MISS IMOGENE TAKES CHARGE
When Dorothea hurried back after locking the door she found that Miss
Imogene was holding up the young man’s head and had managed to force
some of the wine down his throat. A minute later a little color came
into his cheek and he smiled up at them in a weak, embarrassed way.
“I’m sorry,” he murmured; “I’m an utter idiot to do this—but how did you
know I was Larry Stanchfield?”
“I knew your father when he was about your age,” Miss Imogene replied
gently. “For the moment I was silly enough to take you for him. But we
haven’t time to talk of that.”
Young Stanchfield struggled to sit up.
“This is really unpardonable,” he stammered. “I should not be here at
all. I’ll go at once.”
“You’ll go as far as the fire,” Miss Imogene pointed out in a tone that
admitted of no argument. “For the present you are safe here.”
“But I never intended to stay in this room,” he protested, “and it isn’t
of my own safety I’m thinking.”
“It is what I am thinking of,” Miss Imogene replied. “Although we must
get rid of you, or we shall be suspected of not being the staunch Rebels
we are. Come over by the fire now and warm yourself.”
Miss Imogene spoke lightly, but there was a serious undertone in her
voice and the young man, looking first at her and then at Dorothea,
nodded his head as if he understood more than her words implied.
“You are very good,” he murmured.
But he had noted the band of red velvet about Miss Imogene’s throat and
Dorothea had caught the expression of comprehension that had passed over
his face.
“He, thinks Cousin Imogene’s a Red String, too,” she thought, and then,
“How do I know that she isn’t?”
With an effort Stanchfield rose and staggered toward the fireplace; but
when Miss Ivory would have steadied him with a hand on his arm he
winced.
“Not that arm,” he muttered; “it’s—it’s scratched a bit.”
“I’m sorry,” Miss Imogene said; “I shall have a look at it presently,
but first of all we must get you some strengthening food.” They seated
him in front of the fire, and he leaned back with a sigh of relief; but
he seemed so weak that Miss Imogene looked at him anxiously.
“There is a flask in my room and glass of milk,” Miss Imogene spoke half
to herself.
“Oh, pray don’t trouble,” Stanchfield faltered; and then, before their
eyes, he fainted straight away.
In the silence that followed they could hear the low-toned murmur of
men’s voices and, suddenly, the sound of a closing door far down the
hall. Miss Imogene and Dorothea looked at each other apprehensively, for
a moment.
“Lock it, after me, child,” Miss Imogene whispered, starting toward the
door with an air of determination, “and don’t let any one in till I come
back. I’ll only be a minute.”
She left the room swiftly, after a glance up and down the hall, and
Dorothea turned the key and waited.
A little later there came a knock and, expecting Miss Imogene’s return,
she opened noiselessly. Before her stood Val Tracy.
“Oh, you’re in here,” he said, with some embarrassment; “I didn’t know.
You see we’re looking for that escaped man. We haven’t found him yet and
we’re searching the house. Of course, as you’re here, we can take for
granted a Union officer isn’t in this room.”
His eyes wandered over the girl’s head for a moment and then, with a
bow, he drew back into the semi-darkness of the hall. Dorothea, without
a word closed the door, her breath coming in short, quick gasps. It was
so narrow an escape that she had all the sensations of having been
caught. A few minutes later Miss Imogene came back with milk and brandy.
Dorothea in a few quick words told of Tracy’s visit and Miss Imogene
shook her head doubtfully at the girl’s assurance that he had seen
nothing.
“I hope not,” she replied, “but we can’t speculate about that. We must
bring this boy around as quickly as we can.”
She forced some of the brandy between Stanchfield’s lips and presently
he came to himself. A stiff punch and the sandwiches seemed to restore
his strength like magic, and Miss Imogene turned her attention to his
injured arm.
“Oh, please don’t bother with it,” Stanchfield insisted. “I can fix it
myself now. That’s what I was trying to do when I fainted like the silly
idiot that I am. An old darky dressed it for me the second day I was out
of Andersonville. It’s nothing but a flesh wound, and it was doing
pretty well, considering, till I climbed up the vines to the porch roof
to get away from the hounds. Then it opened again, and I’m afraid it’s
rather a mess. But please don’t bother.”
“Dorothea, hold the candle over here,” Miss Imogene said calmly, utterly
ignoring this plea. “I’ll slit the sleeve. We’ll have to get you other
clothes from somewhere, anyhow. Did that hurt?”
Her delicate fingers that seemed not to be made for such things, deftly
separated the stained shirt from the clotted blood, and Dorothea, unused
to such sights, felt herself growing sick and faint at this wound which
the young man had called a scratch. But she summoned her courage and,
although she was rather white about the lips, managed to give Miss
Imogene all the help that lady needed, so that very shortly the washing
and bandaging was over.
“I feel like a new man,” Stanchfield declared in a little while. “Now I
must go. I can’t be here at daybreak.”
He started to his feet, but was still so weak that in spite of his
determination he fell back into his chair.
“The truth is,” Miss Imogene remarked with a wrinkled brow, “you must
have rest to recuperate. But what to do with you, my boy, I don’t know.”
“In a little I shall be myself again,” Stanchfield insisted. “At the
worst I can get back on the roof and wait till my strength returns.
Whatever happens I cannot involve you ladies in my troubles.”
“My dear boy,” Miss Imogene spoke softly, “I knew your father so well
that anything I might do for you would but repay in a slight measure
much that I owe him. There must be some way found to start you out again
with a chance of escape.”
She spoke so earnestly that it would have seemed rudeness to protest
further. Stanchfield bowed his head as if in assent to her assumption of
the responsibility.
“Is your father still alive?” Miss Imogene asked after a moment’s
silence.
“He was, the last time I heard of him,” Stanchfield answered. “He is a
Major in our army now, you know.”
“I didn’t know,” Miss Imogene said, looking down into the fire with a
return of her old manner. “I didn’t know. I haven’t heard of him for
many years, but some day I might meet him. Could I face him, knowing
that I might have helped his son and did not try? No, no. For the sake
of a dear friendship I am doubly bound.” She paused and then, lifting
her head with a determined air, spoke directly to Dorothea.
“May I share your room to-night, honey?”
“Of course,” answered Dorothea readily.
“Then Lieutenant Stanchfield shall have one good night’s rest at least,”
Miss Imogene spoke determinedly; but she was interrupted.
“My dear lady,” Stanchfield broke in, seeing the drift of her words. “It
is impossible. You have no idea what the conditions are in
Andersonville. I am not fit to inhabit a decent place.”
“I will see to that,” Miss Imogene replied with a smile. “There’s a huge
brass pitcher filled with water in the fireplace and a tub under the
bed. Hot water and China-berry soap is what I prescribe. You will have
strength enough to manage that. After, you will sleep the better and in
the meantime I’ll find some other clothes for you somewhere.”
“I must stick to the rags of my uniform,” Stanchfield said. “So long as
I wear that, I am at least not in danger of my life as a spy.”
“Then tie it in a towel and place it outside your door,” Miss Imogene
instructed him. “I’ll have my maid clean it. I think I can trust her. At
least I can scare her, for I have done it before.”
“You are the most thoughtful person in the world,” Stanchfield murmured
gratefully. “I’d rather have clean clothes than food, even!”
“You shall have both,” Miss Imogene promised. “And you need not fear
interruption. Even my maid is instructed not to enter my room without
leave. I am sure you will be safe there. There is a large screen in the
room and a huge wardrobe. If worst comes to worst you can hide.”
As she finished speaking they all became aware of the murmur of voices
on the lawn below. Quick as a flash Miss Imogene blew out the candle and
hurried to the window. A moment later there came a low-toned exchange of
farewells and the soft thuds of horses moving away.
“They are gone without their prisoner,” Miss Imogene whispered as she
came back to the fire. “All is safe now. The music down stairs will
drown the noise of anything we do up here. But we have no more time to
waste, for we shall both be missed if we do not return to the dance.
Dorothea, go into my room and light the candle. We will wait till you
come back to tell us if all is clear.”
Dorothea went off and found time to pull out the tub from under the bed
and place it before the fire. She feared that Mr. Stanchfield might not
be able to do that for himself. Also she found two eggs, one of which
she brought back with her.
“Ah,” exclaimed the little lady, as she saw the egg in Dorothea’s hand.
“That is my morning dose and the very thing you will need this evening,
Mr. Stanchfield.”
She mixed the egg with a little milk and brandy and made the young man
swallow it, after which he declared himself ready for anything. But even
yet he was very, very weak and both Miss Imogene and Dorothea hovered
about him as he tottered along the hall. However he reached his goal
safely and within the doorway he turned and, seizing a hand of each of
his rescuers, pressed them to his lips.
“It will be like Heaven here,” he said brokenly, then he closed the door
softly behind him.
“Poor lad,” whispered Miss Imogene. Then gently, “To think I should meet
his son here.”
So far there had not been the slightest hitch in their plans. The music
below was loud and they thought that no one had seen them, but as they
turned to take their way below they heard the door of Val Tracy’s room
softly close.