The next morning, as Saunders sat at breakfast in the cafe of his club scanning the morning paper, his attention was fixed by the big-typed head-lines of a report of the school convention at the Capitol. The details and object of the meeting were given in only a few sentences, the main feature of the article being a sensational account of the brilliant speech of a young woman delegate in support of the bill before the Legislature favoring a much-needed appropriation for schools among the poor mountaineers.
The paper stated that the youthful beauty, vivacity, and eloquence of the speaker, the daughter of a Confederate veteran, had roused an enthusiasm seldom witnessed in the old State House. She was introduced by the Governor, who was chairman of the meeting, and fully three-fourths of the members of the Senate and the House were present. Miss Drake's speech was a rare combination of originality, humor, arid pathos. Her aptitude at anecdote, her gift for description and dialect had fairly astounded her audience. The applause was so constant and persistent that the brave young speaker had difficulty in pursuing her theme. And when it was over the members of the House and the Senate had pressed forward to congratulate her and pledge their support to the bill in question. Such a complete acceptance of any single measure had never been known before in the history of Georgia politics.
Following this account was the report of the reception to the convention of teachers at the Executive Mansion, which had been largely attended owing to the desire of many to see and meet the young heroine of the day. Saunders read and reread the article, in his excitement neglecting his breakfast and forgetting his morning cigar.
"God bless her!" he chuckled. "She is a brick. Put her anywhere on earth, against any odds, and she will win!"
When the hour approached for her train to leave he went down to the big station to see her off, finding her alone in the waiting-room looking quite as if nothing unusual had happened, though he thought he noticed a slight shade of uneasiness on her face.
"Anything gone wrong?" he inquired, anxious to help her if she needed assistance.
"I haven't seen my father," she answered. "You see, he went to a boarding-house. Rooms were in such demand that he didn't go with me and the other delegates to the hotel. Then, he had determined to economize as much as possible. I thought he would come around this morning, anyway. I don't want to go back home without seeing him; my mother would simply be wild with uneasiness."
"You have several minutes yet," Saunders answered. "He will be apt to turn up." Therewith Saunders began to smile. "Have you read the morning papers?"
"I haven't had time to read them carefully," Dolly declared. "Several of the men teachers sent copies up to my room before I came down for breakfast. The teachers had a lot to say about me and my talk. Really, I feel like a goose, and mean, too. It looks as if I thought I was the whole show. Why, there were women in the convention old enough to be the mothers of girls like me, and with a hundred times as much sense."
"But you turned the trick!" Saunders cried, enthusiastically. "You did more with that speech than a dozen conventions of men and women could have done. You hit the nail square on the head. You won. The bill will pass like a flash. It is a foregone conclusion."
"Oh, I wish I could think so," Dolly cried, hopefully, her fine eyes beaming. Then she began to smile reminiscently. "That was the strangest experience I ever had in all my born days. Talk about the debates we used to have in our club; they were simply not in it! When they put me up there on that platform, side by side with the Governor of the State and three senators, and they were all so nice and polite, I was scared to death. My tongue was all in a knot, and I was as cold as if I had my feet in ice-water. Then when the Governor introduced me with all those compliments about my looks, and I had to stand up and begin, I give you my word, Jarvis, that big stone building, solid as it was, was rocking like a cradle. Every seat, from the front to the back, had a man or a woman in it, but I didn't see a single face. They were all melted together in one solid mass-and quiet! Why, it was so still that I heard my mouth click when I opened it to catch my breath. It was simply awful. I remember thinking I would pray for help if I had time, but I didn't have time for anything. It was lucky I thought about beginning with a funny tale, for when they all laughed and clapped I felt better. Then I forgot where I was. There were some young men reporters at a table right under my feet, and they kept laughing in such a friendly, good-natured way that I found myself talking to them more than any of the rest. The audience really made it easier for me, for while they were applauding I had a chance to think of something else to say. I found out the sort of thing they liked, and piled it on thick and heavy. And when I sat down and they all packed round me to shake hands, I was more surprised than I ever was in my life."
"It was the hit of the day," Saunders replied. "It was as great a success in its way as the speech of Henry W. Grady at the New England banquet. I am proud of you, Dolly. You will let me say that, won't you?"
"If you really mean it." She raised her eyes frankly to his, and a flush of gratification suffused her sweet face. "I would not like to be an utter failure on my first visit to your city. I didn't want you to hear my speech, but I do wish I had asked you to that reception. It was nice. I can see now what you all find in social things. It was like a dream to me—the music, the lights, the jewels, the dresses, the flowers, the brilliant talk, the courtesy of men, and—yes, the congratulations and compliments. I did like to have so many say they liked my speech—I really did. I almost cried over it."
"You shall have them all." Saunders restrained the words which throbbed on his lips. "Be my wife, little girl, and I'll gratify your every desire." She was looking into his eyes, and he glanced aside, fearing that she might read his thoughts.
"I wish I could have gone," was all he said. "I should have enjoyed your triumph immensely."
"It won't spoil me—don't think that." He heard her sigh and saw a slight cloud pass over her face. "I am young in years, but I have had my share of suffering. You are almost the only one who knows my great secret. It makes me feel very close to you, Jarvis. You made it easier for me to bear when you helped me hide it on the night you prevented my father from making my humiliation public. That was good of you—good and brave and thoughtful."
"My God, she still loves him!" Saunders thought, with a pang which permeated his whole being. "His very weakness has made him dearer. She never has a word to say against him."
Saunders was trying to make some sort of outward response when he saw Dolly start suddenly, her eyes on the doorway. "I see my father. Oh, I'm glad, for now I can find out what he intends to do. I see him looking for me. Wait; I'll run over to him."
Saunders watched her graceful figure as it glided through the crowd to Drake's side. He saw the mountaineer turn a face full of pride and contentment upon his daughter; and Saunders knew, from her rapt expression, that he was telling her of his good fortune. The watcher saw Dolly put her hand in a gesture of tender impulsiveness on her father's arm, and stand eagerly listening, and yet with a frown on her face. A moment later they came toward him. Dolly was regarding him with a steady, almost cold stare. Was it vague displeasure? Was it wounded pride? Surely his act was contrary to her wishes, for she made no immediate reference to it.
"Well," Drake said, "if you are goin' to put 'er on the train, I'll tell 'er good-by now. There's a feller waitin' for me at the front. Tell your mother, daughter, that I'll be up in a week or so. So long."
Drake was not a man given to embraces of any sort, and he was turning away when Dolly stopped him. "Kiss me, father," she said, raising her face to his; and, with a sheepish laugh, the mountaineer complied.
"She's like all the balance, Jarvis," he said, lightly. "They believe in things bein' done to the letter. You will be at the bank after a while, won't you?"
"Yes, as soon as the train leaves," Saunders, answered. Then he heard the porter announcing Dolly's train, and he took up her bag. She was silent as they walked along the pavement and down the iron stairs to the car, where he found a seat for her. Only a few minutes remained, and the feeling was growing on him that she was quite displeased with the arrangement he had made with her father. How could he part with her like that? The days of doubt and worry ahead of him as a consequence of what he had done seemed unbearable.
"Did your father mention the plan he and I—"
"Yes," she broke in, tremulously; "he told me all about it, Jarvis, and—and I want to ask you a question. I want you to be frank with me. I don't want the slightest evasion to—to save me from pain. I can't go up home without knowing the full truth. You are so—so kind and thoughtful, always wanting to—to do me some favor and aid me that—Oh, Jarvis, I want to know this: Do you think my father is capable of filling that place as it ought to be filled?"
Saunders was sitting on the arm of the seat in front of her. The car was almost empty, no one being near. He bent forward and laid his hand on her arm. "He is the very man I want," he declared. "The work is not difficult; he is so popular with the average run of men that he will make a far better manager than Hobson, or any one else I could get."
He heard her catch her breath. He saw a light of joy dawn in her eyes. "If only I could believe that, Jarvis," she said, "I would be the happiest girl in all the world. I would—I would—I would."
"Then you may be," he answered, huskily, his emotions all but depriving him of utterance. "He is doing me a favor, Dolly. Of all men he is the first I would select."
The bell of the locomotive was ringing. Saunders stood up, now clasping the hand she held out. He felt her timid fingers cling to his. Her blood and his throbbed in unison. Looking into her eyes, he saw that they were full of tears. He remembered how she had kissed his hand on the night he had prevented her father from going to Atlanta, and as he hurried from the slowly moving car he was like a man groping through a maze of doubt and bewildering fears. She could feel and show gratitude, he told himself, but a heart such as hers could never be won twice to actual love. It is said that suffering deepens character, and it was perhaps the fall of her ideal which had made her the heroic marvel she was. Mostyn still loved her in secret; of that Saunders had little doubt, for how could a man once embraced by such a creature ever forget it? And Dolly suspected the man's constancy and had no room for aught but secret responsiveness. But no matter, he would still be her watchful and attentive friend. He had helped again. To serve her unrewarded would have to suffice.
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