THE MAN ON THE ROOF
Dorothea was about to leave the window but she was by no means certain
what she could do, although she was fully determined to help this poor
soldier to his freedom. It was quite plain that he had expected
assistance from some one in the house; but who could it be, this Red
String in whom she, herself, would now be glad to confide? She had
strongly suspected April when she had first heard of this mysterious
band of Northern sympathizers, but her cousin’s action which had led to
this conclusion could all be explained by Lee Hendon’s presence outside
the house on the previous night. Dorothea decided then and there that
April was not a Red String.
Miss Imogene wore a velvet band about her neck, but Dorothea, like Val
Tracy, felt that here was one above suspicion. Yet there was some one
who would give her the help she needed to save the wretched man upon the
roof if she could but divine who it was.
While she still debated the matter in her mind, his voice came to her
out of the darkness.
“If you could get me some food it would be the best thing that could
happen to me,” it said.
“I don’t know how I’m going to do it,” Dorothea answered. “You see, they
are having a ball down stairs, and probably all the servants are busy,
and—”
She was halted by the first strains of the music coming up to them from
the parlors below.
“Have you nothing in your room?” the man asked, weakly.
“Nothing but the chocolate I gave you—which you have eaten,” Dorothea
answered, and at that moment there came a knock at the door.
Dorothea closed the window softly and crossed the room.
“Who is it?” she asked, controlling her voice as well as she could.
“Please, Miss Dee, Ol’ Miss is askin’ where yoh-all is?” came Lucy’s
voice.
Instantly Dorothea remembered the bright red ribbon in the girl’s hair.
That there were negroes in this band of Red Strings was certain, seeing
how necessary their assistance would be if anything secret was to be
done in the South. She was on the point of taking the maid into her
confidence when a doubt assailed her. Could she be sure of Lucy?
Reluctantly she shook her head. She dared not make a mistake; the
freedom, perhaps the life, of the man on the roof depended upon her and
she could leave nothing to chance.
“I’ll be down shortly,” she called softly through the door, “and, Lucy,”
she went on, with a sudden inspiration, “can’t you get me some
sandwiches and a glass of wine? I didn’t eat much supper and—”
“And yoh is faint wif excitement,” Lucy finished for her. “Yes’m, yoh
jes’ stay there and I’ll have somefin’ up foh yoh in a jiffy,” and
Dorothea heard the girl hurry away.
Going back to the window she opened it again and whispered what she had
done.
“It’s the best I can manage at present,” she ended.
“It will be a great help,” the man replied. “If I could just have a bit
of sleep and a chance to dress a wound I received getting out of
Andersonville, I wouldn’t have to bother you further. I’m sorry to give
you so much trouble.”
Perhaps the prospect of food gave the man hope but, whatever the reason,
he spoke in a stronger voice and in the unmistakable accents of a
gentleman.
Evidently he was an officer, and Dorothea peered down in the darkness
trying to catch a glimpse of his features, but it was too dark to see
more than a darker shadow crouched against the wall.
“Listen,” she elaborated her plans as she talked, “as soon as my maid
comes back I shall put out the candle and go down stairs. My aunt has
sent for me and if I don’t appear shortly she or my cousins will come
after me. When the light is out you can slip into the room, and for some
hours you will be safe here. I shall not come back till the dance is
over, which I suppose will be nearly morning. Can you manage this, do
you think?”
“Easily,” came the quiet answer. “You couldn’t have arranged it better.
With a little more strength I can get on, now that the dogs are off the
trail.
“Tell me,” he added, “which of the rooms with windows opening on this
roof belong to men?”
“The one at the very end,” Dorothea answered. “That’s Hal May’s room.”
“That will do very well, thank you,” came the whispered answer. “I shall
make that my resting place so you’ll have no cause to worry about coming
back to your room whenever you want to. I will take the food, then be
off. Thank you a thousand times.”
“Is there nothing else I can do for you?” Dorothea asked hurriedly.
Somehow she had grown to have something of a personal interest in this
man on the roof. She hadn’t seen his face, and she was by no means
sympathetic with his cause. But he was wounded and in danger of going
back to Andersonville Prison, which she had heard Southerners themselves
acknowledge was far from a cheerful place. She would do what she could
to help him escape.
“No, not a thing,” he answered back.
“Very well then,” she went on. “I shall leave some handkerchiefs on the
washstand for your wound. That’s the best linen I have. You can come in
and warm up by the fire, where I’ll put the sandwiches and wine. I hope
you get—”
She did not finish the sentence, for again a knock came at the door and
Lucy’s voice reached her.
“Miss Dee, please—”
She ran across the room and, opening the door a crack, took the plate
and glass out of the astonished girl’s hands.
“Wait for me on the stairs,” Dorothea ordered. “I shall be going down in
a moment.”
She saw Lucy’s eyes widen with surprise, but there was no time to invent
excuses. She knew that if she did not shortly make an appearance some of
the family would be up looking for her, so she hurried back to the
hearth and placed the plate and wine in the fire-light. Then, tiptoeing
to the window, she opened it full.
“I’m going,” she whispered; and the next moment she had blown out the
candle and closed the door behind her with some little noise.
Lucy was not far away and as Dorothea submitted to the final fluffing of
her ruffles she assured her anxious maid that she was quite well and
that it would not be necessary for Lucy to take the tray till morning.
“I didn’t eat everything,” she remarked. “Perhaps I shall want a
sandwich before I go to bed.”
She did her best to conceal her anxiety for the man on the roof. If he
held to his plan to stay but a few moments in her room and then make his
way to Hal’s to rest, she felt he had a good chance to escape
undetected; but she would be on pins and needles for a while. However
she did not mean to show that she was not entirely herself, and sailed
down the stairs and into the parlor with as composed a face as she could
muster. And she made a pretty picture in her wide Suisse dress and fresh
crisp ruffles, conscious that, although her clothes were not excessively
magnificent they would appear rich in comparison with the other girls’,
who were forced by the war to wear gowns which had been turned and
remade again and again.
Lucy, standing with the other servants on the outskirts of the hall,
voiced her pride loudly.
“Ain’t Miss Dee the prettiest an’ the sweetest little lady heah?” she
demanded of Merry beside her. “I jes lak to set her up on a pedistool
and let yoh-all have a look at her. She’s little foots got a arch on ’em
yoh could let water run under and never wet the sole. ’Tain’t no
field-han’s foot I’m tellin’ yoh, and her waist’s that tenchy I don’t
have to pull her laces while she hol’s her bref. An’ eve’y las’ one of
her clo’s is jes’ kivered wif real lace! That’s right! I ain’t sayin’ a
word but the truf.”
“Fine feathehs make fine birds,” Merry sniffed scornfully. She was
jealous of any one who might dare to hint at rivaling her young
mistress. “Yoh can talk all yoh’s a-mind to about she’s clo’s, but what
I’s looking at is she’s hair. Jes’ common black, ’tain’t sure enough
gold lak Lil’ Miss’!”
Dorothea slipped into the parlor, to be captured at once by Mrs. Stewart
who was talking to Val Tracy. The elder woman held out a compelling hand
to her, without stopping the steady flow of her conversation.
“It may be as you say,” she was complaining in her usual tone. “I’ll
certainly ask Colonel Stewart to inquire into it, and if you are right
perhaps Peru is the best place for us to go, after all. But it’s strange
I never heard of the Incas if they are as old a family as the Polks.
Probably they are just nouveaux riches.... Kiss your Aunt Cora, dear,”
she went on to Dorothea with scarcely a break in the easy flow of her
words. “That dress is too sweet and lovely. I think I’ll have to copy it
for Corinne. She has been complaining that she hasn’t anything fit to
wear, but I tell her, ‘what’s the use if we are going to Mexico?’ And
now it may be Peru and that’s further still, isn’t it, Val?”
“I believe it is,” Tracy remarked, with a twinkling glance toward
Dorothea; “but you might stop at Mexico on the way and see how you liked
it. Mayn’t I have this dance, Miss Drummond?” he ended, turning to the
girl whose feet were already in motion to the gallop the negro musicians
from the quarter had struck up.
Dorothea nodded and in a moment they were off together.
“I think you like to dance,” Tracy murmured after they had gone half
round the room.
“I do like it,” Dorothea answered; “but I haven’t had much practice, and
perhaps I don’t do it very well. You see at home, in England, they think
I’m too young to go to dances yet.”
“You’re a very fairy on your toes,” Val assured her.
Dorothea laughed joyously.
“I should like to believe so,” she answered, “but I’m afraid I can’t
take your word for it, can I?”
“Oh, Miss Drummond,” Val replied with mock despair. “Could you doubt
me?”
“I can hardly be expected to have much faith in what you say after what
I heard you telling Mrs. Stewart about the Incas of Peru,” Dorothea
replied.
“Faith, I but told her the truth,” he grinned. “They are the oldest
family I know of in this hemisphere; and as for your dancing, save one
dance I have with Miss Imogene, I’ll be pleased to dance with you all
night.”
“That would hardly please Miss Imogene,” Dorothea replied, shaking her
head.
“Aye, and there’s something in that,” Tracy agreed. “Is she not a wonder
now? On the other side she’d be wearin’ a cap and spectacles and sittin’
by the chimney corner knittin’. But here—faith, she’s the light of every
party! Were I a little younger I’d be askin’ her to marry me, this
night; but seein’ I’m all of twenty-three I’ve grave fears I’d age too
fast for her.”
Val Tracy with his raillery kept Dorothea’s mind off the man upstairs
for the time being, but when the music stopped her thoughts flew back to
him with a sudden thump at her heart.
“He must have gone to Hal’s room by this time,” she said to herself, not
knowing whether to be glad or more anxious on that account. A moment
later she was claimed by another partner and for a while was so busy
trying to remember the names of all the new people to whom she was
introduced that she had little time for anything else.
April, more radiant and beautiful than ever, had an eye upon her cousin
and saw to it that she did not lack partners.
“I hope you are having a good time, Dorothea,” she said, upon one
occasion, with one of her most beaming smiles.
Dorothea thanked her and smiled back, with an open admiration that she
could not have concealed if she had been so minded. April needed no
imported finery to set off her charms and no one at the party had any
doubt about who was the belle of it. But as she watched her dancing with
the Confederate officers and heard her leading all the most patriotic
songs of the South; when she saw her cousin’s eyes kindle with
enthusiasm at the mention of the Cause for which a rebel army was
fighting, it was impossible to believe April a member of this band of
Red Strings of which she had become so intimately aware. The thought
that it was Lee Hendon who was the mainspring of her actions grew to a
conviction.
Time for such reflections came to Dorothea only now and then. She was
never left to herself, but Val Tracy came for another dance which she
was ready enough to give. She liked the young Irishman as did every one,
apparently, and it occurred to her that he might help her solve some of
the puzzling questions that had begun to throw a shadow of doubt upon
her loyalty to the Southern cause.
“Tell me, Mr. Tracy,” she asked quietly, “do they always set bloodhounds
on escaping prisoners down here?”
He looked at her a moment quizzically.
“You didn’t like it, eh?” he said finally. “Well, to tell you the truth,
Miss Drummond, I’m not what you’d call keen about it meself. Faith, this
catchin’ man with dogs—!” He shook his head vigorously.
“It’s very cruel,” Dorothea murmured, half to herself.
“Ah, but, Miss Drummond,” Tracy answered, “you must remember that they
have been doing it in this country for years and years and they don’t
see any harm in it. You must take things as you find them, I suppose;
though I confess this huntin’ men with hounds goes against the grain
with me.”
“Will they catch him, do you think?” she questioned, more anxiously than
he could possibly know.
“There aren’t many escape safely from Andersonville,” he answered. “Some
of them do get out; but they’re brought back sooner or later, poor
creatures.”
“Why do you have such prisons?” Dorothea demanded almost angrily.
“Nay, Miss Drummond,” he returned quickly, “don’t blame me for these
prisons. They’re none of mine. I’m only a small cog in a very big wheel;
but to tell the truth the problem isn’t as easy a one to solve as you’d
think. We can’t give our own men enough food and clothes, so you’d
hardly expect the prisoners to fare better.”
Dorothea was about to reply when Hal May came hurriedly across the
dancing floor and stopped beside them.
“Val,” he said, under his breath, “you’ll have to excuse yourself to
Dorothea. You’ll let him go, won’t you?” he went on directly to the
girl. “Fielding, who was out last night after that escaped officer, is
back again and wants to see us. I told him we’d talk to him in my bed
chamber, upstairs. It was the only private spot I could think of. Take
Dorothea to mother, and join us as quickly as you can.” Hal went away
hurriedly and Tracy started across the room toward where Mrs. May was
sitting with some of the elder ladies.
Dorothea walked beside him mechanically. The man upstairs was lost. They
would come upon him, sleeping in Hal’s room, and the poor fellow would
have to go back to the prison horrors from which he had tried, so
desperately, to escape. And there was nothing she could do. Already, she
supposed, Hal and the man Fielding were upstairs. She shrank from
contact with these chattering people. She wanted to be alone, to think
of some way of escape for the poor man if she could.
“I don’t wish to go to Aunt ’Thenia for a moment,” she whispered, when
they were half way across the room. “I would rather go out on the
gallery for a breath of air.”
He looked at her sharply, and noted that her face had suddenly grown
pale.
“Aren’t you feeling well?” he asked with a touch of anxiety in his
voice.
For an instant it occurred to her that by saying “yes” she could keep
him at her side. Then she realized the uselessness of this. Tracy was
only one. No doubt Hal had summoned other officers to the conference and
probably the man was already taken.
“It’s the heat I’m unused to; I shall be all right in a moment,” she
answered, and with that he left her and she took her way unnoticed out
on to the broad porch.