Below is the OCR text representation for this newspapers page.

2 of five hundred thousand dollars voted by the council for the defense of the city, to be used at the discre tion of the Mayor, was furnished by the banks within three hours time. The several city companies of militia were under arms, and hourly came news of yet additional reinforcements from over the State, hastening to the aid of Baltimore. A call was issued by the mayor for the citizens to enroll themselves for military service, and over 15,000 responded in time for enrollment and partial organization before that memorable Saturday had passed. That night the railroad bridges to the north of the city were destroyed or damaged by detach ments of police and of the Maryland Guard, acting, it is said, under the orders of Governor Hicks. Hicks was in the city at the time of the riot: he seemed for the moment to catch the general spirit of Patriotic ardor pervading the people, and to be disposed to act with them against the common foe. With Sunday, the 21st, came more bodies of troops from the counties. The quiet of the springtime Sabbath morning was also disturbed by re ports of fresh forces of the invader approaching from the North, so the Churches dismissed their congrega tions at the tidings, and their stee ples sent forth quivering warnings of danger. Over 2,000 Pennsylvanians, partly armed, had been stopped at Cockeysville, twenty miles from Bal timore, by the burnt railroad bridges, so the vigorous measures of the day before had been none too promptly taken. At last the old State seemed thor oughly aroused to her danger, and bent, at all hazards, upon rolling back at her threshold the tide of in vasion. The hearts of such ardent young patriots as Philip Elliott and Bradley Johnson, too long discour aged by the doubt and delay of those in high authority, now beat high with renewed hope. But, alas! the spirit of tardiness and deliberation, of conciliation and negotiation, again ruled the day, at a time when every minute was pre cious. Baltimore, indeed, had taken steps to insure herself against fur ther passage by Northern troops, and an understanding to this effect was actually reached at a confer ence in Washington between Mayor Brown and President Lincoln. But Baltimore, though its metropolis, did not constitute the state of Maryland, and contingents of troops from the North, (under Butler of Massachu setts) passed down the Bay and land ed at Annapolis—the State’s capital city, and no less a part of her sacred soil to be jealously guarded from the tread of the invader. The Gov ernor, at this late hour, called an extra session of the Legislature to meet at Annapolis on the 26th, which place of meeting was afterwards changed, “for obvious reasons,” to Frederick. But the Legislature, on convening, promptly proceeded to is sue an address disclaiming all in tention to pass an ordinance of seces sion, and appointed commissioners to confer with Mr. Lincoln as to the best means to be adopted to preserve the peace of the State! Meantime, Butler, at Annapolis, continued to receive reinforcements, and to push out so as to threaten Baltimore. Still the Legislature de layed and deliberated. On the night of May 13th, Butler entered the city with a strong force, seized and forti fied Federal Hill—commanding the town—and Baltimore was at the mercy of her enemies. On that very day the Legislature, by an over whelming vote in both houses, pass ed a series of resolutions expressing sympathy with Virginia and the Southern Confederacy, vigorously protesting against the war of con quest being inaugurated against them by the government at Washing ton, as also against its military occu pation of their own State of Mary land. It was also resolved that, under existing circumstances, it was Inexpedient to call a Sovereign Con vention of the State at that time, or to take any measures for the imme- diate organization and arming of the State militia. Yes, it was “inexpedient,” because eternally too late. Only prompt and vigorous action on the part of the State authorities early in the spring could have overcome the obstacles presented by the grand old common wealth’s peculiar geographical posi tion. Now, Maryland was a helpless victim to this position and to her own and Virginia’s delay, while they both had yet hoped against hope for a continued union with the north in peace and honor. And thus was brought about Maryland’s “crucifix ion of the soul,” mournfully sung by her exiled son, the immortal Ran dall: for, as the graphic Johnson truthfully expressed it, her heart was with the new Confederacy, while her body was bound and manacled to the old Union. At the beginning of the war Baltimore was said to be more Southern in sentiment than Rich mond itself. This same Bradley Johnson had returned to Frederick with his min ute men, when he found he could be of no further service in Baltimore. At Frederick he remained for a during the sessions of the Legislature there, to watch proceedings and give moral support to the Patriot mem bers against the threats of the Unionists. And to join Johnson there went Phil Elliott, embryo soldier now, student no longer. On the day of his departure he learned through Chad that Marion Palmer and her aunt Alicia were vis iting at the home of a friend in the city—the same northern relative at whose house Marion had visited dur ing Phil s first week’s acquaintance with her the fall before. Thither he repaired, ere setting out for* Fred erick. Miss Alicia Pillsbury, frigidly civil, came down the stairs and into the parlor in answer to Elliott’s card. Miss Palmer, she informed him, was dressing, as she was going out for the evening. If he cared to wait, she would be in to see him a moment before leaving. He said he would wait. Nearly a half hour passed, during which Phil sat, a magazine in his hand, his un seeing gaze fixed upon the engravings on the wall opposite, his thoughts well, anywhere but in that particular room. Then he heard the rustle of skirts on the stairs, and Marion Palmer entered. Yes, it was Marion Palmer—and yet, how different from the Marlon he had last seen on the departing train that morning of nearly four months ago! Miss Alicia had been cold; that was her usual manner toward Phil: her niece was colder still, and seemed half disposed, Phil noticed, to ignore his proffered hand as she acknowledged his greeting with a slight bow and a perfunctory “Good evening, Mr. Elliott.” For a few minutes the conversa tion, sustained mainly by Elliott and directed along indifferent lines, was painfully forced and difficult. Then, as was his wont to proceed directly to the heart of things, the young man sought an explanation of the, to him, inexplicable change in Marion’s demeanor and, manlike, blundered most woefully at the very outset. “Miss Marion,” he said, looking straight at the girl, as he arose and took a step toward her, “I fear I have offended you in some way. If I may have appeared somewhat capri cious, and my actions not to accord with my words some months ago, I can only say that I have been calling myself a fool ever since your depart ure for Philadelphia, for having fail ed to ask permission to write while you were away.” “Really, you are very kind, Mr. Elliott; but pray do not give your self any further distress on that ac count. The omission has not offend ed me, possibly because I have not given it the consideration you seem to have done.” Her words and tones stung deeply. Phil flushed to his temples, but his gaze never wavered: “I ask your pardon,” he said, courteously. “That Woman’s Work. was a very foolish speech for me to make. But will you overlook its ap parent conceit and presumption, and tell me wherein I have offended? I may be very obtuse, but I am entirely unconscious of fault; and yet—l must have offended grievously, to change you so.” His voice was full of gentleness, almost humility. Marion looked at him, half incredulously. "You must be obtuse, indeed, Mr. Elliott,” she said, pointedly. “Do you suppose that I can any longer re gard you as a friend, after all you and your townspeople have done to the soldiers from my native State, wounding and murdering them in their peaceful passage of your streets? Upon my word, after such outrages I wonder how you dare come here tonight, knowing what my sentiments must surely be.” "Ah!—l see!” It was thus that Elliott broke the half minute’s silence following Marion Palmer's reply. “Os course, if that is my of fense, Miss Palmer, it is useless to say anything further, or to remind you that your soldiers came here on a mission hostile to my people. I can only say, in explanation nf my call this evening, that I leave tonight for Frederick. There I may or may not tarry before going on to Virginia, where I shall most likely be sent. So, since when we parted last you told me I should bring, not send you these, I have taken the first oppor tunity to do so.” Unwrapping a small package which he produced from the stand in the corner, he displayed a glossy pair of raven’s wings. Marion arose to her feet with a gesture of rejection. Then, with a swift change of mind, she took the shifty pinions and turn ed on Phil a face of scorn. Secretly, she had more than halfway hoped toat Phil might offer some explana tion that could at least partially mend matters; and then to have him act as if the offense were no offense! “Yes, I did tell you to bring them,” she cried, in a blaze of wrath, “when you boasted of your famed Maryland hospitality and chivalry, and sought to call me friend, hoping to see me don your much vaunted Oriole col ors, and thus make of myself a sort of adopted Oriole, as you would call it. “Massachusetts has suffered to the utmost your Maryland friendship," chivalry and hospitality, and found it marvelously lacking. I accept with thanks, Mr. Elliott, your long delay ed present, the fitting symbol of the ‘Nevermore’ that from this time forth closes between us.” “You are both unjust and unrea sonable," said Phil. And there was now no trace of humility in his tones. “What hospitality do you think you of Massachusetts would have shown us Marylanders, had w r e come against you on such an errand as your troops have come? But—l realize that talk like this is worse than futile. You have determined to utterly condemn me and banish me from your friend ship, and I must respect your de cision.” The girl regarded him a moment with a gaze in which anger seemed not unmixed with sorrow. “It is not for the dastardly action of a rabble of your fellow Balti moreans and Marylanders that I con demn you,” she said. “But you, you have been a ringleader in it all. And you cannot claim even the pitiful shred of an excuse that you are bound to follow your State. Mary land has not seceded. Yet you, with all your former protestations of love for the Union, have done your utter most—in the cause of your slave holding compatriots—to stir up and keep alive the spirit of violence, not to say of rebellion and treason to the flag. “Yes,” as Phil raised his head proudly, “I haven’t a doubt that you glory in it, that you are proud of your activity in fomenting strife— even in your personal participation, as I suppose, in the shameful street riot here, in which not only the peo ple of my own State were murder ously assailed, but my own cousin, Guy Hancock, as I see from the papers, was wounded and nearly lost his life. I suppose you revel in your share of dispensing such wonderful and characteristic Maryland hospital ity!” Phil faced her unflinchingly, a strange smile hovering on his lips. “Miss Palmer,” he said, “I shall certainly not attempt, at this time,, to discuss or argue with you the reasons why Maryland has not yet passed an ordinance of secession. But you are right in saying that I have taken an active part; even, per haps, in a modest way, have helped to lead. “In justice to myself and the mem ory of my fathers,” his head lifted higher yet, and a thrilling note of pride ringing through his voice, “I, could do no less. The Elliotts and the Tildens have ever been foremost to stand for imperilled liberty—have ever been prompt to act and lead in times of public stress and emergen cy, when right and country called them. “Regarding Lieutenant Hancock, I could tell you—but, no!” proudly, “you shan hear that, if at all, from other lips than mine. I have kept you too long already: your aunt is doubtless growing impatient, and I shall detain you but a moment more.’” He hesitated, drawing a deer> breath, and the flush died from his face, leaving it stern and white. “This may really be the last time we shall ever meet, and I must tell you what I had come tonight pre pared to tell you at all hazards, and which I had hoped to be able to tell you under far different and happier circumstances: that during these’ weeks and months I had grown to love you, Marion—love you with all my heart, and, even as you said, had hoped to induce you to wear the glo rious Black and Orange—to wear them as my wife and the adopted daughter of Maryland, while never renouncing your own mother State. “I thank you for hearing me out. And now—Good-night and good-bye. Kindly take my regards to Miss Pills bury.” He looked long and steadily into, her face, bowed gravely, and a mo ment later the street door had closed: after him as he passed out into the night with never a backward glance. Half an hour later a solitary horseman, at a speed that threatened police interference, was passing: through the suburbs of Baltimore, headed for the road to the west’ That morning Phil had had his own little riding mare, Southern Lassie, brought over on the boat from Eller ton, and now she was carrying her master off and away to Frederick town and to Johnson. Very erect in, the saddle sat this born and trained horseman, Philip Elliott—his saddle bags behind him, his holster buckled at his side, his cap pulled low over his brow, his eyes fixed straight ahead. As he ascended a hill that in another minute would shut out from sight the lights of the city, he turned in the saddle without check ing his steed, and looked back: “Fare you well, Baltimore, at least for the present,” he murmured, soft ly, but between clenched teeth, and with cold drops standing out on his. brow. “And, good-bye, Marion Palm er—must I say, forever?” At that very moment Marion Palm er (who, upon Phil’s departure, had excused herself to her waiting aunt on the score of sudden indisposition, and repaired to her room) was lying face downward on her bed, the door locked, the immaculate daintiness of her new opera gown forgotten, her frame convulsed with sobs. And in the next morning’s mail came a letter from Lieutenant Han cock at Washington—a letter delay ed in delivery and forwarded, first to Frederick from her Philadelphia ad dress, and thence sent on to Balti more. With aching eyes and throb bing head from a well nigh sleep less night and long weeping, she read that letter—read Guy Han cock’s thrilling and enthusiastic ac count of his rescue in the Baltimore riot by Phil Elliott, to whom he de clared he owed his life. She read it twice; then, with swollen eyelids but tearless eyes, she looked long and fixedly out of her window toward the west—toward Frederick. CHAPTER VI. The Red Dawn of the Day. ' F Captain Bradley Johnson was a man of action lie was also a man of de- 1 termination and perseverance. He I and the party with which he worked and. MARCH, 1910.