FEEDING THE HUNGRY
"It is now the gossip in Richmond," said Mrs. Prescott to her son as
they sat together before the fire a day or two later, "that General Wood
makes an unusually long stay here for a man who loves the saddle and war
as he does."
"Who says so, mother?"
"Well, many people."
"Who, for instance?"
"Well, the Secretary, Mr. Sefton, as a most shining instance, and he is
a man of such acute perceptions that he ought to know."
Prescott was silent.
"They say that Mr. Sefton wants something that somebody else wants," she
continued. "A while back it was another person whom he regarded as the
opponent to his wish, but now he seems to have transferred the rivalry
to General Wood. I wonder if he is right."
She gazed over her knitting needles into the fire as if she would read
the answer in the coals, but Prescott himself did not assist her, though
he wondered at what his mother was aiming. Was she seeking to arouse him
to greater vigour in his suit? Well, he loved Helen Harley, and he had
loved her ever since they were little boy and little girl together, but
that was no reason why he should shout his love to all Richmond. Sefton
and Wood might shout theirs, but perhaps he should fare better if he
were more quiet.
Lonely and abstracted, Prescott wandered about the city that evening,
and when the hour seemed suitable, bending his head to the northern
blast, he turned willing steps once more to the little house in the
cross street, wondering meanwhile what its two inmates were doing and
how they fared.
As he went along and heard the wind moaning among the houses he had the
feeling that he was watched. He looked ahead and saw nothing; he looked
back and saw nothing; then he told himself it was only the wind rattling
among loose boards, but his fancy refused to credit his own words. This
feeling that he was watched, spied upon, had been with him several days,
but he did not realize it fully until the present moment, when he was
again upon a delicate errand, one perhaps involving a bit of
unfaithfulness to the cause for which he fought. He, the bold Captain,
the veteran of thirty battles, shook slightly and then told himself
courageously that it was not a nervous chill, but the cold. Yet he
looked around fearfully and wished to hear other footsteps, to see other
faces and to feel that he was not alone on such a cold and dark
night--alone save for the unknown who watched him. At the thought he
looked about again, but there was nothing, not even the faintest echo of
a footfall.
The chill, the feeling of oppression passed for the time and he hastened
to the side street and the little house. It was too dark for him to tell
whether any wisp of smoke rose from the chimney, and no light shone from
the window. He opened the little gate and passed into the little yard
where the snow seemed to be yet unbroken. Then he slipped two of the
beautiful gold double eagles under the door and almost ran away, the
feeling that he was watched returning to him and hanging on his back
like crime on the mind of the guilty.
Prescott's early ancestors had been great borderers, renowned Indian
fighters and adepts in the ways of the forest, when the red men, silent
and tenacious, followed upon their tracks for days and it was necessary
to practise every art to throw off the pursuers, unseen but known to be
there. Unconsciously a thin strain of heredity now came into play, and
he began to wind about the city before going home, turning suddenly
from one street into another, and gliding swiftly now and then in the
darkest shadow, making it difficult for pursuer, if pursuer he had, to
follow him.
He did not reach home until nearly two hours after he had left the
cottage, and then his fingers and ears were blue and almost stiff with
cold.
He wandered into the streets again the next morning, and ere long saw a
slender figure ahead of him walking with decision and purpose. Despite
the distance and the vagueness of her form he knew that it was Miss
Grayson, and he followed more briskly, drawn by curiosity and a
resolution to gratify it.
She went to one of the markets and began to barter for food, driving a
sharp bargain and taking her time. Prescott loitered near and at last
came very close. There were several others standing about, but if she
noticed and recognized the Captain she gave no sign, going on
imperturbably with her bargaining.
Prescott thought once or twice of speaking to her, but he concluded that
it was better to wait, letting her make the advances if she would. He
was glad of his decision a few minutes later, when he saw a new figure
approaching.
The new arrival was Mr. Sefton, a fur-lined cloak drawn high around his
neck and his face as usual bland and smiling. He nodded to Prescott and
then looked at Miss Grayson, but for the moment said nothing, standing
by as if he preferred to wait for whatever he had in mind.
Miss Grayson finished her purchases, and drawing her purse took forth
the money for payment. A yellow gleam caught Prescott's eye and he
recognized one of his double eagles. The knowledge sent a thrill through
him, but he still stood in silence, glancing casually about him and
waiting for one of the others to speak first.
Miss Grayson received her change and her packages and turned to go away,
when she was interrupted by the Secretary, with no expression whatever
showing through his blandness and his smiles.
"It is Miss Grayson, is it not?" he said smoothly.
She turned upon him a cold and inquiring look.
"I am Mr. Sefton of the Treasurer's office," he said in the same even
tones--smooth with the smoothness of metal. "Perhaps it is too much to
hope that you have heard of me."
"I have heard of you," she said with increasing coldness.
"And I of you," he continued. "Who in Richmond has not heard of Miss
Charlotte Grayson, the gallant champion of the Northern Cause and of the
Union of the States forever? I do not speak invidiously. On the
contrary, I honour you; from my heart I do, Miss Grayson. Any woman who
has the courage amid a hostile population to cling to what she believes
is the right, even if it be the wrong, is entitled to our homage and
respect."
He made a bow, not too low, then raised his hand in a detaining gesture
when Miss Grayson turned to go.
"You are more fortunate than we--we who are in our own house--Miss
Grayson," he said. "You pay in gold and with a large gold piece, too.
Excuse me, but I could not help noticing."
Prescott saw a quiver on her lips and a sudden look of terror in her
eyes; but both disappeared instantly and her features remained rigid and
haughty.
"Mr. Sefton," she said icily, "I am a woman, alone in the world and, as
you say, amid a hostile population; but my private affairs are my own."
There was no change in the Secretary's countenance; he was still bland,
smiling, purring like a cat.
"Your private affairs, Miss Grayson," he said, "of course! None would
think of questioning that statement. But how about affairs that are not
private? There are certain public duties, owed by all of us in a time
like this."
"You have searched my house," she said in the same cold tones; "you have
exposed me to that indignity, and now I ask you to leave me alone."
"Miss Grayson," he said, "I would not trouble you, but the sight of
gold, freshly coined gold like that and of so great a value, arouses my
suspicions. It makes a question spring up in my mind, and that question
is, how did you get it? Here is my friend, Captain Prescott; he, too, no
doubt, is interested, or perhaps you know him already."
It was said so easily and carelessly that Prescott reproved himself when
he feared a double meaning lurking under the Secretary's words.
Nervousness or incaution on the part of Miss Grayson might betray much.
But the look she turned upon Prescott was like that with which she had
favoured the Secretary--chilly, uncompromising and hostile.
"I do not know your friend," she said.
"But he was with the officer who searched your house," said the
Secretary.
"A good reason why I should not know him."
The Secretary smiled.
"Captain Prescott," he said, "you are unfortunate. You do not seem to be
on the road to Miss Grayson's favour."
"The lady does not know me, Mr. Sefton," said Prescott, "and it cannot
be any question of either favour or disfavour."
The Secretary was now gazing at Miss Grayson, and Prescott used the
chance to study his face. This casual but constant treading of the
Secretary upon dangerous ground annoyed and alarmed him. How much did he
know, if anything? Robert would rather be in the power of any other man
than the one before him.
When he had sought in vain to read that immovable face, to gather there
some intimation of his purpose, the old feeling of fear, the feeling
that had haunted him the night before when he went to the cottage, came
over him again. The same chill struck him to the marrow, but his will
and pride were too strong to let it prevail. It was still a calm face
that he showed to the lady and the Secretary.
"If you have not known Captain Prescott before, you should know him
now," the Secretary was saying. "A gallant officer, as he has proved on
many battlefields, and a man of intelligence and feeling. Moreover, he
is a fair enemy."
Prescott bowed slightly at the compliment, but Miss Grayson was
immovable. Apparently the history and character of Captain Robert
Prescott, C. S. A., were of no earthly interest to her, and Prescott,
looking at her, was uncertain if the indifference were not real as well
as apparent.
"Mr. Sefton," said Miss Grayson, "you asked an explanation and I said
that I had none to give, nor have I. You can have me arrested if you
wish, and I await your order."
"Not at all, Miss Grayson," replied the Secretary; "let the explanation
be deferred."
"Then," she said with unchanging coldness, "I take pleasure in bidding
you good-day."
"Good-day," rejoined the Secretary, and Prescott politely added his own.
Miss Grayson, without another word, gathered up her bundles and left.
"Slumbering fire," said the Secretary, looking after her.
"Is she to be blamed for it?" said Prescott.
"Did my tone imply criticism?" the Secretary asked, looking at
Prescott.