit, madame, that 
 I have been well behaved here." 
 
 Remembrance of his kindness of the day before
 
 2 8o THE CORTLANDTS 
 
 swept over Ann. "You are so good!" she cried re- 
 morsefully. "And I am such a bother !" 
 
 "When you are gone, I fear what you call my good- 
 ness may be a thing I shall regret." 
 
 The girl looked the interrogation she lacked the 
 courage to voice, and he continued. "It is because you 
 are so beautiful." 
 
 "You mustn't say that to me." 
 
 "Why not?" 
 
 "Well, it's ridiculous, for one thing." 
 
 Avezzana continued to look at her closely. "I 
 thought possibly because of your husband." 
 
 "My husband ?" Ann's tone vibrated with amaze- 
 ment, and suddenly her eyes widened, and a light 
 danced in them, as the delicious realization came to her 
 that the young Italian thought her a married woman. 
 "You mean Hendricks?" she said demurely. "I sup- 
 pose perhaps he wouldn't like it." 
 
 "And do you never do anything of which he dis- 
 approves ?" 
 
 "I never do anything else!" 
 
 "Then why not be kind to me ?" 
 
 "But I am kind, am I not? I want to be." 
 
 He may have thought her wistfulness provocative, 
 and probably he did not realize that, in the simplicity of 
 the puritan 'sixties, even had she been the experienced 
 matron he took her for, she would in all probability 
 have been honestly amazed by his advances. He seized 
 her hand, and bent over it, across the little table. 
 "You are adorable!" he cried, his restraint released.
 
 OVER NIGHT 28r 
 
 He was unprepared for the strength with which she 
 wrenched herself free, although he made no effort to 
 hold her. "Please don't," she whispered feebly. She 
 was trembling all over, so that she could scarcely 
 speak. 
 
 "If you do not wish it, no !" he said, instantly com- 
 pliant, "but you are like nothing I have seen before. 
 How is it possible that I should not love you?" 
 
 Obeying an instinct to escape, Ann swiftly opened 
 the door and stood in the frame, a black silhouette 
 against the luminous gray. She swung toward him 
 In crisp indignation. "But you think I am married! 
 How can you talk to me about love?" A black gulf 
 yawned before her, and she shrank back from it in 
 bewildered fright. In the flurry of her panic she re- 
 treated through the open door, and stepped 
 unexpectedly out into the rain. She looked back at 
 Avezzana with entreating eyes. "Please," she begged 
 piteously, "won't you get the horse?" 
 
 The Italian did not hesitate; for, according to his 
 code, the moment had come when pursuit was no 
 longer possible. He only gave her a stricken look as 
 he passed her, just outside the door. . . . When 
 he was gone, Ann stood where she was, regardless 
 of the fine drizzle from which the overhanging eaves 
 inadequately protected her; she was entirely preoc- 
 cupied with the tumult of her sensations. Avezzana, 
 she knew, was somehow dangerous, but she did not 
 determine whether this recognition came from her 
 actual experience with him, or merely from the fact
 
 282 THE CORTLANDTS 
 
 that he was strangely disquieting. She was only sure 
 that her breath caught unevenly in her throat, as she 
 had never known it to do before. 
 
 He returned much more quickly than she had ex- 
 pected ; he came running across the little yard that lay 
 between the shed and the house, and Ann knew at 
 once that something had happened. "Your people are 
 just here," he called, "at the next house. I see them 
 across the fields, men and women. There is a wagon, 
 too, with *U. S. San. Com.' painted on it." 
 
 Relief flashed radiantly across Ann's face. "Let 
 us go quickly, and see." 
 
 Avezzana came up to her. "You must go alone," 
 he said. "You need never say that I was with you, 
 since yesterday. ... I must take the horse, and 
 leave you at once." 
 
 "You are going back to the battle?" 
 
 Avezzana held out his hand and nodded. "Good- 
 by," he said, smiling with somber eyes. 
 
 The girl put her hand in his, trustfully enough now 
 that there was familiar companionship only a field 
 iway. "I can't thank you," she murmured. 
 
 The young man said nothing at all, but he looked 
 at her with tragic eyes, which somehow made her 
 think of an actor's, and after a moment he kissed the 
 hand he held, swiftly and not too impersonally. Ann 
 continued to stand looking after him, while he lead 
 the horse from the shed, and, with a wave of his hand 
 to her, mounted, after the Italian method, a spirited 
 leap from the ground to the saddle. The horse reared
 
 OVER NIGHT 283 
 
 protestingly, while Avezzana reined him in, and spoke 
 encouragingly to him; he was very beautiful in his 
 triumphant mastery. He was almost at the gate, 
 when Ann sprang after him. 
 
 "Wait," she called "Please wait !" 
 
 He turned the plunging horse toward her, but she 
 could see that he was anxious to be gone. "What 
 is it that you wish?" he asked. His impatience was 
 tender, but evident. 
 
 She ran lightly over to him, and came as near to the 
 fidgeting horse as she might. "There is something I 
 must tell you," she said urgently. "I am not married 
 to Hendricks !" 
 
 Avezzana's face gleamed down on her, frozen with 
 astonishment. "To whom, then ?" 
 
 "To no one. I am just a girl. I wanted you to 
 know." 
 
 From the house down the lane there came a friendly 
 hail, and the young Italian started "It is, then, all the 
 more reason why I should not be found here," he 
 said, true to his code. "But a rivederci, Signorina" 
 
 In a moment he had disappeared around the bend 
 in the little lane, where the insistent guns were calling.
 
 CHAPTER XXII 
 
 EN ROUTE 
 
 WHEN the battle was over, the Sanitary Commission 
 unit which Ann joined moved into the town of 
 Gettysburg, and with great difficulty the girl managed 
 to get a message through to New York announcing 
 Hendricks' well-being. The result was as she had 
 feared, a bombardment of telegrams from Mrs. Cort- 
 landt clamoring for her immediate return, but as there 
 were not nearly enough nurses at the front, and as at 
 last she was where she had for so long wanted to be, 
 Ann ignored the summons. The wounded crowded the 
 churches, as well as every house in the town; they 
 lay on boards stretched over the pews, without com- 
 forts or adequate nursing. Ann thought she had, in 
 the past two years, learned all about the misery of the 
 wounded soldier, but she had known nothing like the 
 suffering she found here. Thousands on thousands of 
 young men, many of them boys no older than she, lay 
 shattered; yet every day the invalid population of the 
 gruesome town increased, as ambulances brought 
 always more men back from the battle-field, and every 
 day they died by hundreds. It was no wonder that 
 Ann disregarded Mrs. Cortlandt's messages. 
 
 She was put to work in an operating-room; some- 
 times she mopped the floor, where blood spread like a 
 crimson lake, and sometimes she forced stimulants be- 
 
 284
 
 EN ROUTE 285 
 
 tween white and icy lips, endeavoring to snatch men 
 back to life when they were already in the grasp of 
 death himself. When she came in or went out she 
 passed, by the door, a great heap of severed arms and 
 legs, white, stark and terrible. She worked all day and 
 far into the night, and she was so tired that her sen- 
 sibilities were mercifully dulled. Her feet ached, her 
 back ached, her eyes ached, her very soul ached, as she 
 beheld the courage of her suffering soldiers. She won- 
 dered that they could want to live when in such su- 
 preme pain; she felt that those who did must be re- 
 served for some splendid fate. 
 
 Days ran on, and Ann worked until she could 
 scarcely stand ; great circles drew themselves under her 
 eyes; her only gown was bedraggled and always wet, 
 and her hands became rough and sore, yet she was 
 magnificently content. Never in all her life before had 
 she been so sure that she was doing the right thing, 
 and she was determined to stay until the crisis was 
 over. Unfortunately, however, Mrs. Cortlandt knew a 
 colonel, and she was not a woman to let privilege lie 
 idle ; a week after the battle ended the girl was officially 
 ordered home. The kind old man was quite firm when 
 she pleaded with him, in spite of the fact that he had 
 a pleasing twinkle in his eye. 
 
 The blow was somewhat softened by the fact that 
 the Sanitary Commission was sending trains of 
 wounded to the North as fast as the railroad could 
 handle them, and Ann was detailed as a nurse in 
 transit, in charge of a car. She was so busy getting
 
 286 THE CORTLANDTS 
 
 her patients on board, hobbling about on aching feet, 
 in an endeavor to make them comfortable, that she 
 left Gettysburg without so much as a final glance down 
 the street on which she had marched to adventure. 
 Her patients were all convalescent, and by the time 
 the train started they were quite happily established on 
 their cots, in high anticipation of getting home. 
 
 As the train swung around the curve, with a great 
 slatting and jolting of loose link couplings, Ann 
 glanced idly back at the village, and, for the first time 
 in days, remembered the romantic Italian who had 
 taken charge of her in the midst of the battle. In the 
 absorption of her work in the hospital, she had entirely 
 forgotten him, but now she was sorry that she had no* 
 seen him again. She felt very grateful to him, now she 
 came to think about it, and as she recalled his gal- 
 lantries she smiled condoningly. 
 
 They had gone perhaps fifteen miles on their way, 
 when the door at the forward end of the car opened, 
 and a group of officers, headed by a colonel, came in. 
 It was a tour of inspection, Ann thought, and she 
 looked nervously over her car to see that everything 
 was in order. She could hear the colonel's voice above 
 the rattle of the train, as he explained the govern- 
 ment's system in transporting its wounded, and she 
 looked up, curiously, to see to whom he was giving this 
 information. There were half a dozen officers in 
 baggy Federal uniforms, surrounding a slim young 
 man in a braided coat. Something about his back 
 made Ann's breath catch in her throat; she had already
 
 EN ROUTE 287 
 
 flushed when he turned and, over the cots of the 
 wounded men, met her beaming eyes. It was Avez- 
 zana. 
 
 The girl's inclination was to run down the car to 
 greet him, and to tell every one how wonderfully kind 
 he had been to her, but to her amazement there was 
 no returning smile in his look. His eyes met hers 
 coldly and firmly, and there was a prohibition in them. 
 She stopped where she was, and her flush died away, 
 leaving her rather pale. She did not look up again 
 as the men went through the car, but she could hear 
 the Italian's soft voiced felicitations. 
 
 "In my country we do nothing so excellent for our 
 wounded. It will greatly interest the war ministry." 
 
 They stood for a while gravely discussing hospital 
 equipment, and whether or not the use of chloroform 
 on a large scale was practicable, and then they went 
 away. Avezzana departed without a single backward 
 look ; the only time his eyes had met Ann's was in that 
 first icy glance. The girl was furiously angry with 
 him, and bewildered, too. At the very moment when the 
 door opened she had been thinking of him with grati- 
 tude, and when she realized that it was he wbo had 
 come into her car, her heart had quickened its beat 
 with a joyousness she had not known for a long time. 
 She could not imagine why he should pretend that he 
 did not know her; as she thought of it her indignation 
 grew, and at the same time she was enormously cast 
 down. 
 
 It was, perhaps, half an hour before the door
 
 288 THE CORTLANDTS 
 
 opened again, furtively. Her car was on the end of 
 the train, and it was, she supposed, only a brakeman 
 coming to attend to his work, but as no one entered 
 immediately, she became suspicious. She thought that 
 if it was Avezzana she would not speak to him; a 
 flame of anger swept through her, but she could not 
 take her eyes from the narrow crack in the door, 
 through which the scorching wind rushed devastat- 
 ingly. In a moment the young Italian stuck his head 
 into the car arid startled her with a brilliant smile. 
 She hastily turned her head away, but somehow she 
 was aware that he slipped around the door, and closed 
 it behind him with a little burlesque of caution. In no 
 time at all he was beside her, masculine and impressive, 
 and Ann was, after all, unprepared for him. She could 
 see that the sick men looked up eagerly, and one of 
 them, catching her eyes, grinned impishly at her. 
 She wondered nervously what Avezzana would say, 
 but she was taken entirely unaware by his opening. 
 
 "Nurse, may I ask you some questions in regard to 
 the feeding of your sick?" 
 
 She shook her head. "I am afraid not," she said 
 dryly. 
 
 "But your colonel said it was you I should ask. 
 . . . I thought if you would come, for a moment, 
 so that, of course, we shall not disturb your patients, 
 to the back platform? . . . We do not have 
 them in my country, so quaint, a place for conversa- 
 tion, is it not? You will come?" 
 
 "No, thank you." Still Ann did not look at him.
 
 EN ROUTE 289 
 
 She was enjoying herself; she felt delightfully cruel, 
 and at the same time unsatiated. 
 
 Avezzana reached for a chair, and drew it close to 
 hers. "In that case," he said, "I must ask you certain 
 questions here." 
 
 "We can not talk. There are men sleeping. . , . 
 What questions?" The afterthought was a weakness, 
 and she flushed resentfully. 
 
 "Many. . . . Where shall I begin ?" He swung 
 the chair between his trim legs, preparatory to sitting 
 on it. 
 
 Ann looked miserably down the line of cots: the 
 men were, obviously, waiting happily for the situa- 
 tion to develop. She glanced briefly at Avezzana and 
 took in his malicious smile ; she did not know what he 
 would say, and, apart from that, she had a growing 
 desire to say some things herself. "You are right," 
 she murmured, "here we will disturb my patients. 
 . . . For just a moment " She rose, and turned 
 to the rear door. 
 
 Avezzana had it open for her, although she had 
 made haste, in order to avoid accepting even this 
 small service. She stepped out on the platform, where 
 the fierce wind tore at her great hollow skirts, and 
 came near to upsetting her. She flung out her hands 
 to seize something to which she might hold, and found 
 herself clinging to the Italian, while the door slammed 
 behind them, with a great clatter of glass. She met 
 his intent eyes, and tried to pull herself away, but could 
 not, because her arm was held in a close clasp.
 
 290 THE CORTLANDTS 
 
 "Please !" she said feebly, all her defiance shattered 
 by this unexpected happening. 
 
 "In one moment," Avezzana replied, and he piloted 
 her across the perilous open platform to the steps at 
 the side. "Sit here," he said ceremoniously, as he 
 lowered her down carefully to the narrow swinging 
 seat There the flying ground seemed very close ; she 
 could see each distinct pebble on the right-of-way. Her 
 skirts filled all the space between the hand-rails, but 
 Avezzana made nothing of that; he swung himself 
 past her, so that she held her breath lest he should 
 fall; then, unceremoniously pushing aside her crino- 
 line, he seated himself on the step below her. Wedged 
 into that tiny place, she could not avoid looking into 
 his wide, smiling, black eyes. She had never seen eyes 
 just like them ; beneath their smile they were curiously 
 unexpressive, as though they had no depths. With 
 an effort, she looked away, and remembered that she 
 was offended. She frowned as she realized, too late, 
 that she had lost ground in allowing him to bring her 
 out from the car. 
 
 "Can you not understand?" The Italian's voice 
 was beautifully soft, with a chopping accent that made 
 his English foreign. 
 
 "What do you mean understand?" 
 
 "You are angry?" 
 
 "Of course I am angry !" Ann's direct gaze met his, 
 firmly. 
 
 "Because I do not speak to you. Is it not so?" 
 Ann said nothing, but she looked off over the un fenced
 
 EN ROUTE 291 
 
 fields with cold indifference. "You do not know why 
 I am silent? No? It is of a strangeness, your coun- 
 try ! Here you are, young, unmarried, a lady." Was 
 there, Ann wondered, the least question in his voice? 
 "You spend a night with me, alone. It is not to be 
 helped, no, but surely it is not to speak of, for I, 
 too, am a gentleman!" 
 
 "But what of it?" Ann burst out. "Why not talk 
 about it? No one would think anything of it," she 
 looked him over magnificently, "with me." 
 
 Avezzana said nothing for a bit; he was plainly 
 staggered. Finally he announced firmly, "I could not 
 have recognize you, before those men, no, not if I 
 died for it. ... It may be they, too, are inno- 
 cents. . . . It is difficult to know, in your country, 
 but no, I could not have spoke. . . . You 
 understand? You forgive?" 
 
 Ann softened unwillingly. She still cherished a 
 slight feeling of resentment, but she allowed a memory 
 of his care of her to overlay it. "I suppose so," she 
 said ungraciously, but she smiled at him, with all the 
 effect of the sun coming out from under a dark 
 cloud. 
 
 Avezzana smiled back, and all was well. "There 
 are some things I must ask you." 
 
 "About the feeding of my patients?" Ann laughed, 
 and he joined her unwillingly. He did not, she thought, 
 like to laugh. 
 
 "No," he then said quite gravely. "About you." 
 
 "Well, what about me?"
 
 292 THE CORTLANDTS 
 
 "Many things. . . . Why were you there, at 
 the battle?" 
 
 "We had word that my cousin, Hendricks Rennes- 
 lyer, was dead, and then we heard he wasn't. I went 
 to make sure." 
 
 "Your cousin?" 
 
 Ann could feel herself flushing, but she managed to 
 nod carelessly. 
 
 Then Avezzana said something that surprised her. 
 "I have seen him since. When I knew it was necessary 
 for me to see you again, I went to him. He says you 
 are fiance." 
 
 "We were, but we're not, now." 
 
 "Then why risk all, in this way? Surely, even in 
 Jrour country, it is not the custom for a beautiful 
 young girl to " He broke off, with a wide gesture. 
 
 "You talk just like my aunts," she commented. 
 
 A pleased smile broke over the Italian's face. "Ah, 
 you have aunts?" There was plainly relief in his 
 tone. 
 
 "I should say I have! Two." 
 
 "And that is all?" 
 
 "It's enough, thank you!" 
 
 "I mean no mother? No father?" 
 
 "No. ... I have an uncle; he is the nicest 
 person in the world, but he is abroad. The president 
 sent him to Europe." 
 
 Avezzana seemed to be struggling with extraordi- 
 nary facts. "The president," he murmured, as if that 
 were the last touch to an amazing situation.
 
 EN ROUTE 293 
 
 "I am sorry he isn't here. He would thank you 
 for me," Ann said prettily. 
 
 "You will tell him?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "Extraordinaire! And your aunts?" 
 
 Ann flushed again. "No, not my aunts. They 
 would be awfully cross about it." 
 
 Avezzana's look of relief deepened into deference. 
 "Your aunts, I hope to know them," he murmured. 
 
 The train swung around a curve; at the end where 
 the two young people sat the car swayed dizzily. Avez- 
 zana clung to the railing, and the girl caught tight 
 to his arm. As they settled back she became con- 
 scious of a slight feeling of restraint. "I must go," 
 she said uneasily. 
 
 "To nurse? . . . But why a nurse, you, a 
 young girl? That is a thing I can not comprehend." 
 
 "Plenty of people can't," she assured him comfort- 
 ingly, and added superbly, "I nurse because I wish to. 
 . . . In a war. . . . Don't your Italian 
 women do that?" 
 
 "Women? Yes. But ladies, never." 
 
 "Well, I am glad I don't live there, that's all." 
 
 Avezzana leaned toward her eagerly. "Do not turn 
 your mind against my country," he pleaded. "Italia ! 
 How she is beautiful!" 
 
 "Perhaps when the war is over, uncle will take me 
 there." 
 
 "Where do you write to your uncle?'* 
 
 "In care of the American Minister, Paris. Why?"
 
 294 THE CORTLANDTS 
 
 Avezzana looked at her profoundly. "Perhaps, 
 for no reason," he said. Ann felt, uncomfortably, 
 that there was more there than met the eye. 
 
 "Now I really must go back," she said; "suppose 
 some one should come in, and not find me?" 
 
 This was, to Avezzana, potent reasoning. He rose 
 at once, and slipped past her, up the steps. She got 
 unsteadily to her feet, and allowed him to take her 
 hand in his. He held it very tightly, but relinquished 
 it the moment he had the door opened. On the thresh- 
 old, Ann paused, swaying lightly to the motion of the 
 train. 
 
 "When you are in New York, will you come to see 
 us?" she demanded. 
 
 "I shall give myself that honor." 
 
 "But you don't know where we live." 
 
 "Your cousin, he has give me the place." He 
 pulled a corner of folded white paper from his breast 
 pocket, in proof. 
 
 "Oh! . . . Well, then, good-by." She gave 
 him her hand again impulsively, and vanished into 
 the car. Avezzana stayed where he was, until they 
 came to the station; she could see the back of his 
 sleek black head, whenever she turned toward the door, 
 but when they arrived in Harrisburg, he had vanished. 
 
 The next day Ann left the Sanitary Commission 
 women, and went on to New York. As she crossed 
 on the ferry she was uncomfortably aware that 
 probable condemnation awaited her in Washington 
 Square, but after all she didn't much care. She felt
 
 EN ROUTE 295 
 
 singularly light-hearted, now that the great affair of 
 Hendricks was settled. Mrs. Cortlandt was waiting 
 for her in the ferry-house; she received the prodigal 
 without the slightest indication of an inclination to 
 sacrifice a fatted calf, or, indeed, anything, except the 
 offender herself. During all the years in which she 
 had shocked her, Ann had never known such weighty 
 disapprobation. "Well, miss," was all she said in 
 welcome. She ran a disapproving eye over the girl's 
 disgraceful frock. "You look a sight," she added 
 grimly. 
 
 "I know, my old black dress. . . . Isn't it 
 wonderful, Aunt Emily, about Hendricks?" 
 
 "What about Hendricks?" 
 
 "Why, that he is alive, and all right?" 
 
 "We knew that long before your message came." 
 
 "You knew?" 
 
 "Certainly. The very day after you left we had 3 
 telegram in answer to those we had been sending." 
 
 Ann stood still, in the passageway. "How ridicu 
 lous!" she murmured, and laughed. 
 
 "I am glad you can laugh, miss. It is as well for 
 you that your uncle is away from home, or he might 
 at last see things as they are. Don't stand here; let 
 us get home while we may." 
 
 Outside, the streets seemed to Ann to be strangely 
 empty. Ordinarily little negro bootblacks and paper 
 boys stood about the entrance to the ferry, and crowds 
 of people swarmed in and out of the building, but 
 to-day scarcely any one was to be seen.
 
 296 THE CORTLANDTS 
 
 "Where is everybody?" she asked Mrs. William. 
 
 "Come, Ann, make haste! Don't stand there, like 
 that! Don't you see those roughs over there?" 
 
 "What of it? It can't hurt me to have them look 
 at me. ... I am sure I shouldn't think they 
 would want to, the way I look." 
 
 Mrs. Cortland broke into a hen-like little run, and 
 Ann hobbled after her on her aching feet. The car- 
 riage was waiting; the older woman bolted into it 
 frantically, and turned to pull Ann after her. 
 
 "What in the world, Aunt Emily?" Ann cried, half 
 tumbling into the musty interior. "Why did you take 
 the closed carriage? And what is the hurry?" 
 
 Mrs. Cortlandt sank back on the cushions with a 
 great sigh of relief. "Thank goodness," she gasped. 
 "We're safe !" 
 
 "Safe? Why shouldn't we be?" Ann glanced out 
 of the window at the still deserted streets; the only 
 person she could see was a shopkeeper, frantically 
 putting shutters before his show windows in the same 
 panic of haste that had afflicted Mrs. Cortlandt. "Is 
 there anything the matter?" she demanded. 
 
 "Matter? I should say there was! Riots, at any 
 moment ! Negroes threatened with their lives ! Every 
 one scared to death! Roughs from the river-front 
 swarming all over town! We shall be fortunate if 
 we reach home with our lives !" 
 
 "But what has happened ?" 
 
 "They have begun the draft for the army, Ann. 
 Yesterday they drew the first names from the wheel.
 
 EN ROUTE 297 
 
 They never should have begun it on a Saturday; all 
 day Sunday to stir up mischief, and no soldiers quar- 
 tered here! If I were a man I am sure I should never 
 have allowed such a thing to happen !" 
 
 Ann sat silent, letting Mrs. Cortlandt run on. She 
 remembered that her guardian had thought the Draft 
 Act a bad one, because, for two hundred dollars, it 
 allowed a rich man to buy his exemption from right- 
 ing, but that, she thought, would not have caused 
 rioting. "I don't understand," she said, at length. 
 
 "It is those Copperheads," Mrs. Cortlandt impa- 
 , tiently explained. "They are all Rebels, at heart, and 
 they don't want the draft, of course; it means more 
 men to fight on our side. They have stirred up a 
 great feeling against the negroes, and goodness knows 
 what will happen to the poor things! I wish your 
 uncle was at home." 
 
 It all sounded like an extravaganza to Ann, but she 
 echoed Mrs. Cortlandt's wish heartily. She thought 
 that to tell her guardian all about Hendricks would 
 be simpler than writing him. Moreover, she wanted 
 his warm welcome, and her sure sense of his affection. 
 
 As they neared Washington Square the streets were 
 more normal, and she decided that the danger of riots 
 was all in Mrs. Cortlandt's head, after all. Baby car- 
 riages were being rolled up and down in the shade 
 before the houses, and the sun lay tranquilly on the 
 yellowing Square. Of course it was all nonsense, Ann 
 thought, with a pitying smile for one so aged and 
 panicky as competent, middle-aged Mrs. Cortlandt
 
 298 THE CORTLANDTS 
 
 That night, safe in her incredibly comfortable rootn, 
 and luxuriously clean and crisp in her starched white 
 muslin dressing sack, she wrote a letter to her guar- 
 dian. She sat before the candle for a long time, 
 writing. The flame made a streak of gold along one 
 side of her sleek little head, and down the long braid 
 that hung over her shoulder. Now and then moths, 
 attracted by her candle, flew m from the dim Square 
 outside, and each time one came, she took it carefully 
 between her fingers, and carried it to the window. 
 Somehow, since the battle, she could not bear to see 
 anything die unnecessarily. 
 
 It was long past midnight when she had finished 
 her confession, and she went to stand in the window 
 for a moment, before she blew out her candle. The 
 neighborhood was quiet ; only very far away was there 
 a confusion of noise. A waning moon rode boister- 
 ously in a patchy sky, against which the tops of the 
 elms in the Square made a delicate black pattern. She 
 was exceedingly glad to be at home; the peace and 
 comfort of it was like a gentle caress; the pain and 
 tragedy of Gettysburg seemed a long way off. . . . 
 She wished that she could forget it ... She 
 turned to her bed, waiting, smooth and white, for her 
 tired body. . . . Her last waking thoughts were 
 of Avezzana, nothing definite, only an impression 
 of him that made her smile as she drifted out to sleep.
 
 CHAPTER XXIII 
 
 RIOTS 
 
 THE following morning Ann slept late : the shadows 
 in the Square were already shortening toward mid- 
 day, when she came down-stairs, and she cast an im- 
 patient glance at the tall clock in the hall. It was 
 like Mrs. William, she thought, to guard her rest 
 without consulting her, and on the very day, too, when 
 a boat was sailing for Europe; and it had been her 
 intention to be up and about betimes, in order to get 
 her letter off to Mr. Cortlandt. There was nobody in 
 the lower rooms, and she summoned old Joseph with 
 undeserved acerbity. 
 
 He came shuffling amiably into the library, in the 
 comfortable undress he allowed himself on a warm 
 July morning. Ann looked at him crossly; his white 
 hair was somewhat disheveled, and she thought that 
 his morning smile lacked something of its usual gleam- 
 ing pleasure at his first daily sight of an employer. 
 
 "Where is everybody?" she inquired. 
 
 "Mis' Cortlandt and Miss Fanny, Miss Ann, was 
 'bliged to go to dey own house. . . . Mis' Cort- 
 iandt say fo' you to stay hyar until she come back 
 ag'in. You are on no 'count to go out." 
 
 "Hum." Ann was inclined to insubordination, but 
 remembering her recent escapades, she was prudent. 
 "Then you'll have to take this letter to the post-office, 
 
 299
 
 300 THE CORTLANDTS 
 
 Joseph. There's a boat sailing with the tide to- 
 night." 
 
 "Yes, Miss Ann." He went off readily enough, 
 but Ann had barely time to settle down to Charles 
 Dickens' last enchanting installment before he burst 
 into the room again, his face a sickly lead color. He 
 held out Ann's letter in a hand that shook. 
 
 "I cayn't go, Miss Ann." 
 
 "Can't go? Why not, pray?" In her impatience 
 she was suddenly imperious. 
 
 "Down-stairs, Miss Ann, honey, de butcher's boy 
 says a fierce mob am roamin' de streets, yes, ma'am, 
 an' huntin' all us cullud folks down. . . . He do 
 say dey's stringin' us to lamp-posts, but I dunno, 
 an' shootin' us! Miss Ann, he say dey's set fire to 
 the cullud orphan 'sylum where yo' tuk yo' clothes 
 when yo' firs' cum here " 
 
 "At Forty-Second Street, you mean? Right on 
 Fifth Avenue? Nonsense!" 
 
 "Yes, Miss Ann. . . . An' all them po' little 
 cullud chillen in it !" 
 
 "Don't be silly, Joseph. The police would never 
 let that happen, right here in New York. What was 
 that?" It had been a muffled, distant crash. 
 
 "Dey's firin', Miss Ann. He say dey's gone into de 
 Draft office, an' broke dat wheel dey draws de names 
 on, all to bits!" 
 
 "I don't believe a word of it!" 
 
 "No, ma'am. ... I reckon I won't go out to- 
 day, Miss Ann, honey I"
 
 RIOTS 301 
 
 Ann made no move to take her letter; she had, 
 when writing it, appreciated keenly that every word 
 she put on the paper would pain her guardian, and 
 now that it was done she wanted to be rid of it She 
 was afraid, if it remained in her hands, that she would 
 lose her courage, and decide not to mail it, after all. 
 When Joseph had gone off with it she had relaxed 
 into a great relief. It was over, she had thought, 
 come what might, and now, here it was back again; 
 it was infinitely annoying. Moreover, she didn't half 
 believe what she had heard of the riots, and she 
 thought it possible that the old man was trying to 
 evade his walk in the heat. She remembered that Mr. 
 Cortlandt had complained that Joseph had grown lazy. 
 
 "Of course you will take my letter," she said crisply. 
 "You must hurry, or it will miss the boat." 
 
 "No, Miss Ann, no. It ain't a right healthy day 
 fo' a cullud person to be out!" He pleaded with her 
 as though the child he had helped to rear was omnipo- 
 tent. 
 
 Ann struggled to be calm and kind. "If it doesn't 
 go at once it will miss the boat," she explained with 
 a careful patience, and added more briskly, "I never 
 heard anything so absurd in my life! This end of 
 the town is perfectly quiet. You can walk up Uni- 
 versity Place to Fourteenth Street; it won't take you 
 ten minutes. Now hurry, Joseph, do; you'll be home 
 all the sooner." 
 
 The old man turned slowly, hesitated, and finally 
 shuffled out. In a moment Ann saw him emerge
 
 302 THE CORTLANDTS 
 
 cautiously into the peaceful desertion of Washington 
 Square, and she smiled at his foolish panic, although 
 she thought, with a touch of compunction, that there 
 was something pathetic about his bent old back. She 
 felt pleasantly superior to ignorant people whose fears 
 were aroused by tales told by butchers' boys, but never- 
 theless she brought her book to the window, so that 
 she might watch for his return. 
 
 Suddenly she heard again an ominous series of 
 muffled crashes, ripped by sharper detonations. It 
 shook her tranquillity, and she felt somewhat guilty, 
 as she went out on the steps to listen. There she 
 could clearly hear distant shots, and something that 
 sounded faintly like a clamor of voices, but she could 
 not be sure of it. She began to be uneasy about old 
 Joseph, although she felt no real alarm. 
 
 In a few moments Fanny Cortlandt came hurrying 
 "'down the Square: she looked pale and fagged, under 
 "fi&r flopping straw hat. Seeing her friend on the 
 steps, she called out, as she hurried toward her, "Isn't 
 *iF39eadful, Ann? There is a fearful mob, killing 
 'peo'pre^ Burning buildings, too! See, over there!" 
 [9v ?ftiil' 'whirled to look. Off to the east, the clear 
 Tlire n o > f 8 the summer sky was clouded with an angry 
 MtquaB? thought of Joseph, and gasped. 
 ^'P^s^fefrtunate to get back unmolested. We have 
 ^SieW firckm^iip everything in our house." She came 
 breathlessly up the steps. "Ann, they are murdering 
 
 ftfe% b #5* torturing them! Isn't it horrible r 
 mfff
 
 RIOTS 303 
 
 They say one poor man Why, Ann, where are you 
 going?" 
 
 Ann was flinging herself down the steps. She 
 called back, "I sent Joseph out ! I'm going after him !" 
 
 Fanny sprang after her, and caught her by the arm. 
 "Ann! Don't think of such a thing! What could 
 you do, a girl? And something dreadful might 
 happen to you!" 
 
 Ann shook her off savagely. "I'm going!" she de- 
 clared. 
 
 "Like that? Without any hat?" 
 
 Ann laughed. "No," she replied, "with yours!" 
 She snatched Fanny's from her smooth head, and ran 
 clumsily down the Square. She forgot all about her 
 lame feet in her anxiety, for in the distance she 
 caught a murmur of wild voices. 
 
 As she neared the corner of University Place, the 
 confusion came louder; there was a thud of heavy 
 feet, and a savage medley of shouts. Above the noise 
 she heard suddenly a raucous voice calling, "Burn 
 the nigger! Burn him!" and the sound of pounding 
 feet came louder. Filled with sickening premonition 
 she flung herself around the corner and stood, horror- 
 struck. Running down the center of the street, straight 
 toward her, was old Joseph. She had a distinct im- 
 pression of his distraught gray face, and as she looked 
 he stumbled, almost spent. Perhaps ten yards behind 
 him there were twenty-five or thirty men and boys, 
 in a scattering group. They could easily have caught
 
 304 THE CORTLANDTS 
 
 him; Ann could see that they were playing with him, 
 savoring their enjoyment of his terror. A rage 
 that blinded her to everything else caught the girl in 
 its fierce grip; she had no sensation of fear as she 
 sprang forward. 
 
 "Oh," she cried, "stop! He's an old man!" 
 
 Joseph saw her, and making a last effort, he plunged 
 toward her and fell, huddled in a shapeless heap, at 
 her feet. She could hear the rasping gulps of his 
 breath as he lay there. The leaders of the group 
 fell back on each side of her, but those in the rear 
 pushed against them with oaths, and laughter more 
 savage than their curses. There were still vague 
 shouts of "Kill the nigger!" but salutations to the girl 
 almost drowned them out: "Hello, my beauty! Let 
 the nigger be strung up, but you come with us !" For 
 an instant Ann's mere presence held them at bay, but 
 the pressure behind was strong, and all at once the 
 entire group burst on them, overwhelming them. The 
 girl and the old negro were hustled roughly into the 
 Square. 
 
 Ann, feeling for the first time strange and com- 
 pelling hands upon her, struck out with a primitive 
 fury. The men about her fell back laughing ; Fanny's 
 hat had fallen off; she stood with her red hair bare 
 and shining like new minted copper in the sunlight. 
 "Let him go," she cried, taking advantage of the 
 momentary lull. "Let me have him." 
 
 A burst of laughter greeted this plea. A man
 
 RIOTS 305 
 
 shouted, "Give us a kiss, my dear." Then the demand 
 to "Kill the nigger!" arose again, more fiercely. 
 
 Under the confusion of her fright, Ann began to 
 plan, and she steadily pressed back down the Square 
 toward Fifth Avenue and the haven of her guardian's 
 house. She drew the little mob with her, a wild and 
 struggling mass, and she dragged Joseph bodily, her 
 compelling hand on his arm. Through her excitement 
 a sense of his piteous condition penetrated poignantly. 
 
 "Let the girl have him," a voice arose unexpectedly, 
 and the crowd stilled to hear. "Who is he, miss?" 
 
 "Why, he is just our butler." Her young voice 
 floated out clearly; every one heard. 
 
 A great roar of laughter greeted her announcement. 
 "Damn the rich!" some one called out. "They don't 
 have to be drafted. They pay their dirty money for 
 us to go and be killed." Her champion dropped out, 
 as suddenly as he had intervened. 
 
 "Let's take the girl, too." A rough-looking youth 
 Ann had identified as the leader caught her by the 
 wrist, and pulled her toward him, grinning. She 
 leaped back, ducked under his outstretched arm, and 
 wrenched herself free. The men about her fell back, 
 laughing and half good-natured, waiting to watch her 
 fight. She thought that she might take advantage of 
 this, and she tried to shake old Joseph into some 
 vitality, so that they might attempt a dash to safety, 
 but he was too terrified to understand. She could 
 only drag him after her, hopelessly, so she began to
 
 3 o6 THE CORTLANDTS 
 
 plead with the men nearest them; breathless and 
 desperate, she begged them to have mercy. Steadily 
 the little group, whirling on the edges, compressed in 
 the center, bore down the Square. Here and there 
 Ann caught a sympathetic look on a man's face and 
 felt that she was making some headway. They were 
 nearing her guardian's house when the leader of the 
 mob thrust his flushed face almost against her own; 
 without further preliminary he flung his arm about 
 her and said briefly, "You're coming with me." 
 
 She was horribly frightened now, but this unbe- 
 lievable thing was happening to her almost at the door 
 of her guardian's home; she was surrounded by the 
 houses of her friends, and she called loudly for help. 
 
 "Scream, go on, do," the man taunted her. 
 "There is no one in town can stop us. Give me a 
 kiss, my girl!" 
 
 Ann pushed him off feebly; her heart was beating 
 sickeningly, and she had almost stopped struggling, 
 when all at once she was conscious of a new element in 
 the crowd. There was confusion on its edge; some one 
 was hitting out wildly. In a moment she could see 
 that a man was pushing toward her; his fierce attack 
 had opened a wide lane in the tight pressed group and 
 almost before she realized that he was there, he was 
 at her side; he was white and breathless, but she had 
 a heartening realization of his courage. 
 
 "Is there a decent man in this gang?" he shouted. 
 "Stand by me, boys!" Two or three shamefaced vol- 
 unteers pushed their way to his side. "That's the
 
 RIOTS 307 
 
 ticket!" He turned to Ann. "Let the nigger go," 
 he said briefly. 
 
 She looked at him with wide and desperate eyes. 
 "I won't," she said. "That is my house, just there. 
 Can't we make it?" 
 
 He cast a brief glance at the distance. "Run for 
 it," he ordered, as with a savage kick he helped the 
 limp negro to regain his agility. 
 
 Ann thrust her arm through the old man's. Her 
 courage and her strength came flooding back to her 
 with the opportunity to escape. Joseph rolled desper- 
 ate eyes around him, and then, seeing that he was so 
 near home and safety, he tore himself from her grasp 
 and ran. The basement door was open, with Fanny's 
 frightened face behind it, and the fugitives fell into 
 the house, safe. The rioters flung themselves against 
 the stout oak door as the bolt shot into place. Ann 
 wasted no time on Fanny, who, terrified and half 
 fainting, seized her convulsively. She brushed her 
 aside with the panic-stricken cook, and ran tumultu- 
 ously up the basement steps. 
 
 "Where are you going?" Fanny called after her, 
 terrified. 
 
 Ann paused for an instant "You stand by the 
 door," she directed. "That man out there, he saved 
 my life ! Let him in when he comes." And without 
 waiting for an answer she hurried on, lame, breathless, 
 and often stumbling, up the long, cruelly steep stairs 
 to her uncle's room. There, in the drawer of the table 
 by Mr. Cortlandt's bed, she found what she wanted.
 
 3 o8 THE CORTLANDTS 
 
 It was a revolver, blue black and heavy in her hand. 
 She was breathing so hard that she had to wait for 
 just an instant before she opened the window in the 
 balcony overhanging the Square. Down below her the 
 fight was still going on; the dust arose about it in 
 clouds, half obliterating the combatants. For a mo- 
 ment she could not see her protector, and cold terror 
 gripped her until she discovered him, where the knot 
 of men was thickest. The attack on the door had been 
 abandoned for the more exciting event of mauling 
 the girl's champion. 
 
 Ann had never fired a revolver, and her hands 
 were trembling so that even when she used both, the 
 long muzzle swept the crowd in wide curves. "If I 
 shoot straight, I shall probably kill him," she reflected 
 grimly, as she pulled very hard indeed, and managed 
 to fire. The revolver kicked, and the charge went 
 high over the heads of the rioters; the report 
 seemed to her louder even than those that had burst 
 about her at Gettysburg. It had an instantly calming 
 effect. There was a general tendency to fall back, and 
 every face turned toward her as she stood, armed, in 
 her balcony. Her unknown champion took advantage 
 of the lull to shake off his assailants, and to push to- 
 ward the house. She did not dare fire down into the 
 crowd for fear of hitting him ; so she waited. Stones 
 began to fall about her; she dodged a particularly 
 vicious one and heard the window behind her crash 
 into bits. The crowd was recovering from its panic, 
 and she peered over the balcony to see what was
 
 RIOTS 309 
 
 happening to her protector. He was just below her, 
 engaging two or three of the roughs at once, but ob- 
 viously losing ground, so she fired again, deliberately, 
 directly down into the crowd. No one seemed to be 
 hurt, but she could not be sure, so she leaned over 
 the rail to look. In her agitation she dropped her 
 pistol and it crashed heavily into the upturned face 
 of the young leader of the rioters; he went down 
 without a sound, and his followers drew back. Ann 
 saw the stranger leap for the basement door and heard 
 it slam behind him. A shower of stones fell about 
 her and she was conscious of a sharp pain in her hand 
 as she ducked down hastily and went back through the 
 window into the house, where the terrified servants 
 were closing shutters behind the shattered windows. 
 The whole neighborhood echoed with the sounds of 
 blows upon the doors. It was fortunate for the fugi- 
 tives that this was the first day of mob fighting; when 
 confronted with the actual demolishing of property, 
 the leaders hung back, and a more peaceably inclined 
 man on the outskirts urged that the house belonged to 
 Hendricks Cortlandt, "him who built the Old Folk's 
 Home." 
 
 The leader staggered up unsteadily; Mr. Cortlandt's 
 revolver lay at his feet. He looked at it covetously 
 and then picked it up; it was not a bad prize to have 
 won. 
 
 "Well," he said, "even the rich ain't all alike. 
 We'll let this nigger go, and get us another one some- 
 where else."
 
 3 io THE CORTLANDTS 
 
 The women, palpitating at a crack in the shutters, 
 could scarcely believe their eyes when they saw the 
 crowd move off. They had all expected the worst. 
 
 In the meantime Ann's champion lay where he had 
 fallen when he had staggered into the house. From 
 one blue trousers leg a bright red stain was slowly 
 spreading, wet and ominous. When Ann came down 
 the stairs and saw him, she gasped sharply and the 
 color went out of her lips. "Did I shoot him?" she 
 asked, agonized. 
 
 The man managed to lift his head. "Don't you 
 fret," he murmured. "It's an old wound. I'm just 
 out of hospital." Then he dropped again, and lay, 
 limp and white, on the basement floor. 
 
 Ann sent Fanny flying for her guardian's whisky, 
 and the cook to boil water for bottles to put at her 
 new patient's feet, while she cut away his blood soaked 
 trousers leg. She found that the bleeding came from 
 a gash above the knee, which was only half healed, 
 and had, obviously, reopened; it was a comparatively 
 simple matter for her to stop the bleeding, and to 
 dress the wound with towels torn into strips. The 
 stranger did not regain consciousness, but his pulse 
 was fairly strong, so when she had finished with his 
 dressings Ann risked moving him to the bedroom floor. 
 She routed old Joseph from the cellar, where, on re- 
 gaining his safety, he had taken refuge, and the old 
 man and the women managed to carry the limp body 
 of Ann's rescuer up-stairs to the guest room, where
 
 RIOTS 31 r 
 
 the cook cut his clothes away, and dressed him in a 
 nightshirt of Mr. Cortlandt's. 
 
 When Ann bent over him she found something 
 hauntingly familiar in his lean face, bearded only 
 sparsely, and well below the high cheek-bones; she 
 thought that she might have seen him in a hospital 
 somewhere. She gave him a tablespoonful of whisky 
 and in a moment he opened his eyes and looked at 
 her. He smiled and his lips parted. She bent to 
 hear, impersonally, as she had so often done in the 
 hospitals. 
 
 "Annie Byrne," the young man murmured, please<L 
 And then, "Kiss me again, Annie, do!"
 
 CHAPTER XXIV 
 
 HENDRICKS AND PETER 
 
 ANN closed the guest room door behind her with a 
 careful hand, for almost immediately after his recog- 
 nition of her, her patient had dropped into a profound 
 sleep. She knew him, too, now, and chuckled to her- 
 self at the extraordinary turns her life took. She 
 faced on the threshold, a transfigured Fanny. The 
 gentle creature's eyes blazed ; her lips were dead white. 
 
 "Ann," she demanded, "when did you kiss that 
 man?" The hostility in her low voice made Ann 
 look at her in amazement. 
 
 "What man?" her uncertainty was genuine. 
 
 "Oh!" murmured Fanny, "don't you even notice it 
 when you kiss a man, and you engaged to Hen- 
 dricks?" 
 
 Ann laughed; in her relief at her escape and her 
 champion's safety, she felt extraordinarily light- 
 hearted, and possibly a little light-headed, too. "We 
 can eliminate Hendricks," she said carelessly. 
 
 Fanny put out her hands in a touchingly blind ges- 
 ture. They gripped a chair-back hard, while her eyes 
 never left Ann's face. "What do you mean?" she 
 whispered, an uplift of hope trembling in her voice. 
 
 "It is all over between Hendricks and me, Fanny. 
 I have written to tell him so." 
 
 "Oh," cried Fanny, indignation engulfing every 
 312
 
 HENDRICKS AND PETER 313 
 
 other sensation. "You have jilted him! Jilted Hen- 
 dricks while he is at the front!" 
 
 Ann nodded soberly. "Yes," she said, "and a good 
 thing for him, too." 
 
 She had been wondering how she could make her 
 case so that the relations would understand, and sud- 
 denly Fanny said the whole thing in five shattering 
 words, "You have never loved him!" 
 
 "No," Ann confessed flatly. She added, in quick 
 entreaty, "But, oh, Fanny, I've tried to I" 
 
 "Tried to," repeated Fanny, wondering, "tried to 
 love Hendricks." Her dove's eyes were starry. 
 
 "It was no good, I couldn't make myself." 
 
 "I suppose there is no more use trying to make one's 
 self love, than there is to try to stop loving," the 
 other commented simply. 
 
 "Fanny," Ann ventured, her eyes filled with unac- 
 customed tears, "I've been so unhappy!" 
 
 Fanny's soft heart almost betrayed her. "You must 
 have been," she said gently. Her hand fluttered to- 
 ward Ann's. Just in time she snatched it back. "But 
 Hendricks !" she cried. "How unhappy he will be !" 
 
 "Not really," Ann protested. "I would have made 
 him miserable, if we had married. ... I am 
 everything he doesn't approve of. You know that, 
 Fanny! Even if I had gone on pretending all my 
 life, he wouldn't have been satisfied. Hendricks should 
 marry some one entirely different from me, some one 
 softer, gentler, some one who wouldn't shock him, 
 demand things he hasn't of him, some one very
 
 314 THE CORTLANDTS 
 
 yielding and sweet, some one like like you, Fanny !" 
 Suddenly she took in the other's tremulous confusion: 
 her eyes widened as they dwelt on the other girl's 
 crimsoning face. "Fanny Cortlandt," she cried, "you 
 are in love with him yourself!" 
 
 Fanny's little hands crept up over her telltale cheeks. 
 All her pitiful defenses were stormed. "I couldn't 
 help it, Ann," she murmured miserably. 
 
 Ann looked at her in wonder; an unwilling admira- 
 tion for her friend's steadfastness was borne in upon 
 her. "In love like that," she marveled, "and with 
 Hendricks!" 
 
 Fanny flared at once. "You mustn't speak of him 
 in that way! He is too good for you! It's he who 
 should have jilted you, Ann Byrne!" 
 
 Ann nodded humbly. "I wish he had," she said, 
 and sighed. "It would have been so much simpler." 
 
 "Do you love any one else?" 
 
 Quite unbidden Ann's mind leaped to Avezzana; 
 for an instant she had a clear vision of his slim figure, 
 and his disquieting gaze. "I don't know," she said, 
 confused. 
 
 Fanny jerked her head toward the door. "That 
 private? That man in there?" 
 
 Ann laughed. "Peter?" 
 
 "Is that his name?" 
 
 "It is all I know of his name. I used to go to 
 school with him in Milton Center, but I haven't seen 
 him since." She disposed of him thus lightly. 
 
 "He saved your life," Fanny interposed sternly.
 
 HENDRICKS AND PETER '315 
 
 "I know. He was awfully brave. But almost all 
 men are brave, Fanny. War makes you realize that." 
 
 Fanny nodded ; it was impossible for her to remain 
 disapproving. Her shining eyes betrayed her sudden 
 joyousness, and Ann laughed as she flung her long 
 arms about her and kissed her. They each drew back 
 from this unaccustomed caress, embarrassed, all at 
 once, by the complete frankness of their understanding. 
 
 Suddenly a bell pealed through the house and Ann 
 ran to lean over the stair rail. "I think Joseph is 
 afraid to go," she called back to Fanny. The bell 
 rang again, a quick impatient jangle, and she gathered 
 her floating skirts about her. "See if it waked him," 
 she said, nodding over her shoulder at the wounded 
 man's room, and as Fanny started to obey her, she ran 
 down to open the door. 
 
 She could see, outlined against the clouded glass 
 pane, a shape that was somehow familiar. There was 
 something about it that made her vaguely uneasy, 
 perhaps it was the set of the military cap which dis- 
 turbed her, but she was in no way prepared for the 
 revelation she had when she opened the door. "Hen- 
 dricks!" she gasped, clinging weakly to the big silver 
 knob. And Hendricks it was, big, impressive, and 
 quite evidently indignant. 
 
 "Well, Ann?" he boomed at her, startled at her 
 sudden appearance. "I wonder that you can look me 
 in the face." 
 
 "Hendricks, here in New York! Come in; we 
 shall all be so glad to see you!" She was talking
 
 3 i6 THE CORTLANDTS 
 
 nervously, and pulling him toward the library. She 
 wanted to settle with him before Fanny knew that he 
 was there, for she guessed that a scene was inevit- 
 able. She was not surprised when he pulled the li- 
 brary door to behind him, with a crash that shook the 
 house. 
 
 "You've had my note," she said. 
 
 "Yes! That's why I'm here, taking a leave at a 
 time like this!" he stormed. "Ann!" he looked at her, 
 shrinking, guilty and sorry, and his wrath melted. 
 "Say you didn't mean it, Ann," he pleaded. 
 
 "I wish I could, Hendricks! Oh, my dear, I wish 
 I could, but I am through with pretending! I don't 
 love you, Hendricks. I wish I did, but I don't." 
 
 "But I love you so much." 
 
 "I know. I don't see how you can. You hate 
 everything I do, you know, Hendricks." 
 
 "But I've always thought that I would change all 
 that, once we were married." 
 
 "It wouldn't have happened that way." 
 
 "I don't care. You can do anything you want, 
 Knn, if you won't throw me over." 
 
 "It is no use, Hendricks. I hate myself, but that 
 doesn't make me love you." 
 
 Suddenly all Hendricks' stalwart masculine impres- 
 siveness broke up before the girl's startled gaze. He 
 looked at her with eyes which were quite obviously 
 filling with tears, and as he swung sharply away, a 
 great sob horrified her. She clenched her hands tight 
 to keep from comforting him, as he stood with his
 
 HENDRICKS AND PETER 317 
 
 head down on his arm, at the empty fireplace. "I am 
 sorry," she kept repeating futilely. "I'm so sorry." 
 
 It seemed a long time before he straightened, and 
 faced her with more dignity than he had ever shown 
 her. "What am I going to do with my life?" he de- 
 manded. He blew his nose with a desperation that 
 was somehow not at all ludicrous. 
 
 "Wonderful things, Hendricks!" She had a flashing 
 memory of him at Gettysburg. "Brave things!" 
 
 Hendricks, too, had a vision of battle, and the seek- 
 ing, questing, slaughter. "Thank God I have to go 
 back," he said gloomily. 
 
 This was too much for Ann. She ran to him, and 
 clasped both her hands about his arm. "Don't talk 
 like that I" she cried. "Don't!" 
 
 Hendricks .looked down steadily at her lifted face. 
 "I can't help kissing you if you do that," he said. 
 
 Swiftly she released her hold, flung her arms about 
 his neck, and drew his face down to hers. She kissed 
 him, with tender lips. "That's for good-by," she 
 whispered, and he whispered in return, "You never 
 were so sweet." 
 
 It was terrible : it was beyond her worst dreams of 
 parting. She struggled to hold fast to her resolve; 
 she recalled, wildly, a gaze as desperate and more 
 darkly compelling; she remembered Fanny. . . . 
 Fanny ! "Hendricks," she said eagerly, "listen to me. 
 There is something I must tell you." 
 
 "Don't tell me that you love some one else!" He 
 put up his arm as if to fend off a blow.'
 
 THE CORTLANDTS 
 
 "No. Some one else loves you." 
 
 "Some one loves me? What of it?" 
 
 "This; she adores you! She has always loved 
 you, Hendricks! If I had never stumbled into your 
 life you would have married her, I know. She is so 
 sweet, so pretty! I don't see how you could ever 
 have looked at me, when she was here." She cast 
 about her for a compelling reason to bring interest to 
 Hendricks' dull eyes. "She loves you so much," she 
 ended flatly. 
 
 "Who does?" he asked impatiently. 
 
 "Fanny." 
 
 "Fanny? Nonsense! Fanny! You must be mis- 
 taken, Ann. . . . Poor little Fanny! She has 
 always been fond of me, I know, but love? Well, 
 well, Fanny !" 
 
 Ann ached to be away from this atmosphere of des- 
 perate renunciation. "Think it over, Hendricks," she 
 said crisply, and, taking advantage of his bewilder- 
 ment, she slipped into the hall and closed the door be- 
 hind her with a heartening sensation of relief. "That's 
 done," she said clearly. 
 
 She stood for a moment, listening, and then she 
 turned to the stairs and her forgotten patient. 
 
 She found Fanny seated by the bed, endeavoring to 
 make trivial conversation with the raw-boned stranger, 
 and obviously glad to see her. In spite of all her 
 kindness Fanny could never carry off a conversation 
 with no foundations. "Who was it?" she asked.
 
 HENDRICKS AND PETER 319 
 
 Ann hesitated for an instant. "It is some one to 
 see you." 
 
 "To see me? A caller, and the city in this state? 
 Who is it, Ann?" 
 
 "I don't know. You had better go down." 
 
 The girl rose, somewhat flustered. She looked down 
 at her spreading pink checked skirts, "Am I all 
 right?" she demanded. 
 
 "Yes. . . . Wait a moment." Ann tucked in a 
 stray lock of Fanny's smooth hair. "You look sweet," 
 she murmured. 
 
 Her friend flushed brilliantly. "Don't be silly/' she 
 reproved her, with abashed eyes, as she stole away. 
 Ann, listening, could hear the light tap tap of her 
 heels as she hurried down the hall. 
 
 Peter lay looking at her with eager eyes. Meeting 
 them, she dragged herself back from the engrossing 
 solution of her personal problem, and went to sit be- 
 side him. . . . He was good-looking, in spite of 
 his rough beard, she decided, as his stern face softened 
 in a welcoming smile. 
 
 "Annie," he murmured. "Well, well !" 
 
 "How strange that it should have been you who 
 saved me, Peter." 
 
 "Strange? I don't know: I have always thought 
 about you a lot, anyway." 
 
 "You have?" 
 
 "Yes. You see your mother's marriage was the 
 most interesting thing that ever happened in Milton
 
 320 THE CORTLANDTS 
 
 Center. I was coming over here to take a look at 
 the house where you lived, when you happened 
 along." 
 
 "Are you badly hurt? I can't send the servants 
 for a doctor with the streets in this condition, but I'll 
 go myself, if you need one." 
 
 Peter's chin, already noticeable, squared itself ag- 
 gressively above his sheets. "You keep off the 
 streets," he said definitely. "I'm all right ! I haven't 
 got my strength back, that's all, and somebody kicked 
 my bad leg." 
 
 "I'm sorry. It was all my fault. You must stay 
 here until you are well again. How long a leave have 
 you?" 
 
 "Indefinite. I can't go back. They say I'll always 
 limp, if I walk much." 
 
 "What a pity." 
 
 "Yes, I'd like to see the fighting through, of course." 
 
 "You need a good rest, just out of hospital." 
 
 Peter nodded. "I've never loafed in my life, but 
 now I'm planning to go to Milton Center to stay with 
 my sister until I'm fit to work again. . . . It's 
 four years since I've been back there." 
 
 "Where do you live?" 
 
 "Chicago. I was running a machine shop out there 
 when the war began. Got it paid for, too, and was 
 just beginning to make a little money of my own. 
 . . . Kind of hard luck. . . . But I can pick up 
 my business when I go back. I've managed to keep 
 the rent up out of my army pay."
 
 HENDRICKS AND PETER 321 
 
 "What does one do in a machine shop, Peter?" 
 
 Peter laughed. "A little of everything. Mending 
 things, mostly. I used to do that before I left Milton 
 Center. I worked for a while in the blacksmith shop 
 there, and I kept that sewing-machine you sent Mrs. 
 Allen the first Christmas after you went, in order. I 
 suppose if I fixed it once I fixed it a hundred times," 
 he added reflectively. 
 
 "That's a funny business, mending." 
 
 "Well, I make things too, invent 'em." 
 
 "You had better talk to uncle about that. Some- 
 times he buys inventions." 
 
 "He won't buy mine! I'm goin' to have the fun 
 of developing my own ideas. I'd be further along 
 now, except I've had responsibilities. My mother was 
 sick for years, an' then my sister's husband turned out 
 wrong, an' I've had her and her little girl, but he was 
 killed at Fredericksburg, an* left her with life in- 
 surance, not much, but enough. My mother died 
 last year, and I'm free for the first time in my life, 
 free, and in a growing town." 
 
 "It sounds exciting. If I had stayed in Milton. 
 Center I should have been sorry I wasn't a man, so 
 that I might have worked with you." 
 
 "If you had stayed in Milton Center I should proba- 
 bly be sorry you weren't a man, too. I've got no time 
 to fall in love." 
 
 Ann laughed, but she flushed under this backhanded 
 compliment. 
 
 "You have never been back ?" Peter asked.
 
 322 THE CORTLANDTS 
 
 "To Milton Center? No." 
 
 "Kind of mean of you." Ann looked at him ques- 
 tioningly. "Mrs. Allen thought a sight of you and 
 your mother." 
 
 "I suppose she did." 
 
 "Of course everybody knows that you, or your rich 
 relations, sent her money every month, but she'd have 
 enjoyed a sight of you before she died. She used to 
 talk about you sometimes to me; I liked to hear about 
 the way you lived. This man Cortlandt is the kind of 
 man I'm going to be, some day." 
 
 Ann laughed involuntarily. "Like Uncle Hen- 
 dricks?" she cried incredulously. 
 
 A dull red burned on Peter's hollow cheeks. "You 
 wait and see," was all he said.
 
 CHAPTER XXV 
 
 COMPANIONSHIP 
 
 PETER SMITH remained almost a month in the 
 Washington Square house, as Mrs. Cortlandt refused 
 to let him go until he was entirely recovered. She 
 made a great fuss over him, professing that he had 
 saved, not merely Ann, but also her own Fanny, and, 
 incidentally, the entire Cortlandt house and posses- 
 sions, from the violence of the mob. She had his leg 
 attended to by the best doctor in New York, and she 
 fed him up with dainties until his lean cheeks took on 
 a softer outline. 
 
 She sat for hours by his bedside, talking conde- 
 scendingly to him about things of which he knew 
 nothing, and at dinner she would say to the two girls, 
 "The most amazing thing about the war is the way it 
 makes people democratic!" She was, nevertheless, 
 inclined to keep rather a rigid chaperonage over 
 Fanny's and Ann's interviews with the invalid. "You 
 never can tell," she said wisely to them, "with people 
 like that." 
 
 For the first few days Peter was in the house, Ann 
 slept most of the time. Gettysburg left her exhausted; 
 all she wanted to do was to lie, placid, happy and utter- 
 ly relaxed, between her cool linen sheets. When she 
 was about again, the riots were a thing of the past, and 
 Hendricks had returned to his regiment. Her life was 
 
 323
 
 324 THE CORTLANDTS 
 
 suddenly drained of excitement. The family doctor, 
 who had advised a week in bed, now insisted on a va- 
 cation from her work in the hospitals, and for once 
 Ann was willing to obey. She had literally nothing to 
 do, and was glad of it, as she felt strangely languid 
 and foolishly content. She liked to talk to Peter ; she 
 had an extraordinary sense of kinship with him. Per- 
 haps it was because of their bond of early association, 
 no one else knew the surroundings from which she 
 had sprung, or possibly it was a deeper thing than 
 that, a mutual recognition of fundamental qualities in 
 each other. She found that she was able to talk to him 
 of her work in the hospitals, and of all that ghastly 
 week at Gettysburg, with a freedom she had before 
 known only when with her guardian. In return he told 
 her all about the war from a private soldier's view- 
 point a vastly different war, Ann found, than it was 
 when seen through the eyes of an officer. . . . They 
 talked of her mother, too. It seemed that Peter re- 
 tained the clearest memory of her sweet perfection; 
 that she had been a sort of fairy princess to him, in his 
 little boyhood. 
 
 "The day we heard her boat had sunk," he told 
 Ann, "I hid up in the hayloft, and cried. . . . It's 
 . the last time I ever did such a thing." 
 
 "I wish I had known that, down here in New York. 
 It would have helped a lot" 
 
 "It's a good thing you left Milton Center," Peter 
 assured her. "There's nothing there for any one with
 
 COMPANIONSHIP 325 
 
 a scrap of ambition. It isn't big enough. I'm glad 
 I got out when I did; I was getting on all right, but, 
 you see, there was a limit to it. ... There's no 
 limit in Chicago, not yet. ... In the beginning 
 out there, I had a pretty hard time to get on my feet, 
 but I was never sorry I went, even when I was hungry. 
 A man has a chance in Chicago: I'll be a big man 
 before I get through out there. You'll see." 
 
 He thrust his head forward. There was an eager, 
 seeking look in his eyes; he might have been a poet 
 hailing an inspiration, and, so stimulated, he was sud- 
 denly glorified. Ann realized, all at once, that she 
 had been wrong in thinking him a plain man. There 
 was beauty in the lift of his head, and in the wistful 
 lines of his jaw. He recalled vividly the little boy 
 she had known; he brought her childhood before her, 
 and it became momentarily a vital part of her life. 
 She smiled tremulously into his lit eyes, and he started 
 violently. Lost in his dream, he had forgotten all 
 about her. 
 
 "You care very much, don't you ?" she asked gently. 
 
 He laughed, with sudden harshness. "Care? 
 That's a soft word. I'm ambitious, I suppose; I'm 
 determined to get out of the kind of life I've lived. 
 I'm going to work hard enough to earn the right to 
 have other men work for me, and then I'll do some- 
 thing big. ... If this war had come ten years 
 later, do you think I'd have been a private? No, 
 I'd have outfitted a company and gone in a captain,
 
 326 THE CORTLANDTS 
 
 like your Renneslyer. ... In the ranks! . . . 
 I'm going to get out of the ranks, do you hear me, 
 clear out, in front of 'em." 
 
 "Well, don't shout so. It's too hot" Sinn's voice 
 was cool, but her gray eyes rested softly on him. 
 She liked the fine sweep of his ambition. "I wonder," 
 she said, "what I'll be doing, while you're getting rich 
 and powerful." 
 
 Peter broke off in mid-flight ; his look of inspiration 
 suddenly drooped, and his eyes were hungry as they 
 searched her face. "Oh," he said, "you'll be marrying 
 some lucky man." 
 
 "I suppose so." Her voice was indifferent; the 
 prospect seemed remote. 
 
 Peter talked no more that afternoon; instead he lay 
 very still, watching Ann with somber eyes. For once, 
 she welcomed Mrs. Cortlandt, when that lady came 
 bustling in. 
 
 When the invalid began to get about, Fanny and 
 Ann drove with him around the city, showing him 
 the places of interest, and listening to his disparage- 
 ment of them, in comparison with the extraordinary 
 frontier phenomena of Chicago. Fanny, innately a 
 New Yorker, remained tranquil under these disclo- 
 sures, and turned a pitying smile upon the provincial 
 young man, but Ann, who, it must be confessed, did 
 her best to follow her friend's lead, was unable to stifle 
 a faint suspicion that there might possibly be some- 
 thing in what Peter said. She knew, however, that 
 the thought was unworthy of her.
 
 COMPANIONSHIP 327 
 
 "It is a pity there is no opera in the summer-time," 
 Fanny said one day. "It would be nice if you could 
 have an opportunity to hear one, now that you are in. 
 New York." 
 
 "Oh, I've heard opera in Chicago," Peter assured 
 her. "The year before the war, we had four different 
 companies, a couple of weeks each one. I went once, 
 to La Somnambula. I didn't like it, though; I'll have 
 to admit that. It was at Metropolitan Hall. You've 
 nothing finer than that in New York, at least, not 
 much finer." 
 
 But it made no difference what he said, Fanny was 
 impervious. 
 
 One afternoon just before he left Washington 
 Square, Ann and Peter drove alone; the day was 
 sultry, so they decided to go to Battery Park in search 
 of a sea breeze. They were both a trifle uplifted at 
 getting rid of Fanny's determined loquaciousness, but 
 without her they were rather silent as they drove 
 through the miles of arid streets, lined with conserva- 
 tive houses. Now and then the girl pointed out the 
 dwelling of a friend, but for the most part they lay 
 languidly back against the cushions; under her wide 
 hat brim Ann's eyes were dark shadowed, and Peter's 
 face was white, above his close brown beard. It was 
 really very hot. 
 
 At the park entrance, Peter insisted that they get 
 out, and walk over to the shore. Ann protested a 
 little, smilingly, but finally she lifted her flounced and 
 flowered muslin clear of the wheels, climbed down the
 
 -328 THE CORTLANDTS 
 
 precarious folding steps of the barouche, and allowed 
 him to lead her across the strip of lawn to where the 
 river flowed magnificently past them to the near-by 
 jsea, A faint breeze from the ocean drifted tentatively 
 ;over to them, now and then, and Ann sniffed it de- 
 lightedly. 
 
 , - "Delicious," she said. "Let's sit here for a while." 
 Peter found her an iron chair, and he sprawled at her 
 feet, looking up at her intently. She took off her hat 
 with the raking brim, and sat smoothing the ends of 
 a lace barbe that trimmed it; her eyes were intent on 
 her caressing fingers, her chignon shone in the sun- 
 light. In the opening of her collar her throat was 
 very white, as white as her forehead, under her 
 parted hair. 
 
 They sat there for some time; Ann watched the 
 shadows of the trees in the park grow longer, while 
 the late afternoon colors stole into the sky, and Peter 
 watched Ann. Afterward she could not have told what 
 they had talked about, but she remembered that steady 
 disconcerting look. Much of the time they said noth- 
 ing at all, but a realization that she should miss Peter 
 was borne in on her. She felt very miserable, and 
 she wondered if this time, too, it would be many years 
 before she saw him again; she wished that she might 
 keep him near her always, a comfortable companion. 
 "Life," she said at length, "is horrid." 
 
 "Yes." Peter sat suddenly upright and clasped his 
 hands around his sound knee. He turned his gaze, 
 with something of an effort, from the girl's face to
 
 COMPANIONSHIP 329 
 
 the rolling river. "No matter how carefully he plans, 
 a man is always a fool." 
 
 She nodded. "Yes, just like a woman." 
 
 Peter remained somber. "I had it all planned out 
 I was going to let all this alone, you know, until I 
 was about forty-five, and had time for it." 
 
 "Time for what?" 
 
 "Love." 
 
 Ann's eyes widened, and she straightened in her 
 iron chair. It was the first time the word had been 
 spoken by either of them, and now it lay like a gage 
 between them. "We'd better be going home," she 
 murmured. "It must be supper time." She didn't 
 want Peter to make love to her; she didn't want any- 
 thing to spoil the perfect companionship of the past 
 four weeks. 
 
 He made no effort to detain her. It was not until 
 they were going up the steps of the Washington 
 Square house that he spoke again. "I'm about twenty 
 years ahead of my schedule," he said cryptically. 
 
 Ann did not ask him to explain.
 
 CHAPTER XXVI 
 
 A PROPOSAL 
 
 PETER'S departure made an enormous gap in Ann's 
 life, and she turned confidently to Fanny to fill it. 
 She wanted a good gossip about Hendricks, but to 
 her surprise, she found her friend singularly elusive. 
 Mrs. William gave her to understand that the cousins 
 had been together almost constantly while Hendricks 
 was at home, but beyond that Fanny's mother was for 
 once uncommunicative. She turned a ready purple 
 with resentment at the upstart's treatment of her 
 nephew, but at the same time the culprit fancied that 
 she rejoiced in it. At any rate, Ann thought, Mrs. 
 William's opinion made no difference, it was her 
 uncle's judgment of the matter which she awaited 
 with impatience. 
 
 By the time it came she had grown accustomed to 
 the monotony of a life shorn of emotion. She liked 
 the long unpunctuated days of late summer. The sight 
 of the foreign envelope filled her with a strange dread ; 
 subconsciously she feared a reawakening. 
 
 Paris, August 29th, 1863. 
 MY DEAR ANN: 
 
 I have received three letters in my last week's mail 
 and I may say that their contents astonish me. I 
 feel an old man and a sad one, after reading them. 
 My sister's-in-law I will not dwell on. She wrote 
 
 330
 
 A PROPOSAL 331 
 
 me at length of your trip to Gettysburg, and while, 
 at this distance, it seems an unnecessary thing to have 
 undertaken, I feel that I am too far away for judg- 
 ment I can only be glad you are safe at home again 
 and thankful that Hendricks is spared to us. 
 
 Your letter told me of your final resolution to break 
 with my nephew. I can not say that I am surprised, 
 particularly in the light of later events. 
 
 "What events?" Ann murmured, at a loss to under- 
 stand. 
 
 I will not conceal from you the fact that I am dis- 
 appointed. I had hoped that, as time and the war 
 went on, you might become attached to him; if, how- 
 ever, you can not care for him, you are right in refus- 
 ing to marry. I have written him, and should tell 
 you that I told him he will share equally with you in 
 my property. It seems to me but fair to reward in 
 this way, his fine accomplishments as a soldier, and 
 you will, please God, have enough with but half. 
 
 And now, to the more serious matter of the other 
 letter. You have never, in your letters, mentioned 
 knowing- a Count Avezzana, and yet he writes me for 
 permission to ask your hand in marriage. 
 
 Ann gasped, and hastily reread this amazing state- 
 ment, plainly written in her guardian's fine legible 
 hand. 
 
 He writes me for permission to ask your hand in 
 marriage, and, what is more, he states his belief that 
 you will not prove indifferent to his suit This I 
 can not tell, but as he begs me, reasonably enough, 
 owing to the fact that his mission necessitates his ex-
 
 332 THE CORTLANDTS 
 
 peditious return to Italy, to allow him to approach 
 you at once, you may confirm or deny it in person. 
 
 I have, at his suggestion, made inquiries in regard 
 to him at the Italian Embassy here. I find him to be 
 a member of an important Italian family, and per- 
 sonally a favorite of the king. He should, I am told, 
 go far. He has a palazzo in Rome, at present unten- 
 able for a supporter of Victor Emmanuel, a more 
 modest establishment in Milan, and an ancient country 
 place in Piedmont, where he was born. 
 
 I can hear only good things of him, but you must 
 remember that he is a native of Europe, where the 
 customs and the ideals differ greatly from those you 
 have known. However, if your feelings for him are 
 of a sufficiently affectionate nature, these differences 
 may be overcome. There are examples of such happy 
 marriages. I am greatly hampered by not being able 
 to talk with you, and by your lack of frankness when 
 writing me. All depends on your feelings toward this 
 young man. I am prepared to receive him as your 
 husband if that is your wish, and I must tell you that 
 you would be making what the world calls a brilliant 
 marriage. 
 
 I will not dwell on what your permanent residence 
 in Italy would mean to me. I am, you must re- 
 member, an old man, with my life behind me. You 
 must not consider me in making your decision, except, 
 I beg of you, to this extent. Count Avezzana must 
 soon return to Italy, and he asks, if you accede to his 
 proposal, that you will marry him before he leaves 
 America and accompany him to Europe. I have his 
 letter here "In the present deplorably disturbed con- 
 ditions in my country it may well be years before I 
 can again return to North America. Until Italy is 
 united my place is there." It seems, therefore, my
 
 A PROPOSAL 333 
 
 dear Ann, that if you are to marry this young man, 
 it must be done speedily, and in that case it will be 
 impossible for me to be present. I find it difficult to 
 believe that the ceremony would be legal without my 
 presence, but such are the sad necessities of war. 
 My work here is incomplete, and I have advices from 
 the president begging me to remain indefinitely, as he 
 is kind enough to believe me to be somewhat success- 
 ful in my efforts to make public opinion for the North- 
 ern States. Therefore, if I may not take part in your 
 wedding ceremony, I may, at least, share a day or two 
 of your honeymoon. I shall await you in Paris with 
 the liveliest anticipations. 
 
 My dear Ann, be sure to act with deliberation and 
 foresight to the end that your best happiness may be 
 preserved. I am writing to the Count Avezzana, giv- 
 ing him my permission to pay you his attentions. 
 Your affectionate uncle, 
 
 HENDRICKS CORTLANDT. 
 
 For a time after reading her letter Ann sat, 
 stunned, without movement and almost without 
 thought. The whole thing was too preposterous to 
 grasp all at once, and her first feeling toward Avez- 
 zana was indignation at his having so needlessly 
 disturbed her guardian. 
 
 "Marriage !" she exclaimed aloud. "A stranger like 
 that!" She went to the window to cool her flushed 
 face, and standing there overlooking the familiar- 
 Square, she summoned back her dimming memories 
 of the Italian. Indubitably, he was a romantic figure, 
 more darkly beautiful than any other man she had 
 seen, and with something unknown and alien about
 
 334 THE CORTLANDTS 
 
 him. . . . He had been very good to her; sh 
 recalled her awakening in the cottage, with Avezzana's 
 eyes upon her, and the subsequent scene which had so 
 filled her with unreasoning panic, . . . She re- 
 membered him on the train, elaborate in his efforts to 
 save her from gossip. . . . He had asked for her 
 guardian's address. Now she knew why. . . . 
 How fantastic it all was ! . . . He had been brave, 
 too, there in the midst of the fighting. . . . And 
 Italy was a most lovely place, Densley had said it 
 was a paradise for lovers. . . . This was what 
 Densley would have wished for her, a marriage with 
 a romantic foreigner. ... It was strange how 
 remote her association with Densley seemed; only an 
 'irradicable impression of his sophisticated view-point 
 remained, and a gentle regret. ... It might have 
 been years ago that he had died. . . . And yet, 
 she thought, if she should consider Avezzana at all, it 
 would be because of Densley. . . . Life was a 
 queer business. . . . How could any one want to 
 marry her without knowing more of her? . . . 
 How did it go? . . . "For better for worse. 
 . . . Until death does us part?" . . . Still, it 
 was nice of him. ... A countess, too. Glamour 
 stole over her senses, and yet she was sad; she did 
 not know why. . . . Her guardian's acceptance 
 of the idea of her leaving him depressed her. . . . 
 It made her feel homeless and miserable. . . . To 
 her amazement, tears suddenly brimmed in her eyes. 
 She welcomed them in a luxury of emotionalism, and
 
 A PROPOSAL 335 
 
 flung herself face down across her bed. . . . Sobs 
 shook her, powerfully. 
 
 She was interrupted by a sharp knock on her door, 
 and Mrs. Cortlandt's flurried voice inquiring, "Ann, 
 who in the world is a Count Guido Mario Avezzana 
 inquiring for me, and for you?"
 
 CHAPTER XXVII 
 
 COURTSHIP 
 
 ANN stayed her sobs, and called tremulously, 
 "Count Avezzana? Down-stairs?" 
 
 "Yes, in the library. Who is he?" 
 
 "He was at Gettysburg, Aunt Emily." 
 
 "You must come down at once." 
 
 "I can't. It will take me a long time! You go 
 and see him, Aunt Emily, do." 
 
 "He asked for me, Ann. Naturally I shall go down. 
 But hurry." 
 
 Ann found it impossible to obey this command. She 
 wanted very much to see Avezzana; she was breath- 
 less at the thought of him below, waiting. She was 
 all on fire with curiosity as to what he would do next, 
 but at the same time she wanted to look her best when 
 she confronted him, lest he should regret his amazing 
 overtures. She ran to the glass and scrutinized her 
 face ; although she had only just begun to cry, her eyes 
 were undoubtedly rather red. "I look even worse than 
 I did in the train," she murmured discontentedly, as 
 she poured water into her wash basin. The cold was 
 delicious to her flushed face ; no one would ever know 
 she had been crying, she decided, when she looked in 
 the mirror again, after prolonged applications. She 
 lingered over her dresses, too, unable to decide which 
 one she should put on; she was determined that it 
 
 336
 
 COURTSHIP 337 
 
 should not be black, and finally she selected an apricot 
 green tissue, which she had worn in the spring before 
 she put on her mourning. In it she had a young and 
 vernal look that was undoubtedly charming. She had a 
 heartening conviction of it, herself. 
 
 As she stole down the stairs she could hear alter- 
 nately Mrs. Cortlandt's high voice, and Avezzana's 
 lower, more emotional tones. "What are they talking 
 about ?" Ann wondered, pausing midway on the steps. 
 She thought that they seemed to be getting on very 
 well without her, so when she went down the long 
 library to greet the young Italian officer she assumed 
 a little air of indifference. Avezzana sprang to his 
 feet at her coming and regarded her with intent eyes. 
 He was more beautiful than ever, and his uniform 
 was more splendid than the one he had worn on the 
 field. Under his look she was inclined to be some- 
 what uncomfortable, and when he bent to kiss her 
 hand she flinched visibly. It was impossible for her 
 to accept this salutation casually, and she felt self- 
 consciously that Mrs. Cortlandt's massive presence was 
 not the place for an amorous interlude. She sent her 
 a lightning glance under her eyelashes, but even before 
 Avezzana's head was lifted, Ann could see that Mrs. 
 Cortlandt had preserved an air of worldly complacence. 
 
 "Well," she thought unbidden, "I'll have to get 
 used to it, if I am going to live in Italy." 
 
 After that they conversed. The three of them sat 
 very upright in their chairs and went politely through 
 the topics of the day. Ann was amazed at herself;
 
 338 THE CORTLANDTS 
 
 she had not dreamed she had such reserves of conven- 
 tionalities. It seemed to her that hours passed before 
 Avezzana rose smartly to his feet, bowed, implanted a 
 kiss first on the exact diametrical back of Mrs. Cort- 
 landt's hand, and then on hers, and prepared to take 
 his departure. On his way to the door he paused, as 
 though struck with a sudden thought. 
 
 "The ambassador from my country will be in this 
 city on Wednesday. Would it, perhaps, prove amus- 
 ing to you, Signora, to meet him? If so I will 
 arrange a little dinner at the Fifth Avenue Hotel, 
 where I am stopping for, it is possible, a fortnight." 
 
 "A fortnight," thought Ann, with a flashing grin. 
 "He doesn't think it will take very long." However, an 
 ambassador; that was something! 
 
 She rejoined the conversation to hear Mrs. Cort- 
 landt accepting effusively for herself, Ann and Fanny. 
 "You are stopping at the hotel ;" she continued. "You 
 are, I have no doubt, comfortable there. We are very 
 proud of the Fifth Avenue, but after all, a hotel!" 
 She shrugged her plump shoulders scornfully. "It 
 would give me great pleasure if you would take dinner 
 with us on Sunday. I am only sorry that Mr. Cort- 
 landt is not here to make you welcome." Avezzana 
 accepted with every symptom of decorous delight, and 
 took his departure without more than a glance at Ann. 
 
 It was all entirely incomprehensible; had any one 
 except her guardian been involved, she would have 
 thought the whole thing a gigantic hoax. Mrs. Cort- 
 landt, however, was decidedly impressed.
 
 COURTSHIP 339 
 
 "Whatever he sees in you, Ann, I can not imagine," 
 she confided to the girl. "He is a charming young 
 man. Such beautiful manners! Such delightful 
 breeding !" Without going into it further Ann under- 
 stood that Mrs. Cortlandt had been informed of 
 Avezzana's intentions. 
 
 Fanny was greatly excited at the prospect of meet- 
 ing a genuine Italian count, for, in the 'sixties, titles 
 were a novelty in New York. She asked Ann a great 
 many questions about him, to which that young woman 
 replied dryly, "Oh, he is just a man, Fanny, like other 
 men, blacker, perhaps." 
 
 The Theodore Renneslyers came to the ceremonious 
 mid-Sunday dinner, miraculously reconciled to Ann. 
 Mrs. Renneslyer had not spoken to her since she had 
 jilted Hendricks, and his father, on the one or two 
 occasions when the girl had seen him, had been so 
 filled with kindly embarrassment in her company, that 
 she had minded it more than his wife's icy dis- 
 pleasure. She wondered what sort of a meal they 
 would have, all together with Avezzana, arid wished 
 nervously that she might be excluded from it, as she 
 had been in the rebellious days of her childhood. To 
 her amazement, when Mrs. Renneslyer came in, just 
 on the heels of the young Italian, she was full of a 
 pleasing, if shallow, affection toward her; and her 
 husband had returned gaily to his old lively comrade- 
 ship. It was as though nothing had happened to dis- 
 credit her with them. 
 
 Mrs. Renneslyer had bought herself new dresses on
 
 340 THE CORTLANDTS 
 
 abandoning her mourning, and she seemed, on this 
 bright September afternoon, to have returned miracu- 
 lously to her youth. She wore a filmy mauve frock, 
 covered with frothy little ruffles of white lace, and a 
 purple bonnet with pansies on the wide brim, which 
 poked forward over her vivacious face. Her waist 
 was perhaps a little thicker and her cheeks a trifle 
 pinker than they had been on the day, so long ago, 
 when Ann had first seen her, and if one were disagree- 
 able enough to look for them, one might possibly find, 
 in the shadow of her hat brim, a network of fine 
 wrinkles about the corners of her pretty eyes, but her 
 throat and her hands were as white as ever, while the 
 glossy ringlets that clustered under the wreath of 
 pansies on her hat were extraordinarily veracious. 
 
 Mrs. Cortlandt had asked no one else to dinner. 
 "Only the family/' she said archly to Avezzana, and 
 he had responded with a grave courtesy which Ann 
 thought made Mrs. William seem bourgeois. The talk 
 at the dinner was, however, quite brilliant. 
 
 Mrs. Renneslyer had been to Italy before her mar- 
 riage. "How can you bear to leave so beautiful a 
 place?" she demanded oratorically. "It was in the 
 spring when I was there, and there were roses every- 
 where, everywhere I assure you, Ann, and purple 
 flowers, great masses of them, I forget their name 
 
 "Bogomvelia," Avezzana affirmed, smiling. 
 
 "Yes, that's it. So sweet! Of course I was there 
 long before any one had heard of Garibaldi. I am 
 quite an old woman, you see ! I went down to Rome
 
 COURTSHIP 341 
 
 and was presented to the Pope. I had to wear a black 
 veil on my head, Fanny; it was really quite becoming, 
 and the Pope was very sweet to me, very. Oh, yes, 
 I loved Rome! I was a great success there, too. I 
 often wonder, Theodore, that I ever came back to New 
 York to marry you. There was such an attractive 
 man I met there! I wonder, Count Avezzana, if by 
 any chance you knew him? Of course by this time 
 he is probably a grandfather!" And then began a 
 long cataloguing of possible acquaintances, in which 
 Avezzana engaged himself vivaciously. 
 
 Ann wondered if the Italian were really amused 
 by it. It was impossible to tell, when watching him 
 from across the table. Now and then he glanced up, 
 and his black eyes dashed with her gray ones, 
 but there was nothing personal, nothing demanding, 
 in his look ; the man she had known in the little house 
 at Gettysburg had vanished so completely that she 
 thought her memory must have tricked her in regard 
 to him. As for her guardian's letter, she could only 
 believe that Avezzana had, by this time, changed his 
 mind in regard to her, for he had made no effort to 
 arrange for a glimpse of her between the Thursday 
 of his call and Sunday. In the drawing-room after 
 dinner, however, he asked her, choosing a moment 
 when she was protected by the presence of both the 
 aunts, if it would be a proper thing for him to do to 
 ask her to ride with him one afternoon. 
 
 "Quite, I should think," Ann said dryly. 
 
 Mrs. Renneslyer added smoothly, "In New York,
 
 342 THE CORTLANDTS 
 
 of course, we are not so rigid as you are in Europe; 
 young girls do many things I would prefer a daugh- 
 ter of mine didn't. But you have my permission, Ann, 
 to ride with Count Avezzana." 
 
 Ann grinned a little at that; then she recalled her 
 last ride with the Italian, and a slow flush burned up 
 in her cheeks, for the elaborate secrecy with which he 
 surrounded that episode was making her self-conscious. 
 It was arranged that they would go on the afternoon 
 before the count's dinner for the Italian ambassador, 
 but at noon of that day the heat broke in a sharp 
 thunder squall and a flood of rain, so that riding was 
 out of the question; Ann had an odd sense of relief at 
 postponing the tete-a-tete. 
 
 In the evening they all wore their best clothes; 
 when Mrs. William, Fanny and Ann drove through the 
 rain in the big Cortlandt carriage, it could scarcely 
 accommodate their flamboyant skirts. Ann was in 
 white, Fanny in pink, and Mrs. Cortlandt in plum 
 color. The older woman talked all the way of the 
 charms of their young host; his good looks, his bril- 
 liancy and his fine manners. Ann wondered what she 
 would be saying if she knew of the night in the little 
 cottage at Gettysburg. 
 
 "Nothing against him," she thought cynically, "but 
 probably a great deal against me!" 
 
 The dinner was a most impressive occasion. Avez- 
 zana had engaged a private dining-room in his hotel, 
 and had decorated the table lavishly with flowers,
 
 COURTSHIP 343 
 
 after the Italian fashion. He had secured distin- 
 guished company to meet his ambassador ; a general in 
 the Northern Army, whom he had met at Gettysburg, 
 an ex-minister to Italy from Wilmington, Delaware, 
 and an Italian capitalist from Chicago, a squat, fat, 
 swarthy man, who, when he talked at all, talked vol- 
 ubly of the possibilities of the fruit trade in America. 
 The ambassador proved to be delightful. He was a 
 fine-looking old man, with a white imperial and mus- 
 tache, and sharp black eyes with long, fierce, white 
 brows over them, which moved up and down franti- 
 cally when he talked. Ann liked him at once ; it would 
 have been impossible not to have done so, for he im- 
 mediately set about making himself pleasant, and she 
 was by no means proof against such flattering atten- 
 tion. She sat on his right, for Avezzana had placed the 
 aunts on either side of him, and she found herself de- 
 voting most of the evening to a discussion of her host. 
 
 "A charming boy," the ambassador said, smiling 
 indulgently across the table at Avezzana. "I knew his 
 father well, and his mother. Ah une bella Signora, 
 Signorina, and how she will enjoy you, so fresh, so 
 naive, so American !" His English was extraordinarily 
 fluent. "My young friend over there has a great life 
 before him. It will not be long, now, when my king 
 will have a united Italy ; there will be no more fighting, 
 no more wars. The young Guido then will be free 
 for politics, and he will go far." 
 
 Ann at this juncture made a feeble attempt to divert
 
 344 THE CORTLANDTS 
 
 the conversation into more abstract channels, but the 
 ambassador would have none of it. "His family 
 jewels!" he exclaimed, apropos of nothing, "such 
 pearls ! But pearls are too dull for you. I have seen 
 his grandmother's diamond earrings, which wait for 
 Avezzana's bride; there is a tiara, too." His glance 
 traveled to the top of Ann's shining head and rested 
 there until she felt uncomfortably naked; she had 
 never seen a tiara, to be sure, but her instinct told her 
 the place for one. "And his houses. Do you like the 
 country, Signorina?" 
 
 "Ye-es," said Ann. "Pretty well." She had in mind 
 the little white farm-house in Milton Center. 
 
 "Ah, until you have seen Piedmont you have not 
 seen the country! A beautiful old castle, Signorina, 
 stone everywhere, inside and out; therefore, even in 
 midsummer, you have never the heat like this. Such 
 gardens! Such flowers! Such fruits! In America 
 you have no idea of fruits in spite of what our friend 
 yonder is at this moment engaged in saying, by way 
 of endearing himself to your so charming aunt, Mrs. 
 Renneslyer. . . . And the moonlight on the ter- 
 race on a May night, Signorina, even your cold 
 American heart could not withstand that !" 
 
 "What does one do in the country in Italy?" Ann 
 demanded lucidly. 
 
 "There is hunting, my dear young lady. You should 
 see the Count Avezzana returning from the chase 
 
 Ann interrupted him ruthlessly, quite regardless of
 
 COURTSHIP 345 
 
 the fact that he was an ambassador. "No, I mean 
 what do the women do ?" 
 
 The ambassadorial eyebrows flew up and down with 
 extraordinary rapidity. "Oh," he said, "the ladies! 
 Our sunlight, Signorina! To sit in it is Heaven! 
 The ladies have always a parasol of some beautiful 
 color ; they make pictures, so, which a man remembers. 
 They gather the flowers, too, and instruct the gardeners 
 as to the fruits, and of course, Signorina, they talk, 
 in more languages, perhaps, than in this, your country, 
 but the context is the same, for our ladies are no 
 different in that respect from ladies all over the world." 
 He laughed, secure in the humor of his little joke, and 
 added, "And of course they have their devotions, 
 their charities." 
 
 "In the cities," Ann continued definitely, "what do 
 they do there?" 
 
 The ambassador leaned back in his chair and ex- 
 panded his white shirt-front genially. "Per Bacco! 
 such delightful lives! Not perhaps so energetic as this 
 of yours, in this so charming country, but always 
 suave, always feminine, you understand. It is the cus- 
 tom in the cities of my country to drive in the after- 
 noon, in Roma, on the Corso, and, in Firenze, in the 
 Cassine; the ladies use the elegant open carriage like 
 those in which the Queen Victoria drives. Also, be- 
 cause our king sanctions it, it has recently become the 
 custom for the ladies to ride on the horse in my coun- 
 try, as they do in England, but, you understand, with
 
 346 THE CORTLANDTS 
 
 somewhat less freedom. And there are balls, soirees, 
 the opera, all those entertainments which one finds 
 in capitals, and also, naturally, they have their devo- 
 tions, their charities." 
 
 Ann said nothing in response to this. She was 
 wondering if the Italian ladies liked it, living cushioned 
 lives like that After all, a day had twenty-four hours : 
 the ambassador's sketch left gaps her imagination 
 could not fill. When she aroused herself to listen, her 
 neighbor was off again on the possessions of the Avez- 
 zanas. This time it was the house in Milan he was 
 describing. "Real Luini frescoes on the old plaster 
 wall of the court, Signorina, and a Perugino Madonna, 
 finer, it is said, than any example in the Louvre. 
 . . . Great treasures, Signorina, a great family!" 
 Almost, Ann thought, he was saying to her, "A great 
 opportunity." 
 
 When the ladies were shawling, Mrs. Renneslyer 
 murmured to Ann softly, "You are a sly puss, my 
 dear, and it is no wonder that my poor boy could not 
 carry the day against such a rival." 
 
 She swept out before Ann could defend herself, but 
 on second thought the girl decided it was perhaps as 
 well she had not had the occasion to explain to Hen- 
 dricks' mother that she had never loved her son. 
 
 The dinner made a great difference in the attitude of 
 the Cortlandts toward her, there was no question about 
 that. Mrs. Renneslyer awarded her a reluctant re- 
 spect, while Mrs. William deferred to her as though 
 she were already one of the magnificent Avezzanas
 
 COURTSHIP 347 
 
 about whom the Italian ambassador had talked. As 
 a result, Ann's life was vastly more comfortable. 
 Fanny regarded her with dazzled eyes; she turned 
 suddenly shy; and was much too timid to discuss the 
 possibilities of a great marriage. As for the girl her- 
 self, she could not help enjoying the extraordinary sit- 
 uation in which she found herself, and her wonderment 
 as to what Avezzana's next move would be became a 
 preoccupation. She felt like a woman in a play, bound 
 to make expected responses to certain cues, but in no 
 way a free agent. It was evident that Avezzana con- 
 sidered the dinner a definite step in his courtship, for 
 every day, following that event, he sent her flowers; 
 they arrived early in the morning, fresh and untouched 
 by the September heat. In the evening he came, 
 formally, to call on her and Mrs. William; it was al- 
 ways a repetition of his first visit; the older woman 
 was invariably present, and the conversation flowed in 
 shallow courses, so that Ann sometimes found herself 
 swallowing yawns. Avezzana's form of courtship 
 was new and exciting, but she came reluctantly to the 
 conclusion that she did not like him, particularly. It 
 was all very perplexing, but, at the same time, it was a 
 fascinating game. 
 
 When the proposal finally came she was, for all her 
 anticipation of it, caught unaware. The Italian came 
 to dinner in Washington Square, and found her alone 
 in the library. It was obvious that the others would be 
 there in a moment, and Ann had no expectation of 
 anything decisive impending, until, contrary to his
 
 348 THE CORTLANDTS 
 
 habit, Avezzana came close to her chair, and stood 
 leaning over her with an air of affectionate proprietor- 
 ship. 
 
 "It is coming !" Ann thought, staggered, and she be- 
 gan to talk rapidly of the extraordinary heat of the 
 night. He brushed her simple defenses aside with a 
 romantic gesture of his hand. 
 
 "I have something to ask of you." 
 
 "No. Please don't ask me anything, Count Avez- 
 zana." She knew, as she spoke, that he took her com- 
 punction for mere maidenly confusion. 
 
 He smiled, and surprised her. "Have I your per- 
 mission to call you by your name ? To call you Ann ?" 
 
 In her relief, she almost laughed. "Oh, that ? Yes, 
 of course, if you like." 
 
 This permisson encouraged Avezzana to an extra- 
 ordinary extent He leaned closer to her, and the scent 
 of his pomade enveloped her with an odor entirely 
 different from that used by American men. "Grazia, 
 mia Bella. You know, perhaps, why I have remain 
 so long in your city?" 
 
 "I thought perhaps you liked it," Ann said nerv- 
 ously. "I do." 
 
 Avezzana shrugged one of his slim shoulders. "Oh, 
 it is very well," he said, "but when you will see the 
 cities of my country, Milano, Venezia 
 
 "Yes, I know," Ann interrupted him somewhat 
 dryly, "your ambassador told me all about them." 
 
 Avezzana smiled nonchalantly. "Yes," he said, "he 
 is a good fellow. It was my uncle got him his appoint-
 
 COURTSHIP 349 
 
 ment. . . . No, I have remain so long in your 
 city because of you, my Ann. You must have, what 
 is it you say? guessed, that it was my intention to 
 ask you to do me the honor to be my wife. Ever since 
 that night at Gettysburg" he broke off, and for a 
 moment his deep look flickered away "but we will not 
 talk of that, not now. It is only that since then I 
 have the wish but for one thing." He slipped his hand 
 over Ann's at this juncture. It was a small hand, 
 rather like a woman's, she thought, as she yielded her 
 own to its tight clasp. "Could you care for me?" he 
 asked, smiling brilliantly down upon her; his assur- 
 ance was contagious. 
 
 "I am afraid not," Ann said drearily; at the time 
 it seemed to her unfortunate. 
 
 "I will teach you," Avezzana proclaimed joyfully. 
 It was exactly as though she had not spoken. "You 
 must marry me, my Ann. You must come with me, 
 to Italia." 
 
 Ann continued to look at him, half hypnotized. "I 
 think my uncle would like it," she murmured. 
 
 "But yes, it is a good alliance. The only question 
 is this, is it your wish?" 
 
 Her wish? She almost yielded to his power of 
 suggestion. . . . Everything seemed to be push- 
 ing her toward this marriage. . . . Nineteen 
 years old. . . . High time. . . . Every one 
 would be pleased. . . . She had only to nod her 
 head. . . . And there was Italy, even if it were 
 only half as nice as the ambassador had said.
 
 350 THE CORTLANDTS 
 
 She smiled rather miserably at Avezzana, and heard 
 a tiny voice somewhere saying, "I really can't. I'm 
 sorry." She half regretted the words as soon as she 
 knew them to be hers, and yet she did not recall 
 them. 
 
 Avezzana flushed deeply, and for an instant the vivid 
 passion of his nature flashed out, as it had at Gettys- 
 burg. "I must have you!" he said; for the first time 
 he was loud and uncontrolled. "I will not give you 
 up. How is it you can think to refuse me, after that 
 night near the battle?" 
 
 "That is all past," Ann said. "It has nothing to 
 do with my marrying you, or not" 
 
 With a violent effort, Avezzana regained his smooth 
 control of himself; he lifted her passive hand and 
 pressed his lips to it, just as he did every day when 
 he came and went. 
 
 "Please," he begged, "give me a little time. Do not 
 yet make up your mind against me, I beg yoa" 
 
 "Very well," Ann conceded grudgingly. "But don't 
 be too hopeful." 
 
 That night, before he left, Avezzana had a word 
 alone with Mrs. Cortlandt, and the next afternoon Ann 
 came in to find the two closeted in the library. She 
 was only too glad to steal past the door to the stair, 
 filled with an exhilarating sense of escape. 
 
 She had been in her room but a few moments, 
 when Mrs. Cortlandt rapped portentously at her door. 
 She came in, Ann thought, like a ship under full sail. 
 "Well, miss," she flung at the girl, with a complete
 
 COURTSHIP 351 
 
 return of her old manner, "and so, having disgraced 
 the family which has been your benefactor, you have 
 the insolence to refuse to marry the man who is willing 
 to clear your good name!" Even in her rising tide 
 of anger Ann said to herself that Mrs. Cortlandt had 
 undoubtedly been rehearsing that speech during her 
 laborious progress up the stairs. It was a flight of, 
 oratory ordinarily beyond her. 
 
 "So," she said indignantly, "he has told you." 
 
 "And high time he did! What your guardian will 
 think of such behavior ! All night! Alone!" 
 
 "No." Ann corrected her coldly. "Not alone. With! 
 Count Avezzana." 
 
 "Have you no sense of shame ?" 
 
 "I have nothing to be ashamed of." 
 
 "No sense of shame at all!" Mrs. Cortlandt pro- 
 claimed to the four walls of the girl's room. 
 
 "I can't see why he had to tell you about it, now 
 everything is all over." 
 
 "Over? Nonsense! Count Avezzana is willing to 
 marry you, Ann." 
 
 "But I'm not willing to marry him." 
 
 "Of course you will marry him. Don't be ridicu- 
 lous! Under any conditions, it is an opportunity 
 vastly beyond your deserts; a contessa!" 
 
 "But I don't love him, Aunt Emily." 
 
 Mrs. Cortlandt looked at her, exasperation written ^ 
 plainly on her face. "You have compromised your- 
 self with him," she said. "You might just as well love 
 him. You certainly will have to marry him."
 
 352 THE CORTLANDTS 
 
 "Do you think uncle would agree with you in that ?" 
 
 Mrs. Cortlandt paused; for a moment she was stag- 
 gered. "I dare say," she said at length, "that your 
 guardian is sufficiently infatuated with you to excuse 
 even this impropriety, but if you have ordinary grati- 
 tude for all his kindness, you will marry Count Avez- 
 zana, and save him the embarrassment of explaining 
 your escapade." 
 
 Ann's eyes widened. She had not thought of that 
 aspect of her sorry case. There was no doubt but 
 that Mr. Cortlandt would come home to meet gossip 
 about her; now that Mrs. William knew of her adven- 
 ture, it would soon be all over New York. "I wish 
 you would let me explain it to you," she said weakly. 
 
 Mrs. Cortlandt furled some of her sail, at this con- 
 cession. She seated herself majestically, and bent a 
 sorrying look on the culprit. "Nothing can ever ex- 
 plain it, Ann," she said heavily. "There is nothing 
 for you to do but marry Count Avezzana." 
 
 "A man I don't love!" 
 
 "Stuff and nonsense! You have been half in love 
 with him all along! . . . Haven't you?" 
 
 "Yes, but" 
 
 "Plenty of girls marry on less than that. Half a 
 loaf, you know, is better than no bread. He is a 
 charming boy, so handsome! So romantic! And 
 your guardian approves the match. I have had a letter 
 from him stating his wishes in regard to it." 
 
 "Oh, may I see it?" It seemed to Ann like a life 
 line in drowning seas.
 
 COURTSHIP 353 
 
 "Certainly not, miss. . . . This young man is 
 everything you could want, titled, head over heels in 
 love with you, rich, even. You would be mad to 
 hesitate, even if you had an alternative." She looked 
 at Ann shrewdly. "Your guardian's choice! Have 
 you no gratitude?" 
 
 Suddenly weariness engulfed Ann. This angry 
 woman arguing with her! She wanted to be rid of 
 her at any cost. . . . She could see years of 
 railing stretching out before her, and innuendo about 
 it, too; she thought, shivering, that nothing could 
 be worse than that. . . . Perhaps it was true that 
 other girls married without being deeply in love. 
 . . . Her guardian wished the match. That, in it- 
 self, was enough. . . . She amazed Mrs. CorU 
 landt by a swift capitulation. "Very well, I'll marry 
 him. You can tell him so." 
 
 She looked at the older woman in open sneering 
 scorn, as she bounced up from her seat; Mrs. Cort- 
 landt smiled, she even kissed Ann, a swift peck on an 
 averted cheek, murmuring "Contessa!" as she did 
 so. 
 
 Fanny was all aflutter" over her friend's romantic 
 alliance; the Renneslyers were pleasantly congratula- 
 tory, and flattered, too, and Avezzana was delighted. 
 From the moment Mrs. Cortlandt conveyed the good 
 news to him he bloomed into a happy conviction that 
 Ann had loved him all along, that it was only 
 maidenly modesty which had prevented her admitting
 
 354 THE CORTLANDTS 
 
 it. He treated her with great consideration: he was 
 all gentle protection ; he was entirely controlled. When 
 they met, after Mrs. Cortlandt's revelation, he kissed 
 her on her cheek, with a swift intake of his breath, 
 but after that he returned to the formal salute on her 
 hand. He made no effort to sweep her away from her 
 reluctant attitude, and Ann was piqued by such cold 
 love-making; she recalled the passion of his advances 
 at Gettysburg, and wondered both at him, and the 
 civilization which prpduced him. He gave her an 
 ancestral ring of such magnificent proportions that it 
 fairly staggered her. With it on her hand she could 
 think of nothing else; she could perform none of the 
 ordinary duties of her life, and looking at it in its 
 overpowering magnificence, she understood why the 
 Italian ladies only picked flowers and sat in the sun. 
 
 From the moment of her acceptance, affairs seemed 
 to move along entirely without her volition. She 
 heard Mrs. Cortlandt and Avezzana discussing an early 
 date for the marriage, her trousseau, wedding presents, 
 and sailings, all at once. In a half-hour she was 
 more nearly wedded to this stranger than she had been 
 to Hendricks in all the years of her engagement, and 
 she was aghast at such speed. She would, she told 
 (herself, marry Avezzana as willingly as any one else, 
 but she wanted to overcome her strange lassitude, and 
 experiment with his temperament, to make little emo- 
 tional expeditions against his determined reserve, 
 not to sit prosaically talking of how sensible it would 
 be to buy her dresses in Paris, now that she was going
 
 COURTSHIP 355 
 
 directly there, and of the number of weeks neces- 
 sary to allow for hemstitching linen. Mrs. Cortlandt's 
 enthusiasm swept her along on its high tide, mute, 
 but already rebellious.
 
 CHAPTER XXVIII 
 
 MARRIAGE 
 
 ANN entered into her second engagement to marry 
 with a firm determination to like it. It was, she 
 thought, the best thing she could do; she was touch- 
 ingly ready to be happy; she was only too willing 
 to view her lover with bemused eyes. At first this 
 was made easy by the fervent congratulations of every 
 one she saw; she lived, for a while, in an atmosphere of 
 adulation, for when the announcement was printed in 
 the papers, the future Contessa Avezzana became, all 
 at once, an important person. Enthusiastic acquaint- 
 ances stopped her on the street to assure her of the 
 good looks of her count, and of the romantic nature of 
 her engagement It was romantic, she told herself a 
 hundred times a day, and she delighted in Guido's dark 
 beauty. When she was not with him, she thought of 
 him with a fair similitude of ardor. 
 
 Their interviews, however, were not so satisfactory; 
 the girl found them strangely baffling. Avezzana 
 brought to them a sensuous atmosphere, it is true, of 
 which Ann was tinglingly conscious, but which served 
 only to make more barren the fact that she really 
 knew nothing about this person she was to marry. 
 Hitherto her erotic experiences had all been of an ex- 
 ploratory nature, but this man defeated all her tenta- 
 
 356
 
 MARRIAGE 357 
 
 tive efforts to pry into the closed shell of his inner 
 personality. In the beginning his careful formality 
 amused the American girl; she liked to tease him into 
 impulsive betrayals of it, but as the days ran on she 
 had less inclination to do so. Their talk was of so 
 trivial a nature that she, too, grew formal, but with 
 the important difference that hers was a response to 
 an inner recoil rather than to a complicated conven- 
 tion. 
 
 She made, one day, an unfortunate attempt to estab- 
 lish companionship. "Guido, I should like to take you 
 over to the hospital. I haven't been there since we 
 became engaged, I am almost ashamed to go, but 
 I want you to see where I've been working." 
 
 "You will pardon me, carissima mm, but I prefer to 
 forget those hospitals. . . . Here, in these so 
 charming surroundings, you are all a young girl must 
 be. ... Beautiful, without experience. . . . 
 No." He reached out and took her hand in his as 
 carefully as though it were made of fragile stuff. 
 "My Ann, I have this to suggest that you do not 
 speak to my mother of those hospitals. . . . She 
 would not understand." 
 
 "But there was nothing wrong in my working 
 there. I'm proud of having done it; it was my share 
 of the war." 
 
 "Si, carissima, but now all is different." He kissed 
 her finger tips, one by one, with an air of savoring 
 them, adding, "Work is for men non e vero?" 
 
 Ann looked at him curiously. She found his life
 
 358 THE CORTLANDTS 
 
 amazingly difficult to understand; he was like an un- 
 successful bas-relief ; she could not imagine him in the 
 round. "What work do you do, when you are at 
 home?" she asked definitely. 
 
 "I am an officer," Avezzana straightened impor- 
 tanty. 
 
 "But you hope soon to have peace, in Italy." 
 
 "Che e intelligentel Peace, yes, but there remain 
 much duties," 
 
 "What kind of duties?" 
 
 "Drills, reviews, but why should you under- 
 stand?" 
 
 "Why shouldn't I?" 
 
 "You are a woman,*' 
 
 "What of it?" 
 
 Avezzana smiled deeply upon her. "Some day you 
 will know," he murmured. 
 
 In spite of the fact that he evidently considered the 
 matter closed, Ann persisted. "Haven't you any work 
 to do, outside the army?" 
 
 "But yes, there is always politics." 
 
 "Shall you run for something ? How exciting !" 
 
 "R-r-run?" 
 
 "Yes, For Congress, or whatever you have, in 
 Italy." 
 
 Avezzana laughed at that, but Ann could see that 
 he was affronted, too. "No, I shall not, what you 
 say? 'run' for political position. . . * You would 
 better leave all this to me, carissima mia. It is not 
 for you."
 
 MARRIAGE 359 
 
 Mutinous lines appeared about Ann's mouth. "Is 
 there nothing I can share with you, then?" she de- 
 manded. 
 
 "But yes, all! Domestic lifel It is enough, mia 
 'Bella, is it not?" He was so radiantly certain that Ann 
 forbore to question further. She found herself un- 
 expectedly thinking of Peter, and the delightful feeling 
 of equality she had had when talking with him. Her 
 eyes filled with sudden tears; she blinked them away 
 amid Avezzana's solicitous inquiries. 
 
 In view of the fact that they were going immediately 
 to Paris, Ann's trousseau was fairly utilitarian. With 
 the exception of a white satin wedding dress, trimmed 
 with a bertha of point lace, and waxy orange blossoms 
 at the tiny pointed waist, there was nothing particu- 
 larly grand about it. She had, of course, the customary 
 dozens of underwear and linen to be expected from a 
 girl of her position, but her traveling dresses were 
 comparatively simple, and she had only one ceremoni- 
 ous gown of black velvet, spangled with little seashells 
 of jet, in which she looked much too young for so 
 matronly a garment. She was not appearing her best; 
 she was drearily conscious of that, and Mrs. Rennes- 
 lyer said so frankly. She explained that she was tired 
 out from prolonged shopping. The wedding loomed 
 so close that it was necessary to do everything in a 
 hurry, and she attributed her lassitude to that, but she 
 hated her dark circled eyes, enormous in her white 
 face. 
 
 She found it impossible to think beyond the reunion
 
 360 THE CORTLANDTS 
 
 with her guardian in Paris. The fact that she was to 
 spend the rest of her life in Italy was unbelievable, 
 and she let it go at that. She simply could not take 
 in anything so incredible. She wondered if any other 
 girl was ever married in this way, almost without her 
 own volition, but she was too tired and too dejected to 
 protest Instead she tried to do exactly what was ex- 
 pected of her every day, and every day a swift current 
 swept her nearer the vortex. The wedding invitations 
 'were ordered, addressed and sent off by hand with ex- 
 traordinary efficiency and haste. Ann was dazed by 
 the speed which this machine of her own making at- 
 tained. 
 
 Guido was a Catholic, and he explained casually to 
 Ann that it would be necessary for her to join his 
 church. She had no objections to doing so, and Mr. 
 Renneslyer's facetious remark that he was afraid she 
 would not enjoy confession won only a faint smile 
 from her. Her father must have been a Catholic, she 
 supposed, and one day she slipped into a service in a 
 near-by church, and found the ancient ritual beautiful. 
 Mrs. Cortlandt assured her, a bit nervously, that it 
 made no difference what church one belonged to, 
 really, and Ann agreed with her listlessly. Somehow 
 all this talk seemed to have nothing to do with her, 
 but it did add to her feeling of being thrust into alien 
 things. The marriage was to be celebrated in the 
 Catholic Cathedral, and she went up to look it over, 
 late one afternoon. [The distant altar swam in the
 
 MARRIAGE 361 
 
 tremulous light of the candles, and boys in robes were 
 moving mysteriously about. Guido belonged there, she 
 thought, a part of all this traditional beauty, but she 
 felt like a rude intruder. She could not imagine sweep- 
 ing her white satin skirts up the long aisle. 
 
 She walked home, in the arid late September heat, 
 with a curiously sinking heart. She could never re- 
 member being so spiritless ; it frightened her to realize 
 it. ... Mrs. Cortlandt had said that it was to be 
 expected, in a girl about to marry, but Ann wondered 
 if she were correct in this assumption. . . 
 Surely, in that case, writers of fiction were most cul- 
 pable in giving so romantic a glow to nuptials. . . . 
 Guido was happy enough; she would have hated it 
 had he been as depressed as she was. Perhaps, she 
 thought, she owed it to him to tell him how lacking in 
 enthusiasm she was. At the thought her heart leapt 
 up; she would tell him, and possibly he might dispel 
 this unnatural dejection. She found him waiting when 
 she reached home. 
 
 "Where have you been, mia Bella?" he demanded 
 gaily. 
 
 As Ann looked at his radiant happiness, a preverse 
 desire to shatter it arose within her. "I've been to 
 take a look at your church," she said coldly. 
 
 "My church? Per Bacco, our church, carissima, 
 is it not?" 
 
 "Not yet." 
 
 "But so soon ! In nine days we share all things."
 
 362 THE CORTLANDTS 
 
 "Shall we? Shall we really, Guido?" 
 
 "You ask me that!" His devastation at her doubt 
 was thorough but theatrical. 
 
 Ann persisted, in spite of him. "We don't share 
 anything at all, now. . . . There are things I 
 can not even talk to you about. ... It makes me 
 very unhappy." She broke off, in a panic lest tears 
 should make her protest ineffective. 
 
 "What things?" 
 
 "Well, that night at Gettysburg, for instance." 
 
 "No, you are right, not that." 
 
 "But why not? It is where you fell in love with 
 me. You told me so, that morning, before you left 
 Don't you remember? It is a part of us, that night. 
 . . . It is ridiculous to act as if it hadn't hap- 
 pened!" 
 
 "In my code, it is considered wise to ignore certain 
 things, when one makes conversation with a young 
 lady." 
 
 "But we are going to be married, in nine days! 
 We aren't strangers. There should be nothing you 
 can not talk to me about. . . . Love means that. 
 It means perfect freedom. It means an obligation to 
 tell the person you love everything. It means that 
 all barriers are down." 
 
 "Mia Bella, how little you know of the joy of 
 laying those barriers aside, one by one." 
 
 "That is an artificial thing to do, Guido ! When two 
 people love each other they should be natural. . . . 
 We are never natural, when we are together."
 
 MARRIAGE 363 
 
 "Nature? She is for the people, not for you and 
 me." 
 
 "But I am of the people, Guido. . . . You 
 never seem to understand that! I wasn't born to all 
 this luxury. When I was a child I used to be poor; 
 I peeled the potatoes, and brought the cow in at night, 
 and in winter I cleaned away the snow. . . . You 
 don't like me to talk about that, do you?" 
 
 Guido's dark face flushed. "No. For the Con- 
 tessa Avezzana it is not necessary to go quite so far 
 back." 
 
 "You mean?" 
 
 "I mean, carissima, that in my country no one will 
 question where I find you. It will be enough that you 
 have become my wife." 
 
 "It will never be enough for me!" Ann burst out: 
 "Guido can't you see that I am all wrong for you? 
 Can't you understand that I can never make you hap- 
 py?" She was horrified at her words as she said them, 
 but she did not withdraw them. Instead she waited, 
 breathless, to see what Avezzana would say. 
 
 To her amazement, he patted her hand with complete 
 calm and murmured: "You are nervous, my Ann. 
 . . . Do not distress yourself; you have only to 
 leave all to me." 
 
 It was too much ; the girl's nerves, to which he had 
 so soothingly referred, suddenly snapped. She poured 
 a torrent of appeal upon him; she found herself say- 
 ing things of which she had never had any premoni- 
 tion ; she begged him to let her go, to forget her. It
 
 364 THE CORTLANDTS 
 
 was after this climax that she felt the Italian's cold 
 eyes upon her ; they brought her up sharp. 
 
 "Go? No, never," he said frigidly. "You are a 
 child to speak to me so! . . . This is what comes 
 of unbridled talk! You see, my way is better." 
 
 "But, Guido, I don't love you. I never entirely 
 realized it before, but I don't." 
 
 "Why should you, before we marry? It is enough 
 that you do not dislike me. . . . After, you may 
 leave it to me." 
 
 "But suppose I shouldn't grow to care for you ?" 
 
 Avezzana smiled superbly. "I take the chance," he 
 said. 
 
 "Doesn't it make any difference to you, knowing 
 how I feel?" 
 
 "It puts me on my mettle, mia Bella.'' 
 
 And that was the end of that: Ann realized quite 
 clearly that she was, this time, well caught. In a 
 moment Mrs. William came bustling into the room 
 with a foreign package in her hands, which Avezzana 
 identified as addressed in his mother's fine handwrit- 
 ing. The two of them opened it expeditiously, while 
 Ann stood apart, watching them with sullen eyes. 
 There was beautiful old Venetian lace in the package, 
 and a necklace of diamonds which sent Mrs. Cortlandt 
 into an ecstasy. She insisted on trying it around the 
 bride's slim throat, in spite of Ann's indifference. 
 
 . . Avezzana stood looking on with shining eyes, 
 and the girl realized that he considered her apathetic 
 attitude a becoming one for the future Contessa Avez-
 
 MARRIAGE 365 
 
 zana. . . . She escaped as soon as she could, on 
 the plea of being very tired. 
 
 When she had gained her room, she shut the door 
 behind her, and stood for some moments with her 
 back against it. She was breathing hard and her eyes 
 were wild. . . . What was it the ambassador had 
 said of Guido? "You should see him returning from 
 the chase 1" . . . He was merciless. She knew, now, 
 how he tracked down helpless things. . . . She 
 looked about her at her pleasant, familiar room. 
 . . . She would be in strange places, too. . . . 
 There was no one to whom she might talk freely. 
 If only her guardian were at home ! On the spur of the 
 moment, she determined to write to him, and she 
 rushed to get out her desk. She had poured her heart 
 out to him, and confessed all her unhappiness, when 
 suddenly she remembered that when he received her let- 
 ter she would be already married to the Italian. 
 . . . Nine days, and it took a letter a full two weeks 
 to reach France! Her guardian could not help her, 
 then. She tore the paper into tiny bits and struggled 
 with racking sobs. . . . As the pieces flew from her 
 hands to the basket the last atom of her self-control 
 fled, and she flung herself across her bed, in a passion 
 of tears. 
 
 After a long time her sobs lessened, and she lay 
 for a while, listening to the homely sounds that drifted 
 in from the Square. . . . She was, now, more 
 melancholy than desperate. . . . She wondered if 
 she might get Fanny to advise her, but a memory of
 
 3 66 THE CORTLANDTS 
 
 her friend's aloofness since she had broken with Hen- 
 dricks made her give that up with a sobbing sigh. The 
 aunts were worse than useless, and she had no con- 
 fidence in Mr. Renneslyer's good sense. . . Peter! 
 How stupid she had been not to have thought of him 
 before! There was, at last, some one to whom she 
 could talk with absolute freedom ! She sprang up, and 
 wrote to him at once. 
 
 DEAR PETER: 
 
 I am to be married next week to Count Guido Avez- 
 zana. He is an Italian, and I do want to see you, very 
 much. My uncle is still away, and I feel very lonely. 
 If you are at Milton Center I wish you would come 
 up to New York. 
 
 Yours sincerely, 
 
 ANN BYRNE. 
 
 P. S. I hope you are quite well again. I shall 
 always remember that you saved my life. A. B. 
 
 After that, she was happier, although she could not 
 have said why. 
 
 It was less than a week before the wedding, when 
 very early one morning old Joseph brought a note up 
 to her. "A little boy, he brung it," he said. "They 
 is no answer, Miss Ann." The girl opened it list- 
 lessly, entirely uninterested in its contents. She 
 read: 
 
 Annie, you must come out and talk to me. There 
 is no use in my coming to the house; I'd have no 
 chance with you, with Mrs. Cortlandt and all that lot.
 
 MARRIAGE 367 
 
 Bring a key to the gate with you, and we will sit in the 
 Square where we won't be disturbed. I have to see 
 you alone. It is a matter of life or death. PETER. 
 
 "Peter!" Ann's heart softened at his sprawling 
 signature. Of course she would go to him. The 
 comfortable companionship which she enjoyed with 
 him seemed to reach out and touch her with a friendly 
 hand. "Good old Peter!" she said aloud, putting any 
 hat at all on her head, regardless of the way she 
 looked. She ran down the stairs with more eager- 
 ness than she had shown in weeks. The key to the 
 Square hung on a hook by the front door ; she snatched 
 it and was off like a flash, down the steps and across 
 the street. Peter was waiting for her by the gate. 
 He looked very well, she thought, as she ran toward 
 him; not beautiful, like Avezzana, commonplace, per- 
 haps, but strong and plain, and comfortable. His 
 rugged face was white, and she wondered if he were 
 not yet entirely well. 
 
 "Annie," was all he said, as she gave him her hand, 
 and she fancied there was reproach in his tone. His 
 eyes had a hurt look; she thought suddenly of a puppy 
 she once had, which grieved when she punished him. 
 
 "I am awfully glad to see you, Peter," she cried, 
 gallantly opposing his depression. 
 
 They hurried into the Square and shut the iron 
 gate behind them, with the air of conspirators. Ann 
 wondered what Avezzana would think if he could see 
 her running along with a strange man's hand on her
 
 368 THE CORTLANDTS 
 
 arm, but she did not care, she was so glad to see 
 Peter! Good old comfortable Peter! Nothing alren 
 about Peter, nothing mysterious, nothing restrained! 
 They found a bench where the shade lay thick, al- 
 though the sun shone on the pebbles of the path at their 
 feet. There at last Peter spoke. 
 
 "Annie," he said, "y u are not going to marry that 
 Italian !" Ann looked at him open-mouthed ; it would 
 have been impossible for her to have been more sur- 
 prised. Peter's eyes were fierce, and the bony struc- 
 ture of his jaw was suddenly noticeable to an extra- 
 ordinary extent. 
 
 "You must be mad," the girl said at length. Her 
 feelings were divided between indignation and amaze- 
 ment. 
 
 "I am not half so mad as you are," Peter snorted 
 indignantly, "marrying a foreigner like that! How 
 do you know he will make you happy? If he had been 
 a New Yorker I'd have kept still, no matter how I felt. 
 An American, that's one thing, but a foreigner ! Go- 
 ing off to a strange country, too, to Italy, with him ! 
 What would you do if you didn't like it, away off 
 there alone?" 
 
 Ann shivered a little, for suddenly the castle in 
 Piedmont, where they were to go on their arrival 
 in Italy, seemed like a prison to her ; its heralded stone 
 walls were frightening, and horribly depressing. "You 
 haven't any right to talk to me like this, Peter," she 
 cried fiercely. "I am unhappy enough, as it is." 
 
 Peter's entire face lit up at this incautious betrayal.
 
 MARRIAGE 365 
 
 He pounced upon it at once. "Unhappy are you?" 
 he asked. "That makes it simpler." He faced her 
 mockingly. "I bet you're half scared," he said, "and 
 wishing you didn't have to go through with it." 
 
 "There's something you don't know, Peter." She 
 could feel her cheeks burn, under his eager eyes. 
 
 "What?" 
 
 "I have to marry Guido. We we were together 
 all night, at Gettysburg." 
 
 "What of it?" 
 
 Radiant relief flashed into Ann's face. "Oh, that 
 is what I tried to make them see ! We were trying to 
 get away from the battle, Peter, and we couldn't find 
 the Sanitary Commission, and I was too tired to go 
 on, and we found an empty house " 
 
 "You can tell me the story of your life some other 
 time, Annie. The thing to do now is to make up 
 your mind to throw over this Italian." 
 
 "Oh, Peter, you know what I did to Hendricks? 
 I have to marry Count Avezzana, now I said I would. 
 Do you know what everybody would call me if I 
 didn't? A jilt! And I don't see how I could go on 
 living with the Cortlandts if I did a thing like that, 
 now they're so pleased with the match !" Doubts which 
 she had been struggling to stifle came flooding over 
 Ann, and she began to cry, softly and hopelessly. 
 
 "You don't have to live with the Cortlandts," Peter 
 said roughly. He leaned over and put an urgent 
 hand on her arm. "You're coming to Chicago to live 
 with me."
 
 270 THE CORTLANDTS 
 
 Ann was too startled to reply. She looked at him 
 in wide-eyed astonishment, her last tears trembling on 
 her cheeks. Peter answered the interrogation in her 
 look. 
 
 "You don't think I came here just to talk, do you ?" 
 he demanded. "I came to take you back with me, and 
 I am going to do it. Do you know what this is?" He 
 produced a stiff official-looking paper from his coat 
 pocket Ann shook her head, speechless. "It's a mar- 
 riage license, that's what it is! I've got it all fixed up 
 with a minister at the Unitarian Church, to marry us 
 this morning." 
 
 "But, Peter," Ann expostulated feebly, "I never 
 heard anything so ridiculous in my life! I am going 
 to marry Count Avezzana next Wednesday, at eight 
 o'clock, in the Catholic Cathedral." 
 
 "Are you a Catholic?" 
 
 "Not yet, but I will be, Monday. Everybody in 
 Italy is, you know." 
 
 "Well, you can go ahead and be a Catholic, if you 
 want to, but the wedding is off! Understand that ?" 
 
 "Why, Peter, I'll have to go through with it, so 
 late, like this." 
 
 Peter frowned at her fiercely. "You have to do 
 nothing of the sort," he stormed. Suddenly he let go 
 his grasp on her arm to take hold of her shoulders 
 and pull her toward him with a pleasant roughness. 
 He looked at her for an instant, so close that she could 
 see the black specks swimming in the yellowish color 
 of his eyes. Then he kissed her.
 
 MARRIAGE 371 
 
 "How about it?" he demanded boyishly, holding 
 her away from him and laughing into her perturbed 
 face. 
 
 "Oh, Peter, I don't know. I've got my trousseau 
 and everything, and Guido has given me a lot of 
 things, rings and brooches, and I have had a present 
 from his mother, and a letter from uncle. I think he 
 wishes me to marry Count Avezzana I've been such 
 a trial to him. I couldn't disappoint him again." 
 
 Peter's mouth set m a straight severe line. "This 
 has nothing to do with any one in the world except 
 you and me," he said sternly. "I guess you know I 
 love you, all right I didn't say anything before be- 
 cause I am so damned poor. I thought I'd go back 
 to Chicago and work like the devil and make some 
 money before I tried to tie you up, but you have rushed 
 me. You belong to me, Annie, don't you know that?" 
 
 A delightful peace settled down on Ann. "I never 
 knew it before this minute," she sighed happily. 
 
 "It will be hard work at first, but you won't mind 
 that, will you? You're strong, and you weren't born 
 to all this luxury. We'll do something out there be- 
 fore we're through, and we'll do it together. Partners ! 
 I've got a little money. My mother left me thirty-five 
 hundred dollars, enough to get us started, and I'll be 
 damned if I can't support you. Support you! Before 
 I get through I'll make a rich woman of you. But 
 just at first, Annie, if it is hard work you won't 
 mind?" 
 
 "Peter, I'd love to work," Ann assured him expaiK
 
 372 THE CORTLANDTS 
 
 sively. "I hate being a fine lady. That was one of 
 the things I dreaded I don't want to be a contessa; 
 I want to do things in my life, do them myself. 
 But do you think it would be possible for me to marry 
 you, and just go off? Leave all this behind me?" 
 
 Peter laughed and kissed her again. "Possible?" 
 he said. "It's happening. You'll be my wife in half 
 an hour." 
 
 They came out of the little Square with an even 
 more conspirital air than that with which they had 
 gone in. It was almost noon and the streets were 
 deserted. Peter would not allow Ann out of his sight 
 even long enough to go home for her gloves, but 
 hurried her off to the horse cars, where she sat silent 
 while he talked to her steadily of the new life she was 
 about to undertake. He gave her no time for thought, 
 no empty moments in which she might change her 
 mind. The minister was waiting for them. He seemed 
 extraordinarily unclerical to Ann, used to Episcopal 
 robes and ritual, but his church was convincingly 
 righteous, and she was forced to believe that the brief 
 ceremony which they went through was entirely legal. 
 The minister shook hands with them both, and it was 
 over. 
 
 Out on the street Ann wondered if horror were the 
 feeling that overpowered her, but when she stole a 
 glance at Peter's determined face, she knew that it was 
 not Secure in his strength, she could no longer fear 
 the future, no matter how long it might be. It was 
 he who told her just what she should do. She was
 
 MARRIAGE 373 
 
 to go home to Washington Square, put into her new 
 trunk all her old clothes, and such parts of her trous- 
 seau as might be useful in the extremely plain life 
 which confronted her. She was then to leave a tag 
 on the trunk with directions to forward it to a hotel in 
 Chicago. 
 
 "The Adams House is pretty grand for us," Peter 
 said, laughing, "but I guess we can stand a few days 
 of it until we find a place of our own to live in. 
 After all a man doesn't take a honeymoon every day." 
 
 He waited outside in the Square while Ann went 
 home to do her packing. She wondered, as she 
 climbed the familiar high steps, if this were the last 
 time her feet would ever pass that friendly threshold, 
 and as the shadow of the house fell over her she 
 thought, too late, of her guardian's possible reaction 
 to her mad behavior. She slipped in and up the stairs 
 without meeting any one. Her room was already in a 
 pandemonium of packing; three trunks stood about 
 with their great mouths gaping for the fine new 
 clothes of her trousseau. She chose the larger one, 
 and hastily put into it the plainest dresses she had, a 
 part of her linen, and her underclothes. Her uncle 
 would not begrudge her that, she knew, but she 
 left all the finer things behind her. Avezzana's 
 ' jewelry she tied up in a little box ; she struggled for 
 some moments to write him a note to accompany it, 
 but found that she was quite unable to do so. Instead 
 she scrawled across a piece of paper, "I am sorry. 
 Ann," and folded it away with the diamonds. Peter's
 
 374 THE CORTLANDT3 
 
 wide gold wedding ring looked very plain and sensible 
 on her hand, in place of Avezzana's gorgeous token. 
 There remained only the necessity of writing to Mrs. 
 William, and this she accomplished with ease. "I am 
 married to Peter Smith," she said briefly, "and I am 
 going to Chicago with him to-day. I know there 
 is no use trying to make you understand how I came 
 to do it, but please believe I am sorry to pain all of 
 you, and Count Avezzana. Tell him for me that I am 
 ashamed of myself, but that I can not help it." She 
 addressed the note to Mrs. Cortlandt and then for the 
 first time wrote her new name upon a piece of paper, 
 "Mrs, Peter Smith, Adams House, Chicago. Please 
 forward." 
 
 She stuck the label on the top of the trunk, cast 
 one sorrowful look about the room which had given 
 her sweet shelter for so long, and stole off down the 
 stairs and along the Square to where Peter was wait- 
 ing for her.
 
 HONEYMOONING 
 
 ANN and Peter spent the first night of their journey 
 in Albany, arriving there in the early dusk. All the 
 long afternoon they had sat side by side in the narrow 
 car seat, watching the sun sink lower over the Hudson, 
 until the jagged Catskills swallowed it up, and the 
 river ran softly in their engulfing shadow. Peter 
 now talked very little, but he sat close to Ann, and 
 when the train rocked on the rough road bed, or swung 
 around a curve, he swayed lingeringly against her; 
 she could feel his reluctance as he drew away. The 
 touch of his arm upon her troubled her, and she was 
 uncomfortably conscious of his influence over her. It 
 made her thrillingly apprehensive of the unknown 
 future, and she could think of nothing else; even her 
 guardian's probable regret at her rash act seemed, with 
 Peter's arm pressing hers persistently, unimportant. 
 She accepted the fact of their marriage more readily 
 than he did. 
 
 "When I think that I've got you, in spite of every- 
 thing, I think I must be mad, and having hallucina- 
 tions!" he confided to her, and she laughed, tangible 
 and desirable, into his ardent face. She knew that it 
 was true, what Peter said, that only yesterday she 
 had been, indubitably, his worldly superior, but so 
 
 375
 
 376 THE CORTLANDTS 
 
 certain was she of an inner intimacy, a harmony of 
 her soul and his, that she found no place for astonish- 
 ment at her unexpected come-down in the world. 
 
 Albany was in the throes of a great Sanitary Com- 
 mission benefit which all of upper New York was, 
 apparently, attending. The bride and groom went 
 from hotel to hotel in vain ; every one was full. The 
 best thing they could do was to prevail upon a kindly, 
 middle-aged woman to allow Ann to share her room, 
 while Peter bunked on two chairs in the office. The 
 young people bade each other a rueful farewell at the 
 foot of the stairs, but they laughed, too, for it was a 
 funny way to spend a wedding night. 
 
 Early the next morning, after a gay and sparkling 
 breakfast, they continued their journey. Ann had 
 never seen Niagara Falls; and when Peter voiced her 
 secret desire to visit this paradise of honeymooners, 
 and suggested they break their journey there, she 
 acquiesced with shining eyes. There were several 
 suspicious-looking young pairs standing about the sta- 
 tion when they arrived, and Ann and Peter lost some- 
 thing of their horrid self-consciousness, in suspecting 
 them. 
 
 They drove up to the hotel in the bus that had met 
 the train, in the company of two other blushing 
 couples. "If you look at them long enough," Ann 
 whispered to Peter, "you can make them think we are 
 old married people !" 
 
 But Peter whispered back, "I'm glad we're not! 
 Aren't you?"
 
 HONEYMOONING 377 
 
 The hotel seemed most magnificent, as they ap- 
 proached it over the curving drive that lead to its 
 high front steps, flanked by long and spacious wooden 
 porches, where old ladies sat in terrifying rows, knit- 
 ting, and all rocking in unison. They looked up as 
 the bus stopped; it was obvious that they counted the 
 abashed passengers, two by two, as they descended, and 
 they smiled knowingly the while. 
 
 Peter delayed for some time at the desk, talking 
 prices with a supercilious clerk. Their room, when 
 they finally reached it, was very small, Ann had never 
 lodged so humbly before, but its window opened on a 
 garden in the rear of the hotel, and there was, after 
 all, a place for the bags. 
 
 The boy who had shown them up-stairs deposited 
 a thick white pitcher filled with drinking water upon 
 the table, and opened the window, after which service 
 Ann automatically gave him a coin from her purse, 
 and he departed, shutting the door behind him. 
 
 It was the first time that the bride and groom had 
 been left alone. They stood as he left them, rooted to 
 the violently flowered carpet. More than anything else, 
 after her dusty journey, Ann had wanted to wash, but 
 in her suspense as to what Peter would now do, she 
 forgot all about it. She forgot all about everything 
 except Peter, and she looked at him slyly, under her 
 lashes. He stood quite still for a moment, stocky and 
 rather lowering, because of his self -consciousness. 
 Feeling Ann's eyes on him he threw her an elaborately 
 casual glance, and crossed the room to the window,
 
 378 THE CORTLANDTS 
 
 which he lifted, with great pains and care, exactly two 
 inches. Ann smiled, suddenly mistress of the situation, 
 now that she knew Peter was as nervous as she. 
 
 "You'll want to freshen up," he suggested \vith 
 specious ease, "and rest a bit, before supper. I'll go 
 out and take a look around. You can get a good 
 sleep." 
 
 Ann flashed a radiant look at him. "I am tired," 
 she admitted. 
 
 "Well then, good-by." Peter made toward the 
 door, and paused. Ann's heart missed a beat, as he 
 came slowly toward her. "Don't forget me," he said, 
 and took her in his arms, gently enough, but closely. 
 Ann's startled eyes fell before the ardent look in his, 
 and he kissed her lids, laughing softly as he did so. 
 They stood for an instant, smiling vaguely, and then 
 Peter's grasp tightened, and for the first time he sought 
 her lips. She abandoned herself to his kiss, clinging 
 weakly to him, without definite thought ; she was in a 
 whirl of emotion. It seemed a long time before Peter 
 drew back ; he was breathing hard, and she saw that the 
 black pupils of his eyes had almost obliterated the 
 yellowish iris. 
 
 "I'm off," he said thickly, and was gone without 
 another look. 
 
 Ann bathed, and lay down on the bed ; she thought 
 that she could not sleep. . . . When she listened 
 for it, she could just hear a far-off, roaring sound 
 which she was sure must be the Falls. . . . She 
 hoped that Peter was not seeing them without her.
 
 HONEYMOONING 379 
 
 . . . Peter. . . . How strange that she should 
 have married him. . . . Peter. . . . He was 
 not handsome, but he had a look of strength. . . . 
 He had a sudden smile, too. . . . Peter. . . . 
 She awoke in a panic lest he should have returned. 
 She could see that the sunlight lay in long glittering 
 lanes on the fresh grass, so she knew it must be almost 
 supper time. 
 
 She put on a brown silk dress that she had brought 
 in her bag. It went very well with her red hair, she 
 decided, as she fastened the crisp white collar with a 
 cameo brooch Mr. Cortlandt had given her on her 
 eighteenth birthday. She was a smart and appealing 
 figure, as she descended the wide stairway that led to 
 the office; when Peter saw her a light leapt into his 
 eyes. 
 
 They went in to supper at once, half starved after 
 their journey, and a luncheon snatched while the train 
 waited at a station eating house. Fellow diners beamed 
 sympathetically upon them, but they were oblivious 
 to it. A negro waiter with a wide smile served them 
 solicitously, and they ate steadily through the hearty 
 American plan meal. He brought them course after 
 course, served in tiny white dishes, and carried high 
 over his shoulder, on a tin waiter precariously poised 
 on one hand, but they remained undaunted. They 
 laughed often, as they ate, and their eyes were very 
 bright and shining. 
 
 After supper they walked over to the Falls, which 
 Peter had refrained from looking at by himself. Ann
 
 380 THE CORTLANDTS 
 
 thought it was very sweet of him to have waited ; she 
 delighted in thinking that she was necessary to his 
 enjoyment even of so stupendous a work of nature. 
 It was rather dark on the path, and Peter held her 
 hand very tight, but when they came out on the plat- 
 form beside the Falls the air was all a filmy whiteness, 
 reflected from the foam. The roar Ann had heard 
 was intensified a thousandfold; the night was filled 
 with rushing sound. Very near them, only a few yards 
 away, Niagara tumbled headlong. Ann looked at it 
 with terror; she wondered what would happen to her 
 if she were flung on that resistless torrent. As though 
 he had read her thought, Peter slipped his arm through 
 hers. 
 
 "Don't go too near," he cautioned quietly. 
 
 Ann abandoned herself to that safe clasp. . . . 
 Peter. . . . Good old Peter. . . . She 
 smiled at him mistily in the wan light of the foam. 
 
 They stood there for some time, linked by the clasp 
 of Peter's hand; they told each other that they felt 
 very small and unimportant, but they each knew better. 
 Niagara rolled on majestically before them, but they, 
 too, had something majestic in their lives. . . . 
 After a while they did not speak at all; they only 
 stood and listened, and felt the world tremble; they, 
 too, trembled, sensitively. 
 
 After a while Ann had a feeling that Peter wanted 
 her to suggest going back to the hotel; therefore she 
 did so, although she felt herself flushing, in the night. 
 On the dark paths he was distant with her; he was
 
 HONEYMOONING 381 
 
 very gentle, very reassuring, and back in the blazing 
 hotel office, he smiled at her, the sudden quick smile 
 that she liked. He sent her up-stairs alone, murmuring 
 that he would follow her in a few moments. 
 
 She undressed with lightning quickness, and soon 
 she was arrayed in her thick cambric nightgown, with 
 'its prim ruffle of French embroidery about the slim 
 column of her throat. She braided her hair in two 
 shining plaits. The bed was ready; she crept into it, 
 and lay along the far side, against the wall. It seemed 
 a long time that she waited, but at last she heard 
 footsteps coming down the hall. She could make out 
 the slightly uneven sound of Peter's gait. There came 
 a little knock at the door, tremulous and apologetic, 
 and all unbidden, a thought flashed through Ann's 
 mind. 
 
 "It couldn't have been Hendricks! It never could 
 have been Avezzana!" She called out, in a clear full 
 voice, "Is that you, Peter ? Come in !"
 
 CHAPTER XXX 
 
 THE END OF THE RAINBOW 
 
 ANN came into Chicago armed with a brave deter- 
 mination to make the best of things, but she expected 
 the worst, for Peter's panegyrics had not really shaken 
 her belief that the United States had but one city, 
 which, in daring all for love, she had left behind her. 
 No pioneer wife adventuring into the prairie wilder- 
 ness was more sternly courageous. 
 
 The bride and groom spent the last night of their 
 journey in Detroit, and arrived in Chicago at sunset 
 of a clear September afternoon. All day long the sky 
 had been poignantly blue, with great clouds like con- 
 tinents adventuring over its trackless expanse, but at 
 sundown this pellucid quality was clouded by an im- 
 palpable dust. The sun set royally, in banks of 
 fire-edged cloud ; the whole west was flushed to orange 
 and rose. The car was filled with colored light, that 
 turned all white things pink, Ann's handkerchief and 
 Peter's formidable collar, with high points which dug 
 into his cheeks. 
 
 They had been running through rusty woods where 
 pale cream-colored sand-hills thrust their stark crests 
 through brownish undergrowth; it was, Ann thought, 
 too strange to be beautiful, and yet she looked out of 
 her window eagerly. She had no warning at all of 
 
 382
 
 THE END OF THE RAINBOW 383 
 
 what was coming when suddenly the train burst from 
 enveloping trees, and ran along the shore of Lake 
 Michigan. It lay on the right-hand side of the rail- 
 road, vast and blue and unfathomable; its waters 
 stretched to the farthest horizon, yet lapped the low 
 embankment where the tracks were laid. 
 
 "See !" Ann cried involuntarily, "it is high tide." 
 
 They laughed together over her mistake, and pointed 
 but to each other sails on the blue expanse. As they 
 watched, the clouds on the eastern horizon took on an 
 enchanting rose-colored reflection, and the tops of the 
 amiable waves mirrored it, although their depths re- 
 mained deeply blue. 
 
 In no time at all, Peter was urging Ann to look at 
 the other side, where scattered buildings testified to 
 the beginnings of the town, and presently the train 
 roared on to a trestle, while she looked, and gasped. 
 To her right was the lake, already familiar to her; 
 to her left there lay another sheet of water, a little 
 lagoon, which stretched from the high embankment 
 over which the railroad ran to a distant street. It 
 was like molten gold, in the sunset, and on it were 
 numbers of rowboats, and even a tiny sail-boat or 
 two, coming to anchor in the close of the day. On 
 the street beyond, dignified houses with fronts of yel- 
 lowish limestone stood singly, surrounded by trees, or 
 in austere rows, broken, here and there, by a frame cot- 
 tage of an earlier time, and shielded by double files 
 of cotton wood trees. 
 
 "But it is very elegant, Peter," Ann said in a low
 
 384 THE CORTLANDTS 
 
 voice. She had not expected to find anything so 
 metropolitan in the new city of but one hundred fifty 
 thousand inhabitants. 
 
 "Isn't it?" He was frankly triumphant. "Perhaps 
 we'll live there some day. Just be patient, Ann. I'll 
 work. You've never seen anything like the way I'll 
 work." 
 
 "We'll work together," Ann declared stoutly. In- 
 deed, she wanted no better fate. 
 
 There was time before supper for a brief survey of 
 the environs of the hotel, so Ann and Peter left their 
 bags and walked aimlessly about in the rich light, over 
 echoing wooden sidewalks, and up and down innumer- 
 able little flights of steps built to accommodate the 
 uneven grades of the streets. They went into a small 
 park across from their hotel, and found a bench with 
 a good view of the late afternoon driving which ani- 
 mated Michigan Avenue. Ladies with bouffant skirts 
 leaned elegantly back in comfortable family rock- 
 aways; their horses were humanely draped with fly 
 nets, and the hired men who drove them lolled at ease 
 upon the front seats. Gentlemen whose sporting 
 equipment reminded Ann of Mr. Renneslyer's, drove 
 pairs of swift long-tailed horses to high buggies with 
 great canopy tops folded behind, or rode briskly down 
 the street on horseback, in long, light checked 
 trousers, high hats and dark coats, exactly as they did 
 in New York. Ann was amazed. "I wish Fanny 
 could see this !" she exclaimed, from time to time.
 
 THE END OF THE RAINBOW 385 
 
 After supper Peter suggested the play at McVicker's 
 Theater, but Ann begged to go instead to Colonel 
 Wood's Museum, where a transparency strung across 
 the street advertising, and picturing, the largest woman 
 in the world, had piqued her curiosity. They went, 
 and gaped at her satisfactorily. What did Ann, in 
 her slim youth fulness, have in common with a lady 
 weighing an alleged nine hundred pounds ? When she 
 stood before her the contrast piquantly doubled the 
 phenomenon's size. The bride and groom wandered 
 happily among the curios and lesser freaks, and Ann 
 wondered that such perfect comradeship could exist. 
 Her eyes shone with happiness, and her gaiety bubbled 
 up irrepressibly. 
 
 At breakfast the next morning she looked across the 
 table at Peter, as he finished off his last buckwheat 
 cake. "Do hurry," she said impatiently. 
 
 "What for?" 
 
 "Why, Peter, I haven't seen your shop yet !" 
 
 Peter's happy face clouded. "There's time enough 
 for that," he said. "You had better let me get it fixed 
 up before you come." 
 
 All Ann's morning radiance fled. "Fixed up?" she 
 echoed. "Aren't we partners?" 
 
 Peter smiled at her tragic tone, and patted her hand 
 surreptitiously. "Of course we are," he murmured 
 consolingly. "I'll make the money and you can spend 
 it. That's a partnership, isn't it?" 
 
 At this the bride's eyes filled with foolish tears, and
 
 386 THE CORTLANDTS 
 
 Peter looked at her in chop fallen alarm. "If you feel 
 like that," he said hastily, "of course we'll go. We'll 
 go right now." 
 
 "I'm I'm silly, I know." Ann sat blinking rapidly 
 to get rid of her tears, fearful of fellow-breakfasters' 
 interest in them. She smiled mistily. She had won 
 her point, but, although she said nothing further, a 
 slight feeling of soreness remained. When they arrived 
 at the shop, however, she understood Peter's reluc- 
 tance, for they had left the genteel neighborhood long 
 before they came to it The streets in that quarter 
 were in bad condition ; Ann's new boots, and even the 
 white stockings above them, were well plastered with 
 mud, while on the corner was an abandoned wagon 
 with the sign "No bottom here" humorously hung from 
 its half submerged body. 
 
 "Peter, how shocking! I think it is very shiftless 
 not to put down pavements." 
 
 "Can't do everything all at once," her husband re- 
 sponded cheerfully, as he eased his key into a rusty 
 lock. 
 
 Ann was secretly aghast at the mean appearance of 
 Peter's heralded place of business. Inside, three years' 
 accumulation of dust lay on the small forge and the 
 workbench, and cobwebs draped the dirty windows. 
 
 Peter looked about eagerly enough. "It's good to 
 be back!" he exclaimed, stretching out his arms jovi- 
 ally. "This beats sojering a pile." 
 
 He showed his wife a rough little model which 
 stood on the table. "Know what that is ?" She shook
 
 THE END OF THE RAINBOW 387 
 
 her head; somehow she found it impossible to speak. 
 "It's an improvement on the reaper machine. I 
 held off enlisting for two months to finish it. You 
 see, it saves man-power, and I knew that would be a 
 good thing for the country, in war-time. When I had 
 it done I carried it over to Cyrus McCormick." Peter 
 laughed grimly. "He told me they'd already perfected 
 that idea, and he took me out into the works and 
 showed it to me in the making." 
 
 "How outrageous ! Couldn't you sue him, or some- 
 thing ?" 
 
 Peter laughed indulgently. In a bride this ignor- 
 ance was charming, and he kissed Ann delightedly, 
 amid the confusion of his little shop. It was an adven- 
 ture to kiss her there, in that place sacred to the serious 
 business of making a living. 
 
 It quickly became evident that Peter's small capital 
 could not long stand the strain of hotel life, and he 
 suggested that possibly they would better board for 
 a while. "It would give us time to look around," he 
 said hopefully. 
 
 Ann was, however, horrified at the idea. "I should 
 hate boarding," she said. "Nothing to do all day, and 
 really, Peter, it isn't very genteel." 
 
 She was surprised at the ease with which she won 
 her point, for she had yet to learn that in judgments 
 of this kind her husband bowed to her greater woridli- 
 ness. Indeed when the decision was made he was 
 conscious of feeling pleasantly superior to the count- 
 less other young couples who were making so humble
 
 3 88 THE CORTLANDTS 
 
 a beginning. After some search, they rented a small 
 frame cottage near the most desirable marble front 
 district, on the west side of the city. It had only 
 one story, but it was set up on a high cellar masked 
 by a bright green wooden lattice. There was a narrow 
 front porch, with a row of steep steps leading to the 
 walk, and behind a neat fence of wooden pickets, 
 quite a good sized yard, with a big cottonwood tree 
 growing in it, and a tiny garden tucked away behind 
 the house. The owner gave them immediate posses- 
 sion, and they bought from him his big nickel-plated 
 heater, and the brown mottled oil-cloth on the hall and 
 parlor floors. 
 
 Settling proved pure joy. Peter was a miracle of 
 efficient energy. He painted woodwork and floors with 
 a speed which so fascinated Ann that she could only 
 stand and watch him; he cleaned stovepipes and 
 drains; he mended hinges and locks, he put new 
 faucets on the kitchen sink and even a boiler beside the 
 range, so that his wife should have hot water. Ann 
 had never thought about hot water before; she had 
 accepted it as manna from heaven; now it came as a 
 miracle, a gift of love. 
 
 Three meals a day were the only drawbacks to all 
 this exciting happiness. Ann found that she was very 
 stupid about things like keeping up the kitchen fire, 
 and remembering to put potatoes on to boil ; she could 
 not seem to consider them important, and yet Peter 
 evidently did. At first he did most of the serious cook- 
 ing himself, while his wife looked on, and offered him
 
 THE END OF THE RAINBOW 389 
 
 knives and spoons at the wrong moment. It was all 
 delightfully amusing, but she had a nervous suspicion 
 that later something more exacting would be demanded 
 of her. 
 
 They spent one glorious afternoon in the shops, 
 selecting the simple necessaries for their housekeeping. 
 They chose a white china set, with a hair line of gold 
 on the edge, and they -priced rosewood parlor suites 
 exhaustively, before they gave up the idea of one as 
 hopelessly beyond their means. They bought a square 
 of flowered carpet, however, to lay over the brown oil- 
 cloth, a walnut what-not on which to arrange bric-a- 
 brac, when they should have any, and they really 
 plunged on a butternut bedroom set. Ann had secretly 
 hoped for a piano, but as Peter had apparently never 
 considered such an extravagance, she said nothing 1 
 about it. 
 
 The mysteries of economical housekeeping staggered 
 her; she seemed to have learned nothing during the 
 years in which she had charge of her guardian's house, 
 and she wondered at the smugness with which she 
 had assumed that telling an efficient cook what they 
 would eat three times a day was all there was to it. 
 Peter took her to market, so that she might learn the 
 cheaper cuts of meat, but while she was still vainly 
 struggling to detect the difference between a shoulder 
 and a rib, he had mastered the whole carcass. One day, 
 however, she ventured as far as the center of town by 
 herself, and on the corner of the Court-House Square 
 she found a man selling canvasback ducks, and a dozen
 
 390 THE CORTLANDTS 
 
 quail strung on a string, for a vastly lower price than 
 Peter's butchers' meat; she went home elated at feeling 
 herself, after all, an adequate helpmate. After that, 
 whenever she was particularly hard up, she made her 
 purchases there. 
 
 When the cottage was finally equipped, and Ann had 
 demonstrated that she was the equal of any coal stove, 
 the two young people faced the solemn fact that their 
 honeymoon was ended. The night before Peter went 
 back to his shop they had a final celebration. He 
 bought tickets for McVicker's Theater, and the two 
 hung over the gallery rail entranced at Mr. Hackett's 
 performance of Henry the IVth, followed by what 
 the program referred to as a Grand Dance, and a 
 brief farce entitled The Pretty Horsebreaker. It was 
 an extraordinary amount of entertainment to have 
 condensed in one evening, and it was late when they 
 came out of the theater. A mist almost heavy enough 
 to be called a rain had drifted into the town from the 
 swampy prairies to the west, and Ann delayed to turn 
 up her silken skirts, in spite of the fact that Peter im- 
 patiently pressed her to make haste lest they miss the 
 car. He hurried her off, ominously silent while she 
 chattered of the play, and when they rounded the 
 corner the street-car had indeed started. It was per- 
 haps a block away from them, and the homeward- 
 bound horses were making good time through the 
 empty streets. Peter ran savagely after it, and might 
 have overtaken it, had not Ann proved unequal to the 
 'pace. He ran on for a few yards after she dropped
 
 THE END OF THE RAINBOW 391 
 
 behind, and then abandoned the chase. He stood 
 waiting for her to overtake him. "Damn!" he said 
 loudly. "You've made me miss the car." Ann looked 
 at him open-mouthed. He spoke as though no tie of 
 affection bound them, as though he could hate her, 
 his wife. "Always late, women," he scolded. "There 
 won't be another car for an hour, this time of night." 
 
 "Could I know that?" Ann demanded, plucking up 
 some of her spirit, and facing him defiantly. 
 
 "Why couldn't you hurry? Here I have to go to 
 work early to-morrow morning. . . . Where you 
 going?" 
 
 "I shall walk." Her voice was infinitely frigid. 
 
 "You'll do nothing of the sort. This mist. It's go- 
 ing to rain. . . . Annie! Stop, I tell you!" 
 
 "Take your hand off me!" She shook Peter off, 
 and stalked away from him; she walked on rapidly, 
 alone in the dark streets, thinking bitterly that it was 
 for this she had left her guardian. Subconsciously 
 she listened for Peter's footsteps, but she heard no 
 sound, and concluded that he had let her go without 
 him. Miserable tears began to steal down her cheeks. 
 
 In a few moments there came a great rattling, and 
 a clatter of a horse coming toward her over the rough 
 pavement. A carriage swung furiously to the curb, 
 and she swerved nervously away as a man burst from 
 its dark interior, but at once she knew it was Peter. 
 He seized her roughly, and drew her, unresisting, into 
 the musty privacy of the hack. He kissed her wet 
 !face tempestuously.
 
 392 THE CORTLANDTS 
 
 "Annie! Don't cry. I've got such a devil of a 
 temper! I'm sorry. Don't sob like that! I never 
 know what I say when I'm angry! It was all my 
 fault. Annie, kiss me!" 
 
 She kissed him, her frozen anger melted by the fire 
 of his contrition, and in reconciliation she found a 
 new stimulation to love. ... It was late when 
 she went to sleep. . . . Long after Peter was 
 deep in slumber, she lay, very still and wide-eyed in 
 the dark, thinking things over. She bore no rancor; 
 her forgiveness was complete, but she recognized 
 something in her life with which she must reckon. 
 . . . Peter's temper. ... She had never seen 
 any one in unbridled anger before. . . . She felt 
 very far away and alone. . . . Presently she 
 slipped one finger into the loose circle of her sleeping 
 husband's hand, and yet the touch did not entirely 
 reassure her. 
 
 In the morning Peter was all sunny good humor. 
 He made the kitchen fire and started the breakfast 
 before he awakened Ann; when she sprang up guiltily, 
 she sniffed the delicious odor of frying ham. He went 
 off to work reluctantly, and yet she knew that he was 
 eager to start again. And so their life together 
 began. 
 
 For the first few weeks Ann was completely ab- 
 sorbed in her housework. In a month she had 
 learned to have the essentials of a simple meal all 
 ready at the same time, but she never became more
 
 THE END OF THE RAINBOW 393 
 
 than a fair cook. She worked all day, just as Peter 
 did, but often she walked to the shop with him in the 
 morning, and came home laden with packages from 
 the cheaper stores off Halstead Street. Sometimes she 
 lingered to watch her husband plunge into his day's 
 work; he forgot all about her, as soon as he turned 
 to his forge. It seemed to her extraordinary that 
 almost at once he had more than he could do, and his 
 brief explanation that his was the lowest bid on a 
 contract for pipe-fitting left her singularly uninformed. 
 He was childishly irritated at being questioned, and 
 Ann early decided upon the wisdom of a silent partner- 
 ship. It was not, it is true, what she had imagined her 
 life with Peter would be, on the morning they had dis- 
 cussed it in Washington Square, but after two months 
 of marriage Ann felt infinitely removed from the girl 
 she had been. She was a housewife, absorbed in her 
 duties. Excitement of a vicarious sort no longer ap- 
 pealed to her. She was all wife; her life hung on 
 Peter. Up to the time of her marriage she had never 
 heard of the word passion, except as applied to fits of 
 temper. Straight from her reticent background, she 
 felt, with glowing cheeks, that she and Peter had 
 made unique discoveries, and she was sorry for the 
 rest of the world, outside their secret pale. It was 
 not all passion, either, or, at any rate, not exclusively 
 that. The two laughed at each other like children; 
 they played foolish games together, and called each 
 other ridiculous names. Their interests were abso-
 
 394 THE CORTLANDTS 
 
 lutely united; neither one had friends in Chicago, nor 
 felt the lack of them, in their absorbing discovery of 
 each other. 
 
 In due time Ann's trunk arrived. Her things were 
 just as she had left them, but there was not a word 
 from the Cortlandts. She unpacked trinkets and mo- 
 mentos of her youth, among them Densley's Manet, 
 strangely glowing on her chocolate colored walls, 
 and her eyes filled with tears at the memories of her 
 guardian they waked. Had he come back from 
 Europe, she wondered? Was he well? Did he miss 
 her? But no, she did not need to ask that, for if 
 he thought of her with any tenderness he would surely 
 have written to her. Peter came in for dinner, to 
 find her brooding, and his meal was not ready. He 
 said unkind things of the Cortlandts, while she fried 
 his chops. 
 
 About her the war roared on, and now her interest 
 centered in the Army of the Tennessee, for the west- 
 ern newspapers printed little of the exploits of the 
 Army of the Potomac. Often Peter took her to Union 
 mass meetings. They stood swaying back and forth 
 with the crowd in the Court-House Square on the 
 night that George Root's Battle Cry of Freedom was 
 sung for the first time. Every one joined in the 
 chorus, and Ann put all the fervor of her nature into 
 it, but except for fiery moments like this, the war 
 seemed to her remote. It was dwarfed by her personal 
 experience. Her girlhood, with its uncertainties and 
 tremors, was done, and marriage engulfed her.
 
 THE END OF THE RAINBOW 395 
 
 In November she heard from Fanny. 
 
 DEAR ANN : 
 
 I write this letter to you with great apprehension, 
 for my mother has strictly forbidden further inter- 
 course between us, and you know mama, Ann. I am 
 just scared to death, but I can not get married without 
 telling you about it. 
 
 I am to wed my cousin Hendricks on the twentieth 
 day of December, when he is to have a leave of absence 
 from the Army of the Potomac, for a whole fortnight. 
 These tidings may not be surprising to you, but now 
 that Hendricks truly loves me, I am indeed a happy 
 girl. 
 
 I am to be wed in your white satin dress, which 
 you left behind you. It is too long in the skirt for 
 me, and too small in the waist, but those are defects 
 easily remedied. Your other fine clothes my uncle, 
 who is now returned from Europe, directs shall be 
 sent you, even the black velvet, which surely is more 
 suited to a New York matron than to the wife of a 
 Chicago mechanic. 
 
 How could you so misbehave yourself, Ann, when 
 my uncle had even made your wedding settlements, 
 and that good young count so adored you? My 
 mother says blood will tell, and I suppose she is right, 
 tout I hope you are happy, even with Peter. 
 
 With love, 
 
 FANNY. 
 
 Until she knew her guardian had returned and had 
 made no effort to communicate with her, Ann was not 
 aware of how confidently she had counted on his doing 
 so. Even the fact that Mr. Cortlandt's silence shut
 
 396 THE CORTLANDTS 
 
 her off with her husband, was an inadequate consola- 
 tion. She could not rouse herself to any interest in 
 Fanny's marriage, although she was indignant at her 
 slighting reference to Peter. 
 
 "They still do not think you are good enough for 
 me," she told him. "It's laughable." 
 
 Things had been going better with Peter of late. 
 He had finished his contract for the pipe-fitting, and 
 had been well paid for it. He talked hopefully of 
 Cuture work in connection with the new railroad lines 
 which were to center in Chicago. Ann was enor- 
 mously proud of him; every day that passed buried 
 deeper that remote time when she had been his 
 superior. 
 
 He took Fanny's letter and slowly read it. Ann 
 watched his face eagerly, but his expression did not 
 change. For the first time it occurred to her that 
 Peter had an extraordinary power of masking his 
 feelings. "It's natural enough, I suppose," he said, 
 "but things will go hard with me if I don't make more 
 of a success of my life than your Captain Renneslyer 
 does of his. Fanny's all right, though. Used to sit 
 beside my bed, as sweet and pretty as a pink, too 
 scared to say much." He glanced over the note again, 
 briefly. Then he said, "That velvet dress, Annie, why 
 lcn't you send it back to her for a wedding present?" 
 
 Ann gasped at the magnificence of this gesture, but 
 she was delighted at the idea; after all, she wanted 
 to send Fanny something in proof of her affection. 
 
 It was only the next day she looked out of her
 
 THE END OF THE RAINBOW 397 
 
 front window to see a station hack come laboring down 
 the street. It made slow progress through the heavy 
 mud and broken planks of the roadway, now dropping 
 into holes that threatened to dismember it, and then 
 straining perilously as it burst out of them. Ann was 
 sorry for the laboring horses, but her interest was im- 
 personal until, unexpectedly, they stopped before her 
 gate, and a sudden premonition turned her white. A 
 hand on the door handle inside the lowered glass had 
 a familiar look, and she could see the sharp lines of a 
 silk hat in the dusk of the interior. She rushed to the 
 front door and flung it wide, and there was her guar- 
 dian in her open gate. He paused at the bottom of the 
 short flight of steps, looking up at her, too agitated to 
 move. The sun was in his eyes; Ann's red hair was 
 like a nimbus about the pearl white of her face. In the 
 instant that they stood gazing at each other, their old 
 companionship was reestablished without a word. She 
 aroused herself and ran down to him; she flung her 
 arms around him and kissed him; she found that she 
 was in tears, but it made no difference. 
 
 Mr. Cortlandt said, "My dear, to see you again !" 
 She thought how old he looked, and broken. She 
 tried to help him up her steep steps, and once inside 
 the house she told him how sorry she was that she 
 should have disappointed him. 
 
 Mr. Cortlandt brushed all this away with a brusk 
 gesture. "Never mind that, Ann," he said. "Are 
 you happy? That is what I came to Chicago to find 
 out."
 
 398 JHE CORTLANDTS 
 
 Ann clung tightly to his hand. "Now that I have 
 you again, I am," she assured him. "I can't tell you 
 about Peter; you will have to see for yourself. He 
 is just right for .me, uncle. Those others, somehow 
 they were all wrong." 
 
 "You are in love with him, then?" 
 
 Ann's wide eyes laughed. "Yes," she said, "I 
 should say I am. I am awfully in love with him. Of 
 course I know he is only a workman, but there are 
 plenty of men out here, uncle, who began like that, 
 and now they are getting on their feet. He has had 
 to add to his shop already because the Chicago and 
 Galena Railroad have given him a big contract." 
 
 "You can bring him back to New York, Ann. I 
 don't believe I can live without you, and I can easily 
 get him something to do." 
 
 The radiant joy was swept from Ann's face. "It's 
 dreadful not to go to you when you want me," she said 
 soberly, "but Peter would never consent, uncle. He 
 has his own life out here, and it is my life too. You 
 must understand about Peter. He loves his work 
 more than anything in the world, except me. Some- 
 times I am afraid he loves it more than me, even, but 
 I am proud of him for it, uncle. Even to be near 
 you, I wouldn't have him leave it." 
 
 The look of discouragement and fatigue cleared 
 from Mr. Cortlandt's face. "That is as it should be, 
 my child," he said. "Possibly you have been wiser 
 than I could have been for you. You have always 
 been an instinctive creature. . I should have
 
 THE END OF THE RAINBOW 399 
 
 trusted to your instinct in this. ... I hope I 
 shall like your Peter. . . . And now put on your 
 hat and we'll drive down and surprise him at his 
 shop." 
 
 They drove back along Washington Street, which 
 was gay with the crowd going to the races at the new 
 Chicago Driving Park. About them the lusty young 
 town sprawled unceremoniously. The trees of the 
 Garden City still held some of their autumn leaves; 
 the prairie sky above them was a deep unsullied blue ; 
 the clean wind off the lake had an edge which made 
 Mr. Cortlandt glad of his overcoat. He turned to 
 look at Ann snuggled beside him, clear skinned, calm 
 eyed, and keen. She had a look of capacity for ex- 
 perience, and something in her eager acceptance of life 
 made the old man, too, unafraid. 
 
 THE END
 
 "The Books You Like to Read 
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 There Are Two Sides 
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 54-40 OR FIGHT 
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 THE DUKE OF CHIMNEY BUTTE 
 
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 Jim Timberlake and Capt. David Scott waited with restless 
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 TRAIL'S END 
 
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 Aik for Complete free list of G. <fr D. Popular Copyrighted Fiction 
 
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 RUBY M. AYRES 1 NOVELS 
 
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 THE ROMANCE OF A ROGUE 
 
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 RICHARD CHATTERTON 
 
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 A BACHELOR HUSBAND 
 
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 THE SCAR 
 
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 THE MARRIAGE OF BARRY WICKLOW 
 
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 THE UPHILL ROAD 
 
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 Jill, a poor little typist, marries the great Henry Sturgess and inherits millions, 
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 WINDS OF THE WQRLD 
 
 Jill, a poor little typist, marries the great r 
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 THE SECOND HONEYMOON 
 
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 THE PHANTOM LOVER 
 
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 JACKSON GREGORYS NOVELS 
 
 May be had wharevsr books are told. Ask tor Grossst & Dunlap's list 
 
 THE EVERLASTING WHISPER 
 
 The story of a strong man's struggle against savage nature and human- 
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 DESERT VALLEY 
 
 A college professor sets out with his daughter to find gold. They mec* 
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 MAN TO MAN 
 
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 KINDRED OF THE DUST 
 
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