Baynell, himself, reached the same conclusion the next evening, but by
an altogether different process of reasoning.
He had noticed the unusual stir among the "ladies" early in the
afternoon and a sort of festival aspect that the old house was taking
on. The parlors were opened and a glow of sunshine illumined the windows
and showed the grove from a new aspect--the choicer view where the slope
was steep. The river rounded the point of woods, and there was a great
stretch of cliffs opposite; beyond were woods again, reaching to the
foot-hills that clustered about the base of the distant mountains
bounding the prospect. The glimpse seen through the rooms was like a
great painting in intense, clear, fine colors, and he paused for a
moment to glance at it as he passed down the hall, for all the doors
were standing broadly aflare and all the windows were open to the
summer-like zephyr that played through the house.
"Oh, Captain Baynell!" cried Adelaide, catching sight of him and gasping
in the sheer joy of the anticipation of a great occasion. "The
Sewing-Society is going to meet here, and you can come in, too! Mayn't
he come in, Cousin Leonora?"
Mrs. Gwynn was filling a large bowl on a centre-table with a gorgeous
cluster of deep red tulips, and Baynell noticed that she had thrust two
or three into the dense knot of fair hair at the nape of her neck. As
she turned around one of the swaying bells was still visible, giving its
note of fervid brilliancy to her face. Her dress was a white mull, of
simple make--old, even with a delicate darn on one of its floating open
sleeves, but to one familiar with her appearance in the sombre garb of
widowhood she seemed radiant in a sort of splendor. What was then called
a "Spanish waist," a deeply pointed girdle of black velvet, flecked with
tiny red tufts, made the sylphlike grace of her figure more pronounced,
and at her throat was a collarette of the same material. Her cheeks were
flushed. It had been a busy day--with the morning lessons, with the
arrangement of the parlors, the array of materials, the setting of the
sewing-machines in order, including two or three of the earlier
hand-power contrivances, sent in expressly from the neighbors, the
baskets for lint,--one could hear even now the whirring of the
grindstone as old Ephraim put a keener edge on the scissors. Last but
not least Leonora had accomplished the bedizenment of the "ladies."
Adelaide was not born to blush unseen. She realized the solecism that
her vanity lured her to commit, yet she said hardily, "Look at _me_,
Captain--I'm got me a magenta sash!"
"And it's beautiful!" cried Baynell, responsively. "And so are you!"
Mrs. Gwynn glanced down at her reprovingly and was out of countenance
for a moment.
"How odious it is to give to colors the names of battles," she
said,--"Magenta and Solferino!"
"This is a beautiful color, though," said Baynell.
"But the name gives such an ensanguined suggestion," she objected.
Her eye critically scanned the three "ladies" in their short white mull
dresses and magenta sashes, each with a bow of black velvet in her hair,
as they led Captain Baynell into the room, and it did not occur to her
till too late to canvass the acceptability of the presence of the Yankee
officer to the ladies of the vicinity, assembling in this choice
symposium, who had some of them the cruel associations of death itself
with the very sight of the uniform.
Whether it were good breeding, or the magnanimity that exempts the unit
from the responsibility of the multitude, or a realization that Judge
Roscoe's guest, be he whom he might, was entitled to the consideration
of all in the Roscoe house, there was no demonstration of even the
slightest antagonism. The usual civility of salutation in acknowledging
the introduction served to withhold from Captain Baynell himself the
fact that he could hardly hope to be _persona grata_; and ensconced in
an arm-chair at the window overlooking the lovely landscape, he found a
certain amusement and entertainment in watching the zealous industry of
the little Roscoe "ladies," who were very competent lint-pickers and
boasted some prodigies of performance. A large old linen crumb-cloth,
laundered for the occasion, had been spread in the corner between the
rear and side windows of the back parlor, so that the flying lint should
not bespeck the velvet carpet, or an overturned basket work injury, and
here in their three little chairs they sat and competed with each other,
appealing to Captain Baynell to time them by his watch.
Now and then their comments, after the manner of their age, were keenly
malapropos and occasioned a sense of embarrassment.
"Don't you reckon Ac'obat is homesick by this time, Captain?" demanded
Adelaide.
"Look out of the window, Captain--you can see the grating to the
wine-cellar where he could put his nose out to take the air," said
Geraldine.
"An' he thought the lightning could come in there to take
him--kee--kee--" giggled Adelaide.
"Oh, _wasn't_ he a foolish horse!" commented Geraldine, regretfully.
"Uncle Ephraim said Ac'obat had no religion else he'd have stayed where
he was put like a Christian," Adelaide observed.
"Oh, but he was _just_ a horse--poor Ac'obat!"
At this moment emulation seized Geraldine. "Oh, my--just look how
Lucille is double-quickin' about that lint pickin'!"
And a busy silence ensued.
The large rooms were half full of members of the society. In those days
the infinite resources of the "ready-made" had not penetrated to these
regions, and doubtless the work of such eager and industrious coteries
carried comfort and help farther than one can readily imagine, and the
organized aid of woman's needle was an appreciable blessing. Two or
three matrons, with that wise, capable look of the able house-sovereign,
when scissors, or a dish, or a vial of medicine is in hand, sat with
broad "lapboards" across their knees, and cut and cut the coarse
garments with the skill of experts, till great piles were lying on the
floor, caught up with a stitch to hold component parts together and
passed on to the younger ladies at the sewing-machines that whirred and
whirred like the droning bees forever at the jessamine blooming about
the windows. Nothing could be more unbeautiful or uninviting than the
aspect of these stout garments, unless it were to the half-clad soldier
in the trenches to whom they came like an embodied benediction. The
thought of him--that unknown, unnamed beneficiary, for whose grisly
needs they wrought--was often, perhaps, in the mind of each.
"And oh!" cried Adelaide, "while I'm pickin' lint for this hospital, I
dust know some little girl away out yonder in the Confederacy is
pickin' lint too--an' if my papa was to get wounded, they'd have
plenty."
"Pickin' fast, she is, like us!" cried the hastening Geraldine.
The deft-fingered mute, discerning their meaning by the motion of their
lips, redoubled her speed.
Others were sewing by hand, and one very old lady had knitted some
lamb's wool socks, which were passed about and greatly admired; she was
complacent, almost coquettish, so bland was her smile under these
compliments.
And into this scene of placid and almost pious labor came Miss Mildred
Fisher presently, leading her "dancing bear."
If there were any question of the acceptability of the enforced presence
of a Yankee officer, either in the mind of the Sewing-Circle or
Lieutenant Seymour, it was not allowed to smoulder in discomfort, but
set ablaze to burn itself out.
"I know you are all just perfectly amazed at our assurance in bringing a
Yankee officer here,--_don't_ be mortified, Lieutenant Seymour,--but
mamma wouldn't hear of coming without a valiant man-at-arms as an
escort, so I begged and prayed him to come, and now I want you all to
beg and pray him to stay!"
Then she introduced him to several ladies, while Mrs. Fisher, always the
mainspring of the executive committee, a keen, thin, birdlike woman,
swift of motion and of a graceful presence, but prone to settle moot
points with a decisive and not altogether amiable peck, gave him no
attention, but darting from group to group devoted herself wholly to the
business in hand. She seemed altogether oblivious, too, of Mildred's
whims, which were to her an old story. Seldom, indeed, had Mildred
Fisher looked more audaciously sparkling. Her fairness was enhanced by
the black velvet facing of her white Leghorn turban, encircled with one
of those beautiful long white ostrich plumes then so much affected that,
after passing around the crown, fell in graceful undulations over the
equivocal locks and almost to the shoulder of her black-and-white
checked walking suit of "summer silk," trimmed with a narrow
black-and-white fringe.
"Grandma sent these socks and shirts--" she said officiously, taking a
bundle from a neat colored maid who had followed her--"and I brought my
thimble--here it is--golden gold--and a large brass thimble for Mr.
Seymour. You wouldn't think he has so much affinity for brass--to look
at him now! I intend to make him sew, too. Mrs. Clinton, I know you
think I am just _awful_," turning apologetically upon the very old lady
her sweet confiding eyes. "But--oh, Mrs. Warren--before I forget it, I
want to let you know that your son was _not_ wounded in that Bear-grass
Creek skirmish at all. I have a letter from one of my brothers--brother
number four--and he says it is a mistake; your son was not hurt, but
distinguished himself greatly. Here's the letter. I can't tell you _how_
it came through the lines, for Lieutenant Seymour might _repeat_ it; he
has the l-o-n-g-e-s-t tongue, though you wouldn't think it, to see him
now, speechless as he is."
Lieutenant Seymour rallied sufficiently to protest he couldn't get in a
word edgewise, and Mrs. Gwynn, with her official sense of hospitality
and a real pity for anything that Millie Fisher had undertaken to
torment on whatever score, adopted the tone of the conversation, and
said with a smile that he might consider himself "begged and prayed" to
remain.
Lieutenant Seymour was instantly placed at ease by this episode, but
Mrs. Gwynn experienced a vague disquietude because of the genuine
surprise that expressed itself in Mildred Fisher's face as that
comprehensive feminine glance of instantaneous appraisement of attire
took account of her whole costume. Leonora had not reckoned on this
development when, in that sudden revulsion of feeling, she had discarded
the fictitious semblance of mourning for the villain who had been the
curse of her life. The momentary glance passed as if it had not been,
but she could not at once rid herself of a sense of disadvantage. She
knew that to others as well the change must seem strange--yet, why
should it? All knew that her widow's weeds had been but an empty
form--what significance could the fact possess that they were worn for a
time as a concession to convention, then laid aside? She could not long
lend herself, however, to the absorption of reflection. The present was
strenuous.
Miss Fisher was bent on investing Lieutenant Seymour with the thimble
and requiring him to thread a needle for himself, while she soberly and
with despatch basted a towel which she destined him to hem. The comedy
relief that these arrangements afforded to the serious business of the
day was very indulgently regarded, and her bursts of silvery laughter
and the young officer's frantic pleas for mercy--utterly futile, as all
who knew Millie Fisher foresaw they must be--brought a smile to grave
faces and relaxed the tension of the situation, placing the unwelcome
presence of the unasked visitor in the category of one of Millie
Fisher's many freaks.
Seymour had a very limited sense of humor and could not endure to be
made ridiculous, even to gladden so merry a lady-love; but when she
declared that she would transfer the whole paraphernalia--thimble,
needle, towel, and all--to Captain Baynell, and let him do the hemming,
Seymour, all unaware of the secret amusement his sudden consent afforded
the company, showed that he preferred that she should make him ludicrous
rather than compliment another man by her mirthful ridicule.
"Now, there you go! Hurrah! Make haste! Not such a big stitch! Now, Mr.
Seymour, let me tell you, Hercules with the distaff was not a
circumstance to you!"
And the Sewing-Circle could but laugh.
Upstairs in the quiet old attic these evidences of hilarity rose with an
intimation of poignant contrast. The dreary entourage of broken
furniture and dusty trunks and chests, the silence and loneliness,--no
motion but the vague shifting of the motes in the slant of the sun, no
sound but the unshared mirth below, in his own home,--this seemed a more
remote exile. Julius felt actually further from the ancestral roof than
when he lay many miles away in the trenches in the cold spring rains,
with never a canopy but the storm, nor a candle but the flash of the
lightning. He sat quite still in the great arm-chair that his weight
deftly balanced on its three legs, his head bent to a pose of attention,
his cap slightly on one side of his long auburn locks, his eyes full of
a sort of listening interest, divining even more than he heard. He was
young enough, mercurial enough, to yearn wistfully after the fun,--the
refined "home-folks fun" of the domestic circle, the family and their
friends,--to which he had been so long a stranger; not the riotous
dissipation of the wilder phases of army life nor the animal spirits,
the "horse-play," of camp comrades. Sometimes at a sudden outburst of
laughter, dominated by Millie Fisher's silvery trills of mirth, his own
lips would curve in sympathy, albeit this was but the shell of the
joke, its zest unimagined, and light would spring into his clear dark
eyes responsive to the sound. Now and again he frowned as he noted men's
voices, not his father's nor well-remembered tones of old friends. They
had been less frequent than the women's voices, but now they came at
closer intervals, with an unfamiliar accent, with a different pitch, and
he began to realize that here were the Yankee officers.
"Upon my word, they seem to be having a fine time," he said
sarcastically.
In the next acclaim he could distinguish, besides the tones of the
invaders and the ringing vibration from Millie Fisher that led every
laugh, Leonora's drawling contralto accents, now and again punctuated
with a suggestion of mirth, and high above all the callow chirp of the
twin "ladies." He lifted his head and looked at the wasps, building
their cells on the window lintel, the broad, dreary spaces of the attic;
and he beheld, as it were, in contrast, his own expectation, the
welcome, the cherished guest, the guarded secret, the open-hearted talks
with his father, with the "ladies," with her whom, since widowed, he
might call to himself, without derogation to his affection or disrespect
to her, his "best beloved." The hardship it was that for the bleak
actuality he should have risked his capture, his life,--yes, even his
neck! His hand trembled upon the map, wrought out to every detail of
his discoveries, that he kept now in his breast, and now shifted to the
sole of his boot, and now slid in the lining of his coat-pocket, always
seeking the safest hiding-place,--forever seeking, forever doubting the
wisdom of his selection.
But the map--that was something! He had gained this precious knowledge.
Only to get away with it, unharmed, unchallenged, unmolested! This was
the problem. This was worth coming for.
"I'll give you some more active entertainment before long, my fine
squires of dames," he apostrophized the strangers triumphantly. Then he
experienced a species of rage that they should be so merry--and he, he
must not see Leonora's face, must not touch her hand, must not tell her
all he felt; this would have been dear to him even if she had not cared
to listen. It would have been like the votive offering at a shrine, like
a prayer from out the fulness of the heart.
There was presently the tinkle of glasses and spoons, intimating the
serving of refreshments. "I'd like to see old Uncle Ephraim playing
butler. He must step about as gingerly as a gobbler on hot tin," Julius
said to himself with a smile. "I'll bet a million of dollars he has
saved me my share--on a high shelf in the pantry it is right now, in a
covered dish; and if Leonora should come across it, she would think the
old man was thieving on his own account. Such are the insincerities of
circumstantial evidence!"
The genial hubbub in the parlors below was resumed after the decorous
service of salad and sherbet, and became even more animated when Colonel
Ashley chanced to call to see Baynell on a matter affecting their
respective commands. He had of course no idea that he would find Baynell
engaged with the Sewing-Society, but he met Miss Fisher on her own
ground, as it were, and there ensued an encounter of wits, a gay joust,
neither being more sincere than the other, nor with any _arriere pensee_
of irritable feeling to treat a feint as a threat or to cause a thrust
to rankle.
Seymour did not welcome him. The prig, Baynell, as he regarded the
captain, was so null, so stiffly inexpressive, that his presence had
sunk out of account, and the young lieutenant felt that he could rely to
a degree on the quiet kindness of the mature dames at work. They did not
laugh at his sewing over much, although they noted with secret amusement
that, being of the ambitious temper which cannot endure to be found
lacking, he had bent his whole energies to the endeavor, and had sewed,
indeed, as well as it was possible for a lieutenant of infantry to do on
a first lesson. He had a sort of pride in his performance as he handed
it up to Miss Fisher, and she showed it to Ashley with an air of
pronounced amaze.
"A well-conducted Rebel," she said at last, solemnly, "grounded in the
proper conviction as to the ordinance of secession and the doctrine of
States' Rights, would go into strong convulsions if he should have to
bathe with that towel in a hospital. That wavering hem is an epitome of
all the Yankee crooks, and quirks, and skips, and evasions, and
concealments of the straight path that typifies right and justice, and
Mason and Dixon's line! Therefore out it comes!"
As Ashley's joyous laughter rang out with its crisp, genial intonations,
the listening exile in the attic again involuntarily smiled in sympathy,
albeit the next moment he was frowning in jealous discomfort, with a
poignant sense of supersedure. Here, under his own roof-tree--his
father's home!
Lieutenant Seymour protested with ardor, and in truth he was aghast at
the prospect. He had taken so much pains. He had wrought with his whole
soul. He had imagined that he had hemmed so well. Although he had lost
all thought of Baynell in his interest in the exercises of the
afternoon, now that Ashley was at hand to witness his discomfiture he
became resentfully conscious of the presence of the other officer. He
was suddenly mindful that he could not appear to distinguished advantage
as the butt of a joke, however mirthful and merry, and this pointed the
fact that he was not gracing the introduction here which he had earlier
sought through Baynell's kind offices, and had been, as he thought,
most impertinently refused. He forgot the grounds of the declination and
took no heed of the circumstance that they included Ashley's request as
well as his own. He did not realize that had it fallen to Ashley's lot
to hem the towel and thread the needle and wear the brass thimble in a
genuine sewing-circle, his genial gay adaptability would have accorded
so well with the humor of the company that the jest itself would have
been blunted. Its edge was whetted by Lieutenant Seymour's serious
disfavor, the red embarrassment of his countenance, even the stiff lock
of hair, at the apex of the back of the skull, that stood out and
quivered with his eager insistence, as he rose erect and held on to the
towel and looked both angrily and pleadingly at Miss Fisher.
"I hope you will not be mutinous and disobedient," she said gravely. "I
should be sorry to discipline you with the weapons of the society."
She threatened to pierce his fingers with a very sharp needle, and as he
hastily withdrew one hand, shifting the towel to the other, she opened a
very keen pair of shears; as he evaded this she brought up the needle,
enfilading his retreat.
As he stood among a crowd of ladies, insisting that his work should be
spared with a vehemence which most of them thought was only a humorous
affectation and a part of the fun, he noted that Baynell was laughing
too, slightly, languidly. Baynell was standing beside the low, marble
mantelpiece, with one elbow upon it, the light from the flaming west
full on his trim blond beard and hair, his handsome, distinguished face,
the manly grace of the attitude. Seymour resented with an infinite
rancor at that moment the contrast with his own flushed, fatigued,
tousled, agitated, persistent, querulous personality. He could not have
given up to save his life, and yet he could but despise himself for
holding on.
"You had better stop pushing me to the wall," he said, and this was
literal, for he gave back step by step at each feint of the needle; "you
had better be looking out for Captain Baynell. He might have an attack
of conscience at any moment, and have all the fruits of your industry
seized and confiscated as contraband of war. You must remember he had
Mrs. Gwynn's horse impressed."
Baynell was rigid with an intense displeasure. Twice he was about to
speak--twice, mindful of the presence of ladies, he hesitated. Then he
said, quite casually, though visibly with a heedful self-control:--
"That was because of an order, calling for all citizens' horses in this
district for cavalry."
"With which _you_ had as much to do as last year's snow. Just see, Miss
Fisher,"--Seymour waved his hand toward the piles of clothing,--"'all
the coats and garments that Dorcas made'; for Captain Baynell might
report that they are intended to give aid and comfort to the enemy!--to
be smuggled out of the lines! He has a dangerous conscience!"
There was a sudden agitated flutter in the coterie. The beautiful aged
countenance of Mrs. Clinton was overcast with a sort of tremor of
fright. A sense of discovery, as of a moral paralysis, pervaded the
atmosphere. A long significant pause ensued. Then with the intimations
of a stanch reserve of resolution,--a sort of "die in the last ditch"
spirit,--those more efficient members of the association, middle-aged,
competent, experienced matrons, recovered their dignified equanimity and
went on with the examining and counting of the results of the day's work
and the contributions from without,--Mrs. Fisher, the acting secretary,
receiving the reports of the conferring squads and jotting the
enumeration down during the sorting and folding of the completed
product.
Baynell, apparently losing self-control, had started angrily forward.
Ashley, grave, perturbed, had changed color--even he was at a loss. One
might not say what a moment so charged with angry potentialities might
bring forth. But nothing, no collocation of invented circumstances
seemed capable of baffling Miss Fisher. She was equal to any emergency.
She had snatched the towel from the lieutenant's hand, and, flying to
meet Baynell, her smiling face incongruous with a serious, steady light
in her eyes, she stopped him midway the room.
"Now do me the favor to look at that," she cried gayly, presenting the
hem for inspection; "wouldn't you despise an enemy who could take aid
and comfort from such a hem as that?"
"A good soldier should never despise the enemy," replied Baynell,
seeking to adopt her mood and repeating the truism with an air of
banter.
"Well, then, to fit the phrase to your precision, such an enemy would
deserve to be despised! What--going--Mrs. Clinton? It _is_ getting
late."
It was not the usual hour of their separation, but to a very old woman
the turmoils of war were overwhelming. As long as the idea of conflict
was expressed in the satisfaction of being able to aid in her little way
the needy with the work of her own hands,--to knit as she sat by her
desolate fireside and wrought for the unknown comrades of her dead sons;
to join friends in furnishing blankets and making stout clothes for the
soldiers; to bottle her famous blackberry cordial, and to pick lint for
the hospitals,--it seemed to have some gentle phase, to bear a human
heart. But when the heady tumult, the secret inquisitions, the bitter
rancors, the cruelty of bloodshed, and the savagery of death that
constitute the incorporate entity of the great monster, War, were
reasserted with menace, her gentle, wrinkled hands fell, her hope fled.
The grave was kind in those days to the aged.
Ashley had contrived to give Seymour a glance so significant that he
heeded its meaning, though he was already repentant and cowed by the
fear of Miss Fisher's displeasure. His heart beat fast as she turned her
face all rippling with smiles toward him, albeit he told himself in the
same breath that she would have smiled exactly so sweetly had she been
as angry as he deserved. For Miss Fisher was not in the business of
philanthropy. She had no call to play missionary to any petulant young
man's role of heathen.
"Are you going to take mamma and me home?" she asked, "or are you going
to leave us to be eaten up by the cows homeward bound?"
Now and again might be heard the fitful clanking of a bell as the cows,
wending their way along the river bank, paused to graze and once more
took up their leisurely progress toward the town. The sunlight was
reddening through the rooms. It had painted on the walls arabesques of
the lace curtains of the western windows; the glow touched with a sort
of revivifying effect the family portraits. Groups of the members of the
society having resumed their bonnets and swaying crape veils were going
from one to another and commenting on the likeness to the subject and
the resemblance to other members of the family, and one or two of
artistic bent discussed the relative merits of the artists, for several
canvases were painted by eminent brushes. All were going home, though in
the grove the mocking-birds were singing with might and main, but there
indeed in the moonlight they would sing the night through with a
romantic jubilance impossible to describe.
Ashley, with the ready tact and good breeding which caused him so much
to be admired, and so much to admire himself, passed by the more
attractive of the younger members of the Circle, and did not even heed
the half-veiled challenge of Miss Fisher to join her party homeward, for
she had become exceedingly exasperated with Lieutenant Seymour, and had
Colonel Ashley been attainable, she would have made the younger man
rabid with jealousy on the walk to the town.
But no! He offered his services as escort to Mrs. Clinton, who looked
suspiciously and helplessly at him like some tender old baby.
"There is no necessity, but I thank you very much," she said; "I came
alone."
The engaging Ashley would not be denied. He had noticed, he said, that
to-day some droves of mules were being driven into town, and the
heedless soldiers raced along perfectly regardless of what was in the
roads before them. They should have some order taken with them, really.
"Oh, _don't_ report them," said the old lady. "The--the discipline of
the army is so--so _painful_."
"But there are no painless methods yet discovered of making men obey,"
said Ashley, laughing.
She still looked at him, doubtfully, as a mouse might contemplate the
graces of a very suave cat. But when Julius gazed out from the garret
window at the departing group, he was duly impressed with the handsome
colonel of cavalry conducting the aged lady on one arm and bearing her
delicate little extra shawl on the other, while Mrs. Fisher with Mildred
and her "dancing bear," who had taken some clumsy steps that day, made
off toward Roanoke City, and the other ladies variously dispersed,
Captain Baynell attending the party only to the end of the drive.
Ashley's graceful persistence was justified by the meeting of some of
the reckless muleteers in full run down the road, with furious cries and
snapping whips and turbulent clatter of animals and men. As his
tremulous charge shrunk back aghast, he simply lifted his sword "like a
wand of authority," as she always described it, and the noisy rout was
turned aside, as if by magic, into a byway, leaving the whole stretch of
the turnpike for the passage of the gallant cavalier and one aged lady.
When Baynell came back through the grove and into the house, the parlor
doors still stood open. The western radiance was yet red on the walls,
albeit the moon was in the sky. The crumb-cloth that had protected the
carpet from lint was gone, the sewing-machines had vanished, all traces
of the work were removed, and wonted order was restored among chairs and
tables. The rear apartment was as he had seen it hitherto, save that the
windows on the western balcony were open, and Mrs. Gwynn, in her white
dress, was standing at the vanishing point of the perspective, glimpsed
through the swaying curtains and a delicate climbing vine. He hardly
hesitated, but passed through the rooms and stepped out, meeting her
surprised eyes as she leaned one hand on the iron railing of the
balcony.
"I want to speak to you," he said. "I want to know if you think I should
have made it plain to those ladies this afternoon that they need fear no
interference from me?"
"Oh, I think they understood," she said listlessly, as if it was no
great matter.
Her eyes were fixed on the purple western hills. The last vermilion
segment of the great solar sphere was slipping beyond them, the sunset
gun boomed from the fort, and the flag fluttered down the staff.
"I felt very keenly the position in which I was placed."
She merely glanced at him and then gazed at the outline of the fort
against the red sky, all flecked and barred with dazzling flakes of
amber. The rampart remained massive and heavy, but the sentry-boxes,
giving their queer little castellated effect, were growing indistinct in
the distance.
"I was tempted to express my resentment, but I was afraid of going too
far--of getting into a wrangle with that fellow--"
"Oh, _that_ would have been unpardonable; in the presence of Mrs.
Clinton and the rest of the Circle!" she said definitely.
"I am _so_ glad you approve my course," he rejoined with an air of
relief.
Once more she looked at him as he stood beside her. A white jessamine
clambered up the stone pillar at the outer corner of the grille work.
Its blossoms wavered about her; a hummingbird flickered in and out and
was still for a moment, the light showing the jewelled effect of the
emblazonment of red and gold and green of his minute plumage, then was
distinguishable only as a gauzy suggestion of wings. The moon was in her
face, ethereal, delicate, seeming to him entrancingly beautiful. He
stipulated to himself that it was not this that swayed him. He loved her
beauty, but only because it was hers. He did not love her for her
beauty. They were close distinctions, but they made an appreciable
difference to him. She did not hold his conscience. She did not dictate
his sense of right. This was apart from her, a sanction too sacred for
any woman, any human soul to control. Yet he sighed with relief to feel
the coincidence of his thought and hers.
"You know, about your horse--it was a matter of conscience with me--a
sense of duty--a matter of conformity to my oath as a soldier and my
knowledge of the needs of the service. I would not for any consideration
evade or fail to forward in letter and spirit any detail even of a
special order that merely chanced to come to my notice, and with which I
was not otherwise concerned. Not for your sake--not even to win your
approval, precious as that must always be to me, nor to avoid your
displeasure, and I believe that is the strongest coercion that could be
exerted upon me. But the destination of the work done by the
Sewing-Circle--that is different. I have no information that it is other
than is claimed. I am not bound to nourish suspicions, nor to
investigate mysteries, nor to take action on details of circumstantial
evidence."
He paused. There was something in her face that he did not
understand;--something stunned, blankly silent, and inexpressive. He
went on eagerly, the enforced repression of the afternoon finding outlet
in a flood of words.
"Lieutenant Seymour understands my position thoroughly well, as Colonel
Ashley does. They take a different view--their construction of their
duty is more lenient. I don't know why--perhaps because they are
volunteers, and the whole war to them is a temporary occupation. But
orders are to be obeyed else they would not be issued. If any exceptions
were intended, a permit would be granted."
He paused again, looking straight at her with such confident, lucid,
trusting eyes,--and she felt that she must say something to divert their
gaze.
"Exceptions, such as Miss Fisher's favorite mount, Madcap? How pretty
Mildred was to-day! Really beautiful; don't you think so?"
"No." His expression was so tender, so wistful, yet so confident, that,
amazed, embarrassed, she felt her color begin to flame in her cheeks.
"How could she seem beautiful where you are,--the loveliest woman in all
the world and the best beloved."
"Captain Baynell!" she exclaimed, hardly believing that she heard him
aright. "I do not understand the manner in which you have seen fit to
speak to me this evening." She paused abruptly, for he was looking at
her with a palpable surprise.
"You must know--you must have seen--that I love you!" he said hastily.
"Almost from the moment that I first saw you I have loved you--but more
and more, hour by hour, and day by day, as I have learned to know you,
to appreciate you--so perfect and so peerless!"
"You surprise me beyond measure. I must beg--I insist that you do not
continue to speak to me in this strain."
"Do you mean to say that you did not know it--that you did not perceive
it?"
"I did not dream it for one moment," she replied.
It seemed as if he could not accept her meaning. He pondered on the
words as if they might develop some difference.
"You afflict me beyond expression!" he exclaimed with a sort of
desperate breathlessness. "You destroy my dearest hopes. How could you
fail--how could I fancy! I--I would not suggest the subject as long as
your mourning attire repelled it, but--but--since--since--I--I thought
you knew all my heart and I might speak!"
"You thought I laid aside a widow's weeds to challenge your avowal!"
exclaimed Mrs. Gwynn, in her icy, curt, soft tones.
"Oh, Leonora--for God's sake--put on it no interpretation except that I
love you--I adore you; and I thought such hearty, whole-souled affection
must awaken some interest, some response. I could hardly be silent
except I so feared precipitancy. I spoke as soon as I might without rank
offence."
Even then, in the presence of an agitation, a humiliation peculiarly
keen to a man of his type, he was not first in Mrs. Gwynn's thoughts.
She was reviewing the day and wondering if this connection between the
lack of the widow's weeds and the presence of the Yankee officer was
suggested to any of the sewing contingent. A vague gesture, a pause, a
remembered facial expression, sudden, involuntary, at the sight of him
and her,--all had a new interpretation in the sequence of this
disclosure. They had thought it the equivalent of the acceptance of a
new suitor, and the supposed favored lover had thought so himself!
The recollection of her woful married life, with its train of
barbarities, and rancors, and terrors, both grotesque and horrible, that
still tortured her present--the leisure moments of her laborious
days--was bitterly brought to mind for a moment. That she, of all the
women in the world--that _she_ should be contemplating matrimony anew!
She gave a light laugh that had in it so little mirth, was so little
apposite to ridicule, that he did not feel it a fleer.
"You did not mean it, then?"
"Not for one moment."
"You did not have me in mind?"
"No--no--never at all!"
"Leonora--Mrs. Gwynn--this is like death to me--I--I--"
"I am very sorry--"
"I do not reproach you," he interrupted. "It is my own folly, my own
fault! But I have lived on this hope; it is all the life I have. You do
not withdraw it utterly? May I not think that in time--"
"No--no--I have no intention of ever marrying again. I--I--was
not--not--happy."
"But I am different--" he hesitated. He could not exactly find words to
protest his conviction of his superiority to her husband, a man she had
loved once. "I mean--we are congenial. I am very considerably older; I
am nearly thirty-one. My views in life are fixed, definite; my
occupation is settled. Might not--"
"I am sorry, Captain Baynell; I would not willingly add to the
unhappiness, real or imaginary, of any one--but all this is worse than
useless. I must ask you not to recur to the subject. And now I must
leave you, for the 'ladies' are going to bed, and I must hear them say
their prayers."
He seemed about to detain her with further protestations, then desisted,
evidently with a hopeless realization of futility.
"Ask them to remember me in their petitions," he only said with a dreary
sort of smile.
He had always seemed to love the "ladies" fraternally, with lenient
admiration, and she liked this tender little domestic trait in the midst
of his unyielding gravity and inexorable stiffness. She hesitated in the
moonlight with some stir of genuine sympathy, and held out her hand as
she passed. He caught it and covered it with kisses. She drew it hastily
from him, and Baynell was left alone on the balcony; the scene before
him, the vernal glamours of the moon, the umbrageous trees, the sweet
spring flowers, the sheen of the river, the bivouacs of the hills, the
fort on the height,--these things seemed unrealities and mere shadows as
he faced the fragments of that nullity, his broken dream, the only
positive actuality in all his life.