University of Virginia Library

28. CHAPTER XXVIII.
THE COLONEL CONTINUES TO BE LED INTO TEMPTATION.

On the cars between New York and Washington Carter
encountered the Governor of Barataria. After the customary
compliments had been exchanged, after the Governor
had acknowledged the services of the famous Tenth, and
the Colonel had eulogized the good old State, the latter
spoke of the vacant lieutenant-colonelcy in the regiment,
and asked that it might be given to Colburne.

“But I have promised that to Mr. Gazaway,” said the
Governor, looking slightly troubled.

“To Gazaway!” roared Carter in wrathful astonishment.
“What! to the same Gazaway? Why—Governor—are
you aware—are you perfectly aware why he left the regiment?”

The Governor's countenance became still more troubled,
but did not lose its habitual expression of mild obstinacy.

“I know—I know,” he said softly. “It is a very miserable
affair.”

“Miserable! It is to the last degree scandalous. I
never heard of anything so utterly contemptible as this
fellow's behavior. You certainly cannot know— If
you did, you wouldn't think of letting this infernal poltroon
back into the regiment. He ought to have been court-martialed.
It is a cursed shame that he was not shot for
misbehavior in presence of the enemy. Let me tell you his
story.”

The Governor had an air which seemed to say that it
would be of no use to tell him anything; but he folded his
hands, bowed his head, crossed his legs, put a pastille in
his mouth, and meekly composed himself to listen.

“This Gazaway is the greatest coward that I ever saw,”
pursued the Colonel. “I positively think he must be the
greatest coward that ever lived. At Georgia Landing he
left his horse, and dodged, and ducked, and squatted behind
the line in such a contemptible way that I came near
rapping him over the head with the flat of my sabre. At
Camp Beasland he shammed sick, and skulked about the
hospitals, whimpering for medicine. I sent in charges
against him then; but they got lost, I believe, on the
march; at any rate, they never turned up. At Port Hudson
I released him from arrest, and ordered him into the
fight, hoping he would get shot. I privately told the surgeon
not to excuse him, and I told the blackguard himself
that he must face the music. But he ran away the moment
the brigade came under fire. He was picked up at
the hospital by the provost-guard, and sent to the regiment
in its advanced position. The officers refused to obey his
orders unless he proved his courage first by taking a rifle
and fighting in the trenches. They equipped him, but he
wouldn't fight. He trembled from head to foot, said he
didn't know how to load his gun, said he was sick, cried.
Then they kicked him out of camp—actually and literally
booted him out—put the leather to him, sir. That is the
last time that he was seen with the regiment. He was
next picked up in the hospitals of New Orleans, and sent
to the front by Emory, who would have shot him if he had
known what he was. He was in command of Fort Winthrop,
and wanted to surrender at the first summons.
Nothing but the high spirit of his officers, and the gallantry
of the whole garrison, saved the fort from its own commander.
I tell you, sir, that he is a redemptionless sneak.
He is a disgrace to the regiment, and to the State, and to
the country. He is a disgrace to every man in both services—to

every man who calls himself an American. And
you propose to restore him to the regiment!”

The Governor sighed, and looked very sad, but at the
same time as meekly determined as Moses.

“My dear Colonel, I knew it all,” he said. “But I
think I am right. I think I am acting out our American
principle—the greatest good of the greatest number. I
must beg your patient hearing and your secrecy. In the
first place, Gazaway is not to keep the commission. It is
merely given to whitewash him. He will accept it, and
then resign it. That is all understood.”

“But what the — do you want to whitewash him for?
He ought to be gibbeted.”

“I know. Very true. But see here. We must carry
the elections. We must have the government supported
by the people. We must give the administration a clear
majority in both houses of Congress. Otherwise, you see,
Coppreheadism and Secession, false peace and rebellion will
triumph.”

But the way to carry the elections is to whip the rebels,
my God!—to have the best officers and the best army, and
win all the victories, my God!”

The Governor smiled as if from habit, but pursued his
own course of reasoning resolutely, without noticing the
new argument. His spunk was rising a little, and he had
no small amount of domination in him, notwithstanding
his amiability.

“Now Gazaway's Congressional district is a close one,”
he continued, “and we fear that his assistance is necessary
to enable us to carry it. I grieve to think that it is so.
It is not our fault. It is the fault of those men who will
vote a disloyal ticket. Well, he demands that we shall
whitewash him by giving him a step up from his old commission.
On that condition he agrees to insure us the district.
Then he is to resign.”

“My God! what a disgraceful muddle!” was Carter's
indignant comment.

The Governor looked almost provoked at seeing that the
Colonel would not appreciate his difficulties and necessities.

“I sacrifice my own feelings in this matter,” he insisted.
“I assure you that it is a most painful step for me to
take.”

He forgot that he was also sacrificing the feelings of
Captain Colburne and of other deserving officers in the
gallant Tenth.

I wouldn't take the step,” returned the Colonel. “I'd
let the election go to hell before I'd take it. If that is the
way elections are carried, let us have done with them, and
pray for a depotism.”

After this speech there was a silence of some minutes.
Each of these men was a wonder to the other; each of
them ought to have been a wonder to himself. The Governor
knew that Carter was a roué, a hard drinker, something
of a Dugald Dalgetty; and he could not understand
his professional chivalry, his passion for the honor of the
service, his bitter hatred of cowards. The Colonel knew
the Governor's upright moral character as an individual,
and was amazed that such a man could condescend to what
he considered dirty trickery. In one respect, Carter had
the highest moral standpoints. He did wrong to please
himself, but it was under the pressure of overwhelming
impulse, and he paid for it in frank remorse. The other
did wrong after calm deliberation, sadly regretting the
alleged necessity, but chloroforming his conscience with
the plea of that necessity. He was at bottom a well-intentioned
and honorable man, but blinded by long confinement
in the dark labyrinths of political intrigue, as the
fishes of the Mammoth Cave are eyeless through the lack
of light. He would have shrunk with horror from Carter
had he known of that affair with Madame Larue. At the
same time he could commission a known coward above the
heads of heroes, to carry a Congressional district. And, in
order that we may not be too hard upon him, let us consider
his difficulties; let us suppose that he had elevated

the Bayard and thrown the Bardolph overboard. In the
first place all the wire-pullers of his following would have
been down upon him with arguments and appeals, begging
him in the name of the party, of the country, of liberty, not
to lose the election. His own candidate in the doubtful
district, an old and intimate friend, would have said, “You
have ruined my chances.” All the capitalists and manufacturers
who depended on this candidate to get this or that
axe sharpened on the Congressional grindstone, would have
added their outcries to the lamentation. Thinking of all
this, and thinking too of the Copperheads, and what they
would be sure to do if they triumphed, he felt that what
he had decided on was for the best, and that he must do it.
Gazaway must have the lieutenant-colonelcy until the
spring election was over; and then, and not before, he must
make way for some honorable man and brave officer.

“But how can this fellow have such a political influence?”
queried the Colonel. “It ought to be easy enough
to expose him in the newspapers, and smash him.”

“The two hundred men or so who vote as he says never
read the newspapers, and wouldn't believe the exposure.”

“There is the majority left,” observed Carter, after another
pause. “Captain Colburne might have that—if he
would take promotion under Gazaway.”

“I have given that to my nephew, Captain Rathbun,”
said the Governor, blushing.

He was not ashamed of his political log-rolling with a
vulgar coward, but he was a little discomposed at confessing
his very pardonable and perhaps justifiable nepotism.

“Captain Rathbun,” he pursued hastily, “has been
strongly recommended by all the superior officers of his
corps. There is no chance of promotion in the cavalry, as
our State has only furnished three companies. I have
therefore transferred him to the infantry, and I placed him
in your regiment because there were two vacancies.”

“Then my recommendation goes for nothing,” said
Carter, in gloomy discontent.

“Really, Colonel, I must have some authority in these
matters. I am called commander-in-chief of the forces
of the State. I am sorry if it annoys you. But there will
be—I assure you there will soon be—a vacancy for Captain
Colburne.”

“But he will have to come in under your nephew, I
suppose.”

“I suppose so. I don't see how it can be otherwise.
But it will be no disgrace to him, I assure you. He will
find Major Rathbun an admirable officer and a comrade
perfectly to his taste. He graduated from the University
only a year after Captain Colburne.”

“Excuse me if I leave you for half an hour,” observed
Carter, without attempting to conceal his disgust. “I
want to step into the smoking-car and take a segar.”

“Certainly,” bowed the Governor, and resumed his
newspaper. He was used to such unpleasant interviews
as this; and after drawing a tired sigh over it, he was all
tranquillity again. The Colonel was too profoundly infuriated
to return to his companion during the rest of the
journey, much as he wanted his influence to back up his
own application for promotion.

“Horrible shame, by Jove!” he muttered, while chewing
rather than smoking his segar. “I wish the whole
thing was in the hands of the War Department. Damn
the States and their rights! I wish, by (this and that)
that we were centralized.”

Thus illogically ruminated the West Pointer; not seeing
that the good is not bad merely because it may be
abused; not seeing that Centralism is sure to be more corrupt
than Federalism. The reader knows that such cases as
that of Gazaway were not common. They existed, but
they were exceptional; they were sporadic, and not symptomatic.
In general the military nominations of the Governor
did honor to his heart and his head. It was Colburne's
accidental misfortune that his State contained one
or two doubtful districts, and that one of them was in the

hands, or was supposed to be in the hands, of his contemptible
superior officer. In almost any other Baratarian regiment
the intelligent, educated, brave and honorable young
captain would have been sure of promotion.

Carter was troubled with a foreboding that his own
claims would meet with as little recognition as those of
Colburne. He took plain whiskeys at nearly every stopping-place,
and reached Washington more than half drunk,
but still in low spirits. Sobered and rested by a night's
sleep, he delivered his dispatches, was bowed out by General
Halleck, and then sought out a resident Congressional
friend, and held a frank colloquy with him concerning the
attainment of the desired star.

“You see, Colonel, that you are a marked man,” said
the M. C. “You have been known to say that the war
will last five years.”

“Well, it will. It has lasted nearly three, and it will
kick for two more. I ought to be promoted, by (this and
that) for my sagacity.”

“Just so,” laughed the M. C. “But you won't be. The
trouble is that you say just what the Copperheads say;
and you get credit for the same motives. It is urged,
moreover, that men like you discourage the nation and
cheer the rebels.”

“By Jove! I'd like to see the rebel who would be
cheered by the news that the war will last two years
longer.”

The honorable member laughed again, in recognition of
the hit, and proceeded:

“Then there is that old filibustering affair. When you
went into that you were not so good a prophet as you are
now; and in fact it is a very unfortunate affair at present;
it stands in your way confoundedly. In fact, you are not
a favorite with our left wing—our radicals. The President
is all right. The War Department is all right. They admit
your faithfulness, ability and services. It is the Senate
that knocks you. I am afraid you will have to wait

for something to turn up. In fact, I don't see my way to a
confirmation yet.”

Carter swore, groaned, and chewed his cigar to a pulp.

“But don't be discouraged,” pursued the M. C. “We
have brought over two or three of the radicals to your
side. Three or four more will do the job. Then we can
get a nomination with assurance of a confirmation. I
promise you it shall be attended to at the first chance. But
you must come out strong against slavery. Abolition is
your card. New converts must be zealous, you know.”

“By Jove, I am strong. I didn't believe in arming the
negro once; but I do now. It was a good movement.
I'll take a black brigade.”

“Will you?” Then you can have a white one, I guess.
By the way, perhaps you can do something for yourself.
A good many of the Members are in town already. I'll
take you around—show you to friends and enemies. In
fact you can do something for yourself.”

Carter did something in the way of treating, giving
game-suppers, flattering and talking anti-slavery, smiling
outwardly the while, but within full of bitterness. It
seemed to him a gross injustice that the destiny of a man
who had fought should be ruled by people who slept in
good beds every night and had never heard a bullet whistle.
He thought that he was demeaning himself by bowing
down to members of Congress and State wire-pullers;
but he was driven to it by his professional rage for promotion,
and still more urgently by the necessity of increasing
his income. When he left Washington after the two
weeks' stay which was permitted to him, his nomination to
a brigadiership was promised, and he had strong hopes of
obtaining the Senatorial confirmation. At New York he
called on Mrs. Larue. He had not meant to do it when
he quitted the virtuous capital of the nation, but as he approached
her he felt drawn towards her by something
stronger than the engine. Moreover, he thought to himself
that she might do something for his promotion if she

could be induced to go to Washington and try the ponderosity
of the United States Senate with that powerful social
lever of hers, la sainte passion, etc.

“Why didn't you tell me this before?” she exclaimed.
“Why were you not frank with me, mon ami? I would
have gone. I would have worked day and night for you.
I would have had such fun! It would have been delicious
to humbug those abolitionist Senators. I would have been
the ruin of Mr. Sumnaire and Mr. Weelsone. There would
have been yet more books dedicated to Sainte Marie Madeleine.”

She burst into a laugh at these jolly ideas, and waltzed
about the room with a mimicry of love-making in her eyes
and gestures.

“But I can not go alone, you perceive; do you not?”
she resumed, sitting down by his side and laying one hand
caressingly on his shoulder. “I should have no position
alone, and there is not the time for me to create one.
Moreover, I have paid for my passage to New Orleans in
the Mississippi.”

“Well, we shall be together,” said Carter. “That is
my boat. But what a cursed fool I was in not taking you
to Washington!”

“Certainly you were, mon ami. It is most regrettable.
It is désespérant.”

As far as these two were concerned, the voyage south
was much like the latter part of the voyage north, except
that Carter suffered less from self-reproach, and was generally
in higher spirits. He had not money enough left to
pay for his meals and wine, but he did not hesitate to borrow
a hundred dollars from the widow, and she lent it
with her usual amiability.

“You shall have all I can spare,” she said. “I only
wish to live and dress comme il faut. You are always
welcome to what remains.”

What could the unfortunate man do but be grateful?
Mrs. Larue began to govern him with a mild and insinuating

domination; and, strange to say, her empire was not
altogether injurious. She corrected him of a number of
the bearish ways which he had insensibly acquired by life
in the army, and which his wife had not dared to call his
attention to, worshipping him too sincerely. She laughed
him out of his swearing, and scolded him out of most of his
drinking. She mended his stockings, trimmed the frayed
ends of his necktie, saw to it that his clothes were brushed;
in short, she greatly improved his personal appearance,
which had grown somewhat shabby under the influences
of travelling and carousing; for the Colenel was one of
those innumerable male creatures who always go to seediness
as soon as womankind ceases to care for them. With
him she had no more need of coquetries and sentimental
prattle; and she treated him very much as a wife of five
years' standing treats her husband. She was amiable,
pains-taking, petting, slightly exacting, slightly critical,
moderately chatty, moderately loving. They led a peaceable,
domestic sort of life, without much regard to
secrecy, without much terror at the continual danger of
discovery. They were old sinners enough to feel and behave
much like innocent people. Carter's remorse, it must
be observed, had arisen entirely from his affection for his
wife, and his shame at having proved unworthy of her
affectionate confidence, and not at all from any sense of
doing an injury to Mrs. Larue, nor from a tenderness of
conscience concerning the abstract question of right and
wrong. Consequently, after the first humiliation of his fall
was a little numbed by time, he could be quite comfortable
in spirit.

But his uneasiness awakened at the sight of Lillie, and
the pressure of her joyful embrace. The meeting, affectionate
as it seemed on both sides, gave him a very miserable
kind of happiness. He did not turn his eyes to Mrs.
Larue, who stood by with a calm, pleased smile. He was
led away in triumph; he was laid on the best sofa and
worshipped; he was a king, and a god in the eyes of that

pure wife; but he was a very unhappy, and shamefaced
deity.

“Oh, what charming letters you wrote!” whispered
Lillie. “How good you were to write so often, and to
write such sweet things! They were such a comfort to
me!”

Carter was a little consoled. He had written often and
affectionately; he had tried in that way to make amends
for a concealed wrong; and he was heartily glad to find
that he had made her happy.

“Oh, my dear child!” he said. “I am so delighted if I
have given you any pleasure!”

He spoke this with such a sigh, almost a groan, that she
looked at him in wonder and anxiety.

“What is the matter, my darling?” she asked. “What
makes you sad? Have you failed in getting your promotion?
Never mind. I will love you to make up for it.
I know, and you know, that you deserve it. We will be
just as happy.”

“Perhaps I have not altogether failed,” he replied, glad
to change the subject. “I have some hopes yet of getting
good news.”

“Oh, that will be so delightful! Won't it be nice to
be prosperous as well as happy! I shall be so overjoyed
on your account! I shall be too proud to live.”

In his lonely meditations Carter frequently tried himself
at the bar of his strange conscience, and struggled hard to
gain a verdict of not guilty. What could a fellow do, he
asked, when a woman would persist in flinging herself at
his head? He honestly thought that most men would
have done as he did; that no one but a religious fanatic
could have resisted so much temptation; and that such resistance
would have been altogether ungentlemanly. To
atone for his wrong he was most tender to his wife; he
followed her with attentions, and loaded her with presents.
As the same time that he had a guilt upon his soul which
might have killed her had she discovered it, he would not

stint her wardrobe, nor forget to kiss her every time he
went out, nor fail to bring her bouquets every evening.
He has been known to leave his bed at midnight and
walk the street for hours, driving away dogs whose howling
prevented her from sleeping. Deeds like this were
his penance, his expiation, his consolation.

He was now on duty in the city. High Authority, determined
to make amends for the neglect with which this
excellent officer was treated, offered him the best thing
which it had now to give, the chief-quartermastership of
the Department of the Gulf. His pay would thereby be
largely increased in consequence of his legal commutations
for rooms and fuel, besides which there was a chance of
securing large extra-official gleanings from such a broad
field of labor and responsibility. But Carter realized little
out of his position. He could keep his accounts of Government
property correctly; but except in his knowledge
of returns, and vouchers, and his clerk-like accuracy, he
was not properly speaking a man of business; that is to
say, he had no faculty for making money. He was too
professionally honorable to lend Government funds to
speculators for the sake of a share of the profits. He would
not descend to the well-known trickery of getting public
property condemned to auction, and then buying it in for
a song to sell it at an advance. In the case of a single
wagon he might do something of the sort in order to rectify
his balances in the item of wagons; or he might make
a certificate of theft in a small affair of trousers or havresacks
which had been lost through negligence, or issued
without a receipt. But to such straits officers were frequently
driven by the responsibility system; he sheltered
himself under the plea of necessity; and did nothing worse.
In fact, his position was a temptation without being
a benefit.

It was a serious temptation. A great deal of money
passed through his hands. He paid out, and received on
account of the Government, thousands of dollars daily;

and the mere handling of such considerable sums made
him feel as if he were a great capitalist. Money was an
every day, vulgar commodity, and he spent it with profusion.
Before he had been in his place two months he was
worm-eaten, leaky, sinking with debts. No one hesitated
to trust a man who had charge over such an abounding
source of wealth as the chief-quartermastership of the Department
of the Gulf. He lived sumptuously, drank good
wines, smoked the best segars, and marketed for the Ravenel
table in his own name, blaspheming the expense
whether of cost or credit. Remembering that his wife
needed gentle exercise, and had a right to every comfort
which he could furnish, he gave her a carriage, and pair
of ponies, and of course set up a coachman.

“Can you afford it, my dear?” asked Lillie, a little
anxious, for she was aware of his tendency to extravagance.

“I can afford anything, my little one, rather than the
loss of you,” replied the Colonel after a moment's hesitation.

She wanted to believe that all was well, and therefore
the task of convincing her was easy. Her trust was constant,
and her adoration fervent; they were symptomatic
of her physical condition; they were for the present laws
of her nature. It was more than usually painful to her
now to be separated long from her deity. When he went
out it was, “Where are you going? When will you come
back?”—When he returned it was, “How long you have
been gone! Oh, I though you would come an hour
ago?” It was childish, but she did not perceive it, and if
she had, she could not have helped it. She clung to him,
and longed after him because she must; there was a bond
of unity between them which clasped her inmost life.

Meanwhile how about Mrs. Larue? No one could have
been more discreet, more corruptly sagacious, more sunnily
amiable, than this singular woman. She petted Lillie
like a child, helped her in her abundant sewing labors,

brought her as many bouquets as the Colonel himself,
scolded her for imprudencies, forbade this dish and recommended
that, laughed at her occasional despondencies, and
cheered her as women know how to cheer each other. She
seemed like the truest friend of the young woman whom
she would not have hesitated much to rob of her husband,
provided she could have wished to do it. This kindness
was not hypocrisy, but simple, unforced good nature. It
was natural, and therefore, agreeable to her to be amiable;
and as she always did what she liked to do, she was a
pattern of amiability. To have quarreled seriously with
Lillie would have been a downright annoyance to her, and
consequently she avoided every chance of a disagreement,
so far at least as was consistent with her private pleasures.
She had not the slightest notion of eloping with the Colonel;
she did not take passions sufficiently au grand sérieux for
that; she would not have isolated herself from society for
any man.

Notwithstanding Mrs. Larue's sugar mask Lillie was at
times disposed to fight her; not, however, in the slightest
degree on account of her husband; only on account of her
father. The sly Creole, partly for her own amusement indeed,
but chiefly to divert suspicion from her familiarity
with Carter, commenced a coquettish attack upon the
Doctor. Lillie was sometimes in a desperate fright lest
she should entrap him into a marriage. She thought that
she understood Mrs. Larue perfectly, and she felt quite
certain that she was by no means good enough for her
father. In her estimation there never was a man, unless
it might be her husband, who was so good, so noble, so
charming as this parent of hers; and if she had been called
on to select a wife for him, I doubt whether any woman
could have passed the examination to which she would
have subjected the candidates.

“I perfectly spoil you, papa,” she said, laughing. “I
pet you and admire you till I suppose I shall end by ruining
you. If ever you go out into the world alone,

what will become of you? You will miss my care dreadfully.
You mustn't leave me; it's for your own good—
hear? You mustn't trust yourself to anybody else—hear?”

“I hear, my child,” answers the Doctor. “What a
charming little Gold Coast accent you have!”

“Pshaw! It isn't negro at all. Everybody talks so.
But I wonder if you are trying to change the subject.”

“Really I wasn't aware of a subject being presented for
my consideration.”

“Oh, you don't understand, or you won't understand.
I do believe you have a guilty conscience.”

“A guilty conscience about what, my child? Have the
kindness to speak plainly. My mind is getting feeble.”

“Ain't you ashamed to ask me to speak plainly? I
don't want to speak plainly. Do you actually want to
have me?”

“If it wouldn't overpower your reason, I should like it.
It would be such a convenience to me.”

“Well, I mean, papa,” said Lillie, coloring at her audacity,
“that I don't like Mrs. Larue!”

“Don't like Mrs. Larue! Why, she is as kind to you as
she can possibly be. I thought you were on the best of
terms.”

“I mean that I don't like her well enough to call her
Mamma.”

“Call her Mamma!” repeated the Doctor, staring over his
spectacles in amazement. “You don't mean?—upon my
honor, you are too nonsensical, Lillie.”

“Am I? Oh, I am so delighted!” exclaimed Lillie eagerly.
“But I was so afraid.”

“Do you think I am in my dotage?” inquired the Doctor,
almost indignant.

“No no, papa. Don't be vexed with me. I dare say it
was very absurd in me. But I do think she is so artful
and designing.”

“She is a curious woman, we know,” observed Ravenel.
“She certainly has some—peculiarities.”

Lillie laughed outright, and said, “Oh yes,” with a gay
little air of satire.

“But she is too young to think of me,” pursued the Doctor.
“She can't be more than twenty-five.”

“Papa!!” protested Lillie. “She is thir—ty! Have
you lost your memory?”

“Thirty! Is it possible? Really, I am growing old.
I am constantly understating other people's ages. I have
caught myself at it repeatedly. I don't know whether it
is forgetfulness, or inability to realize the flight of time, or
an instinctive effort to make myself out a modern by showing
that my intimates are youthful. But I am constantly
doing it. Do you recollect how I have laughed about
Elderkin for this same trick? He is always relating anecdotes
of his youth in a way which would lead you to suppose
that the events happened some fifteen or twenty years
ago. And yet he is seventy. I mustn't laugh at Elderkin
any more.”

“Nonsense!” said Lillie. “You are not a bit like him.
He blacks his hair to correspond with his dates. He means
to humbug people. And then you are not old.”

“But, to return to Mrs. Larue,” observed the Doctor.
“She has a clear head; she is pretty sensible. She is not
a woman to put herself in a false or ridiculous position. I
really have not observed anything of what you hint.”

“Oh no. Of course not. Men never do; they are so
stupid! Of course you wouldn't observe anything until
she went on her knees and made you a formal declaration.
I was afraid you might say, `Yes,' in your surprise.”

“My dear, don't talk in that way of a lady. You degrade
your own sex by such jesting.”

However, the Doctor did in a quiet way put himself on
his guard against Mrs. Larue; and Lillie, observing this,
did also in a quiet way feel quite elated over the condition
of things in the family. She was as happy as she had ever
been, or could desire to be. It was a shocking state of
deception; corruption lilied over with decorum and smiling

amiability; whited sepulchres, apples of Sodom, blooming
Upas. Carter saw Mrs. Larue as often as he wanted,
and even much oftener, in a private room, which even his
wife did not know of, in rear of his offices. Closely veiled
she slipped in by a back entrance, and reappeared at the
end of ten minutes, or an hour, or perhaps two hours. It
was after such interviews had taken place that his wife
welcomed him with those touching words. “Oh, where
have you been? I thought you never would come.”

He would have been glad to break the evil charm, but
he was too far gone to be capable of virtuous effort.