We will let thirty days pass on, and bear the reader South of the
Potomac, beyond the Federal lines and within rifle-shot of an advanced
picket of the Confederate army, under General Beauregard. It was a
dismal night--the 16th of July. The rain fell heavily and the wind
moaned and shrieked through the lone forests like unhappy spirits
wailing in the darkness. A solitary horseman was cautiously wending his
way through the storm upon the Centreville road and toward the
Confederate Hue. He bore a white handkerchief, and from time to time, as
his ear seemed to catch a sound other than the voice of the tempest, he
drew his rein and raised the fluttering symbol at his drawn sword's
point. Through the dark masses of foliage that skirted the roadside,
presently could be seen the fitful glimmer of a watchfire, and the
traveller redoubled his precautions, but yet rode steadily on.
"Halt!" cried a stern, loud voice from a clump of bushes that looked
black and threatening in the darkness. The horseman checked his horse
and sat immovable in the centre of the road.
"Who goes there?" followed quick, in the same deep, peremptory tone.
"An officer of the United States, with a flag of truce," was answered in
a clear, firm voice.
"Stand where you are." There was a pause, and presently four dark forms
emerged from the roadside, and stood at the horse's head.
"You've chosen a strange time for your errand, and a dangerous one,"
said one of the party, with a mild and gentlemanly accent.
"Who speaks?"
"The officer in command of this picket."
"Is not that Beverly Weems?"
"The same. And surely I know that voice."
"Of course you do, if you know Harold Hare."
And the stranger, dismounting, stretched out his hand, which was eagerly
and warmly clasped, and followed by a silent and prolonged embrace.
"How rash you have been, Harold," said Beverly, at last. "It is a mercy
that I was by, else might a bullet have been your welcome. Why did you
not wait till morning?"
"Because my mission admits of no delay. It is most opportune that I have
met you. You have spoken to me at times, and Oriana often, of your young
cousin, Miranda."
"Yes, Harold, what of her?"
"Beverly, she is within a rifle-shot of where we stand, very sick--dying
I believe."
"Good God, Harold! what strange tale is this?"
"I am in command of an advanced picket, stationed at the old farm-house
yonder. Toward dusk this evening, a carriage drove up, and when
challenged, a pass was presented, with orders to assist the bearer,
Miranda Ayleff, beyond the lines. I remembered the name, and stepping to
the carriage door, beheld two females, one of whom was bending over her
companion, and holding a vial, a restorative, I suppose, to her lips.
"'She has fainted, sir,' said the woman, 'and is very ill. I'm afraid
she won't last till she gets to Richmond. Can't you help her; isn't
there a surgeon among you at the farm-house there?'
"We had no surgeon, but I had her taken into the house, and made as
comfortable as possible. When she recovered from her swoon, she asked
for you, and repeatedly for Oriana, and would not be comforted until I
promised her that she should be taken immediately on to Richmond. 'She
could not die there, among strangers,' she said; 'she must see one
friend before she died. She must go home at once and be forgiven.' And
thus she went, half in delirium, until I feared that her life would pass
away, from sheer exhaustion. I determined to ride over to your picket at
once, not dreaming, however, that you were in command. At dawn to-morrow
we shall probably be relieved, and it might be beyond my power then to
meet her wishes."
"I need not say how much I thank you, Harold. But you were ever kind and
generous. Poor girl! Let us ride over at once, Harold. Who is her
companion?"
"A woman some years her senior, but yet young, though prematurely faded.
I could get little from her. Not even her name. She is gloomy and
reserved, even morose at times; but she seems to be kind and attentive
to Miranda."
Beverly left some hasty instructions with his sergeant, and rode over
with Harold to the farm-house. They found Miranda reclining upon a couch
of blankets, over which Harold had spread his military cloak, for the
dwelling had been stripped of its furniture, and was, in fact, little
more than a deserted ruin. The suffering girl was pale and attenuated,
and her sunken eyes were wild and bright with the fire of delirium. Yet
she seemed to recognize Beverly, and stretched out her thin arms when he
approached, exclaiming in tremulous accents:
"Take me home, Beverly, oh, take me home!"
Moll was seated by her side, upon a soldier's knapsack; her chin resting
upon her hands, and her black eyes fixed sullenly upon the floor. She
would give but short and evasive answers to Beverly's questions, and
stubbornly refused to communicate the particulars of Miranda's history.
"She broke a blood-vessel a month ago in Boston. But she got better,
and was always wanting to go to her friends in Richmond. And so I
brought her on. And now you must take care of her, for I'm going back to
camp."
This was about all the information she would give, and the two young men
ceased to importune her, and directed their attentions to the patient.
The carriage was prepared and the cushions so arranged, with the help of
blankets, as to form a kind of couch within the vehicle. Upon this
Miranda was tenderly lifted, and when she was told that she should be
taken home without delay, and would soon see Oriana, she smiled like a
pleased child, and ceased complaining.
Beverly stood beside his horse, with his hand clasped in Harold's. The
rain poured down upon them, and the single watchfire, a little apart
from which the silent sentinel stood leaning on his rifle, threw its
rude glare upon their saddened faces.
"Good bye, old friend," said Beverly. "We have met strangely to-night,
and sadly. Pray heaven we may not meet more sadly on the battle-field."
"Tell Oriana," replied Harold, "that I am with her in my prayers." He
had not spoken of her before, although Beverly had mentioned that she
was at the old manor house, and well. "I have not heard from Arthur," he
continued, "for I have been much about upon scouting parties since I
came, but I doubt not he is well, and I may find a letter when I return
to camp. Good bye; and may our next meeting see peace upon the land."
They parted, and the carriage, with Beverly riding at its side, moved
slowly into the darkness, and was gone.
Harold returned into the farm-house, and found Moll seated where he had
left her, and still gazing fixedly at the floor. He did not disturb her,
but paced the floor slowly, lost in his own melancholy thoughts. After a
silence of some minutes, the woman spoke, without looking up.
"Have they gone?"
"Yes."
"She is dying, ain't she?"
"I fear she is very ill."
"I tell you, she's dying--and it's better that she is."
She then relapsed into her former mood, but after a while, as Harold
paused at the window and looked out, she spoke again.
"Will it soon be day?"
"Within an hour, I think," replied Harold. "Do you go back at daylight?"
"Yes."
"You have no horse?"
"You'll lend me one, won't you? If you don't, I don't care; I can walk."
"We will do what we can for you. What is your business at the camp?"
"Never mind," she answered gruffly. And then, after a pause, she asked:
"Is there a man named Searle in your army--Philip Searle?"
"Nay, I know not. There may be. I have never heard the name. Do you seek
such a person? Is he your friend, or relative?"
"Never mind," she said again, and then was silent as before.
With the approach of dawn, the sentry challenged an advancing troop,
which proved to be the relief picket guard. Harold saluted the officer
in command, and having left orders respectively with their
subordinates, they entered the farm-house together, and proceeded to the
apartment where Moll still remained seated. She did not seem to notice
their entrance; but when the new-comer's voice, in some casual remark,
reached her ear, she rose up suddenly, and walking straight forward to
where the two stood, looking out at the window, she placed her hand
heavily, and even rudely, upon his shoulder. He turned at the touch, and
beholding her, started back, with not only astonishment, but fear.
"You needn't look so white, Philip Searle," she said at last, in a low,
hoarse tone. "It's not a ghost you're looking at. But perhaps you're
only angry that you only half did your business while you were at it."
"Where did you pick up this woman?" asked Searle of Harold, drawing him
aside.
"She came with an invalid on her way to Richmond," replied Harold.
"What invalid?"
He spoke almost in a whisper, but Moll overheard him, and answered
fiercely:
"One that is dying, Philip; and you know well enough who murdered her.
'Twasn't me you struck the hardest blow that night. Do you see that
scar? That's nothing; but you struck her to the heart."
"What does she mean?" asked Harold, looking sternly into Philip's
disturbed eye.
"Heaven knows. She's mad," he answered. "Did she tell you nothing--no
absurd story?"
"Nothing. She was sullen and uncommunicative, and half the time took no
notice of our questions."
"No wonder, poor thing!" said Philip. "She's mad. However, I have some
little power with her, and if you will leave us alone awhile, I will
prevail upon her to go quietly back to Washington."
Harold went up to the woman, who was leaning with folded arms against
the wall, and spoke kindly to her.
"Should you want assistance, I will help you. We shall be going in half
an hour. You must be ready to go with us, you know, for you can't stay
here, where there may be fighting presently."
"Thank you," she replied. "Don't mind me. I can take care of myself.
You can leave us alone together. I'm not afraid of him."
Harold left the room, and busied himself about the preparations for
departure. Left alone with the woman he had wronged, Philip for some
moments paced the room nervously and with clouded brow. Finally, he
stopped abruptly before Moll, who had been following his motions with
her wild, unquiet eyes.
"Where have you sprung from now, and what do you want?"
"Do you see that scar?" she said again, but more fiercely than before.
"While that lasts, there's no love 'twixt you and me, and it'll last me
till my death."
"Then why do you trouble me. If you don't love me, why do you hang about
me wherever I go? We'll be better friends away from each other than
together. Why don't you leave me alone?"
"Ha! ha! we must be quits for that, you know," she answered, rather
wildly, and pointing to her forehead. "Do you think I'm a poor whining
fool like her, to get sick and die when you abuse me? I'll haunt you
till I die, Philip; and after, too, if I can, to punish you for that."
Philip fancied that he detected the gleam of insanity in her eye, and he
was not wrong, for the terrible blow he had inflicted had injured her
brain; and her mind, weakened by dissipation and the action of
excitement upon her violent temperament, was tottering upon the verge of
madness.
"When I was watching that poor sick girl," she continued, "I thought I
could have loved her, she was so beautiful and gentle, as she lay there,
white and thin, and never speaking a word against you, Philip, but
thinking of her friends far away, and asking to be taken home--home,
where her mother was sleeping under the sod--home, to be loved and
kissed again before she died. And I would have loved her if I hadn't
hated you so much that there wasn't room for the love of any living
creature in my bad heart. I used to sit all night and hear her
talk--talk in her dreams and in her fever--as if there were kind people
listening to her, people that were kind to her long ago. And the room
seemed full of angels sometimes, so that I was afraid to move and look
about; for I could swear I heard the fanning of their wings and the
rustle of their feet upon the carpet. Sometimes I saw big round tears
upon her wasted cheeks, and I wouldn't brush them away, for they looked
like jewels that the angels had dropped there. And then I tried to cry
myself, but, ha! ha! I had to laugh instead, although my heart was
bursting. I wished I could have cried; I'm sure it would have made my
heart so light, and perhaps it would have burst that ring of hot iron
that was pressing so hard around my head. It's there now, sinking and
burning right against my temples. But I can't cry, I haven't since I was
a little girl, long ago, long ago; but I think I cried when mother died,
long ago, long ago."
She was speaking in a kind of dreamy murmur, while Philip paced the
room; and finally she sank down upon the floor, and sat there with her
hands pressed against her brows, rocking herself to and fro.
"Moll," said Philip, stooping over her, and speaking in a gentle tone,
"I'm sorry I struck you, indeed I am; but I was drunk, and when you cut
me, I didn't know what I was about. Now let's be friends, there's a
good girl. You must go back to Washington, you know, and to New York,
and stay there till I come back. Won't you, now, Moll?"
"Won't I? No, Philip Searle, I won't. I'll stay by you till you kill me;
yes, I will. You want to go after that poor girl and torment her; but
she's dying and soon you won't be able to hurt her any more."
"Was it she, Moll, was it Miranda that came here with you? Was she going
to Richmond?"
"She was going to heaven, Philip Searle, out of the reach of such as you
and me. I'm good enough for you, Philip, bad as I am; and I'm your wife,
besides."
"You told her that?"
"Told her? Ha! ha! Told her? do you think I'm going to make that a
secret? No, no. We're a bad couple, sure enough; but I'm not going to
deny you, for all that. Look you, young man," she continued, addressing
Harold, who at that moment entered the room, "that is Philip Searle, and
Philip Searle is my husband--my husband, curse his black heart! and if
he dares deny it, I'll have him in the State prison, for I can do it."
"She's perfectly insane," said Philip; but Harold looked thoughtful and
perplexed, and scanned his fellow-officer's countenance with a searching
glance.
"At all events," he said, "she must not remain here. My good woman, we
are ready now, and you must come with us. We have a horse for you, and
will make you comfortable. Are you ready?"
"No," she replied, sullenly, "I won't go. I'll stay with my husband."
"Nay," remonstrated Harold, gently, "you cannot stay here. This is no
place for women. When we arrive at headquarters, you shall tell your
story to General McDowell, and he will see that you are taken care of,
and have justice if you have been wronged. But you must not keep us
waiting. We are soldiers, you know, and must do our duty."
Still, however, she insisted upon remaining where she was; but when two
soldiers, at a gesture from Harold, approached and took her gently by
the arms, she offered no resistance, and suffered herself to be led
quietly out. Harold coldly saluted Searle, and left him in charge of the
post; while himself and party, accompanied by Moll and the coachman who
had driven them from Washington, were soon briskly marching toward the
camp.