University of Virginia Library

1. CHAPTER I.
THE EVE OF THE WEDDING.

Old Maud Clusky, the cook, had repeatedly looked out
from the basement of a stately mansion, in the Federal
City, impatiently awaiting her master's return from the
Capitol. The hour for dinner had struck, and the punctual
Senator Langdon had not taken his seat at the table. And,
that day, of all others, the President's daughter, Alice
Randolph, was to dine with Miss Edith Langdon; and the
day following, Miss Randolph was to be Miss Langdon's
principal bridesmaid. The Honorable Henry Blount—for
he was a member of the House of Representatives, whilst
his venerable father occupied a seat in the Senate—was on
that day to espouse the beautiful Edith in St. John's Holy
Church. And the daughter of the President of the United
States was now with the affianced maiden in her boudoir.

To say nothing of the honor of preparing a dinner for
the President's daughter, it was very natural for Maud to
evince some impatience to have it served precisely at the
appointed time. Her son Dick, the coachman and gardener,
had been despatched to the Capitol at the usual hour—and
now it was full twenty minutes past the ordinary time of
serving the first course!

“The bad boy!” she exclaimed, vainly peering through
the iron railing, and evidently disposed to vent her wrath
on her innocent son. “He's got a watch,” she continued,

her face red with vexation, “and he ought to know the
things 'll be spoilt.” And, just as she was in the act of re-entering
the door under the marble steps, her ear caught
the sound of wheels; and, pausing, she beheld the gold
band on the hat of her boy. But he was driving most
furiously. “You Dick!” she exclaimed, “the Senator 'll
kill you for such conduct. Stop, I say!” Dick did not
stop. He kept up an incessant fusillade with his whip on
the spirited horses, and, turning the corner, vanished from
sight. “Crazy as a loon!” cried Maud, staring wildly.
“What is the matter? He's gone to the stable, and I'll
run through and catch him there.” She did attempt it;
but being extremely corpulent and short-winded, by the
time she was ready to enter the door of the coach-house
Dick emerged from it into the garden. His face was very
pale, and all his limbs were trembling.

“You Dick!” cried his mother, seizing him by the collar,
“where's Senator Langdon?”

“He's at the Capitol, in concus.”

“In what?”

“In the Vice-President's room, in 'portant consulteration.
He told me to come home and put up the horses quietly.
He'll come in a hack when he's done in concus. He said
I musn't 'larm Miss Edith—and she and Miss Randolph is
to dine together alone without him. And they musn't know
what's the matter yet awhile. Then I'm to give this note,
and—”

“You Dick!” cried his mother, seizing him with both
hands, “what is the matter?”

“Let go, or I can't speak! You choke me! Oh Lord!
I'll faint! I'm frightened half to death! Give me some
brandy, mother.”

“Not a drop till you tell me! What's happened?
Come, now!”

“They've dissolved the Union!”

“Hey! How! What's that?”

“These United States are all knocked into flinders!”

“Who done it?”

“Both sides. Mr. Langdon's no Senator now. Mr.
Randolph's no President, and Miss Alice is no President's
daughter.”

“That's a lie, Dick! Mr. Langdon's elected for six years,

and his grandfather made the Constitution! 'Taint so. I
know better. There's the bell—run!” Dick darted forward,
leaving his mother to follow.

Alice and Edith, unconscious of the flight of time, held
consultation over the rich trousseau displayed before them.
Satins, and laces, and flowers, and jewels, have still their
attractions for the sex, even while governments may be
crumbling into their original elements. And yet Edith and
Alice were not of that giddy and flippant class which deem
the vanities of worldly fashion paramount to the other objects
of existence. They had been schoolmates at St. Mary's Hall,
New Jersey, where the duties as well as the adornments
of American ladies were inculcated. The bride of the morrow
was rather above the medium height, though not
robust in form. Her pale and expressive face was regular
in its features, though perhaps not sufficiently oval for the
prevailing taste. But her brilliant dark eyes, with their long
silken lashes, betrayed the happy emotions of an innocent
heart to the beholder. With a similar stature, and equal
loveliness, Alice's light flaxen hair and sky-blue eyes, contrasted
pleasantly with the opposite hues of those of her
friend.

“To-morrow, Edith, oh, to-morrow!” she exclaimed, as
she again surveyed the magnificent vestments spread out
before them. “One short day, and then—why are you so
sad, and so suddenly?”

“Ah, Alice! you remember what the Bishop used to
say of the anticipations of to-morrow! But this to-morrow
may come as well as any morrow. You know I am not
fearful; indeed they call me brave; and yet, I don't know
why it was—but when you mentioned that word, a pang
seemed to shoot across my breast, and there was a sensible
check of respiration. If I should know no morrow, I would
be incapable of lamentation. As for Harry, I know his
truth and constancy. If he lives, he will come with the
morrow!”

“It is not to be doubted. And yet—”

“Alice, speak on. Our thoughts have ever been freely
shared. We are alone.”

“I was saying—and yet the times are perilous. Those
fearful resolves, so fiercely discussed, both in the country
and in the Capitol; the menacing action of the State Legislatures;

the thunders of the journals and the threats of the
Senators; these, Edith, when considered in connexion with
the measured step of my father in the chamber directly
over my own, sometimes till early morn, induce the belief
that we may be upon the eve of some great political convulsion.”

“And what would be the fate of the President?”

“He apprehends no perils for himself. Nor do I believe
he could be made very unhappy by any of the events which
have been prognosticated.”

“Why do you not believe so?”

“Because, once, when I supposed him ill, and rushed
into his presence, at the hour of two in the morning, he
turned quickly round, gazed a moment at my ghostly habiliments,
and then merely vented hearty peals of laughter.
There were no traces of vexation on his brow. He kissed
me, said he was never in better health or spirits, and that
I might slumber securely, never dreaming of loss of position.
He emphasized the words. And there was meaning
in them, Edith.”

“What could he mean?”

“I could only conjecture, for I durst not interrogate
him. But he who has wrought so boldly and so successfully
hitherto is not likely to be a loser in the political game
hereafter. He is not troubled, else I should see it, and I do
feel tolerably secure. The clock strikes.”

Edith started.

“And father is not here,” said she. “He should have
arrived fifteen minutes ago. I hear the carriage now. No;
it is not his. He is never driven so furiously. But some
one rings,” she added soon after. The ring was repeated
several times before Dick, released from the grasp of his
mother, could reach the door.

Dick, however, presently made his appearance, with two
notes and a card on a silver salver.

“Who left this?” asked Alice, recognising her father's
handwriting.

“The gentleman's name is on the card,” said Dick, stammering,
bowing, and then withdrawing.

Edith read as follows:—“My dear child, be not impatient
for my return. Dine with Alice, and be of good
cheer. I have had a lunch brought me. We have voted

on the `Abstraction Resolution,' and there is some commotion
in consequence of the result, requiring consultation.
Henry's father and I voted differently. I will see you in
an hour. Your affectionate father,” etc.

“Now listen to mine,” said Alice:—“Be marble. Great
events are about to transpire. Edith could furnish an example
of imperturbability if it were not for her approaching
nuptials and the variance between Blount and her
father, which may involve a temporary estrangement. Tell
her it will be only temporary; and beseech her to impart
a portion of her native courage to her friend Alice. I
send this by Wiry Will, my trusty messenger. When he
returns from the Capitol, you may accompany him home.
All goes well!”

A brief pause ensued.

“You sigh, Edith,” said Alice, taking the hand of her
pale companion.

“I did; but that is past. And the tear is not followed
by another. The President—your father, foresees correctly.
His words were designed partly for me. His eagle
glance penetrates hearts, and his great mind comprehends
characters. If a wife, I must obey my husband—I am sure
I shall love him! A daughter, my father shall command.
They must decide my course; and once decided, Alice,
your friend, if not indeed marble, will not be fearful and
vacillating. Even you, Alice, the President's daughter,
may lean upon me amidst the direst convulsions that can
happen.”

“Dear Edith, I know it well!” said Alice, throwing herself
in the arms of her friend.

“And there may be horrors to try us all. We may
suffer many pangs: but let us not forget we are capable of
much suffering. There is Maud. Let us dine, if not for
the sake of our appetites, to please the cook, you know.
Come.”

They repaired to the dining-room, and tasted the viands
and delicacies prepared with such great care and solicitude,
and moistened their lips with the generous wine.

“Who is this Mr. William Wire?” asked Edith, gazing
at the enamelled card which had accompanied the notes.

“They call him Wiry Willy; and many suppose him
half-witted. But my father employs not, trusts not, half-witted

men. I have seen, from my chamber window, this
tall, pale, cadaverous youth, stride across the lawn in the
rear of the mansion, at late and solemn hours of the night;
and he obtained ready access to my father. Once I alluded,
inquiringly, to these mysterious visits. My father smiled,
and said the youth was in love. And immediately after
added that the object of his affection was the beautiful
Mary Penford. She had repulsed him, in obedience to the
command of her grandfather, the old clerk about whom the
papers have said so much. And, strangely enough, it was
Wiry Will who obtained from the President a peremptory
order for the old man's restoration to the desk from which
the Secretary had removed him.”

“And then, of course, there was gratitude, and a removal
of the cruel —”

“No, Edith. Do you not know there is no such thing
as gratitude in politics? You should read some of the letters
to the President. Nor yet is it the want of gratitude
on the old man's part. He deems himself an important
dignitary, and has determined to bestow the hand of Mary
on the Hon. Mr. Ruffleton, who is some day to be President,
and then the superannuated clerk is to be promoted
—to be the chief of a bureau, if not the head of a department.
But why should you listen to this idle prattle?”

“It interested me. I know Mary, and have never
believed the stories malignantly circulated concerning her.
But if we, who have parents possessing wealth and power,
shrink from the dark future, whose shadows are upon us,
what must be the meditations and the fate of poor Mary,
pursued, as I believe her to be, by one incapable of a good
design?”

“You speak thus of General Ruffleton!”

Just then a carriage stopped at the door, and Mr. Langdon
and the two Blounts, the father and son, entered the
mansion. They proceeded into the parlor, whither the
young ladies awaited in vain a summons to join them.
Without such summons they would not present themselves.
The gentlemen, however, had hardly been seated, before
Alice was called for by Wiry Willy, and departed for the
Presidential Mansion.

We will introduce the reader to the gentlemen. Mr.
Langdon was corpulent, and presented an imposing appearance,

as he stood with his hands behind him, hidden under
the skirts of his coat. His features, full and handsome, and
his head surmounted by a wig of very dark grey hair, one
might have supposed him a vigorous gentleman of fifty,
whereas he was not less than seventy years of age. The
elder Blount, facing the Northern Senator, was his junior
by several years, and his antipodes in almost every thing.
He was tall and thin: his long hair was very white: his face
was pale, and his clothes evinced his contempt for the prevailing
fashion. Henry, his son, who sat apart on a sofa,
was a perfect model in stature and manly beauty. He had
served four years in Congress, having been elected the first
time a few weeks before he became eligible, according to
the Constitution. He was now in his twenty-ninth year.

“I tell you, sir,” said Mr. Langdon, with much emphasis,
“this is a very serious, if not an irremediable rupture. A
majority of the Representatives and Senators of thirteen
States to abandon their places, and then solemnly resolve
never to resume them! And it was this, as might have
been foreseen, when the animosity was mutual, for it is
irresistibly contagious, Mr. Blount, led to the withdrawal of
an equal number of Republicans!”

“And for my part,” responded the Southern Senator,
with sang froid, “I am not sure that I shall ever regret the
occurrence. You would not pass the resolution declaratory
of our right to erect additional slave States; and of
course we could not look for any other guarantee. In the
Union all must be equals; equality denied, the Union
ends. My son and myself were among the first to relinquish
our seats. I glory in it.”

“But, sir, it was a mere abstraction!” rejoined Mr.
Langdon. “I would have voted for the admission of a
new slave State, being satisfied a majority of its inhabitants
desired the institution of slavery; but I voted nay on this
measure. It was one of supererogation, and of no practical
use whatever; and history will condemn you for the
step you have taken.”

“Sir,” said Mr. Blount, “when my judgment and my
conscience tell me I am right, history may say what it
pleases. The historians, however, often utter falsehoods,
like irresponsible editors and reckless orators!”

“Gentlemen,” said the younger Blount, who rose from

the sofa, and promenaded to and fro in front of the excited
Senators, “you forget that you are no longer in the Senate
Chamber, and that the Federal Senate has ceased to exist.
That is past. The object of this meeting—”

“True, Harry,” said the elder Blount. “If the political
confederacy be dissolved, as I believe it is, and for ever,
that may be no sufficient reason why domestic ties should
be severed, and no more matrimonial unions be contracted.
Edith's mother was a daughter of the South, and yours a
native of the North. The match has my cordial approbation.
Still, it may be a question whether the nuptials ought
not, under existing circumstances, to be postponed.”

“I, too, most heartily approve the alliance,” said Mr.
Langdon; “and I agree with your father, that it might,
perhaps, be well to postpone the ceremony until a more
quiet time.”

“Your apparent accord, gentlemen,” said Henry, with
the faintest shadow of a smile, as he recollected that for
them to agree on any subject was an almost unprecedented
occurrence, “is, I confess, greatly adverse to my hopes.
If you differed, as usual, on the point of time, I might have
some weight in the decision. But should we not consult
Edith, the other party interested? We know not, we cannot
know, what storms and convulsions the inflammable
elements may engender; and what may be deemed a postponement
for merely a short space of time, might prove an
eternal separation.”

“True, sir,” said Mr. Langdon. “And if I may credit
the assurances of divers members from your section, it is
not unlikely, if the union be consummated now, the youthful
bride may very soon be a young widow. They tell me
that you will be made a military chieftain; that war will be
declared; and much other nonsense.”

“How, sir! how nonsense?” asked the elder Blount,
quickly. “Can any man in his senses suppose our differences
may be adjusted without the intervention of the
sword? I tell you our negroes will be at work on our fortifications
in forty-eight hours.”

“Would they not join us?” asked Mr. Langdon, imprudently.

“No, sir!” was the reply, in almost startling tones,
while the usually pale forehead of the aged Senator was

momentarily flushed with crimson. “The lying Abolitionists
have propagated that idea. They will be undeceived.
The slaves will defend their masters, and when opportunity
serves, will avenge them. The time at length has arrived,
when the fanatics of the North—”

“Remember,” said Mr. Langdon, interrupting him,
“that all the Northern people are not fanatics. I am not
one, though opposed to slavery. Nor am I a Republican,
but—”

“Gentlemen,” again interposed the younger Blount, “recollect
the Senatorial debate is concluded. It is my affair,
now, upon the tapis. And pray let us confine ourselves to
the question, for time presses.”

“Very well, Harry,” said Mr. Langdon, slightly annoyed
at the interruption, though conceding its justice—
“you are right, no doubt. And as there are some matters
I would confer about with your father—not at all political
—I suggest that you find Edith, and confer with her.
Whatever conclusion you may arrive at—since the matter
has gone to this extremity—will be ratified, I trust, by both
your father and myself.”

“Go, Harry, and with plenary powers,” added the elder
Blount.

Harry, heartily concurring in the proposition, withdrew
immediately, and in the space of fifteen minutes reappeared,
conducting Edith, who had promptly acquiesced in his desire
that their fates should be united at the altar on the
morrow. Their opportune presence also served to suppress
an incipient renewal of the debate which had been brought
to so abrupt a conclusion in the Senate.