xt7z8w381828 https://exploreuk.uky.edu/dips/xt7z8w381828/data/mets.xml Andrews, Mary Raymond Shipman, d. 1936. 1916  books b92-165-30098703 English C. Scribner, : New York : Contact the Special Collections Research Center for information regarding rights and use of this collection. Old glory  / by Mary Raymond Shipman Andrews. text Old glory  / by Mary Raymond Shipman Andrews. 1916 2002 true xt7z8w381828 section xt7z8w381828 
OLD GLORY



             BY
Mary Raymond Shipman Andrews
     Author of "The Perfect Tribute"















          NEW YORK
     Charles Scribner's Sons
             1916

 




Copyright, 1916, by Charles Scribner's Sons

          Published July, 1916


 

              CONTENTS

                                      PAGM
 I. THE CoLoRs                           1

 II. TEE STRANGER WITHIN THE GATES     67

III. THE STAR-SPANGLED BANNER         101

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THE COLORS



   T comes as a surprise to reasonable people
   to observe that in the last analysis it is
   not reason which makes history. A vital
question involving peace or war came up
In the American Congress at Washington
the other day; the pros and cons were de-
bated exhaustively; but when the day of
the vote arrived hundreds of responsible law-
makers were seen swayed by a power not
born of argument, a passion not known since
the Spanish war. It was not pros and cons
which turned the scales; a cry of "Stand by
-the President" swept the representatives into
line with an unashamed whirlwind of loyalty
to country and the country's leader. Logic is
the careful hewing of steps up a mountain;
emotion sums years of hewing. It is attain-
ment, whether reached by steps or by a
flight of inspiration. The sights and sounds
                   [3 ]

 OLD GLORY



which stand for things loved in childhood
have a hold well-nigh undying on later life.
Millions of men march to death knowing lit-
tle or nothing of the reason why-knowing
that they follow their country's flag; it is
enough. An appeal to honor, and armies rush
to the guns; a catchword of patriotism, and
stately legislative bodies toss away formulas
and arrive, white-hot, at certainty. One must,
indeed, look to it that the rudder is made of
the oak of the brain, yet the breeze which
fills the sails and drives the ship is forever
the rushing, mighty wind of the spirit.

  There are officers of the United States
navy to-day, stately captains, well girthed,
and more than one admiral, who, meeting
each other in China or at a club in Washing-
ton, shake their heads reminiscently and
drop their voices as one speaks of "The night
when Jerry Vane took hashish." It was of a
924d of February, that historic night thirty
years back, and the U. S. S. John Paul Jones
was celebrating the Truth Teller's birth in
                   [ 4 ]

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Caribbean waters. The event which made
the night memorable had been preparing for
two days. Two days back the junior officer
of the ship had picked up a book on narcotics
in the doctor's cabin; the book was well writ-
ten and told tales to fire a young daredevil.
  "I want to stimulate my imagination; I
want to see what it's like," urged Jerrold
Vane.
  The doctor had happened to find some
hashish. Vane had a winning way, and the
doctor was young and careless, too, and, very
wrongly, the small phial of thickish brown
liquid was carried off in Vane's pocket when
he said good night. The next day experi-
ments were not in order, but early in the
afternoon of the 22d he measured what the
unwise doctor had told him was a dose, and
then a drop or two, and swallowed it.
  There were doings in Vane's cabin that
afternoon. The story goes that he set his
alarm-clock at intervals of half an hour and
took naps with it under his ear. Between naps
many fellow officers called on him, and there
                   [5 ]

 OLD GLORY



was unholy mirth heard through his door. Ini
any case, he appeared at dinner in a state of
excitement, from which he dropped to sleep at.
intervals, waking, flamboyant, to delight the
table with cheerful madness. Every one on
the ship knew what had happened, and,
moreover, the lad was the spoiled child of
the ward-room. They filled him up, finally,
with black coffee and stood him on his feet.
He was a Virginian, and most Southern boys
are born speech-makers; this one noticeably
so.
  Slight and small, he stood swaying, smil-
ing, and rubbed his knuckles into eyes bril-
liant with the drug. Then he caught sight,
on the wall at the far end of the ward-room,
of a photograph of Washington draped in
the American flag. He shot out an arm.
  "Old Glory !" he shouted. "The colors of
our country-our n-nation's f-flag! The red
lines are dripping blood of soldiers and sail-
ors, the stars of the States are s-set in the
blue of hope everlasting, eternal-f'rever-
'n' ever- n' ever."



[ 6 1

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  The two rows of uniformed men looked
up at the lad doubtfully. Yet these senti-
ments, if not too new, were right; in fact,
there was something in the abandon of the
young voice which thrilled one, thrilled and
mystified. It was interesting to know what
this nice boy was going to say under the
influence of hashish. Jerry Vane had a knack
of keeping one interested as to what he was
going to say; he was going to bare his soul
now, apparently; well, let it come; it was a
perfectly good young soul, and a little banal
spread-eagleism on Washington's birthday
was not reprehensible.
  "You've stuck me up here to make a
speech," young Vane went on jovially, "and
what you expect is a few remarks about our
refined Christian homes, far, far away, and
those who love us and miss us, and a gabby
talk like that leading up to hip, hip, hooray
for the star-spangled banner and the glorious
land of freedom. Isn't that the size of it
Well, gentlemen, I can keep on talking that
way as long's you like-jus' as long's you
                   [ 7 ]

 
OLD GLORY



like. I don't think my genius would ever
get smitten with locomotor ataxia down that
road. Long's-you like   "
  The flashing black eyes roved with an in-
vitation to laughter which met with instant
answer; to a man the officers chuckled indul-
gently; to a man they glanced at the captain
sitting with his elbows on the table, staring
inscrutably at the boy. The boy bent for-
ward, tossed out a hand.
  "Let's get to the point. Get to the point
-cheers. On your feet, gentlemen, and swing
her out for the nation and the father of it-
America-George Washington-let her go-
three times three!"
  There was that in his manner which,
although much cheering had been already
done, sent the chairs flying backward and
the long tableful of officers springing to their
feet. Jerrold Vane was modest, as became
his youth, on ordinary occasions; that he
should take command in this manner, being
accounted for by the drug, was amusing. In
any case, it was the captain's affair; as long
                   [ 8 1

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as the captain let him run on-and the cap-
tain, watching, let him run on. The captain
stood and cheered with the rest. And with
that, before the deep, ordered baying was
fairly over, the boy's head flung back and
a scream of laughter astounded the table.
His arms swung like a windmill; his lithe
body swayed to the limit of this side and
that.
  "A joke !" the boy roared. "One gigantic,
international joke-the whole shooting-match
-the American nation !"
  Lieutenant Armstrong, sitting next, caught
Vane's arm. "Control yourself, Mr. Vane."
  Vane, as if frozen by the touch, was as
still as a statue; he turned his head slowly,
glared down. Then a radiant smile broke;
he bent and lifted the big hand on his sleeve,
kissed it reverently, and replaced it before
its owner.
  "Oh, damn control, dearie !" he threw at
Armstrong. "Can't you let a fellow enjoy
himself  "
  Armstrong, through the laughter, looked
                   [ 9 I

 
OLD GLORY



at the captain. "Let him alone. I'm inter-
ested to see how this stuff affects the brain,"
the captain spoke down the table.
  The boy sped straight past the jog of the
interruption. "Anybody who'll stop and
think," he announced, "will know that this
in-intensive enthusiasm about G. Washing-
ton and our country is the colossal joke of
history. G. Washington was a good old top
and a Briton, and that's why he had the
sand in his gizzard to kick up a row. He
caught England when her hands were t-tied
with France and Spain, and he whipped her
with a few rag-tags and bobtails, who there-
after made a high-sounding composition and
called themselves a nation! For the love of
the board of health ! Think about that! We
were a handful of colonists, and we're just
a bigger handful now. What about a land
where whole communities-political parties
-of foreigners speak, read newspapers mi a
foreign tongue, live with foreign customs
That's us! Is that a nation Could there be
an Italian party in France, do you think
                   [ 10 ]

 
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Can you picture a Russian party in Ger-
many There's no common blood, no inheri-
tance, no history
  A deep murmur interrupted the carrying
young tones which rolled out these words
with rapidity. The captain's voice reached
across the hubbub.
  "Let him go on," the captain ordered.
  Fluent words poured on the heels of the
captain's sentence. "They call us the melting-
pot of the nations. More like a rubbish heap;
we're a crazy-quilt, a hash, an historic witti-
cism. There's no such thing as an American
nation. I'm no American-I'm an Englishman
five times removed, and I've got the ginger
to stand up and say it. I've got the truthful-
ness to own that the flag yonder means
nothing to me, and I've got the courage
to      "
  A full glass of Burgundy stood at his
plate; he had touched nothing to drink dur-
ing dinner. With a swift movement he caught
up the globe of crimson light and poised it
for a shot, his eyes blazing at the Washing-
                   [11 I

 
OLD GLORY



ton and the flag. But Armstrong gripped
his wrist. Vane slued about, stared down
at Armstrong, and then-suddenly vague,
laughing foolishly-he turned the red wine
upside down into a finger-bowl, where it
spread and colored the water as bright as
blood. With that he broke out sobbing; he
fell into his chair, a dead weight, and, with
a crashing of china, flung his arms out over
the table, dropped his head on them, and
was still.
  In the captain's cabin the next morning
Vane reported, a bit pale, but in his right
mind. "You sent for me, sir."
  The captain wrote on, not lifting his head;
the boy stood and waited. Outside, seas rolled
heavily up from across the world and flung
themselves on the ship's sides with an air of
finality, unendingly. The captain looked up.
"Mr. Vane," he said, " do you remember
anything of your speech at dinner last
night "
  "Yes, sir.
  "How much"



[ 12 ]

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  Vane considered. "All of it, I think."
  " You do," reflected the captain. "You
were under the influence of a drug, were
you not "
  "Yes, sir.
  "And not responsible"
  Vane hesitated. "I knew what I was say-
ing. I remember. But I shouldn't have talked
as I did except for the hashish. There seemed
to be-a lack of power-to inhibit the-the
boiling over of thought into speech. It was
as if the engine worked at full speed and the
steering-gear was broken."
  The captain smiled. "Not much steering,
I imagine. It was partly my fault. I had
been reading the same article which, the
doctor tells me, set you off, and I was in-
terested to see how the stuff would affect
you. I let you go on out of curiosity. I'll
admit you surpassed my expectations. I've
sent for you to say that I'd like you, to-night
at dinner, to explain. Just a word. Of course,
everybody understands, but things like that
spoken publicly should be withdrawn pub-
                   [ 13 ]

 
OLD GLORY



licly. I'd like you to withdraw them to-
night."
   Vane stood tense.
   "Well" demanded the captain.
   "I can't do it, sir."
   "What" the captain threw at him.
   "I can't withdraw what I said, sir," Vane
repeated.
  "What do you mean You can't withdraw
disloyal words What do you mean, Mr.
Vane "
  "I believed it." The boy spoke in a low
voice. "I didn't mean to say it in that way.
But I can't take it back because I still be-
lieve it. I don't take any stock in the Ameri-
can nation or, of course, in the colors."
  Outside the ship seas rolled heavily up
from across the world and broke on the steel
sides with a sound of finality-unendingly.
The boy stood, breathless, steady. If the
captain had bn thumped in the lungs he
would not have gasped with more violence.
Words seemed beyond him at first; once he
found them they came flooding. Plenty of
                  [ 14 ]

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words. He poured them out on the boy,
words of indignation, of scorn, of counsel, of
reason; varieties of words; and the boy stood
respectful, firm.
  "You are right, sir; the navy is no place
for me," after a while he answered quietly.
"I'll resign my commission, of course. I've
been coming to it for a while. I didn't realize
how near I was to the-jumping-off place till
that stuff yesterday-precipitated things."
Once more the captain raged; once more the
boy, not arguing, stood firm.
  The outcome was that a promising career
in the United States navy was swiftly ended.
There was a short sensation about the affair
in the papers, editorials were written, with
the young officer as a, text, as a horrible
warning against Anglophobia; it was noted
that Vane had gone into the business world
under his uncle, a successful steel man; sharp
things were said as to the young man's right
to live in America at all; and then he was
forgotten-forgotten until he emerged from
oblivion in another r6le. Twenty years later
                   [ 15 ]

 
OLD GLORY



Armstrong ran across him at the Cosmos
Club in Washington.
   " There's sand in the chap," Admiral
Miller, late captain of the John Paul Jones,
considered, talking it over with Armstrong.
"It took sand for a lad like that to stand up
to me and tell me with perfect respect that
he had no opinion of the flag or the nation."
  "Sand, yes," Armstrong threw back. "He
couldn't roll up a fortune at his present rate
without qualities. They say he jumps a few
millions a year." Then Armstrong's brows
lowered.
  There is a curious side-light on American
patriotism in the attitude of Americans about
changes of nationality. More than any na-
tion on the globe, they are used to such, and
they take it as a matter of course and honor
the new citizen-if the change is to their own
flag. But let a citizen of the United States
shift his allegiance to any other government
whatsoever, and a growl of resentment goes
up across the continent. It argues a deep-set
pride in the value of Americanism that no
                   [ 16 1

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excuse is accepted and that a whole nation
takes it as a personal insult when an Amer-
ican surrenders his birthright.
  Armstrong frowned. "There's a screw loose
if a man can't be satisfied with his own
country -especially this country. My word!
And the story goes that Vane is using Amer-
ica as a workshop; that he will become an
Englishman when he is rich enough."
  "I don't know about that," doubted the
admiral. "The papers have been full of his
buying the old family place in Virginia. Did
you see that Spending a gold-mine on it,
it's said. That doesn't look like living in
England."
  "Oh, that's merely a flier for a Crcesus
like Vane."
  On the June afternoon when these officers
of the navy, each living on a few thousand
a year, discussed their former subaltern and
his millions, a little girl in a riding-habit
idled with her dogs down the long drive of
a place outside a great steel city. A taxicab
turned from the road into the stone gateway.
                   [ 17 1

 
OLD GLORY



The child watched. The taxi dashed by and
she caught a glimpse in it of her father. With
that, child and dogs scampered after the
machine toward the house.
  The taxi stopped under the porte-cochre,
and out jumped Jerrold Vane and dived into
his pockets. The little girl was surprised.
Father in a taxicab ! One of the cars went
for father every afternoon. Something must
have happened. With that Vane saw her.
  "Anne !" he called.
  Anne came running; the dogs barked ex-
citedly, leaping about her. Vane seized her
as dogs and girl arrived; then he held her
off and gazed with an expression that seemed
queer to Anne, as if he were gazing with
other people's eyes, appraising her. Little
Anne summed up the look as "queer." The
new judgment did not find her wanting. He
laughed aloud joyfully.
  "You'll do, Anne; you'll fill the place,"
he cried; and then, his eyes full of laughter,
"Honorable Anne Vane !" he threw at her.
"How does it sound, chicken"
                  [18 i

 
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  Anne rippled a giggle. "Funny father!
What does it mean Is it nonsense" she
asked happily.
  There were wicker chairs with gay up-
holstery and tables and bright summerrugs
on the porch. Anne's father caught her hand
and ran with her around the corner. He
dropped into a deep chair and drew the fif-
teen-year-old girl to his knee.
  "Listen, darling," he began. "A great
thing has happened; the greatest thing in
our lives."
  "Oh!" said Anne, wide-eyed. And then,
delightedly: "Something about Wargrave
The horses-tell me, father !"
  Vane laughed again. "You'll forget War-
grave now, baby. This is something so won-
derful that all America doesn't count. We'll
sell Wargrave now."
  She clutched his arm. "Sell Wargrave!
Father! And the horses-and the boats!
Father! Oh, no! Oh, no!"
  "Oh, well, we'll keep it if you care about
it," agreed the millionaire easily. "But, frog-
                  [19 ]

 OLD GLORY



gie, a thing far more important than War-
grave has happened to us, to you and me,
to-day."
  "'What, father"
  Vane considered, drew the child close, and
patted her shoulder. "Listen, Anne dear; it's
quite a long story." Then he explained. His
great-great-grandfather, the younger son of
an English county family, had come over
and settled in Virginia, at Wargrave, a hun-
dred and fifty years before. For three gen-
erations the Vanes had been rich and im-
portant in America. Sixty years ago the war
had ruined them and the estate had been
sold. His father had put the boy, born after
the war, into the navy as a good calling for
a poor gentleman. Vane touched lightly on
his naval experience; Anne did not know
that episode; in a few words he told her of
his fortune, one of the colossal fortunes,
now, of America. Then:
  "All my life," Vane said, "I've thought
of myself as an expatriated Englishman.
All my life I've been sure that in going back
                  [ 20 ]

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to England to live I'd find my real environ-
ment. I bought Wargrave on the James
because it seemed the obvious thing to do
and because it pleased my girl. But all the
time I've thought that England would get
us some day. And it's got us !" He turned
his face, radiant, and looked at the fresh
face close to him.
  The girl's eyes met his with a look which
surprised him. "Father! We're Americans!
I'm an American !" spoke Anne vehemently.
  Vane laughed and hugged her, but the
slim figure was unyielding.
  "Father, I don't understand. What else
is it" she demanded. Anne had a character
of her own; Vane knew that and gloried in it.
  "England's got us, you young Yankee,"
he threw at her. "The older branch of the
Vanes has given out. The estates and the
barony have come to me if I choose to take
them. Baron Wargrave of Wargrave Abbey
in England, I am."
  He waited. There was a long silence. Then
little Anne spoke tremblingly, deliberately:
                  [21 ]

 OLD GLORY



" I'll have to go there if you take me. But
I'll never be English. I want our own War-
grave on the James."
  With that her arms were around his neck
and she was sobbing into his shoulder.
Swiftly she flung away and stood before him,
boyish in her riding-clothes, a flame of a
child. Words seemed to come from the young
thing like lava from a volcano. She lifted a
finger sternly.
  "Father, it's awful," she said. "It's awful.
A man that-that's not loyal to his country
-that's terrible. You're born to America
just as I'm born to you, and you ought to
want to do everything-everything for Amer-
ica. You ought to want to give all your
money, and your life, too, if it's needed, for
your country."
  Vane laughed easily, pleased at this ex-
hibition of spirit, quite unaffected by the
substance of it. The child was like her South-
ern mother, a fire-eater. Beautiful, too, like
Anne Carter. He stared at the fresh little
face. Her skin was creamy; her eyes were
                   [92 ]

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black light; her eyebrows were like one
stroke each of a camel's-hair brush. He
sighed; she was dear, dead Anne Carter's
own child; then he smiled.
  " My country, goose! All the world is his,
country to a cosmopolitan. Narrow patriot-
ism is the hall-mark of the undeveloped.
Moreover, if one must have a country, Eng-
land's mine. My ancestors were English; my
name is English; I choose to be English. A
mere accident stranded the Vanes over here.
And now we're going back !" he cried exul-
tantly. "We're going to live in a great land, a
finished, sophisticated land," he went on,
talking more to himself than to the child,
"where the machinery is oiled and the en-
gine doesn't rattle and the screws don't drop
out; where there's a nation, a race-my
race. Not a hodgepodge of the scrapings
of the world. We'll shake the dust of this
cheap-built conglomeration of States off our
feet and we'll enter into our inheritance."
His eyes flashed into the sombre eyes of the
child.



123l

 
OLD GLORY



  "Father," said Anne, "you make me hop-
ping mad."
  Vane grinned. "You're a saucy little bag-
gage," he threw at her. "Moreover, your
language is unsatisfactory. 'Mad,' my young
one,- means mentally unbalanced. As you
use it, it is an Americanism. What you mean
is 'angry.' But you'll lose that sort of thing
when you hear only pure English speech."
  "Father," Anne went on, paying no at-
tention to the digression, "what would you
think of me if a-man should want to adopt
me as his child, and he was richer than you
and-and had pleasanter manners and-
lived in a nicer place. And-and I should
want to go and be his daughter because of
those things Would you respect me"
  "Respect you" Vane chuckled. "Re-
spect you No, I'd spank you," he answered.
"And how could anybody have pleasanter
manners than mine" he inquired. "Drop
those lordly airs and come and sit on my
lap, baby, and we'll talk about what we'll
do in England. Come, my precious!"
                  [ 24 1

 
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  But the boyish figure held aloof; the brown
eyes glowered yet. And Anne broke forth
again and made oration. "Father, I had a
history lesson this morning. Mr. Wheelock
made a sort of speech-just this morning.
He said how much we had to be proud of
and to be grateful for because we are Ameri-
cans. We have the Revolution to be proud
of, George Washington, and those others
who dared to fight a strong nation and were
able to whip them."
  Vane sniffed. "England was tied up-
continental wars," he murmured.
  Anne went straight on. " We whipped 'em,"
she stated. "Mr. Wheelock said we should
never forget, we Americans, that we had Val-
ley Forge and Yorktown and King's Moun-
tain to be proud of. And the Civil War, and
the soldiers on both sides, he said-Phil
Kearny, and Grant, and Stonewall Jackson,
and Lee. They were all Americans. He said we
should be proud of 'em all. And our sailors-
John Paul Jones, and Perry, and Farragut,
and Dewey, and Clark of the Oregon-fa-
                  [ 25 ]

 OLD GLORY



ther!" The slim chest heaved with a thrill
of patriotism; her eyes flamed. "And thou-
sands and thousands, he said, whose names
we don't know, good citizens who've loved
the country and helped to build it just as
really as the ones who died under the flag.
He said we could, every one of us, do that,
be good citizens-stand by the colors. That's
loyalty, he said. And I want to-father-
be an American citizen-stand by my colors.
We've got to; Mr. Wheelock said so; be-
cause if we don't America can't grow to be
as great as it could be. Everybody counts,
he said. I can help-you can help a lot-
father. And if we don't help we're-cowards
-and renegades." The last words came diffi-
cultly, but Anne shot them like a shaft, her
black gaze on her father's face.
  The shaft went home. Vane sprang up as
if the hit were physical. "Quite an indict-
ment," he said, "from one's daughter! 'Cow-
ard and renegade!' Well, Anne," he addressed
her, "you'll be good enough not to apply
such words to me again. And you needn't
                  [ 26 ]

 THE COLORS



report any more of Mr. Wheelock's speeches.
You are a child and don't understand, but
you will later. I shall do what I think best
for you." It came to him then, as it did al-
ways when he was severe, that this was
Anne Carter's child. He bent and kissed her.
"In two years from now your point of view
will be the same as mine, baby." He swung
away.
  Wargrave on the James was not sold.
Caretakers were put in and the buildings
were repaired and kept in order, and the
James River rolled past the sloping lawn
and the mansion, built of bricks brought
from England a hundred and fifty years ago,
and the patient old house waited, sunlit,
silent, while across the ocean the girl grow-
ing into womanhood thought of the place
faithfully every day and said to herself often:
"Some time ! "

  The Thames trickled, a tiny brook for-
ever just starting on its historic way, through
the park at Wargrave Abbey. The splendid
                  [ 27 1

 
OLD GLORY



terrace with its stone and brick balustrades,
its stone peacocks guarding the entrance of
the steps, the wide steps dropping down to
the sunken garden in flights through silken
lawn, these things were in view of the sil-
very baby Thames, tinkling through the
trees, tinkling down to London. The gray,
large old house lifted its complicated sys-
tem of red-tiled roofs-"the most beautiful
roofs in England "-into sunlight beyond the
terrace. There were people all about, this
afternoon of the 3d of July. Lord Wargrave
had come down from London with a week-
end party; the Abbey was kept full of people
a large part of the year now, since the Ameri-
can baron had come into the estate five
years back. Miss Vane, it was said, liked the
country better than London at its gayest. In
spite of her beauty and money and social
success, her tastes were simple. If it had
not been for her father and his ambitions,
it was said, she would have been happier to
live always at the Abbey, flashing about
country roads on a horse, rung down
                   [ 28 1

 
THE COLORS



lanes with a crowd of joyful dogs around
her, flying into cottages with friendliness
and presents and laughter. The young Amer-
ican lady of the manor was a popular person
about Wargrave; not less popular, it seemed,
because of her vehement Americanism; per-
haps because of the presents, partly, but
more likely because of the friendliness, the
people liked her pretty faithfulness to her
own land.
  She had wandered down to the Thames
after tea on the terrace this July day with
an American, young John Grayson of the
legation. "I knew you for a Virginian," she
said, looking up at the big boy. " Your
speech-and your name and you look
Southern. You know, I'm an American-
Virginian, too, really Do you think-you
don't think I speak like an Englishwoman  "
  Young Grayson smiled. "Nobody could'
talk to you five minutes without knowing
you for sure-enough American," he pro-
nounced heartily. And then: "Is Wargrave
on the James any kin to you It belongs to
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Vanes. I used to ride over there from home.
It's only ten miles." He stopped at the radi-
ance of the girl's face.
   All England was forgotten; she was across
 the Atlantic, riding through quiet roads, sail-
 ing a sunshiny, broad river in the never-
 forgotten country of her love. This big young
 Virginian knew it better than she did. "I
 never was there but twice," she said after
 eager questions. "It about broke my heart
 when this place and the title dropped on
 father's shoulders and we had to give up
 going there to live. He was glad, yet I think
 he's homesick at times, though he never
 owns it. But it's the dream of my life to go
 home and live on the James River."
 The boy's gray eyes darkened with feel-
 ing. "Mine, too," he said. "I'm pegging now
 for that. I've got it all scheduled-do my
 job here decently and get some small repu-
 tation; then home and a start there, and
 money enough before I'm forty, maybe, to
go to Virginia and open the old place and
specialize at something for a living and get
                   [ 30 1

 
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into the legislature, and then-" He hesi-
tated. "I don't know why I should bore you
with my career, especially as I haven't one
yet."
  "Do," pleaded Anne. "It doesn't bore me.
It's an American career. I love America.
Then-what "
  "You'll laugh," said the boy, "'but the
top notch of my dream is to be some day
governor of Virginia. Three of my forebears
were."
  "Why not" demanded Anne. "Has any-
body a better right to hope for it  And
then, maybe, I'll be living at Wargrave on
the James, and I'll send a note beginning
'My dear Governor: Will you and Mrs.
Governor-'` The girl stopped.
  The brown young eyes stared at the gray
young eyes and the gray eyes held the
glance. Unphrased, yet recognized, there
was a false note somewhere; it might not be
just like that, the gray eyes said; then the
deep, boyish voice went on:
  "We'll plan to see a lot of each other on
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 OLD GLORY



the James River. I'll put that in my sched-
ule now."
   "But things aren't looking very pleasant
for dashing back and forth from England to
America, are they" Anne asked, hesitating
a little.
  And the young diplomat at once left off
being a Virginia boy and became a young
diplomat. "The mill-pond is in some respects
a more lively mill-pond than it was," he
smiled down with non-committal geniality,
and the girl smiled back and said no more
about England and America.
  Up there on the terrace, however, around
the tea-table, the subject had been brushed
with a bit more reaction. Sir Everard
Allen, the attorney-general, had motored
down straight from Westmninster and had
arrived at Wargrave in a visibly surly tem-
per, so that when Mrs. Northcote, who was
pretty enough to carry off usually much
flighty bromidity, made her ill-advised speech
her prettiness for once did not save her.
  "Have you read the American note," in-
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quired Mrs. Northcote kittenishly. "Don't
you think they are rather right about it,
don't you know" Mrs. Northcote had a
suitor from Pittsburgh and thought gently
of things transoceanic.
  Sir Everard, teacup in hand, wheeled a
slow gaze toward the bunch of frills. He
turned livid. Everybody stopped talking.
Everybody coincidentally moved his or her
neck and stared where Mrs. Northcote flut-
tered before that gaze of an angry lion.
  "Have I read the American note" the
attorney-general fulminated into the hush,
and Mrs. Northcote gave a frightened giggle.
"Yes, madam, I have read the American
note. I have read the American note a num-
ber of times since last night. Do I think
they are rather right 'Rather right!' That
an Englishwoman can utter such a sentiment
in a company of English people, in an Eng-
lish house-an English house"- emphasized
Sir Everard, who was fast working himself
into ugliness-"is, to my mind, profanity-
blasphemy-treachery to England," elab-
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orated Sir Everard. "The Americans, who
care for nothing but dirty money-who are
dirty money incarnate, taken as a whole
this yellow-skinned race of millionaires have
seized the time when England is in mortal
stress and fighting for her life to quibble
about etiquette. It's not much more than
that, international law, etiquette. But, by
Heaven "-the teacup went crashing to the
floor and not a spellbound footman stirred.
Sir Everard's fist came down on the stone
table "by Heaven, if they think England
is to be bullied because she is at war, Amer-
ica will find out that we have more arms
than one. An octopus will emerge."
  The host of this gay tea-party, standing
back of the circle of people who faced the
attorney-general, had been listening to the
thunder. If an observer had happened to
look at Lord Wargrave he might have been
asto