CAPTAIN MIDDLETON HAS A TEST OF PEACE, AND IS ORDERED WEST
The next day there was much stir in the county, at least about the
court-house, and it was known that Middleton had summoned Leech before
him and had had an interview with him, which rumor said was stormy, and
that it had ended by the Provost being sent to his room, it was said,
under arrest.
So much was certain, Middleton after this took charge of matters which
up to this time Leech had been attending to, and Leech remained out
of sight until he left the place, which he did two days later. One of
the first steps Middleton took was to summon the negroes before him
and give them a talk. And he closed his speech by a warning that they
should keep order wherever they were, declaring, that if there were any
repetition of Moses’s performance of the previous night the offender
would not escape so easily.
The effect of his act was admirable. By nightfall nearly every negro
who was not employed about the county seat had left, and within two
days many of them were at work, back at their old homes.
Middleton found himself suddenly as popular as he had formerly been
unpopular, receiving visits and invitations from half the gentlemen in
the place, so that Thurston said it was just the old story: he set the
triggers and worked everything, and Middleton just walked in and took
the game.
“Here I have been working like a nigger,” he said to Middleton,
“watching around and following that fellow Leech in all his rascality;
displaying the most consummate qualities of leadership, and singing my
head off, and you happen to come along, pick up a driver’s whip and
let into a drunken rascal, talk a lot of rot next morning, and in five
minutes do what I with all my genius haven’t been able to do in as many
months. It’s the old story, Larry, it’s fate! What did I tell you? Long
legs are worth more to a man than a long head. But, Larry, look out
for Leech. He’s a blood-sucker. Tra-la; I have an engagement. Might
as well get some of the good of your glory, old man, while it lasts,
you know. Beauty fadeth as a flower.” And leaving Middleton over his
report, the cheery little Lieutenant went off to have a ride with Miss
Dockett, who, in view of certain professions of his and proceedings of
his Captain’s the night before, had honored him so far as to vouchsafe
him that privilege.
Reely Thurston’s half humorous warning to his friend was not without
foundation, as both he and Middleton knew, and within a week the
Captain was up to his ears in reports and correspondence relative to
his conduct in the county.
The quietness of everything around him was a fact to which he pointed
with pride; the restoration of order throughout the county was a proof
of the wisdom of his course. Crime had diminished; order had been
restored; good feeling had grown up; the negroes had returned to work,
and were getting regular wages. They were already beginning to save a
little and some were buying land. The whites had accepted the status of
affairs in good faith and were, he believed, turning all their energies
to meet the exigencies of the time in the best way they could. In a
word, peace was fully restored in the territory under his command. He
congratulated himself that he was able to state a condition of affairs
so entirely in accord with the observation of the commander-in-chief of
the armies, who about that time visited the State and made a similar
report on it. Even Reely Thurston commended Middleton’s report, and
confided to Miss Dockett, who was beginning to receive such confidences
more graciously of late, that “Larry had somewhere, in that high head
of his, a deuced lot of brains,” a compliment which the young Captain
would have taken more gratefully from him than from any other soul on
earth.
Another cause of content was just then beginning to have its effect on
Middleton. Miss Cary was beginning to treat him with some degree of
Christian charity, and actually condescended to take a ride with him on
horseback, and when he proved himself sufficiently appreciative of this
honor, took another.
So things went, and before the summer evenings were over, the young
Captain had ridden to the point where he had given Blair Cary all the
confidences which a young man in his twenties is likely to give the
prettiest girl in his circle of acquaintance, especially when she
is the only one whose eyes soften a little at the recital, and who
responds a bit by giving just a little of her own. Not that Miss Cary
for a moment allowed Middleton to forget that on the one great subject
always present, the world stretched between them. They were enemies.
Between them there was never more than a truce. She would be his friend
while it lasted; but never more. That was all! Her skirmish-line, so to
speak, exchanged courtesies with his; but, on the first suggestion of a
signal, sprang to her rifle-pits.
She always wore, when she rode, a gray cap, which Middleton, without
asking any questions, knew had been her brother’s. It was a badge,
and the young man recognized it as such. She still wore her brass
buttons, and would never give him one of them. One afternoon, as they
were returning from a ride in which he had told her all about Ruth
Welch, dwelling somewhat on their cousinship, they stopped at the ford
where he had gone to Blair’s rescue the day her horse fell, and he
asked her casually if she would give him one of the buttons to save
his life. She quietly said “No,” and he believed her. Yet this made
little difference to the young man. He was not in love with her, he
was sure. He only enjoyed her. And the summer evenings which he spent
at Birdwood, or riding with her through the arching woods, were the
pleasantest he had ever known. As they watered their horses at the ford
that afternoon no less than four other couples came riding up on their
way home, and there was quite a little levee held in the limpid stream,
Middleton finding himself taken into the talk and raillery quite as a
member of the circle. The far-off call of ploughmen to their teams in
the low-grounds of Red Rock and the distant lowing of cattle in the
pastures came muffled on the soft air, while a woodlark in the woods
along the waterside sang its brilliant song to its tardy mate with a
triumph born only of security and peace. As Captain Middleton looked
at the faded gray coats and his blue one, the numbers doubled by the
reflection in the placid stream, and listened to the laughter about
him, he could not but think what a picture and proof of peace it was.
And Miss Cary was the prettiest girl in the party.
Suddenly one of the horses became restive, and slashed away at the
nearest horse to him. Blair, in pulling her horse out of the way, got
under an overhanging bough and her cap was knocked from her head into
the water. She gave a little cry of dismay as it floated down the
stream, and at her call more than one of the young men turned his horse
to recover the cap; but Middleton was nearest, and he spurred straight
into the deep water below the ledge and swam for the cap, reaching
it just before the others got it. He was pleased at the applause he
received when he returned.
Miss Cary only said “thank you,” as she might have said it if he had
picked the cap from the floor.
Not all the county people, however, acquiesced so entirely in receiving
Middleton on so friendly a basis; some did not see why a Yankee officer
should be taken up as a friend.
There was one young man who did not appreciate at least Middleton’s
mode of exhibiting his friendliness. Steve and Middleton had become
very good friends; but Jacquelin Gray, as jealous as Othello, grew more
and more reserved toward the young officer, and began to give himself
many airs about his attentions to Blair Cary. If anything, this only
incited Blair to show Middleton greater favor, and at last the young
lady gave Jacquelin to understand that she intended to do just as she
pleased and did not propose to be held accountable by him for anything
whatever.
The evening of the ride on which Blair lost her cap and Middleton
recovered it for her, Jacquelin had driven over “to see the doctor,”
he said, and found her gone off with Middleton. As Dr. Cary was away,
visiting his patients, which Jacquelin might have known, and Mrs. Cary
was confined to her room that day, Jacquelin was left to himself and
had plenty of time as he sat on the porch all alone, to chew the cud of
bitter fancy, and reflect on the caprices of a part of the human race.
He was not much consoled when Mammy Krenda came out and, with kindly
sympathy, said:
“You too late—you better make haste an’ git off dem crutches, honey,
and git ’pon horseback. Crutches can’t keep up with horses.” She
disappeared within and Jacquelin was left in a flame of jealousy. By
the time Blair arrived he was in just the state of mind to make a fool
of himself. When Jacquelin began the interview, he, perhaps, had no
idea of going as far as his heat carried him; but unhappily he lost his
head—or as much of a head as a man can have who is deeply in love and,
having gone to see his sweetheart, finds her off riding with a rival.
It was quite dusk when the riders rode slowly up the avenue. They
stopped at the gate, and Jacquelin could hear Blair’s cordial
invitation to her companion to come in and take supper with them.
Middleton declined.
“But I’m afraid you will catch cold, riding so far in wet clothes,” she
urged. He, however, had to return immediately, he declared, and after
a few more words he galloped off, while Blair came on to the house.
“Why, Jacquelin! You here all by yourself!” she exclaimed. She bent
over him quickly to prevent his rising for her. Had Jacquelin been cool
enough to note her voice it might have saved him; but he was not even
looking at her. His manner hauled her up short, and the next instant
hers had changed. She seated herself and tried for a few moments to be
light and divert him. She told of the episode at the ford. Jacquelin,
however, was not to be diverted, and, taking the silence which
presently fell on her for a confession, he began to assume a bolder
tone, and proceeded to take her to task for her conduct.
“It was an outrage—an outrage on—Steve. It was shameful,” he said,
“that with such a man as Steve offering his heart to her, she should be
boldly encouraging a Yankee officer, so that everybody in the county
was talking about it.” It was when he said it was an outrage on Steve
that the explosion came. Blair was on her feet in a second.
“Jacquelin!” she exclaimed, with a gasp. The next second she had found
her voice. He had never seen her as she became. It was a new Blair
standing above him, tall and straight in the dusk, her frame trembling,
her voice vibrating. She positively flamed with indignation, not
because of the charge, but against him for making it.
“Whose business is it?” she asked him, with glowing cheeks and flashing
eyes. If her father and mother did not object, had he a right to
interfere? If Steve were not satisfied, could not he take care of
himself? Who had given him such a right? And before Jacquelin could
recover from his surprise, she had burst into tears and rushed into the
house.
Jacquelin drove home in black despair. He had been put wholly in the
wrong, and yet he felt that he had had right originally on his side.
His whole past appeared suddenly rooted up; his whole future destroyed
by this new-comer, this hostile interloper. How he would love to have
some cause of personal quarrel with him! How gladly he would put it all
to the test of one meeting. Yet what had Middleton done but win fairly!
and he had been a gentleman always. Jacquelin was forced to admit
this. But oh! if he only had a just cause of quarrel! Let him look
out hereafter. But—if he were to meet him and he should fall, what
would be the consequence? He would only have ruined Blair’s happiness
and have destroyed his only hope. He almost ground his teeth at his
helplessness as he drove home through the dusk. He did not know that
at that moment Blair Cary, with locked door, was sobbing in her little
white-curtained room, her anger no longer turned against him, but
against herself.
When Jacquelin awoke the next morning it was with a sinking at the
heart. Blair was lost to him forever. Daylight, however, is a great
restorer of courage, and, little by little, his spirits revived, until
by evening he began to consider himself a most ill-used person, and
to fancy Blair suing for pardon. He even found himself nursing an
idea that she would write a note; but instead of that, he heard that
Middleton had been up to see her again, and once more his heart sank
and his anger rose. He would show her that he was not to be trampled on
and insulted as she had done.
When Middleton arrived at the court-house the afternoon of his ride, he
found an order transferring his company to a frontier post in the far
Northwest. They were to leave immediately.
The same train by which the old company was to go was to bring its
successor.
The afternoon before his company left, Middleton rode up to Birdwood.
He had given no one any notice, and he arrived unexpectedly. No one was
in sight. The lawn appeared as deserted as if it were in the heart of a
wilderness. The trees were as quiet as if Nature herself were asleep,
and the sound of a dove cooing far down in the grove only intensified
the quietude. Tying his horse, Middleton walked up through the grove.
As he passed along he happened to cast his eyes in the direction of
the little double building, which was off to one side at some distance
back of the dwelling, and seeing the old mammy enter one of the doors
he turned that way, thinking that she might come out, and he would ask
if the family were at home. He stopped in front of the nearest door and
looked in. It was the kitchen, and he was facing, not the mammy—who as
a matter of fact, had entered another door—but Miss Cary herself. She
was dressed in a white dress, and her skirt was turned back and pinned
about her slender waist; her sleeves were rolled up, showing her round,
white arms. She was busy with a bread-tray. Middleton would have drawn
back, but Blair looked up and their eyes met. There was a moment of
half embarrassment, and Middleton was about to draw back and apologize
for his intrusion, but before he could do so she came forward, smiling.
“Won’t you come in?” she said, “or will you walk into the house?” The
color had mounted to her cheeks, and the half mocking smile had still a
little embarrassment in it; but Middleton thought she had never looked
so charming. His heart gave a bound.
“Can you doubt what I will do?” He stepped over the high threshold.
“Even if I be but scullion——”
“You must have been taking lessons from the General. Here—no one was
ever allowed in here who would not work.” She gave him a rolling-pin,
and he set to work with it industriously.
“This comes of your doing,” she said, still smiling. “I am the only
cook left. Why don’t you detail me one? If you were worth a button you
would.”
“How would I do?” hazarded Middleton. “I’m a pretty good cook.”
“Aunt Betty wouldn’t have let you come into the kitchen if you handled
your rolling-pin that way. Let me show you.”
“Which is the best argument yet for the change of cooks,” said
Middleton, guilefully holding the rolling-pin more and more awkwardly,
for the very pleasure of being set right by her. “Now, don’t you think
I am worth a button?”
“No, but you may learn.”
“Unfortunately, I am going away.”
“Are you?—When are you coming back?”—A polite little tone coming into
her voice.
“Never.” He tried to say it as indifferently as he had said it in
practising when he rode up, which he liked better than the tragic
“NEVER!” which he had first proposed to himself; and all the time he
was watching her out of the tail of his eye. She said nothing, and he
felt a little disappointed.
“We are ordered away—” he began. She was busying herself about
something. But he was sure she had heard. “—to the Northwest to keep
the Indians down,” he proceeded.
“Oh!” She turned quickly toward him, and their eyes met.
“Well, I hope you’ll be as successful and find your task as pleasant
there as you have here.” Her head had gone up, as it did on the veranda
the night of the ball.
“I do not appear to have been particularly successful here,” Middleton
began, banteringly, then walked over to her side. “Miss Cary, do you
think I have really enjoyed my task here?”
“Why—yes,” she began; then she glanced up and found him grave. “I
don’t know—I thought——”
“No,” said Middleton, “you did not.”
Just at that moment a shadow fell across the light, and Mammy Krenda
stood in the door.
“Well—I declare!” she exclaimed, with well-feigned astonishment. “What
in the worl’ air you doin’ in this kitchen?”
They both thought she was addressing Middleton, and he began to
stammer a reply; but it was her young mistress whose presence there
appeared to scandalize the old woman.
“Don’t you know you ain’ got no business in heah? I can’t turn my back
to git nothin’, but what you come interferin’ wid my things. Go right
in de house dis minute and put yo’ nice clo’es on. I air really ashamed
o’ you to let a gent—a—anybody see you dat way.” She was pushing
Blair out gently. “I don’ know what she air doin’ in heah,” she said to
Middleton, addressing him for the first time, and with some disdain in
her manner, as if she wished him to understand that he had no business
there either.
As Blair passed him on her way out she said to him in a whisper, with a
low laugh:
“That’s a yarn. I do nearly all the cooking since our cook went off,
but she thinks it’s beneath my dignity to be caught at it.”
They did not go into the house, but walked over through the grove and
sat down on the grass on the farther slope overlooking the rolling
lands, with the blue spurs in the distance. There Middleton threw
himself at Blair’s feet. He had made up his mind to stake all before he
left. As the old mammy passed from the kitchen to the house she made a
little detour and cast a glance through the grove. The glint of a white
dress through the trees caught her eye, and she gave a little sniff as
she went on.
An hour later, Middleton, his face as grave as it had ever been in
battle, mounted his horse and rode away without returning to the house,
and Blair Cary walked back through the grove alone. She turned across
to the smaller house which the old mammy occupied. It was empty, and
she entered and flung herself on the snowy counterpaned bed.
The old woman came in a moment later. She gave the girl a swift glance,
and, turning to the window, dropped the white curtain to shut out the
slanting afternoon sun.
“‘Taint no use to ’sturb yo’self, honey; he ain’ gone.” she said,
sympathizingly. “He comin’ back jest so sho’ as I live.”
“He _has_ gone,” said Blair, suddenly, with some vehemence. “I have
sent him away. I wish he had never come.” But was she thinking of
Middleton?
The old woman had turned and was looking down at her from where she
stood.
“An’ I glad you is,” she said. “I ain’t like Yankees, no way. Dat deah
Leech man——”
“Mammy,” said Blair, rising, “I do not wish you to speak so of a
gentleman—who—who has been our guest.”
“Yes, honey, dat’s so,” said the old woman, simply, without the least
surprise. “Mammy, won’t say no more about him. What I got to do wid
abusin’ a gent’man, nohow!”
“Oh! Mammy!” said the girl, throwing her arms about her, and the old
woman only said:
“Yes, honey—yes—yes. But don’t you pester yoreself. ’T’ll all come
right.”
Next evening the news that Middleton and his company were ordered away
was known. Jacquelin was conscious of his heart giving a bound of joy.
He would be only cool and chilling to Blair and show her by his manner
how disapprovingly he regarded her conduct. After a little, this mood
changed and he began to think it would be more manly to be only very
dignified and yet show her that he was above harboring little feelings.
He would be generous and forgive her. When, however, he met Blair, she
was so far from showing any contrition, that she was actually savage
to him; so that instead of having an opportunity to display his lofty
feelings, Jacquelin found himself thrown into a situation of the
strongest hostility to her, and after a lifetime of friendship they
scarcely spoke. Their friends tried to patch up the quarrel, but in
vain. Jacquelin felt himself now really aggrieved, and Blair declined
to allow even the mention of him. Her severity toward him was almost
incomprehensible.