Democracy

the war. “We thought he was to be our Washington, you know; and perhaps he had some such idea himself;” and then, when Sybil wanted to hear about the battles and the fighting, he drew a rough map on the gravel path to show her how the two lines had run, only a few miles away; then he told her how he had carried his musket day after day over all this country, and where he had seen his battles. Sybil had everything to learn; the story came to her with all the animation of real life, for here under her eyes were the graves of her own champions, and by her side was a rebel who had stood under our fire at Malvern Hill and at South Mountain, and who was telling her how men looked and what they thought in face of death. She listened with breathless interest, and at last summoned courage to ask in an awestruck tone whether Carrington had ever killed anyone himself. She was relieved, although a little disappointed, when he said that he believed not; he hoped not; though no private who has discharged a musket in battle can be quite sure where the bullet went. “I never tried to kill anyone,” said he, “though they tried to kill me incessantly.” Then Sybil begged to know how they had tried to kill him, and he told her one or two of those experiences, such as most soldiers have had, when he had been fired upon and the balls had torn his clothes or drawn blood. Poor Sybil was quite overcome, and found a deadly fascination in the horror. As they sat together on the steps with the glorious view spread before them, her attention was so closely fixed on his story that she saw neither the view nor even the carriages of tourists who drove up, looked about, and departed, envying Carrington his occupation with the lovely girl. She was in imagination rushing with him down the valley of Virginia on the heels of our flying army, or gloomily toiling back to the Potomac after the bloody days at Gettysburg, or watching the last grand debacle on the road from Richmond to Appomattox. They would have sat there till sunset if Carrington had not at length insisted that they must go, and then she rose slowly with a deep sigh and undisguised regret.

As they rode away, Carrington, whose thoughts were not devoted to his companion so entirely as they should have been, ventured to say that he wished her sister had come with them, but he found that his hint was not well received.

Sybil emphatically rejected the idea: “I’m very glad she didn’t come. If she had, you would have talked with her all the time, and I should have been left to amuse myself. You would have been discussing things, and I hate discussions. She would have been hunting for first principles, and you would have been running about, trying to catch some for her. Besides, she is coming herself some Sunday with that tiresome Mr. Ratcliffe. I don’t see what she finds in that man to amuse her. Her taste is getting to be demoralised in Washington. Do you know, Mr. Carrington, I’m not clever or serious, like Madeleine, and I can’t read laws, and hate politics, but I’ve more common sense than she has, and she makes me cross with her. I understand now why young widows are dangerous, and why they’re burned at their husband’s funerals in India. Not that I want to have Madeleine burned, for she’s a dear, good creature, and I love her better than anything in the world; but she will certainly do herself some dreadful mischief one of these days; she has the most extravagant notions about self-sacrifice and duty; if she hadn’t luckily thought of taking charge of me, she would have done some awful thing long ago, and if I could only be a little wicked, she would be quite happy all the rest of her life in reforming me; but now she has got hold of that Mr. Ratcliffe, and he is trying to make her think she can reform him, and if he does, it’s all up with us. Madeleine will just go and break her heart over that odious, great, coarse brute, who only wants her money.”

Sybil delivered this little oration with a degree of energy that went to Carrington’s heart. She did not often make such sustained efforts, and it was clear that on this subject she had exhausted her whole mind. Carrington was delighted, and urged her on. “I dislike Mr. Ratcliffe as much as you do;⁠—more perhaps. So does everyone who knows much about him. But we shall only make the matter worse if we interfere. What can we do?”

“That is just what I tell everybody,” resumed Sybil. “There is Victoria Dare always telling me I ought to do something; and Mr. Schneidekoupon too; just as though I could do anything. Madeleine has done nothing but get into mischief here. Half the people think her worldly and ambitious. Only last night that spiteful old woman, Mrs. Clinton, said to me: ‘Your sister is quite spoiled by Washington. She is more wild for power than any human being I ever saw.’ I was dreadfully angry and told her she was quite mistaken⁠—Madeleine was not the least spoiled. But I couldn’t say that she was not fond of power, for she is; but not in the way Mrs. Clinton meant. You should have seen her the other evening when Mr. Ratcliffe said about some matter of public business that he would do whatever she thought right; she spoke up quite sharply for her, with a scornful little laugh, and said that he had better do what he thought right. He looked for a moment almost angry, and muttered something about women’s being incomprehensible. He is always trying to tempt her with power. She might have had long ago