"I guess I"ll have to own up," he answered.
"My name is Virginia Carvel," she said. "I have come all the way from St. Louis to see you."
"Miss Carvel," said the President, looking at her intently, "I have rarely been so flattered in my life. I--I hope I have not disappointed you."
Virginia was justly angry.
"Oh, you haven"t," she cried, her eyes flashing, "because I am what you would call a Rebel."
The mirth in the dark corners of his eyes disturbed her more and more.
And then she saw that the President was laughing.
"And have you a better name for it, Miss Carvel?" he asked. "Because I am searching for a better name--just now."
She was silent--sternly silent. And she tapped her foot on the carpet.
What manner of man was this? "Won"t you sit down?" said the President, kindly. "You must be tired after your journey." And he put forth a chair.
"No, thank you," said Virginia; "I think that I can say what I have come to say better standing."
"Well," said Mr. Lincoln, "that"s not strange. I"m that way, too. The words seem to come out better. That reminds me of a story they tell about General Buck Tanner. Ever heard of Buck, Miss Carvel? No? Well, Buck was a character. He got his t.i.tle in the Mormon war. One day the boys asked him over to the square to make a speech. The General was a little uneasy.
""I"m all right when I get standing up, Liza," he said to his wife. Then the words come right along. Only trouble is they come too cussed fast.
How"m I going to stop "em when I want to?"
""Well, I du declare, Buck," said she, "I gave you credit for some sense. All you"ve got to do is to set down. That"ll end it, I reckon."
"So the General went over to the square and talked for about an hour and a half, and then a Chicago man shouted to him to dry up. The General looked pained.
""Boys," said he, "it"s jest every bit as bad for me as it is for you.
You"ll have to hand up a chair, boys, because I"m never going to get shet of this goldarned speech any anther way.""
Mr. Lincoln had told this so comically that Virginia was forced to laugh, and she immediately hated herself. A man who could joke at such a time certainly could not feel the cares and responsibilities of his office. He should have been a comedian. And yet this was the President who had conducted the war, whose generals had conquered the Confederacy.
And she was come to ask him a favor. Virginia swallowed her pride.
"Mr. Lincoln," she began, "I have come to talk to you about my cousin, Colonel Clarence Colfax."
"I shall be happy to talk to you about your cousin, Colonel Colfax, Miss Carvel. Is he your third or fourth cousin?"
"He is my first cousin," she retorted.
"Is he in the city?" asked Mr. Lincoln, innocently. "Why didn"t he come with you?"
"Oh, haven"t you heard?" she cried. "He is Clarence Colfax, of St.
Louis, now a Colonel in the army of the Confederate States."
"Which army?" asked Mr. Lincoln. Virginia tossed her head in exasperation.
"In General Joseph Johnston"s army," she replied, trying to be patient.
"But now," she gulped, "now he has been arrested as a spy by General Sherman"s army."
"That"s too bad," answered Mr. Lincoln.
"And--and they are going to shoot him."
"That"s worse," said Mr. Lincoln, gravely. "But I expect he deserves it."
"Oh, no, he doesn"t," she cried. "You don"t know how brave he is! He floated down the Mississippi on a log, out of Vicksburg, and brought back thousands and thousands of percussion caps. He rowed across the river when the Yankee fleet was going down, and set fire to De Soto so that they could see to shoot."
"Well," said Mr. Lincoln, "that"s a good starter." Then he looked thoughtful.
"Miss Carvel," said he, "that argument reminds me of a story about a man I used to know in the old days in Illinois. His name was McNeil, and he was a lawyer.
"One day he was defending a prisoner for a.s.sault and battery before Judge Drake.
""Judge, says McNeil, "you oughtn"t to lock this man up. It was a fair fight, and he"s the best man in the state in a fair fight. And, what"s more, he"s never been licked in a fair fight in his life."
""And if your honor does lock me up," the prisoner put in, "I"ll give your honor a thunderin" big lickin" when I get out."
"The Judge took off his coat.
""Gentlemen," said he, "it"s a powerful queer argument, but the Court will admit it on its merits. The prisoner will please to step out on the gra.s.s.""
This time Virginia contrived merely to smile. She was striving against something, she knew not what. Her breath was coming deeply, and she was dangerously near to tears. Why? She could not tell. She had come into this man"s presence despising herself for having to ask him a favor.
The sight of his face she had ridiculed. Now she could not look into it without an odd sensation. What was in it? Sorrow? Yes, that was nearest it.
What had the man done? Told her a few funny stories--given quizzical answers to some of her questions. Quizzical, yes; but she could not be sure then there was not wisdom in them, and that humiliated her. She had never conceived of such a man. And, be it added gratuitously, Virginia deemed herself something of an adept in dealing with men.
"And now," said Mr. Lincoln, "to continue for the defence, I believe that Colonel Colfax first distinguished himself at the time of Camp Jackson, when of all the prisoners he refused to accept a parole."
Startled, she looked up at him swiftly, and then down again. "Yes,"
she answered, "yes. But oh, Mr. Lincoln, please don"t hold that against him."
If she could only have seen his face then. But her lashes were dropped.
"My dear young lady," replied the President, "I honor him for it. I was merely elaborating the argument which you have begun. On the other hand, it is a pity that he should have taken off that uniform which he adorned and attempted to enter General Sherman"s lines as a civilian,--as a spy."
He had spoken these last words very gently, but she was too excited to heed his gentleness. She drew herself up, a gleam in her eyes like the crest of a blue wave in a storm.
"A spy!" she cried; "it takes more courage to be a spy than anything else in war. Then he will be shot. You are not content in, the North with what you have gained. You are not content with depriving us of our rights, and our fortunes, with forcing us back to an allegiance we despise. You are not content with humiliating our generals and putting innocent men in prisons. But now I suppose you will shoot us all. And all this mercy that I have heard about means nothing--nothing--"
Why did she falter and stop?
"Miss Carvel," said the President, "I am afraid from what I have heard just now, that it means nothing." Oh, the sadness of that voice,--the ineffable sadness,--the sadness and the woe of a great nation! And the sorrow in those eyes, the sorrow of a heavy cross borne meekly,--how heavy none will ever know. The pain of a crown of thorns worn for a world that did not understand. No wonder Virginia faltered and was silent. She looked at Abraham Lincoln standing there, bent and sorrowful, and it was as if a light had fallen upon him. But strangest of all in that strange moment was that she felt his strength. It was the same strength she had felt in Stephen Brice. This was the thought that came to her.
Slowly she walked to the window and looked out across the green grounds where the wind was shaking the wet trees, past the unfinished monument to the Father of her country, and across the broad Potomac to Alexandria in the hazy distance. The rain beat upon the panes, and then she knew that she was crying softly to herself. She had met a force that she could not conquer, she had looked upon a sorrow that she could not fathom, albeit she had known sorrow.
Presently she felt him near. She turned and looked through her tears at his face that was all compa.s.sion. And now she was unashamed. He had placed a chair behind her.
"Sit down, Virginia," he said. Even the name fell from him naturally.