Mr. Garrett spoke, and Leacraft rose to his feet. “We have indeed suffered a harsh blow, but it has its after thoughts of alleviating hope, and you have shown us that our alarm is more emotional than substantial. The country has been fed upon the proud anticipations of the accomplishment of this Canal. It has become a political question. It has colored the utterances of our public men. It has been the dream of the President, as the crowning work of a pre-eminent list of services to the nation. His energy has pushed it to the verge of completion, and in its prosecution the Nation and the President have become united in positive endorsement. It may all be right yet. Let us hope and pray so.”
Flushed with real feeling, Mr. Garrett shook the hand of Leacraft, and in a sort of review, the rest imitated his example, and left the room, leaving Ned and Leacraft behind.
It was then that Leacraft turned to Ned Garrett and said: “I thought I saw an engagement ring on the hand of your sister.” The statement was a question. Ned Garrett looked at his friend with singular intensity of interest and sympathy. He realized the anguish of the man who, loving his sister beyond all earthly price, forgot a country’s peril in the eagerness of his hope that perhaps his heart-breaking fears were unjustified. The two men were standing. Ned Garrett took Leacraft’s hand and placed his other hand upon his shoulder, and his earnest face uttered its inviolable commiseration: “Yes, Burney; Sally is engaged to Mr. Barry.” They turned and left the room.
That night it was not the convulsions of nature breaking down the barriers of two words, and bringing into action new forces and new vicissitudes among the peoples of the earth, that marred the sleep of the restless Englishman. No; it was the face of Sally Garrett smiling into the bending face of Brig Barry, and touching his lips.
CHAPTER IV.
GETTYSBURG, MAY 30TH, 1909.
The Garrett party reached Gettysburg at mid-day, May 30th, 1909, having passed through, in the train from Baltimore, the delightfully rural scenes of western Maryland and southern Pennsylvania. Recent rains had swelled the brooks and expanded the ponds. The wide undulations of hills and vales were radiant in verdure, responding with the alacrity of new vegetation to the encouragement of the skies, that now in a broad arch of fleckless blue, seemed to bend over them in pride and emulation. A thousand pictures of loveliness, of homely domestic bliss, of agricultural plenty, of bucolic thrift and retirement, met their eyes, and Leacraft himself found a solace to his grieved soul in resting his eyes upon spots of soft and uninjured beauty, wherein nature and the gentle craft of pastoral life combined their artless charms to make the landscape serene and inviting to the eye.
It was almost with regret that they left the train at Gettysburg. The noise or motion of the cars, and the uninterrupted succession of pleasant views from their windows had prevented conversation, in which none of them, from preoccupation, or from anxiety, from, in one person at least, sadness, or from, in this case to be exact, two persons, extreme happiness, cared to enter. And when Gettysburg was itself finally encountered, they found it in the last spasms of inordinate repletion. The most exorbitant greed of guide and hackman, guide-book man, publican and popcorn or peanut vendor, was abashed before a popular consumption that threatened to drive them into a confession of impotency. Everything that had cubic capacity, whether it moved or stood still, whether it was a vehicle or a house, was aching under the intolerable pressure of its human contents. Everywhere clouds of flags decorated the air. The houses were beribboned and beflagged, and innumerable lines crossing the streets in a web of suspensory confusion, carried pennants and pictures to the last limits of their carrying capacity, and to the bewilderment unutterable and admiration unrepressed of the crowds beneath them. These crowds had become almost stagnant because of the crowds in front of them, and these in turn by reason of other crowds in front of them, until the successional torpor seemed to reach out of sight, and presumably ended in some greater peripheral crowd, which, having attained its appointed place by choice or selection, refused to budge. To make their way, was almost impossible to the visitors, whether they besought the services of a driver, or tried the painful expedient of threading the human mass on foot. In this extremity they simply remained where they were at first arriving, hoping either the slow motion of the democratic assemblage would afford them some sort of escape, or at some critical moment the vast throng would resolve itself into dispersion, and under the influence of direction or force, get itself better adjusted to the requirements of its individuals.
Now, it was understood by all the published programmes of that day’s exercises that the address of the President was to be delivered at that historic spot known as the High Water Mark, which marks the uprushing tide, the foaming crest and insurmountable limit of the Rebellion, which thereafter receded in wavering surges to the south. In the great reservation, devoted as a monument to the battle which saved the Union, this spot is central, and the acres stretched about it would accommodate an army. It was quite inexplicable why this annoying interference and congestion prevailed. It turned out to be a military precaution. The President was to be installed safely at the speaker’s stand, escorted by veterans of the north and south, before the people should be permitted to assemble around him, and a cordon of military enclosed the little village, keeping confined within it the straining and impatient visitors.
The village of Gettysburg, which was used in the great battle as a hospital, and which entirely escaped injury in the three days’ conflict, was more than a mile away from the place chosen for the ceremonies of the day. When the dam was removed it was seen there would be a dangerous stampede for position. Music, too, swept exhilaratingly over the throngs from the distant scene of the festivities, and its martial notes awakened to desperation the disappointed and vexed multitude. The large numbers twisted and irksomely tied up within the narrow streets, and turbulently mixed up on the little square of the village, groaned aloud.