She sat, her fan tight at her white teeth. “It
would be death to me if it were known,” she
said. But still she pondered, her eye alight with
somber fire, her dark cheek red in a woman’s
anger.
“But it never will be known, my dear lady.
These things, however, must be concluded swiftly.
We have not time to wait. Let us not argue over
the unhappy business. Let me think of Mexico as
our sister republic and our friend!”
“And suppose I shall not do this that you ask,
Senor?”
“That, my dear lady, I do not suppose!”
“You threaten, Senor Secretary?”
“On the contrary, I implore! I ask you
not to be treasonable to any, but to be our ally,
our friend, in what in my soul I believe a great good
for the peoples of the world. Without us, Texas
will be the prey of England. With us, she will
be working out her destiny. In our graveyard
of state there are many secrets of which the public
never knows. Here shall be one, though your heart
shall exult in its possession. Dear lady, may
we not conspire together—for the ultimate
good of three republics, making of them two noble
ones, later to dwell in amity? Shall we not hope
to see all this continent swept free of monarchy, held
free, for the peoples of the world?”
For an instant, no more, she sat and pondered.
Suddenly she bestowed upon him a smile whose brilliance
might have turned the head of another man. Rising,
she swept him a curtsey whose grace I have not seen
surpassed.
In return, Mr. Calhoun bowed to her with dignity and
ease, and, lifting her hand, pressed it to his lips.
Then, offering her an arm, he led her to his carriage.
I could scarce believe my eyes and ears that so much,
and of so much importance, had thus so easily been
accomplished, where all had seemed so near to the
impossible.
When last I saw my chief that day he was sunk in his
chair, white to the lips, his long hands trembling,
fatigue written all over his face and form; but a
smile still was on his grim mouth. “Nicholas,”
said he, “had I fewer politicians and more women
behind me, we should have Texas to the Rio Grande,
and Oregon up to Russia, and all without a war!”
BUT YET A WOMAN
Woman turns every man the wrong side
out,
And never gives to truth and virtue that
Which simpleness and merit purchaseth.
—Shakespeare.
My chief played his game of chess coldly, methodically,
and with skill; yet a game of chess is not always
of interest to the spectator who does not know every
move. Least of all does it interest one who feels
himself but a pawn piece on the board and part of
a plan in whose direction he has nothing to say.
In truth, I was weary. Not even the contemplation
of the hazardous journey to Oregon served to stir
me. I traveled wearily again and again my circle
of personal despair.
