"Why couldn't you?" demanded her father.
"Well, I found it out by accident when he caught me off my falling horse—there it is again, papa—he saved my life as well as yours—it was just the grandest thing the way he did it!—no wonder I have loved and married him—he's the sort that can take care of a woman—enough different from Bobby Scott, who couldn't stay in his own saddle!"
"But Mr. Scott is of an excellent family—distinguished for generations—while Hayward is a nobody—a—a nothing—no family and no recognized personal distinction or merit of his own—the commonest circus clown can ride a horse, my child."
"But he is personally distinguished, papa; and you have approved his merit by making him a lieutenant of cavalry."
"When? How?" the father asked.
"He is John H. Graham, papa—John Hayward Graham; and there can be no denying his fitness or ability, for you have certified to both."
Mr. Phillips saw he was estopped on that line; but it only made him angry and stirred his fighting blood.
"That's the reason," Helen continued, "that Hayward wouldn't let me tell you who he was or thing about his service to you. He wanted to obtain his commission absolutely on his merit and without appealing to your gratitude—wasn't it noble of him?"
A grunt was all the answer Helen got to her question.
"But his people, who are they? What sort of a family have you married into? Do you know?" Mr. Phillips demanded sharply.
"He lives with his mother—his father is dead—oh, I wish you could hear him tell about his father and mother, and his grandfather—it's just beautiful. I don't know whether he has any other relatives,—but that doesn't make any difference. I am not married to them, papa, and he's not responsible for his people but must be judged by his own personal character and excellence!"
In this last speech of Helen, Mr. Phillips thought he caught an echo of something he had heard himself say, and he winced a little: but it only added a spark more to his anger.
"But he's so far below you socially, Helen. You cannot be happy with him! You must remember that you are the President's daughter and—"
"And my husband," interrupted Helen, "is of the one order of American nobility—a man! I've thought about all that—the man's the thing, you said, papa—and besides, an army officer has no social superiors."
There was no mere echo in Helen's defence now. It was plain fighting her father with his own words: and it irritated him beyond endurance. His wrath burst through and threw off the shell of theories and sentiment which he had built up around himself and the man's real self spoke.
"But he's a negro, Helen! A negro! How could you!"
"A negro, papa?" Helen questioned in unmixed surprise. "What has that to do with it? He's the finest looking man in Washington if he is—and didn't you tell Elise that that was nothing more than a colour of skin?—that the man was the thing?—that a—that a—negro must stand or fall upon his own merit and not upon his colour or caste?—and did you not say to Mr. Mackenzie that colour has nothing to do with a man's acceptability in your house?—and that—"
"Oh, my God! yes, my child, but I did not mea—you are too young, too young to be married, my child,—too young and too—yes, too young, and we must annul this marriage—yes, we must annul it, we must annul it—we can annul it without trouble, don't worry about it, child, don't worry—we can annul it, and—for you are too young, my little girl, my little girl, my little girl!"
At sight of her father's tears, and the trembling that shook him as he sank down in a chair, Helen's combative attitude began to melt and her eyes to fill.
"Yes, little girl, don't worry," he said, drawing her tenderly down within his arms, "don't worry, and we will have it annulled in short order."
"It's too late, papa," she spoke against his shoulder.
"No, no, precious heart, it's not too late—we can have it annulled—don't cry, and don't worry, we can have it annulled."
"But, papa," she said again as she pushed herself back so that he looked her full in the face, "it's too late, I tell you! It's—too—late!"—and with outburst of weeping she curled herself up against him.
With a dry sob of comprehension her father gathered her close to his heart.
* * * * *
For a long time after he heard the voices cease Hayward Graham waited in Mr. Phillips' outer office to learn his fate. He had caught some of the excited discussion—enough to be convinced of his father-in-law's opposition; but he could not be sure of the details. A servant had come in to say that Mrs. Phillips could not come to the office, and had knocked softly on the inner door several times while the discussion was at its warmest. Failing to get an answer, he had left his message with Hayward and retired. When the voices were quiet and the inner room became silent Hayward was on the qui vive for developments; and stood facing the door in a fever of expectation.... His fever, however, had time to burn itself out.... In that long silence President Phillips fought his greatest battle.... The issue was predestined, of course. In his heart there was no passion at all comparable to his love for Helen, and that love won over all obstacles.... He saw clearly in what measure he was responsible for her undoing; and he came squarely to the mark with a courage that would face all odds for his little girl—that would face a frowning world, a laughing, a mocking world—that would face his own soul even to the death—that her gentle heart might not be troubled.... He held her while her sobs shook themselves out, and then on and on he held her, close and warm, as if he would never again let her out of his sheltering arms,—while he gazed over her bowed head into the dying fire, and fixed and fortified his resolution.
At last Graham summoned courage to knock upon the door. President Phillips started as from a reverie.
"Come in," he said, rising unsteadily and placing Helen gently on her feet, his arm still about her.
"Why, certainly, Hayward, come in,"—and then he added after a short pause: "Helen has told me all about it, and, while I can't approve of the clandestine marriage, I shall do what I can to make my little girl happy—yes, I'll do what I can to make her happy.... And since this has been such an—unusual—evening I'll ask you to go now and come back to-morrow morning."
Hayward delivered the belated message from Mrs. Phillips, stood for a moment uncertain whether Helen would speak to him, and then turned to go.
"And do not wear your livery in the morning, Hayward," said Mr. Phillips.
"Very well, sir," said Hayward, as he withdrew.