Mrs. McVeigh entered the sitting room some time after and was
astonished to find her still there and alone.
"Why, Judithe, I fancied you had gone to change your habit ages ago,
and here you are, plunged in a brown study."
"No--a blue and green one," was the smiling response. "Have you ever
observed what a paintable view there is from this point? It would be a
gem on canvas; oh, for the talent of our Dumaresque!"
"Your Dumaresque," corrected Mrs. McVeigh. "I never can forgive you,
quite, for sending him away; oh, Helene wrote me all about it--and he
_was_ such a fine fellow."
"Yes, he was," and Judithe gave a little sigh ending in a smile; "but
one can't keep forever all the fine fellows one meets, and when they
are so admirable in every way as Dumaresque, it seems selfish for one
woman to capture them."
Mrs. McVeigh shook her head hopelessly over such an argument, but
broke a tiny spray of blossom from a plant and fastened it in the
lapel of Judithe's habit.
"It is not so gorgeous as the rose, but it is at least free from the
pests."
Judithe looked down at the blossom admiringly. "I trust Mr. Loring
will forgive my panic--I fear it annoyed him."
"Oh, no--not really. He is a trifle eccentric, but his invalidism
gains him many excuses. There is no doubt but that you made a decided
impression on him."
"I hope so," said Judithe.
Margeret entered the room just then, and with her hand on the door
paused and stared at the stranger who was facing her. Judithe,
glancing up, saw a pair of strange dark eyes regarding her. She
noticed how wraith-like the woman appeared, and how the brown dress
she wore made the sallow face yet more sallow. A narrow collar and
cuffs of white, and the apron, were the only sharp tones in the
picture; all the rest was brown--brown hair tinged with grey rippling
back from the broad forehead, brown eyes with a world of patience and
sadness in them and slender, sallow-looking hands against the white
apron.
She looked like none of the house servants at the Terrace--in fact
Judithe was a trifle puzzled as to whether she was a servant at all.
She had not a feature suggesting colored blood, was much more
Caucasian in appearance than Louise.
It was but a few seconds they stood looking at each other, when
Margeret made a slight little inclination of her head and a movement
of the lips that might have been an apology, but in that moment the
strange woman's face fairly photographed itself on Judithe's mind--the
melancholy expression of it haunted her afterwards.
Mrs. McVeigh, noticing her guest's absorbed gaze, turned and saw
Margeret as she was about to leave the room.
"What is it, Margeret?" she asked, kindly, "looking for Miss
Gertrude?"
"Yes, Mistress McVeigh; Mr. Loring wants her."
"I think she must have gone to her room, she and Mistress Nesbitt went
upstairs some time ago."
Margeret gently inclined her head, and passed out with the noiseless
tread Evilena had striven to emulate in vain that day at Loringwood.
"One of Miss Loring's retainers?" asked Judithe; "I fancied they only
kept colored servants."
"Margeret _is_ colored," explained Mrs. McVeigh, "that is," as the
other showed surprise, "although her skin does not really show color,
yet she is an octoroon--one-eighth of colored ancestry. She has never
been to the Terrace before, and she had a lost sort of appearance as
she wandered in here, did she not? She belongs to Miss Loring's
portion of the estate, and is very capable in her strange, quiet way.
There have been times, however, when she was not quite right
mentally--before we moved up here, and the darkies rather stand in awe
of her ever since, but she is entirely harmless."
"That explains her peculiar, wistful expression," suggested Judithe.
"I am glad you told me of it, for her melancholy had an almost
mesmeric effect on me--and her eyes!"
All the time she was changing her dress for lunch those haunting eyes,
and even the tones of her voice, remained with her.
"Those poor octoroons!" and she sighed as she thought of them, "the
intellect of their white fathers, and the bar of their mothers' blood
against the development of it--poor soul, poor soul--she actually
looks like a soul in prison. Oh!"--and she flung out her hands in
sudden passion of impotence. "What can one woman do against such a
multitude? One look into that woman's hopeless face has taken all the
courage from me. Ah, the resignation of it!"
But when she appeared among the others a little later, gowned in sheer
white, with touches of apple green here and there, and the gay,
gracious manner of one pleased with the world, and having all reason
to believe the world pleased with her, no one could suspect that she
had any more serious problem to solve than that of arranging her own
amusements.
Just now the things most interesting to her were the affairs of the
Confederacy. Judge Clarkson answered all her questions with much good
humor, mingled with amusement, for the Marquise, despite her American
sympathies, would get affairs hopelessly mixed when trying to
comprehend political and military intricacies; and then the gallant
Judge would explain it all over again. Whether from Columbia or
Charleston, he was always in touch with the latest returns, hopes,
plans of the leaders, and possibilities of the Southern Confederacy,
together with all surreptitious assistance from foreign sources, in
which Great Britain came first and Spain close behind, each having
special reasons of their own for widening the breach in the union of
states.
From Mobile there came, also, through letters to Mrs. McVeigh, many of
the plans and possibilities of the Southern posts--her brother being
stationed at a fort there and transmitting many interesting views and
facts of the situation to his sister on her more Northern plantation.
Thus, although they were out of the whirl of border and coast strife,
they were by no means isolated as regards tidings, and the fact was so
well understood that their less fortunate neighbors gathered often at
the Terrace to hear and discuss new endeavors, hopes and fears.
"I like it," confessed Judithe to Delaven, "they are like one great
family; in no country in the world could you see such unanimous
enthusiasm over one central question. They all appear to know so many
of the representative people; in no other agricultural land could it
be so. And there is one thing especially striking to me in comparison
with France--in all this turmoil there is never a scandal, no
intrigues in high places such as we are accustomed to in a court where
Madame, the general's wife, is often quite as much of a factor in the
political scene as the general himself; it is all very refreshing to a
foreigner."
"Our women of the South," said the Judge, who listened, "are more of
an inspiration because they are never associated in our minds with any
life but that of the home circle and its refining influences. When our
women enter the arena, it is only in the heart and memory of some man
whose ideals, Madame, are higher, whose ambitions are nobler, because
she exists untouched by the notoriety attaching itself to the court
intrigues you mention, the notoriety too often miscalled fame."
"Right you are, Judge," said Delaven, heartily. "After all, human
nature is very much alike whether in kingdom or republic, and men love
best the same sort of women the world over."
Matthew Loring entered the room just then, leaning on the arm of
Gertrude, whose fair hair made harmony with the corn-colored lawn in
which she looked daintily pretty, and as the two ladies faced each
other the contrasted types made a most effective picture.
"You have not met the Marquise de Caron?" he asked of Gertrude; and
then with a certain pride in this last of the Lorings, he continued:
"Madame la Marquise, allow me to present my niece, Miss Loring."
The blue eyes of the Carolina girl and the mesmeric amber eyes of the
Parisian met, with the slight conventional smile ladies favor each
other with, sometimes. There was decided interest shown by each in the
other--an interest alert and questioning. Judithe turned brightly to
Loring:
"In your democratic land, my dear sir, I have dispensed with 'La
Marquise.' While here I am Madame Caron, very much at your service,"
and she made him a miniature bow.
"We shall not forget your preference, Madame Caron," said Gertrude,
"it is a pretty compliment to our institutions." Then she glanced at
Delaven, "did we interrupt a dissertation on your favorite topic,
Doctor?"
"Never a bit; it's yourself is an inspiration to continue the same
topic indefinitely," and he explained the difference Madame Caron had
noticed in political matter with and without the feminine element.
"For all that, there _are_ women in the political machines here,
also," said Loring, testily--"too many of them, secret agents, spies,
and the like. Gertrude, what was it Captain Masterson reported about
some very dangerous person of that sort in New Orleans?--a woman
whose assistance to the Yankees was remarkable, and whose circle of
acquaintances was without doubt the very highest--did he learn her
name?"
"Why, no, Uncle Matthew; don't you remember he was finding fault with
_our_ secret agents because they had not established her identity--in
fact, had only circumstantial evidence that it was a woman, though
very positive evidence that the person belonged to the higher social
circle there."
"Faith, I should think the higher circle would be in a sorry whirl
just then--not knowing which of your neighbors at dinner had a cup or
dagger for you."
"The daggers were only figurative," said the Judge, "but they were
none the less dangerous, and the shame of it! each innocent loyal
Southerner convinced that a traitor had been made as one of
themselves--trusted as is the nature of Southerners when dealing with
friends, just as if, in this Eden-like abode, Mistress McVeigh should
be entertaining in any one of us, supposed to be loyal Southerners, a
traitor to his country."
"How dreadful to imagine!" said Judithe, with a little gesture of
horror, "and what do they do with them--those dangerous serpents of
Eden?"
"It isn't nice at all to hear about, Madame Caron," spoke Aunt Sajane,
who was, as usual, occupied with the unlovely knitting. "It gave me
chills to hear Phil Masterson say how that spy would be treated when
found--not even given time for prayers!"
"Captain Masterson is most loyal and zealous, but given to slight
extravagancies in such matters," amended the Judge. "No woman has ever
suffered the extreme penalty of military law for spy work, in this
country, and especially would it be impossible in the South.
Imprisonment indefinitely and the probable confiscation of all
property would no doubt be the sentence if, as in this suspected case,
the traitoress were a Southern woman of means. But that seems scarcely
credible. I have heard of the affair mentioned, but I refuse to
believe any daughter of the South would so employ herself."
"Thank you, Judge," said Gertrude, very prettily; "any daughter of the
South would die of shame from the very suspicion against her."
"Who is to die?" asked Mrs. McVeigh, coming in; "all of you, and of
hunger, perhaps, if I delay tea any longer. Come right on into the
dining room, please, and let me hear this discussion of Southern
daughters, for I chance to be a daughter of the South myself."
Captain Philip Masterson, from an adjoining plantation, arrived after
they were seated at the table, and was taken at once into the dining
room, where Judithe regarded with interest this extremist who would
not allow a secret agent of the North time for prayers. He did not
look very ferocious, though his manner had a bluntness not usual in
the Southern men she had met--a soldier above and beyond everything
else, intelligent, but not broad, good looking with the good looks of
dark, curly hair, a high color, heavy mustache, which he had a
weakness for caressing as he talked, and full, bold eyes roaming about
promiscuously and taking entire advantage of the freedom granted him
at the Terrace, where he had been received as neighbor since boyhood.
He was a cousin of Gertrude's, and it was not difficult to see that
she was the first lady in the county to him, and the county was the
center of Philip Masterson's universe.
He was stationed at Charleston and was absent only for some necessary
business at Columbia, and hearing Judge Clarkson was at the Terrace he
had halted long enough to greet the folks and consult the Judge on
some legal technicality involved in his journey.
Pluto, who had seen that the Captain's horse had also been given
refreshment, came thoughtfully up the steps, puzzling his head over
the perfect rose cast aside on a pretense. It puzzled him quite as
much as the problem of Louise; and the only key he could find to it
was that this very grand lady knew all about the identity of Louise,
and knew why she had hurried away so when old Nelse recognized her.
He wished he had that picture of Margeret, brought by Rosa from
Georgia. But it was still with a lot of Rosa's things over at the
Larue plantation, with the child. He counted on going over to see the
boy in a week at the furthest.
As he reached the top of the steps he could see Margeret through the
open window of the sitting room. Her back was towards him, and she was
so absorbed in regarding the party in the dining room that he
approached unnoticed, and she turned with a gasp as of fear when he
spoke:
"You're like to see more gay folks like that over here than you have
at Loringwood," he remarked. "I reckon you glad to move."
"No," she said, and went slowly towards the veranda; then she turned
and looked at him questionably, and with an interest seldom shown for
anyone.
"You--you heard news from Larue plantation?" she asked, hesitatingly.
"Who, me? No, I aint had no news. I aint"--then he stopped and stared
at her, slowly comprehending what news _might_ come from there. "Fo'
God's sake, tell me! My Zekal; my--"
She lifted her finger for silence and caught his arm.
"They hear you--they will," she said, warningly, "come in here."
She opened the door into the library and he followed; she could feel
his hand tremble, and his eyes were pleading and full of terror. The
light chatter and laughter in the dining room followed them.
"Sick?" and his eyes searched her face for reply, but she slowly shook
her head and he caught his breath in a sob, as he whispered: "Daid! My
baby, oh--"
"Sh-h! He's alive--your boy. It's worse than that, maybe--and they
never let you know! Mr. Larue had gone down to Mexico, and the
overseer has published all his slaves to be sold--all sold, and your
child--your little boy--"
"God A'mighty!"
He was silent after that half-whispered ejaculation. His face was
covered with his hands, while the woman stood regarding him, a world
of pity in her eyes.
"They can't sell Zekal," he said, at last, looking up. "Mahs Larue
tole me plain he give me chance. I got some o' the money, that
eighteen dollah I paid on Rosa's freedom--that gwine be counted
in--then I got most nine dollah 'sides that yet, an' I gwine Mahs Jean
Larue an' go down my knees fo' that boy, I will! He only pickaninny,
my Zekal, an' I promise Rosa 'fore she died our boy gwine be free; so
I gwine Mahs Larue, I--"
Margeret shook her head.
"He's gone, I tell you--gone to Mexico, more miles away than you could
count; sold to the sugar plantation and left the colored folks for
lawyer and overseer to sell. They all to be sold--a sale bill came to
Loringwood yesterday. Men like overseers and lawyers never take
account of one little pickaninny among a hundred. One same as another
to them--one same as another!"
Her voice broke and she covered her face with her hands, rocking from
side to side, overcome by memories of what had been. Pluto looked at
her and realized from his own misery what hers had been. Again the
laughter and tinkle of tea things drifted in to them; some one was
telling a story, and then the laughter came more clearly. Pluto
listened, and his face grew hard, brutish in its sullen hate.
"And they can laugh," he muttered, sullenly, "while my baby--my Rosa's
baby--is sold to the traders, sold away where I nevah can find him
again; sold while the white folks laugh an' make merry," and he raised
his hand above his head in a fury of suppressed rage. "A curse on
every one of them! a curse--"
Margeret caught his arm with a command to silence.
"Hush! You got a kind master--a kind mistress. The people who laugh at
that table are not to blame on account of Rosa's master, who holds
your child."
"You stand up fo' the race that took yo' chile from yo?" he demanded,
fiercely. "That held yo' a slave when yo' was promised freedom? That
drove yo' wild fo' years with misery? The man is in that room who did
all that, an' yo' stan' up fo' him along of the rest?"
He paused, glowering down at her as if she, too, were white enough to
hate. When she spoke it was very quietly, almost reprovingly.
"My child died. What good was freedom to me without her? Where in all
this wide world would I go with my freedom if I had it? Free and
alone? No," and she shook her head sadly, "I would be like a child
lost from home--helpless. The young folks laughing there never hurt
me--never hurt you."
The people were leaving the dining room. Captain Masterson, who had
time for but a brief call, was walking along the veranda in low
converse with the Judge. Judithe had separated herself from the rest
and walked through the sitting room into the library, when she halted,
surprised at those two facing each other with the air of arrested
combat or argument. She recovered her usual manner enough to glance at
the clock, and as her eyes crossed Margeret's face she saw traces of
tears there.
"It is time, almost, for the mail up from Pocotaligo today, is it not,
Pluto?" she said, moving towards a book-case. Receiving no reply, she
stopped and looked at him, at which he recovered himself enough to
mutter, "Yes, mist'ess," and turned towards the door, his trembling
tones and the half-groping movement as he put his hand out before him
showed he was laboring under some emotion too intense for concealment,
and involuntarily she made a gesture of command.
"Wait! You have grief--some sad misfortune?" and she glanced from his
face to that of Margeret, questioningly. "Poor fellow--is it a
death?"
"No death, and nothing to trouble a white lady with," he said, without
turning, and with hopeless bitterness in his voice; "not fit to be
told 'long side o' white folks merry-maken', only--only Rosa, my boy's
mother, died yeah ago ovah on Larue plantation, an' now the chile
hisself--my Rosa's baby--gwine to be sold away--gwine to be sold to
the traders!"
His voice broke in a sob; all the bitterness was drowned in the wave
of grief under which his shoulders heaved, and his broken breaths made
the only sound in the room, as Judithe turned questioningly to
Margeret, who bent her head in confirmation of his statement.
"But," and the questioner looked a trifle bewildered, "a little child,
that would not mean a great expense, surely if your mistress, or your
master, knew, they would help you."
Margeret shook her head, and Pluto spoke more calmly.
"Not likely; this war done crippled all the folks in money; that why
Mahs Jean Larue sell out an' go ovah in Mexico; that why Loren'wood up
fo' sale to strangers; that why Judge Clarkson done sell out his share
in cotton plantation up the river; ain't _nobody_ got hundreds these
days, an' lawyers won't take promises. I done paid eighteen dollars on
Rosa when she died, but I ain't got no writin'," he went on,
miserably, "that was to go on Zekal, an' I have 'nigh onto nine
dollars 'sides that. I gwine take it ovah to Mahs Larue nex' week,
sure, an' now--an'--now--"
His words were smothered in a sigh; what use were words, any
way? Judithe felt that Margeret's eyes were on her face as she
listened--wistful, questioning eyes! Would the words be of no use?
"The Jean Larue estate," she said, meditatively, seating herself at
the table and picking up a pen, "and your wife was named Rosa?"
"Yes'm." He was staring at her as a man drowning might stare at a spar
drifting his way on a chance wave; there was but the shadow of a hope
in his face as he watched with parted lips the hand with the pen--and
back of the shadow what substance!
"And she is dead--how long?"
"A yeah gone now."
"And Mr. Larue asks how much for her child?"
"Hundred 'n' fifty dollar--this what he _said_, but, God knows,
lawyers got hold o' things now, maybe even more 'n that now, an'
anyway--"
His words sounded vague and confused in his own ears, for she was
writing, and did not appear to hear.
"Where is this Larue place?" she asked, glancing up. "I heard of a
Jean Larue plantation across in Georgia--is this it?"
"No'm," and he turned an eager look of hope towards Margeret at this
pointed questioning, but her expression was unchanged; she only looked
at the strange lady who questioned and showed sympathy.
"No, mist'ess, this Mahs Jean Larue did stay on they Georgy plantation
till five yeah back, then they move ovah to Callina again; that how I
come to meet up with Rosa. Larue place down river towards Beaufort--a
whole day's walken'."
"What did you say this child was named?" she asked, without ceasing
the movement of the pen over the white paper.
"His name Ezekal, but we ain't nevah call him anything but Zekal--he's
so little yet."
"And when is this sale to be?"
Pluto looked helplessly towards Margeret.
"Tomorrow week, Madame Caron," she said, speaking for the first time,
though her steady gaze had almost made Judithe nervous. It had a
peculiar, appealing quality, which Judithe, with a little grimace,
assured herself was so appealing it was compelling; it left her no
choice but to do what she was doing and for which she could take no
credit whatever to herself--the wistful eyes of the pale-faced
bondwoman did it all.
"In a week there is plenty of time to arrange it," she said, turning
kindly to Pluto. "You can rest in peace about your Rosa's boy. I will
attend to it at once, and the traders shall never have him."
Margeret drew a sharp, inward breath of relief.
"Yo' mean _you'll_ buy him in?" and Pluto's voice was scarcely more
than a whisper. "Yo' mean I'll have a chance, maybe, to buy him back
some day?"
"Not 'some day,' my good fellow," and Judithe folded the paper she had
been writing; "from the day he is bought from the Larue estate he will
have his freedom. He will never be bought or sold again."
The man stared at her, helplessly. No hope of his had ever reached so
high as _that_! He tried to speak--failed--and his face was covered by
his sleeve, as he went slowly out of the room.
"Don't--don't you think Pluto ain't thankful, Madame Caron," said the
soft tones of Margeret, and they were not quite steady tones, either.
Judithe did not look up for fear she should see tears in the
melancholy, dark eyes; "that black boy just so thankful he can't
speak. He'll worship you for what you've done for him, and well he
may."
There was a soft rustle beside her--the presence of lips on her hand,
and then Judithe was alone in the room, and stronger than when she had
entered it so short a while since, braced by the certainty that here,
at least, she had been of use--practical use her own eyes could see,
and all the evening a bird sang in her heart, and the grateful touch
of the bondwoman's lips gave her more pleasure than she could remember
through the same tribute of any courtier.