BY GRAPEVINE TELEGRAPH
As Dorothea had expected, she found Harriot waiting for her and
forestalled any questions by setting her cousin’s thoughts upon the two
portions of dessert that were in store for her.
“You win!” she cried as soon as she was within speaking distance. “I
only hope you don’t make yourself sick eating too many sweet things.”
“Huh!” Harriot expostulated, forgetting how long she had been waiting
for Dorothea and her speculations upon the cause of the delay. “Somebody
is always telling me that, and it doesn’t do the slightest good.”
They argued the matter at length, and Dorothea thus avoided an
explanation she was by no means ready to give.
But it was with some difficulty that she kept her thoughts upon the
conversation she herself had started, for her mind dwelt constantly on
the problems she had yet to meet. It would not be any too easy for her
to go back to Lee Hendon unobserved, and she felt that there was great
need of his getting away as soon as possible. April’s sudden appearance
on the scene seemed to indicate a knowledge of her lover’s presence
there. Dorothea was not inclined to accept the fact that her cousin’s
arrival was purely accidental and was of the opinion that the two she
had left might even now be talking to each other, yet in that case
assistance from her seemed superfluous. Altogether it remained a puzzle.
When they reached the house Merry was there to meet them.
“Please, Miss Dee,” said the girl, “Marse Hal, he’s a grievin’ foh yoh,
and Ol’ Miss she says will yoh jes’ look in on him a minute and see if
yoh can quieten him down lak? She’s dressin’ and wants Lil’ Marse to go
to sleep.”
Dorothea went directly to Hal’s room and knocked at the door. Big Jim
opened it with a finger on his lips to enjoin silence; but, seeing who
it was, he stepped aside, and she went in quickly.
“I’m glad to see you, Dorothea,” Hal said in a whisper; but in his
searching eyes she read the question he was so anxious to have answered.
She leaned over the bed with a word of greeting, patting and adjusting
the pillows under his head.
“It’s all right,” she whispered. “I’ve seen Lee. I expect to give him
some money to-morrow. Then he can get away in a hurry, can’t he?”
Hal nodded his head and a smile came over his drawn face.
“Good girl,” he murmured. “Now I can go to sleep,” and without another
word he turned over on his side and fell into a quiet doze almost as he
spoke.
And Dorothea at last understood why Hal had been so much troubled over
this matter. To be in debt to an enemy is a burden hard to bear, and the
young man could not rest content until that debt had been discharged.
But Dorothea knew also that Lee Hendon deserved more credit than he was
ever likely to get from those for whom he had risked his life. The blue
uniform he wore added enormously to the danger he had run to save the
life of April’s brother. Yet he had taken the risk, spent his scanty
supply of money, put his life in jeopardy for the friend of his youth,
and all for the sake of the girl he loved. Dorothea was convinced that
Lee Hendon was a brave man, and the more she thought of what he had done
the more she found to admire in him. No doubt he would be called a
traitor to his country. No doubt the fact that he had not volunteered to
fight for the South when the war broke out would be but added evidence
of his disloyalty. It would be said that he only awaited a favorable
opportunity to turn his back upon the land that had given him birth, and
that his mother’s illness was made his excuse. They might go further and
say that he had remained in the South as long as he could in order to
furnish information to the Yankees, for whom he had renounced his
country and his kin. All this might be said with some show of evidence
to back it, and Dorothea did not disguise from herself that the part of
spy and traitor was not one to be admired, no matter how one’s
sympathies were drawn. Yet, with all these things in her mind, she could
not help a growing admiration for the young man.
And what of April? Granting that she knew of his presence, did she know
what Lee Hendon was doing? And if so, what excuse could she give for her
complicity? The puzzle grew constantly more and more complex. Dorothea
failed to make head or tail out of it.
“It’s all so mixed up,” she said to herself, “that I wouldn’t be
surprised to be told I’m the only Red String there is, after all.”
Later in the day she went down stairs, and seated herself on the porch,
waiting for Miss Imogene, whose return was expected, and planning how to
find an opportunity to secure the money to take to Coulter Woods. She
would not rest easy until she had done her part to enable Lee Hendon to
rejoin his friends in the North.
Then her thoughts went to Larry Stanchfield. She had scarcely had time
to think of him at all, and now she wondered how he fared and speculated
upon the motives that had made Val Tracy take such an important part in
the young man’s previous escape.
“I will be glad to have Cousin Imogene back,” she said to herself, as
the carriage rolled up the drive and drew up to let the dainty little
lady she was thinking of descend in state, spreading her furbelows
magnificently.
“I was just this minute wishing you were here!” Dorothea exclaimed,
throwing her arms about Miss Imogene. It was unusual, for the English
bred girl was not given to such demonstrations of affection, and the
older woman was a little surprised.
“I believe you are glad to see me,” she said, as she kissed Dorothea.
“It is just like an American welcome you gave me.”
“Well, I’m half American,” Dorothea answered with an embarrassed little
laugh. She realized that in giving way to this impulse she was running
counter to her training; but, curiously enough, she didn’t care.
“Sometimes I’m sorry I’m not all American.”
“You will be, in time,” Miss Imogene replied lightly, taking a chair
beside the one Dorothea had been occupying. “Sit down, dear, and tell me
your news.”
“How did you know I had any news?” demanded Dorothea, her eyes widening
with surprise.
“I guessed,” Miss Imogene answered, “and now I know. Come, out with it!”
“I have seen Mr. Stanchfield again,” the girl whispered, after looking
about her to make sure she was not overheard. “He was disguised as a
wounded Confederate soldier.”
There was no doubt Miss Imogene was interested. She leaned close to
Dorothea and urged her to tell all she knew, listening with scarcely an
interruption till the tale was finished.
“And so Val Tracy helped him away,” Miss Ivory murmured at the end, more
than half to herself. “I wonder what is behind that?”
“I think I know,” Dorothea said, in a low voice. “Val is a Red String.”
Miss Imogene turned to the girl beside her with a quick motion, as if
she was surprised.
“I never thought of that. What makes you say so?” she asked.
“There isn’t any other way to explain it,” Dorothea replied. “He must be
something like that, otherwise—”
She broke off, and for a moment or two they both sat thinking over the
situation.
“It is of course an explanation,” Miss Imogene commented, “but I don’t
know whether it is a reasonable one or not. I don’t know.” She repeated
the words several times, evidently puzzled. “After all the main thing is
that the boy escaped. But now he’s come back and is in a worse position
than he was then. He’ll be shot if he’s caught this time.”
“He didn’t seem at all afraid of that,” Dorothea explained. “He was only
impatient to be on his way to warn the Union men. I couldn’t help in
that, of course; but I confess, Cousin Imogene, I hope he succeeds.”
“You’re more of a Yankee than you were when I left,” Miss Imogene
returned with something of a smile. “But you mustn’t talk to me about
it. Nor to any one else,” she added. “They don’t want Yankee
sympathizers in this country, nor yet in this house, honey, so you must
be careful what you say.”
“Of course,” Dorothea answered. “And it isn’t that I want the South to
be beaten exactly. Only, I do want this war to end—”
“Oh, you are such an imaginative person, Dorothea,” Miss Imogene cut in
sharply. Out of the corner of her eye she saw the figure of April coming
up to the open window behind them. “And you haven’t asked me anything
about my trip. My dear, it was dreadful. The roads are lakes.”
“Is that you, Cousin Imogene?” cried April through the window, and then
Dorothea understood why the conversation had been changed so abruptly.
April’s welcome of Miss Imogene was obviously sincere, but very shortly
she made an excuse to leave them, and the two were alone again.
“I wonder why April doesn’t like me?” Dorothea speculated half-musingly.
“Oh, but she does,” Miss Imogene remarked with a smile.
“No, she doesn’t,” Dorothea insisted with a laugh. “If you just
watch—you’ll see. You won’t notice anything at first, but in a little
while you’ll find out she simply can’t bear me.”
The elder woman pondered this statement for a moment. Then she shook her
head.
“If April had cared a rap for Val Tracy—but she never did,” Miss Imogene
said, half to herself. “No, no, child! You’re just imagining things.”
“I’m sure I’m right, Cousin Imogene,” Dorothea maintained, firm in her
opinion of the matter. “And besides, I don’t see what Val Tracy has to
do with it.”
“Speak of angels and you’ll hear the rustle of their wings,” cried a
voice behind them and Captain Tracy himself stepped upon the gallery
floor, having come across the thick grass of the lawn so noiselessly
that they had not heard his approach.
“Listeners never hear any good of themselves, you mean,” Miss Imogene
laughed, giving him her hand.
“Faith, that’s why I didn’t listen,” he responded promptly, as he bowed
over the dainty fingers.
Dorothea’s welcome was more cordial than she was aware and as the tall
young Irishman looked down into her eyes he could have little doubt that
she was glad to see him. The girl herself would have given a good deal
to know what was going on behind his humorous, twinkling eyes, and began
to realize, now that he was back, that she had missed him more than she
had thought.
“And what has brought you out of the clouds after all this time?”
demanded Miss Imogene a little later.
“The same old thing,” he replied with a reckless laugh. “Horses! They’re
mighty useful, you know, when it comes to fighting and we’re going to
have our fill of that or I’m an Orangeman!”
At his words April popped her head out of the window.
“Is this our brave Captain Tracy come to threaten us,” she laughed
gayly.
She stood inside holding out her hand to the young man, who took it
eagerly. “I’m mighty glad to see you,” she went on, her tones warm and
friendly.
“And I’m glad to be back even for a little while,” he answered.
“What is the news from Richmond?” April asked a moment later.
Tracy shook his head doubtfully.
“Not the best, if what I hear is true,” he answered, the smile fading
from his lips.
“We have rumors, too, by grapevine telegraph,” April responded,
referring to a name given to the mysterious means of communication that
seemed to exist among the negroes and the poorer classes of whites. “But
I’m not afraid that ‘Marse Robert’ will be beaten. He’s more than a
match for your old Grant!”
“He’s not my Grant,” Tracy protested. “But, whatever happens, there’s
some grand fighting ahead of us.”
“Why, Val Tracy,” cried Harriot, as she burst upon the scene. “Where did
you come from? I thought you’d given us up for good.”
“Bad pennies are not so easily gotten rid of,” he laughed, and taking
one of her hands he bent down as if to kiss it, but instead took a
generous bite of the cake it held. “Faith, ’tis good I’m here to help
save a noble digestion.”
“Huh!” grunted Harriot, “a little bit of cake like that wouldn’t hurt
me. I could eat three times that much—if I could get it. But Aunt Decent
says we’re poor now and I’ll have to stop hooking cake. You can have
this,” she went on, holding out the piece Tracy had bitten, “and if
you’ll hold my other slice I’ll go back and get more. I reckon Aunt
Decent isn’t expecting me just now.”
Shortly after this Mrs. May came out to welcome the new Captain and to
congratulate him upon his promotion. And the conversation became
centered upon matters of general utility. Val, although uncertain,
thought he might stay for perhaps a day or two and the women immediately
began planning for the patching of his clothes and shirts. They were all
glad to see him. He brought them news of the outside world, gossip of
the camps, messages from friends and relatives, and in a little while
they were all sitting about him, busy with their needles while he talked
of the things nearest all their hearts and answered the many questions
they put to him.
Presently, in the midst of their talk, Aunt Dilsey’s Sam came shuffling
around the corner of the house and stopped before them. He took off his
hat and drew nearer, waiting till Mrs. May should recognize his
presence.
“Is there something you want, Sam?” she asked, in a pause in the
conversation.
“Yes, Ol’ Miss,” he said, hesitatingly. “I’ve been thinkin’ a mighty lot
lately since you-all has bought we-all, and, please’m, I’d be ’bliged if
you-all would sell me to that Macon man, jes’ as quick as eveh you can.”
“Sell you, Sam?” exclaimed Mrs. May in great surprise. “Sell you—and
keep Aunt Dilsey?”
“Yes’m, that’s what I’m thinkin’,” the boy replied, and there was in his
manner a not quite understandable hint of suppressed excitement. “You
see, Ol’ Miss, that Macon man he ain’t got no manneh of use for my
gran’mam nohow; but he’s mighty ready to give a good price fo’ Sam.
Please, Ol’ Miss, sell me, and sell me quick.”
The request was a strange one, and Mrs. May, used to dealing with these
simple people, expressed no further surprise at it, but sought the
reasons behind it.
“Why have you decided that you want to be sold?” she asked kindly.
“It ain’t that I’s ’zackly _wantin’_, Ol’ Miss,” the boy replied, his
eagerness growing with his decreasing embarrassment. “That Macon man,
he’s meaner ’an dirt and that’s why I wants you to sell me to him.”
He looked up with a broad grin on his face, seeming to think he had made
himself perfectly plain and that somewhere hidden in his words was a
huge joke upon some one.
“You want to be sold to a mean man?” Mrs. May repeated. “I don’t
understand you, Sam.”
“Well, Ol’ Miss, it’s like this,” the boy began, trying to make his
explanation clear. “These Yanks is a-coming. Yes’m, we-all ain’t got no
doubt o’ that, and so I’s figgerin’ I’d be free, anyways, and I’d a heap
ruther that Macon man should lose me than my Ol’ Miss, when she was so
kind and bought me an’ my ol’ gran’mam. But there ain’t much time to
waste, Ol’ Miss. You heah what I’s tellin’ yoh.”
“Why are you so sure the Yanks are coming, Sam?” April asked.
“Why, Lil’ Miss, I jes’ nachally knows it,” he answered. “We-all down in
the quarters is a-talkin’ hit oveh, and there ain’t no doubt ’bout it.
Why, Lil’ Miss, don’ you-all know that this heah Yankee General has beat
Marse Robert Lee?”
“Who told you that?” demanded Val Tracy, suddenly turning on the boy.
“Nobody don’t tol’ us, Cap’n Tracy, we jes’ knows it, that’s all.” The
boy looked up with a bland smile on his face that was wholly free from
the slightest trace of guile.
“The grapevine telegraph again,” Tracy murmured under his breath,
shaking his head in deep perplexity.