INDIAN SUMMER[44]
[From Kentucky Poems (London, 1903)]
HOME[45]
[From Nature-Notes and Impressions (New York, 1906)]
LOVE AND A DAY[46]
[From The Poems of Madison Cawein (Indianapolis, 1907, v. ii)]
IN A SHADOW GARDEN[47]
[From The Shadow Garden, and Other Plays (New York, 1910)]
UNREQUITED[48]
[From Poems (New York, 1911)]
A TWILIGHT MOTH
[From the same]
Mrs. George Madden Martin, the mother of Emmy Lou, was born at Louisville, Kentucky, May 3, 1866. She is the sister of Miss Eve Anne Madden, who has also written several delightful books for children. She was educated in the public schools of Louisville, but on account of ill-health her training was concluded at home. In 1892 Miss Madden was married to Mr. Attwood R. Martin, and they have made their home at Anchorage, Kentucky, some miles from Louisville, ever since. Mrs. Martin's first book was The Angel of the Tenement (New York, 1897), now out of print, which she seemingly regards with so little favor that it is seldom found in the list of her works. Emmy Lou—Her Book and Heart (New York, 1902), made her famous throughout the English-reading world. It ran serially in McClure's Magazine during 1900. It is a masterpiece and, though she has published several stories since, this remains as her best book hitherto. Little "Emmy Lou" gets into the reader's heart in the most wonderful way, and, once there, she will not be displaced. She is the most charming child in Kentucky literature, a genuine creation. Mrs. Martin's short novel, The House of Fulfillment (New York, 1904) won her praise from people who could not care for her child, though the heroine was none other than "Emmy Lou" in long skirts. This was followed by Abbie Ann (New York, 1907); Letitia: Nursery Corps, U. S. A. (New York, 1907), was a very winsome little girl, who causes the men of the army many trials and vexations at various military posts where her parents happened to be stationed. Emmy Lou and Letitia, as has been pointed out by one of Mrs. Martin's keenest critics, regard childhood through the eyes of age and are best appreciated, perhaps, by adults; while Abbie Ann sees childhood through a child's eyes, and is certainly more appreciated by children than by grown-ups. Two of Mrs. Martin's most recent stories, When Adam Dolve and Eve Span, appeared in The American Magazine for October, 1911; and The Blue Handkerchief, in The Century for December, 1911.
Bibliography. McClure's Magazine (February, 1903); The Outlook (October 1, 1904); McClure's Magazine (December, 1904).
EMMY LOU'S VALENTINE[49]
[From Emmy Lou—Her Book and Heart (New York, 1902)]
About this time rumors began to reach Emmy Lou. She heard that it was February, and that wonderful things were peculiar to the Fourteenth. At recess the little girls locked arms and talked Valentines. The echoes reached Emmy Lou.
The Valentines must come from a little boy, or it wasn't the real thing. And to get no valentine was a dreadful thing—dreadful thing. And even the timidest of the sheep began to cast eyes across at the goats.
Emmy Lou wondered if she would get a valentine. And if not, how was she to survive the contumely and shame?
You must never, never breathe to a living soul what was on your valentine. To tell even your best and truest little girl friend was to prove faithless to the little boy sending the valentine. These things reached Emmy Lou.
Not for the world would she tell. Emmy Lou was sure of that, so grateful did she feel she would be to anyone sending her a valentine.
And in doubt and wretchedness did she wend her way to school on the Fourteenth day of February. The drug-store window was full of valentines. But Emmy Lou crossed the street. She did not want to see them. She knew the little girls would ask her if she had gotten a valentine. And she would have to say, No.
She was early. The big, empty room echoed back her footsteps as she went to her desk to lay down book and slate before taking off her wraps. Nor did Emmy Lou dream the eye of the little boy peeped through the crack of the door from Miss Clara's dressing-room.
Emmy Lou's hat and jacket were forgotten. On her desk lay something square and white. It was an envelope. It was a beautiful envelope, all over flowers and scrolls.
Emmy Lou knew it. It was a valentine. Her cheeks grew pink.
She took it out. It was blue. And it was gold. And it had reading on it.
Emmy Lou's heart sank. She could not read the reading. The door opened. Some little girls came in. Emmy Lou hid her valentine in her book, for since you must not—she would never show her valentine—never.
The little girls wanted to know if she had gotten a valentine, and Emmy Lou said, Yes, and her cheeks were pink with the joy of being able to say it.
Through the day, she took peeps between the covers of her Primer, but no one else might see it.
It rested heavy on Emmy Lou's heart, however, that there was reading on it. She studied surreptitiously. The reading was made up of letters. It was the first time Emmy Lou had thought about that. She knew some of the letters. She would ask someone the letters she did not know by pointing them out on the chart at recess. Emmy Lou was learning. It was the first time since she came to school.
But what did the letters make? She wondered, after recess, studying the valentine again.
Then she went home. She followed Aunt Cordelia about. Aunt Cordelia was busy.
"What does it read?" asked Emmy Lou.
Aunt Cordelia listened.
"B," said Emmy Lou, "and e?"
"Be," said Aunt Cordelia.
If B was Be, it was strange that B and e were Be. But many things were strange.
Emmy Lou accepted them all on faith.
After dinner she approached Aunt Katie.
"What does it read?" asked Emmy Lou, "m and y?"
"My," said Aunt Katie.
The rest was harder. She could not remember the letters, and had to copy them off on her slate. Then she sought Tom, the house-boy. Tom was out at the gate talking to another house-boy. She waited until the other boy was gone.
"What does it read?" asked Emmy Lou, and she told the letters off the slate. It took Tom some time, but finally he told her.
Just then a little girl came along. She was a first-section little girl, and at school she never noticed Emmy Lou.
Now she was alone, so she stopped.
"Get any valentines?"
"Yes," said Emmy Lou. Then moved to confidence by the little girl's friendliness, she added, "It has reading on it."
"Pooh," said the little girl, "they all have that. My mamma's been reading the long verses inside to me."
"Can you show them—valentines?" asked Emmy Lou.
"Of course, to grown-up people," said the little girl.
The gas was lit when Emmy Lou came in. Uncle Charlie was there, and the aunties, sitting around, reading.
"I got a valentine," said Emmy Lou.
They all looked up. They had forgotten it was Valentine's Day, and it came to them that if Emmy Lou's mother had not gone away, never to come back, the year before, Valentine's Day would not have been forgotten. Aunt Cordelia smoothed the black dress she was wearing because of the mother who would never come back, and looked troubled.
But Emmy Lou laid the blue and gold valentine on Aunt Cordelia's knee. In the valentine's centre were two hands clasping. Emmy Lou's forefinger pointed to the words beneath the clasped hands.
"I can read it," said Emmy Lou.
They listened. Uncle Charlie put down his paper. Aunt Louise looked over Aunt Cordelia's shoulder.
"B," said Emmy Lou, "e—Be."
The aunties nodded.
"M," said Emmy Lou, "y—my."
Emmy Lou did not hesitate. "V," said Emmy Lou, "a, l, e, n, t, i, n, e—Valentine. Be my Valentine."
"There!" said Aunt Cordelia.
"Well!" said Aunt Katie.
"At last!" said Aunt Louise.
"H'm!" said Uncle Charlie.
Mrs. Mary Addams Bayne, novelist, was born near Maysville, Kentucky, in 1866. Upon the death of her parents, she made her home with her brother, Mr. William Addams of Cynthiana, Kentucky, recently an aspirant for the gubernatorial chair of Kentucky. Miss Addams was married to Mr. James C. Bayne, a banker and farmer of Bagdad, Kentucky. Mrs. Bayne was a teacher and a short-story writer for some years before she became a novelist. Her first book, Crestlands (Cincinnati, 1907) was a centennial story of the famous Cane Ridge meeting-house, near Paris, Kentucky, the birthplace of the Stoneite or Reformed church. Crestlands is important as history and entertainingly told as a story. It was followed by Blue Grass and Wattle (Cincinnati, 1909), the sub-title of which is more illuminating, "The Man from Australia." This novel relates the religious life of a young Australian, educated in Kentucky, and his many fightings within and without form an interesting story. From the literary standpoint Blue Grass and Wattle is an advance over Crestlands, and it is an earnest for yet superior work in Mrs. Bayne's new novel, now in preparation. In the fall of 1912 Mrs. Bayne purchased the old Burnett place at Shelbyville, Kentucky, and this she has converted into the most charming home of that town.
Bibliography. Letters of Mrs. Bayne to the Author; The Christian Standard (December, 1907).
THE COMING OF THE SCHOOLMASTER[50]
[From Crestlands (Cincinnati, 1907)]
The spirit of Indian Summer, enveloped in a delicate bluish haze, pervaded the Kentucky forest. Through the treetops sounded a sighing minor melody as now and then a leaf bade adieu to the companions of its summer revels, and sought its winter's rest on the ground beneath. On a fallen log a red-bird sang with jubilant note. What cared he for the lament of the leaves? True, he must soon depart from this summer-home; but only to wing his way to brighter skies, and then return when mating-time should come again. Near a group of hickory-trees a colony of squirrels gathered their winter store of nuts; and a flock of wild turkeys led by a pompous, bearded gobbler picked through the underbrush. At a wayside puddle a deer bent his head to slake his thirst, but scarcely had his lips touched the water when his head was reared again. For an instant he listened, limbs quivering, nostrils dilating, a startled light in his soft eyes; then with a bound he was away into the depths of the forest. The turkeys, heeding the tocsin of alarm from their leader, sought the shelter of the deeper undergrowth; the squirrels dropped their nuts and found refuge in the topmost branches of the tree which they had just pilfered; but the red-bird, undisturbed, went on with his caroling, too confident in his own beauty and the charm of his song to fear any intruder.
The cause of alarm was a horseman whose approach had been proclaimed by the crackling of dried twigs in the bridle-path he was traversing. He was an erect, broad-shouldered, dark-eyed young man with ruddy complexion, clear-cut features, and a well-formed chin. A rifle lay across his saddle-bow, and behind him was a pair of bulky saddle-bags. He wore neither the uncouth garb of the hunter nor the plain home-spun of the settler, but rather the dress of the Virginian cavalier of the period, although his hair, instead of being tied in a queue, was short, and curled loosely about his finely shaped head. The broad brim of his black hat was cocked in front by a silver boss; the gray traveler's cape, thrown back, revealed a coat of dark blue, a waistcoat ornamented with brass buttons, and breeches of the same color as the coat, reaching to the knees, and terminating in a black cloth band with silver buckles.
He rode rapidly along the well-defined bridle-way, and soon emerged into a broader thoroughfare. Presently he heard the high-pitched, quavering notes of a negro melody, faint at first and seeming as much a part of nature as the russet glint of the setting sun through the trees. The song grew louder as he advanced, until, emerging into an open space, he came upon the singer, a gray-haired negro trudging sturdily along with a stout hickory stick in his hand. The negro doffed his cap and bowed humbly.
"Marstah, hez you seed anythin' ob a spotted heifer wid one horn broke off, anywhars on de road? She's pushed down de bars an' jes' skipped off somewhars."
"No, uncle. I've met no stray cows; but can you tell me how far it is to Major Hiram Gilcrest's? I'm a stranger in this region."
"Major Gilcrest's!" exclaimed the darkey. "You'se done pass de turnin' whut leads dar. Did' you see a lane forkin' off 'bout a mile back by de crick, close to de big 'simmon-tree? Dat's de lane whut leads to Marstah Gilcrest's, suh."
"Ah, I see! but perhaps you can direct me to Mister Mason Rogers' house? My business is with him as well as with Major Gilcrest."
"I shorely kin," answered the negro, with a grin. "I b'longs to Marse Mason; I'se his ole uncle Tony. We libs two mile fuddah down dis heah same road, an' ef you wants to see my marstah an' Marstah Gilcrest bofe, you might ez well see Marse Mason fust, anyways; kaze whutevah he say, Marse Hiram's boun' to say, too. Dey's mos' mighty thick."
The stranger turned his head to hide a momentary smile.
"You jes' ride straight on," continued Uncle Tony, pointing northward with his stick; "fus' you comes to a big log house wid all de shettahs barred up, settin' by itse'l a leetle back frum de road, wid a woods all roun' it—dat's Cane Redge meetin'-house. Soon's you pass it, you comes to de big spring, den to a dirty leetle cabin whar dem pore white trash, de Simminses, libs. Den you strikes a cawnfiel', den a orchid. Den you's dar. De dawgs and chickens will sot up a tur'ble rumpus, but you jes' ride up to the stile and holler, 'Hello!' and some dem no-'count niggahs'll tek you' nag and construct you inter Miss Cynthy Ann's presence. I'd show you de way myse'f, on'y Is'e bountah fin' dat heifer; but you carn't miss de way."
With this he hobbled off down the road in search of the errant heifer. Meanwhile our traveler rode steadily forward until, in another half-hour, he came in sight of a more prosperous-looking clearing than any he had seen since leaving Bourbonton.
Mrs. Elizabeth Cherry Waltz, creator of Pa Gladden, was born at Columbus, Ohio, December 10, 1866, the daughter of Major John Nichols Cherry, to whose memory she inscribed her first book. Miss Cherry was graduated from the Columbus High School; and a short time thereafter she was married. The death of her husband compelled her to become the breadwinner for her several children, and in 1895 she joined the staff of the Cincinnati Tribune, which she left after two years for the Springfield, Ohio, Republic-Times, with which she was connected for a year. On July 4, 1898, she was married to Frederick Hastings Waltz, a few years her junior, and they settled at Louisville, where he had a position on The Courier-Journal. Mrs. Waltz became literary editor of The Courier-Journal, and this position she held until her death. Though she followed Miss Mary Johnston, W. H. Fields, Mrs. Hester Higbee Geppert, and Ernest Aroni[51] in assuming charge of the paper's literary page, and the standards were thus high, she was one of the ablest writers that has ever conducted that department. Mrs. Waltz was a tremendous worker, one of her associates having written that, after a hard day's work on the paper, she would "go home, cook, wash and iron, clean house, do assignments, then write until after midnight on her 'Pa Gladden' stories; she wrote while going and coming on the street cars, and sometimes wrote on her cuffs with a lead pencil!" Mrs. Waltz's chief contribution to prose fiction is her well-known character, "Pa Gladden." These stories were accepted by The Century Magazine in 1902, and they were published from time to time, being brought together in a charming book, entitled Pa Gladden—The Story of a Common Man (New York, 1903; London, n. d. [1905]). "Pa Gladden" is certainly a real creation. Christian, optimist, lover of his kind, and above all companionable, he preached and lived the gospel of goodness. Some critics of the stories have quarreled with the great amount of dialect, most of which is used by Pa Gladden, but this is the only adverse comment that was made. The prayers of Pa, said throughout the book, are always very beautiful. Mrs. Waltz's death occurred very suddenly at her home in Louisville, "Meadowbrook," September 19, 1903, almost simultaneous with the appearance of her book. She was buried at Columbus, Ohio; and her grave is unmarked. The Ancient Landmark (New York, 1905), her posthumous novel, was a vigorous attack upon the divorce evil. She died before her time, worn out with work, and thus Kentucky and the whole country lost a writer of real achievement and greater promise.
Bibliography. The Outlook (December 5, 1903); Who's Who in America (1903-1905).
PA GLADDEN AND THE WANDERING WOMAN[52]
[From Pa Gladden (New York, 1903)]
In the early darkness of the winter night Pa Gladden returned to the barn laden with a lamp, a candle, tea, and food. He felt glad he had sent for the doctor, although he attributed the young woman's illness to exposure and anxiety. She was tossing on the warm bed, at times unable to speak intelligibly. She drank the warm tea he gave her, and again asked for the doctor. Being assured that he would soon come, she turned her face to the wall. It was such a sorrowful sight that, setting the candle down on the floor, Pa Gladden knelt upon the boards and prayed fervently:
"Father of love, look down on our sorrerful darter this holy night when redeemin' love should fill all our hearts, this Christmas night when ye sent yer Son inter the world ter bear all our sins an' ignorances. Heal 'er sore heart, O Lord, heal 'er wounds with the soothin' balm o' thy love. Hold 'er in thy arms in all 'er trouble an' tribbelations, an' let Christmas day be a real turnin'-point in 'er life."
When he rose, the young woman was sitting up, her eyes full of deep meaning.
"You are a good man," she said. "I want to say I deserve it, all your goodness. I am not"—her voice rose to a shriek—"I am not wicked. You can pray for me, and over me if I should die. I am not afraid to be here. It's quiet and peaceful. I will try to be patient. Please tell me your name, sir."
"Pa Gladden."
"Mine is Mary, plain Mary. Have you any daughter?"
"No"—with lingering regret; "but I'm allers Pa Gladden ter all the folks."
"If you had a daughter, Pa Gladden, she'd likely be grown up."
"Prubable."
"And married; and you might be praying for her, right by her side, like you are here. God bless you forever and forever, Pa Gladden!" She ended with a sob.
"Don't take on so. Won't ye come inter the house, my darter? I'll make it all right with Drusilly. Hers is a good heart."
"No, no. I'm afraid of women. Does it make you feel bad to see me cry, Pa Gladden? Then I'll set my lips tighter. Just let me stay here. If you had a daughter she'd want to be quiet now, peaceful and quiet."
He sat by her for a few moments longer.
"The doctor wull be comin' ter the house presently," he said cheerfully. "I must go an' pilot him here. Lie still, darter; he'll soon git something' outen them old leather saddle-bags ter quiet ye down. Doc Briskett knows his business."
She held out her hand to him.
"Yes, go, Pa Gladden, but leave me the little candle. It's lonesome in the dark when one is in misery. And I'll listen for your footsteps."
Pa was not much too soon. He heard the bump and rattle of the doctor's cart over the hard road before he reached the red gate.
"Now hold hard, doc," he called out as he swung it open. "Go out the barn road. Yer patient air out thar."
"Jee whillikins!" exclaimed Doc Briskett. "You never have brought me 'way out here to see a sick cow on a church-festival night!"
Pa climbed in beside him.
"It's a pore woman thet's sick," he announced calmly, and unfolded his story for the doctor's amazed ears.
"Pa Gladden!" exclaimed the doctor. "God alone knows what sort of an illness she may have. However, I'll see her. A tramp is likely to have any disease traveling."
A lamp stood on the old table in the room, and the burly doctor took it and climbed to the upper room. Pa Gladden paused at the doorway to look over the white world of Christmas eve. On such a night, he thought, the shepherds watched, the star shone, the angels sang, the Child was born. Pa Gladden heard the voice of his mother in the long ago:
Then, hoarse and terrible, came the doctor's voice as he almost tumbled down the ladder:
"Pa, pa, get in that cart and drive like mad to Dilsaver's. Meenie is at home, and tell her I said to come back with you. Bring her here; bring some woman, for the love of God!"
Miss Reubena Hyde Walworth, author of a brief comedy that has come down to posterity with a deal of the perfume of permanency, was born at Louisville, Kentucky, February 21, 1867. She was the granddaughter of Reuben Hyde Walworth (1788-1867), the last chancellor of New York State, the feminine form of whose name she bore. Her father was the well-known novelist, Mansfield Tracy Walworth (1830-1873); and her mother and sister were writers of reputation. So it will be seen at a glance that Miss Walworth inherited her literary tastes legitimately. She began by contributing poems to the periodicals, but her one-act comediette, entitled Where was Elsie? or the Saratoga Fairies (New York, 1888), written before she was of age, made her widely known. This little comedy is now out of print, and it is exceedingly scarce. Miss Walworth was graduated from Vassar College in 1896, being poet of the class, and one of the editors of The Vassarian. She then taught in a woman's college for a time, when the war with Spain was declared and she determined to go to the front as a volunteer nurse. Miss Walworth was one of the higher heroines of that war. The last months of her life were spent at the detention hospital, Montauk, New York, where she rendered noble service in her country's cause. She was stricken with fever and died on October 18, 1898. Her body was taken to her home at Saratoga Springs, New York, and buried with military honors. Miss Walworth's comedy and lyrics should be republished.
Bibliography. Appletons' Cyclopaedia of American Biography (New York, 1889, v. vi); A Dictionary of American Authors, by O. F. Adams (Boston, 1905).
THE UNDERGROUND PALACE OF THE FAIRIES
[From Where was Elsie? (New York, 1888)]
Act I, Scene IV. Enter Jack and Elsie with fairy flask and taper.
Elsie. Is this the room, Mr. Jack o' Lantern?
Jack. Yes, Elsie, this is the room where the King told me to take you and await his presence. What a pity it is the Prince—[Stops].
Elsie. Prince! what Prince?
Jack. Sh! walls have ears, Elsie, and, indeed, I forgot that the King had forbidden us ever to speak of him again. But I must be off to dance attendance on the Queen. Her majesty, be it said with all due reverence, is not over-sweet when her loyal subjects are slow to obey her commands. [Exit, but immediately puts his head in the door.] Don't forget the magical water, Elsie. [Exit.]
Elsie. That's so; I had forgotten that I must drink this. [Looks at flask in her hand.] Jack says that it keeps anybody from growing old so fast; but if you get it from the fairies on Christmas eve, the way I did, you won't ever grow old. Oh dear! I don't want to be young forever. I want to grow up, and be sixteen. Then I'd wear my hair high, and have a long train. [Struts up and down, but stops suddenly.] Well, I don't care, you couldn't play hop-scotch in a train. [Looking about her.] I don't think this room's pretty, a bit. [Catches sight of something shining on the wall.] Oh my! what's that shiny thing? Wouldn't it be fun if there were a secret door there, just like a story book! I'm going to see what it is. [Stops.] Dear me! I forgot that horrid flask! [Brightening up.] Maybe it'll make me nice and old, though. I'll take the old spring water first, anyhow, and then I'll see what that thing is over there. I wonder what will happen. [Drinks.]
Curtain.
Crittenden Marriott, novelist, was born at Baltimore, March 20, 1867, the great grandson of Kentucky's famous statesman, John J. Crittenden, the grandson of Mrs. Chapman Coleman, who wrote her father's biography, and the son of Cornelia Coleman, who was born at Louisville, Kentucky, and lived there until her marriage. Mr. Marriott's mother, grandmother, and aunts translated several of Miss Muhlbach's novels and a volume of French fairy tales. The future novelist first saw Kentucky when he was nine years old, and for the two years following he lived at Louisville and attended a public school. From 1878 to 1882 he was at school in Virginia, but he spent two of the vacations in Louisville. In 1883 he was appointed to the Naval Academy at Annapolis, but two years later he was compelled to resign on account of deficient eyesight. He returned to Louisville where he clerked in an insurance office, the American Mutual Aid Society, which position he held until 1887, when he resigned and removed to Baltimore as an architectural draughtsman. He subsequently went to Washington, and from there to California. In 1890 Mr. Marriott joined the staff of the San Francisco Chronicle, and acted as representative of the Associated Press. Two years later he went to South Africa as a correspondent, tramping sixteen hundred miles in the interior, mostly alone. After this strenuous journey he returned to his aunt's home at Louisville, spending some of the time in Shelby county, Kentucky. He shortly afterwards went to New York as ship news reporter for The Tribune, which he held for six months. In 1893 Mr. Marriott went to Brazil for the Associated Press on the dynamite cruiser Nictheroy. The fall of 1894 found him again in Shelby county, this time meeting his future wife, a Louisville girl, whom he married in June, 1895. At the time of his wedding he was a newspaper correspondent in Washington. Mr. Marriott's health broke shortly afterwards, and from January to September, 1896, he was ill at Louisville. In 1897 he went to Cuba for the Chicago Record. When the now defunct Louisville Dispatch was established, Mr. Marriott became telegraph editor, which position he held for six months in 1898. Although he has resided in Washington since leaving the Dispatch, he regards Louisville as his real home, and he has visited there several times within the last few years, his most recent visit being late in 1912, when he came for his sister's wedding. Since 1904 Mr. Marriott has been one of the assistant editors of the publications of the United States Geological Survey. At the present time he is planning to surrender his post and establish a permanent home at Louisville. Mr. Marriott's first book, Uncle Sam's Business (New York, 1908), was an excellent study of our government at work, "told for young Americans." It was followed by a thrilling, wildly improbable tale of the Sargasso Sea, The Isle of Dead Ships (Philadelphia, 1909), the scene of which he saw several times on his various journeys around the world. How Americans Are Governed in Nation, State, and City (New York, 1910), was an adultiazation and elaboration of his first book, fitting it for institutions of learning and for the general reader. Mr. Marriott's second novel, Out of Russia (Philadelphia, 1911), a story of adventure and intrigue, was somewhat saner than The Isle of Dead Ships. From June to October, 1912, his Sally Castleton, Southerner, a Civil War story, ran in Everybody's Magazine, and it will be issued by the Lippincott's in January, 1913. The love story of a Virginia girl, daughter of a Confederate general, and a Kentuckian, who is a Northern spy, it is far and away the finest thing Mr. Marriott has done—one of the best of the recent war novels. In the past five years he has sold more than one hundred short-stories, some fifteen serials, and his fifth book is now in press, which is certainly a most creditable record. He has published two Kentucky stories, one for Gunter's Magazine, the other for The Pocket Magazine (which periodical was swallowed up by Leslie's Weekly); and he has recently finished a third Kentucky romance, which he calls One Night in Kentucky, and which will appear in The Red Book Magazine sometime in 1913.
Bibliography. Letters from Mr. Marriott to the Author; Who's Who in America, (1912-1913).
THE ARRIVAL OF THE ENEMY[53]
[From Sally Castleton, Southerner (Everybody's Magazine, June, 1912)]
With her heart beating so that she could not speak, she opened the door. She knew that she must be calm, must not show too great terror, must not try to deny the enemy the freedom of the house. She clung to the door, half fainting, while the world spun round her.
Slowly the haze cleared. Dully, as from afar off, she heard some one addressing her and realized that a boy was standing on the porch steps holding his horse's bridle—a boy, short, rotund, friendly looking, with gilt and yellow braid upon his dusty blue uniform; just a boy—not an enemy.
"Well, sir?" she faltered.
The boy snatched off his slouch hat with its yellow cord. He stood swinging it in his hand, staring admiringly at the girls. "General Haverhill's compliments," he said. "He regrets to cause inconvenience, but he must occupy this house as headquarters for a few hours. He will be here immediately." He gestured toward a little knot of horsemen, who had paused at the foot of the lawn and were staring down the valley with field-glasses.
Sally managed to bow with some degree of calmness. "The house is at General Haverhill's disposal," she answered steadily. "I am sorry that I have only one aged servant and therefore cannot serve him as I should."
The boy smiled. He seemed unable to take his eyes from her face. "Oh, that's all right," he exclaimed cheerfully. "We are used to looking out for ourselves. Don't trouble yourself a bit. The general only wants a place to rest for a few hours."
"He may have that," Miss Castleton smiled faintly. After all, there were pleasant people among the Yankees. Besides, it was just as well to conciliate while she could. "In fact, he can have more. Uncle Claban is a famous cook and our pantry is not quite empty. May I offer supper to him and his staff?"
Her tones were quite natural. She felt surprised at her lack of fear; now that the shock of the meeting was over, the danger seemed somehow less.
The subaltern's white teeth flashed. "Really, truly supper at a table, with a table-cloth! It's too good to be true. I'll tell the general." He turned toward the horsemen, who were coming toward the steps.
Sally waited, watching curiously. She felt 'Genie's convulsive grasp on her hand and squeezed back reassuringly. "Don't be afraid, dear!" she murmured. "They're only men, after all. Try to forget that they are Yankees, and everything will come right." She turned once more to meet her guests.
On all sides of the house the busy scene was rapidly changing. The dusty cavalrymen, saddle-weary after a hard ride, were taking advantage of a few hours' halt. The troopers, gaunt, sun-burned, unshaven, covered with mud and dust, moved about this way and that. Company lines were formed, and long strings of picketed horses munched the clover, while other strings of horses, with a trooper riding bare-back, half a dozen bridles in his hands, clattered toward the creek. Stacked arms glittered in the sunlight. Men with red crosses on their sleeves established a tiny hospital tent and looked to the slightly wounded who had accompanied the flying column. Some of the Castleton fences went for farrier's fires, and his hammer clanked noisily.
The troops were too thoroughly seasoned campaigners to get out of hand, but the officers were as tired as the men, and there was no little foraging. The clusters of cherries, the yellow June apples, and the welcome "garden truck" were temptations not to be wholly resisted.
It was all new and strange to Sally and, hard as it was to see the Castleton acres trampled and overrun, she watched the busy scene with unconscious interest.
The voice of the young officer recalled her to herself. "General Haverhill," he was saying, in deference to a half-forgotten convention. "General Haverhill—Miss—?" He paused interrogatively.
The girl bowed. "I'm Miss Castleton," she said.
"Miss Castleton." The general swept off his slouch hat. "I suppose Lieutenant Rigby here has told you that we must use your house?"
"Yes, general. Will you come in?"
The subaltern interposed. "Miss Castleton has offered us supper, general," he said.
The general smiled. He was a powerful-looking man of forty; the scar of a saber gash across his face gave it a sinister aspect, but his smile was pleasant. "You are—loyal?" he questioned doubtfully. The question seemed unnecessary.
"Yes—to Virginia!" Sally met his eyes steadily.
"Oh! I see!" Quizzically he contemplated the girl from under his bushy brows. "And this is—" he turned toward the younger girl.
"My sister, Miss Eugenia Castleton."
"Ah!" The general bowed. "I suppose you, too, are loyal—to Virginia, Miss Eugenia?" he said.
Perhaps it was the patronizing note in the question that touched 'Genie on the raw. Perhaps it was sheer terror. Whatever the cause, she flashed up, suddenly furious. "Oh!" she cried, stamping her small foot. "Oh! I wish I were a man! I wish I were a man!"
The grizzled Federal looked at her steadily, and not without admiration. "Perhaps it's lucky for me you're not," he answered, smiling.
Bowing, he stood aside to let the girls pass at the door, then clanked after them into the cool, wide hall with its broad center-table, its chairs and lounge—the lounge on which Philip Byrd had so lately lain—and the big black stove. To save their lives neither Sally nor her sister could help glancing at that stove.
It was Sally's part to play hostess, and she did it valiantly. "Please sit down, general," she invited. "If you will excuse me, I will see about supper." With a smile she rustled from the room, 'Genie following rather sullenly.
In the wide kitchen she dropped into a chair, trembling. Had she acted her part well, she wondered, or had she overdone it? Was it suspicion that she had seen in the general's eyes as she left him? Would he search—and find? How long would he stay? Philip was wounded, suffering, probably hungry and thirsty. If the Yankees stayed very long, he might have to surrender. What would they do to him? Would they consider him a spy and—and——
A hand clutched her and she looked up. 'Genie was on her knees beside her, flushed, tear-stained face uplifted.
"Oh, Sally, Sally!" she wailed. "Did I do wrong? Did I make him suspect? Oh, if anything happens to Philip through my fault, I'll die!"
Sally laid her hand on the bright hair of the girl beside her. "You didn't harm Philip," she comforted. "It wouldn't do for us to be too friendly. That would be the surest way to make them suspicious."
"But—but—he'll starve!"
"Oh, no he won't! I don't think they'll stay long. 'For a few hours,' that young officer said. But come!" Sally jumped up. "Come. Let's get supper for them. That'll give us something to do, and will keep them occupied—when it's ready. Men will always eat. Come!"
'Genie rose obediently, if not submissively. "Supper!" she flashed. "Supper! And we've got to feed those tyrants, with poor Philip starving right under their noses."
The elder sister smiled. "I'm sorry," she said gently; "but there are worse things than missing a meal or two. Perhaps it may be better for him, after all; for he must have some fever after that wound and that ride. Anyhow, we've got to feed these Yankees, so let's do it with a good grace. Men are easiest managed when they've eaten. If we've got to feed the brutes, let's do it."
Miss Abbie Carter Goodloe, novelist and short-story writer, was born at Versailles, Kentucky, in 1867. In 1883 she was graduated from the Girls' High School, Louisville; and in 1889 she received the degree of Bachelor of Science from Wellesley College. The next two years were spent in studying and traveling in Europe. On her return to the United States Miss Goodloe made her home at Louisville, of which city she has been a resident ever since. Her first book, Antinous (Philadelphia, 1891), a blank verse tragedy, was followed by College Girls (New York, 1895), an entertaining collection of short stories of college life. Miss Goodloe's first novel, Calvert of Strathore (New York, 1903), was set, for the most part, in the sunny land of France. At the Foot of the Rockies (New York, 1905), a group of short stories, is Miss Goodloe's best work so far. Several of the tales are of great merit and interest, one enthusiastic critic comparing them to Kipling's finest work. The author spent one glorious summer in Alberta, Canada, surrounded by the Northwest Mounted Police, Indians, Englishmen, Americans, and the romance of it all quite possessed her. These were the backgrounds for the eight stories which have won her wider fame than any of her other writings. A winter in Mexico furnished materials for her latest novel, The Star-Gazers (New York, 1910). The reader is presented to the late president of that revolutionary-ridden republic, Porfirio Diaz, together with the other celebrities of his country. The epistolary form of narration is adopted, and the result is not especially noteworthy. In no way does this work rank with At the Foot of the Rockies. The short-story is certainly Miss Goodloe's greatest gift, and in that field she should go far.
Bibliography. Anna Blanche McGill's excellent study in the Library of Southern Literature (Atlanta, 1909, v. v); Scribner's Magazine (January, April, 1910; July, 1911).
A COUNTESS OF THE WEST[54]
[From At the Foot of the Rockies (New York, 1905)]
She looked at the Honorable Arthur, abashed and weakly unhappy, and a wave of disgust swept over her. He was so big and stupid and irresolute. She would have liked him better if he had told her with brutal frankness that he no longer cared for her and wouldn't marry her. She had thought him grateful at least, and he wasn't even that. The affection he had inspired in her fell from her like a discarded garment. Suddenly she unfastened a button of her shirtwaist and drew from around her neck a little blue ribbon on which hung a seal ring. With a jerk she snapped the ribbon and slipped off the ring. She held it out to him.
"There," she said, cooly, "take it back to Rigby Park and give it to some fine English girl whom your father happens to know! I hope you'll enjoy your England. Montana's good enough for me!"
As she swept the Honorable Arthur with a scornful glance, she suddenly saw his jaw drop and a curious look spring into his eyes. Following the direction of his gaze she beheld two riders approaching at a hand gallop, a Mounted Police officer from Fort Macleod, whom she knew, and following briskly in his wake, a handsome Englishman of middle age. The hair about his temples was heavily tinged with white, but his complexion was as fresh and pink and white as a baby's, and he was most immaculately got up in riding things.
"It's the governor," she heard the Honorable Arthur whisper incredulously to himself.
The meeting between the two was cold and formal, after the fashion of the Anglo-Saxon male. Miss Ogden looked on in fascinated silence. The Earl of Rigby put up a single eyeglass and surveyed his son.
"By gad, my boy, I'm glad to see you again. You aren't looking any too fit, you know."
"Thanks, father—yes, I know it. When did you get here?"
"Just stepped off the train at Macleod two hours ago. Beastly train."
"Yes, isn't it? Howd'y do, Nevin?"
"Howd'y do, St. John? Howd'y do, Miss Ogden? Haven't seen you for a long while. May—may I—the Earl of Rigby, Miss Ogden."
The Earl of Rigby screwed his glass in again—it had fallen out when he had shaken his son's hand—and stared at the young woman before him.
"Awfully glad to meet you, I'm sure," he said, affably. "I—I had always understood that this country was an Eveless paradise. I'm glad to see I'm mistaken."
Miss Lily Ogden surveyed the Earl of Rigby imperturbably. Not one of the thrills which an hour before she would have supposed necessarily attendant on an introduction to a noble earl now disturbed her composure. Even his exaggeratedly polite compliment left her perfectly cool. He simply seemed to her an extremely handsome man, a good deal cleverer and stronger-looking than his son.
"This country wouldn't be a paradise at all without Miss Ogden," said Nevin, gallantly. "She's the best horsewoman in Port Highwood and she'll help St. John show you the country, my lord."
"Thanks, Captain Nevin." She smiled on him sweetly, showing the white, even teeth between the scarlet lips, and then she turned to the Earl of Rigby. "I shall be delighted to show you the country—specially as Mr. St. John is obliged to go away in two or three days."
"I should like nothing better," said the earl, with conviction.
"Have to go on the round-up," murmured the Honorable Arthur.
"That's hard luck," said Nevin, sympathetically. "Two weeks, I suppose."
"Yes—father'll have to stop for a bit at the Highwood House. I fancy he'll wish he were back in England!"
"Not if Miss Ogden will ride with me," observed the earl.
A curious light came into the girl's gray eyes.
"I could show your lordship a new trail every day for the two weeks, and at the end of the time I am sure you could not decide which to call the prettiest," she asserted.
"I dare say," assented the earl, eagerly; "but I would like to try."
"Oh, Miss Ogden will take good care of you," said Nevin. "And now, as you have two guides, if you will excuse me, I think I won't go on into Highwood. Your lordship's things will be sent over early in the morning. His lordship was so anxious to see you, St. John, that we couldn't even persuade him to mess with us to-night," he remarked, jocularly, to the Honorable Arthur. "And now I will turn back, I think. Good-bye!" He waved a gauntleted hand, and wheeling his horse set off at an easy canter for the fort.
A somewhat awkward constraint fell upon the three so left, which Miss Ogden dispelled by turning her horse toward Highwood, and riding on slightly ahead of the Honorable Arthur and his father. The earl gazed admiringly at her slim back.
"By gad, she's a beauty, Arthur, my deah boy, and she sits her horse perfectly."
"She's an American," remarked the young man, aggressively.
"She's beautiful enough to be English," retorted the earl, warmly. He spurred forward and rode at her right hand. The Honorable Arthur rather sulkily closed up on the left.
"I was just saying to Arthur, Miss Ogden, that he could go on the round-up and jolly welcome as long as you have promised to show me the country. I am most deeply interested in our Canadian possessions, you know," said the earl.
She shot him a glance from under the black lashes of her gray eyes which made the Earl of Rigby fairly gasp.
"I shall try my best to keep your lordship from being bored while Mr. St. John is away," she said, sweetly.
It was two weeks later, or to be perfectly exact, two weeks and four days later, that a half-breed was sent down to the Morgan round-up, twenty-five miles west of Calgary, with a telegram for St. John. The Honorable Arthur was so dirty, tired, dusty, and sunburnt that the half-breed had difficulty in picking him out from the rest of the dirty, tired, dusty, and sunburnt round-up crew.
The sight of the telegram filled the young man with an indefinable fear, and the paper fluttered in his trembling hand like a withered leaf on a windshaken bough.
"Meet the 2:40 from Macleod at Calgary. Will be on train. Most important.
Rigby."
His swollen tongue and parched lips got drier, his cracked and tanned skin paled as he read and reread the message. Suddenly a joyous thought came to him. "The old boy's relented sure, and wants me to go back with him," he told himself over and over. He thrust his few things into the one portmanteau he had brought with him and made such good time going the twenty-five miles into Calgary that he had been pacing up and down the station platform for ten minutes when the train pulled in.
The Earl of Rigby, who had been hanging over the vestibule rail of the observation car, swung himself lightly down and cordially grasped his son's hand. The Honorable Arthur was struck afresh by the good looks and youthfulness of his aristocratic father.
"By Jove, Arthur, I'm glad to see you got my telegram, and I'm glad you got here in time. What? No, you won't need your portmanteau. The truth is," he gave an infectious laugh, "the Countess of Rigby—she was Miss Lily Ogden until last night, my deah boy—and I are on our way to England, and we couldn't leave the country without seeing you again. Won't you step into the coach and speak to her?"