A SOUTHERN GIRL
When Graham was left alone he knelt and bowed his head in the flowers
that Rita had placed on Hilland's grave, and the whole horrible truth
seemed to grow, to broaden and deepen, like a gulf that had opened at
his feet. Hilland, who had become a part of his own life and seemed
inseparable from all its interests, had disappeared forever. But
yesterday he was the centre of vast interests and boundless love; now
he had ceased to be. The love would remain, but oh, the torture of a
boundless love when its object has passed beyond its reach!
The thought of Grace brought to the mourner an indescribable anguish.
Once his profound love for her had asserted itself in a way that had
stung him to madness, and the evil thought had never returned. Now she
seemed to belong to the dead husband even more than when he was living.
The thought that tortured him most was that Grace would not long
survive Hilland. The union between the two had been so close and vital
that the separation might mean death. The possibility overwhelmed him,
and he grew faint and sick. Indeed it would seem that he partially lost
consciousness, for at last he became aware that some one was standing
near and pleading with him. Then he saw it was Rita.
"Oh, sir," she entreated, "do not grieve so. It breaks my heart to see
a man so overcome. It seems terrible. It makes me feel that there are
depths of sorrow that frighten me. Oh, come with me--do, please. I fear
you've eaten nothing to-day, and we have supper all ready for you."
Graham tottered to his feet and passed his hand across his brow, as if
to brush away an evil dream.
"Indeed, sir, you look sick and faint. Take my arm and lean on me. I
assure you I am very strong."
"Yes, Pearl, you are strong. Many live to old age and never become as
true a woman as you are to-day. This awful event has wellnigh crushed
me, and, now I think of it, I have scarcely tasted food since last
evening. Thank you, my child, I will take your arm. In an hour or two I
shall gain self-control."
"My heart aches for you, sir," she said, as they passed slowly through
the twilight.
"May it be long before it aches from any sorrow of your own, Pearl."
The parsonage adjoined the church. The old clergyman abounded in almost
paternal kindness, and pressed upon Graham a glass of home-made wine.
After he had taken this and eaten a little, his strength and poise
returned, and he gave his entertainers a fuller account of Hilland and
his relations, and in that Southern home there was as genuine sympathy
for the inmates of the Northern home as if they all had been devoted to
the same cause.
"There are many subjects on which we differ," said his host. "You
perceive that I have slaves, but they are so attached to me that I do
not think they would leave me if I offered them their freedom. I have
been brought up to think slavery right. My father and grandfather
before me held slaves and always treated them well. I truly think they
did better by them than the bondmen could have done for themselves. To
give them liberty and send them adrift would be almost like throwing
little children out into the world. I know that there are evils and
abuses connected with our system, but I feel sure that liberty given to
a people unfitted for it would be followed by far greater evils."
"It's a subject to which I have given very little attention," Graham
replied. "I have spent much of my life abroad, and certainly your
servants are better off than the peasantry and very poor in many lands
that I have visited."
With a kind of wonder, he thought of the truth that Hilland, who so
hated slavery, had been lifted from the battlefield by slaves, and that
his remains had been treated with reverent honor by a slave-holder.
The old clergyman's words also proved that, while he deprecated the war
unspeakably, his whole sympathy was with the South. His only son, of
whom neither he nor Rita could speak without looks of pride and
affection kindling in their faces, was in the Confederate service, and
the old man prayed as fervently for success to the cause to which he
had devoted the treasure of his life as any Northern father could
petition the God of nations for his boy and the restoration of the
Union. At the same time his nature was too large, too highly ennobled
by Christianity, for a narrow vindictive bitterness. He could love the
enemy that he was willing his son should oppose in deadly battle.
"We hope to secure our independence," he added, "and to work out our
national development according to the genius of our own people. I pray
and hope for the time when the North and South may exist side by side
as two friendly nations. Your noble words this afternoon found their
echo in my heart. Even though my son should be slain by a Northern
hand, as your friend has been by a Southern, I wish to cherish no
vindictive bitterness and enmity. The question must now be settled by
the stern arbitrament of battle; but when the war is over let it not be
followed by an era of hate."
He then told Graham how he had lost his beloved wife years before, and
how lonely and desolate he had been until Rita had learned to care for
him and provide for his comfort with almost hourly vigilance.
"Yes," said Graham, "I have seen it; she is to you what my friend's
wife is to her invalid father, the immeasurable blessing of his life.
How it will be now I hardly know, for I fear that her grief will
destroy her, and the old major, her father, could not long survive."
A note was now handed to the old gentleman, who, having read it,
appeared greatly distressed. After a moment's hesitancy he gave it to
Graham, who read as follows:
"I heard the North'ner speak this arternoon, an' I can't be one to take
and rob him of his horse and send him to prison. But it'll be done
to-night if you can't manage his escape. Every rode is watched, an'
your house will be searched to-night. ONE OF THE BAND.
"You'll burn this an' keep mum or my neck will be stretched."
"Who brought the note?" Mr. Anderson asked, going to the door and
questioning a colored woman.
"Dunno, mas'r. De do' open a little, and de ting flew in on de flo'."
"Well," said Graham, "I must mount and go at once;" and he was about to
resume his arms.
"Wait, wait; I must think!" cried his host. "For you to go alone would
be to rush into the very evils we are warned against. I am pained and
humiliated beyond measure by this communication. Mr. Graham, do not
judge us harshly. There is, I suppose, a vile sediment in every
community, and there is here a class that won't enlist in open,
honorable warfare, but prowl around, chiefly at night, intent on deeds
like this."
"Papa," said Rita, who had read the warning, "I know what to do;" and
her brave spirit flashed in her eyes.
"You, my child?"
"Yes. I'll prove to Mr. Graham what a Southern girl will do for a
guest--for one who has trusted her. The deep, deep disgrace of his
capture and robbery shall not come on our heads. I will guide him at
once through the woods to old Uncle Jehu's cabin. No one will think of
looking for him there; for there is little more than a bridle-path
leading to it; but I know the way, every inch of it."
"But, Rita, I could send one of the servants with Mr. Graham."
"No, papa; he would be missed and afterward questioned, and some awful
revenge taken on him. You must say that I have retired when the
villains come. You must keep all our servants in. Mr. Graham and I will
slip out. He can saddle his horse, and I, you know well, can saddle
mine. Now we must apparently go to our rooms and within half an hour
slip out unperceived and start. No one will ever dare touch me, even if
it is found out."
"Pearl, priceless Pearl, I'll fight my way through all the guerillas in
the land, rather than subject you to peril."
"You could not fight your way through them, the cowardly skulkers. What
chance would you have in darkness? My plan brings me no peril, for if
they met us they would not dare to touch me. But if it costs me my life
I _will_ go," she concluded passionately. "This disgrace must not fall
on our people."
"Rita is right," said the old clergyman, solemnly. "I could scarcely
survive the disgrace of having a guest taken from my home, and they
would have to walk over my prostrate form before it could be done; and
to send you out alone would be even more shameful. The plan does not
involve much peril to Rita. Although, in a sense, you are my enemy, I
will trust this pearl beyond price to your protection, and old Jehu
will return with her until within a short distance of the house. As she
says, I think no one in this region would harm her. I will co-operate
with you, Rita, and entreat the Heavenly Father until I clasp you in my
arms again. Act, act at once."
Graham was about to protest again, but she silenced him by a gesture
that was almost imperious. "Don't you see that for papa's sake, for my
own, as well as yours, I must go? Now let us say good-night as if we
were parting unsuspicious of trouble. When I tap at your door, Mr.
Graham, you will follow me; and you, papa, try to keep our people in
ignorance."
Graham wrung the clergyman's hand in parting, and said, "You will
always be to me a type of the noblest development of humanity."
"God bless you, sir," was the reply, "and sustain you through the
dangers and trying scenes before you. I am but a simple old man, trying
to do right with God's help. And, believe me, sir, the South is full of
men as sincere as I am."
Within half an hour Graham followed his fair guide down a back stairway
and out into the darkness. Rita's pony was at pasture in a field
adjoining the stable, but he came instantly at her soft call.
"I shall not put on my saddle," she whispered. "If I leave it hanging
in the stable it will be good evidence that I am in my room. There will
be no need of our riding fast, and, indeed, I have often ridden without
a saddle for fun. I will guide you to your horse and saddle in the dark
stable, for we must take him out of a back door, so that there will be
no sound of his feet on the boards."
Within a few moments they were passing like shadows down a shaded lane
that led from the house to the forest, and then entered what was a mere
bridle-path, the starlight barely enabling the keen-eyed Rita to make
it out at times. The thick woods on either side prevented all danger of
flank attacks. After riding some little time they stopped and listened.
The absolute silence, broken only by the cries of the wild creatures of
the night, convinced them that they were not followed. Then Rita said,
"Old Jehu has a bright boy of sixteen or thereabout, and he'll guide
you north through the woods as far as he can, and then God will protect
and guide you until you are safe. I know He will help you to escape,
that you may say words of comfort to the poor, broken-hearted wife."
"Yes, Pearl, I think I shall escape. I take your guidance as a good
omen. If I could only be sure that no harm came to you and your noble
father!"
"The worst of harm would have come to us had we permitted the evil that
was threatened."
"You seem very young, Pearl, and yet you are in many ways very mature
and womanly."
"I am young--only sixteen-but mamma's death and the responsibility it
brought me made my childhood brief. Then Henry is five years older than
I, and I always played with him, and, of course, you know I tried to
reach up to those things that he thought about and did. I've never been
to school. Papa is educating me, and oh, he knows so much, and he makes
knowledge so interesting, that I can't help learning a little. And then
Henry's going into the war, and all that is happening, makes me feel so
very, very old and sad at times;" and so she continued in low tones to
tell about herself and Henry and her father, of their hopes of final
victory, and all that made up her life. This she did with a guileless
frankness, and yet with a refined reserve that was indescribable in its
simple pathos and beauty. In spite of himself Graham was charmed and
soothed, while he wondered at the exquisite blending of girlhood and
womanhood in his guide. She also questioned him about the North and the
lands he had visited, about his aunt and Grace and her father; and
Graham's tremulous tones as he spoke of Grace led her to say
sorrowfully, "Ah, she is very, very dear to you also."
"Yes," he said, imitating her frankness, "she is dearer to me than my
life. I would gladly have died in Hilland's place to have saved her
this sorrow. Were it not for the hope of serving her in some way, death
would have few terrors to me. There, my child, I have spoken to you as
I have to only one other, my dear old aunty, who is like a mother. Your
noble trust begets trust."
Then he became aware that she was crying bitterly.
"Pearl, Pearl," he said, "don't cry. I have become accustomed to a sad
heart, and it's an old, old story."
"Oh, Mr. Graham, I remember hearing mamma say once that women learn
more through their hearts than their heads. I have often thought of her
words, and I think they must be true. Almost from the first my heart
told me that there was something about you which made you different
from other people. Why is the world so full of trouble of every kind?
Ah, well, papa has taught me that heaven will make amends for
everything."
They had now reached a little clearing, and Rita said that they were
near Jehu's cabin, and that their final words had better be said before
awakening the old man. "I must bathe my face, too," she added, "for he
would not understand my tears," and went to a clear little spring but a
few paces away.
Graham also dismounted. When she returned he took her hand and raised
it reverently to his lips as he said, "Pearl, this is not a case for
ordinary thanks. I no doubt owe my life, certainly my liberty, to you.
On that I will not dwell. I owe to you and your father far more, and so
does poor Grace Hilland. You insured a burial for my friend that will
bring a world of comfort to those who loved him. The thought of your
going to his grave and placing upon it fresh flowers from time to time
will contain more balm than a thousand words of well-meant condolence.
Pearl, my sweet, pure, noble child, is there nothing I can do for you?"
"Yes," she faltered; "it may be that you can return all that we have
done a hundred-fold. It may be that you will meet Henry in battle. In
the memory of his little sister you will spare him, will you not? If he
should be captured I will tell him to write to you, and I feel sure
that you will remember our lonely ride and the gray old father who is
praying for you now, and will not leave him to suffer."
Graham drew a seal ring from his finger and said: "Dear Pearl, take
this as a pledge that I will serve him in any way in my power and at
any cost to myself. I hope the day will come when he will honor me with
his friendship, and I would as soon strike the friend I have lost as
your brother."
"Now I am content," she said. "I believe every word you say."
"And Grace Hilland will come some day and claim you as a sister dearly
beloved. And I, sweet Pearl, will honor your memory in my heart of
hearts. The man who wins you as his bride may well be prouder than an
emperor."
"Oh, no, Mr. Graham, I'm just a simple Southern girl."
"There are few like you, I fear, South or North. You are a girl to
kindle every manly instinct and power, and I shall be better for having
known you. The hope of serving you and yours in some way and at some
time will give a new zest and value to my life."
"Do not speak so kindly or I shall cry again. I've been afraid you
would think me silly, I cry so easily. I do not think we Southern girls
are like those at the North. They are colder, I imagine, or at least
more able to control their feelings. Papa says I am a child of the
South. I can't decide just how much or how little I ought to feel on
all occasions, and ever since I saw you mourning over your friend with
just such passionate grief as I should feel, my whole heart has ached
for you. You will come and see us again if you have a chance?"
"I will make chances, Pearl, even though they involve no little risk."
"No, no; don't do that. You ought to care too much for us to do that.
Nothing would give me pleasure that brought danger to you. If I could
only know that you reached your friends in safety!"
"I'll find a way of letting you know if I can."
"Well, then, good-by. It's strange, but you seem like an old, old
friend. Oh, I know Henry will like you, and that you will like him.
Next to mamma's, your ring shall be my dearest treasure. I shall look
at it every night and think I have added one more chance of Henry's
safety. Oh, I could worship the man who saved his life."
"And any man might worship you. Good-by, Pearl;" and he kissed her hand
again and again, then lifted her on her pony with a tenderness that was
almost an embrace, and she rode slowly to the door of a little log
cabin, while Graham remained concealed in the shadow of the woods until
it was made certain that no one was in the vicinity except Jehu and his
family.
The old man was soon aroused, and his ejaculations and exclamations
were innumerable.
"No, missy, dars no un been roun' heah for right smart days. It's all
safe, an' Jehu an' his ole ooman knows how ter keep mum when Mas'r
Anderson says mum; an' so does my peart boy Huey"--who, named for his
father, was thus distinguished from him. "An' de hossifer is a Linkum
man? Sho, sho! who'd a tink it, and his own son a 'Federate! Well,
well, Mas'r Anderson isn't low-down white trash. If he thought a ting
was right I reckon de hull worl' couldn't make him cut up any
white-trash didoes."
When Rita explained further the old negro replied with alacrity: "Ob
cose Jehu will took you home safe, an' proud he'll be ter go wid you,
honey. You'se a mighty peart little gal, an' does youse blood an'
broughten up jestice. Mighty few would dar' ride five mile troo de
lonesome woods wid a strange hossifer, if he be a Linkum man. He mus'
be sumpen like Linkum hisself. Yes, if you bain't afeared ter show him
de way, Huey needn't be;" and the boy, who was now wide awake, said
he'd "like notten better dan showin' a Linkum man troo de woods."
Graham was summoned, and in a few moments all was arranged.
He then drew the old man aside and said, "You good, faithful old soul,
take care of that girl as the apple of your eye, for she has only one
equal in the world. Here is one hundred dollars. That will pay for a
good many chickens and vegetables, won't it?"
"Lor' bless you, mas'r, dey ain't chickens nuff in Ole Virginny to
brought hundred dollars."
"Well, I'll tell you what I'm afraid of. This region may be wasted by
war, like so many others. You may not be troubled in this
out-of-the-way place. If Mr. Anderson's family is ever in need, you are
now paid to supply them with all that you can furnish."
"'Deed I is, mas'r, double paid."
"Be faithful to them and you shall have more 'Linkum money,' as you
call it. Keep it, for your money down here won't be worth much soon."
"Dat's shoah. De cullud people bain't all prayin' for Linkum for
notten."
"Good-by. Do as I say and you shall be taken care of some day. Say
nothing about this."
"Mum's de word all roun' ter-night, mas'r."
"Huey, are you ready?"
"I is, mas'r."
"Lead the way, then;" and again approaching Rita, Graham took off his
hat and bowed low as he said, "Give my grateful greeting to your
honored father, and may every hope of his heart be fulfilled in return
for his good deeds today. As for you, Miss Anderson, no words can
express my profound respect and unbounded gratitude. We shall meet
again in happier times;" and backing his horse, while he still remained
uncovered, he soon turned and followed Huey.
"Well, now," ejaculated Jehu. "'Clar ter you ef dat ar Linkum hossifer
bain't nigh onter bein' as fine a gemman as Mas'r Henry hisself. Won't
you take some 'freshment, missy? No? Den I'se go right 'long wid you."
Rita enjoined silence, ostensibly for the reason that it was prudent,
but chiefly that she might have a respite from the old man's
garrulousness. Her thoughts were very busy. The first romance of her
young life had come, and she still felt on her hands the kisses that
had been so warm and sincere, although she knew they were given by one
who cherished a hopeless love. After all, it was but her vivid Southern
imagination that had been kindled by the swift, strange events of the
past twenty-four hours. With the fine sense of the best type of dawning
womanhood, she had been deeply moved by Graham's strong nature. She had
seen in him a love for another man that was as tender and passionate as
that of a woman, and yet it was bestowed upon the husband of the woman
whom he had loved for years. That he had not hesitated to risk
captivity and death in returning for his friend proved his bravery to
be unlimited, and a Southern girl adores courage. For a time Graham
would be the ideal of her girlish heart. His words of admiration and
respect were dwelt upon, and her cheeks flushed up seen in the deep
shadow of the forest. Again her tears would fall fast as she thought of
his peril and of all the sad scenes of the day and the sadder ones
still to come. Grace Hilland, a Southern girl like herself, became a
glorified image to her fancy, and it would now be her chief ambition to
be like her. She would keep her lovely portrait on her bureau beside
her Bible, and it should be almost equally sacred.
In the edge of the forest she parted from Jehu with many and warm
thanks, for she thought it wise that there should not be the slightest
chance of his being seen. She also handed him a Confederate bill out of
her slender allowance, patted him on the shoulder as she would some
faithful animal, and rode away. He crept along after her till he saw
her let down some bars and turn her pony into the fields. He then crept
on till he saw her enter a door, and then stole back to the forest and
shambled homeward as dusky as the shadows in which he walked,
chuckling, "Missy Rita, sweet honey, guv me one of dern 'Federate rags.
Oh, golly! I'se got more money--live Linkum money--dan Mas'r Anderson
hisself, and I'se got notten ter do but raise chickens an' garden sass
all my born days. Missy Rita's red cheeks never grow pale long as Jehu
or Huey can tote chickens and sass."