IRENE'S DILEMMA--THE BROTHERS MEET.
To Irene the varied and startling changes that had lately taken place,
brought perplexity and grief. The political question, that she had heard
discussed since her early childhood, until it had become to her as
familiar as a household pet, and been deemed as harmless, had broken up
the family, and now bade fair to destroy the Nation. Often in her
childish innocence had she laughed to hear little Abner declare himself
"Papa's Whig," little dreaming of the awful meaning lurking in these
words, a meaning powerful for the destruction of homes and country.
A monster had been taken into the Tompkins' family and laughed over and
caressed, and now it had arisen in its wrath to prove their destroyer.
That monster was difference of political opinion. Irene, with her clear
good senses saw the great mistake in the life of her foster parents.
Their difference of opinion, kept alive by frequent discussion, and
veiled by light and gentle jests, had at last thrown off all disguises,
and stood forth a frightful reality, widening with alarming rapidity the
chasm opened between them. It may be doubted, if it is safe for husband
and wife to differ even in jest.
Irene had puzzled her brain in her endeavor to devise some plan, which
might restore to the family the happy harmony of old, but, like many
good men whose minds were engrossed with the same endeavor for the
country's good, she failed.
The regiment of which Abner Tompkins was a member had returned to the
Junction, and the regiment which Colonel Scrabble commanded was again in
the neighborhood of Snagtown. Both Abner and Oleah had sent word to
their parents that they would probably be able to visit home, while
their companies were encamped in the neighborhood.
Colonel Scrabble, finding his position in the vicinity of Snagtown
rather uncomfortably near the Junction, where Colonel Holdfast and two
other regiments were quartered, fell back about twenty miles south,
beyond the Twin Mountains. The good people about Snagtown felt greatly
relieved at the departure of the colonel's forces, for they had been
kept in a constant state of alarm, expecting battle every day.
It was the third day after the retirement of the Confederates that a
single horseman, a cavalry officer, galloped down the long hill on the
road leading from Snagtown to Mr. Tompkins' residence. He was a fearless
looking young fellow, with blue eyes and dark brown hair, and he rode
alone, though he wore the blue uniform of a Union captain.
Arriving at the front gate, he swung from the saddle, handing his reins
to a negro boy, and walked quickly up the front walk, meeting his father
on the lawn.
"Quite safe and sound, you see," he said in reply to Mr. Tompkins'
eager, anxious eyes.
Father and son went together to the house, and, at the sound of the
well-known voice, Mrs. Tompkins, with a cry of joy, rushed from her room
to clasp her son in her arms. What though he wore the hated uniform of a
Union soldier? He was still her son.
Irene's cheeks glowed with pleasure at sight of Abner, whom she had so
long believed to be her brother. She gave him a sister's welcome, as it
was.
During the evening, when alone with his father, Abner related the
mysterious appearance and disappearance of Yellow Steve, and his strange
words. Mr. Tompkins also had something singular to relate on that
subject, and for half an hour they discussed this strange individual and
his possible connection with Irene's history.
"He says he holds the key, which will unlock the mystery of her
parentage," said Mr. Tompkins, "but how are we to get him to turn it?"
Abner said he would make it one of the duties of his life to search out
this mysterious stranger.
"It will have to be managed carefully," said the father, "for should he
be so inclined, this man, perhaps, might destroy the last trace of her
parentage. My impression is that it was he who placed her, when a baby,
at our door."
"What could have been his motive?" asked Abner.
"Motive? Any one of a thousand things might have been his motive. He
might have done it with the hope of securing a reward for the recovery
of the child, or he may thus have taken revenge for some real or fancied
wrong, or he may have been hired by the parents."
"Come, Irene," said the young officer when tea was over. "I want to look
around the old place once more."
They paused in the garden, where the air was sweet with the fragrance of
Summer flowers, and pulsating with the evening songs of birds.
"I never come out here now," said Irene. "It is so lonesome with you and
Oleah so far away," and sat down upon a rustic seat.
As Abner gazed into the depths of those soft, gray eyes he thought so
much beauty had never before been concentrated in one being. Irene's
goodness of heart he had learned to know long ago. He was he thought,
almost on the eve of discovering her parentage, but he determined to win
her, be it high or low.
"Irene," he said, "I am glad to be once more in this dear old home, to
be once more with the parents I love; but the greatest happiness of all
is to have you again by my side."
"O Abner," she answered, lifting her earnest, tearful eyes, "do not say
to me again what you said to me that last night! It breaks my heart to
give you pain, but I know that you are wrong, that you have mistaken
your own feelings. I have loved you so long as a sister! Oh, how
terribly all things have changed! Do not you change, Abner! Be my
brother still!"
"Let what is broken so remain,
The gods are hard to reconcile,"
said Abner, looking sorrowfully into the pale, pleading face. "When
change has come, nothing can bring back the old order of things. But I
will wait, I will promise you not to speak again of my love, until you
can answer me without tears in your eyes. Now, let me see you smile,
Irene, once more before I go."
Irene could not sleep that night; her bed chamber was in the south wing
of the house, and her window looked out upon a portion of the grounds
directly shaded with trees and shrubbery. It was late when voices on the
lawn below attracted her attention. The family, she knew, had been
buried in sleep for hours, and it was something unusual for the slaves
to select that portion of the grounds for midnight consultation. At last
she arose and cautiously approached the window.
The night was beautiful, the moon shone brightly, even penetrating the
dark shade of the trees, beneath one of which two figures were
distinctly visible. The night was very still, and, though the men were
at some distance from the house, she could hear distinctly every word
they spoke.
The voice of one sounded familiar to Irene, and it took only a second
glance to show her that it was Crazy Joe, engaged in conversation with
some stranger.
Crazy Joe had always made a strange impression on Irene. From her
earliest recollection he had been either a resident or frequenter of the
Tompkins' plantation. The poor lunatic had always shown the warmest
attachment for her, and his strange wild talk, the mingling of early
Scriptural and classical lessons, with ideas dwarfed by some sudden
shock, had always had a strange fascination for her.
All her fear instantly vanished as she recognized Crazy Joe, for she
knew that no harm could ever come to any one of them through him, but
her curiosity to know who was his companion and what their topic of
conversation, became almost painful in its intensity.
Crazy Joe had of late divided his time between the plantation and the
cabin at the foot of Twin Mountains. Uncle Dan, when he entered the
army, tried to induce Joe to desert the place altogether, but this he
refused to do, always declaring he must have the house of his Uncle Esau
ready at his coming.
Irene could discover that Joe's companion was a negro, a man past the
middle age of life, of strong frame and strongly marked features. It was
with a thrill of astonishment that she heard these words.
"When do you remember seeing your father last?"
"'Twas when my father dwelt in a distant land. I was much beloved of my
father, for I was the sun of his old age."
"Oh, don't talk such nonsense! What was your father's name?"
"Jacob, my father was Jacob, the son of Isaac."
"No, he wasn't," replied the man. "Try and think if your father didn't
have another name than Jacob."
The poor fellow for a moment puzzled his brain and then said slowly:
"No, it could not be otherwise. Joseph was the son of Jacob, and Jacob
the son of Isaac, and Isaac the son of Abraham; so you see my father
must have been Jacob. Joseph was sold into bondage and carried into
Egypt, and I am Joseph, so my father must have been Jacob."
"Can't you recollect that your father had another name?"
"No, he never had any other name but Jacob, the son of Isaac."
"Your father's name was Henry," said the man. "Now don't you remember
that his Christian name was Henry?"
The moonlight fell full on Joe's troubled face, and Irene thought she
could discover a strange expression cross it, as though a stream of
memory's sunshine had suddenly been let in on his long clouded mind, but
a moment after it was passed, and he said:
"No, it must have been Jacob, and if Jacob is not my father, my father
must be dead. The famine has been very sore in the land of Canaan."
"There has been no famine in the land where your father dwells," said
the man, earnestly. "Your father never knew a famine, never knew want or
care. He was a reckless, passionate man, but at times he was gentle and
kind."
"My father, Jacob, was always good and kind," said Joe, thoughtfully.
"Your father's name was not Jacob," said the man, evidently annoyed and
puzzled. "Your father's name was Henry--" Irene listened with strained
attention to hear the last name, but the voice of the speaker was
lowered, so that she failed to catch it. "Now," went on the stranger,
"try and remember, while I tell you about your father and your home.
Your father was a handsome man, with dark hair and eyes and heavy jet
black whiskers. Do you not remember the home of your childhood--a large,
brown stone mansion, surrounded with palmetto trees, and orange groves,
and cane brakes? Do you not remember the vast fields of cotton and rice
and sugar-cane, with negroes working in them, and your father riding
about in his carriage with you by his side? Can't you remember your
mother? Can't you remember the tiny boats she made for you to float on
the lake?"
The mulatto paused, and looked eagerly at his companion, as though to
catch a gleam of intelligence. Again that curious, puzzled look came
over the face of Joe, and he seemed trying to pierce the gloom of
forgetfulness with his blunted recollection. After a moment his face
brightened, and he said:
"Yes, I remember the fields of cotton, and the carriage and my mother. I
remember the great palmetto tree by the lake, where I floated my boats
and made my flutter-mills."
"Well, listen now," said the black, still more earnestly. "Can you not
remember what your name was when you played by the lake under the big
palmetto tree by the lake?"
"I was not Joseph then."
"Can you not remember what your name was?"
"No."
"Would you remember if I was to tell you?"
"Yes."
Irene was leaning against the window-sill, holding the half-closed
shutter in her hand. In her eagerness she pressed forward, pushing the
shutter so far open that it slipped from her hold and swung crashing
back against the house. She sprang back into the room to prevent
discovery, and when next she glanced from her window, Crazy Joe was
alone. His strange companion had disappeared, and Joe sat nodding under
the tree more than half asleep.
It was nothing uncommon for Joe to pass the night under a tree, and
Irene only watched to see him stretch down under a tree and compose
himself to sleep, when she crept to her own bed, filled with wonder and
curiosity. Crazy Joe's parentage, like her own, was shrouded in mystery,
and perhaps it may have been their common misfortune that had awakened
her sympathy and drawn her so strongly towards the lunatic.
It was late before Irene closed her eyes for sleep, and when she did,
Joe's troubled eyes, Abner's eyes, sad and reproachful, and the gleaming
eyes of the stranger haunted her dreams.
Early next morning she went out to where Crazy Joe was sitting on the
grass, communing with himself. As she approached him she heard him say:
"Yes, yes, I remember the cotton fields and the palmetto tree by the
lake, the boats I sailed there, but then something heavy strikes my
brain."
She tried to persuade him to tell her who it was he was talking with on
the night before, but the light of memory faded from his face, and his
mind immediately averted to his father Jacob, who was soon to come down
into Egypt.
It was about two weeks after Abner's visit that Oleah found himself at
the head of a small scouting party in the neighborhood of his home.
Scouting parties were no novelty in and near the village of Snagtown,
for this village lay about half way between the two hostile forces, and
the scouts of both armies frequently entered it. These parties, not
always made up of the most honorable men, kept the good citizens in the
vicinity in a constant state of alarm. Hen roosts were robbed, apple
orchards devastated, and melon patches stripped, vines and all.
Oleah's party, however, attempted no exploits of this kind, for his men
knew that he would regard it as base and dastardly an act to filch from
an unoffending citizen as to fly from an enemy.
Our friend Diggs was of the party, and when Oleah stationed his men in a
grove, about a mile distant, and set out to visit his home, Mr. Diggs
volunteered to accompany him. Oleah was annoyed, but, having no good
excuse for refusal, submitted with what grace he could to the
infliction. The short-legged soldier was now all smiles and
satisfaction, being, in his own estimation, the favored of his captain.
"I tell you--hem, hem, hem!" said Diggs, as he kicked his heels into the
flanks of his horse--not January, but a spiteful little mustang--to keep
up with the fierce black charger on which the captain was mounted. "I
tell you--hem, hem!--this reminds me more of the return of the knights
of old after a battle, or a crusade, than any thing in my experience."
Diggs' conversation was not noted for brilliancy or point, but Oleah
thought he never knew him to be so flat and pointless as on this
occasion.
"I can't for the life of me, Diggs," he said, "see that we bear any
possible likeness to knights or crusaders."
"Why, you see, they left their homes, and so did we. We are alike
there."
Oleah made no answer. He was probably convinced.
Mr. Diggs went on triumphantly:
"They went off to fight, so did we; they came back clothed with victory
and glory, so did we."
"I doubt whether either of us have achieved any victory to be boasted
of. As to the glory, I lay claim to none, and you must have little,
unless you acquired it in creek bottoms or turkey roosts."
It was Mr. Diggs' turn to be silent now. His face became almost livid
with momentary rage, and the ill-assorted companions road on without
speaking, until the Tompkins' mansion was reached.
The second son, in Confederate gray, was as gladly welcomed by his
father as Abner in his loyal blue, while in the mother's eyes shone not
only a mother's tender love, but the proud patriotism of a woman, who
had given her son to the cause she believed holy and just.
"And here is friend Diggs, too," said the planter, taking the hand of
the little Confederate with such cordiality that Mr. Diggs was in
ecstasies of delight. "Have you been well?"
"Quite well, Mr. Tompkins--hem, hem!--have been quite well, except a few
gun-shot wounds, received at Carrick's Ford. Hem, hem, hem!"
Mrs. Tompkins, too, welcomed him with gracious hospitality, and, when
Irene met him with friendly greeting, he felt more than rejoiced, that
he had not given up a soldier's life. He had fought his battles and was
now winning his just reward, and "sweet the treasure, sweet the
pleasure, sweet the pleasure after pain."
"Hem, hem, hem!--my friends--hem, hem!--my dear friends, he, he, he!"
chuckled the little fellow, looking as silly as it was possible for a
man of his size, with glasses on, to look; "this gives me--hem,
hem!--unbounded, I may say unlimited, satisfaction."
At this moment another character entered on the scene. It was Crazy Joe;
he paused a moment, and a look of recognition lit up his features. He
walked forward, and, placing his hand on Diggs' shoulder, angrily
demanded:
"Why are you here, sir? Why did you not remain where I left you? When I
make a man out of clay, and stand him up, I want him to stay where I
leave him, until I can show people the greatness of my handiwork."
It was impossible for those present to restrain their involuntary
smiles, and Diggs, seeing this, lost his temper.
"Go away, fool," he cried; "take off your hands."
"Oh, Mr. Diggs, that is very unkind," said Irene.
"Yes," said Crazy Joe, sorrowfully, as he left the room, "it is very
unkind for him to address such language to the man who made him."
In spite of themselves, those present could hardly restrain their
laughter; but Mr. Diggs was easily pacified, and harmony was soon
restored, and he related his hair-breadth escapes and miraculous
victories.
Oleah had interesting adventures to relate, and the humorous mishaps of
our friend Mr. Diggs, brought out the long unheard-of music of Irene's
laughter. During the evening he told his father of his meeting of Yellow
Steve at Mrs. Juniper's ball.
"Strange," said the father, "that he should have escaped us all. He
knows something of Irene's history." Then he told Oleah what he himself
had seen, and what Abner had told him of Yellow Steve's visit, the
evening before the battle of Bull Run.
"I will fathom this mystery," exclaimed Oleah, "though it takes a
lifetime to do it. He shall reveal all he knows, the next time we meet,
if he does it at the point of my sword."
"Be not too rash, my son," said the father. "Never frighten a bird you
wish to catch."
Then his mother and Irene came in, and with a loving imperiousness, as
his brother had done, he made Irene come out with him, walked through
the same paths and sat down at last on the same seat, with the same
words trembling on his lips.
The sun had gone down, the moon was rising round and full in the East,
and the whip-poor-wills were making night melodious with their song.
Oleah was talking very earnestly to his fair companion; not only
earnestly, but passionately.
"Irene, you comprehend what I told you before I left my home to meet
death and danger in the field, that the love I felt for you was deeper
and stronger than a brother's. I love you--I love you more than all else
on earth, more than life, and nothing shall keep you from me. You shall
be mine--my wife."
"Oleah, believe me, let us keep the old love--I can give you no other. I
can not give you what you want." Her voice died away. He saw the small,
white fingers clasping and unclasping, and knew that she was resolutely
keeping back her tears.
"This is something I can not understand," said Oleah, and his face
clouded, "unless my brother has been before me."
Irene opened her white lips, but no words came.
"I understand now," exclaimed Oleah; "you can not choose between us; you
know not which of us you prefer, or perhaps you prefer him." His eyes
shone like burning coals, and his voice was hoarse with passion. "It is
true, he must oppose me in every thing? When our country, our South, his
birthplace and mine, is assailed by foes, he joins them. Is not that
enough to turn all a brother's love to gall and bitterness? And now he
would win you from me--my love, my love!"
"Oleah, do not so wrong your brother! I tell you truly that he does not
know, he has no thought that he is opposing you," cried Irene, with an
appealing look at the dark, angry face. "O, Oleah, for your mother's
sake banish these evil thoughts. God made you brothers."
"Yes, and the devil made us enemies. It is coming at last--it has come!
I have fought against it for the sake of our happy childhood, our
parents, and the brothers' blood that flows in our veins, but it is
useless. The fates have determined that we should hate each other, and
the hatred of brothers is the hatred of devils. Irene," his voice
softening, "I believe you love me though you will not speak," and Oleah
seized her passionately in his embrace and rained kisses on her fair,
pale face. "I must go now," he said, releasing her, "but you shall yet
be mine, I swear it. Neither brother, nor father, nor mother, no power
on earth shall prevent it."
Oleah went toward the house, and Irene stood motionless, where he had
left her, till the trees hid him from her sight--her eyes widely
strained, her face pale with terror, her lips white and bloodless. Those
wild words Oleah had spoken in his passion, those fearful words, "_The
hatred of brothers is the hatred of devils_," seemed burning into her
brain.
And this was her work! This mischief she had done! She trembled like one
guilty, and the love she would not own, and she could not master, seemed
to her shuddering soul a crime.
So excited was her manner that it attracted the attention of others in
the room. At this moment a negro boy entered the room, where Mr. and
Mrs. Tompkins were sitting with Mr. Diggs, his face wearing a strangely
puzzled look. He paused and looked around. Whether he was more
frightened or puzzled it would have been difficult to tell.
"Well, Job, what is it?" asked Mr. Tompkins, noticing the negro's
awkward manner.
"If you please, marster," he said, shaking his head, "Marster Abner--"
"What of him?" asked Mr. Tompkins, for the boy had paused.
"Why, he--he is comin'?"
Before any one could make reply, quick steps were heard on the graveled
walk. Mr. Tompkins, motioning the servant aside, went himself to the
door, and, as he opened it, heard Oleah's voice, imperious and harsh:
"You are my prisoner, sir!"
"Oleah, my son, this is a matter too serious for jesting," said the
father.
"I am not jesting. My first duty is to my country. He is an enemy to my
country, and my country's enemies are mine. My men are within call," he
continued, turning to Abner. "Do you surrender?"
"Most assuredly I shall not," replied Abner.
"Then, by heavens! you shall fare no better than any other Yankee spy.
You are within our lines!"
He snatched his sword from its scabbard, and before Mr. Tompkins could
interpose, there was a clash.
Again the door opened, and Mrs. Tompkins and Mr. Diggs appeared; but
the sight that met their eyes froze to terror the smile of welcome on
the mother's lips, and sent Diggs, his radiant complacency all gone,
shrinking back into the house, muttering, "Oh, Lordy, I know I shall be
killed."
Clash, clash! clank, clank! the swords went, circling in the air,
thrusting, crossing, clashing. Irene came flying down the path, and Mr.
Tompkins sprang between and threw them apart.
"Hold!" he cried, "if you must have kindred blood, turn your swords
first on me, and on your mother and sister. Abner, if your enemies are
near, go. Let them not find you in your own father's house. Go at once!"
Without a word, Abner returned his sword to its scabbard and started to
leave his home. His mother and Irene followed him to the gate, and, a
moment later, his horse's feet were heard clattering up the hill toward
Snagtown.
Oleah, soon after, left with Diggs, to join his men. Mr. Tompkins and
his wife sat in silence in the silent house, while Irene, who believed
herself the guilty cause of this new sorrow, crept up to her room to
weep and pray.