The
sickening thought was that it was true. If he did make the speech
demanded it would be like a dog obedient to his master's voice.
The cold sweat oozed on his face; throwing up the window, he drank in
the Spring breeze, and stared at the city he once had thought so
alluring. Somehow it looked like the swamp, only less beautiful; he
stretched his arms and his lips breathed--"Zora!"
He turned hastily to his desk and looked at the other piece of mail--a
single sealed note carefully written on heavy paper. He did not
recognize the handwriting. Then his mind flew off again. What would they
say if he failed to get the office? How they would silently hoot and
jeer at the upstart who suddenly climbed so high and fell. And Carrie
Wynn--poor Carrie, with her pride and position dragged down in his ruin:
how would she take it? He writhed in soul. And yet, to be a man; to say
calmly, "No"; to stand in that great audience and say, "My people first
and last"; to take Carrie's hand and together face the world and
struggle again to newer finer triumphs--all this would be very close to
attainment of the ideal. He found himself staring at the little letter.
Would she go? Would she, could she, lay aside her pride and cynicism,
her dainty ways and little extravagances? An odd fancy came to him:
perhaps the answer to the riddle lay sealed within the envelope he
fingered.
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