The incessant excitement and fatigue of the past few days had caused Penn to fall asleep almost immediately after Carl left him. The rude ground on which he stretched himself proved a blissful couch of repose. Virginia climbed the mountain to meet him, and no fine intuitive sense of her approach thrilled him with wakeful expectancy. Carl was captured, and still he slept. The lost young girl wandered within fifty yards of where he lay steeped in forgetfulness, dreaming, perhaps, of her; and all the time they were as unconscious of each other's presence as were Evangeline and her lover when they passed each other at night on the great river.
Penn was the first to wake; and still his stupid heart whispered to him no syllable of the strange secret of the beautiful sleeper whom he might have looked down upon from the edge of the cliff so near.
The grove had been but recently fired, and it would have been easy enough then for him to rush into the gorge and rescue her. From what terrors, from what perils would she have been saved! But he wasted the precious moments in staring amazement; then, thinking of his own safety, he commenced runningawayfrom her,—his escape lighted by the same fatal flames that were enclosing her within the gorge.
She never knew whether, on awaking, she cried for help or remained dumb; nor did it matter much then: he was already too far off to hear.
The glow on the clouds lighted all the broad mountain side. Under the ruddy canopy he ran,—now through dimly illumined woods, and now over bare rocks faintly flushed by the glare of the sky.
As he drew near the cave, he saw, on a rock high above him, a wild human figure making fantastic gestures, and prostrating itself towards the burning forests. He ran up to it, and, all out of breath, stood on the ledge.
"Cudjo! Cudjo! what are you doing here?"
The negro made no reply, but, folding his arms above his head, spread them forth towards the fire, bowing himself again and again, until his forehead touched the stone.
Penn shuddered with awe. For the first time in his life he found himself in the presence of an idolater. Cudjo belonged to a tribe of African fire-worshippers, from whom he had been stolen in his youth; and, although the sentiment of the old barbarous religion had smouldered for years forgotten in his breast, this night it had burst forth again, kindled by the terrible splendors of the burning mountain.
Penn waited for him to rise, then grasped his arm. The negro, startled into a consciousness of his presence, stared at him wildly.
"That is not God, Cudjo!"
"No, no, not your God, massa! My God!" and the African smote his breast. "Me mos' forgit him; now me 'members! Him comin' fur burn up de white folks, and set de brack man free!"
Penn stood silent, thinking the negro might not be altogether wrong. No doubt the dim, dark soul of him saw vaguely, with that prophetic sense which is in all races of men, a great truth. A fire was indeed coming—was already kindled—which was to set the bondman free: and God was in the fire. But of that mightier conflagration, the combustion of the forests was but a feeble type.
Penn turned from Cudjo to watch the burning, and became aware of its threatening and rapidly increasing magnitude. The woods had been set in several places, but the different fires were fast growing into one, swept by a strong wind diagonally across and up the mountain. It seemed then as if nothing could prevent all the forest growths that lay to the southward and westward along the range from being consumed.
As he gazed, he became extremely alarmed for the safety of Stackridge and his friends: and where all this time was Carl? In vain he questioned Cudjo. He turned, and was hastening to the cave when he met Pomp coming towards him. Tall, majestic, naked to the waist, wearing a garment of panther-skins, with the red gleam of the fire on his dusky face and limbs, the negro looked like a native monarch of the hills.
"O Pomp! what a fire that is!"
"What a fire it is going to be!" answered Pomp, with a lurid smile. "Our new neighbors have brought us bad luck. All those woods are gone. The fire is sweeping up directly towards us—it will pass over all the mountain—nothing will be left." Yet he spoke with a lofty calmness that astonished Penn.
"And our friends!—Carl!—have you heard from them?"
"I have not seen Carl since he left the cave with you, nor any of Stackridge's people to-night."
"Then they are in the woods yet!"
"Yes; unless they have been wise enough to get out of them! I was just starting out to look for them.—Who comes there?"—poising his rifle.
"It's Carl!" exclaimed Penn, recognizing the confederate coat. But in an instant he saw his mistake.
"It is one of Ropes's men!" said Pomp. "He has discovered us—he shall die for setting my mountains on fire!"
"Hold!" Penn grasped his arm. "He is beckoning and calling!"
Pomp frowned as he lowered his rifle, and waited for the soldier to come up.
"What! is it you? I didn't know you in that dress, and came near shooting you, as you deserve, for wearing it!" And Pomp turned scornfully away.
The comer was Dan Pepperill, breathless with haste, horror-struck, haggard. It was some time before he could reply to Penn's impetuous demand—what had brought him up thither?
"Carl!" he gasped.
"What has happened to Carl?"
"Ben tuck! durned if he hain't! But that ar ain't the wust!"
"What, then, is the worst?" for that seemed bad enough.
"Virginny—Miss Villars!"
"Virginia! what of her?"
"She's down thar! in the fire!"
"Virginia in the fire!"
"She ar,—durned if she ain't! Carl said she war on the mountain, and wanted me to hurry up and help her or find you; and I'd a done it, but I couldn't git off till we was runnin' from the fires we'd sot; then I kinder got scattered a puppus; t'other ones hung on to Carl, though, so I had to come alone."
Penn interrupted the loose and confused narrative—Virginia: had heseenher?
"Wal, I reckon I hev! Ye see I war huntin' fur her thar, above the round rock; fur Carl said,——"
A short, sharp groan broke from the lips of Penn. At first the idea of Virginia being on the mountain had appeared to him incredible. But at the mention of the place of rendezvous the truth smote him: she had come up there with Toby, or in his stead. With spasmodic grip he wrung Pepperill's arm as if he would have wrung the truth out of him that way.
"You saw her!—where?"
His hoarse voice, his terrible look, bewildered the poor man more and more.
"I war a tellin' ye! Don't break my arm, and don't look so durned f'erce at me, and I'll out with the hull story. Ye see, I warn't to blame, now, no how. They sot the fires; they sot the grove on our way back; and if I helped any, 'twas cause I had ter. But abouther. Wal, I begun to the big rock, and war a-huntin' up along, till the grove got all in a blaze, and the red limbs begun ter fall, and I see 'twas high time for me to put. Says I ter myself, 'She hain't hyar; she ar off the mountain and safe ter hum afore this time, shore!' But jest then I heern a screech; it sounded right inter the grove, and I run up as clust ter the fire's I could, and looked, and thar I seen right in the middle on't, amongst the burnin' trees, a woman's gownd, and then a face: 'twas her face, I knowed it, fur she hadn't nary bunnit on, and the fire shone on it bright as lightnin'! But thar war half a acre o' blazin' timber atween her and me; and besides, I was so struck up all of a heap, I couldn't do nary thing fur nigh about a minute—I couldn't even holler ter let her know I war thar. And 'fore I knowed what I war about, durned if she hadn't gone!"
Penn afterwards understood that Dan had actually had a glimpse of Virginia when she ran out to the entrance of the gorge, and stood there a moment in the terrible heat and glare.
"Where—show me where!" he exclaimed with fierce vehemence, dragging Pepperill after him down the rocks.
"It war a considerable piece this side the round rock, nigh the upper eend o' the grove," said Dan, in a jarred voice, clattering after him, as fast as he could. "I reckon I kin find it, if 'tain't too late."
Too late? It must not be too late! Penn leaps down the ledges, and rushes through the thickets, as if he would overtake time itself. They reach the burning grove. Pepperill points out as nearly as he can the spot where he stood when he saw Virginia. Great God! if she was in there, what a frightful end was hers!
"Daniel! are you sure?"—for Penn cannot, will not believe—it is too terrible!
Daniel is very sure; and he withdraws from the insufferable heat, to which his companion appears insensible.
"There is a gorge just above there; perhaps she escaped into the gorge. O, if I had known!" groans the half-distracted youth, thinking how near he must have been to her when the fire awoke him.
He still hopes that Dan's vision of her in the fire was but the hallucination of a bewildered brain. Yet no effort will he spare, no danger will he shun. The entrance to the gorge is all a gulf of flame; and the woods are blazing upwards along the cliffs, and all the forest beyond is turning to a sea of fire. Yet the gorge must be reached. Back again up the steep slope they climb. Penn flies to the verge of the cliff. He looks down: the chasm is all a glare of light. There runs the red-gleaming brook. He sees the logs, the stones, the mosses, all the wild entanglement, deep below. But no Virginia. He runs almost into the crackling flames, in order to peer farther down the gorge. Then he darts away in the opposite direction, along the very brink of the precipice, among the fire-lit trees,—Pepperill stupidly following. He seizes hold of a sapling, and, with his foot braced against its root, swings his body forward over the chasm, the better to gaze into its depths. From that position he casts his eye up the gorge. He sees the cascade falling over the ledge in a sheet of ruddy foam. He discovers the upper gorge; sees a monster of the forest come plunging and plashing down to the fall, and there lift himself on his haunches to look;—and what is that other object, half hidden by a drooping bough? It is Virginia clinging to the rocks.
A moment before, had Penn made the discovery of the young girl still unharmed by fire, his happiness would have been supreme. But now joy was checked by an appalling fear. The bear might seize her, or with a stroke of his paw hurl her from his path.
Penn caught hold of the bough that impeded his view, and saw how precarious was her hold. He dared not so much as call to her, or shout to frighten the monster away, lest, her attention being for an instant distracted, she might turn her head, lose her balance, and fall backwards from the rocks.
"Durned if she ain't thar!" said Dan, excitedly. "But she's got a powerful slim chance with the bar!"
"Come with me!" said Penn.
He ran to the upper gorge, showed himself on the bank above the cascade, and shouted. The bear, as he anticipated, turned and looked up at him. Virginia at the same time saw her deliverer.
"Hold on! I'll be with you in a minute!" he cried in a voice heard above the noise of the waterfall and the roar of the conflagration.
She clung fast, hope and gladness thrilling her soul, and giving her new strength.
To reach her, Penn had a precipitous descent of near thirty feet to make. He did not pause to consider the difficulty of getting up again, or the peril of encountering the bear. He jumped down over a perpendicular ledge upon a projection ten feet below. Beyond that was a rapid slope covered with moss and thin patches of soil, with here and there a shrub, and here and there a tree. Striking his heels into the soil, and catching at whatever branch or stem presented itself, he took the plunge. Clinging, sliding, falling, he arrived at the bottom. In a posture half sitting, half standing, and considerably jarred, he found himself face to face with Bruin. The animal had settled down on all fours, and now, with his surly, depressed head turned sullenly to one side, he looked at Penn, and growled. Penn looked at him, and said nothing. He had heard of staring wild beasts out of countenance—an experiment that could be conducted strictly on peace principles, if the bear would only prove as good a Quaker as himself. He resolved to try it: indeed, all unarmed as he was, what else could he do? He might at least, by diverting the brute's attention, give Virginia time to get into a position of safety. So he stood up, and fixed his eyes on the red-blinking eyes of the ferocious beast. Something Bruin did not like: it might have been the youth's company and valiant bearing, but more probably his observation of the fire had satisfied him that he was out of his place. With another growl, that seemed to say, "All I ask is to be let alone," he seceded,—turning his head still more, twisting his body around, after it, and retreating up the gorge.
In an instant Penn was at the young girl's side: his hand clasped hers; he drew her up over the rock.
Not a word was uttered. He was too agitated to speak; and she, after the terror and the strain to which her nerves had been subjected so long, felt all her strength give way. But as he lifted her in his arms, a faint smile of happiness flitted over her white face, and her lips moved with a whisper of gratitude he did not hear.
In spite of all the dangers behind them, and of the dangers still before, both felt, in that moment, a shock of mutual bliss. Neither had ever known till then how dear the other was.
Pepperill had by this time leaped down upon the bulge of the bank. There he waited for them, shouting,—
"Hurry up! the bar'll meet the fire up thar, and be comin' down agin!"
Penn required no spur to his exertions: he knew too well the necessity of getting speedily beyond the reach, not of the bear only, but also of the fire, which threatened them now on three sides—below, above, and on the farther bank of the gorge.
Clasping the burden more precious to him than life, resolved in his soul to part with it only with life, he toiled heavily up the bank, down which he had descended with such tremendous swiftness a few minutes before.
But it was not in Virginia's nature to remain long a helpless encumbrance. Seeing the labor and peril still before them, her will returned, and with it her strength. She grasped a branch by which he was trying in vain with one hand, holding her with the other, to draw them both up a steep place. Her prompt action enabled him to seize the trunk of a young tree: she assisted still, and slipping from his hands, clung to it until he had reached the next tree above. He pulled her up after him, and then pushed her on still farther, until Pepperill could reach her from where he stood. A minute later the three were together on the summit of the slope.
But now they had above them the ten feet of sheer perpendicularity down which Dan had indiscreetly jumped, following Penn's lead. A single hand above them would now be worth several hands below.
"What a fool I war! durned if I warn't!" said Dan, endeavoring unsuccessfully to find a place by which he could reascend.
"Get on my shoulders!" And Penn braced himself against the ledge.
Dan made the attempt, but fell, and rolled down the bank.
Just then a grinning black face appeared above.
"Gib me de gal! gib me de gal!" and a prodigiously long arm reached down.
"O Cudjo! you are an angel!" cried Penn, "Daniel! Here!"
Pepperill was up the bank again in a minute, at Penn's side. They lifted Virginia above their heads. Holding on by a sapling with one hand, the negro extended the other far down over the ledge. Those miraculous arms of his seemed to have been made expressly for this service. He grasped a wrist of the girl; with the other hand she clung to his arm until he had drawn her up to the sapling; this she seized, and helped herself out. Then once more Penn gave Daniel his shoulder, while Cudjo gave him a hand from above; and Daniel was safe. Last of all, Penn remained.
"Cotch holt hyar!" said Cudjo, extending towards him the end of a branch he had broken from a tree.
To this Penn held fast, assisting himself with his feet against the ledge, while Cudjo and Dan hauled him up.
"Good Cudjo! how came you here?"
"Me see you and Pepperill a gwine inter de fire. So me foller."
"This is the old man's daughter, Cudjo."
Cudjo regarded the beautiful young girl with a look of vague wonder and admiration.
"He remembers me," said Virginia. "I saw him the night he climbed in at Toby's window." She gave him her hand; it trembled with emotion. "I thank you, Cudjo, for what you have done for my father—and for me."
"Now, Cudjo! show us the nearest and easiest path. We must take her to the cave—there is no other way."
"You must be right spry, den!" said Cudjo. "De fire am a runnin' ober dat way powerful!"
Indeed, it had already crossed the upper end of the gorge, where the forest brook fell into it; and, getting into some beds of leaves, and thence into dense and inflammable thickets, it was now blazing directly across their line of retreat.
Penn would have carried Virginia in his arms, but she would not suffer him.
"I can go where you can!" she cried, once more full of spirit and daring. "Just give me your hand—you shall see!"
Penn took one of her hands, Pepperill the other, and with their aid, supporting her, lifting her, she sprang lightly up the ledges, and from rock to rock.
Cudjo, carrying Dan's gun, ran on before, leading the way through hollows and among bushes, by a route known only to himself. So they reached a piece of woods, by the thin skirts of which he hoped to head off the fire. Too late—it was there before them. It ran swiftly among the fallen leaves and twigs, and spread far into the woods.
The negro turned back. There was a wild grimace in his face, and a glitter in his eyes, as he threw up his hand, by way of signal that their flight in that direction was cut off.
"Cudjo! what is to be done!" And Penn drew Virginia towards him with a look that showed his fears were all for her.
"We can't git off down the mountain, nuther!" said Dan. "It's gittin' into the woods down thar. It'll be all around us in no time!"
"You let Cudjo do what him pleases?" said the black.
"I can trust you! Can you, Virginia?"
"He should know what is best. Yes, I will trust him."
"Take dat 'ar!" Pepperill received his gun. "Now you look out fur youselves. Me tote de gal."
And catching up Virginia, before Penn could stop him, or question him, he rushed with her into the fire.
Penn ran after him, perceiving at once the meaning of this bold act. The woods were not yet fairly kindled; only now and then the loose bark of a dry trunk was beginning to blaze. Cudjo leaped over the line of flame that was running along the ground, and bore Virginia high above it to the other side. Penn followed, and Dan came close behind. They then had before them a tract of blackened ground which the flames had swept, leaving here and there a dead limb or mat of leaves still burning.
These little fires were easily avoided. But they soon came to another line of flame raging on the upper side of the burnt tract. They were almost out of the woods: only that red, crackling hedge fenced them in; but that they could not pass: the underbrush all along the forest edge was burning. And there they were, brought to a halt, half-stifled with smoke, in the midst of woods kindling and blazing all around them.
"May as well pull up hyar, and take a bref," remarked Cudjo, grimly, placing Virginia on a log too dank with decay and moss to catch fire easily. "Den we's try 'em agin."
A horrible suspicion crossed Penn's mind; the fanatical fire-worshipper had brought them there to destroy them—to sacrifice them to his god!
"Virginia!"—eagerly laying hold of her arm,—"we must retreat! It will soon be too late! We can get out of the woods where we came in, if we go at once!"
"Beg pardon, sar," said Cudjo, stamping out fire in the leaves by the end of the log,—and he looked up through the smoke at Penn, with the old malignant grin on his apish face.
"What do you mean, Cudjo?" said Penn, in an agony of doubt.
"Can't get back dat way, sar!"
"Then you have led us here to destroy us!"
"You's no longer trust Cudjo!" was the negro's only reply.
"Didn't we trust you? Haven't we come through fire, following you? O Cudjo! more than once you have helped to save my life! You have helped to save this life, dearer than mine! Why do you desert us now?"
"'Sert you? Cudjo no 'sert you." But the negro spoke sullenly, and there was still a sparkle of malignancy in his look.
"Then why do you stop here?"
"Hugh! tink we's go trough dat fire like we done trough tudder?"
"What then are we to do?"
"You's no longer trust Cudjo!" was once more the sullen response.
Virginia, with her quick perceptions, saw at once what Penn was either too dull or too much excited to see. Cudjo felt himself aggrieved; but he was not unfaithful.
"Itrust you, Cudjo!"—and she laid her hand frankly and confidingly on his shoulder. "Did I tremble, did I shrink when you carried me through the fire? I shall never forget how brave, how good you are! He trusts you too,—only he is so afraid for me! You can forgive that, Cudjo."
"She is right," said Penn, though still in doubt. "If you know a way to save her, don't lose a moment!"
"He knows; on'y let him take his time," said Pepperill, whose firm faith in the negro's good will shamed Penn for his distrust. And yet Pepperill did not love, as Penn loved, the girl whose life was in danger; and he had not seen the evidences of Cudjo's fire-worshipping fanaticism which Penn had seen.
Under the influence of Virginia's gentle and soothing words, the glitter of resentment died out of the negro's face. But his aspect was still morose.
"De fire take his time to burn out; so we's take our time too," said he. "You try your chance wid Cudjo agin, miss?"
"Certainly! for I am sure you will take us safely through yet!" said Virginia, without a shadow of doubt or hesitation on her face, however dark may have been the shadow on her heart.
The negro was evidently well pleased. He examined carefully the line of fire in the undergrowth. And now Penn discovered, what Cudjo had known very well from the first, that there were barren ledges above, and that the fire was rapidly burning itself out along their base. An opening through which a courageous and active man might dash unscathed soon presented itself. Then Cudjo waited no longer to "take bref." He caught Virginia in his arms, and bore her through the second line of fire, as he had borne her through the first, and placed her in safety on the rocks above.
"Cudjo, my brave, my noble fellow!" said Penn, deeply affected, "I have wronged you; I confess it with shame. Forgive me!"
"Cudjo hab nuffin to forgib," replied the negro, with a laugh of pleasure "Neber mention um, massa! All right now! Reckon we's better be gitt'n out o' dis yer smudge!"
He showed the way, and Penn and Daniel helped Virginia up the rocks as before.
They had reached a smooth and unsheltered ledge near the ravine, a little below the mouth of the cave, when a hideous and inhuman shriek rent the air.
"What dat?" cried Cudjo, stopping short; and his visage in the smoky and lurid light looked wild with superstitious alarm.
The sound was repeated, louder, nearer, more hideous than before, seeming to make the very atmosphere shudder above their heads.
"Go on, Cudjo! go on!" Penn commanded.
The terrified black crouched and gibbered, but would not stir. Then straightway a sharp clatter, as of iron hoofs flying at a furious gallop, resounded along the mountain-side. By a simultaneous impulse the little party huddled together, and turned their faces towards the fire, and saw coming down towards them a horse with the speed of the wind.
"Stand close!" said Penn; and he threw himself before Virginia, to shield her, shouting and swinging his hat to frighten the animal from his course.
"Stackridge's hoss!" exclaimed Cudjo, recovering from his fright, leaping up, and flinging abroad his long arms in the air. "Wiv some poor debil onter him's back!"
It was so. The little group stood motionless, chilled with horror. The beast came thundering on, with lips of terror parted, nostrils wide and snorting, mane and tail flying in the wild air, hoofs striking fire from the rocks. A human being—a man—was lying close to his neck, and clinging fast: the face hidden by the tossing and streaming mane: a fearful ride! the mystery surrounding him, and the awful glare and smoke, enhancing the horror of it.
Approaching the group on the ledge, the animal veered, and shot past them like a thunderbolt; clearing rocks, hollows, bushes, with incredible bounds; nearing the ravine, but halting not; dashing into the thickets there, missing suddenly the ground beneath his feet, striking only the air and yielding boughs with frantic hoofs; then plunging down with a dull, reverberant crash,—horse and unknown rider rolling together over rocks and spiked limbs to the bottom of the ravine.
Then all was still again: it had passed like a vision of fear.
For a moment the little group stood dumb and motionless on the ledge, in the flare of the vast flame-curtains. They looked at each other. Penn was the first to speak.
"Which of us goes down into the ravine?"
"Wha' fur?" said Cudjo.
"To find him!" And Penn gazed anxiously towards the thickets into which the horse and horseman had gone down.
"Dat no good! Deader 'n de debil, shore!"
"O, may be he is not!" exclaimed Virginia, full of compassion for the unfortunate unknown. "Do go and see, Cudjo!"
"Fire'll be dar in less'n no time. Him nuffin to Cudjo. We's best be gwine." And the negro started off, doggedly, towards the cave.
Then Penn took the resolution which he would have taken at once but for Virginia. "Stay with her, Daniel! I will go!"
Virginia turned pale; she had not thought of that. But immediately she controlled her fears: she would not be selfish: if he was brave and generous enough to descend into the ravine for one he did not know, she would be equally brave and generous, and let him go. She clasped her hands together so that they should not hold him back, and forced her lips to say,—
"I will wait for you here."
"No, I be durned if ye shall! Hapgood, you stick to her: take this yer gun, and I'll slip down inter the holler, and see whuther the cuss's alive or dead, any how."
"O, Mr. Pepperill, if you will!" said Virginia, overjoyed.
Penn remonstrated,—rather feebly, it must be confessed, for the determination to part from her had cost him a struggle, and the privilege of keeping by her side till all danger was past, seemed too sweet to refuse.
"I'll take her to her father, and hurry back, and meet you."
"All right!" came the response from Dan, already far down the rocks.
"The cave is close by," said Penn. "There is Cudjo, waiting for us!"
Coming up with the black, and once more following his lead, they descended along the shelf of rocks, between the thickets and the overhanging ledge. So they came to the still dark jaws of the cavern. A grateful coolness breathed in their faces from within. But how dismal the entrance seemed to eyes lately dazzled by the blazing woods! Virginia clung tightly to Penn's hand, as they groped their way in.
At first nothing was visible but a few smouldering embers, winking their sleepy eyes in the dark. Out of these Cudjo soon blew a little blaze, which he fed with sticks and bits of bark until it lighted up fitfully the dim interior and shadowy walls of his abode.
Penn hushed Virginia with a finger on his lips, and restrained her from throwing herself forward upon the rude bed, where the blind old man was just awaking from a sound sleep.
In that profound subterranean solitude the roar of the fiery breakers, dashing on the mountain side, was subdued to a faint murmur, less distinct than the dripping of water from roof to floor in the farther recesses of the cave. There, left alone, lulled by the dull, monotonous trickle,—thinking, if he heard the roar at all, that it was the mountain wind blowing among the pines,—Mr. Villars had slept tranquilly through all the horrors of that night.
"Is it you, Penn? Safe again!" And sitting up, he grasped the young man's hand. "What news from my dear girl?—from my two dear girls?" he added, remembering Virginia was not his only child.
"Toby did not come to the rock," said Penn, still holding Virginia back.
"O! did he not?" It seemed a heavy disappointment; but the patient old man rallied straightway, saying, with his accustomed cheerfulness, "No doubt something hindered him; no doubt he would have come if he could. My poor, dear girl, how I wish I could have got word to her that I am safe! But I thank you all the same; it was kind in you to give yourself all that trouble."
"I believe all is for the best," said Penn, his voice trembling.
"No doubt, no doubt. It will be some time before I can have the consolation of my dear girl's presence again; I, who never knew till now how necessary she is to my happiness,—I may say, to my very life!" Mr. Villars wiped a tear he could not repress, and smiled. "Yes, Penn, God knows what is best for us all. His will be done!"
But now Virginia could restrain herself no longer; her sobs would burst forth.
"Father! father!"—throwing herself upon his neck. "O, my dear, dear father!"
Penn had feared the effect of the sudden surprise upon the old and feeble man, and had meant to break the good news to him softly. But human nature was too strong; his own emotions had baffled him, and the pious little artifice proved a complete failure. So now he could do nothing but stand by and make grim faces, struggling to keep down what was mastering him, and turning away blindly from the bed.
Even Cudjo appeared deeply affected, staring stupidly, and winking something like a tear from the whites of his eyes at sight of the father embracing his child, and the white locks mingling with the wet, tangled curls on her cheek. He was a ludicrous, pathetic object, winking and staring thus; and Penn laughed and cried too, at sight of him.
"Luk dar!" said Cudjo, coming up to him, and pointing at the little walled chamber that served as his pantry. "She hab dat fur her dressum room. Sleep dar, too, if she likes."
"Thank you, Cudjo! it will be very acceptable, I am sure."
"Me clar it up fur her all scrumptious!" added the negro, with a grin.
Penn had thought of that. But now he had other business on his hands: he must hasten to find Pepperill: nor could he keep anxious thoughts of Stackridge and his friends out of his mind. And Pomp—where all this time was Pomp? He had hoped to find him and the patriots all safely arrived in the cave.
Virginia was seated on the bed by her father's side. Penn threw a blanket over the dear young shoulders, to shield her from the sudden cold of the cave; then left her relating her adventures,—beckoning to Cudjo, who followed him out.
"Cudjo!"—the black glided to his side as they emerged from the ravine,—"you must go and find Pomp."
Cudjo laughed and shrugged.
"No use't! Reckon Pomp take keer o' hisself heap better'n we's take keer on him!"
True. Pomp knew the woods. He was athletic, cautious, brave. But he had gone to extricate from peril others, in whose fate he himself might become involved. Cudjo refused to take this view of the matter; and it was evident that, while he comforted himself with his deep convictions of Pomp's ability to look out for his own safety, he was, to say the least, quite indifferent as to the welfare of the patriots.
Forgetting Dan and the unknown horseman in his great solicitude for his absent friends, Penn climbed the ledges, and gazed away in the direction of the camp, and beheld the forest there a raging gulf of fire.
Assuredly, they must have fled from it before this time; but whither had they gone? Had Pomp been able to find them? Or might they not all have become entangled in the intricacies of the wilderness until encompassed by the fire and destroyed?
Penn watched in vain for their coming—in vain for some signal of their safety on the crags above the forest. Had they reached the crags, he thought he might discover them somewhere with a glass, so vividly were those grim rock-foreheads of the hills lighted up beneath the red sky.
He sent Cudjo to find Dan, ran to the cave for Pomp's glass, and returned to the ledge. There he waited; there he watched; still in vain. Wider and wider, spread the destroying sea; fiercer and fiercer leaped the billows of flame—the billows that did not fall again, but broke away in rent sheets, in red-rolling scrolls, and vanished upward in their own smoke.
And now Penn, lowering the glass, perceived what he must long since have been made aware of, had not the greater light concealed the less. It was morning; a dull and sunless dawn; the despairing daylight, filtered of all warmth and color, spreading dim and gray on the misty valleys, and on the sombre, far-off hills, under an interminable canopy of cloud.
Pepperill came clambering up the rocks. Penn turned eagerly to meet and question him.
"Find him?"
"Wal, a piece on him."
"Killed?"
"I reckon he ar that!"
"Who is it?"
"Durned if I kin tell! He's jammed in thar 'twixt two gre't stuns, and the hoss is piled on top, and you can't see nary featur' of his face, only the legs,—but durned if I know the legs!"
"Couldn't you move the horse?"
"Nary a bit. His neck is broke, and he lays wedged so clust, right on top o' the poor cuss, 'twould take a yoke o' oxen to drag him out."
"Are you sure the man is dead?"
"Shore? I reckon! He had one arm loose. I jest lifted it, and it drapped jest like a club when I let go; then I see 'twas broke square off jest above the elbow, about where the backbone o' the hoss comes. Made me durned sick!"
"What have you got in your hand?"
"A boot—one o' his'n—thought I'd pull it off, his leg stuck up so kind o' handy; didn't know but some on ye might know the boot." And Dan held it up for Penn's inspection.
"What is this on it? Blood?"
"It ar so! Mebby it's the hoss's, and then agin mebby it's his'n; I hadn't noticed it afore."
"I'll go back with you, Daniel. Together perhaps we can move the horse."
"Ye're behind time for that! The fire's thar. I hadn't only jest time to git cl'ar on't myself. The poor cuss is a br'ilin'!"
"K-r-r-r! hi! don't ye har me callin'!" Cudjo sprang up the ledge. "Fire's a comin' to de cave! All in de brush dar! Can't get in widout ye go now!"
"And Pomp and the rest! They will be shut out, if they are not lost already!"
"Pomp know well 'nuff what him 'bout, tell ye! Gorry, massa! ye got to come, if Cudjo hab to tote ye!"
Yielding to his importunity, Penn quitted the ledge. On the shelf of rock Cudjo paused to gnash his teeth at the flames sweeping up towards them. He had long since recovered from his fit of superstitious frenzy. He had seen the fire burning the woods that sheltered him in his mountain retreat, instead of going intelligently to work to destroy the dwellings of the whites; and he no longer regarded it as a deity worthy of his worship.
"All dis yer brush be burnt up! Den nuffin' to hide Cudjo's house!"
"Don't despair, Cudjo. We will trust in Him who is God even of the fire."
Even as Penn spoke, he felt a cool spatter on his hand. He looked up; sudden, plashy drops smote his face.
"Rain! It is coming! Thank Heaven for the rain!"
At the same time, the wind shifted, and blew fitful gusts down the mountain. Then it lulled; and the rain poured.
"Cudjo, your thickets are saved!" said Penn, exultantly. Then immediately he thought of the absent ones, for whom the rain might be too late; of the beautiful forests, whose burning not cataracts could quench; of the unknown corpse far below in the ravine there, and the swift soul gone to God.
"What news?" asked the old man as he entered the cave.
"It is morning, and it rains; but your friends are still away.—The man is dead," aside to Virginia.
"Heaven grant they be safe somewhere!" said the old man. "And Pomp?"
"He is missing too."
There was a long, deep silence. A painful suspense seemed to hold every heart still, while they listened. Suddenly a strange noise was heard, as of a ghost walking. Louder and louder it sounded, hollow, faint, far-off. Was it on the rocks over their heads? or in caverns beneath their feet?
"Told ye so! told ye so!" said Cudjo, laughing with wild glee.
The fire had burnt low again, and he was in the act of kindling it, when a novel idea seemed to strike him, and, seizing a pan, he inverted it over the little remnant of a flame. In an instant the cave was dark. It was some seconds before the eyes of the inmates grew accustomed to the gloom, and perceived the glimmer of mingled daylight and firelight that shone in at the entrance.
"Luk a dar! luk a dar!" said Cudjo.
And turning their eyes in the opposite direction, they saw a faint golden glow in the recesses of the cave. The footsteps approached; the glow increased; then the superb dark form of Pomp advanced in the light of his own torch. Penn hastened to meet him, and to demand tidings of Stackridge's party.
Pomp first saluted Virginia, with somewhat lofty politeness, holding the torch above his head as he bowed. Then turning to Penn,—
"Your friends are all safe, I believe."
"All?" Penn eagerly asked, his thoughts on the luckless horseman. "None missing?"
"There were three absent when I reached their camp. They had gone on a foraging expedition. I found the rest waiting for them, standing their ground against the fire, which was roaring up towards them at a tremendous rate. Soon the foragers came in. They brought a basket of potatoes and a bag of meal, but no meat. Withers had caught a pig, but it had got away from him before he could kill it, and he lost it in the dark. The others were cursing the rascals who had set the woods afire, but Withers lamented the pig.
"'Gentlemen,' said I, 'you have not much time to mourn either for the woods or the pork. We must take care of ourselves.' And I offered to bring them here. But just then we heard a rushing noise; it sounded like some animal coming up the course of the brook; and the next minute it was amongst us—a big black bear, frightened out of his wits, singed by the fire, and furious."
"Your acquaintance of the gorge, Virginia!" said Penn.
"You will readily believe that such an unexpected supply of fresh meat, sent by Providence within their reach, proved a temptation to the hungry. Withers, in his hurry to make up for the loss of the pig, ran to head the fellow off, and attempted to stop him with his musket after it had missed fire. In an instant the gun was lying on the ground several yards off, and Withers was sprawling. The bear had done the little business for him with a single stroke of his paw; then he passed on, directly over Withers's body, which happened to be in his way, but which he minded no more than as if it had been a bundle of rags. All this time we couldn't fire a shot; there was the risk, you see, of hitting Withers instead of the bear. Even after he was knocked down, he seemed to think he had nothing more formidable than his stray pig to deal with, and tried to catch the bear by the tail as he ran over him."
"So ye lost de bar!" cried Cudjo, greatly excited. "Fool, tink o' cotchin' on him by de tail!"
"Still we couldn't fire, for he was on his legs again in a second, chasing the bear's tail directly before our muzzles," said Pomp, quietly laughing. "But luckily a stick flew up under his feet. Down he went again. That gave two or three of us a chance to send some lead after the beast. He got a wound—we tracked him by his blood on the ground—we could see it plain as day by the glare of light—it led straight towards the fire that was running up through the leaves and thickets on the north. I expected that when he met that he would turn again; but he did not: we were just in time to see him plough through it, and hear him growl and snarl at the flames that maddened him, and which he was foolish enough to stop and fight. Then he went on again. We followed. Nobody minded the scorching. We kept him in sight till he met the fire again—for it was now all around us. This time his heart failed him; he turned back only to meet us and get a handful of bullets in his head. That finished him, and he fell dead."
"Poor brute!" said Mr. Villars; "he found his human enemies more merciless than the fire!"
"That's so," said Pomp, with a smile. "But we had not much time to moralize on the subject then. The fire we had leaped through had become impassable behind us. The men hurried this way and that to find an outlet. They found only the fire—it was on every side of us like a sea—the spot where we were was only an island in the midst of it—that too would soon be covered. The bear was forgotten where he lay; the men grew wild with excitement, as again and again they attempted to break through different parts of the ring that was narrowing upon us, and failed. Brave men they are, but death by fire, you know, is too horrible!"
"How large was this spot, this island?" asked Penn.
"It might have comprised perhaps twenty acres when we first found ourselves enclosed in it. But every minute it was diminishing; and the heat there was something terrific. The men were rather surprised, after trying in vain on every side to discover a break in the circle of fire, to come back and find me calm.
"'Gentlemen,' said I, 'keep cool. I understand this ground perhaps better than you do. Don't abandon your game; you have lost your meal and potatoes, and you will have need of the bear.'
"'But what is the use of roast meat, if we are to be roasted too?' said Withers, who will always be droll, whatever happens.
"Then Stackridge spoke. He proposed that they should place themselves under my command; for I knew the woods, and while they had been running to and fro in disorder, I had been carefully observing the ground, and forming my plans. I laughed within myself to see Deslow alone hang back; he was unwilling to owe his life to one of my complexion—one who had been a slave. For there are men, do you know," said Pomp, with a smile of mingled haughtiness and pity, "who would rather that even their country should perish than owe in any measure its salvation to the race they have always hated and wronged!"
"I trust," said Mr. Villars, "that you had the noble satisfaction of teaching these men the lesson which our country too must learn before it can be worthy to be saved."
"I showed them that even the despised black may, under God's providence, be of some use to white men, besides being their slave: I had that satisfaction!" said Pomp, proudly smiling. "Stackridge was right: I had observed: I saw what I could do. On one side was a chasm which you know, Mr. Hapgood."
"Yes! I had thought of it! But I knew it was in the midst of the burning forest, and never supposed you could get to it."
"The fire was beyond; and it also burned a little on the side nearest to us. But the vegetation there is thin, you remember. The chasm could be reached without difficulty.
"'Follow me who will!' said I. 'The rest are at liberty to shirk for themselves.'
"'Follow—where?' said Deslow. I couldn't help smiling at the man's distress. All the rest were prepared to obey my directions; and it was hard for him to separate himself from them. But it seemed harder still for him to trust in me. I was not a Moses; I could not take them through that Red Sea. What then?
"I made for the chasm. All followed, even Deslow,—dragging and lugging the bear. We came to the brink. The place, I must confess, had an awful look, in the light of the trees burning all around it! Deslow was not the only one who shrank back then; for though the spot was known to some of them, they had never explored it, and could not guess what it led to. It was difficult, in the first place, to descend into it; it looked still more difficult ever to get out again; and there was nothing to prevent the burning limbs above from falling into it, or the trees that grew in it from catching fire. For this is the sink, Mr. Villars, which you have probably heard of,—where the woods have been undermined by the action of water in the limestone rocks, and an acre or more of the mountain has fallen in, with all its trees, so that what was once the roof of an immense cavern is now a little patch of the forest growing seventy feet below the surface of the earth. The sides are precipitous and projecting. Only one tree throws a strong branch upwards to the edge of the sink.
"'This way, gentlemen,' said I, 'and you are safe!'
"It was a trial of their faith; for I waited to explain nothing. First, I tumbled the bear off the brink. We heard him go crashing down into the abyss, and strike the bottom with a sound full of awfulness to the uninitiated. Then, with my rifle swung on my back, I seized the limb, and threw myself into the tree.
"'Where he can go, we can!' I heard Stackridge say; and he followed me. I took his gun, and handed it to him again when he was safe in the tree. He did the same for another; and so all got into the branches, and climbed down after us. The trunk has no limbs within twenty feet of the bottom, but there is a smaller tree leaning into it which we got into, and so reached the ground.
"'Now, gentlemen,' said I, when all were down, 'I will show you where you are.' And opening the bushes, I discovered a path leading down the rocks into the caverns, of which this cave is only a branch. Then I made them all take an oath never to betray the secret of what I had shown them. Then I lighted one of the torches Cudjo and I keep for our convenience when we come in that way, and gave it to them; lighted another for my own use; invited them to make themselves quite at home in my absence; left them to their reflections;—and here I am."
Still the mystery with regard to the unknown horseman was in no wise explained. Pomp, informed of what had happened, arose hastily. Penn followed him from the cave. Pepperill accompanied them, to show the way. It was raining steadily; but the thickets in which lay the dead horse and his rider were burning still.
"As I was going to Stackridge's camp," said Pomp, "I thought I saw a man crawling over the rocks above where the horse was tied. I ran up to find him, but he was gone. Peace to his ashes, if it was he!"
"Won't be much o' the cuss left but ashes!" remarked Pepperill.
Pomp ascended the ledges, and stood, silent and stern, gazing at the destruction of his beloved woods.
The winds had died. The fires had evidently ceased to spread. Portions of the forest that had been kindled and not consumed were burning now with slow, sullen combustion, like brands without flame. Stripped of their foliage, shorn of their boughs, and seen in the dull and smoky daylight, through the rain, they looked like a forest of skeletons, all of glowing coal, brightening, darkening, and ever crumbling away.
All at once Pomp seemed to rouse himself, and direct his attention more particularly at the part of the woods in which the patriots' camp had been.
"Come with me, Pepperill, if you would help do a good job!"
They started off, and were soon out of sight. As Penn turned from gazing after them, he heard a voice calling from the opposite side of the ravine. He looked, but could see no one. The figure to which the voice belonged was hidden by the bushes. The bushes moved, however; the figure was descending into the ravine. It arrived at the bottom, crossed, and began to ascend the steep side towards the cave. Penn concealed himself, and waited until it had nearly emerged from the thickets beneath him, and he could distinctly hear the breath of a man panting and blowing with the toil of climbing. Then a well-known voice said in a hoarse whisper,—
"Massa Hapgood! dat you?"
And peering over the bank, he saw, upturned in the rain and murky light, among the wet bushes, the black, grinning face of old Toby.
He responded by reaching down, grasping the negro's hand, and drawing him up.
The grin on the old man's face was a ghastly one, and his eyes rolled as he stammered forth,—
"Miss Jinny—ye seen Miss Jinny?"
Penn did not answer immediately; he was considering whether it would be safe to conduct Toby into the cave. Toby grew terrified.
"Don't say ye hain't seen her, Massa Penn! ye kill ol' Toby if ye do! I done lost her!" And the poor old faithful fellow sobbed out his story,—how Virginia had disappeared, and how, on discovering the woods to be on fire, he had set out in search of her, and been wandering he scarcely knew where ever since. "Now don't say ye don't know nuffin' about her! don't say dat!" falling on his knees, and reaching up his hands beseechingly, as if he had only to prevail on Penn tosaythat all was well with "Miss Jinny," and that would make it so. Such faith is in simple souls.
"I'll say anything you wish me to, good old Toby! only give me a chance."
"Den say youhasseen her."
"Ihas seen her," repeated Penn.
"O, bress you, Massa Penn! And she ar safe—say dat too!"
"She ar safe," said Penn, laughing.
"Bress ye for dat!" And Toby, weeping with joy, kissed the young man's hand again and again. "And ye knows whar she ar?"
"Yes, Toby! So now get up: don't be kneeling on the rocks here in the rain!"
"Jes' one word more! Say ye got her and ol' Massa Villars safe stowed away, and ye'll take me to see 'em; den dis ol' nigger'll bress you and de Lord and dem, and be willin' fur to die! only say dat, massa!"
"Ah! did I promise to say all you wished?"
"Yes, you did, you did so, Massa Penn!" cried Toby, triumphantly.
"Then I suppose I must say that, too. So come, you dear old simpleton! Cudjo!" to the proprietor of the cave, who just then put out his head to reconnoitre, "Cudjo! Here is your friend Toby, come to pay his master and mistress a visit!"
"What business he got hyar?" said Cudjo, crossly. "We's hab all de wuld, and creation besides, comin' bime-by!"
"Cudjo! You knows ol' Toby, Cudjo!" said Toby, in the softest and most conciliatory tone imaginable.
"Nose ye!" Cudjo snuffed disdainfully. "Yes! and wish you'd keep fudder off!"
"Why, Cudjo! don't you 'member Toby? Las' time I seed you! ye 'member dat, Cudjo!"
"Don't 'member nuffin'!"
"'Twan't you, den, got inter my winder, and done skeert me mos' t' def 'fore I found out 'twas my ol' 'quaintance Cudjo, come fur Massa Penn's clo'es! Dat ar wan't you, hey?" And Toby's honest indignation cropped out through the thin crust of deprecating obsequiousness which he still thought it politic to maintain.
Penn got under the shelter of the ledge, and waited for the dispute to end. It was evident to him that Cudjo was not half so ill-natured as he appeared; but, feeling himself in a position of something like official importance, he had the human weakness to wish to make the most of it.
"Your massa and missis bery well off. Dey in my house. No room dar for you. Ain't wanted hyar, nohow!" turning his back very much like a personage of lighter complexion, clad in brief authority.
"Ain't wanted, Cudjo? You don't know what you's sayin' now. Whar my ol' massa and young missis is, dar ol' Toby's wanted. Can't lib widout me, dey can't! Ol' massa wants me to nuss him. Ye don't tink—you's a nigger widout no kind ob 'sideration, Cudjo."
"Talk o' you nussin' him when him's got Pomp!"
"Pomp! what can Pomp do? Wouldn't trust him to nuss a chick sicken!" Toby talked backwards in his excitement.
"Ki! didn't him take Massa Hapgood and make him well? Don't ye know nuffin'?"
Toby seemed staggered for a moment. But he rallied quickly, and said,—
"He cure Massa Hapgood? He done jes' nuffin' 't all fur him. De fac's is, I had de nussin' on him for a spell at fust, and gib him a start. Dar's ebery ting in a start, Cudjo."
"O, what a stupid nigger!" said Cudjo. "Hyar's Massa Hapgood hisself! leab it to him now!"
"You are both right," said Penn. "Toby did nurse me, and give me a good start; for which I shall always thank him."
"Dar! tol' ye so, tol' ye so!" said Toby.
"But it was Pomp who afterwards cured me," added Penn.
"Dar! tol' you so!" cried Cudjo, while Toby's countenance fell.
"For while Toby is a capital nurse" (Toby brightened), "Pomp is a first-rate doctor" (Cudjo grinned). "So don't dispute any more. Shake hands with your old friend, Cudjo, and show him into your house."
Cudjo was still reluctant; but just then occurred a pleasing incident, which made him feel good-natured towards everybody. Pomp and Pepperill arrived, bringing the bag of meal and the basket of potatoes which the bear-hunters had forsaken in the woods, and which the rain had preserved from the fire.
Gad the "Sleeper" (he had earned that title) had been himself placed under guard for drinking too much of the prisoners' liquor, and suffering them to escape. Miserable, sullen, thirsty, he languished in confinement.
"Let 'em shoot me, and done with it, if that's the penalty," said this chivalrous son of the south; "only give a feller suthin' to drink!"
But that policy of the confederates, which opened the jails of the country, and put arms in the hands of the convicts, and pardoned every felon that would fight, might be expected to find a better use for an able-bodied fellow, like Gad, than to shoot him.
The use they found for him was this: He had been a mighty hunter before the Lord, ere he became too besotted and lazy for such sport; and he professed to know the mountains better than any other man. Accordingly, on the recommendation of his friend Lieutenant Ropes, it was resolved to send him to spy out the position of the patriots. It was an enterprise of some danger, and, to encourage him in it, he was promised two things—pardon for his offence, and, what was of more importance to him, a bottle of old whiskey.
"I'll see that you have light enough," said Ropes, significantly.
It was the evening of the firing of the forests. How well the lieutenant fulfilled his part of the engagement, we have seen.
Gad put the bottle in his pocket, and set off at dark by routes obscure and circuitous to get upon the trail of the patriots. How wellhesucceeded will appear by and by.
The burning of the forests caused a great excitement in the valley, especially among those families whose husbands and fathers were known to have taken refuge in them. Who had committed the barbarous act? The confederates denounced it with virtuous indignation, charging the patriots with it, of course. There was in the village but one witness who could have disputed this charge, and he now occupied Gad's place in the guard-house. It was the deserter Carl.
All the morning Gad's return was anxiously awaited. No doubt there were good reasons why he did not come. So said his friend Silas; and his friend Silas was right: there were good reasons.
"Anyhow, I kep' my word—I giv him light enough, I reckon!" chuckled Silas.
That was true: Gad had had light enough, and to spare.
The rain continued all the morning. Perhaps that was what detained the scout; for it was known that he had a great aversion to water.
In the afternoon came one with tidings from the mountain. It was not Gad. It was old Toby.
He was seized by some soldiers and taken before Captain Sprowl, at the school-house.
"Toby, you black devil, where have you been?" This was Lysander's chivalrous way of addressing an inferior whom he wished to terrify.
Now, if there was a person in the world whom Toby detested, it was this roving Lysander, who had disgraced the Villars family by marrying into it. However, he concealed his contempt with a politic hypocrisy worthy of a whiter skin.
"Please, sar," said the old negro, cap in hand, "I'se been lookin' for my ol' massa and my young missis."
"Well, what luck, you lying scoundrel?"
"O, no luck 't all, I 'sure you, sar!"
"What! couldn't you find 'em? Don't you lie, you ——." (We may as well omit the captain's energetic epithets.)
"O, sar!"—Toby looked up earnestly with counterfeit grief in his wrinkled old face,—"dey ain't nowhars on de face ob de 'arth!"
"Not on the face of the earth!"
"If dey is, den de fire's done burnt 'em all up. I seen, down in a big holler, a place whar somebody's been burnt, shore! Dar's a man, and a hoss on top on him, and de hoss's har am all burnt off, and de man's trouse's-legs am all burnt off too, and one foot's got a fried boot onto it, and tudder han't got nuffin' on, but jes' de skin and bone all roasted to a crisp; and I 'specs dar's 'nuff sight more dead folks down in dar, on'y I didn't da's to look, it make me feel so skeerylike!"
All which, and much more, Toby related so circumstantially, that Captain Sprowl was strongly impressed with the truth of the story. Great, therefore, was the joy of the captain. Perhaps the patriots had been destroyed: he hoped so! Still more ardently he hoped that Virginia had perished with her father. For was he not the husband of Salina? and the snug little Villars property, did he not covet it?
"Can you show me that spot, Toby?"
"'Don'o', sar: I specs I could, sar."
"Don't you forget about it! Now, Toby, go home to your mistress,—my wife's your mistress, you know,—and wait till you are wanted."
"Yes, sar,"—bowing, and pulling his foretop.
Captain Sprowl did not overhear the irrepressible chuckle of satisfaction in which the old negro indulged as he retired, or he would have perceived that he had been trifled with. We are apt to be extremely credulous when listening to what we wish to believe; and Lysander's delight left no room in his heart for suspicion. All he desired now was that Gad should appear and confirm Toby's report; for surely Gad must know something about the dead horse and the dead man under him; and why did not the fellow return?
As for Toby, he hastened home as fast as his tired old legs could carry him, chuckling all the way over his lucky escape, and the cunning answers by which he had mystified the captain without telling a downright falsehood. "Ob course, dey ain't on de face ob de 'arth, long as dey's inside on't! Hi, hi, hi!"
He did not greatly relish reporting himself to Salina: nevertheless, he had been ordered to do so, not only by the captain, but by those whose authority he respected more.
Salina, though so bitter, was not without natural affection, and she had suffered much and waited anxiously ever since Toby, terrified into the avowal of his belief that Virginia was in the burning woods, had set out in search of her. She was not patient; she was wanting in religious trust. She had not slept. All night and all day she had tortured herself with terrible fancies. Instead of calming her spirit with prayer, she had kept it irritated with spiteful thoughts against what she deemed her evil destiny.
There are certain natures to which every misfortune brings a blessing; for, whatever it may take away, it is sure to leave that divine influence which comes from resignation and a deepened sense of reliance upon God. Such a nature was the old clergyman's. Every blow his heart had received had softened it; and a softened heart is a well of interior happiness; it is more precious to its possessor than all outward gifts of friends and fortune. Such a nature, too, was Virginia's. She too, through all things, kept warm in her bosom that holy instinct of faith, that blessed babe named Love, ever humbly born, whose life within is a light that transfigures the world. To such, despair cannot come; for when the worst arrives, when all they cherished is gone, heaven is still left to them; and they look up and smile. To them sorrow is but a preparation for a diviner joy. All things indeed work together for their good; since, whether fair fortune comes, or ill, they possess the spiritual alchemy that transmutes it into blessing.
This love, this faith, Salina lacked. She fostered in their place that selfishness and discontent which sour the soul. Every blow upon her heart had hardened it. Every trial embittered and angered her. Hence the swollen and flaming eyes, the impatient and scowling looks, with which she met the returning Toby.
"Where is Virginia?"
"Dat I can't bery well say, Miss Salina," replied Toby, scratching his woolly head. He would never sacrifice his family pride so far as to call her Mrs. Sprowl.
"How dare you come back without her?" And she heaped upon him the bitterest reproaches. It was he who, through his cowardice, had been the cause of Virginia's night adventure. It was he who had ruined everything by concealing her departure until it was too late. Then he might have found her, if he had so resolved. But if he could not, why had he remained absent all day?
Under this sharp fire of accusations Toby stood with ludicrous indifference, grinning, and scratching his head. At length he scratched out of it a little roll of paper that had been confided to his wool for safe keeping, in case he should be seized and searched. It fell upon the floor. He hastily snatched it up, and gave it, with obsequious alacrity, to Mrs. Sprowl. She took, unrolled it, and read. It was a pencilled note in the handwriting of Virginia.
"Dear Sister: Thanks to a kind Providence and to kind friends, we are safe. I was rescued last night from the most frightful dangers in the burning woods. I had come, without your knowledge, to get news of our dear father. I am now with him. He has excellent shelter, and devoted attendants; but the comforts of his home are wanting, and I have learned how much he is dependent upon us for his happiness. For this reason I shall remain with him as long as I can. To relieve your mind we send Toby back to you. V."
That evening Captain Sprowl entered the house of the absent Mr. Villars with the air of one who had just come into possession of that little piece of property. He nodded with satisfaction at the walls, glanced approvingly at the furniture, curved his lip rather contemptuously at the books (as much as to say, "I'll sell off all that sort of rubbish"), and expressed decided pleasure at sight of old Toby. "Worth eight hundred dollars, that nigger is!" He had either forgotten that Mr. Villars had given Toby his freedom, or he believed that, under the new order of things, in a confederacy founded on slavery, such gifts would not be held valid.
"Well, Sallie, my girl,"—throwing himself into the old clergyman's easy chair,—"here we are at home! Bring me the bootjack, Toby."
"I don't know about your being at home!" said Salina, indignantly.
And it was evident that Toby did not know about bringing the bootjack. He looked as if he would have preferred to jerk the chair from beneath the sprawling Lysander, and break it over him.
"I suppose Toby has told you the news? Awful news! a fearful dispensation of Providence! Pepperill came in this afternoon and confirmed it. We thought he had deserted, but it appears he had only got lost in the woods. He reports some dead bodies in a ravine, and his account tallies very well with Toby's. We'll wear mourning, of course, Sallie."
Lysander stroked his chin. Mrs. Lysander tapped the floor with her impatient foot, gnawed her lip, and scowled.
"Come, my dear!" said the captain, coaxingly; "we may as well understand each other. Times is changed. I tell ye, I'm going to be one of the big men under the new government. Now, Sal, see here. I'm your husband, and there's no getting away from it. And what's the use of getting away from it, even if we could? Let's settle down, and be respectable. We've had quarrels enough, and I've got tired of 'em. Toby, why don't you bring that bootjack?"
Lysander swung his chair around towards Salina. She turned hers away from him, still knitting her brows and gnawing that disdainful lip.
"Now what's the use, Sal? Since the way is opened for us to live together again, why can't you make up your mind to it, let bygones be bygones, and begin life over again? When I was a poor devil, dodging the officers, and never daring to see you except in the dark, I couldn't blame you for feeling cross with me; for it was a cursed miserable state of things. But you're a captain's wife now. You'll be a general's wife by and by. I shall be off fighting the battles of my country, and you'll be proud to hear of my exploits."
Salina was touched. Weary of the life she led, morbidly eager for change, she was a secessionist from the first, and had welcomed the war. Moreover, strange as it may seem, she loved this worthless Lysander. She hated him for the misery he had caused her; she was exceedingly bitter against him; yet love lurked under all. She was secretly proud to see him a captain. It was hard to forgive him for all the wrongs she had suffered; but her heart was lonely, and it yearned for reconciliation. Her scornful lip quivered, and there was a convulsive movement in her throat.
"Go away!" she exclaimed, violently, as he approached to caress her. "I am as unhappy as I can be! O, if I had never seen you! Why do you come to torture me now?"
This passion pleased Lysander: it was a sign that her spirit was breaking. He caught her in his arms, called her pet names, laughed, and kissed her. And this woman, after all, loved to be called pet names, and kissed.
"Toby! you devil!" roared Lysander, "why don't you bring that bootjack?"
The old negro stood behind the door, with the bootjack in his hand, furious, ready to hurl it at the captain's head. He hesitated a moment, then turned, discreetly, and flung it out of the kitchen window.
"Ain't a bootjack nowars in de house, sar!"
"Then come here yourself!"
And the gay captain made a bootjack of the old negro.
"Now shut up the house and go to bed!" he said, dismissing him with a kick.
After Toby had retired, and Salina had wiped her eyes, and Lysander had got his feet comfortably installed in the old clergyman's slippers, the long-estranged couple grew affectionate and confidential.