THE UNIVERSITY OF NORTH CAROLINA LIBRARY THE WILMER COLLECTION OF CIVIL WAR NOVELS PRESENTED BY RICHARD H. WILMER, JR. Digitized by tine Internet Arcliive in 2010 witli funding from University of Nortli Carolina at Chapel Hill http://www.archive.org/details/muteconfessorromOOharb A MUTE CONFESSOR: THE ROMANCE OF A SOUTHERN TOWN. BY WILLIAM N. HARBEN, Author of " IVhite JSlarie," '^Almost Persuaded.'' BOSTON, MASS. : fcOPLEY SQUAKE, 1892. Copyrighted by ARENA PUBLISHING COMPANY, 1891. TO MY SISTER GEORGIE. A MUTE CONFESSOR. CHAPTER I. Among Edgar Morton's acquaintances it went without saying that he had marked peculiarities. Some of his most intimate friends admitted that there were times when, faihng to fathom his fitful moods, they felt uncomfortable in his company. He was young, handsome, tall, and had a commanding figure. His high, broad forehead was indicative of a lofty and poetic intellect. His eyes and hair were very dark, his features as clear-cut as a cameo. People were rarely free with him, for he was exceedingly reserved. " Egad ! " once said a noted politician, who figured extensively in New York society and had met Edgfar several times at the " Authors' Club " 6 % §Uu atowiwift — " egad, that young fellow is as reserved as the North Pole ; but mind my words, he'll come to the front one of these days ! He has just enough of the mysterious about him to make him take. He knows when to hold his tongue ; when he is not thoroughly posted he is as mute as a clam ; but where he knows his ground he is as impregnable as a stone wall. The conse- quence is that when he does express an opinion people listen to him." From a small town in Massachusetts Morton had come to the metropolis to gratify a yearn- ing, insatiable ambition to make a name for himself. He was well educated and well read, and had begun his career in New York as a general writer for newspapers. His editors, who were acquainted with all he wrote anony- mously, as well as over his own name, agreed that his work was marvellously clever. They went so far as to say that he showed rare and deep insight into human nature, that now and then he rose to beautiful heights of poetic fancy. These editors were less surprised than many others when a leading publisher announced a novel by him, and not a few of his admirers RBO ' NcU watched for its appearance with sharply whetted curiosity. " Transgression," met with ahnost unpre- cedented favor for a " first book." Critics prophesied that, with time and experience, the author would acquire considerable and endur- ing fame ; his imagery, his art, his pathos, his dainty touches of humor, were divine gifts. Morton opened his eyes in a new and charm- ing world; he suddenly heard himself men- tioned far and near as one of the kindling lights of American literature upon which the breath of public admiration was steadily blow- ing. He was sought by the wealthy and by the great. His peculiarities, once deplored, were now regarded as the royal offsj)ring of imperial genius. Despite all the furore he had raised, Morton, be it said to his credit, in his secret soul de- spised himself for weaknesses not dreamed of by the public. He had always harbored a be- lief, born, perhaps, of his exalted ideas of truth and art, — and it sometimes amounted to a fear that almost staggered him, — that he could never become truly great till he was purer of soul than he really was. His chief 6 i^ i^tttf (^antt^^at faults were affectation and deceit. His mother, who had died years before, had often said to him : " You have one serious fault, Edgar, and I am afraid you will have to struggle against it all your life. You are very rarely your true self ; you often employ deceit to gain a point which could more easily be gained through candor and honesty." Like many another man of Napoleonic aspi- rations and nervous temperament, Morton's pride was often galled by contact with obsta- cles which, despite all his cleverness, he could not surmount. Lack of sufficient means to gratify naturally extravagant tastes was the greatest barrier to his content. He had ge- nius, but he had vanity. His fame and popu- larity drew him into social circles where he could ill afford to stay, and an indomitable pride held him there. His earnings were meagre compared with the incomes of his associates. Their money flowed as freely as water, but he was obliged to stint himself, and to stifle many desires in order to keep up ap- pearances. In the summer, when his friends left the city for fashionable resorts or to make trips to Europe, Morton could not afford to go ; so he pretended to be pressed with duties, and remained in heated New York to nurse his discontent and bewail his ill-luck. It was this combination of circumstances that made him first think of bettering his con- dition by marriage. Miss Jean Wharton, the orphaned heiress of a superb fortune, whom he had met frequently at her uncle's fashionable home in West Fifty-eighth Street, began to show a strong liking for him. He visited her frequently, and almost before he realized the fact they were engaged. Morton had never felt even the faintest thrill of real love for Miss Wharton, and there were moments in which his better self did stern battle with the alluring temptation to wed her. At such times he would almost re- solve to break off with the heiress and be true to himself, but the appearance of an urgent bill collector and the sight of his empty purse usually made him desperate, and caused him to think with grim satisfaction upon a certain unannounced social event, and to draw mind- pictures of an Eden where the fiend. Poverty, did not kill o-enius in the bud. He used to 10 % Put« ((tmUMot soliloquize over the matter something like this : " Well, what if my whole soul is not abso- lutely hound up in the girl ? What if I do not dream about her, and think her a veritable paragon of human loveliness and virtue ? she can help me out of a beastly mire where I don't belono". She takes to me because I am a little out of her run. I can give her all she wants, and she can supply me with what I must have, or be a slave all my days. I have never loved anybody with the raging confla- gration of the heart that poets rave about, and perhaps I never should, even if I remained unmarried into frosty old bachelorhood." tkt iUxmmt of a ^outlmu (Tdwu. 11 CHAPTER II. The gas was shedding a mellow light through the pink and pale-blue globes in the drawing- room of a brown-stone mansion in West Fifty- eighth Street. The furniture, the statues of bronze and marble, the bric-a-brac, the paintings, the unique screens were scattered here and there with that seeming disorder which is highest art. In a luxurious arm-chair, upholstered in soft brown leather. Miss Jean Wharton sat await- ing Edgar Morton. There was a characteristic ring — one impetuous jerk of the bell-pull. A faint flush struggled into the young woman's cheeks, and she rose tremulously to greet her visitor. She was far from handsome ; she could scarce- ly lay claim to one redeeming feature. She looked the typical old maid. Footprints of the proverbial crow were visible in the facial sands 12 % Pule (^0nitmt about her gray, lack-lustre eyes, where that heartless, tell-tale bird had been stalking about for thirty years, taking zealous care that the frequent tides of cosmetics should not obliterate his tracks. To Morton's fastidious eyes she was too tall, too scrawny ; her hair lacked gloss, her eyes vivacity. He smiled according to habit when he entered, and took her outstretched hand. With her he was less reserved than with the rest of his friends, else he could not have won her regard. " I am so glad you came," she said, when he had seated himself ; " you have neglected me very much of late." " I have been very busy, my dear," said he, hoping that she had not noticed his name in the society papers as being present at several receptions he had attended since he had seen her. " I have an awful lot of work to do. You know that in order to exist, a poor, money- less toiler like myself must utilize every spare moment ; but, of course, you can't understand — in your position." She sighed and put her costly lace handker- chief up to her face. "But it will not be so always," said she, her ^\\t Romance of a ^outhcvu timw, 13 blushes deepening ; " some time you will allow those who love you to help you." A look of mingled shame and embarrassment flitted across the author's handsome visage. He rose, ostensibly to replace a photograph which had fallen from a table, and yawned a little in secret as he passed behind her chair. Her eyes followed his movements wistfully, her face wore an expression of blended tenderness and admiration. " A poor beggar, such as I am, has no right to marry a wealthy woman," said he, standing behind her and turning the leaves of an album on the table. He had assumed a little air and tone of despondency, knowing by past experi- ence how such tricks roused her sympathies. He heartily despised himself for his duplicity as he went on : " What will the world say of the wealthy Miss Wharton throwing herself away upon a humble bohemian ? " " You promised you would not talk that way any more," said she, visibly pained. " What do I care ? What should you care what idle gossips may say ? No other man but you would give such things a thought. But I sup- pose it is part of your sensitive nature. I admit 14 ^ Ptttc (^oMmot, that I might have suspected the motives of any other suitor, but you are so different from the rest of your sex. I feel honored that you — a man of your refinement of nature and tastes, should fancy poor me. I am so insignificant. I was just thinking the other day that I should be, oh ! such a poor companion for you. You will have to love me a great deal to overlook my shortcomings. Tell me really what you first saw in me to attract you. I am not good- looking, I am not good." She had made that request of him before, and he had found that it requu^ed much skill to meet it gracefully. He had firmly made up his mind to marry her, and yet she was at times almost repidsive to him, more so in her present affectionate mood than ever. He had shud- dered hundreds of times over the thought that she was to be his wife. He sighed audibly, and going to her chair, bent over her with well-assumed feeling in his mien. " What did I see in you ? " — his dreamily- spoken words seemed to exude from a heart surcharged with love ; but even then he shud- dered as he looked down upon her flabby 2;hc ^omattce of a ^0ttthevu ©oivn. 15 cheek, upon which grew short, white hairs magnified by the obhque rays of the gasHght. He put his soft, tapermg hand about her neck, feeling a pecuhar creeping sensation at the roots of his hair. " What did I see in you ? " he repeated, slowly, as if he had seen so much in her that he was at a loss for words to express it. "Why do you ask?" He was too artistic in all things to attempt to flatter her by itemizing charms she did not possess, by praising her hair, her eyes, her form. From his knowledge of her credulity he knew that he could please her more in an- other way. When he spoke, his eyes abet- ted his voice : " To tell you the truth, Jean, I do not com- prehend it. No mortal can comprehend love ; it is as mysterious and as divine as space. I only know that I felt drawn to you " (and this was truth) " as I was never drawn to a woman before." Her face was aglow. He regretted that he had expressed so much, for it made her roll her eyes up towards him till their sclerotic coats were unbecomingly exposed. " I am so happy to-night ! " 16 ^ Putt (HowU^^ox, She caught his hand m her thin fingers and drew it down over her shoulder to her Hps. Then she threw her head back and looked up into his face. She wanted him to kiss her ; she thought he did not do so because he was timid, because he was contrasting in his mind her wealth and his poverty. He read her thoughts, and essayed to don the garment she had made for him, for he did not want to comply with her desire. " Why don't you kiss me ? " she asked. "Edgar, I really believe you are afraid of me." He smiled. A cool mist seemed to enshroud his brain, and condense itself and trickle down his spine as he bent and kissed her. A mo- ment later he was angered with himself. Why was he such a villain ? Why had Fate tempt- ed him to play such a disgusting, humiliating part ? He wanted her miUions because they were necessary to his cherished plans of future greatness, but the price to be paid for them assumed horrible proportions at times. " You wi'ote me you had something impor- tant to confide to me," she went on softly, when he had resumed his chair. She had thrust a long, slender foot from be- ©he ^omajwt of a ^outhcvn ©duiw. 17 neatli her skirts. At the sight of it he felt a thrill of repugnance run over him. He had never liked the shape of her foot ; he had fre- quently thought it very inartistic. The ball was too prominent^ the foot itself too flat, too long. "I am going away for a few weeks," was his answer. She started, and a pallor ran into her face. " Going away ? " " Yes ; I have finished all the work I have here at present. I have for some time thought I should lay the scene of a romance in the South. To do it I shall have to spend a few weeks among the people there. I shall find it hard to be away from you — from all my friends, of course — but I feel that I must go." " You always think of your duty," she said, gently ; "I admire you for it ; but I wish it called you here instead of there. " When do you go ? " she ventured, after a moment's silence. " Two weeks from to-day. And I had almost forgotten, Jean; you know that about every- thing an author does or contemplates doing is made pubHc. I do not want any one to know 18 gi Put^ (^awftmt, what I have in view, nor where I am. In order to accomplish this I shall be obliged to assume another name. I want to be thrown among the Southern people to study their characteristics, their customs ; if they knew me to be an author they would be on their guard. Mr. Lang, of my publishing firm, is the only one besides yourself who will have my secret. He will attend to forwarding my mail." She smiled gratefully. " How strange ! " she said. " I am so glad you confided in me. You know no one can get it from me. Edgar, I feel very proud of you and your work. You have heard me mention the Saxons, uncle's rich friends. They were here to dinner last night. Somehow your name came up at the table, and Mrs. Saxon said, * Why, you don't say Edgar Morton visits you ! ' Even uncle was proud to tell her that you came here frequently. Mrs. Saxon ran on for quite a time in a most enthusiastic strain about what she had heard of you and your literary work, and after dinner she asked me if I could show her your handwriting. Of course, I did not want her to read any of your notes, so I let her see the pretty copy of ' Transgression ' in which ^\it ^omaufc of a .^outhnu (town, 10 you wrote that beautiful verse. You should have seen how much she admu-ed it. She said that we ought to feel honored to have you for a friend. Can you wonder that I do, and that I love you and feel flattered by your love ? " He smiled indifferently. " She is very kind. We writers have a hard time, but we are amply rewarded when we are appreciated. I have accomplished nothing so far. I hope to do something worth leaving behind me, but I have hardly made a begin- ning yet." " How strange that you should care for any- thing of that kind ! " said she, venturing to lay he]' thin, bejewelled hand upon his as it rested on the arm of his chair. " I can't imao-ine o myself feeling an interest in anything which is to be read by people after my death. I care little for any books but yours, anyway." His pulse did not beat a whit more quickly at feeling her touch. He looked into her wizen face critically, reflectively, wondering if, after all, he could afford to barter his freedom for her fortune — if he could ever think of her as a man should think of his wife. " You have not told me," she went on, as he 20 % ilute (^onitmx, stood at the door, ready to bid her good-night, " what your new name will be during your voluntary exile." " Mr. Lang has re-christened me ; he has given me the name of his grandfather. Marshal Dudley. I feel as if I had a right to use it, since I have his permission." " Oh, it is so pretty, but not so pretty as " He interrupted her with a light kiss on her forehead, and turned away. The cool air out- side was refreshing, and he inhaled it with a relish. " At any rate," he said to himself, as he walked along slowly, " I shall have to see her but once more before I go, and then — £bsi — rest, for awhile at least." She ilomHttW 0^ a ^tftttki^tt ^om\, 21 CHAPTER III. It was a balmy morning in July when Edgar Morton arrived in Chattanooga, Tennessee. He had heard so much of Lookout Mountain that he could not resist the temptation to stay a few days at one of the hotels on its summit. He alighted from a sleeping-car in the " car- shed," as the inhabitants termed the large union passenger depot in the centre of the city. As he was emerging from the station, satchel in hand, a score of negroes met him. " Ca'ge, boss ? Yer 'tis, suh ; any part de city for twenty-five cents ! " urged one, as he snatched at the satchel eagerly. " Dis way, boss ! mine ride yer ez easy ez er cradle ! " pleaded another, bowing servilely, whip and hat in hand. " Palace Hotel ! Reed House 1 Stanton 22 % pute (^mUmt Hotel ! " bawled half-a-dozen black hotel-run- ners, as they gathered around him. Morton was a little bewildered by their eager- ness and their characteristic visages, but he did not release his satchel. " I am going to the Mountain," he said. He had no sooner spoken than the crowd left him, and ran pell-mell after more profitable passengers. " You Idn go up de broad-gauge track, ur tek de incline plane, whichever yer lak, suh," said a colored bootblack, politely, who was rolling up a scrap of carpet and putting it in his blacking-holder. " Ef yer go up de broad- gauge, yer kin tek de train in dis shed in 'bout twenty minutes ; but ef you'd ruther go de incline, all yer gotter do is ter tek de 'lectric cyar out deh in de street, en fus' thing you know, you at de incline." " What is the best hotel up there ? " Edgar asked. " De ' Inn,' suh ; hit des built, en de biges* house in de Newnited States, so I year um all say. Fum de tower on de top yer kin see inter seben diffunt States." Having decided to take the incline he ^ht ^omanri^ of a ^^owtkvw torn* 23 boarded a street car and was soon sailing through the suburbs, toward a great cone-shaped mass of earth and stone which towered high into the shimmering, sun-Kghted clouds. Morton was beginning to enjoy his trip heartily, and was better satisfied with himself than he had been for years. He was fond of adventure, and its spirit seemed constantly hovering over him. In a few minutes he reached the station of the incline railway. The car was open at the sides and at the end facing the foot of the mountain, so as to enable passengers to behold the grand view as they ascended into the clouds. He looked up the sheer, rugged mountain- side in awe. The winding track, with its hum- ming cable, made its tortuous way among jut- ting bowlders and chffs, and over frightful chasms, on frail-looking trestles. " How far is it to the top ? " Edgar heard a man ask. "It's almost a mile," was the reply, "but we make it in less than seven minutes." " All ready ! " said the conductor, and he pressed his thumb upon an electric button. There was a tinkling of a bell, and a sonorous, double-toned whistle from the engine-house 24 % ^ntt ($0«fe,^,^ov. near by, and the car began to move. To Mor- ton's eye the earth seemed to be slidmg from beneath him. The car increased its speed. Every passenger seemed spellbound. Morton felt a cool, vacant sensation in his breast. This feeling gradually gave way to intense and poetic enjoyment as the broad landscape opened out before his sight. Down, down sank the earth ; up, up went the car, as if borne upon the wings of the balmy air into the ambient clouds. The view constantly widened in all directions. Toward the left lay the Tennessee river, wind- ing like a serpent through a landscape checked with farms and forests and dotted with farm- houses. Beyond the river lay Chattanooga, in mingled haze and smoke, her buildings looking as flat as if they were drawn on a map. At length the car stopped at a broad, flat plateau. From that point the view was sublime, and Morton sat down upon a bench, beneath a blue-and- white striped canopy, to wait for the hotel train to start. " All aboard ! " shouted a conductor, and the little engine was soon tugging and steaming over the rock-bound track along the brow of the mountain. ®he ^omattre of a ^uuthetw tom\. 25 There was something in the appearance of the long hotel, with its towers, its broad, never- ending balconies, and its luxury of space, that charmed Morton. It was about ten o'clock when he arrived, and the verandas, the reading- room, and the 23arlors were thronged with guests. Some Avere promenading, some engaged in play- ing cards, others were reading and writing, while an orchestra was playing in an alcove in the spacious office. " Marshal Dudley, Boston," was the signature Morton wrote upon the register. He bit his lip to hide a smile when the clerk asked: "Mr. Dudley, do you Avish to goto your room at once? " In less than an hour Morton had refreshed himself with a bath, had dressed himself in a becoming light-gray suit, and was rather impa- tient to be below among the pleasure-seekers. The strains of music which faintly reached his ears were enticing. He surveyed himself in a mirror, and as he noted how perfectly his clothes fitted his statuesque figure and how much his curl- ing mustache became his well-carved features, he was satisfied with his personal appearance. The other guests evidently agreed with the 26 % W^uU ((!,on(tmt^ masquerading author, for wlien he was saunter- ing through the halls and balconies, enjoying a fragrant cigar, many a female glance rested on him, and many a bright eye in the group of ladies in the office looked stealthily over the resfister to ascertain his name. " Marshal Dudley ; what a charming name ! " remarked Miss De Witt, a pretty Georgian belle, to a cluster of speculating damsels ; " he looks like an actor, or an artist." " I venture he is a lawyer," said a pretty girl from Virginia. " Any one can see that he is intellectual. Boston men are usually so, you know." Morton was too close an observer not to notice that he attracted attention, but was far too sensible to appear conscious of it. He bought a morning paper and took a seat out on the balcony, pretending to be absorbed in read- ing, while taking note of everything around. He was struck with the gentle, refined beauty of the women, and the polite bearing of the men. Presently, amid a throng of promenaders, he caught a glimpse of the most beautiful girl he had ever seen. She had a pair of great, inde- scribable brown eyes, and a mass of golden hair. ®k %ommtt o( a ^outltcttt ©own. 27 She was tall, lithe, and had a perfect figure. She was leanmg on the arm of an old gray- headed man, and walked past Morton's chair with the ease and freedom of a young goddess. She wore a gown of some soft, clinging stuff, of a peculiar shade of brown, slightly lighter than her eyes, with dainty bits of turquoise- blue peeping here and there. In the cast of her well-chiselled face there was a something which bespoke remarkable powers of intellect. Her wonderful eyes, veiled with sweeping lashes, seemed to breathe ideality ; her every undulant motion to awake a sleeping charm. Edgar's heart bounded ; a thrill ran through his every fibre. The couple passed on. He rose, tossed his cigar over the balustrade, and followed them. " Papa dear," he overheard her say — and the melody of her voice thrilled him strangely, — " you are too much troubled. Throw it off ; mamma is better now ; this air will do her good." " I should be altogether lost without you, darling " sighed the parent ; but a sudden gust of wind bore the rest of the sentence away from Morton's ears. 28 ^ Putf d'onfc.^'.s'ov. As they jDaused at the edge of the balcony to look at the scenery, Edgar passed them, and walked to the end of the building, and tlien, turning back, he found them seated together on a rustic bench. The girl held a newspaper from which she was reading aloud in a softly modulated tone. As she leaned her elbows on the old man's knees, and bent her head over the paper, there was, in her softened posture, an ineffable something that appealed to the au- thor's highest sense of the pure and beautiful. At a glance he remarked the exquisite forma- tion of her white, tapering hand ; the pretty, brown, beaded slijjper that peeped from a cloud of white lace skirts, the Httle pink ear embedded in her golden, wind-tossed tresses. As he was passing she glanced up at him. For one instant he looked full into her face, and felt that the burnino; admiration of his eyes had claimed her notice, for she looked down with faintly heightened color. Never before had Morton felt as he did at that moment. His blood ran in hot streams through his veins. The portals of a new and fascinating experience had opened to him. He ■walked round to the other side of the hotel, ^hc i>omanfc of a ^outHcnt (Toivn;. 29 trying in vain to drive the girl and her eyes from his mind. He laughed at himself, and struggled a little against the strange sensation which had taken possession of him. " What a pure creature she must be ! " he thought; how different from himself ! He shuddered, and a strange discontent stole over him. He was examining himself under a microscope of self- contempt, as it were, and it revealed his short- comings with startling distinctness. What an angel was the girl he had just passed ! All at once the presence of the moving throng grated upon him. He left the veranda, and strolled down the side of the mountain. Seating himself on a grass-grown bowlder, he began to map out his literary plans for the future. He would write down everything wor- thy of note ; nothing should escape him. He would study the habits and the dialect of the negroes, and — but what had become of his en- thusiasm ? Why did that Southern girl's face and eyes haunt hnii ? Then he gave up try- ing to evade his thoughts, and found it deli- cious, there in the balmy air, to build fancies about her, and to recall her beauty and the exquisite tone of her voice. 30 '^ Putf ({l^anUmt, In the evening the music of the orchestrj. drew Morton to the dining-room. The tables had been removed, and the guests, in evening dress, were preparing to dance. Morton's eye swept restlessly over the assembly, seeking the subject of his thoughts ; but she was not in sight. Feeling very lonely, he left the room and walked out upon the now almost deserted balcony. Here and there sat a couple enjoy- ing the cool breeze, which kept the tops of the mountain trees in gentle motion. The strains of the orchestra and the shuffling of feet fol- lowed him. In one of the large parlors some one was playing on a piano, and through the open windows he could see a merry cluster of little girls dancing. The katydids were sing- ing in the trees, and a gauzy ocean of shimmer- ing clouds hovered over the valley. In his purer moments of retrospection, Morton had a habit of recalling to mind a little sister of his who had died years before. She was the com- panion of his loneliness now. She had been ambitious for a child; she used to tell him that some day she would try to make a name for herself. She had always felt that she could She 5^vomaufc of h .^outhfvu uToatt. 31 succeed as an actress. She used to recite to him and was satisfied with her efforts only when he was pleased. He had been her ideal of perfect manhood. His eyes grew moist ; a weight was on his breast. " Poor Lilly ! " he sighed. How he wished that she had lived ! She would have been happy indeed over the fame he had already acquired, for she had been proud of him when he had accomplished nothing. " May I trouble you for a match, sir ? " He was roused from his reverie with a start. The father of the girl who had so deeply in- terested him was at his side, holding a cigar be- tween his fingers. Morton gave him a match, Hfting his hat as he did so. " Thank you," said the old man ; " will you smoke ? " Morton accepted the proffered cigar, feeling a strange delight surge over him as the old gentleman held out the burning match to him. " You, like myself, are not dancing to- night," went on the old man, as he blew a cloud of smoke from his lips. " I am getting too old for that now ; besides, my wife is un- well, and never comes down at night. But 32 ^ pute (^onftmx. you are young ; I should think you would enjoy it." " I am a stranger," said Morton ; " 1 arrived only this morning." " I see, I see," returned the former, pleasantly. " Well, we — that is my daughter and myself — do not know many of the guests here. Stanton is my name, sir. You will pardon my intro- ducing myself, but we of the old school in the South do not stand much on ceremony. I live down at G , a small town in Georgia." So foreign was any idea of deception to Edgar's present mood, that it was on his tongue to give his real name ; but he remembered him- self suddenly. " My name is Dudley — Marshal Dudley," he said, with slow awkwardness — " from Boston." " I am pleased to meet you, sir, and if I can do anything to make your stay here agreeable I shall be glad to do so." In the conversation which ensued between the two men during the next half -hour, Morton bent his every energy toward pleasing his new acquaintance. And he succeeded to an extent that surprised himself. They talked of politics, jeligiou^ literature, art, and the late war, com- (The ^{omancc of a ^^outhcnt