There was a dismal tea at Colonel Carvel's house in Locust Street that
evening Virginia did not touch a mouthful, and the Colonel merely made a
pretence of eating. About six o'clock Mrs. Addison Colfax had driven in
from Bellegarde, nor could it rain fast enough or hard enough to wash
the foam from her panting horses. She did not wait for Jackson to come
out with an umbrella, but rushed through the wet from the carriage
to the door in her haste to urge the Colonel to go to the Arsenal and
demand Clarence's release. It was in vain that Mr. Carvel assured her
it would do no good, in vain that he told her of a more important matter
that claimed him. Could there be a more important matter than his
own nephew kept in durance, and in danger of being murdered by Dutch
butchers in the frenzy of their victory? Mrs. Colfax shut herself up in
her room, and through the door Virginia heard her sobs as she went down
to tea.
The Colonel made no secret of his uneasiness. With his hat on his head,
and his hands in his pockets, he paced up and down the room. He let his
cigar go out,--a more serious sign still. Finally he stood with his face
to the black window, against which the big drops were beating in a fury.
Virginia sat expressionless at the head of the table, still in that gown
of white and crimson, which she had worn in honor of the defenders of
the state. Expressionless, save for a glance of solicitation at her
father's back. If resolve were feminine, Virginia might have sat for
that portrait. There was a light in her dark blue eyes. Underneath there
were traces of the day's fatigue. When she spoke, there was little life
in her voice.
“Aren't you going to the Planters' House, Pa The Colonel turned, and
tried to smile.
“I reckon not to-night, Jinny. Why?”
“To find out what they are going to do with Clarence,” she said
indignantly.
“I reckon they don't know at the Planters' House,” he said.
“Then--” began Virginia, and stopped.
“Then what?” he asked, stroking her hair.
“Then why not go to the Barracks? Order the carriage, and I will go with
you.”
His smile faded. He stood looking down at her fixedly, as was sometimes
his habit. Grave tenderness was in his tone.
“Jinny,” he said slowly, “Jinny, do you mean to marry Clarence?”
The suddenness of the question took her breath. But she answered
steadily:
“Yes.”
“Do you love him?
“Yes,” she answered. But her lashes fell.
Still he stood, and it seemed to her that her father's gaze pierced to
her secret soul.
“Come here, my dear,” he said.
He held out his arms, and she fluttered into them. The tears were
come at last. It was not the first time she had cried out her troubles
against that great heart which had ever been her strong refuge. From
childhood she had been comforted there. Had she broken her doll, had
Mammy Easter been cross, had lessons gone wrong at school, was she
ill, or weary with that heaviness of spirit which is woman's inevitable
lot,--this was her sanctuary. But now! This burden God Himself had sent,
and none save her Heavenly Father might cure it. Through his great love
for her it was given to Colonel Carvel to divine it--only vaguely.
Many times he strove to speak, and could not. But presently, as if
ashamed of her tears, she drew back from him and took her old seat on
the arm of his chair.
By the light of his intuition, the Colonel chose tins words well. What
he had to speak of was another sorrow, yet a healing one.
“You must not think of marriage now, my dear, when the bread we eat may
fail us. Jinny, we are not as rich as we used to be. Our trade was
in the South and West, and now the South and West cannot pay. I had a
conference with Mr. Hopper yesterday, and he tells me that we must be
prepared.”
She laid her hand upon his.
“And did you think I would care, dear?” she asked gently. “I can bear
with poverty and rags, to win this war.”
“His own eyes were dim, but pride shone in them. Jackson came in on
tiptoe, and hesitated. At the Colonel's motion he took away the china
and the silver, and removed the white cloth, and turned low the lights
in the chandelier. He went out softly, and closed the door.
“Pa,” said Virginia, presently, “do you trust Mr. Hopper?”
The Colonel gave a start.
“Why, yes, Jinny. He improved the business greatly before this trouble
came. And even now we are not in such straits as some other houses.”
“Captain Lige doesn't like him.”
“Lige has prejudices.”
“So have I,” said Virginia. “Eliphalet Hopper will serve you so long as
he serves himself. No longer.”
“I think you do him an injustice, my dear,” answered the Colonel. But
uneasiness was in his voice. “Hopper is hard working, scrupulous to a
cent. He owns two slaves now who are running the river. He keeps out of
politics, and he has none of the Yankee faults.”
“I wish he had,” said Virginia.
The Colonel made no answer to this. Getting up, he went over to the
bell-cord at the door and pulled it. Jackson came in hurriedly.
“Is my bag packed?”
“Yes, Marsa.”
“Where are you going?” cried Virginia, in alarm.
“To Jefferson City, dear, to see the Governor. I got word this
afternoon.”
“In the rain?”
He smiled, and stooped to kiss her.
“Yes,” he answered, “in the rain as far as the depot, I can trust
you, Jinny. And Lige's boat will be back from New Orleans to-morrow or
Sunday.”
The next morning the city awoke benumbed, her heart beating but feebly.
Her commerce had nearly ceased to flow. A long line of boats lay idle,
with noses to the levee. Men stood on the street corners in the rain,
reading of the capture of Camp Jackson, and of the riot, and thousands
lifted up their voices to execrate the Foreign City below Market Street.
A vague terror, maliciously born, subtly spread. The Dutch had broken
up the camp, a peaceable state institution, they had shot down innocent
women and children. What might they not do to the defenceless city under
their victorious hand, whose citizens were nobly loyal to the South?
Sack it? Yes, and burn, and loot it. Ladies who ventured out that day
crossed the street to avoid Union gentlemen of their acquaintance.
It was early when Mammy Easter brought the news paper to her mistress.
Virginia read the news, and ran joyfully to her aunt's room. Three times
she knocked, and then she heard a cry within. Then the key was turned
and the bolt cautiously withdrawn, and a crack of six inches disclosed
her aunt.
“Oh, how you frightened me, Jinny!” she cried. “I thought it was the
Dutch coming to murder us all, What have they done to Clarence?”
“We shall see him to-day, Aunt Lillian,” was the joyful answer. “The
newspaper says that all the Camp Jackson prisoners are to be set free
to-day, on parole. Oh, I knew they would not dare to hold them. The
whole state would have risen to their rescue.”
Mrs. Colfax did not receive these tidings with transports. She permitted
her niece to come into her room, and then: sank into a chair before the
mirror of her dressing-table, and scanned her face there.
“I could not sleep a wink, Jinny, all night long. I look wretchedly. I
am afraid I am going to have another of my attacks. How it is raining!
What does the newspaper say?”
“I'll get it for you,” said Virginia, used to her aunt's vagaries.
“No, no, tell me. I am much too nervous to read it.”
“It says that they will be paroled to-day, and that they passed a
comfortable night.”
“It must be a Yankee lie,” said the lady. “Oh, what a night! I saw them
torturing him in a thousand ways the barbarians! I know he had to sleep
on a dirty floor with low-down trash.”
“But we shall have him here to-night, Aunt Lillian!” cried Virginia.
“Mammy, tell Uncle Ben that Mr. Clarence will be here for tea. We must
have a feast for him. Pa said that they could not hold them.”
“Where is Comyn?” inquired Mrs. Colfax. “Has he gone down to see
Clarence?”
“He went to Jefferson City last night,” replied Virginia. “The Governor
sent for him.”
Mrs. Colfax exclaimed in horror at this news.
“Do you mean that he has deserted us?” she cried. “That he has left us
here defenceless,--at the mercy of the Dutch, that they may wreak their
vengeance upon us women? How can you sit still, Virginia? If I were your
age and able to drag myself to the street, I should be at the Arsenal
now. I should be on my knees before that detestable Captain Lyon, even
if he is a Yankee.” Virginia kept her temper.
“I do not go on my knees to any man,” she said. “Rosetta, tell Ned I
wish the carriage at once.”
Her aunt seized her convulsively by the arm.
“Where are you going, Jinny?” she demanded. “Your Pa would never forgive
me if anything happened to you.”
A smile, half pity, crossed the girl's anxious face.
“I am afraid that I must risk adding to your misfortune, Aunt Lillian,”
she said, and left the room.
Virginia drove to Mr. Brinsmade's. His was one of the Union houses which
she might visit and not lose her self respect. Like many Southerners,
when it became a question of go or stay, Mr. Brinsmade's unfaltering
love for the Union had kept him in. He had voted for Mr. Bell, and later
had presided at Crittenden Compromise meetings. In short, as a man of
peace, he would have been willing to sacrifice much for peace. And now
that it was to be war, and he had taken his stand uncompromisingly with
the Union, the neighbors whom he had befriended for so many years could
not bring themselves to regard him as an enemy. He never hurt their
feelings; and almost as soon as the war began he set about that work
which has been done by self-denying Christians of all ages,--the relief
of suffering. He visited with comfort the widow and the fatherless, and
many a night in the hospital he sat through beside the dying, Yankee and
Rebel alike, and wrote their last letters home.
And Yankee and Rebel alike sought his help and counsel in time of
perplexity or trouble, rather than hotheaded advice from their own
leaders.
Mr. Brinsmade's own carriage was drawn up at his door; and that
gentleman himself standing on the threshold. He came down his steps
bareheaded in the wet to hand Virginia from her carriage.
Courteous and kind as ever, he asked for her father and her aunt as
he led her into the house. However such men may try to hide their own
trials under a cheerful mien, they do not succeed with spirits of a
kindred nature. With the others, who are less generous, it matters
not. Virginia was not so thoughtless nor so selfish that she could not
perceive that a trouble had come to this good man. Absorbed as she was
in her own affairs, she forgot some of them in his presence. The fire
left her tongue, and to him she could not have spoken harshly even of
an enemy. Such was her state of mind, when she was led into the
drawing-room. From the corner of it Anne arose and came forward to throw
her arms around her friend.
“Jinny, it was so good of you to come. You don't, hate me?”
“Hate you, Anne dear!”
“Because we are Union,” said honest Anne, wishing to have no shadow of
doubt.
Virginia was touched. “Anne,” she cried, “if you were German, I believe
I should love you.”
“How good of you to come. I should not have dared go to your house,
because I know that you feel so deeply. You--you heard?”
“Heard what?” asked Virginia, alarmed.
“That Jack has run away--has gone South, we think. Perhaps,” she cried,
“perhaps he may be dead.” And tears came into the girl's eyes.
It was then that Virginia forgot Clarence. She drew Anne to the sofa and
kissed her.
“No, he is not dead,” she said gently, but with a confidence in her
voice of rare quality. “He is not dead, Anne dear, or you would have
heard.”
Had she glanced up, she would have seen Mr. Brinsmade's eye upon her. He
looked kindly at all people, but this expression he reserved for those
whom he honored. A life of service to others had made him guess that,
in the absence of her father, this girl had come to him for help of some
kind.
“Virginia is right, Anne,” he said. “John has gone to fight for his
principles, as every gentleman who is free should; we must remember
that this is his home, and that we must not quarrel with him, because
we think differently.” He paused, and came over to Virginia. “There is
something I can do for you, my dear?” said he.
She rose. “Oh, no, Mr. Brinsmade,” she cried. And yet her honesty was as
great as Anne's. She would not have it thought that she came for other
reasons. “My aunt is in such a state of worry over Clarence that I came
to ask you if you thought the news true, that the prisoners are to be
paroled. She thinks it is a--” Virginia flushed, and bit a rebellious
tongue. “She does not believe it.”
Even good Mr. Brinsmade smiled at the slip she had nearly made. He
understood the girl, and admired her. He also understood Mrs. Colfax.
“I'll drive to the Arsenal with you, Jinny,” he answered. “I know
Captain Lyon, and we shall find out certainly.”
“You will do nothing of the kind, sir,” said Virginia, with emphasis.
“Had I known this--about John, I should not have come.”
He checked her with a gesture. What a gentleman of the old school
he was, with his white ruffled shirt and his black stock and his eye
kindling with charity.
“My dear,” he answered, “Nicodemus is waiting. I was just going myself
to ask Captain Lyon about John.” Virginia's further objections were cut
short by the violent clanging of the door-bell, and the entrance of a
tall, energetic gentleman, whom Virginia had introduced to her as
Major Sherman, late of the army, and now president of the Fifth Street
Railroad. The Major bowed and shook hands. He then proceeded, as was
evidently his habit, directly to the business on which he was come.
“Mr. Brinsmade,” he said, “I heard, accidentally, half an hour ago that
you were seeking news of your son. I regret to say, sir, that the news I
have will not lead to a knowledge of his whereabouts. But in justice to
a young gentleman of this city I think I ought to tell you what happened
at Camp Jackson.”
“I shall be most grateful, Major. Sit down, sir.”
But the Major did not sit down. He stood in the middle of the room. With
some gesticulation which added greatly to the force of the story,
he gave a most terse and vivid account of Mr. John's arrival at the
embankment by the grove--of his charging a whole regiment of Union
volunteers. Here was honesty again. Mr. Sherman did not believe in
mincing matters even to a father and sister.
“And, sir,” said he, “you may thank the young man who lives next door to
you--Mr. Brice, I believe--for saving your son's life.”
“Stephen Brice!” exclaimed Mr. Brinsmade, in astonishment.
Virginia felt Anne's hand tighten But her own was limp. A hot wave swept
over her, Was she never to hear the end of this man.
“Yes, sir, Stephen Brice,” answered Mr. Sherman. “And I never in my life
saw a finer thing done, in the Mexican War or out of it.”
Mr. Brinsmade grew a little excited. “Are you sure that you know him?”
“As sure as I know you,” said the Major, with excessive conviction.
“But,” said Mr. Brinsmade, “I was in there last night, I knew the young
man had been at the camp. I asked him if he had seen Jack. He told me
that he had, by the embankment. But he never mentioned a word about
saving his life.”
“He didn't,” cried the Major. “By glory, but he's even better than I
thought him, Did you see a black powder mark on his face?”
“Why, yes, sir, I saw a bad burn of some kind on his forehead.”
“Well, sir, if one of the Dutchmen who shot at Jack had known enough to
put a ball in his musket, he would have killed Mr. Brice, who was only
ten feet away, standing before your son.”
Anne gave a little cry--Virginia was silent--Her lips were parted.
Though she realized it not, she was thirsting %a hear the whole of the
story.
The Major told it, soldier fashion, but well. How John rushed up to the
line. How he (Mr. Sherman) had seen Brice throw the woman down and
had cried to him to lie down himself how the fire was darting down the
regiment, and how men and women were falling all about them; and how
Stephen had flung Jack and covered him with his body.
It was all vividly before Virginia's eyes. Had she any right to treat
such a man with contempt? She remembered hour he had looked, at her when
he stood on the corner by the Catherwoods' house. And, worst of all, she
remembered many spiteful remarks she had made, even to Anne, the gist of
which had been that Mr. Brice was better at preaching than at fighting.
She knew now--and she had known in her heart before--that this was the
greatest injustice she could have done him.
“But Jack? What did Jack do?”
It was Anne who tremblingly asked the Major. But Mr. Sherman,
apparently, was not the man to say that Jack would have shot Stephen had
he not interfered. That was the ugly part of the story. John would have
shot the man who saved his life. To the day of his death neither Mr.
Brinsmade nor his wife knew this. But while Mr. Brinsmade and Anne had
gone upstairs to the sickbed, these were the tidings the Major told
Virginia, who kept it in her heart. The reason he told her was because
she had guessed a part of it.
Nevertheless Mr. Brinsmade drove to the Arsenal with her that Saturday,
in his own carriage. Forgetful of his own grief, long habit came to
him to talk cheerily with her. He told her many little anecdotes of his
travel, but not one of them did she hear. Again, at the moment when she
thought her belief in Clarence and her love for him at last secure, she
found herself drawing searching comparisons between him and the quieter
young Bostonian. In spite of herself she had to admit that Stephen's
deed was splendid. Was this disloyal? She flushed at the thought.
Clarence had been capable of the deed,--even to the rescue of an enemy.
But--alas, that she should carry it out to a remorseless end--would
Clarence have been equal to keeping silence when Mr. Brinsmade came
to him? Stephen Brice had not even told his mother, so Mr. Brinsmade
believed.
As if to aggravate her torture, Mr. Brinsmade's talk drifted to the
subject of young Mr. Brice. This was but natural. He told her of the
brave struggle Stephen had made, and how he had earned luxuries, and
often necessities, for his mother by writing for the newspapers.
“Often,” said Mr. Brinsmade, “often I have been unable to sleep, and
have seen the light in Stephen's room until the small hours of the
morning.”
“Oh, Mr. Brinsmade,” cried Virginia. “Can't you tell me something bad
about him? Just once.”
The good gentleman started, and looked searchingly at the girl by his
side, flushed and confused. Perhaps he thought--but how can we tell what
he thought? How can we guess that our teachers laugh at our pranks after
they have caned us for them? We do not remember that our parents have
once been young themselves, and that some word or look of our own brings
a part of their past vividly before them. Mr. Brinsmade was silent, but
he looked out of the carriage window, away from Virginia. And presently,
as they splashed through the mud near the Arsenal, they met a knot of
gentlemen in state uniforms on their way to the city. Nicodemus stopped
at his master's signal. Here was George Catherwood, and his father was
with him.
“They have released us on parole,” said George. “Yes, we had a fearful
night of it. They could not have kept us--they had no quarters.”
How changed he was from the gay trooper of yesterday! His bright uniform
was creased and soiled and muddy, his face unshaven, and dark rings of
weariness under his eyes.
“Do you know if Clarence Colfax has gone home?” Mr. Brinsmade inquired.
“Clarence is an idiot,” cried George, ill-naturedly. “Mr. Brinsmade, of
all the prisoners here, he refused to take the parole, or the oath of
allegiance. He swears he will remain a prisoner until he is exchanged.”
“The young man is Quixotic,” declared the elder Catherwood, who was not
himself in the best of humors.
“Sir,” said Mr. Brinsmade, with as much severity as he was ever known
to use, “sir, I honor that young man for this more than I can tell you.
Nicodemus, you may drive on.” And he slammed the door.
Perhaps George had caught sight of a face in the depths of the carriage,
for he turned purple, and stood staring on the pavement after his
choleric parent had gone on.
It was done. Of all the thousand and more young men who had upheld
the honor of their state that week, there was but the one who chose to
remain in durance vile within the Arsenal wall--Captain Clarence Colfax,
late of the Dragoons.
Mr. Brinsmade was rapidly admitted to the Arsenal, and treated with the
respect which his long service to the city deserved. He and Virginia
were shown into the bare military room of the commanding officer, and
thither presently came Captain Lyon himself. Virginia tingled with
antagonism when she saw this man who had made the city tremble, who had
set an iron heel on the flaming brand of her Cause. He, too, showed the
marks of his Herculean labors, but only on his clothes and person. His
long red hair was unbrushed, his boots covered with black mud, and his
coat unbuttoned. His face was ruddy, and his eye as clear as though
he had arisen from twelve hours' sleep. He bowed to Virginia (not too
politely, to be sure). Her own nod of are recognition did not seem to
trouble him.
“Yes, sir,” he said incisively, in response to Mr. Brinsmade's question,
“we are forced to retain Captain Colfax. He prefers to remain a prisoner
until he is exchanged. He refuses to take the oath of allegiance to the
United States.
“And why should he be made to, Captain Lyon? In what way has he opposed
the United States troops?”
It was Virginia who spoke. Both looked at her in astonishment.
“You will pardon me, Miss Carvel,” said Captain Lyon, gravely, “if I
refuse to discuss that question with you.” Virginia bit her tongue.
“I understand that Mr. Colfax is a near relative of yours, Miss Carvel,”
the Captain continued. “His friends may come here to see him during
the day. And I believe it is not out of place for me to express my
admiration of the captain's conduct. You may care to see him now--”
“Thank you,” said Virginia, curtly.
“Orderly, my respects to Captain Colfax, and ask him if a he will be
kind enough to come in here. Mr. Brinsmade,” said the Captain, “I
should like a few words with you, sir.” And so, thanks to the Captain's
delicacy, when Clarence arrived he found Virginia alone. She was much
agitated She ran toward him as he entered the door, calling his name.
“Max, you are going to stay here?”
“Yes, until I am exchanged.”
Aglow with admiration, she threw herself into his arms. Now, indeed, was
she proud of him. Of all the thousand defenders of the state, he alone
was true to his principles--to the South. Within sight of home, he alone
had chosen privation.
She looked up into his face, which showed marks of excitement and
fatigue. But above all, excitement. She knew that he could live on
excitement. The thought came to her--was it that which sustained him
now? She put it away as treason. Surely the touch of this experience
would transform the boy into the man. This was the weak point in the
armor which she wore so bravely for her cousin.
He had grown up to idleness. He had known neither care nor
responsibility. His one longing from a child had been that love of
fighting and adventure which is born in the race. Until this gloomy
day in the Arsenal, Virginia had never characterized it as a love of
excitement---as any thing which contained a selfish element. She looked
up into his face, I say, and saw that which it is given to a woman only
to see. His eyes burned with a light that was far away. Even with his
arms around her he seemed to have forgotten her presence, and that she
had come all the way to the Arsenal to see him. Her hands dropped limply
from his shoulders She drew away, as he did not seem to notice.
So it is with men. Above and beyond the sacrifice of a woman's life, the
joy of possessing her soul and affection, is something more desirable
still--fame and glory--personal fame and glory, The woman may share
them, of course, and be content with the radiance. When the Governor
in making his inauguration speech, does he always think of the help the
little wife has given him. And so, in moments of excitement, when we see
far ahead into a glorious future, we do not feel the arms about us,
or value the sweets which, in more humdrum days, we labored so hard to
attain.
Virginia drew away, and the one searching glance she gave him he did
not see. He was staring far beyond; tears started in her eyes, and she
turned from him to look out over the Arsenal grounds, still wet and
heavy with the night's storm. The day itself was dark and damp. She
thought of the supper cooking at home. It would not be eaten now.
And yet, in that moment of bitterness Virginia loved him. Such are the
ways of women, even of the proudest, who love their country too. It was
but right that he should not think of her when the honor of the South
was at stake; and the anger that rose within her was against those nine
hundred and ninety-nine who had weakly accepted the parole.
“Why did Uncle Comyn not come?” asked Clarence.
“He has gone to Jefferson City, to see the Governor..”
“And you came alone?”
“No, Mr. Brinsmade brought me.”
“And mother?”
She was waiting for that question. What a relief that should have come
among the first.
“Aunt Lillian feels very badly. She was in her room when I left. She was
afraid,” (Virginia had to smile), “she was afraid the Yankees would kill
you.”
“They have behaved very well for Yankees,” replied he, “No luxury, and
they will not hear of my having a servant. They are used to doing their
own work. But they have treated me much better since I refused to take
their abominable oath.”
“And you will be honored for it when the news reaches town.”
“Do you think so, Jinny?” Clarence asked eagerly, “I reckon they will
think me a fool!”
“I should like to hear any one say so,” she flashed out.
“No,” said Virginia, “our friends will force them to release you. I
do not know much about law. But you have done nothing to be imprisoned
for.”
Clarence did not answer at once. Finally he said. “I do not want to be
released.”
“You do not want to be released,” she repeated.
“No,” he said. “They can exchange me. If I remain a prisoner, it will
have a greater effect--for the South.”
She smiled again, this time at the boyish touch of heroics. Experience,
responsibility, and he would get over that. She remembered once, long
ago, when his mother had shut him up in his room for a punishment, and
he had tortured her by remaining there for two whole days.
It was well on in the afternoon when she drove back to the city with Mr.
Brinsmade. Neither of them had eaten since morning, nor had they even
thought of hunger. Mr. Brinsmade was silent, leaning back in the corner
of the carriage, and Virginia absorbed in her own thoughts. Drawing near
the city, that dreaded sound, the rumble of drums, roused them. A shot
rang out, and they were jerked violently by the starting of the horses.
As they dashed across Walnut at Seventh came the fusillade. Virginia
leaned out of the window. Down the vista of the street was a mass of
blue uniforms, and a film of white smoke hanging about the columns of
the old Presbyterian Church Mr. Brinsmade quietly drew her back into the
carriage.
The shots ceased, giving place to an angry roar that struck terror to
her heart that wet and lowering afternoon. The powerful black horses
galloped on. Nicodemus tugging at the reins, and great splotches of
mud flying in at the windows. The roar of the crowd died to an ominous
moaning behind them. Then she knew that Mr. Brinsmade was speaking:--
“From battle and murder, and from sudden death--from all sedition, privy
conspiracy, and rebellion,--Good Lord, deliver us.”
He was repeating the Litany--that Litany which had come down through the
ages. They had chanted it in Cromwell's time, when homes were ruined and
laid waste, and innocents slaughtered. They had chanted it on the dark,
barricaded stairways of mediaeval Paris, through St. Bartholomew's
night, when the narrow and twisted streets, ran with blood. They had
chanted it in ancient India, and now it was heard again in the New World
and the New Republic of Peace and Good Will.
Rebellion? The girl flinched at the word which the good gentleman had
uttered in his prayers. Was she a traitor to that flag for which her
people had fought in three wars? Rebellion! She burned to blot it
forever from the book Oh, the bitterness of that day, which was prophecy
of the bitterness to come.
Rain was dropping as Mr. Brinsmade escorted her up her own steps.
He held her hand a little at parting, and bade her be of good cheer.
Perhaps he guessed something of the trial she was to go through that
night alone with her aunt, Clarence's mother. Mr. Brinsmade did not go
directly home. He went first to the little house next door to his. Mrs.
Brice and Judge Whipple were in the parlor: What passed between them
there has not been told, but presently the Judge and Mr. Brinsmade came
out together and stood along time in, the yard, conversing, heedless of
the rain.