Chapter 10

  "When we have hoped and sought and striven and lost our aim,
then the truth fronts us, beaming out of the darkness."
    "Speaking of things remembered, and so sit
    Speechless while things forgotten call to us."
    "We, who say as we go,
      'Strange to think by the way,
    Whatever there is to know,
      That we shall know one day.'"
"I would tell her every thing."
It was the rector who spoke. He and Richard were sitting before the
study fire; they had been talking long and seriously, and the rector's
eyes were dim and troubled. "Yes, I would tell her every thing." Then
he put his pipe down, and began to walk about the floor, murmuring
at intervals, "Poor fellow! poor fellow! God is merciful."
In accord with this advice Richard went to see Elizabeth. It was a
painful story he had to tell, and he was half inclined to hide all
but the unavoidable in his own heart; but he could not doubt the wisdom
which counseled him "to tell all, and tell it as soon as possible."
The opportunity occurred immediately. He found Elizabeth mending, with
skillful fingers, some fine old lace, which she was going to make into
ruffles for Harry's neck and wrists. It was a stormy morning, and the
boy had not been permitted to go to the village, but he sat beside
her, reading aloud that delight of boyhood, "Robinson Crusoe."
Elizabeth had never removed her mourning, but her fair hair and white
linen collar and cuffs made an exquisite contrast to the soft somber
folds of her dress; while Harry was just a bit of brilliant color, from
the tawny gold of his long curls to the rich lights of his crimson
velvet suit, with its white lace and snowy hose, and low shoes tied
with crimson ribbons.
He was a trifle jealous of Richard's interference between himself and
his aunt, but far too gentlemanly a little fellow to show it; and quite
shrewd enough to understand, that if he went to Martha for an hour
or two, he would not be much missed. They both followed him with
admiring eyes as he left the room; and when he stood a moment in the
open door and touched his brow with his hand, as a parting courtesy,
neither could help an expression of satisfaction.
"What a handsome lad!" said Richard.
"He is. If he live to take his father's or my place here, he will be
a noble squire of Hallam."
"Then he is to be your successor?"
"Failing Anthony."
"Then, Elizabeth dear, he is squire of Hallam already, for Anthony
is dead."
"Dead! Without a word! Without sign of any kind--O, Richard, is it
really--death?"
Richard bowed his head, and Elizabeth sat gazing out of the window
with vacant introspective vision, trying to call up from the past the
dear form that would come no more. She put down her sewing, and Richard
drew closer to her side, and comforted her with assurances that he
believed, "all was well with the dead." "I was with him during the
last weeks of his sad life," he said; "I did all that love could
suggest to soothe his sufferings. He sleeps well; believe me."
"I never heard from him after our sorrowful farewell. I looked and
hoped for a little until my heart failed me; and I thought he perished
at sea."
"No; God's mercy spared him until he had proved the vanity of all
earthly ambition, and then he gave him rest. When he awoke, I have
no doubt that 'he was satisfied.'"
"Where did he die? Tell me all, Richard, for there may be words and
events that seem trivial to you that will be full of meaning to me."
"Last March I went to Mexico on business of importance, and passing
one morning through the Grand Plaza, I thought a figure slowly
sauntering before me was a familiar one. It went into a small office
for the exchange of foreign money, and, as I wanted some exchange, I
followed. To my surprise the man seemed to be the proprietor; he went
behind the counter into a room, but on my touching a bell reappeared.
It was Antony. The moment our eyes met, we recognized each other, and
after a slight hesitation, I am sure that he was thankful and delighted
to see me. I was shocked at his appearance. He looked fifty years of
age, and had lost all his color, and was extremely emaciated. We were
soon interrupted, and he promised to come to my hotel and dine with me
at six o'clock.
"I noticed at dinner that he ate very little, and that he had a
distressing and nearly constant cough, and afterward, as we sat on
the piazza, I said, 'Let us go inside, Antony; there is a cold wind,
and you have a very bad cough.'
"'O, it is nothing,' he answered fretfully. 'The only wonder is that
I am alive, after all I have been made to suffer. Stronger men than
I ever was fell and died at my side. You are too polite, Richard, to
ask me where I have been; but if you wish to hear, I should like to
tell you.'
"I answered, 'You are my friend and my brother, Antony; and whatever
touches you for good or for evil touches me also. I should like to
hear all you wish to tell me.'
"'It is all evil, Richard. You would hear from Elizabeth that I was
obliged to leave England?'
"'Yes, she told me.'
"'How long have you been married?' he asked me, sharply; and when I
said, 'We are not married; Elizabeth wrote and said she had a duty
to perform which might bind her for many years to it, and it alone,'
your brother seemed to be greatly troubled; and asked, angrily, 'And
you took her at her word, and left her in her sorrow alone? Richard,
I did not think you would have been so cruel!' And, my darling, it
was the first time I had thought of our separation in that light. I
attempted no excuses to Antony, and, after a moment's reflection, he
went on:
"'I left Whitehaven in a ship bound for Havana, and I remained
in that city until the spring of 1841. But I never liked the place,
and I removed to New Orleans at that time. I had some idea of seeing
you, and opening my whole heart to you; but I lingered day after day
unable to make up my mind. At the hotel were I stayed there were a
number of Texans coming and going, and I was delighted with their bold,
frank ways, and with the air of conquest and freedom and adventure
that clung to them. One day I passed you upon Canal Street. You looked
so miserable, and were speaking to the man with whom you were in
conversation so sternly, that I could not make up my mind to address
you. I walked a block and returned. You were just saying, "If I did
right, I would send you to the Penitentiary, sir;" and I had a sudden
fear of you, and, returning to the hotel, I packed my valise and took
the next steamer for Galveston.'
"I answered, 'I remember the morning, Antony; the man had stolen from
me a large sum of money. I was angry with him, and I had a right to
be angry.'
"Antony frowned, and for some minutes did not resume his story. He
looked so faint, also, that I pushed a little wine and water toward
him, and he wet his lips, and went on:
"'Yes, you had a perfect right; but your manner checked me. I did not
know either how matters stood between you and my sister; so, instead
of speaking to you, I went to Texas. I found Houston--I mean the little
town of that name--in a state of the greatest excitement. The tradesmen
were working night and day, shoeing horses, or mending rifles and
pistols; and the saddlers' shops were besieged for leathern pouches
and saddlery of all kinds. The streets were like a fair. Of course,
I caught the enthusiasm. It was the Santa Fe expedition, and I threw
myself into it heart and soul. I was going as a trader, and I hastened
forward, with others similarly disposed, to Austin, loaded two wagons
with merchandise of every description, and left with the expedition
in June.
"'You know what a disastrous failure it was. We fell into the hands
of the Mexicans by the blackest villainy; through the treachery of
a companion in whom we all put perfect trust, and who had pledged us
his Masonic faith that if we gave up our arms we should be allowed
eight days to trade, and then have them returned, with permission to
go back to Austin in peace. But once disarmed, our wagons and goods
were seized, we were stripped of every thing, tied six or eight in
a lariat, and sent, with a strong military escort to Mexico.
"'Try to imagine, Richard, what we felt in prospect of this walk of
two thousand miles, through deserts, and over mountains, driven, like
cattle, with a pint of meal each night for food, and a single blanket
to cover us in the bitterest cold. Strong men fell down dead at my
side, or, being too exhausted to move, were shot and left to the wolves
and carrion; our guard merely cutting off the poor fellows' ears, as
evidence that they had not escaped. The horrors of that march were
unspeakable.'
"You said I was to tell you all--shall I go on, Elizabeth?"
She lifted her eyes, and whispered, "Go on; I must hear all, or how
can I feel all? O Antony! Antony!"
"I shall never forget his face, Elizabeth. Anger, pity, suffering,
chased each other over it, till his eyes filled and his lips quivered.
I did not speak. Every word I could think of seemed so poor and
commonplace; but I bent forward and took his hands, and he saw in my
face what I could not say, and for a minute or two he lost control
of himself, and wept like a child.
"'Not for myself, Richard;' he said, 'no, I was thinking of that awful
march across the "Dead Man's Journey," a savage, thorny desert of
ninety miles, destitute of water. We were driven through it without
food and without sleep. My companion was a young man of twenty, the
son of a wealthy Alabamian planter. I met him in Austin, so bright
and bold, so full of eager, loving life, so daring, and so hopeful;
but his strength had been failing for two days ere he came to the
desert. His feet were in a pitiable condition. He was sleeping as he
walked. Then he became delirious, and talked constantly of his father
and mother and sisters. He had been too ill to fill his canteen before
starting; his thirst soon became intolerable; I gave him all my water,
I begged from others a few spoonfuls of their store, I held him up as
long as I was able; but at last, at last, he dropped. Richard! Richard!
They shot him before my eyes, shot him with the cry of 'Christ' upon
his lips. I think my anger supported me, I don't know else how I bore
it, but I was mad with horror and rage at the brutal cowards.
"'When I reached the end of my journey I was imprisoned with some of
my comrades, first in a lazaretto, among lepers, in every stage of
their loathsome disease; and afterward removed to Santiago, where,
hampered with heavy chains, we were set to work upon the public roads.'
"I asked him why he did not apply to the British consul, and he said,
'I had a reason for not doing so, Richard. I may tell you the reason
sometime, but not to-night. I knew that there was diplomatic
correspondence going on about our relief, and that, soon or later,
those who survived their brutal treatment would be set free. I was
one that lived to have my chains knocked off; but I was many weeks
sick afterward, and, indeed, I have not recovered yet.'
"So you began the exchange business here?"
"'Yes; I had saved through all my troubles a little store of gold in
a belt around my waist. It was not much, but I have more than doubled
it; and as soon as I can, I intend leaving Mexico, and beginning life
again among civilized human beings.'"
Elizabeth was weeping bitterly, but she said, "I am glad you have told
me this, Richard. Ah, my brave brother! You showed in your extremity
the race from which you sprung! Sydney's deed was no greater than
yours! That 'Dead Man's Journey,' Richard, redeems all to me. I am
proud of Antony at last. I freely forgive him every hour of sorrow
he has caused me. His picture shall be hung next his father's, and
I will have all else forgotten but this one deed. He gave his last
drink of water to the boy perishing at his side; he begged for him
when his own store failed, he supported him when he could scarcely
walk himself, and had tears and righteous anger for the wrongs of
others; but for his own sufferings no word of complaint! After this,
Richard, I do not fear what else you have to tell me. Did he die in
Mexico?"
"No; he was very unhappy in the country, and he longed to leave it.
As the weather grew warmer his weakness and suffering increased; but
it was a hard thing for him to admit that he was seriously ill. At
last he was unable to attend to his business, and I persuaded him to
close his office. I shall never forget his face as he turned the key
in it; I think he felt then that life for him was over. I had remained
in Mexico for some weeks entirely on his account, and I now suggested,
as he had no business cares, a journey home by way of Texas. I really
believed that the rare, fine air of the prairies would do him good;
and I was sure if we could reach Phyllis, he would at least die among
friends. When I made the proposal he was eager as a child for it.
He did not want to delay an hour. He remembered the ethereal, vivifying
airs of Western Texas, and was quite sure if he could only breathe
them again he would be well in a short time. He was carried in a litter
to Vera Cruz, and then taken by sea to Brownsville. And really the
journey seemed to greatly revive him, and I could not help joining
in his belief that Phyllis and Western Texas would save him.
"But when we reached the Basque there was a sudden change, a change
there was no mistaking. He was unable to proceed, and I laid his
mattress under a great live oak whose branches overshadowed space
enough for our camp. I cannot tell you, Elizabeth, what a singular
stillness and awe settled over all of us. I have often thought and
wondered about it since. There was no quarreling, no singing, nor
laughing among the men, who were usually ready enough for any of them;
and this 'still' feeling, I suppose, was intensified by the weather,
and the peculiar atmosphere. For we had come by such slow stages, that
it was Indian summer, and if you can imagine an English October day,
spiritualized, and wearing a veil of exquisite purply-grey and amber
haze, you may have some idea of the lovely melancholy of these dying
days of the year on the prairie.
"We waited several days in this place, and he grew very weak, suffering
much, but always suffering patiently and with a brave cheerfulness
that was inexpressibly sorrowful. It was on a Sunday morning that he
touched me just between the dawn and the daylight, and said 'Richard,
I have been dreaming of Hallam and of my mother. She is waiting for
me. I will sleep no more in this world. It is a beautiful world!'
During the day I never left him, and we talked a great deal about the
future, whose mystery he was so soon to enter. Soon after sunset he
whispered to me the wrong he had done, and which he was quite sure you
were retrieving. He acknowledged that he ought to have told me before,
but pleaded his weakness and his dread of losing the only friend he
had. It is needless to say I forgave him, forgave him for you and for
myself; and did it so heartily, that before I was conscious of the act
I had stooped and kissed him.
"About midnight he said to me, 'Pray, Richard;' and surely I was helped
to do so, for crowding into my memory came every blessed promise, every
comforting hope, that could make the hour of death the hour of victory.
And while I was saying, 'Behold the Lamb of God, who taketh away the
sin of the world,' he passed away. We were quite alone. The men were
sleeping around, unconscious of 'Him that waited.' The moon flooded
the prairie with a soft, hazy light, and all was so still that I could
hear the cattle in the distance cropping the grass. I awoke no one.
The last offices I could do for him I quietly performed, and then sat
down to watch until daylight. All was very happy and solemn. It was
as if the Angel of Peace had passed by. And as if to check any doubt
or fear I might be tempted to indulge, suddenly, and swift and
penetrating as light, these lines came to my recollection:
  "'Down in the valley of Death,
    A Cross is standing plain;
  Where strange and awful the shadows sleep,
    And the ground has a deep, red stain.
  "'This Cross uplifted there
    Forbids, with voice divine,
  Our anguished hearts to break for the dead
    Who have died and made no sign.
  "'As they turned away from us,
    Dear eyes that were heavy and dim.
  May have met His look who was lifted there,
    May be sleeping safe in Him.'"
"Where did you bury him, Richard?"
"Under the tree. Not in all the world could we have found for him so
lovely and so still a grave. Just at sunrise we laid him there, 'in
sure and certain hope' of the resurrection. One of the Mexicans cut
a cross and placed it at his head, and, rude and ignorant as they all
were, I believe every one said a prayer for his repose. Then I took
the little gold he had, divided it among them, paid them their wages,
and let them return home. I waited till all the tumult of their
departure was over, then I, too, silently lifted my hat in a last
'farewell.' It was quite noon then, and the grave lay in a band of
sunshine--a very pleasant grave to remember, Elizabeth."
She was weeping unrestrainedly, and Richard let her weep. Such rain
softens and fertilizes the soul, and leaves a harvest of blessedness
behind. And when the first shock was over, Elizabeth could almost
rejoice for the dead; for Antony's life had been set to extremes--great
ambitions and great failures--and few, indeed, are the spirits so
finely touched as to walk with even balance between them. Therefore
for the mercy that had released him from the trials and temptations
of life, there was gratitude to be given, for it was due.
That night, when Martha brought in Elizabeth's candle, she said:
"Martha, my brother is dead. Master Harry is now the young squire.
You will see that this is understood by every one."
"God love him! And may t' light o' _his_ countenance be forever
on him!"
"And if any ask about Mr. Antony, you may say that he died in Texas."
"That is where Mrs. Millard lives?"
"Yes, Mrs. Millard lives in Texas. Mr. Antony died of consumption.
O, Martha! sit down, I must tell you all about him;" and Elizabeth
went over the pitiful story, and talked about it, until both women
were weary with weeping. The next morning they hung Antony's picture
between that of his father and mother. It had been taken just after
his return from college, in the very first glory of his youthful
manhood, and Elizabeth looked fondly at it, and linked it only with
memories of their happy innocent childhood, and with the grand
self-abnegation of "the dead man's journey."
The news of Antony's death caused a perceptible reaction in popular
feeling. The young man, after a hard struggle with adverse fate, had
paid the last debt, and the great debt. Good men refrain from judging
those who have gone to God's tribunal. Even his largest creditors
evinced a disposition to take, with consideration, their claim, as
the estate could pay it; and some willingness to allow at last, "thet
Miss Hallam hed done t' right thing." The fact of the Whaley Brothers
turning her defenders rather confounded them. They had a profound
respect for "t' Whaleys;" and if "t' Whaleys were for backin' up Miss
Hallam's ways," the majority were sure that Miss Hallam's ways were
such as commended themselves to "men as stood firm for t' law and t'
land o' England." With any higher test they did not trouble themselves.
The public recognition of young Harry Hallam as the future squire also
gave great satisfaction. After all, no stranger and foreigner was to
have rule over them; for Richard they certainly regarded in that light.
"He might be a Hallam to start wi'," said Peter Crag, "but he's been
that way mixed up wi' French and such, thet t' Hallam in him is varry
hard to find." All the tenants, upon the advent of Richard, had stood
squarely upon their dignity; they had told each other that they'd pay
rent only to a Hallam, and they had quite determined to resent any
suggestion made by Richard, and to disregard any order he gave.
But it was quickly evident that Richard did not intend to take any
more interest in Hallam than he did in the Church glebe and tithes,
and that the only thing he desired was the bride he had waited so long
for. The spring was far advanced, however, before the wedding-day was
fixed; for there was much to provide for, and many things to arrange,
in view of the long-continued absences which would be almost certain.
The Whaleys, urged by a lover, certainly hurried their work to a degree
which astonished all their subordinates; but yet February had passed
before all the claims against Antony Hallam had been collected. The
debt, as debt always is, was larger than had been expected; and twelve
years' income would be exhausted in its liquidation. Elizabeth glanced
at Harry and looked gravely at the papers; but Richard said, "Be
satisfied, dear. He will have the income at the age he really needs
it--when he begins his university career--until then we can surely
care for him."
So Hallam was left, financially, in the Whaleys' care. They were to
collect all its revenues, and keep the house and grounds in repair,
and, after paying all expenses incidental to this duty, they were to
divide, in fair proportions, the balance every three years among
Antony's creditors. This arrangement gave perfect satisfaction, for,
as Marmaduke Halcroft said, "If t' Whaleys ar'n't to be trusted, t'
world might as well stand still, and let honest men get out o' it."
As to the house, it was to be left absolutely in Martha's care. Inside
its walls her authority was to be undisputed, and Elizabeth insisted
that her salary should be on the most liberal basis. In fact, Martha's
position made her a person of importance--a woman who could afford
to do handsomely toward her chapel, and who might still have put by
a large sum every year.
The wedding was a very pretty one, and Elizabeth, in her robe of white
satin and lace, with pearls around her throat and arms, was a most
lovely bride. Twelve young girls, daughters of her tenants, dressed
in white, and carrying handfuls of lilies-of-the-valley, went with
her to the altar; and Richard had for his attendant the handsome little
squire. The rector took the place of Elizabeth's father, and a
neighboring clergyman performed the ceremony. Most of the surrounding
families were present in the church, and with this courtesy Elizabeth
was quite satisfied. Immediately after the marriage they left for
Liverpool, and when they arrived at Richard's home it was in the time
of orange blooms and building birds, as he had desired it should be,
six years before.
But one welcome which they would gladly have heard was wanting. Bishop
Elliott had removed, and no other preacher had taken his place in
Richard's home. This was caused, however, by the want of some womanly
influence as a conductor. It was Phyllis who had brought the kindred
souls together, and made pleasant places for them to walk and talk
in. Phyllis had desired very much to meet Elizabeth, on her advent
into her American life, but the time had been most uncertain, and so
many other duties held the wife and mother and mistress, that it had
been thought better to defer the pleasure till it could be more
definitely arranged. And then, after all, it was Elizabeth that went to
see Phyllis.
One day Richard came home in a hurry.
"Elizabeth! I am going to Texas--to Austin. Suppose you and Harry go
with me. We will give Phyllis a surprise."
"But housekeepers don't like surprises, Richard."
"Then we will write before leaving, but I doubt if the letter will
be in advance of us."
It was not. John Millard's home was a couple of miles distant from
Austin, and the mail was not gone for with any regularity. Besides,
at this time, John was attending to his duties in the Legislature,
and Phyllis relied upon his visits to the post-office.
It was a pleasant afternoon in June when the stage deposited them in
the beautiful city, and after some refreshment Richard got a buggy
and determined to drive out to the Millard place. Half a mile distant
from it they met a boy about seven years old on a mustang, and Richard
asked him if he could direct him to Captain Millard's house.
"I reckon so," said the little chap, with a laugh. "I generally stop
there, if I'm not on horseback."
"O, indeed! What is your name?"
"My name is Richard Millard. What's your name, sir?"
"My name is Richard Fontaine; and I shouldn't wonder if you are my
nephew."
"I'm about certain you are my uncle. And is that my English aunt? Wont
ma be glad? Say, wont you hurry up? I was going into the city. My pa's
going to speak to-night. Did you ever hear my pa speak?"
"No; but I should like to do so."
"I should think you would. See! There's ma. That is Lulu hanging on
to her, and that is Sam Houston in her arms. My pony is called 'San
Jacinto.' Say! Who is that with you and aunt, Uncle Richard? I mean
_you_;" and he nodded and smiled at Harry.
"That is Harry Hallam--a relation of yours."
"I'm glad of that. Would he like to ride my pony?"
"Yes," answered Harry, promptly.
But Richard declined to make exchanges just there, especially as they
could see Phyllis curiously watching their approach. In another moment
she had given Sam Houston to a negro nurse, flung a sunbonnet on her
head, and was tripping to the gate to meet them.
"O how glad I am, Elizabeth! I knew you the minute I saw the tip of
your hat, Richard! And this is Harry Hallam! Come in, come in; come
with ten thousand welcomes!"
What a merry household it was! What a joyous, plentiful, almost
out-of-doors meal was ready in half an hour! And then, as soon as the
sun set, Phyllis said, "Now, if you are not tired, we will go and
surprise John. He is to speak to-night, and I make a point of listening
to him, in the capitol."
Richard and Elizabeth were pleased with the proposal; but Harry desired
to stay with young Millard. The boys had fraternized at once,--what
good boys do not? especially when there are ponies and rabbits and
puppies and pigeons to exhibit, and talk about.
Phyllis had matured into a very beautiful woman, and Richard was proud
of both his sister and his wife, when he entered the Texas capitol
with them. It was a stirring scene he saw, and certainly a gathering
of manhood of a very exceptional character. The lobbies were full
of lovely, brilliant women; and scattered among them;--chatting,
listening, love-making--was many a well-known hero, on whose
sun-browned face the history of Texas was written. The matter in
dispute did not much interest Elizabeth, but she listened with
amusement to a conversation between Phyllis and pretty Betty Lubbock
about the latter's approaching wedding, and her trip to the "States."
In the middle of a description of the bridal dress, there fell upon
her ears these words: "A bill for the relief of the Millard Rangers."
She looked eagerly to see who would rise. It was only a prosy old man
who opposed the measure, on the ground that the State could not afford
to protect such a far-outlying frontier.
"Perish the State that cannot protect her citizens!" cried a vehement
voice from another seat, and, forthwith leaped to his feet Captain
John Millard. Elizabeth had never seen him, but she knew, from
Phyllis's sudden silence, and the proud light in her face, who it was.
He talked as he fought, with all his soul, a very Rupert in debate, as
he was in battle. In three minutes all whispering had ceased; women
listened with full eyes, men with glowing cheeks; and when he sat down
the bill was virtually passed by acclamation. Phyllis was silently
weeping, and not, perhaps, altogether for the slaughtered women and
children on the frontier; there were a few proud, happy tears for
interests nearer home.
Then came John's surprise, and the happy ride home, and many and many
a joyful day after it--a month of complete happiness, of days devoid
of care, and filled with perfect love and health and friendship, and
made beautiful with the sunshine and airs of an earthly paradise.
Phyllis's home was a roomy wooden house, spreading wide, as every thing
does in Texas, with doors and windows standing open, and deep piazzas
on every side. Behind it was a grove of the kingly magnolia, in front
the vast shadows of the grand pecans. Greenest turf was under them;
and there was, besides, a multitude of flowers, and vines which trailed
up the lattices of the piazzas, and over the walls and roofs, and even
dropped in at the chamber windows.
There was there, also, the constant stir of happy servants, laughing
and singing at their work, of playing children, of trampling horses,
of the coming and going of guests; for Captain Millard's house was
near a great highway, and was known far and wide for its hospitality.
The stranger fastened his horse at the fence, and asked undoubtingly
for a cup of coffee, or a glass of milk, and Phyllis had a pleasant
word and a cheerful meal for every caller; so that John rarely wanted
company when he sat in the cool and silence of the evening. It might
be a ranger from the Pecos, or a trader from the Rio Grande, or a land
speculator from the States, or an English gentleman on his travels,
or a Methodist missionary doing his circuit; yea, sometimes half a
dozen travelers and sojourners met together there, and then they talked
and argued and described until the "night turned," and the cocks were
crowing for the dawning.
Richard thoroughly enjoyed the life, and Elizabeth's nature expanded
in it, as a flower in sunshine. What gallops she had on the prairies!
What rambles with Phyllis by the creek sides in search of strange
flowers! What sweet confidences! What new experiences! What a
revelation altogether of a real, fresh, natural life it was! And she
saw with her own eyes, and with a kind of wonder, the men who had dared
to be free, and to found a republic of free men in the face of nine
million Mexicans--men of iron wills, who under rude felt hats had the
finest heads, and under buckskin vests the warmest hearts. Phyllis was
always delighted to point them out, to tell over again their exploits,
and to watch the kindling of the heroic fire in Elizabeth's eyes.
It was, indeed, a wonderful month, and the last day of it was marked
by a meeting that made a deep impression upon Elizabeth. She was
dressing in the afternoon when she heard a more than usually noisy
arrival. Looking out of the window she saw a man unsaddling his horse,
and a crowd of negroes running to meet him. It seemed, also, as if
every one of John's forty-two dogs was equally delighted at the visit.
Such a barking! Such a chorus of welcome! Such exclamations of
satisfaction it is impossible to describe. The new-comer was a man of
immense stature, evidently more used to riding than to walking. For his
gait was slouching, his limbs seemed to dangle about him, and he had a
lazy, listless stoop, as he came up the garden with his saddle over his
arm listening to a score of voices, patting the dogs that leaped around
and upon him, stopping to lift up a little negro baby that had toddled
between his big legs and fallen, and, finally, standing to shake hands
with Uncle Isaac, the patriarch of The Quarters. And as Uncle Isaac
never--except after long absences--paid even "Master John" the honor
of coming to meet him, Elizabeth wondered who the guest could be.
Coming down stairs she met Harriet in her very gayest head-kerchief
and her white-embroidered apron, and her best-company manner: "De
minister am come, Miss Lizzie--de Rev. Mr. Rollins am 'rived; and de
camp-meetin' will be 'ranged 'bout now. I'se powerful sorry you kaint
stay, ma'am."
"Where does Mr. Rollins come from?"
"De Lord knows whar. He's at de Rio Grande, and den 'fore you can
calc'late he's at de Colorado."
"He appears to be a great favorite."
"He's done got de hearts ob ebery one in his right hand; and de dogs!
dey whimper after him for a week; and de little children! he draw dem
to him from dar mammy's breast. Nobody's never seed sich a man!"
He was talking to John when Elizabeth went on the gallery, and Harry
was standing between his knees, and Dick Millard leaning on his
shoulder. Half a dozen of the more favored dogs were lying around him,
and at least a dozen negro children were crawling up the piazza steps,
or peeping through the railings. He was dressed in buckskin and blue
flannel, and at first sight had a most unclerical look. But the moment
he lifted, his face Elizabeth saw what a clear, noble soul looked out
from the small twinkling orbs beneath his large brows. And as he grew
excited in the evening's conversation, his muscles nerved, his body
straightened, and he became the wiry, knotted embodiment of calm power
and determination.
"We expected you two weeks ago," said John to him.
"There was work laid out for me I hadn't calculated on, John. Bowie's
men were hard up for fresh meat, and I lent them my rifle a few days.
Then the Indians bothered me. They were hanging around Saledo
settlement in a way I didn't like, so I watched them until I was about
sure of their next dirty trick. It happened to be a thieving one on
the Zavala ranche, so I let Zavala know, and then rode on to tell
Granger he'd better send a few boys to keep them red-handed Comanche
from picking and stealing and murdering."
"It was just like you. You probably saved many lives."
"Saving life is often saving souls, John. Next time I go that way
every man at Zavala's ranche and every man in Granger's camp will
listen to me. I shall then have a greater danger than red men to tell
them of. But they know both my rifle and my words are true, and when
I say to them, 'Boys, there's hell and heaven right in your path, and
your next step may plunge you into the fiery gulf, or open to you the
golden gates,' they'll listen to me, and they'll believe me. John,
it takes a soldier to preach to soldiers, and a saved sinner to know
how to save other sinners."
"And if report is not unjust," said Richard, "you will find plenty
of great sinners in such circuits as you take."
"Sir, you'll find sinners, great sinners, everywhere. I acknowledge
that Texas has been made a kind of receptacle for men too wicked to
live among their fellows. I often come upon these wild, carrion
jail-birds. I know them a hundred yards off. It is a great thing,
every way, that they come here. God be thanked! Texas has nothing to
fear from them. In the first place, though the atmosphere of crime
is polluting in a large city, it infects nobody here. I tell you, sir,
the murderer on a Texas prairie is miserable. There is nothing so
terrible to him as this freedom and loneliness, in which he is always
in the company of his outraged conscience, which drives him hither and
thither, and gives him no rest. For I tell you, that murderers don't
willingly meet together, not even over the whisky bottle. They know
each other, and shun each other. Well, sir, this subject touches me
warmly at present, for I am just come from the death-bed of such a
man. I have been with him three days. You remember Bob Black, John?"
"Yes. A man who seldom spoke, and whom no one liked. A good soldier,
though. I don't believe he knew the meaning of fear."
"Didn't he? I have seen him sweat with terror. He has come to me more
dead than alive, clung to my arms like a child, begged me to stand
between him and the shapes that followed him."
"Drunk?"
"No, sir. I don't think he ever tasted liquor; but he was a haunted
man! He had been a sixfold murderer, and his victims made life a terror
to him."
"How do you account for that?"
"We have a spiritual body, and we have a natural body. When it pleases
the Almighty, he opens the eyes and ears of our spiritual body, either
for comfort, or advice, or punishment. This criminal saw things and
heard words no mortal eyes have perceived, nor mortal ears understood.
The man was haunted: I cannot doubt it."
"I believe what you say," said Elizabeth, solemnly, "for I have heard,
and I have seen."
"And so have I," said the preacher, in a kind of rapture. "When I lay
sleeping on the St. Mark's one night, I felt the thrill of a mighty
touch, and I heard, with my spiritual ears, words which no mortal lips
uttered; and I rose swiftly, and saved my life from the Comanche by
the skin of my teeth. And another night, as I rode over the Maverick
prairie, when it was knee-deep in grass and flowers, and the stars
were gathering one by one with a holy air into the house of God, I
could not restrain myself, and I sang aloud for joy! Then, suddenly,
there seemed to be all around me a happy company, and my spiritual
ears were opened, and I heard a melody beyond the voices of earth,
and I was not ashamed in it of my little human note of praise. I tell
you, death only sets us face to face with Him who is not very far from
us at any time."
"And Bob is dead?"
"Yes; and I believe he is saved."
No one spoke; and the preacher, after a minute's silence, asked,
"Who doubts?"
"A sixfold murderer, you said?"
"Nay, nay, John; are you going to limit the grace of God? Do you
know the height and depth of his mercy? Have you measured the
length and breadth of the cross? I brought the cross of Christ to
that fiend-haunted bed, and the wretched soul clasped it, clung to
it, yes, climbed up by it into heaven!"
"It was peace at last, then?" said Phyllis.
"It was triumph! The devil lost all power to torture him; for, with
the sweet assurance of his forgiveness came the peace that passeth
understanding. What is there for great criminals? Only the cross of
Christ? O the miracle of love, that found out for us such an escape!"
"And you think that the man really believed himself to be forgiven
by God?"
"I am sure that he knew he was forgiven."
"It is wonderful. Why, then, do not all Christians have this
knowledge?"
"It is their privilege to have it; but how few of us have that royal
nature which claims all our rights! The cross of Christ! There are
still Jewish minds to whom it is a stumbling-block; and still more
minds of the Greek type to whom it is foolishness."
"But is not this doctrine specially a Methodist one?"
"If St. Paul was a Methodist, and St. Augustine, and Martin Luther,
and the millions of saved men, to whom God has counted 'faith' in his
word and mercy 'for righteousness,' then it is specially Methodist.
What says the Lord? 'Therefore being justified by faith, we have peace
with God, through our Lord Jesus Christ.' I do not say but what there
are many good men without this assurance; but I do say, that it is
the privilege of all who love and believe God. John Wesley himself
did not experience this joy until he heard the Moravian, Peter Bohler,
preach. 'Before that,' he says, 'I was a servant of God, accepted and
safe, but now I _knew it_.'"
Elizabeth did not again reply. She sat very still, her hand clasped
in that of Phyllis, whose head was leaning upon her breast. And very
frequently she glanced down at the pale, spiritual face with its
luminous dark eyes and sweet mouth. For Phyllis had to perfection that
lovely, womanly charm, which puts itself _en rapport_ with every
mood, and yet only offers the sympathy of a sensitive silence and an
answering face.
As the women sat musing the moon rose, and then up sprang the night
breeze, laden with the perfume of bleaching grass, and all the hot,
sweet scents of the south.
"How beautiful is this land!" said Richard, in an enthusiasm. "What
a pity the rabble of other lands cannot be kept out of it!"
The preacher lifted his head with a quick belligerent motion: "There
is no such thing, as rabble, sir. For the meanest soul Christ paid
down his precious blood. What you call 'rabble' are the builders of
kingdoms and nationalities."
"Yes," said John, "I dare say if we could see the fine fellows who
fought at Hastings, and those who afterward forced Magna Charta from
King John without the poetic veil of seven hundred years, we should
be very apt to call them 'rabble' also. Give the founders of Texas
the same time, and they may also have a halo round their heads. Was
not Rome founded by robbers, and Great Britain by pirates?"
"There is work for every man, and men for every work. These 'rabble,'
under proper leaders, were used by the Almighty for a grand purpose--
the redemption of this fair land, and his handful of people in it,
from the thrall of the priests of Rome. Would such men as the
Livingstons, the Carrolls, the Renselaers, or the wealthy citizens of
Philadelphia or Washington have come here and fought Indians and
Mexicans; and been driven about from pillar to post, living on potatoes
and dry corn? Good respectable people suffer a great deal of tyranny
ere they put their property in danger. But when Texas, in her
desperation, rose, she was glad of the men with a brand on their body
and a rope round their neck, and who did not value their lives more
than an empty nut-shell. They did good service. Many of them won back
fair names and men's respect and God's love. I call no man 'rabble.' I
know that many of these outcasts thanked God for an opportunity to
offer their lives for the general good," and, he added dropping his
voice almost to a whisper, "I know of instances where the sacrifice was
accepted, and assurance of that acceptance granted."
"The fight for freedom seems to be a never-ending one."
"Because," said the preacher, "Man was created free. Freedom is his
birthright, even though he be born in a prison, and in chains. Hence,
the noblest men are not satisfied with physical and political freedom;
they must also be free men in Christ Jesus; for let me tell you, if
men are slaves to sin and the devil, not all the Magna Chartas, nor
all the swords in the world, can make them truly free."
And thus they talked until the moon set and the last light was out
in the cabins, and the 'after midnight' feeling became plainly evident.
Then Phyllis brought out a dish that looked very like walnut shells,
but which all welcomed. They were preserved bears' paws. "Eat," she
said, "for though it is the last hour we may meet in this life, we
must sleep now."
And the Texan luxury was eaten with many a pleasant word, and then,
with kind and solemn 'farewells,' the little party separated, never
in all the years of earth to sit together again; for just at daylight,
John and Phyllis stood at their gates, watching the carriage which
carried Richard and Elizabeth pass over the hill, and into the timber,
and out of sight.