CHAPTER XXXII.SUSPICION.

CHAPTER XXXII.SUSPICION.

Maude De Vere had insisted that Captain Carleton should have her room, inasmuch as he would be more secure there; for, if the house was suspected and searched, a catastrophe Paul Haverill was constantly anticipating, no one would be likely to invade the sanctity of her apartment.

And Tom found it so very pleasant, and quiet, and home-like, that he was not at all indisposed to linger for several days, particularly after Paul found an opportunity for sending to the Federal lines a letter, which would tell the anxious friends in Rockland of his safety. This letter, which was directed to Mrs. William Mather, had been the direct means of Tom’s ascertaining that his brother-in-law was not only alive, but had once shared in the hospitalities now so freely extended to himself. After learning this, Tom could not forbear tearing open the envelope, and adding in a postscript:

“I have just heard that Will was, not many weeks since, a guest in this very house where I am so kindly cared for. God bless the noble man who has saved so many lives, and the beautiful girl, his niece. I cannot say enough in her praise. I do believe she would die for a Unionist any day. Will, it seems, did not see her, as shewas away when he was here; and perhaps it is just as well for you, little Rose, that he did not. There is something in her eye, and voice, and carriage, which stirs strange thoughts and feelings in the hearts of us, savages, who have so long been deprived of ladies’ society. She is a very queen among women.”

That postscript was a most unlucky thought. The first part of Tom’s letter had been so guarded with regard to the people who befriended him, that no harm to them could possibly have accrued from its falling into hostile hands; but in the postscript he forgot himself, and assumed forms of speech which pointed directly to Paul Haverill and his niece, Maude De Vere. And so the guerrillas, who caught and half killed the refugee entrusted with the letter, set themselves at once at work to find the “noble man who had the beautiful niece.” It was not a difficult task; and Paul Haverill, who had been looked upon as so rank a Secessionist, was suddenly suspected of treason.

Paul was popular and dangerous; while Maude De Vere, whose principles were well known, was too much beloved by the rough mountaineers, to allow of harm falling upon her at once. But the writer of that letter,—the “Yankee Carleton”—should not go unpunished, and just at sunset one afternoon, Lois, who had been at a neighboring cabin, came hurrying home, with that ashen hue upon her dark face which is the negro’s sign of paleness.

“Mass’r Paul was suspicioned of harborin’ somebody,” she said; and already the hordes of mountaineers were assembling around the Cross Roads, and concerting measures for surprising and entrapping the Yankee. “Chloe tell me she hear ’em say if they was perfectly sure ’bout mass’r, and it wasn’t for Miss Maude, they’dset the house on fire; and they looks mighty like they’s fit to do it. The wust faces, Miss Maude, and they doesswarawful ’bout the Yankee. They’s got halters, and tar and feathers, and guns”

Lois was out of breath by this time, and even if she had not been, she would have paused with wonder at the face of her young mistress. Maude had listened intently to the first part of Lois’s story, but felt no emotion save that of scorn and contempt for the men assembled at the Cross Roads, and whom “Uncle Paul could manage so easily;” but when it came to the halter for the Yankee, her face turned white as marble, and in that moment of peril, she realized all that Captain Carleton was to her, and knew what had been the result of the last week’s daily intercourse with one so gifted and so congenial. She knew too that he was not for her. Arthur Tunbridge stood in the way of that. She would keep her faith with him, but she would save Captain Carleton, or die.

“Lois,” she said, and there was no tremor in her voice, “bring that dress I gave you last Christmas,—the one you think is so long. Your shawl and bonnet, too, and shoes; bring them to Captain Carleton’s room.”

Lois comprehended her mistress at once, and hurried away to her cabin after the dress, whose extra length she had so often deplored, saying “it wasn’t for such as her to wear switchin’ trains like the grand folks.”

Meanwhile Maude had communicated with her uncle, who manifested no concern except for his guest, and even for him he had no fears provided he could reach the cave in safety. To accomplish that was Maude’s object, and as the Cross Roads lay in that direction a great amount of tact and skill was necessary. ButMaude was equal to any emergency, and half an hour later there issued from Paul Haverill’s door, two figures clad in female garments, and whom a casual observer would have sworn were Maude De Vere and her servant Lois. Maude had a revolver in her pocket, and another in the basket she carried so carefully, and which was supposed to contain the cups of jelly and custard she was taking a poor sick neighbor, whose house was up the mountain path. At her side, with the shuffling gait peculiar to Lois, Tom Carleton walked, his nicely blackened face hidden in the deep shaker which Lois had worn for years, and his calico dress flopping awkwardly about his feet. Lois fortunately was very tall, and so her skirts did good service for the young man, whose powers of imitation were perfect, and who walked and looked exactly like the old colored woman watching his progress from an upper window, and declaring that she would almost “swar it was herself.”

At her side stood Charlie, a round spot of red burning on either pale cheek, and his slender hands grasping a revolver, while occasionally his blue eyes looked eagerly along the mountain road, which as yet was quiet and lonely.

“I never thought to raise my hand against my own people,” he said, “but if they harm Uncle Paul I shall shoot somebody.”

The sun had been gone from sight for some little time, and the tall mountain shadows were lying thick and black across the valley, when up the road several horsemen came galloping, and Paul Haverill’s house was ere long surrounded by a band of as rough, savage looking men as could well be found in the mountains of Tennessee.

Calmly and fearlessly Paul Haverill went out to meetthem, asking why they were there, and why they seemed so much excited.

For a moment his old power over them asserted itself again, and they hesitated to charge him with treason, as they intended doing. But only for a brief space was there a calm, and then amid oaths and imprecations, and taunting sneers, and threats, they told him of the letter, and deriding him as a traitor, demanded the sneaking Yankee who had written that letter, and was now hidden in the house. To reason with such people was useless, and Paul Haverill did not try it. Standing upon his doorstep, with his grey hair blowing in the evening wind, and his hands deep in his pockets, he said,

“I admit your charge in part. Therehasbeen a Union soldier in my house,—an escaped prisoner from Columbia. Ididcare for him, and I am neither ashamed nor afraid to own it. Fear is a stranger to old Paul Haverill, as any of you who tries to harm him will find.”

“Never mind a speech, Paul,” said the leader of the men. “Nobody wants to hurtyou, though you deserve hanging, perhaps. What we want is the Yankee. Fetch him out, and let’s see how he’ll look dangling in the air.”

“Yes, fetch him out,” yelled a dozen voices in chorus. “Bring out the Yankee, we want him. Hallo, puny face, are you a bad egg, too?” they continued, as Charlie appeared in the door.

“Shall I fire, Uncle Paul?” Charlie asked, and his uncle replied,

“By no means, unless you would have them on us like wolves. Friends,” and he turned to the mob, which had been increased by some twenty or more, “friends, that man is gone; he is not here; he has left my house. You can search it if you like.”

“Where’s Miss De Vere?” a coarse voice cried. “Weknow her to be Union. She never tried to cover that as you, hoary old villain, did. She was out and out. Let her come and say the Yankee is gone and we will believe her.”

“My niece, I regret to say, is not just now in either. She is gone with Lois to take some nicknacks to a sick neighbor.”

“That’s so, boys. I met her myself as I came down the mountain,” called out a young man of the company, who seemed to be superior to his associates.

“Gone with Lois, hey? Then whose woolly pate is that?” responded a drunken brute, who, rising in his stirrups, fired a shot toward the garret window from which Lois in an unguarded moment had thrust her head.

Others had seen her, too, and as this gave the lie to the story that Lois was gone, the maddened crowd pressed against the house, declaring their intention to search it and hang any runaway they might find secreted here. It never occurred to them that the runaway could have been with Maude in Lois’s clothes; but the young man who met the two lone women saw the ruse at once, and influenced by Maude’s beauty and the remembrance of the sweet “Good evening, Mark,” with which she had greeted him as he passed, he made his way to Charlie’s side and whispered,

“If you know where your sister has gone, and can warn her, do so at once. Tell her if she is tolerably safe to stay there and not return here to-night.”

Charlie needed no second bidding, and stealing from the rear of the house he was soon speeding up the mountain path in the direction of the cave. Meanwhile the search in Paul Haverill’s house went on. Closets were thrown open; beds were torn to pieces; cellars wereransacked, and old Lois was dragged from the ash-house, where she had taken refuge, while, worse than all, Tom Carleton’s boots were found in the chamber where he had dressed so hurriedly, and the sight of these maddened the excited crowd, which, failing of finding their victim, began to clamor for Paul Haverill’s blood. But Paul kept them at bay. In the rear of the house was a small, dark room, to which there was but one entrance, and that a steep narrow stairway. Here Paul Haverill took refuge, and standing at the head of the stairs threatened to shoot the first man who should attempt to come up. They had not yet reached that state when they counted their lives as nothing, and so amid yells and oaths, and riding up and down the road, and drinking the fine grape wines with which the cellar was stocked, the hours of the short summer night wore on until just as the dawn was breaking in the east, the marauders put the finishing touch to their night’s debauch by setting fire to the house, and then starting in a body up the mountain side in the direction of the cave.

Back to IndexNext