A STRANGE GUEST
The year 1863, which was ushered in by the Emancipation Proclamation,
was one of steadily waning fortune for the Confederate Cause. Even
temporary successes in Virginia or elsewhere could hardly blind the
South to such blows as the loss of Vicksburg and the Union victory of
Gettysburg. Hope flared up after Chickamauga, but 1864 opened with no
better prospect than had 1863, and resources dwindled steadily. Food
became so scarce that many were actually near the starvation point. In
the State of Georgia, however, which, as yet, the war had touched but
lightly, there was comparative plenty, and the people of little
Washington, though they were forced to give up many seeming necessities,
lived in tolerable comfort.
Thus Mrs. May’s predictions apparently were far from fulfillment, and
April’s conviction of the ultimate victory of the South was
strengthened. Moreover, Georgia crops were counted upon to feed the
army, and this kept men at home in legitimate employment and the life of
the community took on a semblance of what it was in normal times.
Officers on recruiting service or attached to the military prisons at
Andersonville and Millen, were to be seen everywhere; so that there was
no lack of escorts for ladies, who never stirred out of their native
towns without a gentleman in attendance.
There was a continual round of parties and balls which, though they
lacked the lavishness of former occasions, were gay and lively in spite
of conditions that might well have depressed a less sanguine people.
And, as was natural, there was no hint upon the part of the soldiers
that victory for the Southern arms was in the slightest degree doubtful.
The gallant captains and lieutenants who, with the courtly grace of
their time, bowed low over the dainty hands of their fair partners in
the dance, never failed to promise success with so sincere a conviction
that those who listened thereafter turned a deaf ear to all suggestions
of possible defeat.
That the Yankees had won battles was not denied; but it served only to
increase the bitterness in the hearts of most Confederates, and there
was a good deal of talk at this time of seizing property belonging to
those who were suspected of sympathizing with the North, of whom there
were more than a few in the State. But this came to nothing. There were,
indeed, some among the far-seeing Southerners who were not above placing
a portion of their crops in the hands of these Union men, thinking thus
to save a little from the inevitable wreck.
On the whole, however, April’s firm faith in the triumph of her cause
appeared to be justified. As month after month passed, the memory of her
mother’s warning grew less impressive. Moreover, the proclamation
freeing the slaves had had no effect whatever upon the negroes owned by
Colonel May, for they were well and kindly treated. Throughout the
country generally there was more or less restlessness to be noted among
the colored population, but those of them who ran away fled from
indifferent or cruel masters, and the better class of Southerners showed
little sympathy for such owners.
Moreover Mrs. May was one of the Kentucky Harriots who had always
opposed secession. She had even heard herself referred to, in whispers
to be sure, as “Henry May’s Yankee wife.” And in her own family she had
never concealed a certain understanding of the North and had deplored
the action of those hot-heads and politicians who had precipitated the
conflict. But her husband was the colonel of a Georgia regiment, and her
son, a lieutenant, and it never occurred to her to oppose their decision
once it was taken.
Between April and her mother there was a very deep and true bond of
affection; but, when Mrs. May strove to soften her daughter’s bitterness
toward the Union, the girl could not forget the fact that Kentucky was
largely loyal to the North, and discounted her mother’s opinion as being
tinged with Yankee sentiments which a true Georgian could not accept.
Thus, while there was no breach in their love for each other, the elder
woman realized that circumstances made it impossible for her to ease the
blow she believed must some day shatter April’s hopes. And the girl,
seeing nothing of the increasing misery outside her own prosperous
circle, and hearing only the most optimistic predictions from the scores
of young officers who danced attendance upon her whenever the
opportunity afforded, grew increasingly confident and was more than ever
ready to testify to her loyalty by a resentment toward anything that
savored of sympathy for her enemies. Yet out of this well-nigh fanatical
spirit unhappiness was bound to come. Already April hid a secret sorrow
which sometimes brought tears to wet her pillow ere she went to sleep.
The passing of a year changed Harriot but little. She was still a most
practical and unsentimental young person who looked upon the procuring
of food for herself as the first duty of a growing girl. It was with no
surprise, therefore, that Mortality, another of Aunt Decent’s
granddaughters, found her, one warm day in the early part of 1864,
discreetly screened behind some shrubbery, munching persimmon dates.
“Oh, here yoh is!” exclaimed Mortality, flopping down on the grass
beside the rustic chair on which Harriot sat. “Ah was a-thinkin’ yoh
might know who-all ’tis what’s comin’ in. More refugee-ers, I ’spects.”
“Oh, goodness!” cried Harriot, standing up suddenly and peering through
the bushes at a rather dilapidated ambulance drawn by two very thin
mules which was slowly nearing the house. “If any more people come here
I’ll have to sleep in a trundle bed in April’s room.”
Harriot’s wail was not without justice. Already the May house was
overflowing with less fortunate individuals who had been driven out of
their own homes or who were breaking their journeys about the country.
The rich planters of the South boasted of their hospitality, and now
that war had brought privations to less fortunate friends they felt an
added obligation to share all they possessed. Every household that could
afford it, sheltered some “refugees,” as those were called who had been
forced to forsake their own homes.
But this new arrival at the May establishment hardly appeared to be one
of these. As Harriot watched, she saw a young girl maneuver her wide
hoops through the narrow door of the ancient vehicle and proceed gravely
about the business of superintending the disposal of her luggage upon
the broad piazza. Then, having paid the driver, the newcomer sat down
upon one of her brass-studded boxes with a sigh of relief.
“’Clare to goodness,” chuckled Mortality, “that fancy miss ac’s lack
she’d done come to stay. An she don’t appear to have no folks neither.”
“She must have come to the wrong house,” Harriot whispered. She had
watched the proceedings of the stranger with increasing interest. There
were no congenial girls of her own age living near, and her cousin
Corinne was too grown-up to have any fun with these days. Harriot would
have been glad to find a playmate; but she shook her head, being certain
that this calm young stranger had made a mistake. No such guest was
expected, that she knew.
“Mother and April are away, so I reckon I’d better tell her,” she went
on half to herself, and, stepping out briskly from behind the shrubbery,
she hurried toward the house, followed by Mortality.
“This is Mr. Henry May’s house,” Harriot began at once. “Colonel Henry
May, you know. He’s my father, but of course he’s with the army.” She
paused a moment, but no answer being forthcoming she continued rather
breathlessly: “Mrs. Gordon May’s place is over on the Abbeville road.
Perhaps they are the ones you’re looking for—or maybe the Beaumont Mays,
though they’re no kin to us and are living in Augusta now.”
Again she paused, but the only response was a widening of the girl’s
smile, and Harriot grew slightly embarrassed; but she noted the
well-made and rather fashionable clothes of this silent stranger and her
regret continued to deepen.
“It’s a pity that man drove off so fast,” she went on, feeling that some
one must talk. “Our horses have mostly been pressed, and I don’t know
what I’ll find to send you away in, ’specially as mother and April are
at the Ladies’ Aid meeting, sewing for the soldiers. But of course I’m
’bliged to find something.”
“’Deed, Miss Harry, ’tain’t no use talkin’,” Mortality half whispered.
“Don’t you-all see she’s one of ’em dumbies?”
At this the strange girl laughed outright, a bright, cheerful laugh that
set Harriot to smiling too.
“Really I’m not dumb,” the visitor said with a chuckle. “I’ve just been
wondering what happened to all my letters. I wrote weeks ago that I was
coming.”
“Oh, you did?” Harriot replied vaguely. “Well, of course, now-a-days
letters never go where you expect them to.”
The other nodded calmly, and Harriot regarded her with increasing
admiration. She was so cool and self-possessed.
“At any rate, I’m here now!” the girl on the trunk remarked
philosophically. “It’s too late to help that, isn’t it? But, if I’m in
the way, I can go back to New York, can’t I? Though it’ll probably be no
end of trouble.”
“To New York!” Harriot exclaimed incredulously. “Did you run the
blockade?”
“No,” the other answered rather regretfully. “I wanted to—it would be a
fine adventure, wouldn’t it?—but I wasn’t allowed. Papa wished me to
travel by land, so they sent me down under a flag of truce. This is your
mother coming in, isn’t it?”
A carriage was rolling briskly into the drive and in another moment it
drew up at the block near the porch. As Mrs. May descended the stranger
slipped down from the trunk and went to meet her.
“I’m sorry, Aunt Parthenia,” she said precisely. “I fancy I should have
waited for an invitation from you, shouldn’t I? But father had to leave
so unexpectedly—and even though we had had no answer to our letters he
said it would be best for me to come, as he had information that you
were still here. If you don’t want me, I suppose I can arrange for
another flag of truce to go back under, can’t I?”
There was just the shadow of a break in the gentle voice as the strange
girl said this; and the crisp pronunciation with its broad “a,” so
different from the slow Southern drawl, held a certain appeal that went
straight to Mrs. May’s heart.
“My dear child, of course you must stay,” she said, taking the young
girl in her motherly arms. “You are most welcome but—but, honey, who are
you?”