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THE ANGEL OF LONESOME HILL A STORY OF A PRESIDENT

by Frederick Landis Author of"The Glory of His Country"

1910

[Illustration: Those who passed by night were grateful for the lamp]

It was a handful of people in the country—a simple-hearted handful. The re was no railroad—only a stage which creaked through the gullies and was late. Once it had a hot-box, and the place drifted through space, a vagrant atom.

Time swung on a lazy hinge. Children came; young folks married; old ones died; Indian Creek overflowed the bottom-land; crops failed; one by one the stage bore boys and girls away to seek their fortunes in the far-off world; at long intervals some tragedy streaked the yellow clay monotony with red; January blew petals from her silver garden; April poured her vase of life; August crawled her snail length; years passed, leaving rusty streaks back to a dull horizon.

The sky seemed higher than anywhere else; clouds hurried over this place called"Cold Friday."

A mile to the east was"Lonesome Hill."Indians once built signal fires upon it, and in this later time travellers alighted as their horses struggled up the steep approach. At the top was a cabin; it was whitewashed, and so were the apple-trees round it. A gourd vine clung to its chimney; pigeons fluttered upon its shingles, and June flung a crimson rose mantle over its side and half-way up the roof.

One wished to stop and rest beneath its weeping willow by the white stone milk house.

Those who passed by day were accustomed to a woman's face at the window—a calm face which looked on life as evening looks on day—such a face as one might use to decorate a fancy of the old frontier. Those who passed by night were grateful for the lamp which protested against Nature's apparent consecration of the place to solitude.

This home held aloof from"Cold Friday"; many times Curiosity went in, but Conjecture alone came out, for through the years the man and woman of this cabin merely said,"We came from back yonder."Nobody knew where"yonder"was.

But the law of compensation was in force—even in"Cold Friday."With acquaintanceships as with books, the ecstasy of cutting leaves is not always sustained in the reading, and the silence of this man and woman was the life of village wonder.

It gave"Friday's"chimney talk a spice it otherwise had never known; the back log seldom crumbled into ashes till the bones of these cabin dwellers lay bleaching on the plains of"Perhaps."

John Dale was seventy-five years or more, but worked his niggard hillside all the day, and seldom came to town. His aged wife was kind; the flowers of her life she gave away, but none could glance upon the garden. She seemed to know when neighbors were ill; hers was the dignity of being indispensable. Many the mother of that region who, standing beneath some cloud, thanked God as this slender, white-haired soul with star shine in her face, hurried over the fields with an old volume pasted full of quaint remedies.

She made a call of another kind—just once—when the"Hitchenses"brought the first organ to"Cold Friday."

She remained only long enough to go straight to the cabinet, which the assembled neighbors regarded with distant awe, and play several pieces"without the book."On her leaving with the same quiet indifference, Mrs. Ephraim Fivecoats peered owlishly toward Mrs. Rome Lukens and rendered the following upon her favorite instrument:

"We ll! if that woman ever gits the fever an'gits deliriums, I want to be round, handy like. I'll swan there'll be more interestin'things told than we've heerd in our born days—that woman is allus thinkin'!"

In this final respect, the judgment of the Lady of the House of Fivecoats was sound.

How gallant the mind is! If the past be sad, it mingles with Diversion's multitude till Sadness is lost; if the present be unhappy, it has a magic thrift of joys, and Unhappiness is hushed by Memory's laughter; if both past and present have a grief, it seeks amid its scanty store for some event, for instance, whose recurrence brings some brightness; to greet this it sends affectionate anticipations—and were its quiver empty, it would battle still some way!

So the wife of Dale looked forward to Doctor Johnston's visits, yet there were so many doors between her silence and the world, she did not turn as he entered one eventful day.

Doctors are Nature's confessors, and down the memory of this one wandered a camel of sympathy upon which the sick had heaped their secret woes for years, though one added naught to the burden.

It was the tale he wished to hear, and when some fugitive phrase promised revelation, he folded the powders slowly; but when it ended in a sigh, he strapped up bottles and expectations and went away, reflecting how poor the world where one might hear all things save those which interested.

But Time is a patient locksmith to whom all doors swing open.

"I always sit by this window,"she began as he removed the fever thermometer;"I've looked so long, I see nothing in a way—and at night I always put the light here. If he should come in the dark I want him to see—here is a letter."

The Doctor read and returned it with a look of infinite pity.

"I had a dream last night; I may be superstitious or it may be the fever—but it was so real. I saw it all; it was just like my prayer. I believe in God, you know."She smiled in half reproach."Yes, in spite of all.

"In that dream something touched my hand and a voice whispered the word,'Now.'Oh, how anxious it was! I awoke, sitting up; the lamp had gone out, yet it was not empty—and there was no wind."

John Dale stumbled into the room, his arms full of wood, and an old dog, lying before the fireplace, thumped his tail against the floor with diminishing vigor.

She arose."I'll get you a bite to eat, Doctor."

"Never mind! I must be going."He made a sign to Dale, who followed to the gate.

"John, I've been calling here a long time—"

"I know I ought to pay somethin',"Dale started to say.

"It isn't that—I've just diagnosed the case; only one man can cure it."

"Would he—on credit?"Dale anxiously inquired.

"He never charges."Johnston smiled sorrowfully at the old man's despair.

"Who is he?"

"The President; the President of the United States,"he added as Dale's eyes filled with questions."I came out of college a sceptic, John, and I'd be an infidel outright but for that wife of yours—she's nearer the sky, somehow, than any other mortal I've seen. I don't believe in anything, of course—but that dream—if I were you I'd trust it—I'd follow where it led."

With his foot on the hub, the farmer slowly whetted his knife on his boot."I'll go with you, Doctor."

* * * * *

"I called at the office, but it was locked, and so I'm here,"apologized

Dale as Judge Long opened the door of his old-fashioned stone house in

Point Elizabeth, the county seat.

"Glad to see you—had your supper?"

Hearing voices in the dining-room, he answered in the affirmative.

"Then have a cigar and wait in the library; the folks are having a little company."

The old man surveyed the room; the books alone were worth more than his earthly possessions. From a desk loomed a bust of We bster. Shadows seemed to leap from it; the sombre lips bespoke the futility of striving against stern realities.

The re was gayety in the dining-room; Judge Long was a fountain of mirth, a favorite at taverns, while riding the circuit—before juries—wherever people gathered.

A gale of laughter greeted his last anecdote and the diners protested as he arose.

Dale told his story excitedly, and at the conclusion Judge Long slowly brushed away the tobacco smoke.

"I'm sorry, John, but we did all we could last month—and we failed; there's just one thing to do—face the matter. It's hard, but this world is chiefly water, and what isn't water is largely rock—it's for fish and fossils, I suppose."

"But we will win now!"The old man's hand fell with decision.

"Why do you say that?"

"Mother had another dream last night."

"But, you know, she had one a month ago,"quietly protested Long.

"Yes—and it came true—we didn't do our part just right. We can't fail this time; there must be a day of justice!"

"We ll, as to that, John, this game of life is strange; we bring nothing with us, so how can we lose? We take nothing away, so how can we win? We think; we plan; we stack these plans with precision, but Chance always sits at our right, waiting to cut the cards. You speak of'justice.'It's a myth. The statue above the court-house stands first on one foot, then on the other, tired of waiting, tired of the sharp rocks of technicality, tired of the pompous farce. Why, Dale,"he waved a hand toward an opposite corner,"if old Daniel We bster were here he couldn't do anything!"

When an American lawyer cites that mighty shade it is conclusive, but the effect was lost on Dale. He was not a lawyer, neither had he read the"Dartmouth College Case"nor the"Reply to Hayne."In fact his relations with the"Sage of Marshfield"were so formal he believed his fame to rest chiefly on having left behind a multitude of busts. Besides, he was impatient; the Judge's peroration having lifted his head so suddenly that cigar ashes fell upon the deep rug at his feet.

"You won't go again, Judge?"He leaned forward perplexed.

"It's no use."

"We ll, mebbe you can't do anything—mebbe Dan'l We bster couldn't—but

John Dale can!"

Long arose, astonished."How foolish! Reason for a moment—any presentation of this matter calls for the highest ability; it involves sifting of evidence; symmetry of arrangement; cohesiveness of method, logic of argument, persuasiveness of advocacy, subtleties of acumen, charms of eloquence—all the elements of the greatest profession among men!"

Dale leaned heavily against the table, his eyes following the Judge as he walked back and forth.

"We ll, I've got'em—I can't call'em by name, but I've got the whole damned list—and I'm goin'!"

Long stood at bay, his hand on the door, his face glowing with animation.

"Dale, you're old enough to be my father, but you shall listen. You'd fail before a justice of the peace, and before the President of the United States—it's absurd. You'd go down there, get mad, probably be arrested and kill any hope we might have; why, you're guilty of contempt of court right now. I had a strong influence, yet I failed."

The old farmer of"Lonesome Hill"would listen no more.

"Then wait, John. This letter may at least save you from jail—and you haven't any money; will this do?"

"It's more than I need, Judge."

"No, keep it all—and keep your temper too."

As the Judge stood in the doorway, watching the venerable figure disappear in the drizzling night, a young woman from the dining-room stole to his side and heard him muse:"After all, who knows? A Briton clad in skins once humbled a Roman emperor."

"Is he in trouble?"she asked.

"Yes, great trouble, and it isn't his fault. Fate's a poor shot. She never strikes one who is guilty without wounding two who are innocent."

* * * * *

Dale was an Admirable volunteer and strangely resourceful; he had something more than courage.

The train did not leave for two hours. He sat in the station till the clatter of the telegraph drove him out, when he walked toward the yards with their colored lights, and through his brain raced Speculation's myriad fiends, all brandishing lanterns like those before him. When, at last, the train did start, it seemed to roll slowly, though it could suffer delay and reach the Capital by daybreak.

He read the letter of introduction several times, and wondered what kind of man the President was; he thought of what he would say—and how it would end.

At intervals a ghost would extend a long, bony hand and wring drops of blood from his heart; at such times the President was hostile—the trip very foolish—he regretted his anger at Judge Long's house; and once, had the engine been a horse, he might have turned back. At other times gleams of victory came from somewhere and yet from nowhere, and routed the gypsies from his brain, and the President stood before him, a sympathetic gentleman. Once he knew it, and through excess of spirits walked up and down the aisle, studying the sleeping passengers; for John Dale travelled in a common"day coach."

At last he yielded to fatigue, and far off on the horizon of consciousness dimly flashed the duel of his hopes and fears. Rest was impossible, and after a long time the dawn drifted between his half-closed lids; a glorious dome floated out of the sky and the porter shouted,"All out for Washington!"

The cabmen who besieged the well-dressed passengers paid scant homage to the old man, who walked uncertainly out of the smoky shed and stood for a moment in Pennsylvania Avenue—on one hand the Capitol, on the other the Treasury and White House. A great clock above him struck the hour of six; he hesitated, then went toward the scene of conflict.

The waking traffic, the great buildings, the pulse of this strange life filled him with depression. He came to a beautiful park and gazed upon Lafayette and Rochambeau, then the equestrian statue of Jackson. As he sat facing the snow-white building with columned portico, the magnolia blossoms were as incense. Then he could wait no longer and crossed to the President's office. A policeman stopped him at the steps. He explained that he had a letter from Judge Long. What! Did this policeman not know Judge Long?

He sat under a tree, and the policeman walked a few paces away to turn anon and survey the waiting pilgrim. When the doors opened he entered. The President would not come for another hour; he would be busy—possibly he might see him by noon—provided he had credentials.

With a sigh he sank into a chair and was soon asleep.

"Come—this is no cheap lodging house!"The greeting was shaken into him by a clerk with hair parted in the middle, who disdainfully surveyed the sleeper's attire.

He who has much on his mind little cares what he has on his back, and when the youth exploded,"Who are you?"the old fellow's self-reliance came forth.

Leading the way to the door Dale pointed a trembling finger."See that buildin','Bub'—and that one yonder, and that patch over there with Andy Jackson in it? We ll, I'm one of the folks that made it all—and paid for it; and you're one of my hired hands. I've got to keep so many of you down here I can't afford one on the farm. I want to see the President—give him this letter—it's from Judge Sylvester Long, of Point Elizabeth!"

The youth vanished and Dale resumed his chair.

He was looking across the lawn when a sudden alertness came into the scene; the silk-hatted line of callers stepped aside; those who were seated arose; newspaper correspondents turned with vigilant ears. A nervous voice inquired,"Where is Mr. John Dale?"

The President stood before him, dressed in white flannel, then smilingly grasped his hand with a blast of welcome:"I'm delighted to meet the friend of Judge Long!"Taking his arm the Executive escorted him through the Cabinet Room thronged with Senators, Representatives, and tourists. They entered the private office."Take the sofa, Mr. Dale—it's the easiest thing in the place. I hope your business is such that you can excuse me for a little while."

A smile came over Dale's white face. Could the poorest farmer of the"Cold Friday"region wait for the most powerful character in the world? Nor was the old man in the linen duster the only one who smiled. A member of the Russian Embassy turned to his companion—a distinguished visitor from the Court of St. Petersburg:"What would a peasant say to the Czar?"