THE BIRTH-MARK.
Like most Southerners, Major McDowell had the happy faculty of
entertaining his guests royally.
The New Yorker was there for the day, at the kind solicitation of the
Major and his most estimable wife. Afternoon brought a rimming haze;
the wind had hushed, and the thick, lifeless air bespoke rain. A cloud
no bigger than a man’s hand had gathered at low-sky; then mounted,
swelling, to the zenith, and wrapped the heavens in a pall and covered
the earth’s face with darkness that was fearfully illumined by the
lightning’s glare.
Host and guest stood by an open window looking to the southward. Rain
came down, pelting the earth with a sheeted fall that soon sent muddy
runnels adown every fresh furrow. Before the rain was half over, horses
were led from their stalls to the dripping freedom of wide pasture
lands.
How green, and still, and sweet-smelling it lies. No wonder the animals
ran ecstatically about, neighing, prancing, nipping one at the other,
snatching lush, tender mouthfuls between rolls on the soft, wet turf.
“A goodly sight, Major; I see that you have peculiar advantages of soil
and climate for stock-raising,” remarked the guest.
“That must be true, and it is a recognition of that superiority that
sends breeders from all parts of the world to Kentucky. ‘Kentucky
for fine horses, good whiskey, and pretty women,’ is a maxim old and
doubtless true.”
“I can vouch for the first two, but it has not been my luck to meet
many of your fair women.”
“Well, it is proof true,” said the Major; “look for yourself,” and he
pointed to the forest lawn where a young woman was coming between the
elm rows, a child’s hand in each of her own. Her figure preserved that
girlish accent which few women manage to carry over into womanhood.
She had blonde-brown hair, and blue eyes--very dark and tender. She
looked up as she passed the window, and was none the less charming for
her startled look. The quick averted glance sent a blush to the face of
Willard Frost.
Some imagine that only virgins blush; that is a mistake. A blush
signifies but a change in the circulation of the blood; animals can
blush. The rabbit is so sensitive that its ears are dyed crimson at
the least sudden impression.
“That is Cherokee Bell, the prettiest of them all; yes, and the best.”
The Major’s tone was deep and earnest.
The guest immediately grasped the water bottle, poured himself a glass
and drank it off slowly, with majestic mien, to calm himself.
“She is beautiful!” he exclaimed, and shutting his teeth together: “Why
in the name of heaven did I run upon her”--this to himself.
“My wife and I have always been very fond of her--she is our governess.”
“Your governess!” Frost’s smile of superiority lighted his face as he
added: “I had thought I would like to know more of her, but----”
“She seldom meets strangers,” said the Major quietly, and looking
steadily at him. “She has had some little experience in the outer
world. She is more contented here with us.”
“How long has she been with you?”
“Six months and more.”
Frost’s voice was unsteady as he asked, “Hasn’t hers been a life of
romance? She looks like a woman with a history.”
“You are a regular old gypsy at fortune telling. She has had a varied
life, poor child.”
“And the scar I noticed upon the back of her right hand. How did that
happen?”
“I will tell you,” answered the Major, suggesting--“Maybe you’d like a
smoke; suppose we go on the veranda?”
The guest assented, and taking his hat from a table, followed the other.
Scent of the lilacs fanned through the ivy, and the sodden trees
dropped rain on the drenched grass.
“I think,” said the Major, as they turned at the end of the veranda
to retrace it again: “as you seem greatly interested in my pretty
governess, I will give you the history of what you call a scar--that is
a fern-leaf--a birth-mark.”
Frost puffed away in a negligent manner of easy interest, and said:
“I should like to hear it.”
“It takes me back to distant, cruel days of war--her father, Darwin
Bell, was my friend; we were comrades; he had been brought up on a big
plantation, just this side of the mountainous region--it is sixty miles
from here--to the northwest. That mountain and the valley on which he
lived were favorite haunts of mine in those memorable early days of
my life. I was three years Darwin’s junior, and never had I realized
his being ahead of me until, at twenty-one, he brought home a wife.
Soon the war broke out; he was no coward, not half-hearted, and when
the summons came he was ready to go. I was to enlist at the same time.
We, like hundreds of others, had only time to make hasty and almost
wordless farewells. He had to leave this young wife in the care of
servants, Aunt Judy, and I believe her husband’s name was Lige, and she
had a son. They were to guard his love-nest while he went out to fight
for the Southern cause.
“Aunt Judy made many promises; I remember how good were her words
of comfort. He respected her as sacredly as the leaves of his dead
mother’s Bible, and the safety of his saber. Her brown, leathery face
was showered with tears as the young husband and wife, hand in hand,
went to the gate; she drew back and sat down on the door-steps, not
daring to intrude on those last few moments.
“The pale little wife could not trust herself to speak; she could only
cling to Darwin, as, whispering tender words of endearment, he caught
her in his arms in a last embrace; then tearing himself away, and
strangling a sob, he mounted his horse and started for the war.
“She watched us go, and, no doubt, deadly fear for his safety must have
clutched at her heart, and the longing to call him back, to implore him
for her sake not to risk his life, must have been almost irresistible.
“But the thought of manhood and country flashed into her mind, no
doubt, and nerved her; for, when he turned to wave a last farewell, her
face lighted with a brave, cheering smile, which lived in his heart
the whole war-time. I will not take time to tell of the trials and
discomforts; you know enough of that by what you’ve read.
“It was six or maybe seven months afterward when we were back in old
‘Kaintuck;’ the day of which I speak, we of the cavalry, against
customary plans, were set in the forefront, not on the wings.
“As the mist lifted, we looked across the valley to see the Kentucky
river gleaming in the sun. It was a familiar sight, a house here and
there, nearer to us a little church, with its graveyard surrounding;
we could see the white headstones, and the old slate ones like black
coffin lids upright. The noise of war, it seemed to me, was enough to
rouse the dead from the buried rest of years.
“The church reminded me that it was Sunday; with some prickings of
conscience for having forgotten, I lowered my head, and asked that the
right might triumph, and that a peace founded on righteousness might be
won through the strife.”
“And don’t you think your prayer has been answered?” asked the
listener, interrupting.
The other dropped his voice:
“I am not discussing that question,” and he kept on with his recital.
“Later in the day, Darwin came to me, his face aglow, his eyes bright
with eager delight, and in great excitement.
“‘I am just two miles from home; if I can get a permit I am going there
to-night.’
“I exclaimed: ‘You are mad, man, they are so close to us that the
sentinels almost touch each other, we will have a skirmish inside of an
hour!’
“‘I am going when the fight is done, if I am spared.’
“I knew him, and he meant it, but I was almost certain he would be
killed. My prediction proved true, we did have a fight; and for a time
they had the advantage, and no one knew how the day would have gone had
not a gallant soldier, too impulsive to obey orders, charged with his
men too close to our cannon. Poor fellow! he died bravely, but his rash
act gave us the victory; they retreated in good order and molested us
no further. Darwin arranged for a leave of an hour’s absence and went
home, but his unthinking haste nearly cost him his life. He barely made
into the mountainway when a scout fired upon him. The scout could not
risk the unknown way of the mountain, so Darwin was saved.
“He galloped about the gloomy gorges fanged with ledges of rock, and
it was as easy for him to find his way there as in a beaten path. He
fired, now here, now there, until the mountain seemed alive with armed
men. By the time the smoke reached the tree tops here, he was away a
hundred yards.
“By midnight he had rejoined us; having assurance of his wife’s
well-being, and the faithfulness of Aunt Judy, who nightly slept on the
family silver, Darwin, pretty well fagged out, dropped down to sleep.
I had gotten aroused by his coming, and could not go back to sleep,
myself.
“I marvelled, as I looked across at the young soldier, to find neither
bitterness nor dissatisfaction on his face, which, even in repose,
retained something of its former bright expression; and it bore no
traces of the weary war, save in a certain hollowness of the cheeks. I
thought that to have to be away from a young wife was enough to justify
a man in cursing war, but he looked happy, as he lay there wrapped in
profound slumber; beside him lay his saber, and the keen wind flapped
vigorously at the gray cloak in which he was enveloped, without in the
least disturbing him. A more perfect picture of peace in the midst of
war, of rest in strife, you could not find.
“I said to myself, proudly: ‘The man that can wear that look after
continued hard duty, without comfortable quarters, is made of brave
mettle.’
“Lying in damp fields of nights was calculated to make us feel little
else but cold and stiffness.
“The next night, by some means, he went home again to say ‘good
bye,’ he told me, though, I suppose, he had said that when he left
before; but that was none of my business; I was glad he could have the
privilege again.
“Aunt Judy stood sentinel, and for safe quarters, the wife took Darwin
up-stairs. He had told them how he got into camp the night before. The
good woman-guard had to strain her eyes, for night was coming fast; the
fog, a sad, dun color, was dense, deadly.
“Pretty soon she heard the sound of horses’ feet; she was all nervous,
for she feared it was ‘dem blue coats comin’.’ With trembling voice she
called, ‘Leetle Massa! dey’s comin’, dey’s comin’!’ Jerry was standing
inside the buggy-house, with Massa’s horse ready for him. Aunt Judy
couldn’t make the captain hear. Her alarm was not unfounded; already
two Federals shook the door, while a third watched the surroundings,
ready to give the alarm; they were pretty certain a Confederate was
visiting here, and were determined to capture him.
“Quick as a flash Aunt Judy took in the situation; she could hear them
storming at the door; they meant to be admitted, if by force. There
was handling of a faded gray coat--a sacred keep-sake of hers--and a
hurried whisper:
“‘Run to de mountain, dey’ll follow; do as massa done.’
“The next minute horse and rider, as one, went dashing through the
dusk; the scheme acted like a charm. The Federals soon followed in
swift pursuit, and, until it was almost over, Darwin knew nothing of
his peril. He was deeply moved by this heroic act, the while his mind
was filled with grave fears for the safety of the boy. They waited
until ample time for his return, and kept up spirits until the horse
came up, riderless. A great unwonted tumult stirred and lashed the calm
currents of his blood into a whirling storm.
“This was enough; he started out on his search. The women would go with
him--what more natural--any of us would have let them go. The faint
flarings of dawn lit their perilous way. Of course the women were more
or less nervous; though the whole world was ‘still as the heart of
the dead,’ they were being alarmed by all sorts of imaginary things.
Aunt Judy was pitiful. She bore up under it for the young woman’s
sake, but now and then she would lag behind and cry softly to herself,
for her boy was dear to that old heart. When they began to go up the
side of the mountain, Darwin had to go first to break back the thick
undergrowth. Presently he stumbled and had to catch at hazel bushes to
keep from falling.
“‘Good God!’ he exclaimed, ‘and he tried to save me from this!’
“But his words seemed to die away within his lips, and in dreadful
self-reproach he bent over Jerry, shuddering at the deathly cold of his
face and hands. There, before them, the boy Jerry lay, spent and done.
His head rested upon a bed of blood-withered ferns.”
Frost gazed at the vaulted expanse a moment, then said:
“So that accounts for the birth-mark?”
“Yes, and partially for her being here. Loyal to that noble slave, she
came down and nursed Aunt Judy five weeks, until she followed her boy
to that land lit by the everlasting sun. Listen!” The Major heard the
piano; taking his handkerchief he wiped his eyes. “Pshaw, tears! why I
am as soft as a girl, but that music makes my eyes blur; I am back in
my twenties when I hear ‘Marching Through Georgia.’”
“Darwin’s child has been badly used since he died. He left her the
small sum of thirty-seven hundred dollars--not much. No, but enough to
keep a girl in a modest way. But she was deluded into going away to
New York in high society, and she got back here without a cent. She is
working now to pay for the burial of Aunt Judy.”
The other did not ask what became of her money, but the Major answered
as if he had.
“My wife tells me that a man actually borrowed a part of it; what a
contemptible thing for a man to do.”
The singing was still heard, and Frost appeared absorbed in that. He
made no answer, but commented:
“What a delicious quality of voice she has. It seems as though it were
impregnated with the tender harmony that must reign in her soul. But,
pardon me, I must go into Lexington, the carriage is waiting.”
“Won’t you spend the night, Mr. Frost?” asked the Major.
“Thank you, sir, I have greatly enjoyed your hospitality, but I must
catch the first east-bound train.”
The crouching heart within him quailed like a shuddering thing, and he
went away very like a cur that is stoned from the door.