University of Virginia Library

31. CHAPTER XXXI.

MR. HENRY BRIERLY was exceedingly busy in New
York,so he wrote Col. Sellers, but he would drop everything
and go to Washington.

The Colonel believed that Harry was the prince of lobbyists,
a little too sanguine, may be, and given to speculation,
but, then, he knew everybody; the Columbus River navigation
scheme was got through almost entirely by his aid. He
was needed now to help through another scheme, a benevolent
scheme in which Col. Sellers, through the Hawkinses, had a
deep interest.

“I don't care, you know,” he wrote to Harry, “so much
about the niggroes. But if the government will buy this
land, it will set up the Hawkins family—make Laura an
heiress—and I shouldn't wonder if Eschol Sellers would set
up his carriage again. Dilworthy looks at it different, of
course. He's all for philanthropy, for benefiting the colored

race. There's old Balaam, was in the Interior—used to be
the Rev. Orson Balaam of Iowa—he's made the riffle on the
Injun; great Injun pacificator and land dealer. Balaam's
got the Injun to himself,
and I suppose that Senator
Dilworthy feels that
there is nothing left him
but the colored man. I do
reckon he is the best friend
the colored man has got
in Washington.”

Though Harry was in a
hurry to reach Washington,
he stopped in Philadelphia,
and prolonged his visit day
after day, greatly to the
detriment of his business both in New York and Washington.
The society at the Bolton's might have been
a valid excuse for neglecting business much more important
than his. Philip was there; he was a partner with
Mr. Bolton now in the new coal venture, concerning
which there was much to be arranged in preparation for the
Spring work, and Philip lingered week after week in the
hospitable house. Alice was making a winter visit. Ruth
only went to town twice a week to attend lectures, and the
household was quite to Mr. Bolton's taste, for he liked the
cheer of company and something going on evenings. Harry
was cordially asked to bring his traveling-bag there, and he
did not need urging to do so. Not even the thought of seeing
Laura at the capital made him restless in the society of
the two young ladies; two birds in hand are worth one in the
bush certainly.

Philip was at home—he sometimes wished he were not so
much so. He felt that too much or not enough was taken
for granted. Ruth had met him, when he first came,
with a cordial frankness, and her manner continued entirely

unrestrained. She neither sought his company nor avoided it,
and this perfectly level treatment irritated him more than
any other could have done. It was impossible to advance
much in love-making with one who offered no obstacles, had
no concealments and no embarrassments, and whom any
approach to sentimentality would be quite likely to set into a
fit of laughter.

“Why, Phil,” she would say, “what puts you in the dumps
to day? You are as solemn as the upper bench in Meeting.
I shall have to call Alice to raise your spirits; my presence
seems to depress you.”

“It's not your presence, but your absence when you are
present,” began Philip, dolefully, with the idea that he was
saying a rather deep thing. “But you won't understand
me.”

“No, I confess I cannot. If you really are so low as to
think I am absent when I am present, it's a frightful case of
aberration; I shall ask father to bring out Dr. Jackson.
Does Alice appear to be present when she is absent?”

“Alice has some human feeling, anyway. She cares for
something besides musty books and dry bones. I think,
Ruth, when I die,” said Philip, intending to be very grim
and sarcastic, “I'll leave you my skeleton. You might like
that.”

“It might be more cheerful than you are at times,” Ruth
replied with a laugh. “But you mustn't do it without consulting
Alice. She might not like it.”

“I don't know why you should bring Alice up on every
occasion. Do you think I am in love with her?”

“Bless you, no. It never entered my head. Are you?
The thought of Philip Sterling in love is too comical. I thought
you were only in love with the Ilium coal mine, which you
and father talk about half the time.”

This is a specimen of Philip's wooing. Confound the girl,
he would say to himself, why does she never tease Harry and
that young Shepley who comes here?

How differently Alice treated him. She at least never

mocked him, and it was a relief to talk with one who had
some sympathy with him. And he did talk to her, by the
hour, about Ruth. The blundering fellow poured all his
doubts and anxieties into her ear, as if she had been the
impassive occupant of one of those little wooden confessionals
in the Cathedral on Logan Square. Has a confessor, if she is
young and pretty, any feeling? Does it mend the matter by
calling her your sister?

Philip called Alice his good sister, and talked to her about
love and marriage, meaning Ruth, as if sisters could by no
possibility have any personal concern in such things. Did
Ruth ever speak of him? Did she think Ruth cared for
him? Did Ruth care for anybody at Fallkill? Did she
care for anything except her profession? And so on.

Alice was loyal to Ruth, and if she knew anything she did
not betray her friend. She did not, at any rate, give Philip
too much encouragement. What woman, under the circumstances,
would?

“I can tell you one thing, Philip,” she said, “if ever Ruth
Bolton loves, it will be with her whole soul, in a depth of
passion that will sweep everything before it and surprise even
herself.”

A remark that did not much console Philip, who imagined
that only some grand heroism could unlock the sweetness of
such a heart; and Philip feared that he wasn't a hero. He
did not know out of what materials a woman can construct a
hero, when she is in the creative mood.

Harry skipped into this society with his usual lightness and
gaiety. His good nature was inexhaustible, and though he
liked to relate his own exploits, he had a little tact in adapting
himself to the tastes of his hearers. He was not long in
finding out that Alice liked to hear about Philip, and Harry
launched out into the career of his friend in the West, with a
prodigality of invention that would have astonished the chief
actor. He was the most generous fellow in the world, and
picturesque conversation was the one thing in which he never
was bankrupt. With Mr. Bolton he was the serious man of

business, enjoying the confidence of many of the monied men
in New York, whom Mr. Bolton knew, and engaged with
them in railway schemes and government contracts. Philip,
who had so long known Harry, never could make up his
mind that Harry did not himself believe that he was a chief
actor in all these large operations of which he talked so
much.

Harry did not neglect to endeavor to make himself agreeable
to Mrs. Bolton, by paying great attention to the children,
and by professing the warmest interest in the Friends'
faith. It always seemed to him the most peaceful religion;
he thought it must be much easier to live by an internal light
than by a lot of outward rules; he had a dear Quaker aunt
in Providence of whom Mrs. Bolton constantly reminded
him. He insisted upon going with Mrs. Bolton and the children
to the Friends Meeting on First Day, when Ruth and
Alice and Philip, “world's people,” went to a church in town,
and he sat through the hour of silence with his hat on, in
most exemplary patience. In short, this amazing actor succeeded
so well with Mrs. Bolton, that she said to Philip one
day,

“Thy friend, Henry Brierly, appears to be a very worldly-minded
young man. Does he believe in anything?”

“Oh, yes,” said Philip laughing, “he believes in more
things than any other person I ever saw.”

To Ruth Harry seemed to be very congenial. He was never
moody for one thing, but lent himself with alacrity to whatever
her fancy was. He was gay or grave as the need might
be. No one apparently could enter more fully into her plans
for an independent career.

“My father,” said Harry, “was bred a physician, and
practiced a little before he went into Wall street. I always
had a leaning to the study. There was a skeleton hanging
in the closet of my father's study when I was a boy, that I
used to dress up in old clothes. Oh, I got quite familiar with
the human frame.”

“You must have,” said Philip. “Was that where you

learned to play the bones? He is a master of those musical
instruments, Ruth; he plays well enough to go on the stage.”

“Philip hates science of any kind, and steady application,”
retorted Harry. He didn't fancy Philip's banter, and when
the latter had gone out, and Ruth asked,

“Why don't you take up medicine, Mr. Brierly?”

Harry said, “I have it in mind. I believe I would begin
attending lectures this winter if it weren't for being wanted
in Washington. But medicine is particularly women's province.”

“Why so?” asked Ruth, rather amused.

“Well, the treatment of disease is a good deal a matter of
sympathy. A woman's intuition is better than a man's.
Nobody knows anything, really, you know, and a woman can
guess a good deal nearer than a man.”

“You are very complimentary to my sex.”

“But,” said Harry frankly, “I should want to choose my
doctor; an ugly woman would ruin me, the disease would be
sure to strike in and kill me at sight of her. I think a pretty
physician, with engaging manners, would coax a fellow to
live through almost anything.”

“I am afraid you are a scoffer, Mr. Brierly.”

“On the contrary, I am quite sincere. Wasn't it old
what's his name? that said only the beautiful is useful?”

Whether Ruth was anything more than diverted with
Harry's company, Philip could not determine. He scorned
at any rate to advance his own interest by any disparaging
communications about Harry, both because he could not help
liking the fellow himself, and because he may have known
that he could not more surely create a sympathy for him in
Ruth's mind. That Ruth was in no danger of any serious
impression he felt pretty sure, felt certain of it when he
reflected upon her severe occupation with her profession.
Hang it, he would say to himself, she is nothing but pure
intellect anyway. And he only felt uncertain of it when she
was in one of her moods of raillery, with mocking mischief
in her eyes. At such times she seemed to prefer Harry's

society to his. When Philip was miserable about this, he
always took refuge with Alice, who was never moody, and
who generally laughed him out of his sentimental nonsense.
He felt at his ease with Alice, and was never in want of
something to talk about; and he could not account for the
fact that he was so often dull with Ruth, with whom, of all
persons in the world, he wanted to appear at his best.

Harry was entirely satisfied with his own situation. A
bird of passage is always at its ease, having no house to build,
and no responsibility. He talked freely with Philip about
Ruth, an almighty fine girl, he said, but what the deuce she
wanted to study medicine for, he couldn't see.

There was a concert one night at the Musical Fund Hall
and the four had arranged to go in and return by the Germantown
cars. It was Philip's plan, who had engaged the
seats, and promised himself an evening with Ruth, walking
with her, sitting by her in the hall, and enjoying the feeling
of protecting that a man always has of a woman in a public
place. He was fond of music, too, in a sympathetic way; at
least, he knew that Ruth's delight in it would be enough for
him.

Perhaps he meant to take advantage of the occasion to say
some very serious things. His love for Ruth was no secret
to Mrs. Bolton, and he felt almost sure that he should have no
opposition in the family. Mrs. Bolton had been cantious
in what she said, but Philip inferred everything from her
reply to his own questions, one day, “Has thee ever spoken
thy mind to Ruth?”

Why shouldn't he speak his mind, and end his doubts?
Ruth had been more tricksy than usual that day, and in a
flow of spirits quite inconsistent, it would seem, in a young
lady devoted to grave studies.

Had Ruth a premonition of Philip's intention, in his manner?
It may be, for when the girls came down stairs, ready
to walk to the cars, and met Philip and Harry in the hall,
Ruth said, laughing,

“The two tallest must walk together,” and before Philip

knew how it happened Ruth had taken Harry's arm, and his
evening was spoiled. He had too much politeness and good
sense and kindness to show in his manner that he was hit.
So he said to Harry,

“That's your disadvantage in being short.” And he gave
Alice no reason to feel during the evening that she would
not have been his first choice for the excursion. But he was
none the less chagrined, and not a little angry at the turn the
affair took.

The Hall was crowded with the fashion of the town.—
The concert was one of those fragmentary drearinesses that
people endure because they are fashionable; tours de force on
the piano, and fragments from operas, which have no meaning
without the setting, with weary pauses of waiting between;
there is the comic basso who is so amusing and on such familiar
terms with the audience, and always sings the Barber; the
attitudinizing tenor, with his languishing “Oh, Summer
Night;” the soprano with her “Batti Batti,” who warbles
and trills and runs and fetches her breath, and ends with a
noble scream that brings down a tempest of applause in the
midst of which she backs off the stage smiling and bowing.
It was this sort of concert, and Philip was thinking that it
was the most stupid one he ever sat through, when just as
the soprano was in the midst of that touching ballad,
“Comin' thro' the Rye” (the soprano always sings “Comin'
thro' the Rye” on an encore—the Black Swan used to make
it irresistible, Philip remembered, with her arch, “If a body
kiss a body”) there was a cry of Fire!

The hall is long and narrow, and there is only one place
of egress. Instantly the audience was on its feet, and a rush
began for the door. Men shouted, women screamed, and
panic seized the swaying mass. A second's thought would
have convinced every one that getting out was impossible,
and that the only effect of a rush would be to crush people
to death. But a second's thought was not given. A few cried
“Sit down, sit down,” but the mass was turned towards the
door. Women were down and trampled on in the aisles, and

[ILLUSTRATION]

THE FIRE PANIC.

[Description: 499EAF. Page 286. In-line image of a group of men fighting with canes and fists in side of a saloon.] stout men, utterly lost to self-control, were mounting the
benches, as if to run a race over the mass to the entrance.

Philip who had forced the girls to keep their seats saw, in
a flash, the new danger, and sprang to avert it. In a second
more those infuriated men would be over the benches and
crushing Ruth and Alice under their boots. He leaped upon
the bench in front of them and struck out before him with all
his might, felling one man who was rushing on him, and
checking for an instant the movement, or rather parting it,
and causing it to flow on either side of him. But it was
only for an instant; the pressure behind was too great, and
the next Philip was dashed backwards over the seat.

And yet that instant of arrest had probably saved the girls,
for as Philip fell, the orchestra struck up “Yankee Doodle”
in the liveliest manner. The familiar tune caught the ear
of the mass, which paused in wonder, and gave the conductor's
voice a chance to be heard—“It's a false alarm!”

The tumult was over in a minute, and the next, laughter was
heard, and not a few said, “I knew it wasn't anything.”
“What fools people are at such a time.”

The concert was over, however. A good many people
were hurt, some of them seriously, and among them Philip
Sterling was found bent across the seat, insensible, with his
left arm hanging limp and a bleeding wound on his head.

When he was carried into the air he revived, and said it
was nothing. A surgeon was called, and it was thought best
to drive at once to the Bolton's, the surgeon supporting Philip,
who did not speak the whole way. His arm was set and his
head dressed, and the surgeon said he would come round all
right in his mind by morning; he was very weak. Alice who
was not much frightened while the panic lasted in the hall,
was very much unnerved by seeing Philip so pale and bloody.
Ruth assisted the surgeon with the utmost coolness and with
skillful hands helped to dress Philip's wounds. And there
was a certain intentness and fierce energy in what she did that
might have revealed something to Philip if he had been in
his senses.

But he was not, or he would not have murmured “Let
Alice do it, she is not too tall.”

It was Ruth's first case.