We all three now sat silent in the little room where
the candles guttered in the great glass cylindres
on the mantel—an apartment scarce better
lighted by the further aid of lamps fed by oil.
“He might be older,” said Calhoun at length,
speaking of me as though I were not present.
“And ’tis a hard game to play, if once
my lady Helena takes it into her merry head to make
it so for him. But if I sent one shorter of stature
and uglier of visage and with less art in approaching
a crinoline—why, perhaps he would get no
farther than her door. No; he will serve—he
must serve!”
He arose now, and bowed to us both, even as I rose
and turned for my cloak to shield me from the raw
drizzle which then was falling in the streets.
Doctor Ward reached down his own shaggy top hat from
the rack.
“To bed with you now, John,” said he sternly.
“No, I must write.”
“You heard me say, to bed with you! A stiff
toddy to make you sleep. Nicholas here may wake
you soon enough with his mysterious companion.
I think to-morrow will be time enough for you to work,
and to-morrow very likely will bring work for you
to do.”
Calhoun sighed. “God!” he exclaimed,
“if I but had back my strength! If there
were more than those scant remaining years!”
“Go!” said he suddenly; and so we others
passed down his step and out into the semi-lighted
streets.
So this, then, was my errand. My mind still tingled
at its unwelcome quality. Doctor Ward guessed
something of my mental dissatisfaction.
“Never mind, Nicholas,” said he, as we
parted at the street corner, where he climbed into
the rickety carriage which his colored driver held
awaiting him. “Never mind. I don’t
myself quite know what Calhoun wants; but he would
not ask of you anything personally improper. Do
his errand, then. It is part of your work.
In any case—” and I thought I saw
him grin in the dim light—“you may
have a night which you will remember.”
There proved to be truth in what he said.
IN ARGUMENT
The egotism of women
is always for two.—Mme. De Staeel.
The thought of missing my meeting with Elisabeth still
rankled in my soul. Had it been another man who
asked me to carry this message, I must have refused.
But this man was my master, my chief, in whose service
I had engaged.
Strange enough it may seem to give John Calhoun any
title showing love or respect. To-day most men
call him traitor—call him the man responsible
for the war between North and South—call
him the arch apostle of that impossible doctrine of
slavery, which we all now admit was wrong. Why,
then, should I love him as I did? I can not say,
except that I always loved, honored and admired courage,
uprightness, integrity.
For myself, his agent, I had, as I say, left the old
Trist homestead at the foot of South Mountain in Maryland,
to seek my fortune in our capital city. I had
had some three or four years’ semi-diplomatic
training when I first met Calhoun and entered his service
as assistant. It was under him that I finished
my studies in law. Meantime, I was his messenger
in very many quests, his source of information in many
matters where he had no time to go into details.
