Part 27

Rutledge had been buried in South Carolina politics for ten weeks and in that time had not seen the Virginia Springs date-line sometime so familiar to him. Of course, he thought, Elise is with her mother! and from the dating-stamp on that letter he had carelessly assumed she was in Washington. He turned back a page and glanced hurriedly at a railroad time-card, then at his watch.

"Here," he called sharply to the cabby, who jerked up his horse, "you've but three minutes to get me back to the station--get a move on!" ... Out of the cab through the waiting-room and at the gate he rushed. The placid keeper barred the way.

"C. & O. west!" snapped Rutledge.

"Gone." The gateman seemed to be thinking of something else.

"How long since?"

"Half minute. Lynchburg, yes, madam--third track."

"When's the next?" Rutledge demanded impatiently.

"Three-eighteen. Don't block the way."

* * * * *

Desiring to avoid interviews and interviewers, Rutledge drove to his sleeping quarters and shut himself in for the seven or eight hours wait. His fever of impatience had time to rise and fall many times before the hour and minute of 3:18 came slowly and grudgingly to pass. He had so desired to tell Elise that he had come without delay.

It was very late in the afternoon when he reached the Virginia Springs hotel. He was somewhat undecided how to proceed: whether to ask Elise's permission to call or to present himself unannounced, whether to inquire of the clerk in the crowded lobby the way to the Phillips' cottage or to acquire the information more quietly. He noted that not less than half a dozen men within ear-shot of the clerk's desk were at the moment reading various papers that had Elise's name and his own in display type on their front pages.

As he came down from his room after hurriedly making himself presentable he met at the foot of the stairs Mr. Sanders, the managing owner of _The Mail_. He was surprised, but annoyed more than surprised--for he must be deferential to his chief,--and another precious half-hour was consumed in the effort to pull himself away without giving offence. His only compensation for the delay was in learning casually from Mr. Sanders where to seek the Phillips cottage.

Finally shaking himself loose, he set out with more impatience than haste to find Elise. When he had gotten beyond the eyes of the people in the hotel he put some little speed into his steps. He was striding along rapidly when just in front of him Katherine and May Phillips came down out of the hill path into the road.

"Isn't this Katherine Phillips?" he asked, overtaking them.

"Yes," said Katherine, looking doubtfully at him.

"Well," said Rutledge, hesitating a moment, "you permitted me to shake hands with you once. I'm Mr. Rutledge. Do you remember?"

"Yes," said Katherine, though with a shade of uncertainty in her tone.

"That's good. And who is this?"

"May," said Katherine.

"Why, certainly. I might have guessed." Rutledge extended his hand and the little girl took it in simple confidence. "And where are you two little ladies going, if I may ask?"

"Elise sent us home," said May, permitting him still to hold her fingers.

"And where is she?" Involuntarily Rutledge almost came to a halt as he asked the question.

"Way up on the mountain." May waved her small arm indefinitely back the way they had come.... Rutledge's steps became slower and slower.

"Well, young ladies, I'm glad to have met you. I must be getting back. I suppose you can get home safe."

"Oh, yes," said Katherine. "It's not far."

"So? Well, good-bye."

"Good-bye," said the little girls.

Rutledge's steps quickened as he came to the path and turned hurriedly up the hill.

* * * * *

Your woman of the world is marvelous in her self-possession. In a moment of complete abandon to thoughts of her love and her lover, Elise looked about and saw the man coming to her. With her mind so intent upon him that she wavered for a moment in doubt lest his appearing was an hallucination, her manner of greeting him was the perfection of indifferent politeness--neither warm nor frosty.

"Good afternoon, Mr. Rutledge. What wind blows you across the world to-day?"--she seemed to know that he was just passing across the hill.

With her heart-revealing letter in his pocket--nay more, committed every word to memory in his heart--Rutledge was taken aback by the casual way in which she spoke to him. He knew, of course, that she had not mailed him the letter and was not aware that he had it; yet on the basis of the letter he had conceived words he would say to her and she to him: but not a word he had prepared was possible at the moment.

"I am--I came--I have an appointment with Mr. Sanders, the owner of _The Mail_--at the hotel--at half past eight." The appointment had been made ten minutes ago. It was the only wind he could think of that was blowing him across the world.

The man's confusion and seriousness and conscientious statement of detail ordinarily would have amused Elise; but she had not for months been in a mood to be amused.

A moment later Rutledge was laughing inwardly at himself, his confusion gone, his self-possession perfect. His prosaic accounting for his presence smothered the tiny romantic flame that had kindled in Elise's bosom, and she in turn was taken aback: and the man saw, and knew, and laughed unholily. Not even the most observing eye, fairly limited, would have detected the effect upon her; but he had an unfair advantage--for had he not her letter at that moment snuggled up close to his heart?

His laugh was not out-breaking, but the girl saw embarrassment drop as a cloak from his manner, and a flicker of amusement in his eyes; and the quickness of the change was a bit bewildering to her. The word upon her lips was stayed as she looked steadily at him as if for an explanation.

Rutledge spoke first,--but he did not presume upon his unfair advantage. All the tenderness of his soul was bowing before the clear-eyed young woman as she stood there so adorable, swinging her black hat in her hand, the light hill-breeze stirring the loose strands of sunlit hair about her temples and the folds of her simple summery mourning dress. If he had obeyed the impulse he would have knelt to kiss the hem of that dress. Emboldened by the words of her letter, he could not even then with unseemly assurance come to her heart to possess it. Confidently as he came to claim it, he drew near to her love as one whose steps approach a shrine.

"It is a very pleasant surprise to find you up here," he said. "And this view is a surprise also--a revelation. They did not tell me at the hotel that such an one was to be had from this hill."

Elise was deceived by his words, and convinced that the merest chance had appointed this meeting: and yet she could not dismiss from her mind the question, "Why did he walk so straight at me as he came up the hill?" His words, however, put the situation on an impersonal basis and her reply in kind established the conventional status.

They talked of indifferent things, and she was speaking of the splendour that was flaming in the west when the man's impatience broke the bands he had put upon it.

"Elise, I love you, and I want you to be my wife." It was abrupt but it was in tones of humble entreaty.

Taken completely unawares, Elise turned quickly about from the sunset to look at him. Her gray eyes weighed his truth in the balance for five seconds. His manner was softened and natural, his face and attitude spoke love in every line. Her eyes dropped before his, and a rich colour came to her throat, cheek and temple as she turned again to the golden west.

Rutledge made a step toward her as if to take her. Her hand went up to stay him, though the lovelight was on her face.

"Don't," she said gently. She was disposed to play with her happiness, to hold him at arm's length. "Why do you come to me again, Mr. Rutledge? You have had my answer once, and it must have convinced you." Her words and her manner were contradictory, and Rutledge was confused. "You plead without hope. You told the people yesterday that you had not even the hope to be engaged to me. Why pursue a hopeless--no, no, don't!" she again commanded as, ignoring her words, he moved to answer her smile.

"And it's better so, Mr. Rutledge. You yourself have said it; and you can hardly expect me to gainsay it."

Despite the smile on her face this was a shot that went home, and it put Rutledge on the defensive.

"You could hardly expect me to say less, Elise, after your denial of your love for me."

"My love for you? Of all the presumption!"

Elise caught her breath at this rejoinder, but it only gave zest to the game and she tilted her chin mockingly at him.

Rutledge, with some deliberation, took from an inside coat pocket a letter, and handed it to her. She glanced at it in astonished surprise, and her face went hard.

"Where did you get this?" she cried.

"In the mail, yesterday afternoon. Elise, I didn't delay a moment in coming to you. It came--"

"So this is what brought you!"

"Yes. I--"

"And you thought I sent it?"--her voice was as hard as her eyes were cold.

"No. But you wrote it, and--"

"Did I?"

"Didn't you?"

"What a question!--and you came because you thought a lady called. Certainly you did! You Southerners are so abominably gallant.... You have acquitted yourself very handsomely, Mr. Rutledge. I congratulate you. You have thoroughly vindicated your claim to the name of 'gentleman'--'Southern gentleman,' if the term is of more excellence. Assuredly nothing further is required of you. I ex--"

"Elise, you wrote that letter."

"No."

"Elise!"

"Stop. Don't touch me!"--but his left arm went determinedly about her, and only with both hands could she hold his right hand away.

"You wrote that letter, Elise; and you love me."

"No--never--no!" ... Her physical resistance seemed a match for his strength.

"It is useless, Elise," he said to her as with tense muscles he strove to subdue her will and her wilful pride. "I have always loved you, and now that I know you love me nothing shall divide us. Why should you hold out against love?"

But Elise's resistance was fixed and set. Rutledge pleaded and begged and made love to her with all the tenderness of his heart and the energy of his passion for her, and exerted his physical strength to break down her defence.

"Tell me that you wrote it, sweetheart," he implored and besought her again and again: but she only shook her head in dissent. He exhausted every prayer and plea without avail.

Desperately resolved to win at any cost, he could only hold her fast and swear in his heart she should not escape him. Finally he called upon all his muscular power to crush her into surrender, and mercilessly bore in upon her.

Elise bore out against him with all her strength. Her face became first crimson and then pale with the effort. Her teeth bit into her lips. Her breathing became fast and faster. But her will would not bend. The man's brute force was almost vicious in its unrestraint. A tear was forced through her tight-shut lashes, but her chin was still uplifted in defiance when--

"You hurt me, Evans," she said, as her resistance collapsed and her face fell hidden against his breast.

"And you wrote the letter, Elise?" he contended, broken-hearted that he had hurt her, but holding her fiercely yet.

"Yes, dear;"--and he is holding her so tenderly now.

* * * * *

Weakly she stood, held close within his arms, until her exhaustion passed, while he murmured to her the gentle nothings which have been messengers of love in all ages. Very gently then she freed herself from his embrace, permitting him still to hold her fingers.

"Let your own lips tell me you love me, Elise."

She looked up at him from under drooping lashes. Her mental decision came before her actual complaisance. She revelled for a time in the ecstasy of her mental abandon to love, and trembled in the very joy of it.

"Yes, yes, I love you,"--and with closing eyes she lifted her face in surrender. A long, long caress intoxicates them, and then, as if in expiation for the blessed delirium of it--

"But not while Helen--not until Helen--oh, it is too horrible to wait for your own sister to die!"--and she is crying her heart out against his shoulder.

Rutledge waited till her tears were spent, and then tenderly he protested.

"But Elise, you will not make any such decree as that. There's no need that we should wait on Helen's account."

"Not while she lives, not while she lives," Elise repeated, looking into his eyes. "I cannot permit your love to bring you to--"

"My love is all-sufficient, Elise; and all else is nothing since you love me. Do not let your pride defeat us of our happiness, sweetheart. Already it--"

"Pride? I have no pride any more for you, my dear. I do not conceal my heart's love nor its woes from you. I believe that love alone, not _noblesse_, brings you to me now. I love you, yes, I love you, but my love forbids that I should marry you and destroy your career and your mother's happiness."

"My mother! What do you know of that?"

"It is so, then! I knew it, Evans;--prescience, I suppose. I am a granddaughter of South Carolina, you know. I know in my own heart what her sorrow would be."

"No, no, Elise, you misjudge my mother. She would love you as she loves me."

"Love me, yes--as well as even now I love--your mother. I believe it and am glad, Evans. But, with all her loving, she could not put away shame and grief. I know, dear, I know. She would love me and--curse me."

"No, no, you do not know. I am willing to speak for my mother. She will--"

"But who can speak for the voters in the coming election? No, Evans, I must not! It would defeat you. Your sacrifice would be too great!"

"There would be no sacrifice. You are worth it all to me, dearest heart--and more. And beside, I do not think the voters of my State would--"

"Wait," said Elise. "Answer me--and answer me truly, for remember my pride is gone and only love is in my heart. Will you win the Senatorship?"

"The prospect is quite alluring," the man replied. "The betting is 2 to 1 that the first primary will not elect, and 9 to 10 that I will defeat Mr. Killam in the second. Robertson really seems to be convinced that I am to succeed."

"Oh, how good that is! I pray for you--but would it not cost you votes, maybe the election, to marry me?--to be engaged to me, even? Do not deceive me. Have you not thought of the hurt it would do your chance of success? Truth and honour, now,--as I love you."

In the face of that sacred obligation Rutledge hesitated an instant.

"_Thought_ of it, yes," he said at last, "but--"

"Then the danger is something considerable. I knew it. My letter's coming was untimely, thanks to the unknown person who mailed it to you. No, my dear, I will not marry you. I will not engage myself to you. I will not defeat you."

Rutledge gathered her to himself again, confident to crush her opposition by brute mastery as before. But there was no physical opposition to be mastered now.

"It is useless," she said wearily. "I love you too much to marry you now, Evans."

"Now?" repeated Rutledge. "If not now, when?"

"Or to engage myself to you."

Her impassive manner was tantalizingly irritating to him as he laid under tribute every resource of his mind and heart to overturn her decision. Her non-resisting resistance was proof against attack. It was like fighting a fog. Seemingly it offered no opposition, and yet when he had exhausted himself in attempts to brush it aside, it was there, filling all space.

"No, no!" she cried out at last, thoroughly aroused by his passionate plea for their happiness; "go! it is sinful even to dream of being happy while one's sister is so wretched--and I will not have your blood upon my hands--nor your mother's curse upon me!"

Rutledge gazed steadily at her a few moments,--and for an answer drew out his watch to see what the hour was.

"Kiss me good-bye," she said, holding her lips up. to him simply as a child.

Taking her hands and drawing them to his heart he bent his head down to hers as reverently as if that gentle, lingering kiss were a sacrament. Turning away, he went swiftly down the path he had come.

Elise sat down upon the boulder from which she had risen at his coming. With her arms clasping her knees, her head was bowed above them, and her shoulders drooped in abject hopelessness.

Looking up at the sound of his steps returning, she half turns to motion him away.

"No, no. It means only that I no longer dissemble before you. Go. There is no hope." And as he obeys she settles back motionless again into that living statue of Despair.

* * * * *

When Mrs. Hazard read in that Sunday's paper an account of the Spartanburg meeting she was dismayed. She had been on the _qui vive_ for nearly a week, though not looking to the newspapers for information. Rutledge's repudiation of Elise angered her.

Monday's papers, however, brought her better temper. She laughed softly as she read among the Virginia Springs items that Mr. Rutledge had arrived there on Sunday afternoon. She was somewhat mystified, though, by the fact that Mr. Rutledge had been so hopeless on Saturday afternoon,--and she was struck with consternation when at last she happened upon a local item which said Mr. Rutledge had passed through the city Sunday night on his return to South Carolina.

"I think she might have written me!" she said when Monday's noon mail brought no letter from her friend.

"I'm going to run over to see Elise this afternoon, if I can catch the train," she told her husband at luncheon; and at 3:18 she was on the way. A wreck ahead of them put her at the Virginia Springs hotel about bed-time.

* * * * *

"How did you get here? I'm so glad to see you!" Elise exclaimed when Lola appeared at the cottage next morning.

"Came last night," Lola said, giving her a hug, "but a miserable wreck held us up till long after dark. I would have come directly here even then, but I did not know how your mother was."

"She is much better," Elise said. "Come right in to see her."

Lola loved Mrs. Phillips very heartily, but she felt that Elise was precipitate in taking her immediately to her mother's room. She went along, of course, and sat down and talked to the two of them for an hour or more. There seemed to be no end to the things they discussed,--the more interminable they were because of the fact that Mrs. Hazard had not made her journey for the pleasure of a general conversation.

She could not understand why Elise did this thing. She tried to read the young lady's reason in her face, but that told nothing. It had not the elation that bespoke a heart joyous in its love. Neither, in the conventional gayety of the three-cornered conversation, did it betray a heart that was desolate. The only thing certain was Elise's evident avoidance of a _tete-a-tete_ with her best friend.

It came to pass Mrs. Phillips had to dismiss them on the plea of exhaustion. Lola apologized profusely. Elise felt guilty, but she asked for no pardon.

The young women went out on the broad veranda. Elise offered Lola the hammock; but Mrs. Hazard was unconsciously too intent upon a present purpose to assume such a purposeless attitude. She took a rocking-chair, but she did not rock. As Elise arranged herself in the hammock, her friend bethought herself as to how she should begin her inquiries. She thought best not to display too minute an acquaintance with the situation.

Elise had indeed some curiosity to know how Rutledge had come into possession of the letter, and believed that Lola could throw light on that matter. But to ask about it was too much like opening the grave of love: and she recoiled. Looking at her face in repose, Lola was convinced that things had gone wrong. This made her take the more thought for an opening.

In the hush before the talk would begin, the boy brought the morning's paper. Lola, seated nearest the steps, took it from his hand. She did not have to unfold it to read what was of supreme interest. As she read, her eyes danced. Half finished, she glanced from the paper to Elise, whose face was apathy clothed in flesh. Lola sought the paper again, feeling that the spooks were playing a trick upon her. It was very plain reading, however. She crushed the paper in her lap, and studied the profile of the girl in the hammock.

"Elise!" she called, still feeling that the spooks had her.

Elise slowly turned toward her a listless face,--which, indeed, took on some life at sight of Mrs. Hazard's excitement.

"What is it?" she asked.

"Oh, full of all guile and subtlety!" Lola exclaimed with a gasp. "Well, I have never!"

Elise looked at her inquiringly.

"Listen, miss; while I read you the news."

Lola picked up the paper and took time to smooth out its wrinkles.

"Don't be impatient, my lady.... Now. Here is the paragraph. It is part of a special despatch from Greenville, South Carolina. You have no idea where that is, of course; but listen:

"Ex-Senator Rutledge spoke last. He had just arrived from Washington, unexpectedly, on a delayed train, and had not had time to brush the coal-dust from his clothes. He made the usual forcible speech with which he has dignified the campaign. At the end of it he said: 'My fellow countrymen, I must be honest and candid with you. At the Spartanburg meeting day before yesterday, in answer to the question of a disreputable dog, I said that I had neither the honour nor the hope to be engaged to the eldest daughter of the late President Phillips. That was the exact truth, my countrymen. To-day I tell you that I do have the happiness to be engaged to Miss Elise Phillips and that we will be married on the last Thursday in next March.'"

There was no apathy in Elise's profile when Lola looked up from her reading. The girl had covered her face with her hands, and flood upon flood of colour was racing over it.

"Is that 'the exact truth, my countrymen?'" Lola demanded, standing over the hammock.

"Yes," Elise said, "why not?"--and Lola grabbed her with a joyful shout.

"Don't make such a fuss," Elise sputtered from out the smother of Mrs. Hazard's kisses, "for I haven't told mamma yet."

* * * * *

"--And look here," a radiant Elise demanded when the two of them had become somewhat composed, "I want to know how it came about that a letter I wrote _and burned_ should have--"

"Stop, stop, honey; I will not answer.... But I _do_ think it is a very bad Samaritan who will not help Dan Cupid when he's in trouble."

*CHAPTER XLI*

The communications between Hayward Graham and the physician in charge of the private hospital in which Helen was detained had become caustic. So much so, that the great specialist had asked Graham to remove her from his care. This Hayward was unable to do. Mrs. Phillips was paying the hospital fees and expenses, and Hayward felt that he could not keep his wife in proper and befitting manner even if she were altogether sane and sound in health. He had no means with which properly to provide for her if she was really in such a condition as the physician declared.

Not being willing or able to assume responsibility for her removal, he was all the more angered at what he believed to be the eminent alienist's positive misrepresentation of the gravity of Helen's ailment and his unwarranted and cavalier treatment of him, her husband. Provoked beyond endurance he went at last to the hospital.

"Mr. Hayward Graham? Yes. Well, come right into my office. Now, what may I do for you?"