cavaliers. I know those superb fellows, and I trust them. They may be
rough as riders, and they are certainly rough fellows for the enemy to
encounter, but they are gallant gentlemen; they are as gentle as only
giants of courage can be, in their attitude toward a defenceless woman.
If the opportunity comes, I shall certainly ride with them."
At that moment there was a scurrying in the streets, a hurried closing
of the little shops, and a scampering of juvenile chronic offenders to
points of secure observation.
A minute or two later some gray-clad regiments of cavalry trotted into
the town, taking temporary possession of it. They created no more of
disorder, and made far less noise than a Sunday-school picnic might have
done. Not a man of them was permitted to quit his place in the ranks
even for a single moment, for Stuart had given strict orders, and his
lieutenants enforced them relentlessly.
There were very valuable commissary and ordnance stores belonging to the
United States government in the town, and the advance squadron of the
cavalry quietly took possession of these military supplies, quickly
loading them into wagons, but touching no single cent's worth of private
property of any kind, and molesting no citizen. So the orders ran.
Half an hour sufficed for this work, and at the end of that time the
column moved out of the town in silence and good order.
Captain Baillie Pegram accompanied it in an ambulance, with Sam riding
at its tail, and Agatha, mounted upon a stout and war-seasoned cavalry
horse, preceding the vehicle.
At nightfall the detachment joined the main column, and there was a
brief pause for supper. Agatha, in her capacity of nurse, questioned
Baillie closely as to his condition, and found that he had seemingly
taken no harm from excitement or weariness. When she had satisfied
herself on that point, she ventured to tell him that his own battery lay
around the ambulance. He promptly sat up and asked to see his
subalterns and certain of his men.
"You may see a few of them," answered his nurse, "if you will receive
them lying down. If you insist upon sitting up, I'll not permit a single
one of them even to grasp your hand."
He yielded to her authority, and during the remainder of the brief
halting time, there was a cheering reunion of comrades and a hasty
interchange of personal news between men who loved each other as only
those men do who have stood together under an enemy's fire and together
endured the hardships of campaigning.
The enemy's cavalry was by this time approaching in considerable force,
and Stuart, whose plan did not include any purpose of unnecessary
fighting, set his column in motion again. But he did not take the line
of march which he had been following all day. That had been intended as
a blind. By threatening several points in directions quite other than
the one he meant to take, he had accomplished two important purposes. He
had gained time for all his scattered detachments to rejoin the column,
and he had compelled the enemy to scatter his forces in many directions
for the defence of the threatened points.
Having thus shaken off the greater part of the force pursuing him, he
began his march that night in such a direction as to suggest that he
meant to return if possible by the route by which he had come. For this
his enemy was of course prepared. As soon as the cavalry forces that
were observing his movement discovered what they took to be his purpose,
they withdrew for a space and planted themselves across his pathway.
Infantry and artillery forces were hurried forward in support, and the
enemy confidently believed that at last the wily cavalier was securely
entrapped.
To encourage this mistaken belief, Stuart threw forward a small force of
men armed with carbines, and instructed them to maintain a scattering
fire upon the enemy's pickets during the night as if feeling of the
position in preparation for an attempt to break through it on the
morrow.
No sooner was this disposition made than the main body of the
Confederates was turned into the by-roads that led toward the Potomac at
a point far east of McClellan's position and farther down the river.
By a rapid march it reached the river at daylight and crossed it by
sunrise. In the meanwhile, just before the dawn, the detachment which
had been left behind to maintain a show of intended battle during the
night, quietly withdrew, and rode at a gallop to rejoin the escaping
column. The enemy did not discover their withdrawal until sunrise, by
which time they were many miles away, galloping toward the river, which
they crossed without molestation.
It was not until the column halted in Virginia for a breakfast that
might be taken in security, that Stuart met Baillie and Agatha in
person. He insisted upon hearing the whole story, even making Sam take
part in its telling. At parting he sought a word apart with Agatha, and
said to her:
"I suppose you and Captain Pegram have quite ceased to be 'almost
strangers' by this time."
The girl flushed crimson, but managed to answer:
"No, General. I have simply been his nurse, you know, and--and--well,
he has been very ill."
"Nevertheless," answered the cavalier, "I'll court-martial him when he
returns to duty, if I hear no better report than that of his conduct."
This bit of playfulness on Stuart's part had the effect of making Agatha
exceedingly uncomfortable in her mind. She had so long been caring for
Baillie as a man ill nigh unto death, that she had ceased to think of
conventionalities in connection with her relations to him. But Stuart's
jest reminded her that others might not be equally forgetful, especially
now that her patient was rapidly regaining his strength.
"My work is done," she said to herself, "and I must no longer intrude
myself upon Captain Pegram or his affairs. As soon as he can be sent off
to Warlock in Sam's care, I must bid him a final adieu and go back to my
loneliness at Willoughby. After all, I shall have enough to do there,
caring for the poor negroes and managing the plantation so that it shall
yield enough for them to live upon. I wonder if everything has fallen
into complete neglect there during my absence? Now that Chummie has gone
to the angels, I am needed there. And besides I must look after my
underground railroad affairs. I wonder if the line is in good working
order, and if it is carrying as much freight as it ought."
She realised, too, now that the parting was drawing near, how much
Baillie Pegram's presence had come to mean to her, how necessary a part
of her life he had become, and how barren and desolate that life must be
when they two should have spoken a final good-bye. For during her period
of nursing, he and she had come to be the best of comrades, and at such
times as his condition had permitted, they had fallen into habits of
intimate converse. Their talks, it is true, had never been personal in
character. They had talked of books and travel and life; now and then
they had discussed philosophy, ethics, æsthetics, and a hundred other
subjects external to themselves. But although their converse had not
been personal in character, it had taught each to know the impulses, the
sentiments, and the convictions of the other in a degree that purely
personal intercourse never could have done.
Agatha understood all this now, as she had not understood it before,
and the understanding saddened her. For she was resolutely determined
now to take herself as completely out of this man's life as if she had
never known him at all. She proudly realised her duty, and she would not
flinch from its doing.
"Did I not break off the acquaintance at that Christmas-time nearly two
years ago?" she argued with herself. "Was I not strong and resolute, the
moment I learned what my duty was? Why then should I not do the same
again?"
She let her thoughts wander at will. "It is true there was war between
us then, and there is none now. There never has been since Chummie
talked with me that last night of his life. And it seems harder now in
other ways. Since I have come to know Captain Pegram so well, and
especially since I have taken care of him in a time of helplessness, it
seems harder to send him away and tell him that we are mere
acquaintances, not likely to see much of each other hereafter."
Then she generalised in this fashion:
"Life is very hard on women in any case--much harder than it is on men,
in every way. And the worst of it is that men do not want it to be so,
and nothing they can do can prevent. Even in that restriction of our
lives which petty conventionality forces upon us, men cannot come to our
relief. It is women who hold women to such restrictions. Men would laugh
them away, if we would let them, but we never will. We hold each other
to the rigidest standards of propriety, even when propriety makes
needless and foolish exactions of us. Men never do that. They want us to
be innocently as free as they are, but we are afraid to be so. We are
afraid of other women. Even Chummie could not succeed in setting me
free. I was too much afraid of other women's opinions, too much a slave
to other women's standards to accept the freedom he tried so hard to
force upon me.
"No, that isn't just it. I am not really afraid of other women's
opinions; I am afraid of my own. I have laughed at and defied other
women's standards, many a time, and I shall go on doing so to the end,
whenever I am convinced that their opinions are unsound and their
standards wrong. I did that when I went North to find and rescue Captain
Pegram. I knew perfectly that my good aunts would look upon my conduct
with positive horror, and that the least any other woman of my
acquaintance would say about my conduct would be 'How could she?' in
tones that meant all that is possible of condemnation. But I did not
care for all that, and I do not care for it now, because I know that
what I did was right, and that Chummie would have said so if he had
lived till now. The trouble is that in the main I share those opinions
of other women which so restrict the liberty of all women. I am afraid
of those opinions because they are my own as well as others'; I submit
myself to those standards of feminine conduct because I share the
opinion that sets them up and enforces obedience to them."
At this point Agatha "shied" away from the thought that had in fact
suggested all this introspective meditation. She would not admit, even
to herself, that she was strongly moved by a perfectly natural impulse,
to bridge the chasm that lay between her and Baillie Pegram, to remind
him of what he had said to her that far-away morning on the picket-line
at Fairfax Court-house, and so give him opportunity to say it again.
When that thought intruded itself upon her, she was shocked and
startled by it. It seemed to her immodest in an extreme degree,
unwomanly, almost atrocious. She would not harbour it for a moment. She
cast it out of her mind, and was bitterly resentful against herself for
having permitted it even to suggest itself.
"I must act at once," she resolved, when the day's march was resumed. "I
must flee from the devil of this temptation. If Captain Pegram suffers
no relapse to-day, I will bid him good-bye in the morning. No, I will
not bid him good-bye. That would be too--well, it would be almost like
acting upon that hideous thought. I shall simply go without saying a
word to him. Perhaps I shall leave a little note for him, simply telling
him that I am going to look after affairs at Willoughby, as he no longer
needs his French nurse. I'll be very careful, in writing it, not to--not
to make it more than coldly courteous and friendly."
It was nearly nightfall when the cavalcade rejoined the main body of
Lee's army. Agatha made haste to secure a careful examination of Baillie
by a staff surgeon. He reported that the convalescent man had taken no
harm from the journey, but was so far recovered that a month's rest
would render him fit for duty again. Assured of this, Agatha sent for
Sam and minutely instructed him as to the care of his master on the
homeward journey which, she had arranged, was to begin immediately, with
the assistance of an ambulance for a part of the way.
Then, early the next morning, she went to Stuart, and preferred a
request. In the present disturbed state of things she hesitated to make
the journey to Willoughby alone, and she asked for an escort for a day.
Stuart looked at her with a face far sadder than his was accustomed to
be, and said:
"I have very bad news for you, Miss Agatha. You cannot go to
Willoughby--for there is no Willoughby. That was one of the many
plantations ravaged by Pope while he held Northern Virginia. The house
and all the barns were burned, and every living animal for a score of
miles around was killed. Even if Willoughby had been spared, it would
not do for you to live there now. The armies will move to new positions
presently,--nobody knows where,--and this northern part of Virginia will
be no fit place for women and children to live in till the war is
over."
The girl sat pale and speechless, as she listened. It was as if she had
received a blow in the face. She had bravely met danger and sorrow and
hardship, and had endured them all with heroic resolution. She seemed
now quite unable to endure this new trial of her courage. She made no
outcry and shed no tears. She simply sat there before the headquarters
camp-fire, statue-like in her pallor and her immobility. Stuart gently
laid his hand upon her head, and sought to soothe her with a voice that
was always gentle when he spoke to a woman.
Agatha seemed not to know what he was doing. She made no response to his
words, and as he looked into her face the light went out of her great
brown eyes.
A moment later she reeled, and Stuart caught her in his brawny arms.
"Bring a surgeon quick," he commanded.
Then he gently laid the seemingly lifeless form upon a blanket which the
sentinel spread upon the ground.
XXXI
_AT WARLOCK AND AT THE OAKS_
For the first time in her life Agatha Ronald was ill. For the first time
her strength had given way under prolonged strain. The surgeon who had
been summoned to attend her ordered that she should be sent immediately
to some place in rear of the army's exposed position, where she could
have complete rest.
Unfortunately there was no such place within a day's journey--no place
which might not at any hour become the scene of battle or at the least
of massive manoeuvring. Nowhere short of Charlottesville was there a
secure resting-place for the overwrought nerves that had so stoutly held
their own as long as their ministering strength was needed in the
service of others.
While this matter was still under perplexed discussion, Marshall Pollard
made his timely appearance. Hearing of the arrival of Baillie and
Agatha with Stuart's returning column, he had ridden forward from his
camp to meet and greet his friends. He had passed a quarter of an hour
with the master of Warlock, who was now permitted to sit up most of the
time, and who was to start almost immediately on his homeward journey.
While they two were talking together, word reached Sam's ears that his
"Mis' Agatha" had fallen ill at General Stuart's camp-fire. Marshall
went with him immediately to her, under an injunction from Baillie to
"get her out of this, Marshall, if you can. Tell her not to mind me, but
to take care of herself. Tell her I shall be ready for duty almost
immediately--tell her I'm on duty--tell her anything and everything that
will persuade her to let you take her to a place of safety."
Marshall was quick to see the necessity of prompt action, and Agatha was
far too ill to oppose his plans in any way. Stuart had ordered a little
tent stretched for her, and here it was decided she should remain until
Captain Pollard could arrange for her removal.
He first secured a week's leave of absence for himself. While arranging
that, he had half a dozen of his men scouring the country round about
in search of a carriage. One was found which had escaped destruction
during the days of Pope's unsparing ravaging. It was an old-fashioned
vehicle of family state, swung high upon C springs and stoutly built for
service.
In this conveyance, Agatha, still dazed and unresisting, was started on
her homeward journey early the next morning. One of Pollard's battery
men acted as driver, while Pollard himself rode by the side of the
carriage.
About midnight the party reached Charlottesville, where tender, loving
hands took charge of Agatha for the night.
The journey had rather rested than wearied her, and the physician who
had been summoned to attend her found her free from all positive
illness.
"She has need of nothing now but rest and quiet," he said.
When Marshall called upon her in the morning, he found the young woman's
mind clear again, and her nerves under control.
"Tell me of Captain Pegram," she eagerly demanded, as soon as she had
briefly expressed her gratitude to Pollard for the care he was taking
for her comfort.
With that gentle smile which always so invited affection, Marshall
reassured her concerning her late patient.
"He is in Sam's excellent hands, and on his way to the rear by this
time. He will be on duty again pretty soon. Indeed, if the army were
stationed anywhere in particular just now he wouldn't go away from it at
all. He would take command of his battery at once, merely reporting
himself on the sick-list for a week or two. As it is he must go away for
a little while. Now let us talk about yourself. I have a week's leave,
granted for the express purpose of letting me do what is best for you.
Tell me what is best--or rather--it's the same thing--what is most to
your liking? Will you stay here, or--"
"If I may," she answered, quickly, "I want to go home--to The Oaks, I
mean, for that is the only home I have in all the world now. Please take
me there."
"It would be a very long journey by carriage," he said, as if talking to
himself, "but we can make the trip by rail if you are strong enough to
stand it."
It was necessary in those days to think of a railway journey as a
formidable undertaking for any but the strongest persons. There were no
such things known then as sleeping-cars, or drawing-room cars. The
railroads were badly built, with the rails spiked down to loose ties,
and in no way joined together at their ends. The cars were coupled
together by chain links, and operated with hand-brakes, so that when a
train was stopping, there was a jolting which in our day would be deemed
intolerable. In Virginia at that time there was the additional
discomfort of laminated iron rails, and cars badly out of repair.
But Agatha's courage had come back to her now, and she was eager to
complete her journey as speedily as possible. So Marshall sent the
carriage back to its owner, and with Agatha, took the first train for
Lynchburg, whence another railroad would convey them to their
destination.
There was very little of conversation between the two as they travelled,
for the jarring and the rattle of the disjointed train, as it jolted
over its intolerably ill-kept road-bed, made talking difficult and
hearing well-nigh impossible. But during the long pauses at the stations
Agatha related the story of her adventures, with something of that
relish which one always feels in telling of experiences past, which were
anything but relishful at the time of their occurrence.
Better still, the two friends talked much of Baillie Pegram, a subject
that enlisted the sympathetic interest of both, and drew them closer
than ever together as friends.
The good ladies of The Oaks welcomed Agatha with all of tenderness that
their dignity would permit. They deeply disapproved of all that she had
done, of course, but they reflected that she had suffered much, and as
she was not now strong they forebore to emphasise by words of censure
the condemnation which they could not avoid manifesting in their manner.
Agatha did not much mind their disapproval. This was one of the cases in
which, feeling that her conduct had been altogether right, she was not
troubled by the contrary opinions of others. Moreover she had other
subjects to think about.
Captain Pollard went at once to Warlock, after delivering his charge
into her aunts' hands, and on the next day, when he visited The Oaks to
ask concerning her, he reported that the master of Warlock had reached
home and was still rapidly gaining strength.
This news gave Agatha a little shock. She had intended, as we know, to
take herself out of Captain Pegram's life as quickly and as completely
as possible, and now circumstances had forced her to place herself near
to him again. She knew that as soon as he should be able to ride,
ordinary courtesy would compel him to visit her, and--well, she did not
want him to do that. She felt herself in the position of a woman who has
purposely placed herself in the way of inviting attentions, or at least
has suffered herself to be so placed.
She had done nothing of the kind, of course. Indeed, she had had no
choice in the matter, but the very thought that Baillie Pegram might so
interpret her course, distressed her greatly, in her still
nerve-tortured condition. She cared nothing whatever for what others,
including her aunts, might think of the matter, but the thought that
Baillie Pegram might misunderstand was intolerable.
Her aunts added to her embarrassment by adopting a course which plainly
showed that they entertained a fear identical with her own. They sent a
note to Warlock every day, inquiring concerning the health of that
plantation's master. They made these notes as coldly formal as stilted
rhetoric could contrive, and they were at pains to read the missives to
Agatha before sending them.
"Why do you do that?" she asked, when the second day's note was read.
There was almost a querulous tone in her protest.
"Why, it seems to us proper, dear; we want you to be assured that we
make no mention of your presence here, but take the utmost possible
pains to show Captain Pegram how entirely you are--"
At that point Agatha rose to her feet and looked indignantly at her
relatives. For a moment there was danger of an outbreak of offended
pride, but by an effort the girl controlled herself and said, simply:
"Please don't do it any more. I shall feel hurt if you offer again to
read to me anything you may have written. If you will excuse me I think
I will go to my room now. I am not strong to-day."
It was the custom of the good ladies to protest that they "never could
understand Agatha;" but on this occasion they understood her
sufficiently to know that they had trodden very near a danger-line which
they were more than unwilling to cross.
Baillie Pegram in his turn was by no means minded to submit to the
manifest purpose of The Oaks ladies that he should hear nothing about
Agatha, beyond what Marshall Pollard had reported to him during the two
days of his stay at Warlock. Marshall had gone now, and Baillie wrote in
response to the second of the notes:
"I am getting well quite as rapidly as my best friends could wish. There
is not the slightest occasion for uneasiness about me. I am even
permitted to ride horseback a little. But I am exceedingly anxious for
tidings of Miss Agatha, whom you have not mentioned in either of your
notes. Will you not send me word concerning her, or better still, if she
is well enough to write, will you not ask her to send me a few lines? My
gratitude to her for all that she has done for me is very great, and so
is my anxiety to know that she is recovering from the painful illness
which was caused by her generous self-sacrifice in my behalf."
As Agatha had asked her aunts not to read to her their letters to the
master of Warlock, those ladies chose to interpret her request as
including his letter to them. They made no mention of the fact that he
had written to make inquiries concerning her. She wondered a little that
he had not done so, but on the whole, she argued, it was better so.
Baillie was not so easily pleased. He chafed when the next note came
from The Oaks, bringing no tidings from Agatha, and when still another
of like character followed it, he grew uneasy, lest the silence might
mean that Agatha had herself forbidden all mention of her in letters
from The Oaks.