There came, on Easter night, to the door of the organist's apartment,
the "contraband" who at present was sojourning under the protection of
Mr. Gerald Deane.
The hour was not early. Evening service was over, and Julius had waited
a reasonable length of time, that his errand might be delivered when she
should be at leisure. He might safely have gone at once; for guests
never came at night, and rarely by day,--the organist's wish being
perfectly understood among the very few with whom she came in contact,
and she being consequently "let alone" with what some might have deemed
"a vengeance." But it satisfied her, and no other dealing would.
Either this man--Julius Hopkins was his name--had not so recently come
to H---- as to be a stranger in any quarter of the town, or he had made
use of his time here; for he seemed familiar with the streets and alleys
as an old resident.
To find the organist was not difficult, when one had come within sight
of the lofty spire of the church, for it was under its shadow she
lived; but if he had been accustomed to carry messages to her door for
years, he could not now have presented himself with fuller confidence as
to what he should find.
When Mrs. Edgar opened the door, not a word was needed, as if these were
strangers who stood face to face. In her countenance, indeed, was
emotion,--unmeasured surprise; in her manner, momentary indecision. But
the surprise passed into a lofty kindliness of manner, and the
indecision gave place to the most entire freedom from embarrassment. She
cut short the words he began to speak with an authoritative, though most
quiet,--
"Julius, come in."
It was not as one addresses the servant of a friend, but spoken with an
authority which the man instantly acknowledged by obedience. He came
into the room, closed the door, and waited till she should speak. She
asked,--
"Why are you here?"
He answered as if unaware that any great change had taken place in their
relations.
"My master sent me. At last I have found my mistress. It took me a great
while."
"Is your master still in arms?"
The man bowed.
"Against the Government?"
"_He_ says, _for_ the Government."
"Of Rebels?"
He bowed again.
"Then, there is no answer,--can be none. Did he not foresee it?"
The slave did not answer. What words that he came commissioned to speak
could respond to the anguish her voice betrayed? She spoke again; she
had recovered from the surprise of her distress, and, looking now at
Julius, said,--
"You are excused from replying; but--you do not, in any event, propose
to return home?"
"Yes, Madam, yes,--immediately, immediately."
It was the first time he had discovered this purpose, and he did so with
a vehemence expressive of desire to vindicate himself where he should be
understood. She answered slowly, but she did not seem amazed, as Deane
would infallibly have been, as you and I had been,--such doubting
worshippers, after all, of the great heroic.
"Do you not hear, Julius, everywhere, that you are a freeman? Is it
possible no one has told you so? Do you not know it for yourself? It is
likely."
"It don't signify. I tended him through one course,--he got a bad cut,
Master did,--and I'll take care of him again. I a'n't through till he
is."
"Is he well?"
"Thanks to me, and the Lord, he _is_ well of the wound again, and gone
to work."
At the pause that now ensued, as if he had only been waiting for this,
the slave approached nearer to his mistress; but he did not lift his
eyes,--he desired but to serve. She was so proud, he thought,--always
was; if he could only get _himself_ out of the way, and let this ugly,
cruel business right itself without a witness! Master knew how to plead
better than any one could for him. He produced a tiny case of
chamois-leather.
"Master sent you this," he said; and it seemed as if he would have given
it into her very hands; but they were folded; so he laid it on the edge
of the piano, and stepped back a pace. He knew there was no need for him
to explain.
Well she understood. Her husband had done his utmost to secure a
reconciliation. Love had its rights, its sacrifices; with these she had
to do, and not with his official conduct and public acts.
She knew well what that trifle of a chamois case contained. It was the
miniature of their child, the little one of earth no more, but
heaven-born: the winged child, with the flame above its head,--symbols
with which, of old, they loved to represent Genius. This miniature was
set in diamonds; it was the mother's gift to the father of the child:
this woman's gift to the man whom loyal men to-day call traitor, rebel,
alien, enemy.
And thus he appealed to her. Oh, tender was the voice! This love that
called had in its utterances proof that it held by its immortality. The
love that pleaded with her appealed to recollections the most sacred,
the most dear, the perpetual,--knowing what was in her heart, knowing
how _it_ would respond.
But there, where Julius left the miniature, it lay; a letter beside it
now, and a purse of gold,--pure gold,--not a Confederate note among it.
Poor Julia Edgar! she need not open the case that shone with such starry
splendor. Never could be hidden from her eyes the face of the child. How
should she not see again, in all its beauty, the garden where her
darling had played, little hands filled full of blooms, little face
whose smiling was as that of angels, butterflies sporting around her as
the wonderful one of old flitted about St. Rose,--alas! with as sure a
prophecy as that black and golden one? How clearly she saw again,
through heavy clouds of tears that never broke, the garden's glory, all
its peace, its happiness, its pride, and love!
No argument, no word, could have pleaded for the father of the child
like this. But it was love pleading against love,--Earth's beseeching
and need, against Heaven's warning and sufficience.
At last she spoke again.
"What is your reward, Julius, for all this danger you've incurred for
him, and for me?"
"He said it should be my liberty."
How he spoke those words! LIBERTY! it was the golden dream of
the man's life, yet he named it with a self-control that commanded her
admiration and reverence.
"I give it to you at this moment, here!" she said.
For an instant the slave seemed to hesitate; but the hesitation was of
utterance merely, not of will.
"My errand isn't half done, Madam. I never broke my word yet. I'll go
back."
"Tell him, then, that I gave you your freedom, and you would not accept
it. And--_go_ back! 't is a noble resolve, worthy of you. Take the
purse. I do not need it. Say that I have no need of it. And you will,
perhaps."
No other message for him? Not one word from herself to him! For she knew
where safety lay.
The slave looked at her, helpless, hopeless, with indecision. The woman
was incomprehensible. He had set out on his errand, had persevered
through difficulties, and had withstood temptations too many to be
written here, with not a doubt as to the success that would attend him.
He remembered the wife of General Edgar in her home; to that home of
happy love and noble hospitality, and of all social dignities, he had no
doubt he should restore her. But now, humbled by defeat, he said,--
"I've looked a great while for you, Madam. I would never 'a' give up,
though, if I'd gone to Maine or Labrador, and round by the Rocky
Mountains, hunting for you. I heard you singing in the church this
morning, and I knew your voice. Though it didn't sound natural
right,--but I knew it was nobody else's voice,--as if the North mostly
hadn't agreed with it. And I heard it yesterday somewhere,--that's what
'sured me. I was going along the street, when I heard it; but it was not
this house you were in."
"And it was you, then, Julius, who betrayed me to the person who
supposes himself to be your protector,--and this because you thought
surely I must be glad to return, when I had lost my friends here through
ill report! Is that the way your war is carried on?"
"My war, Madam?"
But Julius did not look at his mistress; he looked away, and shrugged
his shoulders. The device of which he was convicted had seemed to him so
good, so sure, nevertheless had failed.
She had scarcely finished speaking, when a note was brought to the door.
It was from Adam von Gelhorn.
"I am making my preparations to go at nine to-morrow," said the
note. "Will you come to the church before? I would like to
remember having seen you there last, at the organ. There's a
bit of news just reached me, said to be a secret. General
Edgar's command aims at preventing the junction of our forces
before Y----. He is strong enough, numerically, to overthrow
either division in separate conflict, and this is his
Napoleonic strategy. But he will be outwitted. There's no doubt
of it. Do not despair of our cause, whatever you hear during
the coming fortnight. I shall report myself immediately to
McClellan, and he may make a drummer-boy of me, if he will.
Henceforth I am at his service till the war ends.
"VON G----."
Thrice she read this note; when her eyes lifted at last, Julius was
still standing where she had left him. She started, seeing him, as if
his presence there at the moment took a new significance; her heart
fainted within her.
Had _he_ heard this secret of which Von Gelhorn spoke? It was her
husband's _life_ that was in jeopardy!
"When are you going, Julius?" she asked.
"To-morrow. Oh, Madam, give me some word for him!"
Red horror of death, how it rises before her sight! She shuddered,
cowered, sank before the blackness of darkness that followed fast on
that terrific spectacle of carnage, before which a whirlwind seemed to
have planted her. She heard the cries and yells, the groans and curses
of bleeding, dying men; saw banners in the dust, horsemen and horses
crushed under the great guns, mortality in fragments, heaps upon heaps
of ruin on the field Aceldama.
Where was he? Who would search among the slain for him? Who from among
the dying would rescue him? Who will stanch his bleeding wounds? Who
will moisten his parched lips? Whose voice sound in the ears that have
heard the roar of guns amid the crash of battle? What hand shall bathe
and fan that brow? What eyes shall watch till those eyelids unlock, and
catch the whisper of those lips? Nay, who will save his life from the
needless sacrifice? tell him that his plans are known, warn him back,
warn _him_ of spies and of treachery? Has Julius betrayed him?
She looked at the slave. But before she looked, her heart reproached her
for having doubted him.
"You will need this gold," she said. "Take it. Restore the miniature to
your master. And go,--go at once. If success be in store for _him_, I
share not the shame of it. If defeat, adversity, sickness,--your master
knows his wife fears but one thing, has fled but from one thing. Her
heart is with him, but she abhors the cause to which he has given
himself. She will not share his crime."
Difficult as these words were to speak, she spoke them without
faltering, and they admitted no discussion.
The slave lingered yet longer, but there was no more that she would say.
Assured at last of that, he said,--
"I obey you," and was gone.
He was gone,--gone! and she had betrayed nothing,--had given no
warning,--had uttered not a word by which the life that was of all lives
most precious to her might have been saved!