Kenneth McVeigh walked the floor of his own room, with the bitterest
thoughts of his life for company. Loyal gentleman that he was, he was
appalled at the turn affairs had taken. It had cost him a struggle to
give up faith in the man he had known and liked--but all that was as
nothing compared to the struggle in which his own love fought against
him.
In that room where death apparently stood on the threshold, and the
dying man had followed him about the room with most terrible,
appealing eyes, he had heard but few of the words spoken--all his
heart and brain were afire with the scene he had just left; that, and
the others preceding it! Every word or glance he had noticed between
Monroe and the woman he loved returned to him! Trifles light as air
before, now overwhelmed him with horrible suggestions; and her
pleading for him that morning--all the little artifices, the pretended
lightness with which she asked a first favor on her wedding
morning--their wedding morning! for whatever she was or was not, she
was, at least, his wife!
That fact must be taken into consideration, he could not set it aside;
her disgrace meant his disgrace--God! was that why she had consented
to the hurried marriage?--to shield herself under his name, and to
influence his favor for her lover?
The spirit of murder leaped in his heart as he thought of it! He
heard Gertrude send to the library for Margeret, and he sent word to
Masterson he was detained and would continue the investigation later.
When Pluto returned, after delivering the message, he inquired if
Madame Caron was yet in the library, and Pluto informed him Madame
Caron had gone to her room some time ago; no one was in the library
now, the gentleman had gone back to the cottage.
He meant to see her alone before speaking again with Monroe, to know
the worst, whatever it was, and then--
He used a magnifying glass to study the little picture; he took it
from the frame and examined the frame itself. The statement of Monroe
as to its age seemed verified. Certain things in the face were
strange, but certain other things were wonderfully like Judithe as a
happy, care-free girl--had she ever been such a girl?
The chance that, after all, the picture was not hers gave him a sudden
hope that the other things, purely circumstantial, might also diminish
on closer examination; the picture had, to him, been the strongest
evidence against her; a jealous fury had taken possession of him at
the sight of it; he was conscious that his personal feelings unfitted
him for the judicial position forced upon him, and that he must
somehow conquer them before continuing any examination.
An hour had passed; he had decided the picture was not that of his
wife, but if Monroe were not her lover, why did he treasure so a
likeness resembling her? And if she were not in love with him, why
ignore their former acquaintance, and why intercede for him so
persistently?
All those thoughts walked beside him as he strode up and down the
room, and beyond them all was the glory of her eyes and the
remembrance of her words: _"Whatever you think of me when you know
all, I want you to know that I love you--I love you!"_
They were the words he had waited for through long days and nights;
they had come to him at last, and after all--
A knock sounded on the door and Pluto entered with a large sealed
envelope on which his name was written.
"From Madame Caron, sah; she done tole me to put it in yo' own han',"
he said.
When alone again he opened the envelope. Several papers were in it.
The first he unfolded was addressed to his wife and the signature was
that of a statesman high in the confidence of the Northern people. It
was a letter of gratitude to her for confidential work accomplished
within the Confederate lines; it was most extreme in commendation, and
left no doubt as to the consideration shown her by the most
distinguished of the Federal leaders. It was dated six months before,
showing that her friendship for his enemies was not a matter of days,
but months.
There was one newly written page in her own writing. He put that aside
to look at last of all, then locked the door and resumed the reading
of the others.
And the woman to whom they were written moved restlessly from room to
room, watching the storm and replying now and then to the disconsolate
remarks of Evilena, who was doleful over the fact that everybody was
too much occupied for conversation. Kenneth had shut himself up
entirely, and all the others seemed to be in attendance on Mr. Loring.
Captain Masterson was in and out, busy about his own affairs, and not
minding the rain a particle, and she was full of questions concerning
Captain Monroe, and why he had paid the brief visit to the library.
Judithe replied at random, scarcely hearing her chatter, and
listening, listening each instant for his step or voice on the stair.
While she stood there, looking out at the low, dark clouds, a step
sounded in the hall and she turned quickly; it was only Pluto;
ordinarily she would not have noticed him especially, but his eyes
were directed to her in so peculiar a manner that she gave him a
second glance, and perceived that he carried a book she had left on a
table in her own room.
"Look like I can't noway find right shelf fo' this book," he said,
with some hesitation. "I boun' to ax yo' to show me whah it b'longs."
She was about to do so, but when the door of the bookcase opened, he
handed her the book instead of placing it where she directed.
"Maybe yo' put it in thah fo' me," he suggested.
She looked at him, remembering she had told Pierson he could be
trusted, and took the book without a word. Evilena was absorbed in
Juliet's woes, and did not look up.
Pluto muttered a "thank yo'," and disappeared along the hall.
She took the book into the alcove before opening it, and found there
what she had expected--a slip of paper with some pencilled marks. It
was a cipher, from which she read, _"All is right; we follow close on
this by another road. Be ready. Lincoln"_--she sank on her knees as
she read the rest--_"Lincoln has issued the proclamation of
emancipation!"_
It was Margeret who found her there a few minutes later. She was still
kneeling by the window, her face covered by her hands.
"You likely to catch cold down there, Madame," said the soft voice. "I
saw you come in here a good while ago, an' I thought I'd come see if I
could serve you some way."
Judithe accepted the proffered hand and rose to her feet. For an
instant Margeret's arms had half enfolded her, and the soft color
swept into the woman's face. Judithe looked at her kindly and said:
"You have already tried to serve me today, Margeret; I've been
thinking of it since, and I wonder why?"
"Any of the folks here would be proud to serve you, Madame Caron,"
said the woman, lapsing again into calm reticence.
Judithe looked at her and wondered what would become of her and the
many like her, now that freedom was declared for the slaves. She could
not understand why she had denied seeing her in the corridor, for they
had met there, almost touched! Perhaps she was some special friend of
Pluto's, and because of that purchase of the child--
"I leave tomorrow for Savannah," said Judithe, kindly. "Come to my
room this evening, and if there is anything I can do for you--"
Margeret's hands were clasped tightly at the question, and those
strange, haunting eyes of hers seemed to reach the girl's soul.
"There is one thing," she half whispered, "not now, maybe, not
right away! But you've bought Loringwood, and I--I lived there too
many years to be satisfied to live away from it. They--Miss
Gertrude--wouldn't ask much for me now, and--"
"I see," and Judithe wished she could tell her that there would never
be buying or selling of her again--that the law of the land had
declared her free! "I promise you, Loringwood shall be your home some
day, if you wish."
"God forever bless you!" whispered Margeret, and then she pushed aside
the curtains and went through the library and up the stairs, and
Judithe watched her, thoughtfully wondering why any slave should cling
to a home where Matthew Loring's will had been law. Was it true that
certain slavish natures in women--whether of Caucasian or African
blood--loved best the men who were tyrants? Was it a relic of
inherited tendencies when all women of whatever complexion were but
slaves to their masters--called husbands?
But something in the delicate, sad face of Margeret gave silent
negative to the question. Whatever the affection centered in
Loringwood, she could not believe it in any way low or unworthy.
As she passed along the upper hall Pluto was on the landing.
"Any visitors today through all this storm?" she asked, carelessly.
"No out an' out company," he said, glancing around. "A boy from the
Harris plantation did stop in out o' the rain, jest now. He got the
lend of a coat, an' left his wet one, that how--"
He looked anxiously at the slip of paper yet in her fingers. She
smiled and entered her own room, where everything was prepared for her
journey the following day. She glanced about grimly and wondered where
that journey would end--it depended so much on the temper of the man
who was now reading the evidence against her--the proof absolute that
she was the Federal agent sought for vainly by the Confederate
authorities. She had told him nothing of the motive prompting her to
the work--it had been merely a plain statement of work accomplished.
Her door was left ajar and she listened nervously for his step, his
voice. It seemed hours since she had sent him the message--the time
had really not been long except in her imagination. And the little
slip of paper just received held a threat directed towards him! In an
hour, at most, the men she had sent for would be there; she had laid
the plan for his ruin, and now was wild to think she could noways
save him! If she had dared to go to him, plead with him to leave at
once, persuade him through his love for her--but it seemed ages too
late for that! And she could only await his summons, which she
expected every moment; she could not even conjecture what he meant to
do.
* * * * *
Neither could Captain Masterson, who stood in McVeigh's room, staring
incredulously at his superior officer.
"Colonel, are you serious in this matter? You actually mean to let
Captain Monroe go free?"
"Absolutely free," said McVeigh, who was writing an order, and
continued writing without looking up. "I understand your surprise, but
we arrested an innocent man."
"I don't mean to question your judgment, Colonel, but the evidence--"
"The evidence was circumstantial. That evidence has been refuted by
facts not to be ignored." Masterson looked at him inquiringly, a look
comprehended by McVeigh, who touched the bell for Pluto.
"I must have time to consider before I decide what to do with those
facts," he continued. "I shall know tonight."
"And in the meantime what are we to do with the squad from down the
river?" asked Masterson, grimly. "They have just arrived to take him
for court martial; they are waiting your orders."
"I will have their instructions ready in an hour."
"They bring the report of some definite action on the slavery question
by the Federal authorities," remarked Masterson, with a smile of
derision. "Lincoln has proclaimed freedom for our slaves, the order is
to go into effect the first of the year, unless we promise to be good,
lay down our arms, and enter the Union."
"The first of the year is three months away, plenty of time to think
it over;" he locked his desk and arose. "Excuse me now, Phil," he
said, kindly, "I must go down and speak with Captain Monroe." He
paused at the door, and Masterson noticed that his face was very pale
and his lips had a strange, set expression. Whatever task he had
before him was not easy to face! "You might help me in this," he
added, "by telling my mother we must make what amends we can to
him--if any amends are possible for such indignities."
He went slowly down the stairs and entered the library. Monroe was
wiping the rain from his coat collar and holding a dripping hat at
arm's length.
"Since you insist on my afternoon calls, Colonel McVeigh, I wish you
would arrange them with some regard to the elements," he remarked. "I
was at least dry, and safe, where I was."
But there was no answering light in McVeigh's eyes. He had been
fighting a hard battle with himself, and the end was not yet.
"Captain Monroe, it is many hours too late for apologies to you," he
said, gravely, "but I do apologize, and--you are at liberty."
"Going to turn me out in a storm like this?" inquired his late
prisoner, but McVeigh held out his hand.
"Not so long as you will honor my house by remaining," and Monroe,
after one searching glance, took the offered hand in silence.
McVeigh tried to speak, but turned and walked across to the window.
After a moment he came back.
"I know, now, you could have cleared yourself by speaking," he said;
"yes, I know all," as Monroe looked at him questioningly. "I know you
have borne disgrace and risked death for a chivalrous instinct. May
I"--he hesitated as he realized he was now asking a favor of the man
he had insulted--"may I ask that you remain silent to all but me, and
that you pardon the injustice done you? I did not know--"
"Oh, the silence is understood," said Monroe, "and as for the rest--we
will forget it; the evidence was enough to hang a man these exciting
times."
"And you ran the risk? Captain, you may wonder that I ask your
silence, but you talked with her here; you probably know that to me
she is--"
Monroe raised his hand in protest.
"I don't know anything, Colonel. I heard you were a benedict, but it
may be only hearsay; I was not a witness; if I had been you would not
have found me a silent one! But it is too late now, and we had better
not talk about it," he said, anxious to get away from the strained,
unhappy eyes of the man he has always known as the most care-free of
cadets. "With your permission I will pay my respects to your sister,
whom I noticed across the hall, but in the meantime, I don't know a
thing!"
As he crossed the hall Gertrude Loring descended the stairs and
paused, looking after him wonderingly, and then turned into the
library. Colonel McVeigh was seated at the table again, his face
buried in his hands.
"Kenneth!"
He raised his head, and she hesitated, staring at him. "Kenneth, you
are ill; you--"
"No; it is really nothing," he said, as he rose, "I am a trifle tired,
I believe; absurd, isn't it? and--and very busy just now, so--"
"Oh, I shan't detain you a moment," she said, hastily, "but I saw
Captain Monroe in the hall, and I was so amazed when Phil told us you
had released him."
"I knew you would be, but he is an innocent man, and his arrest was
all a mistake. Pray, tell mother for me that I have apologized to
Captain Monroe, and he is to be our guest until tomorrow. I am sure
she will be pleased to hear it."
"Oh, yes, of course," agreed Gertrude, "but Kenneth, the guard has
arrived, and who will they take in his place for court-martial?"
She spoke lightly, but there was a subtle meaning back of her words.
He felt it, and met her gaze with a sombre smile.
"Perhaps myself," he answered, quietly.
"Oh, Kenneth!"
"There, there!" he said, reassuringly; "don't worry about the future,
what is, is enough for today, little girl."
He had opened the door for her as though anxious to be alone; she
understood, and was almost in the hall when the other door into the
library opened, and glancing over her shoulder she saw Judithe
standing there gazing after her, with a peculiar look.
She glanced up at Kenneth McVeigh, and saw his face suddenly grow
white, and stern; then the door closed on her, and those two were
left alone together. She stood outside the door for a full minute,
amazed at the strange look in his eyes, and in hers, as they faced
each other, and as she moved away she wondered at the silence
there--neither of them had spoken.
They looked at each other as the door closed, a world of appeal in her
eyes, but there was no response in his; a few hours ago she meant all
of life to him--and now!--
With a quick sigh she turned and crossed to the window; drawing back
the curtain she looked out, but all the heavens seemed weeping with
some endless woe. The light of the lamp was better, and she drew the
curtains close, and faced him again.
"You have read--all?"
He bent his head in assent.
"And Captain Monroe?"
"Captain Monroe is at liberty. I have accepted your confession, and
acted upon it."
"You accept that part of my letter, but not my other request," she
said, despairingly. "I begged that you make some excuse and leave for
your command at once--today--do you refuse to heed that?"
"I do," he said, coldly.
"Is it on my account?" she demanded; "if so, put me under arrest; send
me to one of the forts; do anything to assure yourself of my inability
to work against your cause, though I promise you I never shall again.
Oh, I know you do not trust me, and I shan't ask you to; I only ask
you to send me anywhere you like, if you will only start for your
command at once; for your own sake I beg you; for your own sake you
must go!"
All of pleading was in her eyes and voice; her hands were clasped in
the intensity of her anxiety. But he only shook his head as he looked
down in the beautiful, beseeching face.
"For your sake I shall remain," he said, coldly.
"Kenneth!"
"Your anxiety that I leave shows that the plots you confessed are not
the only ones you are aware of," he said, controlling his voice with
an effort, and speaking quietly. "You are my wife; for the plots of
the future I must take the responsibility, prevent them if I can;
shield you if I cannot."
"No, no!" and she clasped his arm, pleadingly; "believe me, Kenneth,
there will be no more plots, not after today--"
"Ah!" and he drew back from her touch; "not after today! then there
_is_ some further use you have for my house as a rendezvous? Do you
suppose I will go at once and leave my mother and sister to the danger
of your intrigues?"
"No! there shall be no danger for any one if you will only go," she
promised, wildly; "Kenneth, it is you I want to save; it is the last
thing I shall ever ask of you. Go, go! no more harm shall come to your
people, I promise you, I--"
"You promise!" and he turned on her with a fury from which she shrank.
"The promise of a woman who allowed a loyal friend to suffer disgrace
for her fault!--the promise of one who has abused the affection and
hospitality of the women you assure protection for! A spy! A traitor!
_You_, the woman I worshipped! God! What cursed fancy led you to risk
life, love, honor, everything worth having, for a fanatical fight
against one of two political factions?"
He dropped into a chair and buried his face in his hands. As he did so
a handkerchief in his pocket caught in the fastening of his cuff, as
he let his hand fall the 'kerchief was dragged from the pocket, and
with it the little oval frame over which he had been jealous for an
hour, and concerning which he had not yet had an explanation.
It rolled towards her, and with a sudden movement she caught it, and
the next instant the dark, girlish face lay uncovered in her hand.
She uttered a low cry, and then something of strength seemed to come
to her as she looked at it. Her eyes dilated, and she drew a long
breath, as she turned and faced him again with both hands clasped over
her bosom, and the open picture pressed there. All the tears and
pleading were gone from her face and voice, as she answered:
"Because to that political question there is a background, shadowed,
shameful, awful! Through the shadows of it one can hear the clang of
chains; can see the dumb misery of fettered women packed in the holds
of your slave ships, carried in chains to the land of your free! From
the day the first slave was burned at the stake on Manhattan Island by
your Christian forefathers, until now, when they are meeting your men
in battle, fighting you to the death, there is an unwritten record
that is full of horror, generations of dumb servitude! Did you think
they would keep silence forever?"
He arose from the chair, staring at her in amazement; those arguments
were so foreign to all he had known of the dainty woman, patrician,
apparently, to her finger tips. How had she ever been led to
sympathize with those rabid, mistaken theories of the North?
"You have been misled by extravagant lies!" he said, sternly; "abuses
such as you denounce no longer exist; if they ever did it was when the
temper of the times was rude--half savage if you will--when men were
rough and harsh with each other, therefore, with their belongings."
"Therefore, with their belongings!" she repeated, bitterly, "and in
your own age all that is changed?"
"Certainly."
"Certainly!" she agreed. "Slaves are no longer burned for
insubordination, because masters have grown too wise to burn money!
But they have some laws they use now instead of the torch and the whip
of those old crude days. From their book of laws they read the
commandment: _'Go you out then, and of the heathen about you, buy
bondmen and bondmaids that they be servants of your household;'_ and
again it is commanded: _'Servants be obedient unto your masters!'_ The
torch is no longer needed when those fettered souls are taught God
has decreed their servitude. God has cursed them before they were
born, and under that curse they must bend forever!"
"You doubt even the religion of my people?" he demanded.
"Yes!"
"You doubt the divinity of those laws?"
"Yes!"
"Judithe!"
"Yes!" she repeated, a certain dauntless courage in her voice and
bearing. She was no longer the girl he had loved and married; she was
a strange, wild, beautiful creature, whose tones he seemed to hear for
the first time. "A thousand times--yes! I doubt any law and every law
shackling liberty of thought and freedom of people! And the poison of
that accursed system has crept into your own blood until, even to me,
you pretend, and deny the infamy that exists today, and of which you
are aware!"
"Infamy! How dare you use that word?" and his eyes flamed with anger
at the accusation, but she raised her hand, and spoke more quietly.
"You remember the story you heard here today--the story of your guest
and guardian, who sold the white child of his own brother? and the day
when that was done is not so long past! It is so close that the child
is now only a girl of twenty-three, the girl who was educated by her
father's brother that she might prove a more desirable addition to
your bondslaves!"
"God in heaven!" he muttered, as he drew back and stared at her. "Your
knowledge of those things, of the girl's age, which _I_ did not know!
Where have you gained it all? When you heard so much you must know I
was not aware of the purchase of the girl, but that does not matter
now. Answer my questions! Your words, your manner; what do they mean?
What has inspired this fury in you? Answer--I command you!"
_"'Servants, be obedient unto your masters!'"_ she quoted, with a
strange smile. "My words oppress you, possibly, because so many women
are speaking through my lips, the women who for generations have
thought and suffered and been doomed to silence, to bear the children
of men they hated; to have the most sacred thing of life, mother-love,
desecrated, according to the temper of their masters; to dread
bringing into the world even the children of love, lest, whether white
or black, they prove cattle for the slave market!"
"Judithe!"
He caught her hand as though to force silence on her by the strength
of his own horror and protest. She closed her eyes for an instant as
he touched her, and then drew away to leave a greater space between
them, as she said:
"All those women are back of me! I have never lived one hour out of
the shadow of their presence. Their cause is my cause, and when I
forget them, may God forget me!"
"_Your_ cause!--my wife!" he half whispered, as he dropped her hand,
and the blue eyes swept her over with a glance of horror. "Who are you
that their cause should be yours?"
"Until this morning I was Madame La Marquise de Caron," she said,
making a half mocking inclination of her head; "in the bill of sale
you read today I was named Rhoda Larue, the slave girl who--"
"No!" He caught her fiercely by the shoulder, and his face had a
murderous look as he bent above her, "don't dare to say it! You are
mad with the desire to hurt me because I resent your sympathy with the
North! But, dear, your madness has made you something more terrible
than you realize! Judithe, for God's sake, never say that word
again!"
"For God's sake, that is, for truth's sake, I am telling you the thing
that is!"
He half staggered to the table, and stood there looking at her; her
gaze met his own, and all the tragedy of love and death was in that
regard.
"_You_!" he said, as though it was impossible to believe the thing he
heard. "You--of all women! God!--it is too horrible! What right have
you to tell me now? I was happy each moment I thought you loved me;
even my anger against you was all jealousy! I was willing to forgive
even the spy work, shield you, trust you, _love_ you--but--now--"
He paused with his hand over his eyes as though to shut out the sight
of her, she was so beautiful as she stood there--so appealing. The
dark eyes were wells of sadness as she looked at him. She stood as one
waiting judgment and hoping for no mercy.
"You have punished me for a thing that was not my fault," he
continued. "I destroyed it--the accursed paper, and--"
"And by destroying it you gave me back to the Loring estate," she
said, quietly. All the passion had burned itself out; she spoke
wearily and without emotion. "That is, I have become again, the
property of my half sister, my father's daughter! Are the brutal
possibilities of your social institution so very far in the past?"
He could only stare at her; the horror of it was all too sickening,
and that man who was dying in the other room had caused it all; he had
moved them as puppets in the game of life, a malignant Fate, who had
made all this possible.
"Now, will you go?" she asked, pleadingly. "You may trust me now; I
have told you all."
But he did not seem to hear her; only that one horrible thought of
what she was to him beat against his brain and dwarfed every other
consideration.
"And you--married me, knowing this?"
"I married you because I knew it," she said, despairingly. "I thought
you and Matthew Loring equally guilty--equally deserving of
punishment. I fought against my own feelings--my own love for you--"
"Love!"
"Love--love always! I loved you in Paris, when I thought hate was all
you deserved from me. I waited three years. I told myself it had been
only a girlish fancy--not love! I pledged myself to work for the union
of these states and against the cause championed by Kenneth McVeigh
and Matthew Loring; for days and nights, weeks and months, I have
worked for my mother's people and against the two men whose names were
always linked together in my remembrance. The thought became a
monomania with me. Well, you know how it is ended! Every plan against
you became hateful to me from the moment I heard your voice again. But
the plans had to go on though they were built on my heart. As for the
marriage, I meant to write you after I had left the country, and tell
you who you had given your name to. Then"--and all of despair was in
her voice--"then I learned the truth too late. I heard your words when
that paper was given to you here, and I loved you. I realized that I
had never ceased to love you; that I never should!"
"The woman who is my--wife!" he muttered. "Oh, God!--"
"No one need ever know that," she said earnestly. "I will go away,
unless you give me over to the authorities as the spy. For the wrong I
have done you I will make any atonement--any expiation--"
"There is no atonement you could make," he answered, steadily. "There
is no forgiveness possible."
"I know," she said, whisperingly, as if afraid to trust her voice
aloud, "I know you could never forgive me. I--I do not ask it; only,
Kenneth, a few hours ago we promised to love each other always," her
voice broke for an instant and then she went on, "I shall keep that
promise wherever I go, and--that is all--I think--"
She had paused beside the table, where he sat, with his head buried in
his hands.
"I give you back the wedding ring," she continued, slipping it
from her finger, but he did not speak or move. She kissed the little
gold circlet and laid it beside him. "I am going now," she said,
steadily as she could; "I ask for no remembrance, no forgiveness;
but--have you no word of good-bye for me?--not one? It is forever,
Kenneth--_Kenneth_!"
Her last word was almost a scream, for a shot had sounded just outside
the window, and there was the rush of feet on the veranda and the
crash of arms.
"Go! Go at once!" she said, grasping his arm. "They will take you
prisoner--they will--"
"So!" he said, rising and reaching for the sword on the rack near him;
"this is one of the plots you did _not_ reveal to me; some of your
Federal friends!"
"Oh, I warned you! I begged you to go," she said, pleadingly; again
she caught his arm as he strode towards the veranda, but he flung
himself loose with an angry exclamation:
"Let your friends look to themselves," he said, grimly. "My own guard
is here to receive them today."
As he tore aside the curtains and opened the glass door she flung
herself in front of him. On the steps and on the lawn men were
struggling, and shots were being fired. Men were remounting their
horses in hot haste and a few minutes later were clattering down the
road, leaving one dead stranger at the foot of the steps. But for his
presence it would all have seemed but a tumultuous vision of
grey-garbed combatants.
It was, perhaps, ten minutes later when Kenneth McVeigh re-entered the
library. All was vague and confused in his mind as to what had
occurred there in the curtained alcove. She had flung herself in front
of him with her arms about him as the door opened; there had been two
shots in quick succession, one of them had shattered the glass, and
the other--
He remembered tearing himself from her embrace as she clung to him,
and he remembered she had sunk with a moan to the floor; at the time
he thought her attitude and cry had meant only despair at her failure
to stop him, but, perhaps--
He found her in the same place; the oval portrait was open in her
hand, as though her last look had been given to the pretty mother,
whose memory she had cherished, and whose race she had fought for.
Margeret was crouched beside her, silent as ever, her dark eyes
strange, unutterable in expression, were fixed on the beautiful face,
but the stray bullet had done its work quickly--she had been quite
dead when Margeret reached her.
* * * * *
Monroe told McVeigh the true story of the portrait that night. The
two men sat talking until the dawn broke. Delaven was admitted to the
conference long enough to hear certain political reasons why the
marriage of that morning should continue to remain a secret, and when
the mistress of Loringwood was laid to rest under the century-old
cedars, it was as Judithe, Marquise de Caron.
In settling up the estate of Matthew Loring, who died a few days
later, speechless to the last, Judge Clarkson had the unpleasant task
of informing Gertrude that for nearly twenty years one of the slaves
supposed to belong to her had been legally free. Evidence was found
establishing the fact that Tom Loring had given freedom to Margeret
and her child a few days previous to that last, fatal ride of his.
Matthew Loring had evidently disapproved and suppressed the
knowledge.
Gertrude made slight comment on the affair, convinced as she was that
the woman was much better off in their household than dependent on
herself, and was frankly astonished that Margeret returned at once to
Loringwood, and never left it again for the three remaining years of
her life.
Gertrude was also surprised at the sudden interest of Kenneth in her
former bondwoman, and when the silent octoroon was found dead beside
the tomb of her master, it was Kenneth McVeigh who arranged that she
be placed near the beautiful stranger who had dwelt among them for
awhile.
A year after the war ended Gertrude, the last of the once dominant
Lorings, married an Alabama man, and left Carolina, to the great
regret of Mrs. Judge Clarkson and sweet Evilena Delaven. They felt a
grievance against Kenneth for his indifference in the matter, and were
disconsolate for years over his persistent bachelorhood.
When he finally did marry, his wife was a pretty little woman, who was
a relative of Jack Monroe, and totally different from either Gertrude
or Judithe Loring. Jack Monroe, who was Major Monroe at the close of
the war, makes yearly hunting trips to the land of the Salkahatchie,
and when twitted concerning his state of single blessedness, declares
he is only postponing matrimony until Delaven's youngest daughter
grows up, but the youngest has been superseded by a younger one
several times since he first made the announcement.
The monument planned by Judithe has existed for many years; but only a
few remember well the builder; she has become a misty memory--part of
a romance the older people tell. She was a noted beauty of France and
she died to save General McVeigh, who was young, handsome, and, it was
said, her lover. He never after her death was heard to speak her name
and did not marry until twenty years later--what more apt material for
a romance? None of them ever heard of her work for the union of the
states.
But when the local historians tell of the former grandeur of the
Lorings, the gay, reckless, daring spirits among them, and end the
list with handsome Tom, there are two veterans, one of the blue and
the other of the grey, who know that the list did not end there, and
that the most brilliant, most daring, most remarkable spirit of them
all, was the one of their blood, who was born a slave.
THE END.
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