Chapter 4 of Andrew the Glad, by Maria Thompson Davies. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Chapter 4 According to Solomon And it was by this very pattern, Caroline, I made the dozen I sent, Mary Caroline, for you. See the little slips fold over and hold up the petticoats. And Mrs. Buchanan held up a tiny garment for Caroline Dara to admire. They sat by the sunny window in her living room and both were sewing on Dainty Cambrick and Lace. Caroline Dara's head bent over the piece of ruffling in her hand with flower-like grace and the long lines from her throat suggested decidedly a very lovely pre-Raphaelite angel. Her needle moved slowly and unaccustomedly, but she had the air of doing the hemming bravely if fearfully. Isn't it darling?  What else was in that box? I feel I need to know. She asked. Let me see. The dozen little shirts, they were made out of some of my own to-sew things because of a scarcity of linen in those days and two little embroidered caps and a blue cashmere set and a set of crocheted socks and the major scent brandy he always does. I have the letter she wrote me about it all and to think she had to leave. Mrs. Matilda's eyes misted as she paused to thread her needle. She didn't realize. That and think of what she felt when she opened the box. Said Caroline as she raised her eyes that smiled through a threatened shower. I mustn't let the tears fall on little sister's ruffle. She added quickly as she took up her work. That reminds me of an accident to the shirts I made for Phoebe. They were being bleached in the sun when a calf took a fancy to them and chewed two of them entirely up before we discovered him. I was so provoked for I had no more linen as fine as I wanted. Of course the calf ate up my shirts. Came in Phoebe's laughing voice from the doorway where she had been standing unobserved for several minutes, watching Mrs. Buchanan and Caroline. Something is always chewing at my affairs, but Mrs. Matilda shoes them away for me sometimes still, even calves when it is positively necessary. How very industrious you do look. At times even I sigh for a needle though I wouldn't know what to do with it. There seems to be something in a woman's soul that nothing but a needle satisfies. Morbid craving that. Phoebe, I want to make something for you. I feel I must as soon as these petticoats for little sister are done. What shall it be? And Caroline Dara beamed upon Phoebe with the warmest of interwoman glances. The affection for Phoebe, which had possessed the heart of Caroline Dara, had deepened daily, and to its demands, Phoebe, for her, had been most unusually responsive. At your present rate of stitching I will have a year or two to decide, beautiful. She answered as she settled down on the broad window seat near them. David Kildare and I have come to lunch, Mrs. Matilda, and the major has sent him over for Andrew. I hope he brings him, but I doubt it. I've told Tempe, and she says she is glad to have us. She added as Mrs. Buchanan turned and looked in the direction of the kitchen regions. They all smiled, for the understanding that existed between Phoebe and Tempe was the subject of continual jest. Have you seen the babies today? Asked Caroline as she drew a long new thread through the needle. Isn't it lovely the way people are making them presents? Mr. Caper says the men at the mills are going to give them each a thousand dollar mill bond. Will I doubt seriously if they will live to use the bonds if someone does not stop David from trying to experiment with them? Answered Phoebe with a laugh. After dinner last night he came in with two little sleeping hammock machines, which he insisted on putting up on the wall for them. If the pulley catches you have to stand on a chair to extract them, and if it slips, down they come. Millie was so grateful and let him play with them for an hour. She's a sweet soul. Has he sent any more food? Asked Mrs. Matilda as they all laughed. Two more cases of a new kind he saw advertised in a magazine. Somebody must tell him that. Millie is equal to the situation. Billy Bob won't, and so the cases continue to arrive. The pantries crowded with them and they have sent a lot to the day nursery. And Phoebe slipped from the window seat down onto the rug at Caroline's feet in a perfect ecstasy of mirth. But he is just the dearest boy, Phoebe.  There was the shadow of reproach in her voice as she smiled down into the gray eyes upturned to hers. Yes. Answered Phoebe instantly on the defensive. He is just exactly that, Caroline Dara Brown, and he doesn't seem to be able to get over it. I'm afraid it's chronic with him. Ah, he's young yet. Mrs. Buchanan remarked as she clipped a thread with her bright scissors. No. Said Phoebe slowly. He is six years older than I am, and that makes him thirty-two. I have earned my living for ten years, and a man five years younger who sits at a desk next to mine at the office is taking care of his mother and educating two younger brothers on a salary that is less than mine. But David is a deer. Did you see the little coats Polly sent the babies? She asked quickly to close the subject and to cover a note of pain she had discovered in her own voice. They were lovely. Answered Mrs. Buchanan. Let me show you how to roll and whip your ruffle, Caroline Dara. She added as she bent over, Caroline's completed him. In a moment they were both immersed in a scientific discussion of under and over stitch. Phoebe clasped her knees in her arms and gazed into the fire. Her own involuntary summing up of David Kildare had struck into her inner consciousness like a blow. And Phoebe could not have explained to even herself what it was in her that demanded the hewer of wood and drawer of water in a man, in David. Decidedly, Phoebe's demands were for elementals and she questioned Kildare's right to his leisurely life based on the Jeffersonian ideals of her forefathers. And while they sowed and chatted the hour away, over in the library the major and David were in interest at conclave. Now I leave it to you, Major, if he isn't just the limit. Said David on his return from his mission for the purpose of drawing Andrew from his lair. I couldn't budge him. He is riding away like all possessed with a two-apple and a cracker lunch on the table beside him. He seems to enjoy a death-starve. David. Said the Major as he laid aside the book he had been buried in and began to polish his glasses. You make no allowance as whatever for the artistic temperament. When a man is making connection with his solar plexus he doesn't consider the consumption of food a paramount importance. And now, in this treatise of Aristotle... David. Well, anyway, I've made up my mind to fix up something between him and Caroline Dara. He's got to get a heart interest of his own and let mine alone. The child is daffy about his poetry and moons at him all the time out of the corners of her eyes. Dandy eyes at that. But the old ink-swiller acts as if she wasn't there at all. What I'll do to just make him see her, just see her, see her. That'll be enough. David. Said the Major quietly as he looked into the fire with his shaggy brows bent over his keen eyes. The combination of a man-heart and a woman-heart makes a dangerous explosive at the best. But here are things that make it fatal. The one you are planning would be deadly. Why in the world shouldn't I touch them off? Perfectly nice girl, all right, man, and...?  Yes, that he had sat the night through at the poker-table with Peter's Brown. Brown offered some restoration compromise to the widow, but she refused. You know the struggle that she had made and that it killed her. We both know the grit it took for Andrew to chisel himself into what he is. The first afternoon he met the girl in here, right by this table, for an instant I was frightened. Only she didn't know, thank God, the almighty gardens his women fakes well and fins off influences that shrivel. It behooves men to do the same. So that's it? Exclaimed Kildare, serious in his dismay. Of course I remember it, but I had forgotten to connect up the circumstances. It's a mine, all right, Major, and the poor little girl. She reads his poetry with Phoebe and to me and she admires him and his differential and that girl, the sweetest thing that ever happened. I don't know whether to go over and smash him or to cry on his collar. Dave answered the Major as he folded his hands and looked off across the housetops glowing in the winter sun. Some snarls in our lifelines only the almighty can unravel. He just depends on us to keep hands off. Andrew is a fine product of disastrous circumstances. A man who can build a bridge, tunnel a mountain, and then sit down by a construction campfire at night and ride a poem and a play, must cut deep lines in life and he'll not cut them in a woman's heart if he can help it. And she must never know, Major. Never! said David, with distress in his happy eyes. We must see to that. It ought to be easy to keep. It was so long ago that nobody remembers it. But wait! That is what Mrs. Sherrie Lawrence meant when she said to Phoebe and Carolyn's presence that it was just as well under the circumstances that the committee had not asked Andrew to write the poem for the unveiling of the statue. I wondered at the time why Phoebe dealt her such a knockout glance that even I staggered, and she's given her cold storage attentions ever since. Mrs. Sherrie rather fancies Andy, I gather. Would she dare? Do you think? Women remarked the Major dryly, when man's stocky make very cruel enemies for the weaker of their kind. Let's be thankful that pursuit is a perverted instinct in them that happens seldom. We can trust much to Phoebe. The Almighty puts the instinct for mother guarding all younger or lesser women into the heart of superbly sexed women like Phoebe Donaldson. And with her aroused we may be able to keep it from the child. Aw, what a sad Major! said David in a low voice deeply moved with emotion.  And it was farther reaching than that, Dave! answered the Major slowly, and the hand that held the dying pipe trembled against the table. Andrew Severe was a loss to us all at the time, and to you for whom we builded. The youngest and strongest and best of us had been mowed down before a four-year's reign of bullets, and there were few enough of us left to build again. And of us all he had the most constructive power, with the same buoyant courage that he had led our regiment in battle, did he lead the remnant of us in reconstructing our lives. He was gay and optimistic, laughed at bitterness, and worked with infectious spirits and superb force. We all depended on him and followed him keenly. We loved him and let ourselves be laughed into his schemes. It was his high spirits and temperament that led to his gaming and tragedy. Nearly thirty years he's been dead, the happy Andrew. This boy's like him, very like him. I see it, I see it. Answer David slowly. And all of that glad heart was bred in Andy, Major, and is there under his sadness. Heavens, haven't I seen it in the hunting field as he landed over six stiff bars on a fast horse? It's in some of his writing, and sometimes it flashes in his eyes when he is excited. I've seen it there lately, more often than ever before. God, Major, last night his eyes fairly danced when I plagued Carolyn into asking him to whom he wrote that serenade which I had set to music and sing for her so often. It hurts me all over. It makes me weak. It's hunger, David. Lunch is almost ready. Said Phoebe, who had come into the room in time to catch his last words. Why, where is Andrew? Wouldn't he come? No.  He is writing a poem about, about, uh... His eyes roamed the room wildly for he had got into it and his stock of original poem subjects was very short. Finally, his music lore yielded a point. It's about a girl drinking, only with her eyes, you understand, and, uh... He could save himself that trouble. Lapped Phoebe. For somebody has already written that. Did it some time ago. Run, stop him, David. No. Answered David with recovered spirit. I'd flag a train for you, Phoebe, but I don't intend to sidetrack a poem for anybody. Besides, I'm hungry, and I see Jeff with a tray. Mrs. Matilda, please put Caroline Dara by me. She's attentive and Phoebe just... diets me. And while they laughed and chatted and feasted the hour away, across the street Andrew sat, with his eyes looking over onto the major's red roof, which was shrouded in a mist of yesterday's through which he was watching a slender boy toil his way. When he was eight, he had carried a long root of the daily paper, and he could feel now the chill dark air out into which he had slipped as his mother stood at the door and watched him down the street with sad, hungry eyes, the gaunt mother who had never smiled. He had fought and punched and scuffled in the dawn for his bundle of papers, and he had fought and scuffled for all he had got out of life for many years. But a result had come, and it was rich, how he had managed an education he could hardly see himself. Only the major had helped, not much, but just enough to make it possible, and David had always stood by. Kildare's fortune had come from almost forgotten lumberlands that his father had failed to heave into the Confederate maelstrom. Perhaps it had come a little soon for the very best upbuilding of the character of David Kildare, but he had stood shoulder to shoulder with them all in the fight for the establishment of the new order of things, and his generosity with himself and his wealth had been superb, the delight with which he had made a gift of himself to any cause whatsoever, rather tended to blight the prospects of what might have been a brilliant career at law. With his backing, Hobbes and Capers had opened the cotton mills on a margin of no capital and much grit. Then Tom Cantrell had begun stock manipulations on a few blocks of gas and water, which his mother and Andrew had put up the money to buy, and nerve. It was good to think of them all now in the perspective of the then. Were there any people on earth who could swing the pendulum like those scions of the wilderness Cavaliers and do it with such dignity? He was tasting an aftermath, and he found it sweet, only the bitterness that had killed his mother before he was ten. And across the street sat the daughter of the man who had pressed the cup to her lips, with her father's millions and her mother's purple eyes. He dropped his hand on his manuscript and began to write feverishly. Then in a moment he paused, the Panama campfire, beside which he had written his first play that was running in New York now, Rose in a Vision. Was it any wonder that the managers had jumped at the chance to produce the first drama from the country's newly acquired jungle? The lines had been rife with the struggle and intrigue of the great canal cutting. It really was a ripping play he told himself with a smile, and this other? He looked at it a moment in a detached way, this other throbbed. He gathered the papers together in his hands and walked to the window. The sun was now a slant through the trees. It was late, and they must have all gone their ways from across the street. Only the major would be alone and appreciative. Andrew smiled quizzically as he regarded the pages in his hand, but it was also to the good to read the stuff to the old fellow with his immortals ranged round. Great company that! He mused to himself as he let himself out of the apartment, and as he walked slowly across the street and into the Buchanan house, fate took up the hand of Andrew Severe and ranged his trumps for a new game. In the moment he parted the curtains and stepped into the library the old dame played a small signal, for there in the major's wide chair sat Caroline Dara Brown with her head bent over a large volume spread open upon the table. Oh! she said with a quick smile and a rose signal in her cheeks. The major isn't here. They came up for him to go out to the farm to see about... about grinding something up to feed to... to something or sheep or... She paused in distress as if it were of the utmost importance that she should inform him of the major's absence. Silo for the cows. He prompted in a practical voice. It was well a practical remark fitted the occasion, for the line from old Ben Johnson, which David had only a few hours ago accused him of plagiarizing, rose to the surface of his mind. Such deep wells of eyes he had never looked into in all his life before, and they were as ever filled to the brim with reverence, even all of him. It was a heady draught he quaffed before she looked down and answered his laconic remark. Yes. She said. That was it. And Mrs. Matilda and Phoebe motored out with him and David went on his horse. I am making calls. Only I didn't. I stopped to... And she glanced down with wild confusion, for the book spread out before her was the major's old family Bible, and the type was too bold to fail to declare its identity to his quick glance. Don't worry. He hastened to say. I don't mind. I read it myself sometimes when I'm in a certain mood. It was for David. He wanted to read something to Phoebe. She answered in ravishing confusion and pointed to the open page. Thus Andrew Severe was forced by old fate to come near her and bend with her over the book. The tip of her exquisite finger ran along the lines that have figured in the woman question for many an age. For her price is far above Ruby's. The heart of her husband doth safely trust in her. And so on down the page she led him. And that was what the trouble was about. She said, when they had read the last word in the last line, she raised her eyes to his with laughter in their depths. It was a very dreadful battle and Phoebe won. The major found this for him to read to her, and she said she did not intend to go into the real estate business for her husband, or to rise while it was yet night to give him his breakfast. Aren't they funny? Funny! And she fairly rippled with delight at her recollection of the vanquishing of the intrepid David. The standards for a wife were a bit strenuous in those days. He answered, smiling down on her. I'm afraid Dave will have trouble finding one on those terms, and yet... He paused, and there was a touch of mockery in his tone. I think that a woman could be very, very happy fulfilling every one of those conditions, if she were woman enough. Answered Caroline Dara Brown, looking straight into his eyes with her beautiful, disconcerting, dangerous young seriousness.  Oh! she said quickly. You were going to read to the major, weren't you? And the entreaty in her eyes was as young as her seriousness, as young as that of a very little girl begging for a wonder tale. The heart of a man may be of stone, but even Flint flies a spark. Andrew Severe flushed under his pallor and ruffled his pages back to a serenade he had written, with which the star for whom the play was being made expected to exploit a deep-timbered voice in a recitative vocalization, and while he read it to her slowly, fate finessed on the third round. And so the major found them an hour or more later, he standing in the failing light turning the pages and she looking up at him, listening, with her cheek upon her interlaced fingers and her elbows resting on the old book. The old gentleman stood at the door a long time before he interrupted them, and after Andrew had gone down to put Caroline into her motor car, which had been waiting for hours, he lingered at the window looking out into the dusk. For love is as strong as death. He quoted to himself as he turned to the table and slowly closed the book and returned it to its place. And many waters cannot quench love, neither can the floods drown it. Solomon was very great and human. He further observed. Then after absorbing an hour or two of communion with some musty old papers and a tattered volume of uncertain age, the major was interrupted by Mrs. Matilda as she came in from her drive.  I'm so glad to get back, major.  Sometimes I hurry home to be sure you are safe here. I don't see you as much as I do out at Seven Oaks and I'm lonely going places away from you.  He answered. What would Mrs. Cherry Lawrence think of you? Mrs. Buchanan laughed as she seated herself by him for the moment. I've just come from Milly's, she said. I left Caroline there and Hobson was with her. They had been out motoring on the river road. Do you suppose? It looks as if perhaps. My dear Matilda answered the major. I never give or take a tip on a love race. The almighty endows women with inscrutable eyes and the smile of the sphinx for purposes of south preservation. I take it, so a man waste time trying to solve a woman riddle. However, Hobson Keepers is running a risk of losing much valuable time. Is the guess I chance on this issue in question? And Peyton Kendrick and that nice Yankee boy and... All bunched, all bunched at the second post. There's a dark horse running and he doesn't know it himself. God help him. He added under his breath as she turned to speak to Tempe. If you don't want her to marry Hobson, whom do you choose? She said, returning to the subject. I wish. I wish. But of course it is impossible and I'm glad as it is that Andrew is indifferent. Yes? Answered the major. And you'll find that indifference is a hallmark stamped on most modern emotions. End of Chapter 4 Chapter 5 of Andrew the Glad by Maria Thompson Davies This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Chapter 5 David's Rose and Some Thorns Now, said David, If you'll just put away a few of those ancient pipes and puddle your papers a bit in your own cozy corner, we can call these quarters ready to receive the ladies. God bless them. Does it look kinder, bear to you? We might borrow a few drapes from the Madame. Or do you trust to the flowers? I'll send them up for you to fix around tasty. A blasted poet ought to know how to bunch spinach to look well. As he spoke, David Kildare stood in the middle of the living room in his bachelor quarters, which were in the Colonial. A tall, pillared, wide-windowed, white brick apartment house that stood across the street from the home of Major Buchanan and surveyed the long rooms upon which he and his man, F, had been expending their energies for more than an hour. Andrew Severe sank down upon the arm of a chair and lighted a long and villainous pipe. Trust to the flowers, he answered. I think Phoebe doesn't care for the drapes of this life so much as some women do, and as this is for her birthday, let's have the flowers, sturdy ones with stiff stems and good head pieces. That's right. Phoebe's nobody's clinging vine. Answer David moodily. She doesn't want any trellis, either. Wish something would wilt her. Look here, Andrew. On the square. What's the matter that I can't get Phoebe?  Point me another course. This one is no good. I've run into a sand bank. The dark red forelock on David's brow was ruffled and his keen eyes were troubled while his large sweet mouth was set in a straight firm line. He looked very strong, forceful and determined as he stopped in front of his friend and squared himself as if for a blow. Andrew Severe looked at him thoughtfully for a few seconds, straight between the eyes. Then his mouth widened into an affectionate smile as he laid his hand on the sturdy shoulder and said, Not a thing on God's green earth the matter with you, Davie. It's the modernism of the situation that you seem unable to handle. May I use your flower similarly? Once they grew in gardens and were drooping and sweet and overran trellises to say nothing of clinging to oak trees. But we've developed the American beauty, old man. It stands stiff and glossy and holds its head up on its own stem, the pride of the nation. We can get them, though they come high, ah, but they are sweet. Phoebe is one of the most gorgeous to be found. It will be a price to pay, but you'll pay it, David, you'll pay. God knows I've been paying it all day long, every day, and have been paying it for ten years, never at peace about her for an instant. Protection at long distance is no joke. I can't sleep at night until she telephones me she is at home from the office on her duty nights and then I have to bag like a dog for the wire, just the word or two. She will overwork and under eat and... David. Interrupted severe thoughtfully. What do you really think is the matter? Let's get down to facts while we are about it. Do you know, Andy, lately it has dawned upon me that Phoebe would like to dictate a life policy to me. She would hand me out a good, stiff life job. I believe she would marry me tomorrow if she could see me permanently installed on the front seat of a grocery wagon permanently, and I'll come to it yet. I believe you're right. Laughed Andrew. She really glories in her wage earning. It's a phase of them these days. She would actually hate living on your income. Don't I know it? I suppose she would be content if she sewed on buttons and did the family wash to conserve the delivery wagon income. I wish she'd marry me for love and then I'd hire her at hundreds per week to dust around the house and cook pies for me, gladly, gladly. We've developed thorns with our new rose, Dave. Chuckled Andrew as he relighted his pipe. Ugh, sweet hope of heaven, yes. Grown to David. My gore drips all the time from the gashes. I suppose it is a killing grief to her that I haven't to star corporation practice instead of fooling around the criminal court, fighting old Taylor to get a square deal for the dark rag tag most of my time. But, Andy, it makes me blaze house high to see the way he hands the law out to him. They can cut and fight as long as it is in a whiskey dive and no indictment returned. But let one of them sidestep an inch in any other ignorant, pitiful way and is the workhouse and the country road for theirs. And the number of ways that the Coons can get up to call on me to square the deal is amazing. Just look at the week I've had. All Monday and Tuesday I spent on the Darkie Country Club Affair.  Nobody would sell them an acre of ground near a car line and the dusky smart set was about to get its light put out. Jeff and Tempe told me about it. What did little Dave do but run around to persuade the old man Elton to sell them that point that juts out into the river two miles from town and just across from the rock quarry. No neighbors to kick and the interurban runs through the field. It really is a choice spot. And I started their subscription with a hundred or two and got Williams to draw them some plans to fix up an old house that stands on the bank for a clubhouse. They were wide-mouthed with joy. But it sliced two days to do it, which I might have spent on the grocery wagon. You always did have the making of a philanthropist in you, Dave, said Andrew thoughtfully. You're a near one at present speaking. Philanthropist, go hang. The rest of the week I have spent getting the old confeds together and having everything in shape for the unveiling of the statue out at the Temple of Arts. I tell you, we are going to have a turnout. General Clopton is coming all the way to make the dedication speech. Carolyn is about to bolt and I have to steady her at off times. I've promised to hold her hand through it all. Major is getting up the note for General Clopton and he's touching on Peters Brown only in high places. It'll be mostly a showdown of old General Dara and the three governors, I'm thinking. The dames of the Confederacy and the Art League are going to have entries on the program without number. I have been interviewed and interviewed. Why? Even the August Susie Carey Snow sent for me and talked high art and city beautiful to me until I could taste it. And all that sopped up the rest of the week when I ought to have been delivering pork steaks and string beans at people's back doors to please Phoebe. Money-grubbing doesn't appeal to me and I don't need it. But from now on I'm the busy grub until after the no-man-put-a-sunder proclamation. How you can manage to do one really public spirited job after another. Things that count. And then allude all the credit for them is more than I can understand, Dave. Said Andrew as he smiled through a blue ring of smoke. Someday if you don't look out you'll be a leading citizen. In the meantime hustle about those flowers. Time flies. I'll send them right up. Said David as he donned his coat and hat and took up his crop. The hours David spent out of the saddle were those of his indoors occupations. I'll be back soon. Just fix the flowers. F and the cook will do all the rest and put the cards on the table any old way. I want to sit between Phoebe and Carol and Dara Brown. Well, whose party is it? You can sit next. On either side. Wait a minute. Uh... No. I must hurry and go brace up Millie for a pair of minutes. She wouldn't promise to come until I insisted on sending a train to nurse to sit with old Mammy Betty and the babies until she got back to him. Billy Bob is wild as a kid about coming. He hasn't been anywhere for so long. I talked a week before I could persuade Millie, but she's got her glad rags. And is as excited as Billy Bob. I tried to buy that boy twin for Phoebe's present, but Millie said I'd better get an old silver and amethyst bracelet. It's on my table in the white box. Bye! And Kildare departed as far as the front door, but returned to stick his head in the door and say, You'd better put Haw by Carol and Dara on the other side. He's savage when he's crossed. And tack and paint opposite her. I invited Polly the Fluff for you. She's a debutante and such a coo child that she'll just suit a poet. He dodged just in time to escape the lighted pipe that was hurled upon him, and he couldn't have suspected that a hastily formed plan to place himself opposite Caroline Dara had gone up in the smoke that followed the death of the life in Andrew's pipe. Then following the urgent instructions of David, Andrew began to write up the papers in his den which opened off the living room. His desk was littered with manuscript, for the three days past had been golden ones, and he had written under a strong impetus. The thought suddenly shot through him that he had been writing as he had once read, to eyes whose depths on depths of luster had misted and glowed and answered as he turned his pages in the twilight.  Andrew crushed the sheets and thrust them into a drawer. Then came F. and the cook to lay the cloth in the dining room, and a man brought up the flowers. For a time he worked away with a strange excitement in his veins. When they had finished and he was alone in the apartment, he walked slowly through the rooms, where David happened to keep his household gods had been home to Andrew for many years. His books were in the dark Flemish oak cases, and some of the prints on the walls were his. Most of the rugs he had picked up in his travels upon which his commissions led him, and some interesting skins had been added since his jungle experiences. It was all dark and rich and right toned, the home of a gentleman, and David was like the rooms, right toned and clean. Andrew found himself wondering if there would be men like David in the next generation. Happy David, with his cavalier nature and modern wit, the steady stream of wealth that was pouring into the south, down her mountainsides, and welling up under her pasture lands, would it bring in its train death to the purity and sanity of her social institutions? Would swollen fortunes bring congestion of standards and grossness of morals? Suddenly he smiled, for Billy Bob and Millie and a lot of the industrious young folks seemed to answer him. He had found eleven little new cousins on the scene of action when he had returned after five years. Clear young Anglo-Americans, ready to take charge of the future, and he, what was his place in the building of his native city? His trained intelligence, his wide experience, his genius, were being given to cutting a canal thousands of miles away, while the streets of his own home were being cut up and undermined by half-trained bunglers. The beautiful forest suburbs were being planned and plotted by money-mad schemers who neither provisioned nor cared to, the city of the future which was to be a great gateway of the nation to its Panama world artery. He knew how to value the force of a man of his kind, with his reputation and influence, and he would gauge just what he would be able to do for the city with the municipal backing he could command if he set his shoulder to the wheel. A talk he had had with the major a day or two ago came back to him. The old fellow's eyes had glowed as he told him the plan they had been obliged to abandon in the early seventies for a boulevard from the capital to the river because of the lack of city construction funds. Andrew's own father had formulated the plan and had gone before the city fathers with it, and for a time there had been hope of its accomplishment, and the major had declared emphatically that a time was coming when the city would want and ask for it again. That other Andrew severe of the major's youth had conceived the scheme. The major had repeated the fact slowly. Did he mean it as a call to him? Andrew's eyes glowed. He could see it all with its difficulties and its possibilities. He rested his clenched hand on the table and the artist in him had the run of his pulses. He could see it all, and he knew in all humbleness that he could construct the town as no other man of his generation would be able to do. The beautiful hill-rimmed city. And just as potent he felt the call of the half-awakened spirit of art and letters that had lain among them poverty-bound for forty reconstructive years. For what had he been so richly dowered to sing his songs from the camp of a wanderer and write his plays with a foreign flavor, when he might voice his own people in the world of letters, his own with their background of traditions and tragedy, and their foreground of rough-hewn possibilities, was not the mead of his fame small or large theirs. Suddenly the tension snapped and sadness chilled through his veins. Here there would always be that memory which brought its influences of bitterness and depression to kill the creative in him. An old mad desire to be gone and away from it beat up into his blood, then stilled on the instant. What was it that caught his breath in his breast at the thought of exile? Could he go now? Could? Just at this moment he was interrupted by Mrs. Matilda, who came hurrying into the room with ribbons and veil of flutter. She evidently had only the moment to stay, and she took in his decorative schemes with the utmost delight. Andrew, she said, with enthusiasm in every tone, It is all lovely, lovely.  These bachelor establishments are threatening to make women wonder what they were born for. And what do you think? The major is coming. The first place he has gone this winter, and he wants to sit between Phoebe and Caroline Dara. I just ran over to tell you. Goodbye. We must both dress. And Andrew smiled as he rearranged the place cards, and it happened that in more ways than one, David Kildare found himself the perturbed host. He rushed home and dressed with lightning-like rapidity and whirled away in the limousine for Millie and Billy Bob. He went for them early, for he had bargained to come for Phoebe as late as possible, so asked to give her time to reckon with her six-thirty freckle-faced devil at the office. But at the Overtons he found confusion confounded. I'm so sorry, David. Millie almost sobbed. But Mummy Betty's daughter has run away and got married, and she has gone to see about it, and the trained nurse can't come. There has been an awful rack up the road, and all the doctors in town have gone and taken all the nurses with them. She didn't consider the babies serious, so she just had someone telephone at the last minute that she had gone. I can't go, but please make Billy go with you. There is no use! And she turned to Billy Bob, who stood by in a pathetically gorgeous array, but firmened his intention not to desert the home craft. We just can't make it, Dave, old man. He said manfully, as he caught his tearful wife's outstretched hand in his. Go on before we both cry. Go on, nothing? With Millie looking like a lovely pink apple blossom, you've got to come. I wouldn't dare face Phoebe without you. It's the whole thing to her to have you there. It's been so long since you've gladdened with the crowd once, and it's her birthday, and... David's voice trailed off into a perfect wail. But what can we do? faltered Millie, dissolved at the mention of the new frock. We certainly can't leave them, and we can't take them, and... Glory, that's the idea. Let's take the whole bunch. exclaimed David with radiant countenance. I ought to have invited them in the first place. Come on, and let's begin to bundle. And he made a dive in the direction of the door of the nursery. Oh no, indeed we can't! gassed Millie, while Billy Bob stood stricken, unable to utter a word. I'll show you whether we will or not! answered David. Catch me losing a chance like this to ring one on Phoebe for several reasons. Hurry up!  The youngster opened his big dewy eyes and chuckled at the side of his side partner, David Kildare. That's all right. He's all for his uncle Davey. Here, you take Billy Bob and I'll help Millie roll up the twins. She can bring down Crimey while I bring them.  But, David... gassed Millie. It is impossible. They are not dressed. They will take cold. The limousine is as hot as smoke. Can't hurt him. Plenty of blankets. With which he thrust the nodding young Crimey into her arms and lifted carefully the large bundle which contained both twins in his own. Go on. He commanded the paralyzed pair. I will pull the door with my free foot. And he actually forced the helpless parents of the four to embark with him on this most unusual of adventures. When they were all seated in the car, Millie looked at Billy Bob and burst into a gale of hysterical laughter. But Billy Bob's spunk was up by this time and he was all on the side of the resourceful David. Why not? He asked brazenly. Non-tense of the people in the world take the kids with them on all the frolics they get. Why not we? They know it's all right. They haven't objected. And indeed there had not been a single chirp from any of the swathings. Big Brother was the only one awake and he was, as usual, entranced at the very sight of his Uncle David who held the twins with practiced skill on his knees. Now! He said jubilantly. Don't anybody warn Phoebe. And I'm going to put them on the big divan with her presence. You'll see something crash, I'm thinking. And it was worth it all when Phoebe did see her unexpected guests.  The twins were nestled contentedly down in the corner together, like two little kittens in a basket. Before them knelt Polly with one finger clasped by the one whose golden fuzz declared her to be little sister, while Caroline Dara leaned over Big Brother, who was fingering a string of sapphires that fell from her neck with obvious delight. The rest of the party stood in an admiring and uproarious circle. Why? exclaimed Phoebe in blank astonishment. Why, David Kildare! You said you wanted your most intimate friends tonight, Phoebe, and here they are. He answered with pride in every tone of his voice. Oh, Dairy! said Millie as she clasped Phoebe's hand. We couldn't come without them. Everything happened wrong. I know it's awful, and I ought to take them right back now, and— David Kildare! said Phoebe as she divined in an instant the whole situation. I love you. I love you for doing it. And she sank on her knees by Caroline. Mistake let go of the chain and bobbed forward to bestow a moist kiss on this, his friend of long standing, and as he chuckled and snuggled his little nose under her white chin, Phoebe's echo was a sigh of such absolute rapture that the whole circle shouted with glee. And late as it was, dinner was announced three times before the hosts or the guests could be persuaded to think of food, and not until David's bed was made ready for the little guests did they begin to make their way into the dining room. It was Andrew who finally insisted on carrying the babes away and tucking them in. Only Caroline went with him, with little sister in her arms, and laid her gently on the pillow.  But then her shy glance was deep with innocent tenderness. No! said the Major as they settled laughingly into their places. Everybody's glass high to the silent guests. And they drank his toast with enthusiasm. And? added David Kildare as he set down his glass. They needn't be silent guests unless it suits them. When they want to roughhouse, they know Uncle David is the place to come to do it in. But let's hope they won't want to, David. laughed Millie, radiant with excitement. I tell you what let's do. said the enlivened Hobson from the coveted seat next Caroline Dara Brown. Let's all give them hard-sleeping suggestions, all at the same time. Maybe they won't wake up for a week. Andrew said Mrs. Buchanan as she looked with delight in his direction. These are delicious things you and David have to eat. I am so glad you are well again and can enjoy them. Better go slow, Andy, called David from down the table. Sure you don't need a raw egg. Phoebe has a couple of her sleeve here she can lend you. The Major has persuaded her to take a bit of duck and some asparagus and a brandy peach and... David Kildare. said Phoebe in a coolly dangerous voice. I will get even with you for that if it takes me a week. This is the first thing I've had to eat since meal before last and I lost two and a half pounds last week. So I'll see that you. Please, please, Phoebe, I'll be good. Just let me off this time. I'm giddy from looking at you. And before a delighted audience, David Kildare abased himself. Anyway, I've got news to relate. He hastened to offer by way of propitiation. What do you think has happened to Andrew? I didn't promise not to tell. He drawled prolonging the agony to its limit. Hurry, David, do. exclaimed Phoebe with suspended fork. Caroline leaned forward eagerly while Andrew began a laughing protest. It's only that Heatherton is going to put the great main right on in Andy's new play in the fall. Letter came today. Now doesn't he shove his pen to some form, some? He demanded as he beamed upon his friend with the greatest pride. said Caroline Dara. Main right is great enough to do it, almost. A pulse of joy shot through Andrew as her excited eyes gleamed into his. Of them all, she and the Major only had read his play and could congratulate him really. He had turned to her instantly when David had made his announcement and she had answered him as instantly with her delight. And, cousin Andy? asked Polly, who sat next to him. Will I have to cry at the third act? Please don't make me. It's so unbecoming. Why can't people do all the wonderful things they do in place without being so musty? Child! cheered David Kildare as they all laughed. Don't you know a heartthrob when you're up against it, er, beg pardon? I mean to say that plays her soul that so much a sob seems to me you get wise very slowly. Polly pouted and young Boston who sat next to her went red up to his hair.  If the material was all Tom had to offer his friends, he did that with generosity and sincerity. So until the roses fell in softly wilting heaps and the champagne broke the glasses, they sat and talked and laughed. Pitched battles raged up and down the table and there were perfect whirlpools of argument and protestation. Phoebe was her most brilliant self and her laughter rang out rich and joyous at the slightest provocation. The major delighted in a give-and-take encounter with her and their wit drew spark from every direction. No major. She said as the girls rose with Mrs. Buchanan after the last toast had been drunk. Toast my wit, toast my courage, toast my loyalty, but my beauty? Ah, aren't women learning not to use it as an asset?  Phoebe was more lovely than she knew as she flung her challenge into the camp of her friends, and they all felt the call in her dauntless, dawn-grey eyes. Her unconsciousness amounted to a positive audacity. Phoebe? answered the major as he rose and stood beside her chair. All those things stir at times our cosmic consciousness. But beauty is the bouquet to the woman wine. And you can't help it. How do you old fellows down at the Bivouac really feel about this conduit business major? said Tom Cantrell as he moved his chair close around by the majors after the last swish and rustle had left the men alone in the dining room for a few moments. Just a question starts Father Fire-eating so I thought I would ask you to put me next. It's up in the city council. Tom? answered the major as he blew a ring of smoke between himself and the shrewd eyes. What on earth have a lot of broken down old Confederate soldiers got to do with the management of the affairs of the city? You young men are to attend to that. Give us a seat in the sun and our pipes of peace. Oh hang major, look at the way you old fellows swung that gas contract in the council. You sit in the sun all right but they all know that the Bivouac pulls a plurality vote in this city when it chooses. And they jump when you speak. What are you going to do about this conduit? Is it pressing? Not much being said about it. That's it. They want to make it a sneak in. Mayor Potts is pushing hard and we know he's just the judge's cat-spaw. Judge Taylor owns the city council since that last election and I believe he has bought the board of public works outright. The conduit is just a whiskey-ring scheme to hand out jobs before the judge's election. They have got to keep the criminal court fixed major for this town is running wide open day and night with prohibition voted six months ago. They've got to keep Taylor on the bench. What do you say? Well... Answered the major, beatling his brows over his keen eyes. I suppose there is no doubt that Taylor is a machine-maid. He's the real blind tiger and Potts is his striped kitten. I understand that he lost four-fifths of the open indictments that the grand jury found on their last sitting. The whiskey men are going to sell as long as the criminal courts protects them, of course. Let's let them cut the conduit deeper into the public mind before they begin on the streets. I'm looking for a nasty showdown for this town before Long Major if there are men enough in it to call the machine. Tom? Answered the major as he blew a last ring from his cigar. The town is in a rotten fix when the criminal court is a mockery. Let's go interrupt the women's dimity talk. And it was quite an hour later that Millie decided in an alarmed hurry that she and the babies must take their immediate departure. David maneuvered manfully to send them home in his car and to have Phoebe wait and let him take her home later, alone. But Phoebe insisted upon going with Millie and Billy Bob and the youngsters. And the reflection that the distance from the unfashionable quarter inhabited by the little family back to Phoebe's downtown apartment was very short, depressed him to the point of defiance, almost. However, he packed them all in and then as skillfully unpacked them at the door of their little home. He carried up the twins and even remained a moment to help in their unswathing before he descended to the waiting car and Phoebe. As he gave the word and swung in beside her, David Kildare heaved a deep and rapturous sigh. It was so much to the good to have her to himself for the short world through the desolated winter streets. It was a situation to be made the most of, for it came very seldom. He turned to speak to her in the half light and found her curled up in the corner with her soft cheek resting against the cushions. Her attitude was one of utter weariness, but she smiled without opening her eyes as she nestled closer against the rough leather. Tired? Peach bud? He asked softly. One of the gifts of the high gods to David Kildare was a voice with a timber suitable to the utmost tenderness when the occasion required. Yes. Answered Phoebe drowsily. But so happy. It was all lovely, David. Her pink-palmed hand lay relaxed on her knee. David lifted it cautiously in both his strong warm ones and bent over it, his heart a hammer with trepidation. For as a general thing, neither the environment nor his mood had much influence in the softening way on Phoebe's cool aloofness. But this once some sympathetic cord must have vibrated in her heart, for she clasped her fingers around his and received the caress on their pink tips with opening eyes that smiled with a hint of tenderness. David? She said with a low laugh. I'm too tired to be stern with you tonight, but I'll hold you responsible tomorrow for everything. Here we are. Do see if that red-headed devil is sitting on the doorstep and tell him that there is no more copy if I am a half column short. And David? She drew their clasped hands nearer and laid her free one over both his as the car drew up to the curb.  Here's my key and my muff. Tomorrow at five? I don't know. You will have to phone me. Good night and thank you, deer. Yes. Good night again. End of Chapter 5 Chapter 6 of Andrew the Glad by Maria Thompson Davies. This limber vox recording is in the public domain. Chapter 6. The Bridge of Dreams And then Major Hale broke loose. Dave stood up and… Tom Cantrell's eyes snapped, and he slashed with his crop at the bright and irons that held the flamed logs. No, Major. It wasn't Hale that broke up. It was something inside me. I felt it smash. For a moment I didn't grasp what Taylor was saying. It sounded so like the ravings of an insane phonograph that I was for being amused. But when I found out that he was actually advising the mayor to refuse our committee, the use of the hay market for the Bivouac during the Confederate reunion, I just got up and took his speech and fed it to him raw. I saw red with a touch of purple and didn't know I was on my feet and… Major. Interrupted Andrew Severe, his eyes bright as those of Kildare and his quiet voice under perfect control. Judge Taylor's exact words were that it seemed inadvisable to turn over property belonging to the city for the use of parties that could in no way be held responsible. He elucidated his excuse by saying that the Confederate soldiers were so old now that they were better off at home than parading the streets and inciting rebellious feelings in the children, throwing the city into confusion by their disorderly conduct and… That's all he said, Major. That's all. I was on my feet then and all that needs to be said and done to him was said and done there. I said it and Phoebe and Mrs. Peyton Kendrick did it as they walked right past him and out of the Chamber of Commerce Hall of Committees while he was trying to answer me. That broke up the meeting and he can't be found this morning. Cap has had Tom looking for him. I think when we find him, we will have a few more words for a monstrance with him. Said Dave quietly and he stood straight and tall before the Major and as he threw back his head he was most commanding. There was an expression of power in the face of David Kildare that the Major had never seen there before. He balanced his glasses in his hands a moment and looked keenly at the four young men lined up before him. They made a very forceful typification of the new order of things and were rather magnificent in their defense of the old. The Major's voice tightened in his throat before he could say what they were waiting to hear. Boys! He said and his old face lit with one of its rare smiles. There were live sparks in these gray ashes or we could not have bred you. I'm thinking you yourselves justified the existence of us old Johnny's and give us a clear title to live a little while longer. Reunite once a year, sing the old songs, speachify, parade, bivouac a few more times together, and be as disorderly as we damn please in this or any other city's hay market. Tom telephoned Cap to go straight to the bivouac headquarters and have them get ready to get out a special edition of the Gray Picket. If reports of this matter are sent out over the south without immediate and drastic refutations, there will be a conflagration of thousands of old firefighters. They will never live through the strain. Andrew, take David up to your rooms, send for a stenographer, and get together as much of that David Kildare speech as you can. Hobson, get hold of the stenographer of the city council and get his report of both Taylor's and Pot's speeches. Choke it out of him, for I suspect they have both attempted to have them destroyed. Don't you see, Major? Don't you see he tried to make a play to the masses of protecting the city's property and the city's law and order, but he jumped into a hornet's nest? We managed to keep it all out of the morning paper, but something is sure to creep in. Hadn't we better have a conference with the editors? Tom was a solid quantity to be reckoned with in a stress that called for keenness of judgment rather than emotion. Ask them for a conference in the editorial rooms of the Gray Picket at 2.30, Tom. Answered the Major. In the meantime I'll draft an editorial for the special edition. We must come out with it in the morning at all odds. In a few moments the echo of their steps over the polished floors and the ring of their voices had died away and the Major was once more alone in his quiet library. He laid aside his books and drew his chair up to the table and began to make preparations for his editorial utterances. His rampant grizzled forelock stood straight up and his jaws were squared and grim. He paused and was in the act of calling Jeff to summon Phoebe over the wire when the curtains parted and she stood on the threshold. The Major never failed to experience a glow of pride when Phoebe appeared before him suddenly. She was a very clear-eyed, alert, poised individuality with the freshness of the early morning breezes about her. My dear? He said, without any kind of preliminary greeting. What do you make of the encounter between David Kildare and Judge Taylor? The boys had been here, but I want your account of it before I begin to take action in the matter. It was the most dastardly thing I ever heard, Major. Said Phoebe quietly with a deep note in her voice. For one moment I sat stunned. The long line of veterans as I saw them last year at the reunion, old and gray, limping some of them, but glory in their bright faces, some of them singing and laughing came back to me. I thought my heart would burst at the insults to them and to us, their children. But when David rose from his chair beside me, I drew a long breath. I wish you could have heard him and seen him. He was stately and courteous and he said it all. He voiced the love and the reverence that is in all our hearts for them. It was a very dignified, forceful speech. And David made it. Phoebe stood close against the table and for a moment veiled her tear-starred eyes from the Major's keen glance. Phoebe... He said, after a moment's silence. I sometimes think the world lacks a standard by which to measure some of her vaster products. Perhaps you and I have just explored the heart of David Kildare so far. But a heart as fine as his isn't going to pump full blood into any man's brain, eh? Sometimes and about some things you do me great injustice, Major. Answered Phoebe slowly, with a serious look, into the keen eyes bent upon hers. Of all the glad crowd, as David calls us, I am the only woman who comes directly in contact with the struggling, working, hand-to-hand fight of life. And I can't help letting it affect me and my judgment of... of us. I can't forget it when, when I amuse myself or let David amuse me, I seem to belong with them and not in the life he would make for me. Yet you know I care. But if you were going to get out that extra addition you must get to work, I will see here and get up my one o'clock notes for the imp. And if you need me, tell me so.  For an hour they both wrote rapidly, with now a quick question from the Major and a concise answer from Phoebe, or a short debate over the wording of one of his sentences or paragraphs. The editorial minds of the Greybeard and the girl were of much the same quality and they had written together for many years. The Major had gone far in molding of Phoebe's keen wit. Why hear you off, Phoebe? exclaimed Mrs. Buchanan as she hurried into the room just as Phoebe was finishing some of her last paragraphs. Caroline and I have been telephoning everywhere for you. Do come and motor out to the country club with us for lunch. David and Andrew left some partridges there yesterday as they came from hunting on Old Harpeth to be grilled for us today. You are going out there to play bridge with Mrs. Shelby's guest from Charleston at three, so please come with us now. She was all eagerness and rested one plump, persuasive little hand on Phoebe's arm. To Mrs. Matilda, any time that Phoebe could be persuaded to frolic, was one of undemmed joy. Now Mrs. Matilda," said the Major as he smiled at her with the expression of delight that her presence always called forth even in times of extreme strenuosity. Do leave Phoebe with me. I'm really a very lorden old man. Why, are you really lonely, dear? Then Caroline and I won't think of going. We'll stay right here to lunch with you. I will go tell her and you put up your books and papers and we will bring our sewing and chat with you and Phoebe. It will be lovely. Matilda," answered the Major hastily with real alarm in his eyes. I insist that you unroll my strings to your apron as far as the country club this once. I capitulate no man in the world ever had more attention than I have. Why, Phoebe knows that. Indeed, indeed, he really doesn't want us, Mrs. Matilda. Let's leave him to his immortals. I will be ready in a half hour if I can write fast here. Tell Caroline Dara to hunt me up a fresh veil and phone Mammy Kitty not to expect me home until—until midnight. Now, while you dress, I will write. Very well," answered Mrs. Buchanan. If you are sure you don't need us, Major. And with a caress on his rampant lock she hurried away.  I know it," answered the Major. I've been taking them for nearly forty years. It's added much to this affair between Mrs. Buchanan and me. Small excitements are all that are necessary to fan the true cannubial flame. I didn't tell her about all this because I really hadn't the time. Tell her on the way out before I expect there will be a rattle of musketry as soon as the dimity brigade hears the circumstances. Then for a half hour Phoebe and the Major wrote rapidly until she gathered her sheets together and left them under his paperweight to be delivered to the devil from the office. She departed quietly, taking Mrs. Matilda and Caroline with her. And for still another hour the Major continued to push his pen rapidly across the paper. Then he settled down to the business of reading and annotating his work. For years Major Buchanan had been the editor of The Grey Picket, which went its way weekly into almost every home in the South. It was a quaint, bright little folio, full of articles of interest to the old Johnny Rebs scattered south of Mason and Dixon. As a general thing it radiated good cheer and a most patriotic spirit, but at times something would occur to stir the grey ashes from which would fly a crash of sparks. Then again the spirit of peace unutterable would reign in its columns. It was published for the most part to keep up the desire for the yearly Confederate reunions. Those bivouacs of chosen spirits, the like of which could never have been before and can never be after. The Major's pen was a trenchant one but reconstructed in the main. But the scene at the country club in the early afternoon was, according to the Major's prediction, far from peaceful in tone. It was confusion confounded. Mrs. Peyton-Kindrick was there and the card tables were deserted as the players, matrons and maids gathered around her and discussed excitedly the result of her ways and means for the reunion, mission to the city council, the judge's insult and David Kildare's reply. They were every mother's daughter of them, dames of the Confederacy, and their very lovely gowns were none the less their fighting clothes.  For a moment I sat petrified, petrified with cold rage, until David Kildare's speech began. There had never been a greater one delivered in the United States of America. He said, he said. Oh, I don't know what he said but it was. I just feel, gasped polyferyl with a sob. Then I ought to get down on my knees to him. He's a hero, he's a— Of course for a second I was surprised. I had never heard David Kildare speak about a—a serious matter before, but I could have expected it, for his father was the most brilliant lawyer and his mother's father was our senator for twenty years and his uncle our ambassador to the court of. And Mrs. Peyton's voice trailed off in the clamour. Well, I've always known that cousin Dave was a great man. He ought to be the president or governor or something. I would vote for him tomorrow. Or that is, I would make some man. I don't just know who'd do it. And Polly's treble voice again took up the theme of David's praises. And think of the old soldiers, said Mrs. Buchanan with a catch in her breath. It will hurt them so when they read it. They will think people are tired of them and that we don't want them to come here in the spring for the reunion. They are old and feeble and they have had so much to bear. It was cruel, cruel. And to think of not wanting the children to see them and know them and love them and understand. Millie's soft voice both broke and blazed. I'm going to cry. I'm doing it. Sobbed Polly with her head on Phoebe's shoulder. I wasn't but twelve when they met here last time and I followed all the parades and cried for three solid days. It was delicious. I'm not mad at any Yankee. I'm in love with a man from Boston. I'm, oh please don't anybody tell I said that. I may not be. I just think so because he's so good looking and... We must all go out to the soldiers home tomorrow, a large committee, and take every good thing we can think up and make. We must pay them so much attention that they will let us make a joke of it. Said Mrs. Matilda, thinking immediately of the old fellows who sat in the sun, waiting. Yes. Answered Mrs. Payton. And we must go oftener. We want some more committees. It won't be many years. I was carried last week from the home. There was a moment's silence and the sun streamed in across the deserted tables. Murmured Caroline Dara Brown with her eyes in a blaze. I can't stand it, Phoebe. I never felt so before. I who have no right. Dear... Said Phoebe with a quiet though intensely sad smile. Just an afterglow of what they must have felt in those awful times. Let's get them started at the game. For just a moment longer Phoebe watched them in their heated discussion. Then chose her time and her strong quiet voice commanded immediate attention. Girls. She said, and as she spoke she held out her hand to Mrs. Payton Kendrick with an audacious little smile. Any woman from two to sixty likes to be called girl audaciously as Phoebe did it. Let's leave it all to the men. I think we can trust them to compel the judge to dine off his yesterday's remarks in tomorrow's papers. And then if we don't like the way they have settled with him we can have a gorgeous time telling them how much better they might have done it. Let's all play. Everybody for the game. And Phoebe... Called Mrs. Payton as she sat down at the table farthest in the corner. She spoke in a clear high pitched voice that carried well over the rustle of settling gowns and shuffling cards. We all intend after this to see that David Kildare gets what he wants.  A laugh rippled from every table but Phoebe was equal to the occasion. Why not Mrs. Payton? She answered with the utmost cordiality. Then let's be sure to find something he really wants to present to him as a testimony of our esteem. Oh Phoebe! Trilled Polly, her emotions getting the better of her as she stood with scorecard in hand waiting for the game to begin. I can't keep from loving him myself and you treat him so mean. But a gale of merriment interrupted her outburst and a flitter of cards on the felts marked the first rounds of the hands. In a few minutes they were as absorbed as if nothing had happened to ruffle the depths. But in the pool of every woman's nature the deepest spot shelters the lost causes of life and from it wells a tidal wave if stirred. After a little while Caroline Dara rose from a dummy and spoken a low pleading tone to Polly who had been watching her game standing ready to score. Polly demirred then consented and sat down while Caroline Dara took her departure quietly but fleetly down the sidesteps. She was muffled in her long furs and she swung her sable toque with its one drooping plume in her hand as she walked rapidly across the tennis courts, cut through the beaches and came out on the bank of the brawling little silver fork creek that wound itself from over the ridge down through the clublands to the river. She stood by the sycamore for a moment listening delightedly to its chatter over the rocks, then climbed out on the huge old rock that shed it out from the bank and was entwined by the bleached roots of the tall tree. The strong winter sun had warmed the flat slab on the south side and, sinking down with a sigh of delight, she embraced her knees and bent over to gaze into the sparkling little waterfall that gushed across the foot of the boulder. Then for a mystic half hour she sat and let her eyes roam the blue harpeth hills in the distance that were naked and stark, save for the lace traceries of their winter-robbed trees. As the sun sank, a soft rose-purple shot through the blue and the mists of the valley rose higher about the bared breasts of the old ridge. And because of the stillness and beauty of the place and hour, Caroline Dara began, as a woman will if the opportunity only so slightly invites them, to dream. Until a crackle in a thicket opposite her perch distracted her attention and sent her head up with a little start. In a second she found herself looking across the chatty little stream straight into the eyes of Andrew Severe, in which she found an expression of having come upon a treasure with distracting suddenness. Oh! she said to break the silence which seemed to be settling itself between them permanently. I think I must have been dreaming and you crashed right in. I... I... Are you sure you were not the dream itself? Just come true? Demanded the poet in a matter of fact tone as if he were asking the time of day or the trail home. I don't think I am. In fact, I'm sure. She answered with a break in her curled lips. The dream is a bridge, a beautiful bridge, and I've been seeing it grow for minutes and minutes. But one end of it rests down there by that broken log, a sea where the little knoll swells up from the field, and it stretches in a beautiful long arch until it seems to cut across that broken-backed old hill in the distance, and then it falls across. But I don't know where to put the other end of it. The ground sinks so. It might wobble. I don't want my bridge to wobble. Her tone was expressive of a real distress as she looked at him in appealing confusion, and in his eyes she found the dawn of an amused wonder, almost consternation. Slowly over his face there spread a deep flush and his lips were in drawn with a quick breath. Wait a minute. I'll show you. He said in almost an undertone, he swung himself across the creek on a couple of stones, climbed up the boulder and seated himself at her side. Then he drew a sketchbook from his pocket and spread it open on the slab before them. There it was, the dream bridge, it rose in a fine strong curve from the little knoll, spanned across the distant ridge and fell to the opposite bank onto a broad support that braced itself against a rock ledge. It was as fine a perspective sketch as ever came from the pencil of an enthusiastic young Bo's arts. Yes. She said, with a delighted sigh, that was like the slide of water over smooth pebbles. Yes, that is what I wanted to be. Only I couldn't seem to see how it would rest right away, and it's just as I dreamed it and... Then she looked at him with startled jeweled eyes. Where did I see it? Where did you? What does it mean? She demanded, and the flush that rose up to the waves of her hair was the reflection of the one that had stained his face before he came across the stream. I think I'm frightened! She added, with a little nervous laugh. Please don't be, because I am too. He answered, and instinctively, like two children, they drew close together. They both gazed at the spectre sketch spread before them and drew still nearer to each other. I've been planning it for days. He said in almost a whisper, her small pink ear was very near his lips, and his breath agitated two little gold tendrils that blew across it. I want to build it before I go away. It is needed here for the hunting. I came out and made the sketch from right here an hour ago. I came back. I must have come back to have it verified. He laughed softly, and for just a second his fingers rested against hers on the edge of the sketch. I'm still frightened! She said, but a tippy little smile coaxed at the corners of her mouth.  I'm not! He announced boldly. Beautiful wild things are flying loose all over the world, and why shouldn't we capture one for ourselves? What do you mind? Please don't. I don't think I do. She answered, and her lashes swept her cheeks as she lifted the sketchbook to her knees. Only, suppose I was to dream some of your other work some day. I don't want to build your bridges, but I might want to write some of your poems. Why don't you better do something to stop me right now? The smile had come to stay, and peeped roguishly out at him from beneath her lashes. No, he answered calmly. If you want my dreams, they're yours. She said as she rose to her feet and looked down at him wistfully. Your beautiful, beautiful dreams! Ever since that afternoon, I've gone over and over the lines you read to me. The one about the brotherhood of our heart's desires keeps me from being lonely. I think... I think I went to sleep saying it to myself last night and... It couldn't go on any longer. As Andrew rose to his feet, he gathered together any stray wreckage of wits that was within his reach and managed, by not looking directly at her, to say in a rational, elderly, friendly tone, slightly tinged with the scientific. My dear child, and that's why you built my bridge for me today.  Things wilder than fancies are facts these days, written in large volumes by extremely erudite old gentlemen, and we believe them because we must. This is a simple case with a well-known scientific name, and... But... Interrupted Caroline Dara, and as she stood away from him against the dim hills, her slender figure seemed poised as if for flight, and a hurt young seriousness was in her lifted purple eyes. I don't want it to be a simple case with any scientific... And just here a merry call interrupted her from upstream. Phoebe and Polly had come to summon her back to the club. Tee was on the brew. With the intensest hospitality they invited Andrew to come too, but he declined with what grace he could, and made his way through the tangle downstream as they walked back under the beaches. Thus a very bitter thing had come to Andrew's severe and sweet as the pulse of heaven. In his hand he had seen a sensitive flower unfold to its very heart of flame. Never let her know. He prayed. Never let her know. End of chapter 6 Chapter 7 of Andrew the Glad by Maria Thompson Davies This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Chapter 7 Strange Wild Things Phoebe said David Kildare as he seated himself on the corner of the table just across from where Phoebe sat in Major Buchanan's chair writing up her one o'clock notes. What is there about me that makes people think they must make me judge of the criminal court of this county? Do I look job-hungry so as to notice it? No. answered Phoebe as she folded her last sheet and laid down her pencil. That is one thing no one can accuse you of, David, but your work down here has brought its results. They need you and are calling to you rather decisively, I think. Any more delegations today? Several. Susie Cary Snow came with more civic improvements, rather shortest to skirts and skimpy as to hats. They have fully decided that I am going to feed Mayor Potts out of my hand as Taylor does and they want my influence to put up two more drinking fountains and three brass plates to mark the homes of the founders of the city in return for their precious support. I promised and they fell on my neck. That is, if you don't mind. David edged a tentative inch or two nearer Phoebe who had rested her elbows on the table and her head on her hands as she looked up at him. I don't. She answered with a cruel smile. Then she asked with an unconcerned glance over the top of his head. Did you hear from the United Charities? Well, yes, some. Returned David with an open countenance. No suspicion of a trap and even the flicker of an eyelash. They said Mrs. Cary. Blooming more every day, isn't she, don't you think? She didn't fall on my neck worth a cent, though I had braced myself for the shock. She managed to convey the fact that the whole organization is for me just the same. It's some pumpkins to be a candidate. I'm for all there is in it, if at all. You aren't hesitating, David? Asked Phoebe as she rose and stood straight and tall beside him, her eyes on a level with his as he sat on the table. Ah, David, you can if you will. Will you? I know what it means to you. And Phoebe laid one hand on his shoulder as she looked him straight in the eyes. For it will be work, work and fight like mad to put out the fire. You will have to fight honest, and they won't. But David. A little catch in her voice betrayed her as she entreated. Yes, dear. Answered David as he laid his hand over the one on his shoulder and pressed it closer. I sent in the announcement of my candidacy to the afternoon papers just as I came around here to see the major and you. The fight is on, and it is going to be harder than you realize for there is so little time. Are you for me, girl? If I fall on your neck, it will make seven this morning. Aren't you satisfied? And Phoebe drew her hand away from his, allowing, however, a regretful squeeze as he let it go. No. Six if you would do it. Answered David disconsolately. I told you that Mrs. Cherry failed me. Yes. Answered Phoebe as she lowered her eyes. I know you told me. David Kildare was keen of wit, but it takes the most extraordinary wisdom to fathom such a woman as Phoebe chose to be, in business hours. Isn't it time for you to go dress for the parade? She asked quickly with apparent anxiety. No. Answered David as he filled his tooled leather case from the major's jar of Choice Seven Oaks Heartleaf. He had seen Phoebe's white fingers roll it to the proper fineness just the night before. I'm all ready. Did you think I was going to wear a lace collar and a sash? Everything is in order and I have to be there at two to start them off. Everybody is placed on the platform and everybody is satisfied. The unveiling will be at 3.30. You're going out with Mrs. Matilda early, aren't you? I want you to see me coming prancing up at the head of the Mounted Police. Won't you be proud of me? Sometimes, really. I think you are the missing twin to little Billy Bob. Answered Phoebe with a laugh, but in an instant her face became gray again. I am worried about Carol and Dara. She said softly. I found her crying last night after I had finished work. I was staying here with Mrs. Matilda for the night and went into her room for a moment on the chance that she would be awake.  But I know she dreads this presentation and I don't blame her. It was lovely of her to want to give the statue and plucky of her to come and do it. But it's in every way trying for her. And isn't she the darling child? Answered David Kildare, a tender smile coming into his eyes. Plucky! Well, I should say so. To come dragging old Peter's Brown's money bags down here just as soon as he croaked with the express intention of opening up and passing us all our wads back. Could anything as, as... pathetic ever have happened before? No. Answered Phoebe, then she said slowly, tentatively, as she looked into David's eyes that were warm with friendliness for the inherited friend who had preempted a place in both their hearts. And the one awful thing for which she can offer no reparation she knows nothing of. I pray she never knows. Yes, but it is about to do him to the death. I sometimes wake and find him sitting over his papers at Daybreak with burned out eyes as pale as a white horse in a fog. But why does it have to be that way? Andrew isn't bitter and it isn't her fault. She wasn't even born then. She doesn't even know. I think it's mostly the money. Said David slowly. If she were poor it would be all right to forgive her and take her. But a man couldn't very well marry his father's blood money and he's suffering, God knows. Here I've been counting for years on his getting love tied at home and to think it should be like this. Sometimes I wish she did know. She offers herself to him like a little child and thinks she is only doing reverence to the poet. It's driving him mad and he won't cut and run. And yet? Said Phoebe. It would kill her to know. She is so sensitive and she has just begun to be herself with us. She has had so few friends and she isn't like we are. Why, Polly Ferrell could manage such a situation better than Caroline Dara. She is so elemental that she is positively primitive. I am frightened about it sometimes. I can only trust Andrew. As Phoebe spoke her eyes grew sad and her lips quivered. Dear heart! Said David as he took both her hands and his. It's just one of those fatal things that no man can see through. He can just be thankful that there's a God to handle him. There were times when David Kildare's voice held more of tenderness than Phoebe was calculated to withstand without heroic effort. It behooved her to exert the utmost at this moment in order that she might hold her own. It's making me thin.  Help! exclaimed David taking possession of the wrist and circling it with his thumb and forefinger. Let me send for a crate of eggs and a case of the malt milk.  Why won't you marry me and let me feed you? I'm going to— But you and the Major both recommended lovers' troubles to me, David. Phoebe hazarded. I only recommended my own special brand, remember? retorted David. I won't have you ill. I'm going to see that you do as I say about your— David Kildare. remarked the Major from the door into the hall. If you use that tone to the grand jury, they will shut up every saloon in Hell's half-acre. Hail the judge. My boy, my boy, I knew you'd line up when the time came. And the line. Can I count on the full artillery of the gray picket brigade, Major? demanded David with the light in his eyes as he returned the Major's vigorous handshake. Hotshot, greep, canister and shrapnel, sir. Horses in leather, guns on the wheel, and bayonets set. We'll bevwack in the camp of the enemy on the night of the election. We'll— I don't believe you will want to lie down in the lair of the blind tiger as soon as that, Major. Laughter, Phoebe. Phoebe. answered the Major. Politics makes strange bedfellows. Michael Rourke, the boss of the Democratic Irish, was around this morning, hunting for David Kildare, with the entire greengrocer's vote in his pocket. He spoke of the boy as his own son. Good for old Mike. Lapped David. It's not every boy who can boast an intimate friendship with his cornergrocer from childhood up. It means a certain kind of self-denial in the matter of apples and others' temptations. I used to go to the point of an occasional errand for him. Those were the days, Phoebe, when you sat on the front steps and played hollyhock dolls. Wish I'd kidnapped you, then, when I could. You would have saved both of us lots of time and trouble. answered Phoebe daringly from the protection of the Major's presence. David, sir. said the Major, who had been busy settling himself in his chair and lighting his pipe during this exchange of pleasantries between David and Phoebe, to the like of which he was thoroughly accustomed. This is going to be a fight to the ditches. I believe the whiskey-ring that controls this city to be the worst machine south of Mason and Dixon's. State-wide prohibition voted six months ago, and every saloon in the town going full tilt night and day. They owned the city council, the Board of Public Works, and the mayor. But none of that compares in seriousness to the debauching of our criminal courts. The grand jury is helpless if the judge dismisses every two bill they return, and Taylor does it every time if it is a whiskey-law indictment or pertaining thereto, and most of the bills are at least distantly pertaining. So there you have us, bound and helpless, a disgrace to the nation, sir, and a reproach to good government. Yes, Major, they've got us tied up some, but they forgot to gag us. Answer David with a smile. Your editorial in the grey picket, calling on me to run for criminal court judge, has been copied in every paper in the state and some of the large northern sheets. I am willing to make the try, Major. I've practiced down there more than you'd think, and it's rotten from the cellar steps to the lightning rod. Big black buck is sent up for rioting down at Heinz Bucket of Blood Dive. Stand aside and forget about it, while some poor old kink is sent out to the pen for running into a flock of sleepy hands in the dark, unbeknownst entirely. I defended six poor pickups last week myself, and I guess Taylor saw my blood was on the boil at the way he's running things. I'm ready to take a hand with him, but it will take some pretty busy doing around to beat the booze gang. Am I the man? Do you feel sure? As David questioned the Major, his jaw squared itself determinately. There was a rather forceful sort of man appearing under the nonchalant David, whom his friends had known for years. A wild pride stirred in Phoebe to such an extent that she caught her breath while she waited for the Major's reply. Yes, David? Answered the Major, as he looked up at him with his keen old eagle eyes. I think you are. You've had everything this nation can give you in the way of fighting blood from cow pins to bull run. And when you speak in a body legislative, your voice can be but an echo of the men who sired you. Statesmen, most of them. So it is to you and your class we must look for clean government. It is your arraignment of the Mayor and the judge on the hay market question that has made every decent organization in the city look to you to begin the fight for a clean up reorganization. They have all rallied to your support. Show your colors, boy. And God willing, we will smash this machine to the last cog and get on a basis of honest government. Then here goes the hottest fight David knows how to put to them. And it's going to be an honest one. I'll go before the people of the city and promise them to enforce law and order. But I'll not buy a vote of a man of them. That I mean. And I hereby hand it out to you two representatives of the press. From now on, not a dollar spent is the word. And I'm back of it to make it go. As he spoke, Kildare turned to Phoebe and looked at her as man to man with nothing in his voice but the cool note of determination. It was a cold dash for Phoebe, but the reaction brought hot pride to her eyes. Yes, David. She answered. You can, and you will. The determination in her voice matched that in his and her eyes met his with a glance in which lay a new expression, not the old tolerant affection, nor the guarded defense, but one with a quality of comradeship that studied every nerve in his body. Some men get the like from some women, but not often. They will empty their pockets to fight you. The major continued thoughtfully. But there is a deal of latent honesty in human nature, after all, that will answer the right appeal by the right man. A man calls a man and ask a crook to come in on the straight proposition two to one he'll step over the line before he stops himself. This is an independent candidacy. Let's ask them all in, without reference to age, color, or previous condition of servitude in the broadest sense. Yes, and with the other construction too, perhaps, we'll ask in the darks, but they won't come. They'll vote with the jugged crowd every time. No NIG votes for Dave without the dollar and the small bottle. How many do they poll, anyway, do you suppose? Less than a thousand, I think. Not overwhelming. But in an independent race, it might poll the palence of power. We'll devise means to appeal to them. We must keep up all the fences, you see. A man who doesn't see to his fences is a mighty poor proposition as a farmer, and— Hicks was here this morning, he made a deer to talk about that very thing. Said Mrs. Matilda, as she came in just in time to catch the last of the major's remark. He says that ten hogs got through into the north pasture and rooted up acres of grass, and if you don't get the new post to repair the fence, he can't answer for the damage done. He told you about it more than a month ago, and— David killed there. Said the major with an enigmatic smile. What you need to see you through life is a wife. When a man mounts a high horse aeroplane and goes sailing off, dimity is the best possible ballast. Consider the matter, I beg of you. Don't be obdurate. Well, of course David is going to marry some day. Answered Mrs. Matilda as she beamed upon them. A woman gives along nicely unmarried, but it is cruel to a man. Major, Jeff is waiting to help you into your uniform. Do be careful, for it is mended to the last stitch now, and I don't see how it is going to hold together many more times. Grey uniforms have held together a long time, Matilda. Answered the major softly as he took his departure. And we must all hurry and have lunch, said Mrs. Buchanan. Phoebe and I want to be there in plenty of time to see the parade arrive. It always gives me a thrill to see the major ride up at the head of his company. I've never got over it all these years. How about that, Phoebe? Asked David once more his daring, insistent self. Seems it wasn't so young in me after all to think you might thrill a few glads to see me come pressing up. Now will you be good? And it was only a little over two hours later that the parade moved on its way from the public square to the park. A goodly show they made and an interesting one. The grizzled old war dogs in their faded uniforms with faces aglow under their tattered caps. They trudged along under their ragged banners in hearty goodwill with now a limp and now a halt and all of them entirely out of step with the enthusiastic young band in its natty uniform. They called to one another, chafed the mounted officers, sang when the spirit moved them and acted in every way like boys who were off on the great lark of their lives. All along the line of March there were crowds to see them and cheer them with here and there a white haired woman who waved her handkerchief and smiled at them through a rain of tears. The major rode at the head of a small and straggling division of cavalry whose men ambled along and guide one another about the management of their green livery horses who were inclined to bunch and go wild with the music. A few pieces of heavy artillery lumbered by next and just behind them came three huge motor cars packed and jammed with the old fellows who were too feeble to keep up with the procession. They were most of them from the soldier's home and in spite of empty coat sleeves and crutches they bobbled up and down and waved their caps with enthusiasm as cheer after cheer rose whenever they came into sight. Andrew Sevier stood at his study window and watched them go past marching to the conflicting tunes of the Bonnie Blue Flag played by the headband and Dixie by the following one. It was great to see them again after five years and in such spirits. He felt a cheer rise to his lips and he wanted to open the window and give lusty vent to it but a keen pain caught in his throat. Always before he had ridden with David at the head of the division of the Confederacy's sons but today he stood behind the window and watched them go past him. There were men in those ranks who had slept in the ditches with his father and to whom he had felt that his presence would be a reminder of an exceeding bitterness. They had quietly fought the acceptance of the statue offered by the daughter of Peter's Brown from the beginning but the granddaughter of General Dara who had led them at Chickamaugua must needs command their acceptance of a memorial to him and her mother. And they would all do her honor after the unveiling. Andrew could almost see old General Clopton stand with Baird head and feel the thrill with which the audience would listen to what would be a tender tribute to the war women. A wave of passionate joy swelled up in his heart. He wanted them to cheer her and love her and adopt her. It was her baptism into her heritage and he gloried in it. Then across his joy came a curious stifling depression. He found himself listening as if someone had called him, called for help. The music was dying away in the distance and the cheers became fainter and fainter until their echo seemed almost a sob. Before he had time to realize what he did he descended the stair, crossed the street and let himself into the Buchanan house. He stood just within the library door and listened again. A profound stillness seemed to beat through the deserted rooms. Then he saw her.  She was tensely still as if waiting for something to sound around her. Caroline! It was the first time he had called her by her name and though the others had done it from the first she had never seemed to notice his more formal address. It was beyond him to keep the tenderness that swept through every nerve out of his voice entirely. Yes.  I know I'm a coward. Did you come back to make me go? I thought they might not miss me until it was too late to come for me. I didn't think I could stand it. Please, please. You needn't go at all, dear. He said as he took the cold hands in his and unclasped the rung fingers. Why didn't you tell them? They wouldn't have insisted on your going. I couldn't. I just could not say what I felt to... to them. I wanted to come. The statue suggested itself. For her. I ought to have given it and gone back. Back to my own life. I don't belong. There is something between them all and me. They love me and try to make me forget it and... But don't you see, child? That's just it. They love you so they hold you against all the other life you had before. We're a strong love people down here. We claim our own. A note in his voice brought Andrew to his senses. He let her hand slip from his and went around the table and sat down opposite to her. And so you ran away and hid? He smiled at her reassuringly. Yes. I knew I ought not to. Then I heard the music and I couldn't look or listen. Yeah, I... Where did you come from? I thought you were in the parade with David. I felt... If you knew, you would understand. I wished that I had asked you. Had told you that I couldn't go. Did you come back for me? No. You see, the old boys rather upset me, too. I've been away so long and so many of them are missing. I'm just a coward, too. Birds of a feather, take me under your wing, will you? I believe one of those strange, wild things has been flying around in the air. I don't know what to say. I don't know what to say. I don't know. I don't know what to say. Strange, wild things has been flying around in the atmosphere and has taken possession of us again. Said Caroline Dara slowly, never taking her eyes from his. I don't know why I know, but I do. That you came to comfort me. I was thinking about you and wishing I could tell you. Now, in just this minute, made me see that I have a right to all of you. I'm never going to be unhappy about it any more. After this, I'm going to belong as hard as ever I can. Something crashed in every vein in Andrew Severe's body. Lilted in his heart, beaten his throat and sparkled in his eyes. He sprang to his feet and held out his hand to her. Then come on and be adopted, he said. I shall order the electric and you get into your hat and coat. We can skirt the park and come in at the side of the temple, back of the platform, so that you can slip into place before one half of the sky rockets of oratory have been exploded. Will you come? Will you stay with me? Right by me? She asked, timidity and courage at war in her voice. Yes. He answered slowly. I'll stay by you as long as you want me, if I can. And that, said Caroline Dara Brown, as she turned at the door and looked straight at him with a heavenly blush mounting in her cheeks, the tenderness of the ages curling her lips and the innocence of all of six years in her eyes. Will be always. With which she disappeared instantly beyond the rose-damus cangings. And so when the ceremonies in the park were over and Caroline stood to clasp hands with each of the clamorous gray squad, Andrew Severe waited just behind her and he met one after another of the sharp glances shot at him from under-grizzled brows with a dignity that quieted even the grimest old fire-eater. And there are strange wild things that take hold on the lives of men, vital forces against which one can but beat helpless wings of mortal spirit. End of chapter 7