April, 1861, the first person he encountered was none other than Agatha.
She was gowned all in white, except that she had tied a cherry-coloured
ribbon about her neck. She was wholly unbonneted, and was armed with a
little gardening implement--hoe on one side and miniature rake on the
other. She was busy over a flower-bed, and the young man, rounding a
curve in the shrubbery, came upon her, to the complete surprise of both.
The situation might have been embarrassing but for the ease and perfect
self-possession with which the girl accepted it. She greeted her
visitor, to his astonishment, without any of the hauteur that had marked
her demeanour on the occasion of their last previous meeting. Here at
The Oaks she felt herself under the entirely adequate protection of her
aunts. She had therefore no occasion to stand upon the defensive. Out
there at the bridge she had been herself solely responsible for her
conduct, and dependent upon herself for the maintenance of her dignity.
Here Mr. Baillie Pegram was the guest of her people, while out there he
had been a person casually and unwillingly encountered, and not on any
account to be permitted any liberty of intercourse. Besides all these
conclusive differences of circumstance, there was the additional fact
that Agatha was in revolt against authority, and very strongly disposed
to maintain her perfect freedom of innocent action. So she gave her
visitor a garden-gloved hand as he dismounted, and slowly walked with
him toward the house.
"I attended an opera once," she chattered, "when I was a very little
girl. I remember that I thought the basso a porpoise, and the tenor a
conceited popinjay, and the prima donna a fat woman, but I fell
completely in love with the haymakers in the chorus. So whenever I go
gardening I find myself instinctively trying to make myself look as like
them as I can. That, I suppose, is why I tied a red ribbon about my
neck this morning."
Here Baillie Pegram missed an opportunity to make a particularly gallant
and flattering speech. To any other woman, under like circumstances, he
would have said something of her success in making a charmingly
attractive picture of herself. But there was much of reverence in his
admiration for Agatha, and he felt that a merely complimentary speech
addressed to her would be a frivolous impertinence. So instead he asked:
"Do you often go out gardening?"
"O, yes, always when the weather permits, and sometimes when it forbids.
At Willoughby I've often gone out in a waterproof to train my flowers
and vines. I'm just going away from The Oaks, and I've been digging up a
hideously formal bed which the gardener's soul delights in, and sowing
mixed portulaca instead of the priggish plants. Portulaca smiles at you,
you know, when you get up soon enough in the morning to see it in its
glory. But I'll never see the smiles in this case."
"But why not?"
"Why, I'm leaving The Oaks on Saturday, you know,--or rather you do not
know,--and I'm not coming back for a long, long time."
"May I again presume to ask why not?"
"O, well, I must go to my grandfather. If I don't he'll enlist or join a
company, or get a commission, or whatever else it is that a man does
when he makes a soldier out of himself. You see I'm the only person who
can manage my grandfather."
"But surely, at his age--"
"O, yes, I know. He's over eighty now, but you don't know him very well,
or you'd understand. He was a soldier under Jackson at New Orleans, and
a colonel in the Mexican War, and he'll go into this war, too, if I
don't go home and tell him he mustn't. I'm going to-morrow morning."
Manifestly the girl wanted to chatter. Women often do that when they are
anxious to avoid serious conversation. If men never do it, it is only
because they lack the intellectual alertness necessary. They hem and
haw, and make stupid remarks about the weather instead, and succeed only
in emphasising the embarrassment which a woman would completely bury
under charming chatter.
"You haven't seen my aunts yet, I suppose?" Miss Agatha presently asked.
"No. I'm just arriving at The Oaks. I dine here, you know, on the third
Friday of every month."
"Yes--so I've heard. I don't think the aunties expected you to-day.
They'll be glad to see you, of course, but I think they thought you were
still in Richmond."
Baillie wondered if this was a covert rebuke to him for having ventured
upon the premises while Agatha was still there. The girl was not
altogether an easy person to understand. In any case her remark revealed
the fact that the question of his coming had been discussed in the house
and decided in the negative. It was with some embarrassment, therefore,
that he presented himself to those formidable personages, The Oaks
ladies, and tried to treat his own coming quite as a matter of course.
But if his presence was in any wise unwelcome to them, there was nothing
in their demeanour to suggest the fact. They expressed no surprise
whatever, and only a placid, well-bred self-congratulation that absence
had not deprived them of the pleasure of his company at dinner, as they
had feared that it might. Then one of them added:
"It is unfortunate that Agatha is to dine at The Forest to-day, with our
cousins, the Misses Blair. By the way," tinkling a bell, "it is time to
order the carriage, and for you to change your gown, Agatha, dear."
Baillie Pegram happened to catch sight of the young girl's face as these
words were spoken, and he read there enough of surprise to convince him
that if it had been previously arranged for her to drive to The Forest
for dinner, she at least had heard nothing of the matter until now. But
whether the surprise reflected in her face was one of pleasure or the
reverse, she gave him no chance to guess. She merely glanced at the tall
and slowly ticking clock, and said:
"I'll go at once, auntie. I did not know it was so late. Excuse the
abruptness of my leave-taking, Mr. Pegram, and let me say good-bye, for
I leave for Willoughby to-morrow morning."
It was all an admirable bit of acting--the more admirable, Baillie
thought, for the reason that the scene had been suddenly extemporised
and not rehearsed--for he was satisfied that Agatha at least had been
completely surprised by the announcement that she was to dine at The
Forest that day.
Unfortunately the acting was destined to be wasted, for almost
immediately after Agatha's departure for her chamber, a carriage drove
up, and Baillie gallantly assisted Miss Blair herself to alight from it.
She greeted her cousins of The Oaks effusively in the ceaseless speech
with which it was her practice to meet and greet her friends.
"Isn't it good of me, Cousin Sarah and Cousin Jane? I had a positive
headache to-day, but I was determined to drive over and dine with you,
so as to bid Agatha good-bye. Where is the dear child? You see we heard
only this morning that she had changed her plans and was going to leave
us to-morrow. So I just had to come and dine"--and so forth, through a
speech that fortunately gave The Oaks ladies time a-plenty in which to
collect their wits and avoid all appearance of discomfiture.
"You are always so good and thoughtful," said Miss Sarah, as soon as
Miss Blair left a little hole in her conversation. "We knew you'd want
to see Agatha before she left, and we were just planning to send her to
you for dinner. In fact she's gone up to dress. But this is so much
better, particularly as we have Mr. Baillie Pegram with us, too. This is
his regular day, you know, and he is always so mindful of his
engagements. We had feared we should miss seeing him to-day, as he was
away in Richmond; but he got home in time, and he never fails us when
within reach. He has an admirable habit of punctuality which the other
young men of our rather lax time might emulate with advantage."
Here was Baillie Pegram's opportunity, but he missed it. If he had
possessed one-half or one-tenth the tact that Agatha had shown fifteen
minutes before, he would have protested that, much to his regret, he
could not remain to dinner that day, as he had a guest of his own at
Warlock, and had ridden over only to make his apologies and express his
regret. But Baillie Pegram, not being a woman, did not think of the
right thing to say until it was one full minute too late, wherefore, of
course, it would not do for him to say it at all.
What a pity it is that men can't be women--sometimes! Just for lack of
that tact which is instinctive in a woman, the master of Warlock was
doomed to dine that day under a sense of intrusion on his part, which
certainly did not contribute to his enjoyment of the dinner or the
company. But he had only himself to blame, and, like the resolute fellow
that he was, he determined to bear the consequences of his blundering
stupidity with the best grace he could. He professed the keenest delight
in the unexpected pleasure of having Miss Blair for his fellow guest,
adding, with an obeisance to The Oaks ladies, "Though of course one
needs no other company than that of our hostesses themselves, to make
the day of a dinner at The Oaks altogether delightful."
Obviously the young man was improving in tactfulness under the stimulus
of circumstances.
When dinner was served half an hour later, he gave his arm to Miss
Sarah, and entered the stately but gloomy old dining-room, with its
high-backed, carved mahogany chairs, its stained-glass cathedral
windows, and its general atmosphere of solemnity and depression, with
such grace as a resolute spirit could command. He managed to taste the
dishes as they were served, and to carve without a mishap of any kind,
but in the matter of conversation he was certainly not brilliant, though
he had the approaching war for his theme.
After the old English custom which survived in Virginia, the wine--a
rich old Madeira--was not served until the dessert was removed. Then it
came on with the cigars. The ladies sipped a single glass each, and
rose, whereupon the young man gallantly held open the great door, bowing
as the womankind took their departure.
When they had gone, there being no gentleman present except himself,
young Pegram was left alone with the wine, the cigars, a single wax
candle for cigar-lighting purposes,--and Henry. Henry was the perfectly
trained butler of the establishment, a butler taught from childhood, by
his late master, to comport himself always with the dignity of a
diplomat who has dined. He stood bolt upright behind the young man's
chair, eager to anticipate every want, and anticipating them all without
a false movement or any suggestion of hurry. Henry had presided as
butler in his late master's establishment when that master kept "open
house" as a distinguished senator in Washington, and it was the
serving-man's boast that he "knew what a gentleman wants and when he
wants it."
But Henry's very propriety became irksome to Baillie Pegram presently.
It reminded him of his own lack of any ease except a forcibly assumed
one. "Henry feels himself in his proper place," the young man reflected.
"I do not."
It was not the young man's habit to take more than a glass or two of
wine after dinner, and on this occasion he had no relish even for that
small allowance. Yet he sat with it for a sufficient time to show proper
respect for the hospitality of the house. He held his glass up between
him and the stained-glass windows, and went through all the motions of
watching the play of colours through the amber liquid, quite as if his
relish for it had been that of a confirmed _bon vivant_. Finally he
lighted a fresh cigar, and said to Henry: "It is quite warm. I think
I'll finish my cigar out among the shrubbery. Please say to the ladies
that I'll join them within half an hour."
He was not destined, however, to fulfil this promise. For, as he passed
out into the shrubbery, he encountered Miss Agatha by an accident which
that young lady had in all probability arranged with the utmost care, as
women do sometimes. She very much wanted speech with Baillie.
"I want to thank you, Mr. Pegram," she said, eagerly, "for not making a
scene. It was very hard on you--the situation, I mean--and you have
spared me at every point. Perhaps you had better take your leave now as
quickly as you can."
But the young man's courage had completely come back to him, with
something of the dare-devil spirit added to it: as the soldier beset,
sometimes comes to relish danger for its own sake, and deliberately
invites more of it, so Baillie Pegram, knowing perfectly that he had
completely outraged the proprieties, as The Oaks ladies interpreted
them, was minded to outrage them still further. Having braved the
situation to this point, he was determined to brave it out to the
end--whatever the end might be. So to the girl's suggestion, he
answered:
"But the day is not over yet, and the piazzas of The Oaks fortunately
include one with a western aspect. Let us sit there and enjoy the
sunset. We'll join the ladies later."
The girl consented, willingly enough. She was already in revolt, for one
thing, and she knew that her aunts would not venture again to censure
her severely, after what had happened.
"But you must not misunderstand me, Mr. Pegram," she said, as the two
seated themselves in the great oaken chairs fabricated on the plantation
during colonial times. "I have declared my independence so far as to
insist upon my right to treat you with courtesy upon occasion. But you
must not suppose that I have forgotten the gulf that lies between us,
and especially you must not interpret my attitude to mean that I am
disloyal to the memory of my poor father."
"I quite understand," he answered, meditatively and sadly. "You and I
are privileged, by your good pleasure, to treat each other with formal
courtesy, but I must not in any way presume upon that privilege beyond
its intention."
The girl sat silent, looking wistfully out into the glow that had
followed the sunset. Finally she said:
"I suppose that is it. It is a hard situation to deal with--for me."
"And for me," the youth replied.
"Yes, for you, too, I suppose. But neither of us is responsible. We must
recognise conditions and do the best we can."
"I quite understand. You give me leave hereafter to behave like a
gentleman toward you, whenever circumstances shall happen to force any
sort of intercourse upon us; but beyond that you remind me that there is
war between your house and mine, and between me and thee. It is not a
treaty of peace that you offer, or even a protocol looking to peace; it
is only an amenity of war, like a cartel for the exchange of prisoners,
or a temporary truce, for the burial of the dead who have fallen between
the lines."
This statement of the case did not at all satisfy the bewildered girl's
mind, but there was no opportunity to correct it, for at that moment a
maid came with a formally polite message to the effect that if Mr.
Pegram and Miss Ronald had _quite_ finished their conversation in the
porch, the Misses Ronald and Miss Blair were waiting to receive them in
the library.
"After all," Agatha thought, afterward, "I do not know that I could have
bettered his definition of the situation. But it isn't one that I like."
All skies seemed serene as the two miscreants entered the library,
Baillie making all that was necessary of apology by saying:
"Pardon us, good ladies, I pray you. We have lingered too long in the
porch, but you will graciously attribute our fault to the unusual beauty
of the sunset. Sunsets mean so much, you know. They suggest the end of
pleasant things and the coming of a darkness to which we do not know the
dawn. I cannot help thinking that the sunset that Miss Ronald and I have
been witnessing is typical. Our beautiful Virginia life is at its
sunset. A night-time of war and suffering is approaching, and we cannot
know of the day that must follow."
At this point Miss Blair relieved the situation by giving the
conversation a thoroughly practical and commonplace turn.
"Why, Mr. Pegram," she exclaimed, "you surely do not doubt the outcome
of the war? You confidently expect the triumph of our righteous cause?"
"Well, I hope for it. But the size and the number of the guns will have
something to do with the result, and our enemies can put four or five
men and four or five guns to our one in the field. It is a dark night
that must follow our sunset. We can only do our best, and leave the
result to God. Ladies, I bid you good night, and good-bye; for I fear I
shall see none of you again soon. I shall be off soldiering almost at
once."
VI
_NEXT MORNING_
If Baillie Pegram imagined that by his parting words he had silenced the
batteries of The Oaks ladies, he totally misjudged his enemy. For in
spite of his intimation of intent not to dine at The Oaks again, there
came to him at breakfast the next morning a little note in which the
good ladies calmly reasserted their privilege of deciding such matters
for themselves quite irrespective of the wishes or purposes of young
persons of whatever sex or degree.
"The Misses Ronald present their respectful compliments to Mr.
Baillie Pegram," the note ran, "and beg to say that in view of the
terribly disturbed condition of the times, it is their purpose
presently to close The Oaks for a season, so far at least as the
entertainment of guests is concerned. They may perhaps go upon a
journey. As to that, their plans are as yet unformed, but at any
rate it is their purpose not to entertain again for the present,
except by special invitation to their nearest intimates. They feel
it incumbent upon them to give timely notice of this alteration in
the customs of their house to those valued friends who, like Mr.
Pegram, have been accustomed to dine at The Oaks at stated
intervals.
"With sincere good wishes for Mr. Pegram's safety and good fortune
in that soldierly career to which he feels himself summoned by the
circumstances of the time, and in full confidence that he is
destined to win for himself the laurels that befit one of his
distinguished ancestry, The Oaks ladies remain,
"Most respectfully,
"SARAH RONALD,
"JANE RONALD."
Having read the joint note, Baillie passed it to his friend at the other
end of the breakfast-table, saying: "Read that, old fellow, and see what
has come of following your madcap advice."
Pollard carefully read the letter through, and then asked:
"Well, what of it?"
"Why, don't you see, by going to The Oaks yesterday as you advised, I've
managed to get myself forbidden the house."
"Well, what of that? I don't understand that you have any passionate
desire to dine with the estimable old ladies every month, and I think
you told me last night, when I was trying to get a nap, that Miss Agatha
is leaving this morning."
"Yes, of course. But can't you understand that it's a disagreeable and
humiliating thing thus to be forbidden the house, just as if I were
guilty of some misconduct--"
"O, yes, I understand perfectly. It is exceedingly inconvenient to find
yourself at odds with the elderly female relatives of a young
gentlewoman to whom you would very much like to pay your addresses. But
in this case, I do not see that it complicates matters very much, as you
told me yourself yesterday that the case is hopeless--that there is
already an impassable barrier between yourself and Miss Agatha Ronald,
so what difference does it make? When you've a ten-rail staked and
ridered fence in front of you, a rail more or less doesn't signify much.
I'll tell you, Baillie, you must do as I've done. In view of the
chances of war, which are apt to worry one who thinks much about them, I
have decided to accept and believe the fatalistic philosophy, which
teaches that what is to be will be, even if it never happens."
Pegram sat silent for a while before answering. Then he said:
"Be serious for a little if you can, Pollard, I want to talk with you.
You were right after all in what you said to me yesterday, though at the
time I regarded it as unutterable nonsense. It seems absurd, under the
circumstances, but the fact is that--well, that Agatha Ronald has
somehow come to mean more to me than any other woman ever did or ever
will. Perhaps I shouldn't have found out the fact for a long time to
come, if it hadn't been for what you said to me yesterday. But I've
found it out now, and I know all that it means to me. It means that I've
made a fool of myself, and I must set to work to repair the mistake.
Fortunately, the way is open, and that is what I want to say to you. I'm
going to leave you to-day. I'm going to Richmond to volunteer in one of
the batteries there that are already organised, armed, and equipped,
and nearly ready for the field. They'll be the first sent to the front,
and I intend to put myself at the front just as speedily as I can."
"But why not do better than that for yourself?" asked Pollard.
"What better is there that I can do?"
"Why not raise a battery of your own, and command it? You know Governor
Letcher, and you have influence in plenty. You can have a captain's
commission for the asking."
"I suppose I might. But I am strongly impressed with the fact that there
are altogether too many men in like predicament--too many men whose
position and influence entitle them to expect commissions while, like
me, they know nothing whatever of the military art. We need some
privates in this war, and fortunately a good many of us are willing to
serve as such. I am, for one. The number of gentlemen in Virginia whose
position is as good as my own is quite great enough to officer any army
in Europe, and our ignorance of military affairs is great enough to
wreck the best army that was ever organised. I'll not add mine to the
list. I'll go in as a private soldier. If I am ever fit to command, it
will be time enough then for me to ask for a commission. I'm going to
volunteer in the ranks."
"So am I," answered Pollard.
"What? You? When?"
"Yes. Me. Yesterday."
"Well, go on. Don't be provoking. Tell me all about it. When did you do
it, and how, and why? For a generally agreeable young man, I must say,
Marshall, you can make of yourself about as disagreeable a person as I
ever encountered. Come! Tell me!"
Pollard smiled and meditated, as if planning the order of his utterance.
At last he said:
"There isn't much to tell, and I don't know just where to begin. But
after--well, after you rode away to The Oaks yesterday, I got to
thinking and wondering what I should do with myself now that your
companionship was lost to me. There is nobody about for me to fall in
love with, and after all, there is a limit to the entertainment to be
got out of old T. Gordon and his Tacitus. You see, girls never behave
properly toward me. There isn't one of them in ten counties who would
ever think of breaking her horse's leg in a bridge just in time to let
me come to her rescue. Besides, I should probably be on foot, with no
mare to lend the distressed damsel, and, altogether, you see--"
"Will you stop your nonsense, or will you not?" asked Baillie, with
impatience. "Tell me what you did."
"Well, I got Sam to bring me the least objectionable of your abominably
jolting saddle-horses--the bay with three white feet and a blaze on the
face--and I managed to keep a little breath in my body while riding over
to the Court-house. It was my purpose to go to Richmond, and I asked the
old ticket agent to send me, but he obstinately refused. He said there
were only two trains a day, one at noon and one at midnight. I
remonstrated with him, but it was of no use. I explained to him that the
_raison d'être_ of a railroad--I translated the French to him--was to
carry people to whatever place they wished to go to, and at such hours
as might suit their convenience. I told him it was an abominable outrage
that with a railroad lying there unused, he would not send a gentleman
to Richmond without making him wait for eight or ten hours for the
convenience of people whom he knew nothing about. He looked at me rather
curiously when I urged that consideration upon him. I think it rather
staggered him, but he persisted in his obstinate refusal to send me to
Richmond without further delay. He even suggested that I might go
somewhere else, but I interpreted that as meaningless profanity, and
gently explained to him that I did not wish to go to the place he had
mentioned. Then he told me he had no train, and I asked him why he
suffered himself to have no train, when a gentleman wanted one and was
willing to pay for it."
"_Will_ you stop your nonsense, and tell me what happened?" interrupted
Baillie.
Pollard smiled, and continued: