Shallow natures, like shallow waters, are easily agitated, and outward manifestations are in proportion to the shallowness. Superficial observers are chiefly impressed by visible emotion and tumult.
With all her faults, Marian had inherited from her father a strong nature. Her intuitions had become womanly and keen, and Merwyn's dumb agony affected her more deeply than a torrent of impetuous words or any outward evidence of distress. She went back to her chair and shed bitter tears; she scarcely knew why, until her father's voice aroused her by saying, "Why, Marian dear, what IS the matter?"
"Oh, I am glad you have come," she said. "I have caused so much suffering that I feel as if I had committed a crime;" and she gave an account of the recent interview.
"Let me reassure you," said her father, gravely. "You did mean kindly by Merwyn, and you gave him, without being unwomanly, the best chance he could possibly have to throw off the incubus that is burdening his life. If, with the opportunity he had to-night, and under the influence of his love, he did not speak, his secret is one of which he cannot speak. At least, I fear it is one of which he dares not speak to you, lest it should be fatal to him and all his hopes. I cannot even guess what it is, but at all events it is of a serious nature, too grave to be regarded any longer as secondary in our estimate of Mr. Merwyn's character. The shadow of this mystery must not fall on you, and I am glad he is going away. I hoped that your greater kindness and mine might lead him to reveal his trouble, that we could help him, and that a character in many respects so unique and strong might be cleared of its shadows. In this case we might not only have rendered a fellow-being a great service, but also have secured a friend capable of adding much to our happiness. This mystery, however, proves so deep-rooted and inscrutable that I shall be glad to withdraw you from his influence until time and circumstance make all plain, if they ever can. These old families often have dark secrets, and this young man, in attaining his majority and property, has evidently become the possessor of one of them. In spite of all his efforts to do well it is having a sinister influence over his life, and this influence must not extend to yours. The mere fact that he does not take an active part in the war is very subordinate in itself. Thousands who might do this as well as he are very well content to stay at home. The true aspect of the affair is this: A chain of circumstances, unforeseen, and uncaused by any premeditated effort on our part, has presented to his mind the most powerful motives to take a natural part in the conflict. It has gradually become evident that the secret of his restraint is a mystery that affects his whole being. Therefore, whether it be infirmity, fault, or misfortune, he has no right to impose it on others, since it seems to be beyond remedy. Do you not agree with me?"
"I could not do otherwise, papa. Yet, remembering how he looked to-night, I cannot help being sorry for him, even though my mind inclines to the belief that constitutional timidity restrains him. I never saw a man tremble so, and he turned white to his very lips. Papa, have you read 'The Fair Maid of Perth'?"
"Yes."
"Don't you remember MacIan, the young chief of Clan Quhele? This character always made a deep impression on me, awakening at the same time pity and the strongest repulsion. I could never understand him. He was high-born, and lived at an age when courage was the commonest of traits, while its absence was worse than crime. For the times he was endowed with every good quality except the power to face danger. This from the very constitution of his being he could not do, and he, beyond all others, understood his infirmity, suffering often almost mortal agony in view of it. For some reason I have been led to reread this story, and, in spite of myself, that wretched young Scottish chieftain has become associated in my mind with Willard Merwyn. He said to-night that his imagination was stronger than his will. I can believe it from his words. His dead father and others have become distinct presences to him. In the same way he calls up before his fancy the horrors of a battle-field, and he finds that he has not the power to face them, that he cannot do it, no matter what the motives may be. He feels that he would be simply overwhelmed with horror and faint-heartedness, and he is too prudent to risk the shame of exposure."
"Well," said her father, sighing, as if he were giving up a pleasing dream, "you have thought out an ingenious theory which, if true, explains Merwyn's course, perhaps. A woman's intuitions are subtle, and often true, but somehow it does not satisfy me, even though I can recall some things which give color to your view. Still, whatever be the explanation, all MUST be explained before we can give him more than ordinary courtesy."
It soon became evident that Merwyn had gone to his country place, for his visits ceased. The more Marian thought about him,—and she did think a great deal,—the more she was inclined to believe that her theory explained everything. His very words, "You think me a coward," became a proof, in her mind, that he was morbidly sensitive on this point, and ever conscious of his infirmity. He was too ready to resent a fancied imputation on his courage.
She strove to dismiss him from her thoughts, but with only partial success. He gave her the sense of being baffled, defeated. What could be more natural than that a high-spirited young man should enter the army of his own free will? He had not entered it even with her favor, possibly her love, as a motive. Yet he sought her favor as if it were the chief consideration of existence. With her theory, and her ideal of manhood, he was but the mocking shadow of a man, but so real, so nearly perfect, that she constantly chafed at the defect. Even her father had been deeply impressed by the rare promise of his young life,—a promise which she now believed could never be kept, although few might ever know it.
"I must be right in my view," she said. "He proves his loyalty by an unflagging interest in our arms, by the gift of thousands. He is here, his own master. He would not shun danger for the sake of his cold-hearted mother, from whom he seems almost estranged. His sisters are well provided for, and do not need his care. He does not live for the sake of pleasure, like many other young men. Merciful Heaven! I blush even to think the words, much more to speak them. Why does he not go, unless his fear is greater than his love for me? why is he not with Lane and Strahan, unless he has a constitutional dread that paralyzes him? He is the Scottish chieftain, MacIan, over again. All I can do now is to pity him as one to whom Nature has been exceedingly cruel, for every fibre in my being shrinks from such a man."
And so he came to dwell in her mind as one crippled, from birth, in his very soul.
Meanwhile events took place which soon absorbed her attention. Lane's letter announcing the opening of the campaign proved a false alarm, although, from a subsequent letter, she learned that he had had experiences not trifling in their nature. On the rainy night, early in April, that would ever be memorable to her, she had said to Merwyn, "The army is on the march."
This was true of the cavalry corps, and part of it even crossed the upper waters of the Rappahannock; but the same storm which dashed the thick drops against her windows also filled the river to overflowing, and the brave troopers, recalled, had to swim their horses in returning. Lane was among these, and his humorous account of the affair was signed, "Your loyal amphibian!"
A young girl of Marian's temperament is a natural hero-worshipper, and he was becoming her hero. Circumstances soon occurred which gave him a sure place in this character.
By the last of April, not only the cavalry, but the whole army, moved, the infantry taking position on the fatal field of Chancellorsville. Then came the bloody battle, with its unspeakable horrors and defeat. The icy Rappahannock proved the river of death to thousands and thousands of brave men.
Early in May the Union army, baffled, depleted, and discouraged, was again in its old quarters where it had spent the winter. Apparently the great forward movement had been a failure, but it was the cause of a loss to the Confederate cause from which it never recovered,—that of "Stonewall" Jackson. So transcendent were this man's boldness and ability in leading men that his death was almost equivalent to the annihilation of a rebel army. He was a typical character, the embodiment of the genius, the dash, the earnest, pure, but mistaken patriotism of the South. No man at the North more surely believed he was right than General Jackson, no man more reverently asked God's blessing on efforts heroic in the highest degree. He represented the sincere but misguided spirit which made every sacrifice possible to a brave people, and his class should ever be distinguished from the early conspirators who were actuated chiefly by ambition and selfishness.
His death also was typical, for he was wounded by a volley fired, through misapprehension, by his own men. The time will come when North and South will honor the memory of Thomas J. Jackson, while, at the same time, recognizing that his stout heart, active brain, and fiery zeal were among the chief obstructions to the united and sublime destiny of America. The man's errors were due to causes over which he had little control; his noble character was due to himself and his faith in God.
Many days passed before Marian heard from Lane, and she then learned that the raid in which he had participated had brought him within two miles of Richmond, and that he had passed safely through great dangers and hardships, but that the worst which he could say of himself was that he was "prone to go to sleep, even while writing to her."
The tidings from her other friends were equally reassuring. Their regiment had lost heavily, and Blauvelt had been made a captain almost in spite of himself, while Strahan was acting as lieutenant-colonel, since the officer holding that rank had been wounded. There was a dash of sadness and tragedy in the journal which the two young men forwarded to her after they had been a few days in their old camp at Falmouth, but Strahan's indomitable humor triumphed, and their crude record ended in a droll sketch of a plucked cock trying to crow. She wrote letters so full of sympathy and admiration of their spirit that three soldiers of the army of the Potomac soon recovered their morale.
The month of May was passing in mocking beauty to those whose hopes and happiness were bound up in the success of the Union armies. Not only had deadly war depleted Hooker's grand army, but the expiration of enlistments would take away nearly thirty thousand more. Mr. Vosburgh was aware of this, and he also found the disloyal elements by which he was surrounded passing into every form of hostile activity possible within the bounds of safety. Men were beginning to talk of peace, at any cost, openly, and he knew that the Southern leaders were hoping for the beginning at any time of a counter-revolution at the North. The city was full of threatening rumors, intrigues, and smouldering rebellion.
Marian saw her father overwhelmed with labors and anxieties, and letters from her friends reflected the bitterness then felt by the army because the North appeared so half-hearted.
"Mr. Merwyn, meanwhile," she thought, "is interesting himself in landscape-gardening. If he has one spark of manhood or courage he will show it now."
The object of this reproach was living almost the life of a hermit at his country place, finding no better resource, in his desperate unrest and trouble, than long mountain rambles, which brought physical exhaustion and sleep.
He had not misunderstood Marian's final words and manner. Delicately, yet clearly, she had indicated the steps he must take to vindicate his character and win her friendship. He felt that he had become pale, that he had trembled in her presence. What but cowardice could explain his manner and account for his inability to confirm the good impression he had made by following the example of her other friends? From both his parents he had inherited a nature sensitive to the last degree to any imputation of this kind. To receive it from the girl he loved was a hundred-fold more bitter than death, yet he was bound by fetters which, though unseen by all, were eating into his very soul. The proud Mrs. Merwyn was a slave-holder herself, and the daughter of a long line of slave-owners; but never had a bondsman been so chained and crushed as was her son. For weeks he felt that he could not mingle with other men, much less meet the girl to whom manly courage was the corner-stone of character.
One evening in the latter part of May, as Mr. Vosburgh and his family were sitting down to dinner, Barney Ghegan, the policeman, appeared at their door with a decent-looking, elderly colored woman and her lame son. They were refugees, or "contrabands," as they were then called, from the South, and they bore a letter from Captain Lane.
It was a scrap of paper with the following lines pencilled upon it:—
"MR. VOSBURGH, No. — — ST.: I have only time for a line. Mammy Borden will tell you her story and that of her son. Their action and other circumstances have enlisted my interest. Provide them employment, if convenient. At any rate, please see that they want nothing, and draw on me. Sincere regard to you all.—In haste,
"LANE, Captain.— —U.S. Cav."
It can be well understood that the two dusky strangers, recommended by words from Lane, were at once invested with peculiar interest to Marian. Many months had elapsed since she had seen him, but all that he had written tended to kindle her imagination. This had been the more true because he was so modest in his accounts of the service in which he had participated. She had learned what cavalry campaigning meant, and read more meaning between the lines than the lines themselves conveyed. He was becoming her ideal knight, on whom no shadow rested. From first to last his course had been as open as the day, nor had he, in any respect, failed to reach the highest standard developed by those days of heroic action.
If this were true when "Mammy Borden" and her son appeared, the reader can easily believe that, when they completed their story, Captain Lane was her Bayard sans peur et sans reproche.
Barney explained that they had met him in the street and asked for Mr. Vosburgh's residence; as it was nearly time for him to be relieved of duty he told them that in a few moments he could guide them to their destination. Marian's thanks rewarded him abundantly, and Mrs. Vosburgh told him that if he would go to the kitchen he should have a cup of coffee and something nice to take home to his wife. They both remained proteges of the Vosburghs, and received frequent tokens of good-will and friendly regard. While these were in the main disinterested, Mr. Vosburgh felt that in the possibilities of the future it might be to his advantage to have some men in the police force wholly devoted to his interests.
The two colored refugees were evidently hungry and weary, and, eager as Marian was to learn more of her friend when informed that he had been wounded, she tried to content herself with the fact that he was doing well, until the mother and son had rested a little and had been refreshed by an abundant meal. Then they were summoned to the sitting-room, for Mr. and Mrs. Vosburgh shared in Marian's deep solicitude and interest.
It was evident that their humble guests, who took seats deferentially near the door, had been house-servants and not coarse plantation slaves, and in answer to Mr. Vosburgh's questions they spoke in a better vernacular than many of their station could employ.
"Yes, mass'r," the woman began, "we seed Mass'r Lane,—may de Lord bress 'im,—and he was a doin' well when we lef. He's a true Linkum man, an' if all was like him de wah would soon be ended an' de cullud people free. What's mo', de white people of de Souf wouldn't be so bitter as dey now is."
"Tell us your story, mammy," said Marian, impatiently; "tell us everything you know about Captain Lane."
A ray of intelligence lighted up the woman's sombre eyes, for she believed she understood Marian's interest, and at once determined that Lane's action should lose no embellishment which she could honestly give.
"Well, missy, it was dis away," she said. "My mass'r and his sons was away in de wah. He own a big plantation an' a great many slabes. My son, Zeb dar, an' I was kep' in de house. I waited on de missus an' de young ladies, an' Zeb was kep' in de house too, 'kase he was lame and 'kase dey could trus' him wid eberyting an' dey knew it.
"Well, up to de time Cap'n Lane come we hadn't seen any ob de Linkum men, but we'd heared ob de prockermation an' know'd we was free, far as Mass'r Linkum could do it, an' Zeb was jus' crazy to git away so he could say, 'I'se my own mass'r.' I didn't feel dat away, 'kase I was brought up wid my missus, an' de young ladies was a'most like my own chillen, an' we didn't try to get away like some ob de plantation han's do.
"Well, one ebenin', short time ago, a big lot ob our sogers come marchin' to our house—dey was hoss sogers—an' de missus an' de young ladies knew some of de ossifers, an' dey flew aroun' an' got up a big supper fo' dem. We all turned in, an' dar was hurry-skurry all ober de big house, fo' de ossifers sed dey would stay all night if de sogers ob you-uns would let dem. Dey said de Linkum sogers was comin' dat away, but dey wouldn't be 'long afore de mawnin', an' dey was a-gwine to whip dem. All was light talk an' larfin' an' jingle ob sabres. De house was nebber so waked up afo'. De young ladies was high-strung an' beliebed dat one ob our sogers could whip ten Linkum men. In de big yard betwixt de house an' de stables de men was feedin' dere hosses, an' we had a great pot ob coffee bilin' fo' dem, too, an' oder tings, fo' de missus sed dere sogers mus' hab eberyting she had.
"Well, bimeby, as I was helpin' put de tings on de table, I heared shots way off at de foot ob de lawn. Frontin' de house dar was a lawn mos' half a mile long, dat slope down to de road, and de Linkum sogers was 'spected to come dat away, an' dere was a lookout for dem down dar. As soon as de ossifers heared de shots dey rush out an' shout to dere men, an' dey saddle up in a hurry an' gallop out in de lawn in front of de house an' form ranks."
"How many were there?" Marian asked, her cheeks already burning with excitement.
"Law, missy, I doesn't know. Dere was a right smart lot—hundredsI should tink."
"Dere was not quite two hundred, missy," said Zeb; "I counted dem;" and then he looked towards his mother, who continued.
"De young ladies an' de missus went out on de verandy dat look down de lawn, and Missy Roberta, de oldest one, said, 'Now, maumy, you can see the difference between our sogers an' de Linkum men, as you call dem.' Missy Roberta had great black eyes an' was allus a-grievin' dat she wasn't a man so she could be a soger, but Missy S'wanee had blue eyes like her moder, an' was as full ob frolic as a kitten. She used ter say, 'I doesn't want ter be a man, fer I kin make ten men fight fer me.' So she could, sho' 'nuff, fer all de young men in our parts would fight de debil hisself for de sake ob Missy S'wanee."
"Go on, go on," cried Marian; "the Northern soldiers were coming—"
"Deed, an' dey was, missy,—comin' right up de lawn 'fore our eyes, an' dribin' in a few ob our sogers dat was a-watchin' fer dem by de road; dey come right 'long too. I could see dere sabres flashin' in de sunset long way off. One ossifer set dere men in ranks, and den de oder head ossifer come ridin' up to de verandy, an' Missy Roberta gave de ribbin from her ha'r to de one dey call cunnel, an' de oder ossifer ask Missy S'wanee fer a ribbin, too. She larf an' say, 'Win it, an' you shall hab it.' Den off dey gallop, Missy Roberta cryin' arter dem, 'Don't fight too fa' away; I want to see de Linkum hirelin's run.' Den de words rung out, 'For'ard, march, trot,' an' down de lawn dey went. De Linkum men was now in plain sight. Zeb, you tell how dey look an' what dey did. I was so afeard fer my missus and de young ladies, I was 'mos' out ob my mind."
"Well, mass'r and ladies," said Zeb, rising and making a respectful bow, "I was at an upper window an' could see eberyting. De Linkum men was trottin' too, an' comin' in two ranks, one little way 'hind de toder. Right smart way afore dese two ranks was a line of calvary-men a few feet apart from each oder, an' dis line reach across de hull lawn to de woods on de oder side. I soon seed dat dere was Linkum sogers in de woods, too. Dey seemed sort ob outside sogers all aroun' de two ranks in de middle. Dey all come on fas', not a bit afeard, an' de thin line in front was firin' at our sogers dat had been a-watchin' down by de road, an' our sogers was a-firin' back.
"Bimeby, soon, bofe sides come nigh each oder, den de thin line ob Linkum men swept away to de lef at a gallop, an' our sogers an' de fust rank ob Linkum men run dere hosses at each oder wid loud yells. 'Clar to you, my heart jus' stood still. Neber heard such horrid noises, but I neber took my eyes away, for I beliebed I saw my freedom comin'. Fer a while I couldn't tell how it was gwine; dere was nothin' but clash ob sabres, an' bofe sides was all mixed up, fightin' hand ter hand.
"I was wonderin' why de second rank of Linkum men didn't do nothin', for dey was standin' still wid a man on a hoss, out in front ob dem. Suddenly I heard a bugle soun', an' de Linkum men dat was fightin' gave way to right an' lef, an' de man on de hoss wave his sword an' start for'ard at a gallop wid all his men arter him. Den our sogers 'gan to give back, fightin' as dey came. Dey was brave, dey was stubborn as mules, but back dey had to come. De head Linkum ossifer was leadin' all de time. I neber seed such a man, eberyting an' eberybody guv way afo' him. De oder Linkum sogers dat I thought was whipped wasn't whipped at all, fer dey come crowdin' aroun' arter de head ossifer, jes' as peart as eber.
"Front ob de house our ossifers an' sogers made a big stan', fer de missus an' de young ladies stood right dar on de verandy, wabin' dere hankerchiefs an' cryin' to dem to dribe de Yankee back. I knowed my moder was on de verandy, an' I run to her, an' sho' 'nuff, dar she was stan'in' right in front of Missy S'wanee an' 'treating de missus an' de young ladies ter go in, fer de bullets was now flyin' tick. But dey wouldn't go in, an' Missy Roberta was wringin' her han's, an' cryin', 'Oh, dat I was a man!' De cunnel, de oder ossifer, an' a lot ob our sogers wouldn't give back an inch. Dar dey was, fightin' right afore our eyes. De rest ob dere sogers was givin' way eb'rywhar. De Linkum sogers soon made a big rush togedder. De cunnel's hoss went down. In a minute dey was surrounded; some was killed, some wounded, an' de rest all taken, 'cept de young ossifer dat Missy S'wanee tole to win her colors. He was on a po'ful big hoss, an' he jes' break right through eb'ryting, an' was off wid de rest. De Linkum sogers followed on, firin' at 'em.
"De missus fainted dead away, an' my moder held her in her arms. De head Linkum ossifer now rode up to de verandy an' took off his hat, an' he say: 'Ladies, I admire your co'age, but you should not 'spose yourselves so needlessly. Should de vict'ry still remain wid our side, I promise you 'tection an 'munity from 'noyance!'
"Den he bow an' gallop arter his men dat was chasin' our sogers, leabin' anoder ossifer in charge ob de pris'ners. De head Linkum man was Cap'n Lane."
"I knew it, I knew it," cried Marian. "Ah! he's a friend to be proud of."
Her father and mother looked at her glowing cheeks and flashing eyes, and dismissed Merwyn from the possibilities of the future.
The Signal Light.
The colored woman again took up the thread of the story which would explain her presence and her possession of a note from Captain Lane, recommending her and her son to Mr. Vosburgh's protection.
"Yes, missy," she said, "Cap'n Lane am a fren' ter be proud ob. I tinks he mus' be like Mass'r Linkum hisself, fer dere nebber was a man more braver and more kinder. Now I'se gwine ter tell yer what happen all that drefful night, an' Zeb will put in his word 'bout what he knows. While de cap'n was a-speakin' to de young ladies, de missus jes' lay in my arms as ef she was dead. Missy Roberta, as she listen, stand straight and haughty, an' give no sign she hear, but Missy S'wanee, she bow and say, 'Tank you, sir!' Zeb called some ob de house-servants, an' we carry de missus to her room, an' de young ladies help me bring her to. Den I stayed wid her, a-fannin' her an' a-cheerin' an' a-tellin' her dat I knew Cap'n Lane wouldn't let no harm come ter dem. Now, Zeb, you seed what happen downstars."
"Yes, mass'r an' ladies, I kep' my eyes out, fer I tinks my chance is come now, if eber. Cap'n Lane soon come back an' said to de ossifer in charge ob de pris'ners,—an' dere was more pris'ners bein' brought in all de time,—sez Cap'n Lane, 'De en'my won't stand agin. I'se sent Cap'n Walling in pursuit, an' now we mus' make prep'rations fer de night.' Den a man dey call a sergeant, who'd been a spyin' roun' de kitchen, an' lookin' in de dinin'-room winders, come up an' say something to Cap'n Lane; an' he come up to de doah an' say he like ter see one ob de ladies. I call Missy S'wanee, an' she come, cool an' lady-like, an' not a bit afeard, an' he take off his hat to her, an' say:—
"'Madam, I'se sorry all dis yer happen 'bout yer house, but I'se could not help it. Dere's a good many woun'ed, an' our surgeon is gwine ter treat all alike. I'se tole dat yer had coffee a-bilin' an' supper was ready. Now all I ask is, dat de woun'ed on bofe sides shall have 'freshments fust, an' den ef dere's anyting lef', I'd like my ossifers to have some supper.' Den he kinder smile as he say, 'I know you 'spected oder company dis ebenin', an' when de woun'ed is provided fer, de ossifers on your side can hab supper too. I hab ordered de hospital made in de out-buildin's, an' de priv'cy ob your home shall not be 'truded on.'
"'Cunnel,' say Missy S'wanee. 'Plain Cap'n,' he say, interrupting—'Cap'nLane.'
"'Cap'n Lane, she goes on, 'I tanks you fer your courtesy, an 'sideration. I did not 'spect it. Your wishes shall be carried out.' Den she says, 'I'se'll hab more supper pervided, an' we'll 'spect you wid your ossifers;' for she wanted ter make fren's wid him, seein' we was all in his po'er. He says, 'No, madam, I'se take my supper wid my men. I could not be an unwelcome gues' in any house, What I asks for my ossifers, I asks as a favor; I doesn't deman' it.' Den he bows an' goes away. Missy S'wanee, she larf—she was allus a-larfin' no matter what happen—an' she says, 'I'se'll get eben wid him.' Well, de cap'n goes an' speaks to de cunnel, an' de oder captured ossifers ob our sogers, an' dey bow to him, an' den dey comes up an' sits on de verandy, an' Missy Roberta goes out, and dey talk in low tones, an' I couldn't hear what dey say. I was a-helpin' Missy S'wanee, an' she say to me, 'Zeb, could you eber tink dat a Yankee cap'n could be such a gemlin?' I didn't say nuffin', fer I didn't want anybody ter'spect what was in my min', but eb'ry chance I git I keep my eye on Cap'n Lane, fer I believed he could gib us our liberty. He was aroun' 'mong de woun'ed, an' seein' ter buryin' de dead, an' postin' an' arrangin' his men; deed, an' was all ober eberywhar.
"By dis time de ebenin' was growin' dark, de woun'ed and been cared for, an' our ossifers an' de Linkum ossifers sat down to supper; an' dey talk an' larf as if dey was good fren's. Yer'd tink it was a supper-party, ef dere hadn't been a strappin' big soger walkin' up an' down de verandy whar he could see in de winders. I help waits on de table, an' Missy Roberta, she was rudder still an' glum-like, but Missy S'wanee, she smiles on all alike, an' she say to de Linkum ossifers, 'I 'predate de court'sy ob your cap'n, eben do' he doesn't grace our board. I shall take de liberty, howsemeber, ob sendin' him some supper;' an' she put a san'wich an' some cake an' a cup ob coffee on a waiter an' sen' me out to him whar he was sittin' by de fire in de edge ob de woods on de lawn. He smile an' say, 'Tell de young lady dat I drink to her health an' happier times.' Den I gits up my co'age an' says, 'Cap'n Lane, I wants ter see yer when my work's done in de house.' He say, 'All right, come ter me here.' Den he look at me sharp an' say, 'Can I trus' yer?' An' I say, 'Yes, Mass'r Cap'n; I'se Linkum, troo an' troo.' Den he whisper in my ear de password, 'White-rose.'"
Marian remembered that she had given him a white rose when he had asked for her colors. He had made it his countersign on the evening of his victory.
"Arter supper our ossifers were taken down ter de oder pris'ners, an' guards walk aroun dem all night. I help clar up de tings, an' watch my chance ter steal away. At las' de house seem quiet. I tought de ladies had gone ter dere rooms, an' I put out de light in de pantry, an' was watchin' an' waitin' an' listenin' to be sho' dat no one was 'roun, when I heared a step in de hall. De pantry doah was on a crack, an' I peeps out, an' my bref was nigh took away when I sees a rebel ossifer, de one dat got away in de fight. He give a long, low whistle, an' den dere was a rustle in de hall above, an' Missy Roberta came flyin' down de starway. I know den dat dere was mischief up, an' I listen wid all my ears. She say to him, 'How awfully imprudent!' An' she put de light out in de hall, les' somebody see in. Den she say, 'Shell we go in de parlor?' He say, 'No, dere's two doahs here, each end de hall, an' a chance ter go out de winders, too. I mus' keep open ebery line ob retreat. Are dere any Yanks in de house?' She say, 'No,'—dat de Union cap'n very 'sid'rate. 'Curse him!' sed de reb; 'he spoil my ebenin' wid Miss S'wanee, but tell her I win her colors yet, an' pay dis Yankee cap'n a bigger interest in blows dan he eber had afo.' Den he 'splain how he got his men togedder, an' he foun' anoder 'tachment ob rebs, an' how dey would all come in de mawnin', as soon as light, an' ride right ober eberyting, an' 'lease de cunnel an' all de oder pris'ners. Den he says, 'We'se a-comin' on de creek-road. Put a dim light in de winder facin' dat way, an' as long as we see it burnin' we'll know dat all's quiet an' fav'able, an' tell Missy S'wanee to hab her colors ready. Dey tought I was one oh de Yanks in de dark, when I come in, but gettin' away'll be more tick'lish.' Den she say, 'Don't go out ob de doah. Drap from de parlor winder inter de shrub'ry, an' steal away troo de garden.' While dey was gone ter de parlor, I step out an' up de starway mighty sudden. Den I whip aroun' to de beginnin' ob de garret starway an' listen. Soon Missy Roberta come out de parlor an' look in de pantry an' de oder rooms, an' she sof'ly call me, 'kase she know I was las' up 'round de house; but I'se ain't sayin' nuffin'. Den she go in de missus room, whar my moder was, an' soon she and Missy S'wanee came out an' whisper, an' Missy S'wanee was a-larfin' how as ef she was pleased. Den Missy S'wanee go back to de missus, an' Missy Roberta go to her room.
"Now was my chance, an' I tuck off'n my shoes an' carried dem, an' I tank de Lord I heared it all, fer I says, 'Cap'n Lane'll give me my liberty now sho' 'nuff, when I tells him all.' I'se felt sho' he'd win de fight in de mawnin', fer he seemed ob de winnin' kine. I didn't open any ob de doahs on de fust floah, but stole down in de cellar, 'kase I knowed ob a winder dat I could creep outen. I got away from de house all right, an' went toward de fire where I lef Cap'n Lane. Soon a gruff voice said, 'Halt!' I guv de password mighty sudden, an' den said, 'I want to see Cap'n Lane.' De man call anoder soger, an' he come an' question me, an' den took me ter de cap'n. An' he was a-sleepin' as if his moder had rocked 'im! But he was on his feet de moment he spoke to. He 'membered me, an' ask ef de mawnin' wouldn't answer. I say, 'Mass'r Cap'n, I'se got big news fer yer.' Den he wide awake sho' 'nuff, an' tuck me one side, an' I tole him all. 'What's yer name?' he says. 'Zeb Borden,' I answers. Den he say: 'Zeb, you've been a good fren'. Ef I win de fight in de mawnin' you shell hab your liberty. It's yours now, ef you can get away.' I says I'se lame an' couldn't get away unless he took me, an' dat I wanted my moder ter go, too. Den he tought a minute, an' went back ter de fire an' tore out a little book de paper we brought, an' he says, 'What your moder's name?' An' I says, 'Dey call her Maumy Borden.' Den he wrote de lines we bring, an' he says: 'No tellin' what happen in de mawnin'. Here's some money dat will help you 'long when you git in our lines. Dis my fust inderpendent comman', an' ef yer hadn't tole me dis I might a' los' all I gained. Be faithful, Zeb; keep yer eyes an' ears open, an' I'll take care ob yer. Now slip back, fer yer might be missed.'"
"I got back to my lof' mighty sudden, an' I was jis' a-shakin' wid fear, for I beliebe dat Missy Roberta would a' killed me wid her own hands ef she'd knowed. She was like de ole mass'r, mighty haughty an' despit-like, when she angry. I wasn't in de lof' none too soon, fer Missy Roberta was 'spicious and uneasy-like, an' she come to de head ob de gerret starway an' call my name. At fust I ain't sayin' suffin', an' she call louder. Den I say, 'Dat you, Missy Roberta?' Den she seem to tink dat I was all right. I slipped arter her down de starway an' listen, an' I know she gwine ter put de light in de winder. Den she go to her room again.
"A long time pass, an' I hear no soun'. De house was so still dat I done got afeard, knowin' dere was mischief up. Dere was a little winder in my lof lookin' toward de creek-road, an' on de leabes ob some trees I could see a little glimmer ob de light dat Missy Roberta had put dar as a signal. Dat glimmer was jes' awful, fer I knowed it mean woun's and death to de sogers, an' liberty or no liberty fer me. Bimeby I heared steps off toward de creek-road, but dey soon die away. I watched an' waited ter'ble long time, an' de house an' all was still, 'cept de tread ob de guards. Mus' a' been about tree in de mawnin' when I heared a stir. It was very quiet-like, an' I hear no words, but now an' den dere was a jingle like a sabre make when a man walk. I stole down de starway an' look outen a winder in de d'rection whar Cap'n Lane was, an' I see dat de Linkum men had let all dere fires go out. It was bery dark. Den I hear Missy Roberta open her doah, an' I whip back ter my lof. She come soon an' had a mighty hard time wakin' me up, an' den she say: 'Zeb, dere's sumpen goin' on 'mong de Yankee sogers. Listen.' I says, 'I doesn't hear nuffin'.' She says: 'Dere is; dey's a-saddlin' up, an' movin' roun'. I want you ter steal outen an' see what dey is doin', an' tell me.' I says, 'Yes, missy.' I tought de bole plan would be de bes' plan now, an' I put on my shoes an' went out. Putty soon I comes back and says to her, 'I axed a man, an' he tole me dey was changin' de guard.'—'Did de res' seem quiet?'—'Yes, missy, dey is sleepin' 'round under de trees.' She seemed greatly 'lieved, an' says, 'You watch aroun' an' tell me ef dere's any news.' I stole out again an' crep' up 'hind some bushes, an' den I sho' dat de Linkum men was a-slippin' away toward de creek-road, but de guards kep' walkin' 'roun de pris'ners, jes' de same. On a sudden dere was a man right 'longside ob me, an' he say, 'Make a noise or move, an' you are dead. What are you doin' here?' I gasp out, 'White-rose, Cap'n Lane.'—'Oh, it's you,' he say, wid a low larf. Fo' I could speak dere come a scream, sich as I neber heared, den anoder an' anoder. 'Dey comes from de missus' room.' Den he say, 'Run down dar an' ask de sergeant ob de guard to send tree men wid you, an' come quick!' Now moder kin tell yer what happened. I had lef de back hall doah unlocked, an' de cap'n went in like a flash."
"De good Lor' bress Cap'n Lane," began the colored woman, "fer he come just in time. De missus had been wakin' an' fearful-like mos' ob de night, but at las' we was all a-dozin'. I was in a char by her side, an' Missy S'wanee laid on a lounge. She hadn't undress, an' fer a long time seemed as if listenin'. At las' dere come a low knock, an' we all started up. I goes to de doah an' say, 'Who's dar?'—'A message from Cap'n Lane,' says a low voice outside. 'Open de doah,' says Missy S'wanee; 'I'se not afeard ob him.' De moment I slip back de bolt, a big man, wid a black face, crowds in an' say, 'Not a soun', as you valley your lives: I want yer jewelry an' watches;' an' he held a pistol in his hand. At fust we tought it was a plantation han', fer he tried ter talk like a cullud man, an' Missy S'wanee 'gan ter talk ter him; but he drew a knife an' says, 'Dis won't make no noise, an' it'll stop yer noise ef yer make any. Not a word, but gib up eberyting.' De missus was so beat out wid fear, dat she say, 'Gib him eberyting.' An' Missy S'wanee, more'n half-dead, too, began to gib dere watches an' jewels. De man put dem in his pocket, an' den he lay his hands on Missy S'wanee, to take off her ring. Den she scream, an' I flew at 'im an' tried to tear his eyes out. Missy Roberta 'gan screamin', so we knowed she was 'tacked too. De man was strong an' rough, an' whedder he would a' killed us or not de Lord only knows, fer jes' den de doah flew wide open, an' Cap'n Lane stood dere wid his drawn sword. In a secon' he seed what it all meant, an' sprung in an' grabbed de robber by de neck an' jerked him outen inter de hall. Den de man 'gan ter beg fer mercy, an' tole his name. It was one of Cap'n Lane's own sogers. At dis moment Missy Roberta rush outen her room, cryin', 'Help! murder!' Den we heared heaby steps rushing up de starway, an' tree ob Cap'n Lane's sogers dash for'ard. As soon as Missy Roberta see de cap'n wid de light from de open doah shinin' on his face, she comes an' ask, 'What does dis outrage mean?'—'It mean dat dis man shell be shot in de mawnin', he say, in a chokin' kind ob voice, fer he seem almost too angry to speak. Den he ask, 'Were you 'tacked also?'—' Yes,' she cried, 'dere's a man in my room.'—'Which room?' An' she pointed to de doah. De fus' robber den made a bolt ter get away, but de cap'n's men cotch 'im. 'Tie his han's 'hind his back, an' shoot him if he tries to run agin,' said de cap'n; den he say to Missy Roberta: 'Go in your moder's room. Don't leave it without my permission. Ef dere is a man in your room, he shall shar de fate ob dat villain dat I've 'spected ob bein' a tief afore.' An' he went an' looken in Missy Roberta's room. In a few moments he come back an' say, 'Dere was a man dar, but he 'scape troo de winder on de verandy-roof. Ef I kin discober 'im he shall die too.' Den he say, grave an' sad-like: 'Ladies, dere is bad men in eb'ry army. I'se deeply mort'fied dat dis should happen. You'll bar me witness dat I tried to save you from all 'noyance. I know dis man,' pointin' to a soger dat stood near, 'an' I'll put him in dis hall on guard. His orders are—you hear dem—not to let any one come in de hall, an' not to let any one leabe dis room. As long as yer all stay in dis room, you are safe, eben from a word.' Missy S'wanee rush for'ard an' take his han', an' say, 'Eben ef you is my en'my you'se a gallant soger an' a gemlin, an' I tanks you.' De cap'n smile an' bow, an' say, 'In overcomin' your prej'dice I'se 'chieved my bes' vict'ry.' An' he gib her back all de jewels an' watches, an' drew de doah to, an' lef us to ourselves. Den we hear 'im go to a wes' room back ob de house wid anoder soger, an' soon he come back alone, an' den de house all still 'cept de eben tread ob de man outside. Missy Roberta clasp her han's an' look wild. Den she whisper to Missy S'wanee, an' dey seem in great trouble. Den she go an' open de doah an' say to de soger dat she want ter go ter her room. 'You cannot, lady,' said de soger. 'You heared my orders.'—'I'll only stay a minute,' she say. 'You cannot pass dat doah,' said de soger. 'But I mus' an' will,' cried Missy Roberta, an' she make a rush ter get out. De soger held her still. 'Unhan' me!' she almost screamed. He turn her 'roun' an' push her back in de room, an' den says: 'Lady, does you tink a soger can disobey orders? Dere ain't no use ob your takin' on 'bout dat light. We'se watch it all night as well as your fren's, an' de cap'n has lef' a soger guardin' it, to keep it burnin'. Ef I should let yer go, yer couldn't put it out, an' ef it had been put out any time, we'd a' lighted it agin. So dere's nuffin' fer yer to do but 'bey orders an' shut de doah. Den no one will say a word to yer, as de cap'n said.' Den he pulled de doah to hisself.
"Missy Roberta 'gan to wring her han's an' walk up an' down like a caged tiger, an' Missy S'wanee larf and cry togedder as she say, 'Cap'n Lane too bright fer us.'—'No,' cries Missy Roberta, 'somebody's 'trayed me, an' I could strike a knife inter dere heart fer doin' it. O S'wanee, S'wanee, our fren's is walkin' right inter a trap.' Den she run to de winder an' open it ter see ef she couldn't git down, an' dere in de garden was a soger, a-walkin' up an' down a-watchin'. 'We jes' can't do nuffin',' she said, an' she 'gan to sob an' go 'sterical-like. Missy S'wanee tole de missus, an' she wrung her han's an' cry, too; an' Missy S'wanee, she was a-larfin' an' a-cryin', an' a-prayin' all ter once. Suddenly dere was a shot off toward de creek-road, an' den we was bery still. Now. Zeb, you know de res'!"
"Oh, come, this won't do at all," said Mr. Vosburgh, as Zeb was about to continue the story. "It's nearly midnight now. Marian, dear, your cheeks and eyes look as if you had a fever. Let us wait and hear the rest of the story in the morning, or you'll be ill, your mother will have a headache, and I shall be unfit for my work to-morrow."
"Papa, papa, in pity don't stop them till we know all. If Captain Lane could watch all night and fight in the morning, can't we listen for an hour longer?"
"Oh, yes," cried Mrs. Vosburgh, "let them finish. It's like a story, and I never could sleep well till I knew how a story was going to turn out."
"Wait a moment and I'll bring everybody something nice from the sideboard, and you, also, papa, a cigar from the library," cried the young girl.
Her father smiled his acquiescence, and in a few moments they were all ready to listen to the completion of a tragedy not without its dash of comedy.
"Arter Cap'n Lane posted his guards in de house an' sent de robber off," Zeb resumed, "he jump on a hoss an' gallop toward de creek-road. De light in de winder kep' a-burnin'! I foun' arterwards dat he an' his ossifers had been down on de creek-road and studied it all out. At one place—whar it was narrer' wid tick woods on bofe sides—dey had builded a high rail-fence. Den below dat he had put sogers in de woods each side widout dere hosses, an' farder down still he had hid a lot of men dat was mounted. Sho' 'nuff, wid de fust light of de mawnin', de rebs come ridin' toward de light in de winder. I'd run out to de hill, not far away, ter see what would happen, an' it was so dark yet dat eb'ryting was mixed up wid shadders. When de rebs was a-comin' by de Linkum men in de woods a shot was fired. Den I s'pose de rebs tought it would gib de 'larm, fer dey began ter run dere hosses for'ard. An' den de Linkum men let dem hab it on bofe sides ob de road, but dey kep' on till dey come to de fence 'cross de road, an' den dey git a volley in front. Dis skeered 'em, for dey knowed dat de Linkum men was ready, an' dey tried to git back. Den I heared a great tramplin' an' yellin', an' dere was Cap'n Lane a-leadin' his men an' hosses right in ahind dem. Dere was orful fightin' fer a while, an' de men widout dere hosses leap outen de woods and shot like mad. It was flash! bang! on eb'ry side. At las' de Linkum men won de day, an' some ob de rebs burst troo de woods an' run, wid Cap'n Lane's men arter dem, an' dey kep' a-chasin' till a bugle call dem back. Den I run to de house, fer dey was bringin' in de pris'ners. Who should I see 'mong dese but de bery ossifer dat was wid Missy Roberta de night afore, de one dat wanted de light in de winder, an' he look bery mad, I can tell you.
"It was now gettin' broad day, an' de light at las' was outen de winder. Dere was nuffin' mo' fer it to do. De Linkum soger dat had been in de house was now helpin' guard de pris'ners, an' Missy Roberta an' Missy S'wanee run up to de ossifer dat had been so fooled an' say: 'We'se couldn't help it. Somebody 'trayed us. We was kep' under guard, an' dere was a Yankee soger a-keepin' de light burnin' arter we knew Cap'n Lane was aroun' an' ready.' Missy Roberta look sharp at me, but I 'peared innercent as a sheep. Missy S'wanee say: 'No matter, Major Denham, you did all dat a brave man could do, an' dar's my colors. You hab won dem.' An' den he cheer up 'mazin'ly.
"Den I hear somebody say Cap'n Lane woun'ed, an' I slip out toward de creek-road, an' dar I see dem a-carryin Cap'n Lane, an' de surgeon walkin' 'longside ob him. My heart jes' stood still wid fear. His eyes was shut, an' he look bery pale-like. Dey was a-carryin' him up de steps ob de verandy when Missy S'wanee came runnin' ter see what was de matter. Den Cap'n Lane open his eyes an' he say: 'Not in here. Put me wid de oder woun'ed men; 'but Missy S'wanee say, 'No; he protec' us an' act like a gemlin, an' he shall learn dat de ladies ob de Souf will not be surpassed.' De missus say de same, but Missy Roberta frown an' say nuffin'. She too much put out yet 'bout dat light in de winder an' de 'feat it brought her fren's. De cap'n was too weak an' gone-like ter say anyting mo', an' dey carry him up ter de bes' company room. I goes up wid dem ter wait on de surgeon, an' he 'zamin' de woun' an' gib de cap'n brandy, an' at las' say dat de cap'n get well ef he keep quiet a few weeks,—dat he weak now from de shock an' loss ob blood.
"In de arternoon hundreds more Linkum men come, an' Cap'n Lane's cunnel come wid dem, an' he praise de cap'n an' cheer him up, an' de cap'n was bery peart an' say he feel better. Mos' ob de ossifers take supper at de house. De missus an' Missy Roberta were perlite but bery cold-like, but Missy S'wanee, while she show dat she was a reb down to de bottom ob her good, kine heart, could smile an' say sunshiny tings all de same. Dis night pass bery quiet, an' in de mawnin' de Linkum cunnel say he hab orders ter 'tire toward de Union lines. He feel bery bad 'bout leabin' Cap'n Lane, but de surgeon say he mus' not be moved. He say, too, dat he stay wid de cap'n an' de oder badly woun'ed men. De cap'n tell his cunnel 'bout me an' my moder an' what he promise us, an' de cunnel say he take us wid him an' send us to Washin'on. De missus an' de young ladies take on drefful 'bout our gwine, but I say, 'I mus' hab my liberty,' an' moder say she can't part wid her own flesh an' blood—"
"Yes, yes, but what did 'Cap'n' Lane say?" interrupted Marian.
"He tole me ter say ter you, missy, dat he was gwine ter git well, an' dat you mus'n't worry 'kase you didn't hear from him, an' dat he know you'd be kine to us, 'kase I'd help him win de vict'ry. De surgeon wrote some letters, too, an' gib dem to de Linkum cunnel. P'raps you git one ob dem. Dey put us in an army wagon, an' bimeby we reach a railroad, an' dey gib us a pass ter Washin'on, an' we come right on heah wid Cap'n Lane's money. I doesn't know what dey did with de robber—"
"Oh, oh," cried Marian, "it may be weeks before I hear from my friend again, if I 'ever do."
"Marian, dear," said her father, "do not look on the dark side; it might have been a hundred-fold worse. 'Cap'n' Lane was in circumstances of great comfort, with his own surgeon in care of his wound. Think how many poor fellows were left on the field of Chancellorsville to Heaven only knows what fate. In such desperate fighting as has been described we have much reason to be thankful that he was not killed outright. He has justly earned great credit with his superiors, and I predict that he will get well and be promoted. I think you will receive a letter in a day or two from the surgeon. I prescribe that you and mamma sleep in the morning till you are rested. I won't grumble at taking my coffee alone." Then, to the colored woman and her son: "Don't you worry. We'll see that you are taken care of."
Late as it was, hours still elapsed before Marian slept. Her hero had become more heroic than ever. She dwelt on his achievements with enthusiasm, and thought of his sufferings with a tenderness never before evoked, while the possibility that "Missy S'wanee" was his nurse produced twinges approaching jealousy.
As was expected, the morning post brought a letter from the surgeon confirming the account that had been given by the refugees, and full of hope-inspiring words. Then for weeks there were no further tidings from Lane.
Meanwhile, events were culminating with terrible rapidity, and their threatening significance electrified the North. The Southern people and their sympathizers everywhere were jubilant over the victory of Chancellorsville, and both demanded and expected that this success should be followed by decisive victories. Lee's army, General Longstreet said, was "in a condition of strength and morale to undertake anything," and Southern public sentiment and the needs of the Richmond government all pointed towards a second and more extended invasion of the North. The army was indeed strong, disciplined, a powerful instrument in the hands of a leader like General Lee. Nevertheless, it had reached about the highest degree of its strength. The merciless conscription in the South had swept into its ranks nearly all the able-bodied men, and food and forage were becoming so scarce in war-wasted Virginia and other regions which would naturally sustain this force, that a bold, decisive policy had become a necessity. It was believed that on Northern soil the army could be fed, and terms of peace dictated.
The chief motive for this step was the hope of a counter-revolution in the North where the peace faction had grown bold and aggressive to a degree that only stopped short of open resistance. The draft or general conscription which the President had ordered to take place in July awakened intense hostility to the war and the government on the part of a large and rapidly increasing class of citizens. This class had its influential and outspoken leaders, who were evidently in league with a secret and disloyal organization known as the "Knights of the Golden Circle," the present object of which was the destruction of the Union and the perpetuation of slavery. In the city of New York the spirit of rebellion was as rampant in the breasts of tens of thousands as in Richmond, and Mr. Vosburgh knew it. His great sagacity and the means of information at his command enabled him to penetrate much of the intrigue that was taking place, and to guess at far more. He became haggard and almost sleepless from his labors and anxieties, for he knew that the loyal people of the North were living over a volcano.
Marian shared in this solicitude, and was his chief confidante. He wished her, with her mother, to go to some safe and secluded place in the country, and offered to lease again the cottage which they had occupied the previous summer, but Marian said that she would not leave him, and that he must not ask her to do so. Mrs. Vosburgh was eventually induced to visit relatives in New England, and then father and daughter watched events with a hundred-fold more anxiety than that of the majority, because they were better informed and more deeply involved in the issues at stake than many others. But beyond all thought of worldly interests, their intense loyal feeling burned with a pure, unwavering flame.
In addition to all that occupied her mind in connection with her father's cares and duties, she had other grounds for anxiety. Strahan wrote that his regiment was marching northward, and that he soon expected to take part in the chief battle of the war. Every day she hoped for some news from Lane, but none came. His wishes in regard to Mammy Borden and her son had been well carried out. Mr. Vosburgh had been led to suspect that the man in charge of his offices was becoming rather too curious in regard to his affairs, and too well informed about them. Therefore Zeb was installed in his place; and when Mrs. Vosburgh departed on her visit Marian dismissed the girl who had succeeded Sally Maguire, and employed the colored woman in her stead. She felt that this action would be pleasing to Lane, and that it was the very least that she could do.
Moreover, Mammy Borden was what she termed a "character," one to whom she could speak with something of the freedom natural to the ladies of the Southern household. The former slave could describe a phase of life and society that was full of novelty and romance to Marian, and "de young ladies," especially "Missy S'wanee," were types of the Southern girl of whom she never wearied of hearing. From the quaint talk of her new servant she learned to understand the domestic life of those whom she had regarded as enemies, and was compelled to admit that in womanly spirit and dauntless patriotism they were her equals, and had proved it by facing dangers and hardships from which she had been shielded. More than all, the old colored woman was a protegee of Captain Lane and was never weary of chanting his praises.
Marian was sincerely perplexed by the attitude of her mind towards this young officer. He kindled her enthusiasm and evoked admiration without stint. He represented to her the highest type of manhood in that period of doubt, danger, and strong excitement. Brave to the last degree, his courage was devoid of recklessness. The simple, untutored description of his action given by the refugees had only made it all the more clear that his mind was as keen and bright as his sword, while in chivalric impulses he had never been surpassed. Unconsciously Mammy Borden and her son had revealed traits in him which awakened Marian's deepest respect, suggesting thoughts of which she would not have spoken to any one. She had been shown his course towards beautiful women who were in his power, and who at the same time were plotting his destruction and that of his command. While he foiled their hostile purpose, no knight of olden times could have shown them more thoughtful consideration and respect. She felt that her heart ought to go out towards this ideal lover in utter abandon. Why did it not? Why were her pride, exultation, and deep solicitude too near akin to the emotions she would have felt had he been her brother? Was this the only way in which she could love? Would the sacred, mysterious, and irresistible impulses of the heart, of which she had read, follow naturally in due time?
She was inclined to believe that this was true, yet, to her surprise, the thought arose unbidden: "If Willard Merwyn were showing like qualities and making the same record—What absurdity is this!" she exclaimed aloud. "Why does this Mr. Merwyn so haunt me, when I could not give him even respect and friendship, although he sent an army into the field, yet was not brave enough to go himself? Where is he? What is he doing in these supreme hours of his country's history? Everything is at stake at the front, yes, and even here at the North, for I can see that papa dreads unspeakably what each day may bring forth, yet neither this terrible emergency nor the hope of winning my love can brace his timid soul to manly action. There is more manhood in one drop of the blood shed by Captain Lane than in Merwyn's whole shrinking body."