Culpepper called in the afternoon, and when he saw me lying there with my head tied up, he was brusk for a moment to cover the whimper in his voice. With genuine affection he took my hand, and all the enmity I had held against him was gone in a moment. He said that the boilers of the Red Fox had blown off the end of our season, and had shattered the greatest dramatic combination that ever looked with horror at a piece of paper in the hand of a village sheriff.

"And the poor old elephant is flat on his back," I said.

"Now, here, old chap, none of that. It was only a guy. Why, we all liked you, but hang it all, Maurice, you did appear just a little stuck on yourself, not on account of your acting, but—"

"But on account of my despair," I broke in. "The nerves of my failure were exposed, and nothing is prouder than a nerve. I have told you that before I made a venture I studied for the stage, viewing it as a classic and high-born profession. I went through the best schools, and—"

"Now, here, old chap, don't talk about schools. They are only intended for society women, you know. The main trouble is, you didn't begin early enough. You were a dramatic critic and then thought you'd study for the stage."

"But my work as an actor is popular with the people," I protested.

"Yes, some people, old chap, but you mustn't pay much attention to that. In his own generation a man is not really great until the critics have pronounced him so. The critics can gradually bring the people around to an appreciation of a true artist, but popularity doesn't compel the critics to deliver a favorable verdict. It isn't with acting as it is with writing, you know. An actor is of the present, and a writer may be of the future. Wouldn't you rather have the good opinion of a few high-class men and women than the enthusiastic commendation of the rabble?"

"Yes, wouldn't you?"

"No, I wouldn't, old chap, for I am after what money there is in it. I don't expect to be an artist, you know—I don't care to be—too much hard work; too much restraint in it."

"Culpepper"—I looked at him earnestly, for I was moved by a spirit of truth—"I would rather stand high as the exponent of any art that I might choose than to have all the money you could heap about me."

"Ah, that's where you are weak, old chap; but it's well enough that there are such men—they give the other fellows a chance. And now, pardon me, Maurice, but you'll never be a great actor."

He said this with such kindliness that I did not feel even the quiver of a resentment. In fact, while left to commune with myself, and under that strange sharpening of self-judgment which illness or a nervous shock may sometimes bring about, I had seen my incurable faults and had consigned myself to mediocrity.

"Have I hurt you, old chap?"

"No," said I, philosopher enough to laugh, "you simply agree with my own estimate."

"That so? Good. But I tell you what I believe you can do, and do it down to the ground—write for the stage. You've got a good sense of humor and a first-rate conception of character; you are poetic and can soon acquire a knowledge of construction. Want me to shake on it? Of course."

We shook hands, not that he had tickled my vanity, but because he had sent back the echo which my secret mind had shouted.

"But, Culpepper, there is always a trouble in the way. I can't work while jerked about the country—I've tried it—and just at present I can't afford to stay long enough in one place."

"That's all right, set your mind on it and the opportunity will come."

"By the way, I have a treat in store. Hope you'll be here to share it with me. I am promised a reading by Mrs. Estell, when I am able to be dragged into another room."

He laughed. "Know what I'd do?" said he. "I'd pretend weakness until the proper time, and then I'd take to my heels. Oh, by the way, I've had your trunk sent up. It fell over on the sand and wasn't injured. Say, haven't told you about Mrs. Hatch. She wasn't hurt—we were at the stern, and you must have been over the boilers. Well, she's gone on to Memphis in a rush. Old Norton telegraphed her. She sent her regards; said she was sorry she hadn't time to see you. Newspapers made a big spread of this affair. Biggest send-off we ever had. Eh? At first they had everybody killed."

He spoke feelingly of our manager, pointed out virtues that he did not possess, and forgave his inability to pay salaries. "Yes, Sir, Tabb wasn't a bad fellow," he went on. "By the by, he made a bet that he would ride home, and he has won it. Well," he said, getting up, "I leave to-night. Wouldn't go without seeing you."

He held out his hand and, taking it, I told him not to forget the "Elephant."

"Come, old chap, don't do that," he replied, assuming a bruskness, and turning about to hide his eyes from me. "You know it was only a guy. And haven't I come to tell you that you can make a great man of yourself? Well, once more, take care of yourself."

Now that he was gone, I could look back and see that Culpepper had always been a good fellow. And with a sort of pitying contempt I acknowledged that I had set myself up as a target for ridicule. But I did not merit the supercilious airs with which Miss Hatch had treated me, and toward her I had not entered into a forgiving mood, though now I know that had she entered the room while I was indulging these reflections, I should graciously have agreed that she, too, had always been one of the "best of fellows."

The Senator came in just before supper-time, bringing a newspaper, which he said was still damp with the dew of recent events. He carried his soft hat in his hand, nor did he put it down when, unfolding the paper, he stood to catch the light at the window. He said that he supposed I must be anxious to hear from the great world of politics, and he proceeded to read an editorial forecast of the election for congressman from the state-at-large, halting to comment upon the views set forth and making slow gestures with his hat. It was a local journal, but it had reproduced the political opinions of other publications, and these the Senator read with sharp avidity. I asked him if he thought he could find any theatrical news, but he cut me off with his hat, and gave me a paragraph on beet sugar, which he deplored as an outrage, intended to lessen the value of the plantations down the river. The light was fading, and I was not sorry. He stood closer to the window, that he might better harvest the last glimmer of the fading day, and in my cold dread of his lighting a lamp, I did not hear what he read, simply catching now and then such political frayed ends as per capita and ad valorem.

"Ah," said he, "here is a liberal extract from Tomlinson's great speech. But it's getting most too dark. Shall I light a lamp?"

I replied that I was afraid that he might tire himself pursuing his kind desire to entertain me.

"Oh, not at all, not at all, I assure you," he quickly spoke up. "But I guess you've had as much as you ought to digest at present. Feed, but don't gorge, is my motto. A hungry calf can run faster than a foundered horse. I tell you," he added, putting the paper under his arm and coming toward me, "there's going to be a warm election here this fall. Of course I'm a candidate for reËlection—the Senate couldn't get along without me—and I don't know that I've got but one very bitter enemy, and he is none other than the editor of this sheet, Sir," he said, striking the newspaper with his hat. "For a long time he was my friend and supporter, but he ran against me two years ago, and I beat him so badly that since then he has been my enemy. He is a cur, and as sure as he lives I'll get even with him. And as the season approaches I expect every day to find in his paper a scurrilous article about me; all he wants is a pretext. Ah, here is Washington, with your supper."

Cutting with his hat a black scallop in the twilight, the Senator withdrew. The giant placed the tray of dishes upon a chair and lighted a hanging lamp. And then he stood in the middle of the floor, his arms folded, looking at me.

"Won't you please sit down?" I pleaded.

"I am to be commanded, Sir," he replied, seating himself, and under his ponderous bulk the chair creaked.

"Come now," said I, "throw away your stilts and walk on the ground. I have quite enough of that on the stage."

He looked at me, slowly shutting and opening his eyes as if determined that even his wink should be deliberate. "And don't you think, Sir, that it would be well if you could say that you have had quite enough of the stage itself?"

"I don't know but you are right, Brother Washington. At any rate the stage has had quite enough of me. I am called the elephant."

"Not on account of your size, Sir?"

"No, on account of my weight."

"Ah, and the hearts of all men who know not the Lord shall at last be as heavy as the elephant."

"Very true, no doubt. I wish you'd pour this coffee for me."

He came forward with a solemn tread, poured out the coffee, and returned to the chair but did not sit down until I commanded him.

"As heavy as an elephant," he repeated, slowly winking at me.

"In working for the soul of the white man, Brother Washington," said I, "you have set about to return a good for an evil. The white man enslaved your body and now you would free his soul."

"Sir, the first shipload of negroes sent to this country was the first blessing that fell upon the Ethiopian race. In slavery we served an apprenticeship to enlightenment. Wisdom could not have reached us through any other channel. The negro was not born with the germ of self-civilization."

"You are a philosopher, at any rate."

"No, humbler, and yet greater, than a philosopher," he replied.

"All right, I'm ready to grant anything. By the way, tell me something about the Senator and his family."

"If he has told you nothing, I am at liberty to tell nothing, for, as yet, you are a stranger."

"Oh, I see. He's a shrewd politician, isn't he?"

"He is a gentleman and he is not dull. He was my friend w'en dem scoun'rels—"

I looked at him in surprise. His fall into the dialect of his brethren had come like a slap. He bowed his head, and I know that had not the blackness of his skin prevented it he would have blushed in his disgrace. He did not look up again until I spoke to him, and then he showed me a sorrow-stricken countenance.

"Don't take it so hard, Brother Washington. Such lapses must come once in a while. You remind me of an old fellow who lost his religion occasionally by swearing."

"Haw-haw," he laughed. "One in my church right now. Swore at his mule the other day and then dropped down in the corner of the fence and offered to mortgage his crop to the Lord for one more chance. Yas, Sah—I mean yes, Sir," he added, the shadow of disgrace falling again upon his countenance. "If you have finished your supper I will remove the dishes," he said.

"Thank you," and as he took up the tray I continued, "And by the way, you needn't sit with me to-night. I don't need you; I am not so badly hurt as they thought I was; and, in fact, I can sleep better if left absolutely alone."

"It shall be as you desire, Sir," he said, turning upon me with a look of kindly reproach. "But I will pray for you."

"Oh, that's all right."

He passed out into the hall, but I called him back to the door. "Brother Washington, I didn't mean to be flippant when I said 'that's all right.' I respect your sincerity."

I thought that he glanced about for a place to rest the tray, to halt and resume his predetermined fight against the flesh and the devil of my unholy calling.

"Ah, shut the door, Brother Washington."

"I thought, Sir, that you had reconsidered—"

"Not to-day—some other time."

He looked at me, making no motion that I could see; but I heard the tremulous rattle of the teacup in the saucer. There was so much of pleading in his look, so much that was martyr-like in his silence, that out of pity it arose to my mind to call him back, but then came the cool though just decision that his ardent yearning was but a spirit of ambitious conquest.

"Some other time, Washington," I said, as he turned to look at me.