The Bondwoman

“What’s that, Kenneth? You to command a brigade?”

“So they tell me,” assented McVeigh. “The commission just reached me.”

“Good enough! Do you hear that, Gertrude? A Brigadier-General at twenty-five. Well, I don’t see what more a man could want.”

“I do,” he said, softly, to Judithe, so softly that she felt rather than heard the words, to which his eyes bore witness. Then he turned to reply to Mr. Loring’s questions of military movements.

“No, I can’t give you much special information today,” and he smiled across at Monroe, when Loring found fault with the government officials who veiled their plans and prospects from the taxpayers–the capitalists of the South who made the war possible. “But the instructions received lead me to believe a general movement of much importance is about to be made in our department, and my opportunities will be all a soldier could wish.”

“So you have become a Brigadier-General instead of the Lieutenant we knew only three years ago,” and Judithe’s eyes rested on him graciously for an instant, as Monroe and Gertrude helped Loring out to the wheeled chair on the lawn. “You travel fast–you Americans! I congratulate you.”

She had arisen and crossed the room to the little writing desk in the corner. He followed with his eyes her graceful walk and the pretty fluttering movements of her hands as she drew out note paper and busied herself rather ostentatiously. He smiled as he noticed it; she was afraid of a tete-a-tete; she was trying to run away, if only to the farther side of the room.

“I shall consider myself a more fit subject for congratulation if you prove more kind to the General than you were to the Lieutenant.”

“People usually are,” she returned lightly. “I do not fancy you will have much of unkindness to combat, except from the enemy.”

Evilena entered the room humming an air, and her brother remarked carelessly that the first of the enemy to invade their domain was not very formidable at present, though Captain Jack Monroe had made a fighting record for himself in the western campaign. Judithe did not appear particularly interested in the record of the Northern campaign, but Evilena, who had been too much absorbed in the question of wardrobe to keep informed of the late arrivals, fairly gasped at the name.

“Really and truly, is that Yankee here?” she demanded, “right here in the house? Caroline said it wasn’t a Yankee–just some friend of yours.”

“So he is.”

“And–a–Yankee?”

He nodded his head and smiled at her. Judithe had picked up a pen and was writing. Evilena glanced towards her for assistance in this astonishing state of affairs, but no one appeared to be shocked but herself.

“Well!” she said, at last, resignedly, “since we are to have any Yankee here, I’m glad it’s the one Gertrude met at Beaufort. I’ve been conjuring up romances about them ever since, and I am curious to see if he looks like the Jack Monroe in the song.”

“Not likely,” said her brother, discouragingly, “he is the least romantic hero for a song you can imagine; but if you put on your prettiest dress and promise not to fight all the battles of the war over with him, I’ll manage that you sit beside him at dinner and make romances about him at closer range, if you can find the material.”

“To think of me dressing my prettiest for a Yankee! and oh, Ken, I can’t dress so astonishingly pretty, either. I’m really,” and she sighed dejectedly, “down to my last party dress.”

“Well, that’s better than none.”

“None!” she endeavored to freeze him with a look, but his smile forbade it, and she left the room, singing

“Just as she stepped on ship board,‘Your name I’d like to know?’And with a smile she answered,‘My name is Jack Monroe.’”

“Thanks; glad to find so charming a namesake,” said a deep voice, and she looked up to see a tall man gazing down at her with a smile so kindly she should never have guessed he was a Yankee but for the blue uniform.

“Oh!” she blushed deliciously, and then laughed. There really was no use trying to be dignified with a stranger after such a meeting as that.

“I never did mean to steal your name, Captain Monroe,” she explained, “for you are Captain Monroe?”

“Yes, except when I am Jack,” and then they both smiled.

“Oh, I’ve known Jack was your name, too, for this long time,” she said, with a little air of impressing him with her knowledge; “but I couldn’t call you that, except in the song.”

“May I express the hope that you sing the song often?” he asked, with an attempt at gravity not entirely successful.

“But you don’t know who I am, do you?” and when he shook his head sadly she added, “but of course you’ve heard of me; I’m Evilena.”

“Evilena?”

“Evilena McVeigh,” she said, with a trifle of emphasis.

“Oh, Kenneth’s sister?” and he held out his hand. “I’m delighted to know you.”

“Thank you.” She let her hand rest in his an instant, and then drew it away, with a little gasp.

“There! I’ve done it after all.”

“Anything serious?” he inquired.

She nodded her head; “I’ve broken a promise.”

“Not past repair, I hope.”

“Oh, it’s only a joke to you, but it really is serious to me. When the boys I know all started North with the army I promised I’d never shake hands with a Yankee.”

“Promised them all?” he asked, and without waiting for a reply, he continued: “Now, that’s a really extraordinary coincidence; I entertained the same idea about Johnnie Rebs.”

“Really?” and she looked quite relieved at finding a companion in iniquity; “but you did shake hands?”

“Yes.”

“Are you sorry?”

“No; are you?”

“N–no.”

And when Delaven went to look for Evilena to tell her they were to have lunch on the lawn (Mrs. McVeigh had installed him as master of ceremonies for the day), he found her in the coziest, shadiest nook on the veranda, entertaining a sample copy of the enemy, and assuring him that the grey uniforms would be so much more becoming than the blue.

CHAPTER XXIV

Noon. Colonel McVeigh had been at the Terrace already a half day, and no sign had come from Pierson–no message of any sort. Judithe called Pluto and asked if the mail did not leave soon for down the river, and suggested that when he took it to the office he would ask the man in charge to look carefully lest any letters should have been forgotten from the night before.

“Yes’m, mail go ’bout two hours now,” and he looked up at the clock. “I go right down ask ’bout any letters done been fo’got. But I don’ reckon any mail to go today; folks all too busy to write lettahs.”

“No; I–I–I will have a letter to go,” and she turned toward the desk. “How soon will you start?”

“Hour from now,” said Pluto, “that will catch mail all right;” and with that she must be content. At any other time she would have sent him at once without the excuse of a letter to be mailed. Those easy-going folk who handled the mail might easily have overlooked some message–a delay of twenty-four hours would mean nothing in their sleepy lives. But today she was unmistakably nervous–all the more reason for exceeding care.

She had begun the letter when Colonel McVeigh came for her to go to lunch; she endeavored to make an excuse–she was not at all hungry, really, it appeared but an hour since the breakfast; but perceiving that if she remained he would remain also, she arose, saying she would join their little festival on the lawn long enough for a cup of tea, she had a letter to get ready for the mail within an hour.

She managed to seat herself where she could view the road to the south, but not a horseman or footman turned in at the Terrace gate. She felt the eyes of Monroe on her; also the eyes of Gertrude Loring. How much did they know or suspect? She was feverishly gay, though penetrated by the feeling that the suspended sword hung above her. Pierson’s non-appearance might mean many things appalling–and Louise!

All these chaotic thoughts surging through her, and ever beside her the voice of Kenneth McVeigh, not the voice alone, but the eyes, at times appealing, at times dominant, as he met her gaze, and forbade that she be indifferent.

“Why should you starve yourself as well as me?” he asked, softly, when she declined the dishes brought to her, and made pretense of drinking the cup of tea he offered.

“You–starving?” and the slight arching of the dark brows added to the note of question.

“Yes, for a word of hope.”

“Really? and what word do you covet?”

“The one telling me if the Countess Biron’s gossip was the only reason you sent me away.”

Mrs. McVeigh looked over at the two, well satisfied that Kenneth was giving attention to her most distinguished guest. Gertrude Loring looked across to the couple on the rustic seat and felt, without hearing, what the tenor of the conversation was. Kenneth McVeigh was wooing a woman who looked at him with slumbrous magnetic eyes and laughed at him. Gertrude envied her the wooing, but hated her for the laughter. All her life Kenneth McVeigh had been her ideal, but to this finished coquette of France he was only the man of the moment, who contributed to her love of power, her amusement. For the girl, who was his friend, read clearly the critical, half contemptuous gleams, alternating at times the graciousness of Madame Caron’s dark eyes. She glanced at Monroe, and guessed that he was no more pleased than herself at the tete-a-tete there, and that he was quite as watchful.

And the cause of it all met Colonel McVeigh’s question with a glance, half alluring, half forbidding, as she sipped the tea and put aside the cup.

“How persistent you are,” she murmured. “If you adopt the same methods in warfare I do not wonder at your rapid promotions. But I shan’t encourage it a moment longer; you have other guests, and I have a letter to write.”

She crossed to Mrs. McVeigh, murmured a few words of excuse, exchanged a smile with Evilena, who declared her a deserter from their ranks, and then moved up the steps to the veranda and passed through the open window into the library, pausing for a little backward glance ere she entered; and the people on the lawn who raised their glasses to her, did not guess that she looked over their heads, scanning the road for the expected messenger.

Looking at the clock she seated herself, picked up the pen, and then halted, holding her hand out and noting the trembling of it.

“Oh, you fool! You woman!” she said, through her closed teeth.

She commenced one letter, blotted it in her nervous impatience, turned it aside and commenced another, when Captain Monroe appeared at the window with a glass of wine in his hand.

“Why this desertion from the ranks?” he asked, jestingly, yet with purpose back of the jest. She recognized, but ignored it.

“That you might be detailed for special duty, perhaps, Captain Jack,” she replied, without looking around.

“I have to look up stragglers,” and he crossed to the desk where she sat. “I even brought you a forgotten portion of your lunch.”

She looked up at that, saw the glass, and shook her head; “No, no wine for me.”

“But it would be almost treasonable to refuse this,” he insisted. “In the first place it is native Carolina wine we are asked to take; and in the second, it is a toast our bear of the swamps–Mr. Loring–has proposed, ‘our President.’ I evaded my share by being cup-bearer to you.” He offered the glass and looked at her, meaningly, “Will you drink?”

“Only when you drink with me,” she said, and smiled at the grim look touching his face for an instant.

“To the President of the Southern Confederacy?” he asked.

“No!–to our President!”

She took the glass, touched the wine to her lips, and offered the remainder to him, just as Colonel McVeigh entered from the lawn. He heard Captain Monroe say, “With all my heart!” as he emptied the glass. The scene had such a sentimental tinge that he felt a swift flash of jealousy, and realized that Monroe was a decidedly attractive fellow in his own cool, masterful way.

“Ah! a tryst at mid-day?” he remarked, with assumed lightness.

“No; only a parley with the enemy,” she said, and he passed out into the hall, picking up his hat from the table, where he had tossed it when he entered in the morning.

Monroe walked up to the window and back again. She heard him stop beside her, but did not look up.

“I have almost decided to take your advice, and remain only one night instead of two,” he said, at last. “I can’t approve what you are doing here. I can’t help you, and I can’t stay by and be witness to the enchantment which, for some reason, you are weaving around McVeigh.”

“Enchantment?”

“Well, I can’t find a better word just now. I can’t warn him; so I will leave in the morning.”

“I really think it would be better,” she said, looking up at him frankly. “Of all the American men I have met I value your friendship most; yes, it is quite true!” as he uttered a slight exclamation. “But there are times when even our good angels hamper us, and just now I am better, much better, alone.”

“If I could help you–”

“You could not,” she said hastily. “Even without the barrier of the parole, you could not. But I cannot talk. I am nervous, not myself today. You saw how clumsy I was when I brought the letter to show?–and after all did not get to show it. Well, I have been like that all day. I have grown fearful of everything–distrustful of every glance. Did you observe the watchfulness of Miss Loring on the lawn? Still, what does it matter?”

She leaned her head on her hands for a few moments. He stood and looked at her somberly, not speaking. When she turned towards him again it was to ask in a very different tone if he would touch the bell–it was time for Pluto to start with the mail. When he entered she found that a necessary address book had been left in her own apartments.

“You get the mail bag while I go for it, Pluto,” she said after tossing the papers about in a vain search; “and Captain Monroe, will you look over this bit of figures for me? It is an expense list for my yacht, I may need it today and have a wretched head for business details of that sort. I am helpless in them.”

Then she was gone, and Monroe, with a pencil, noted the amount, corrected a trifling mistake, and suddenly became conscious that the grave, most attentive, black man, was regarding him in a manner inviting question.

“Well, my man, what is it?” he asked, folding up the paper, and speaking with so kindly a smile that Pluto stumbled eagerly into the heart of questions long deferred.

“Jes’ a word, Mahs Captain. Is it true you been took prisoner? Is it true the Linkum men are whipped?”

“Well, if they are they don’t know it; they are still fighting, any way.”

“If–if they win,” and Pluto looked around nervously as he asked the question, “will it free us, Mahs Captain? We niggahs can’t fine out much down heah. Yo’ see, sah, fust off they all tell how the Nawth free us sure if the Nawth won the battles. Then–then word done come how Mahsa Linkum nevah say so. Tell me true, Mahs Captain, will we be free?”

His eagerness was so intense, Monroe hesitated to tell him the facts. He understood, now, why the dark face had been watching him so hungrily ever since his arrival.

“The men who make the laws must decide those questions, my man,” he said, at last. ‘In time freedom certainly will be arranged for–but–”

“But Mahsa Linkum ain’t done said it yet–that it, Mahsa?”

“Yes, that’s it.”

“Thank yo’, sah,” and Monroe heard him take a deep breath, sad as tears, when he turned into the hall for the mail bag.

A stranger was just coming up the steps, a squarely built, intelligent-eyed man, with a full dark beard; his horse, held by one of the boys under a shade tree, showed signs of hard riding, and the fact that he was held instead of stabled, showed that the call was to be brief.

The servants were clearing away the lunch things. Mrs. McVeigh had entered the house. Delaven and Gertrude were walking beside Loring’s chair, wheeled by Ben, along the shady places. Evilena was coming towards them from across the lawn, pouting because of an ineffectual attempt to catch up with Ken, whom she fancied she saw striding along the back drive to the quarters, but he had walked too fast, and the hedge had hidden him. She came back disappointed to be asked by Delaven what sort of uniform she was pursuing this time, to which he very properly received no reply except such as was vouchsafed by silent, scornful lips and indignant eyes.

Masterson, who was walking thoughtfully alone, noted this distribution of the people as the stranger dismounted, inquired of Caroline for Madame Caron, and was received by Pluto at the door. The man wore a dark blue suit, plain but for a thin cord of gold on collar and sleeve. He did not recognize it as a uniform, yet instinctively associated it with that other blue uniform whose wearer had caused him an annoyance he would not soon forget. He was there alone now with Madame Caron for whom this stranger was asking. He wondered if Colonel McVeigh was there also, but concluded not, as he had seen him on the western veranda with his hat on. All these thoughts touched him and passed on as he stood there looking critically at the dusty horse.

At the same moment he heard the thud, thud of another horse turning in at the Terrace gates; the rider was leaning forward as though urging the animal to its utmost. At sight of Masterson he threw up his hand to attract attention, and the others on the lawn stared at this second tumultuous arrival and the haste Captain Masterson made to hear what he had to say–evidently news of importance from the coast or the North.

Loring hoped it meant annihilation of some Yankee stronghold, and Evilena hoped it did not mean that Kenneth must leave before the party.

The man whom Pluto showed into the library with the information that Madame Caron would be down at once, glanced about him quickly, and with annoyance, when he found there was another man in the room. But the instant Monroe’s face was seen by him, he uttered an exclamation of pleasure.

“By Jove! Captain Jack?” and he turned to him eagerly, after noting that Pluto had left the door.

“I don’t think I know you, sir, though you evidently know one of my names,” and his tone was not particularly cordial as he eyed the stranger.

“Don’t you remember the night run you made on the yacht Marquise, last March?” and the man’s tone was low and hurried. “I had no beard then, which makes a difference. This trip is not quite so important, but has been more annoying. I’ve been followed, have doubled like a hare for hours, and don’t believe I’ve thrown them off the track after all. I have a message to deliver; if I can’t see Madame alone at once you get it to her.”

“Can’t do it; don’t want to see it!” and Monroe’s tone was quick and decided as the man’s own. “I am on parole.”

“Parole!” and the stranger looked at him skeptically. “Look here, you are evidently working with Madame, and afraid to trust me, but it’s all right. I swear it is! I destroyed the message when I saw I was followed, but I know the contents, and if you will take it–”

“You mistake. I have absolutely no knowledge of Madame’s affairs at present.”

“Then you won’t take it?” and the man’s tones held smothered rage. “So, when put to the test, Captain Jack Monroe is afraid to risk what thousands are risking for the cause, at the front and in secret–a life!”

“It is just as well not to say ‘afraid,’ my good fellow,” and Monroe’s words were a trifle colder, a shade more deliberate. “Do you know what a parole means? I excuse your words because of your present position, which may be desperate. If you are her friend I will do what I can to save you; but the contents of the dispatch I refuse to hear.”

Judithe entered the door as he spoke, and came forward smilingly.

“Certainly; it was not intended that you should. This is the captain of my yacht, and his messages only interest me.”

“Madame Caron!” and Monroe’s tones were imploring, “Consider where you are. Think of the risks you run!”

“Risks?” and she made a little gesture of disdain. She felt so much stronger now that the suspense was over–now that the message was really here. “Risks are fashionable just now, Monsieur, and I always follow the fashions.”

He shook his head hopelessly; words were of no use. He turned away, and remembering that he still held the slip with her account on, he halted and handed it to the stranger, who was nearest him.

“I presume these figures were meant for the master of your yacht,” he remarked, without looking at her, and passed out on the veranda, where he halted at sight of Masterson running up the steps, and the dusty rider close behind.

Judithe had seated herself at the desk and picked up the pen. But as Monroe stepped out on the veranda she turned impatiently:

“The despatch?” and she held out her hand.

“I was followed–I read and destroyed it.”

“Its contents?”

“Too late, Madame,” he remarked, in a less confidential tone, as he laid the slip Monroe had given him on the desk. He had seen Masterson at the door and with him the other rider!

Judithe did not raise her head. She was apparently absorbed in her task of addressing an envelope.

“I will speak with you directly,” she said, carelessly sealing the letter. He bowed and stood waiting, respectfully. Glancing up, she saw Captain Masterson, who had entered from the veranda, and bestowed on him a careless, yet gracious smile. Pluto brought the mail bag in from the hall, and she dropped the letter in, also a couple of papers she took from the top of the desk.

“There, that is all. Make haste, please, Pluto,” and she glanced at the clock. “I should not like that letter to miss the mail; it is important.”

“Yes’m, I gwine right away now,” and he turned to the door, when Masterson stepped before him, and to his astonishment, took the bag from his hand.

“You can’t take this with you,” he said, in a tone of authority. “Go tell Colonel McVeigh he is needed here on business most important.”

Pluto stared at him in stupid wonder, and Judithe arose from her chair.

“Go, by all means, Pluto,” she said, quietly, “Captain Masterson’s errand is, no doubt, more important than a lady’s could be,” and she moved towards the door.

“I apologize, Madame Caron, for countermanding your orders,” said Masterson, quickly, “but circumstances make it necessary that no person and no paper leave this room until this man’s identity is determined,” and he pointed to the messenger. “Do you know him?”

“Certainly I know him; he is in my employ, the sailing master of my yacht.”

Pluto came in again and announced, “Mahs Kenneth not in the house; he gone somewhere out to the quarters.” Masterson received the news with evident annoyance. There was a moment of indecision as he glanced from the stranger to Monroe, who had sauntered through the open window, and across to Judithe, who gave him one glance which he interpreted to mean she wished he was somewhere else. But he only smiled and–remained.

“There is only one thing left for me to do in Colonel McVeigh’s absence,” said Masterson, addressing the group in general, “and that is to investigate this affair myself, as every minute’s delay may mean danger. Madame Caron, we are forced to believe this man is a spy.” Judithe smiled incredulously, and he watched her keenly as he continued: “More, he is associated with a clever French creole called Louise Trouvelot, who says she is your maid and who is at present under surveillance in Savannah, and they both are suspected of being only agents for a very accomplished spy, who has been doing dangerous work in the South for many months. I explain so you will comprehend that investigation is necessary. This man,” and he pointed to the other stranger, who now stepped inside, “has followed him from the coast under special orders.”

“What a dangerous character you have become!” said Judithe, turning to her messenger with an amused smile. “I feared that beard would make you look like a pirate, but I never suspected this of you–and you say,” she added, turning to Masterson, “that my poor maid is also under suspicion? It is ridiculous, abominable! I must see to it at once. The girl will be frightened horribly among such evidences of your Southern chivalry,” and she shrugged her shoulders with a little gesture of disdain. “And what, pray, do you intend doing with my sailor here?”