Books: His Sombre Rivals
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E. P. Roe >> His Sombre Rivals
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27 Produced by Juliet Sutherland, Charles Franks
nd the Online Distributed Proofreading Team.
[Illustration: THE OLD MAJOR.]
The Works of E.P. Roe
VOLUME THIRTEEN
HIS SOMBRE RIVALS
ILLUSTRATED
1883
PREFACE
The following story has been taking form in my mind for several years,
and at last I have been able to write it out. With a regret akin to
sadness, I take my leave, this August day, of people who have become
very real to me, whose joys and sorrows I have made my own. Although a
Northern man, I think my Southern readers will feel that I have sought
to do justice to their motives. At this distance from the late Civil
War, it is time that passion and prejudice sank below the horizon, and
among the surviving soldiers who were arrayed against each other I
think they have practically disappeared. Stern and prolonged conflict
taught mutual respect. The men of the Northern armies were convinced,
beyond the shadow of a doubt, that they had fought men and Americans--
men whose patriotism and devotion to a cause sacred to them was as
pure and lofty as their own. It is time that sane men and women should
be large-minded enough to recognize that, whatever may have been the
original motives of political leaders, the people on both sides were
sincere and honest; that around the camp-fires at their hearths and in
their places of worship they looked for God's blessing on their
efforts with equal freedom from hypocrisy.
I have endeavored to portray the battle of Bull Run as it could appear
to a civilian spectator: to give a suggestive picture and not a
general description. The following war-scenes are imaginary, and
colored by personal reminiscence. I was in the service nearly four
years, two of which were spent with the cavalry. Nevertheless, justly
distrustful of my knowledge of military affairs, I have submitted my
proofs to my friend Colonel H. C. Hasbrouck, Commandant of Cadets at
West Point, and therefore have confidence that as mere sketches of
battles and skirmishes they are not technically defective.
The title of the story will naturally lead the reader to expect that
deep shadows rest upon many of its pages. I know it is scarcely the
fashion of the present time to portray men and women who feel very
deeply about anything, but there certainly was deep feeling at the
time of which I write, as, in truth, there is to-day. The heart of
humanity is like the ocean. There are depths to be stirred when the
causes are adequate. E. P. R.
CORNWALL-ON-THE-HUDSON,
_August_ 21, 1883.
CONTENTS
CHAPTER I
AN EMBODIMENT OF MAY
CHAPTER II
MERE FANCIES
CHAPTER III
THE VERDICT OF A SAGE
CHAPTER IV
WARNING OR INCENTIVE
CHAPTER V
IMPRESSIONS
CHAPTER VI
PHILOSOPHY AT FAULT
CHAPTER VII
WARREN HILLAND
CHAPTER VIII
SUPREME MOMENTS
CHAPTER IX
THE REVELATION
CHAPTER X
THE KINSHIP OF SUFFERING
CHAPTER XI
THE ORDEAL
CHAPTER XII
FLIGHT TO NATURE
CHAPTER XIII
THE FRIENDS
CHAPTER XIV
NOBLE DECEPTION
CHAPTER XV
"I WISH HE HAD KNOWN"
CHAPTER XVI
THE CLOUD IN THE SOUTH
CHAPTER XVII
PREPARATION
CHAPTER XVIII
THE CALL TO ARMS
CHAPTER XIX
THE BLOOD-RED SKY
CHAPTER XX
TWO BATTLES
CHAPTER XXI
THE LOGIC OF EVENTS
CHAPTER XXII
SELF-SENTENCED
CHAPTER XXIII
AN EARLY DREAM FULFILLED
CHAPTER XXIV
UNCHRONICLED CONFLICTS
CHAPTER XXV
A PRESENTIMENT
CHAPTER XXVI
AN IMPROVISED PICTURE GALLERY
CHAPTER XXVII
A DREAM
CHAPTER XXVIII
ITS FULFILMENT
CHAPTER XXIX
A SOUTHERN GIRL
CHAPTER XXX
GUERILLAS
CHAPTER XXXI
JUST IN TIME
CHAPTER XXXII
A WOUNDED SPIRIT
CHAPTER XXXIII
THE WHITE-HAIRED NURSE
CHAPTER XXXIV
RITA'S BROTHER
CHAPTER XXXV
HIS SOMBRE RIVALS
CHAPTEB XXXVI
ALL MATERIALISTS
CHAPTEE XXXVII
THE EFFORT TO LIVE
CHAPTEE XXXVIII
GRAHAM'S LAST SACRIFICE
CHAPTEE XXXIX
MARRIED UNCONSCIOUSLY
CHAPTEE XL
RITA ANDERSON
CHAPTEE XLI
A LITTLE CHILD SHALL LEAD THEM
CHAPTER I
AN EMBODIMENT OF MAY
"Beyond that revolving light lies my home. And yet why should I use
such a term when the best I can say is that a continent is my home?
Home suggests a loved familiar nook in the great world. There is no
such niche for me, nor can I recall any place around which my memory
lingers with especial pleasure."
In a gloomy and somewhat bitter mood, Alford Graham thus soliloquized
as he paced the deck of an in-coming steamer. In explanation it may be
briefly said that he had been orphaned early in life, and that the
residences of his guardians had never been made homelike to him. While
scarcely more than a child he had been placed at boarding-schools
where the system and routine made the youth's life little better than
that of a soldier in his barrack. Many boys would have grown hardy,
aggressive, callous, and very possibly vicious from being thrown out
on the world so early. Young Graham became reticent and to superficial
observers shy. Those who cared to observe him closely, however,
discovered that it was not diffidence, but indifference toward others
that characterized his manner. In the most impressible period of his
life he had received instruction, advice and discipline in abundance,
but love and sympathy had been denied. Unconsciously his heart had
become chilled, benumbed and overshadowed by his intellect. The actual
world gave him little and seemed to promise less, and, as a result not
at all unnatural, he became something of a recluse and bookworm even
before he had left behind him the years of boyhood.
Both comrades and teachers eventually learned that the retiring and
solitary youth was not to be trifled with. He looked his instructor
steadily in the eye when he recited, and while his manner was
respectful, it was never deferential, nor could he be induced to yield
a point, when believing himself in the right, to mere arbitrary
assertion; and sometimes he brought confusion to his teacher by
quoting in support of his own view some unimpeachable authority.
At the beginning of each school term there were usually rough fellows
who thought the quiet boy could be made the subject of practical jokes
and petty annoyances without much danger of retaliation. Graham would
usually remain patient up to a certain point, and then, in dismay and
astonishment, the offender would suddenly find himself receiving a
punishment which he seemed powerless to resist. Blows would fall like
hail, or if the combatants closed in the struggle, the aggressor
appeared to find in Graham's slight form sinew and fury only. It
seemed as if the lad's spirit broke forth in such a flame of
indignation that no one could withstand him. It was also remembered
that while he was not noted for prowess on the playground, few could
surpass him in the gymnasium, and that he took long solitary rambles.
Such of his classmates, therefore, as were inclined to quarrel with
him because of his unpopular ways soon learned that he kept up his
muscle with the best of them, and that, when at last roused, his anger
struck like lightning from a cloud.
During the latter part of his college course he gradually formed a
strong friendship for a young man of a different type, an ardent
sunny-natured youth, who proved an antidote to his morbid tendencies.
They went abroad together and studied for two years at a German
university, and then Warren Hilland, Graham's friend, having inherited
large wealth, returned to his home. Graham, left to himself, delved
more and more deeply in certain phases of sceptical philosophy. It
appeared to him that in the past men had believed almost everything,
and that the heavier the drafts made on credulity the more largely had
they been honored. The two friends had long since resolved that the
actual and the proved should be the base from which they would advance
into the unknown, and they discarded with equal indifference
unsubstantiated theories of science and what they were pleased to term
the illusions of faith. "From the verge of the known explore the
unknown," was their motto, and it had been their hope to spend their
lives in extending the outposts of accurate knowledge, in some one or
two directions, a little beyond the points already reached. Since the
scalpel and microscope revealed no soul in the human mechanism they
regarded all theories and beliefs concerning a separate spiritual
existence as mere assumption. They accepted the materialistic view. To
them each generation was a link in an endless chain, and man himself
wholly the product of an evolution which had no relations to a
creative mind, for they had no belief in the existence of such a mind.
They held that one had only to live wisely and well, and thus transmit
the principle of life, not only unvitiated, but strengthened and
enlarged. Sins against body and mind were sins against the race, and
it was their creed that the stronger, fuller and more nearly complete
they made their lives the richer and fuller would be the life that
succeeded them. They scouted as utterly unproved and irrational the
idea that they could live after death, excepting as the plant lives by
adding to the material life and well-being of other plants. But at
that time the spring and vigor of youth were in their heart and brain,
and it seemed to them a glorious thing to live and do their part in
the advancement of the race toward a stage of perfection not dreamed
of by the unthinking masses.
Alas for their visions of future achievement! An avalanche of wealth
had overwhelmed Hilland. His letters to his friend had grown more and
more infrequent, and they contained many traces of the business cares
and the distractions inseparable from his possessions and new
relations. And now for causes just the reverse Graham also was
forsaking his studies. His modest inheritance, invested chiefly in
real estate, had so far depreciated that apparently it could not much
longer provide for even his frugal life abroad.
"I must give up my chosen career for a life of bread-winning," he had
concluded sadly, and he was ready to avail himself of any good opening
that offered. Therefore he knew not where his lot would be cast on the
broad continent beyond the revolving light that loomed every moment
more distinctly in the west.
A few days later found him at the residence of Mrs. Mayburn, a pretty
cottage in a suburb of an eastern city. This lady was his aunt by
marriage, and had long been a widow. She had never manifested much
interest in her nephew, but since she was his nearest relative he felt
that he could not do less than call upon her. To his agreeable
surprise he found that time had mellowed her spirit and softened her
angularities. After the death of her husband she had developed unusual
ability to take care of herself, and had shown little disposition to
take care of any one else. Her thrift and economy had greatly enhanced
her resources, and her investments had been profitable, while the
sense of increasing abundance had had a happy effect on her character.
Within the past year she had purchased the dwelling in which she now
resided, and to which she welcomed Graham with unexpected warmth. So
far from permitting him to make simply a formal call, she insisted on
an extended visit, and he, divorced from his studies and therefore
feeling his isolation more keenly than ever before, assented.
"My home is accessible," she said, "and from this point you can make
inquiries and look around for business opportunities quite as well as
from a city hotel."
She was so cordial, so perfectly sincere, that for the first time in
his life he felt what it was to have kindred and a place in the world
that was not purchased.
He had found his financial affairs in a much better condition than he
had expected. Some improvements were on foot which promised to advance
the value of his real estate so largely as to make him independent,
and he was much inclined to return to Germany and resume his studies.
"I will rest and vegetate for a time," he concluded. "I will wait till
my friend Hilland returns from the West, and then, when the impulse of
work takes possession of me again, I will decide upon my course."
He had come over the ocean to meet his fate, and not the faintest
shadow of a presentiment of this truth crossed his mind as he looked
tranquilly from his aunt's parlor window at the beautiful May sunset.
The cherry blossoms were on the wane, and the light puffs of wind
brought the white petals down like flurries of snow; the plum-trees
looked as if the snow had clung to every branch and spray, and they
were as white as they could have been after some breathless, large-
flaked December storm; but the great apple-tree that stood well down
the path was the crowning product of May. A more exquisite bloom of
pink and white against an emerald foil of tender young leaves could
not have existed even in Eden, nor could the breath of Eve have been
more sweet than the fragrance exhaled. The air was soft with summer-
like mildness, and the breeze that fanned Graham's cheek brought no
sense of chilliness. The sunset hour, with its spring beauty, the song
of innumerable birds, and especially the strains of a wood-thrush,
that, like a _prima donna_, trilled her melody, clear, sweet and
distinct above the feathered chorus, penetrated his soul with subtle
and delicious influences. A vague longing for something he had never
known or felt, for something that books had never taught, or
experimental science revealed, throbbed in his heart. He felt that his
life was incomplete, and a deeper sense of isolation came over him
than he had ever experienced in foreign cities where every face was
strange. Unconsciously he was passing under the most subtle and
powerful of all spells, that of spring, when the impulse to mate comes
not to the birds alone.
It so happened that he was in just the condition to succumb to this
influence. His mental tension was relaxed. He had sat down by the
wayside of life to rest awhile. He had found that there was no need
that he should bestir himself in money-getting, and his mind refused
to return immediately to the deep abstractions of science. It pleaded
weariness of the world and of the pros and cons of conflicting
theories and questions. He admitted the plea and said:--
"My mind _shall_ rest, and for a few days, possibly weeks, it shall
be passively receptive of just such influences as nature and
circumstances chance to bring to it. Who knows but that I may gain a
deeper insight into the hidden mysteries than if I were delving among
the dusty tomes of a university library? For some reason I feel to-
night as if I could look at that radiant, fragrant apple-tree and
listen to the lullaby of the birds forever. And yet their songs
suggest a thought that awakens an odd pain and dissatisfaction. Each
one is singing to his mate. Each one is giving expression to an
overflowing fulness and completeness of life; and never before have I
felt my life so incomplete and isolated.
"I wish Hilland was here. He is such a true friend that his silence is
companionship, and his words never jar discordantly. It seems to me
that I miss him more to-night than I did during the first days after
his departure. It's odd that I should. I wonder if the friendship, the
love of a woman could be more to me than that of Hilland. What was
that paragraph from Emerson that once struck me so forcibly? My aunt
is a woman of solid reading; she must have Emerson. Yes, here in her
bookcase, meagre only in the number of volumes it contains, is what I
want," and he turned the leaves rapidly until his eyes lighted on the
following passage:--
"No man ever forgot the visitations of that power to his heart and
brain which created all things new; which was the dawn in him of
music, poetry, and art; which made the face of nature radiant with
purple light, the morning and the night varied enchantments; when a
single tone of one voice could make the heart bound, and the most
trivial circumstance associated with one form was put in the amber of
memory; when he became all eye when one was present, and all memory
when one was gone."
"Emerson never learned that at a university, German or otherwise. He
writes as if it were a common human experience, and yet I know no more
about it than of the sensations of a man who has lost an arm. I
suppose losing one's heart is much the same. As long as a man's limbs
are intact he is scarcely conscious of them, but when one is gone it
troubles him all the time, although it isn't there. Now when Hilland
left me I felt guilty at the ease with which I could forget him in the
library and laboratory. I did not become all memory. I knew he was my
best, my only friend; he is still; but he is not essential to my life.
Clearly, according to Emerson, I am as ignorant as a child of one of
the deepest experiences of life, and very probably had better remain
so, and yet the hour is playing strange tricks with my fancy."
Thus it may be perceived that Alford Graham was peculiarly open on
this deceitful May evening, which promised peace and security, to the
impending stroke of fate. Its harbinger first appeared in the form of
a white Spitz dog, barking vivaciously under the apple-tree, where a
path from a neighboring residence intersected the walk leading from
Mrs. Mayburn's cottage to the street. Evidently some one was playing
with the little creature, and was pretending to be kept at bay by its
belligerent attitude. Suddenly there was a rush and a flutter of white
draperies, and the dog retreated toward Graham, barking with still
greater excitement. Then the young man saw coming up the path with
quick, lithe tread, sudden pauses, and little impetuous dashes at her
canine playmate, a being that might have been an emanation from the
radiant apple-tree, or, rather, the human embodiment of the blossoming
period of the year. Her low wide brow and her neck were snowy white,
and no pink petal on the trees above her could surpass the bloom on
her cheeks. Her large, dark, lustrous eyes were brimming over with
fun, and unconscious of observation, she moved with the natural,
unstudied grace of a child.
Graham thought, "No scene of nature is complete without the human
element, and now the very genius of the hour and season has appeared;"
and he hastily concealed himself behind the curtains, unwilling to
lose one glimpse of a picture that made every nerve tingle with
pleasure. His first glance had revealed that the fair vision was not a
child, but a tall, graceful girl, who happily had not yet passed
beyond the sportive impulses of childhood.
Every moment she came nearer, until at last she stood opposite the
window. He could see the blue veins branching across her temples, the
quick rise and fall of her bosom, caused by rather violent exertion,
the wavy outlines of light brown hair that was gathered in a Greek
coil at the back of the shapely head. She had the rare combination of
dark eyes and light hair which made the lustre of her eyes all the
more striking. He never forgot that moment as she stood panting before
him on the gravel walk, her girlhood's grace blending so harmoniously
with her budding womanhood. For a moment the thought crossed his mind
that under the spell of the spring evening his own fancy had created
her, and that if he looked away and turned again he would see nothing
but the pink and white blossoms, and hear only the jubilant song of
the birds.
The Spitz dog, however, could not possibly have any such unsubstantial
origin, and this small Cerberus had now entered the room, and was
barking furiously at him as an unrecognized stranger. A moment later
his vision under the window stood in the doorway. The sportive girl
was transformed at once into a well-bred young woman who remarked
quietly, "I beg your pardon. I expected to find Mrs. Mayburn here;"
and she departed to search for that lady through the house with a
prompt freedom which suggested relations of the most friendly
intimacy.
CHAPTER II
MERE FANCIES
Graham's disposition to make his aunt a visit was not at all chilled
by the discovery that she had so fair a neighbor. He was conscious of
little more than an impulse to form the acquaintance of one who might
give a peculiar charm and piquancy to his May-day vacation, and enrich
him with an experience that had been wholly wanting in his secluded
and studious life. With a smile he permitted the fancy--for he was in
a mood for all sorts of fancies on this evening--that if this girl
could teach him to interpret Emerson's words, he would make no crabbed
resistance. And yet the remote possibility of such an event gave him a
sense of security, and prompted him all the more to yield himself for
the first time to whatever impressions a young and pretty woman might
be able to make upon him. His very disposition toward experiment and
analysis inclined him to experiment with himself. Thus it would seem
that even the perfect evening, and the vision that had emerged from
under the apple-boughs, could not wholly banish a tendency to give a
scientific cast to the mood and fancies of the hour.
His aunt now summoned him to the supper-room, where he was formally
introduced to Miss Grace St. John, with whom his first meal under his
relative's roof was destined to be taken.
As may naturally be supposed, Graham was not well furnished with small
talk, and while he had not the proverbial shyness and awkwardness of
the student, he was somewhat silent because he knew not what to say.
The young guest was entirely at her ease, and her familiarity with the
hostess enabled her to chat freely and naturally on topics of mutual
interest, thus giving Graham time for those observations to which all
are inclined when meeting one who has taken a sudden and strong hold
upon the attention.
He speedily concluded that she could not be less than nineteen or
twenty years of age, and that she was not what he would term a society
girl--a type that he had learned to recognize from not a few
representatives of his countrywomen whom he had seen abroad, rather
than from much personal acquaintance. It should not be understood that
he had shunned society altogether, and his position had ever entitled
him to enter the best; but the young women whom it had been his
fortune to meet had failed to interest him as completely as he had
proved himself a bore to them. Their worlds were too widely separated
for mutual sympathy; and after brief excursions among the drawing-
rooms to which Hilland had usually dragged him, he returned to his
books with a deeper satisfaction and content. Would his acquaintance
with Miss St. John lead to a like result? He was watching and waiting
to see, and she had the advantage--if it was an advantage--of making a
good first impression.
Every moment increased this predisposition in her favor. She must have
known that she was very attractive, for few girls reach her age
without attaining such knowledge; but her observer, and in a certain
sense her critic, could not detect the faintest trace of affectation
or self-consciousness. Her manner, her words, and even their accent
seemed unstudied, unpracticed, and unmodelled after any received type.
Her glance was peculiarly open and direct, and from the first she gave
Graham the feeling that she was one who might be trusted absolutely.
That she had tact and kindliness also was evidenced by the fact that
she did not misunderstand or resent his comparative silence. At first,
after learning that he had lived much abroad, her manner toward him
had been a little shy and wary, indicating that she may have surmised
that his reticence was the result of a certain kind of superiority
which travelled men--especially young men--often assume when meeting
those whose lives are supposed to have a narrow horizon; but she
quickly discovered that Graham had no foreign-bred pre-eminence to
parade--that he wanted to talk with her if he could only find some
common subject of interest. This she supplied by taking him to ground
with which he was perfectly familiar, for she asked him to tell her
something about university life in Germany. On such a theme he could
converse well, and before long a fire of eager questions proved that
he had not only a deeply interested listener but also a very
intelligent one.
Mrs. Mayburn smiled complacently, for she had some natural desire that
her nephew should make a favorable impression. In regard to Miss St.
John she had long ceased to have any misgivings, and the approval that
she saw in Graham's eyes was expected as a matter of course. This
approval she soon developed into positive admiration by leading her
favorite to speak of her own past.
"Grace, you must know, Alford, is the daughter of an army officer, and
has seen some odd phases of life at the various military stations
where her father has been on duty."
These words piqued Graham's curiosity at once, and he became the
questioner. His own frank effort to entertain was now rewarded, and
the young girl, possessing easy and natural powers of description,
gave sketches of life at military posts which to Graham had more than
the charm of novelty. Unconsciously she was accounting for herself. In
the refined yet unconventional society of officers and their wives she
had acquired the frank manner so peculiarly her own. But the
characteristic which won Graham's interest most strongly was her
abounding mirthfulness. It ran through all her words like a golden
thread. The instinctive craving of every nature is for that which
supplements itself, and Graham found something so genial in Miss St.
John's ready smile and laughing eyes, which suggested an over-full
fountain of joyousness within, that his heart, chilled and repressed
from childhood, began to give signs of its existence, even during the
first hour of their acquaintance. It is true, as we have seen, that he
was in a very receptive condition, but then a smile, a glance that is
like warm sunshine, is never devoid of power.
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