DR. CAMERON'S appeal had left the old Commoner unshaken in his idea. There could be but one side to any question with such a man, and that was his side. He would stand by his own men too. He believed in his own forces. The bayonet was essential to his revolutionary programme—hence the hand which held it could do no wrong. Wrongs were accidents which might occur under any system.
Yet in no way did he display the strange contradictions of his character so plainly as in his inability to hate the individual who stood for the idea he was fighting with maniac fury. He liked Dr. Cameron instantly, though he had come to do a crime that would send him into beggared exile.
Individual suffering he could not endure. In this the doctor's appeal had startling results.
He sent for Mrs. Lenoir and Marion.
"I understand, Madam," he said, gravely, "that your house and farm are to be sold for taxes?"
"Yes, sir; we've given it up this time. Nothing can be done," was the hopeless answer.
"Would you consider an offer of twenty dollars an acre?"
"Nobody would be fool enough to offer it. You can buy all the land in the county for a dollar an acre. It's not worth anything."
"I disagree with you," said Stoneman, cheerfully. "I am looking far ahead. I would like to make an experiment here with Pennsylvania methods on this land. I'll give you ten thousand dollars cash for your five hundred acres if you will take it."
"You don't mean it?" Mrs. Lenoir gasped, choking back the tears.
"Certainly. You can at once return to your home, I'll take another house, and invest your money for you in good Northern securities."
The mother burst into sobs, unable to speak, while Marion threw her arms impulsively around the old man's neck and kissed him.
His cold eyes were warmed with the first tear they had shed in years.
He moved the next day to the Ross estate, which he rented, had Sam brought back to the home of his childhood in charge of a good-natured white attendant, and installed in one of the little cottages on the lawn. He ordered Lynch to arrest the keeper of the poor, and hold him on a charge of assault with intent to kill, awaiting the action of the Grand Jury. The Lieutenant-Governor received this order with sullen anger—yet he saw to its execution. He was not quite ready for a break with the man who had made him.
Astonished at his new humour, Phil and Elsie hastened to confess to him their love-affairs and ask his approval of their choice. His reply was cautious, yet he did not refuse his consent. He advised them to wait a few months, allow him time to know the young people, and get his bearings on the conditions of Southern society. His mood of tenderness was a startling revelation to them of the depth and intensity of his love.
When Mrs. Lenoir returned with Marion to her vineclad home, she spent the first day of perfect joy since the death of her lover-husband. The deed had not yet been made for the transfer of the farm, but it was only a question of legal formality. She was to receive the money in the form of interest-bearing securities and deliver the title on the following morning.
Arm in arm, mother and daughter visited again each hallowed spot, with the sweet sense of ownership. The place was in perfect order. Its flowers were in gorgeous bloom, its walks clean and neat, the fences painted, and the gates swung on new hinges.
They stood with their arms about one another, watching the sun sink behind the mountains, with tears of gratitude and hope stirring their souls.
Ben Cameron strode through the gate, and they hurried to meet him, with cries of joy.
"Just dropped in a minute to see if you are snug for the night?" he said.
"Of course, snug and so happy, we've been hugging one another for hours," said the mother. "Oh, Ben, the clouds have lifted at last!"
"Has Aunt Cindy come yet?" he asked.
"No, but she'll be here in the morning to get breakfast. We don't want anything to eat," she answered.
"Then I'll come out when I'm through my business, to-night, and sleep in the house to keep you company."
"Nonsense," said the mother, "we couldn't think of putting you to the trouble. We've spent many a night here alone."
"But not in the past two years," he said, with a frown.
"We're not afraid," Marion said, with a smile. "Besides, we'd keep you awake all night with our laughter and foolishness, rummaging through the house."
"You'd better let me," Ben protested.
"No," said the mother, "we'll be happier to-night alone with only God's eye to see how perfectly silly we can be. Come and take supper with us to-morrow night. Bring Elsie and her guitar—I don't like the banjo—and we'll have a little love-feast with music in the moonlight."
"Yes, do that," cried Marion. "I know we owe this good luck to her. I want to tell her how much I love her for it."
"Well, if you insist on staying alone," said Ben, reluctantly, "I'll bring Miss Elsie to-morrow, but I don't like your being here without Aunt Cindy to-night."
"Oh, we're all right!" laughed Marion, "but what I want to know is what you are doing out so late every night since you've come home, and where you were gone for the past week?"
"Important business," he answered, soberly.
"Business—I expect!" she cried. "Look here, Ben Cameron, have you another girl somewhere, you're flirting with?"
"Yes," he answered, slowly, coming closer and his voice dropping to a whisper, "and her name is Death."
"Why, Ben!" Marion gasped, placing her trembling hand unconsciously on his arm, a faint flush mantling her cheek and leaving it white.
"What do you mean?" asked the mother in low tones.
"Nothing that I can explain. I only wish to warn you both never to ask me such questions before any one."
"Forgive me," said Marion, with a tremor. "I didn't think it serious."
Ben pressed the little warm hand, watching her mouth quiver with a smile that was half a sigh, as he answered:
"You know I'd trust either of you with my life, but I can't be too careful."
"We'll remember, Sir Knight," said the mother. "Don't forget, then, to-morrow—and spend the evening with us. I wish I had one of Marion's new dresses done. Poor child, she has never had a decent dress in her life before. You know I never look at my pretty baby grown to such a beautiful womanhood without hearing Henry say over and over again—'Beauty is a sign of the soul—the body is the soul!'"
"Well, I've my doubts about your improving her with a fine dress," he replied, thoughtfully. "I don't believe that more beautifully dressed women ever walked the earth than our girls of the South who came out of the war clad in the pathos of poverty, smiling bravely through the shadows, bearing themselves as queens though they wore the dress of the shepherdess."
"I'm almost tempted to kiss you for that, as you once took advantage of me!" said Marion with enthusiasm.
The moon had risen and a whippoorwill was chanting his weird song on the lawn as Ben left them leaning on the gate.
It was past midnight before they finished the last touches in restoring their nest to its old homelike appearance and sat down happy and tired in the room in which Marion was born, brooding and dreaming and talking over the future.
The mother was hanging on the words of her daughter, all the baffled love of the dead poet husband, her griefs and poverty consumed in the glowing joy of new hopes. Her love for this child was now a triumphant passion, which had melted her own being into the object of worship, until the soul of the daughter was superimposed on the mother's as the magnetised by the magnetiser.
"And you'll never keep a secret from me, dear?" she asked of Marion.
"Never."
"You'll tell me all your love-affairs?" she asked, softly, as she drew the shining blonde head down on her shoulders.
"Faithfully."
"You know I've been afraid sometimes you were keeping something back from me, deep down in your heart—and I'm jealous. You didn't refuse Henry Grier because you loved Ben Cameron—now, did you?"
The little head lay still before she answered:
"How many times must I tell you, Silly, that I've loved Ben since I can remember, that I will always love him, and when I meet my fate, at last, I shall boast to my children of my sweet girl romance with the Hero of Piedmont, and they shall laugh and cry with me over it"
"What's that?" whispered the mother, leaping to her feet.
"I heard nothing," Marion answered, listening.
"I thought I heard footsteps on the porch."
"Maybe it's Ben, who decided to come anyhow," said the girl.
"But he'd knock!" whispered the mother.
The door flew open with a crash, and four black brutes leaped into the room, Gus in the lead, with a revolver in his hand, his yellow teeth grinning through his thick lips.
"Scream, now, an' I blow yer brains out," he growled.
Blanched with horror, the mother sprang before Marion with a shivering cry:
"What do you want?"
"Not you," said Gus, closing the blinds and handing a rope to another brute. "Tie de ole one ter de bedpost."
The mother screamed. A blow from a black fist in her mouth, and the rope was tied.
With the strength of despair she tore at the cords, half rising to her feet, while with mortal anguish she gasped:
"For God's sake, spare my baby! Do as you will with me, and kill me—do not touch her!"
Again the huge fist swept her to the floor.
Marion staggered against the wall, her face white, her delicate lips trembling with the chill of a fear colder than death.
"We have no money—the deed has not been delivered," she pleaded, a sudden glimmer of hope flashing in her blue eyes.
Gus stepped closer, with an ugly leer, his flat nose dilated, his sinister bead-eyes wide apart gleaming ape-like, as he laughed:
"We ain't atter money!"
The girl uttered a cry, long, tremulous, heart-rending, piteous.
A single tiger-spring, and the black claws of the beast sank into the soft white throat and she was still.