The Bondwoman

The man had been staring at Masterson as though astounded at the accusations. But he did not speak, and the Confederate agent never took his eyes off him.

“Ask him his name,” he suggested, softly, to Masterson, who took paper and pencil from the desk and handed it to the suspect. “Write your name there,” he said, and when it was quickly, good naturedly done, the self-appointed judge read it and turned to Judithe.

“Madame Caron, will you please tell me this man’s name?” and the messenger himself stared when she replied, haughtily:

“No, Captain Masterson, I will not!”

“Ah, you absolutely refuse, Madame?”

“I do; you have accused my employe of being a spy, but your attitude suggests that it is not he, but myself, whom you suspect.”

“Madame, you cannot comprehend the seriousness of the situation,” and Masterson had difficulty in keeping his patience. “Every one he speaks with, everything concerning him is of interest. These are war times, Madame Caron, and the case will not admit of either delays or special courtesies. I shall have to ask you for the paper he placed in your hands as I entered the room.”

Judithe picked up the paper without a word and reached it to him, with the languid air of one bored by the entire affair.

He glanced at it and handed it back. As he did so he perceived an unfinished letter on the desk. In a moment his suspicions were aroused; that important letter in the mail bag!

“You did not complete the letter you were writing?”

“No,” and she lifted it from the desk and held it towards him. “You perceive! I was so careless as to blot the paper; do you wish to examine that?”

His face flushed at the mockery of her tone and glance. He felt it more keenly, that the eyes of Monroe were on him. The task before him was difficult enough without that additional annoyance.

“No, Madame,” he replied, stiffly, “but the situation is such that I feel justified in asking the contents of the envelope you sealed and gave to the servant.”

“But that is a private letter,” she protested, as he took it from the mail bag; “it can be of no use to any government or its agents.”

“That can best be determined by reading it, Madame. It certainly cannot go out in this mail unless it is examined.”

“By you?–oh!” And Judithe put out her hand in protest.

“Captain Masterson!”

“Sir!” and Masterson turned on Monroe, who had spoken for the first time. As he did so Judithe deliberately leaned forward and snatched the letter from his hand.

“You shall not read it!” she said, decidedly, and just then Evilena and her brother came along the veranda, and with them Delaven. Judithe moved swiftly to the window before any one else could speak.

“Colonel McVeigh, I appeal to you,” and involuntarily she reached out her hand, which he took in his as he entered the room. “This–gentleman–on some political pretense, insists that I submit to such examinations as spies are subject to. I have been accused in the presence of these people, and in their presence I demand an apology for this attempt to examine my private, personal letters.”

“Captain Masterson!” and the blue steel of McVeigh’s eyes flashed in anger and rebuke. But Masterson, strong in his assurance of right, held up his hand.

“You don’t understand the situation, Colonel. That man is suspected of being the assistant to a most dangerous, unknown spy within our lines. He has been followed from Beaufort by a Confederate secret service agent, whom he tried to escape by doubling on the road, taking by-ways, riding fully twenty miles out of his course, to reach this point unobserved.”

For the first time the suspected man spoke, and it was to Judithe.

“That is quite true, Madame. I mean that I rode out of my way. But the reason of it is that I came over the road for the first time; there were no sign-boards up, and my directions had not been explicit enough to prevent me losing my way. That is my only excuse for not being here earlier. I am not landsman enough to make my way through the country roads and timber.”

“You perceive, Colonel McVeigh, the man is in my employ, and has come here by my orders,” said Judithe, with a certain impatience at the density of the accuser.

“That should be credential enough,” and McVeigh’s tone held a distinct reprimand as he frowned at Masterson’s senseless accusation, but that officer made a gesture of protest. He was being beaten, but he did not mean to give up without a hard fight.

“Colonel, there were special reasons for doubt in the matter. Madame Caron, apparently, does not know even the man’s name. I asked him to write it–here it is,” and he handed McVeigh the paper. “I asked her to name him–she refused!”

“Yes; I resented the manner and reason for the question,” assented Judithe; “but the man has been the master of my yacht for over a year, and his name is Pierson–John T. Pierson.”

“Correct,” and McVeigh glanced at the paper on which the name was written. “Will you also write the name of Madame Caron’s yacht, Mr. Pierson?” and he handed him a book and pencil. “Pardon me,” and he smiled reassuringly at Judithe, “this is not the request of suspicion, but faith.” He took the book from Pierson and glanced at the open page and then at her–“the name of your yacht is?–”

“The Marquise,” she replied, with a little note of surprise in her voice, as she smiled at Evilena, who had slipped to her side, and understood the smile. Evilena and she had made plans for a season of holidays on that same yacht, as soon as the repairs were made. Colonel McVeigh tossed the book indignantly on the table.

“Thank you, Madame! Captain Masterson, this is the most outrageous thing I ever knew an officer to be guilty of! You have presumed to suspect a lady in my house–the guest of your superior officer, and you shall answer to me for it! Mr. Pierson, you are no longer under suspicion here, sir. And you,” he added, turning to the Confederate secret agent, “can report at once to your chief that spies are not needed on the McVeigh plantation.”

“Colonel McVeigh, if you had seen what I saw–”

“Madame Caron’s word would have been sufficient,” interrupted McVeigh, without looking at him. And Judithe held out the letter.

“I am quite willing you should see what he saw,” she said, with a curious smile. “He saw me, after the arrival of Mr. Pierson, seal an envelope leaving him in ignorance of its contents. The seal is yet unbroken–will you read it?”

“You do not suppose I require proof of your innocence?” he asked, refusing the letter, and looking at her fondly as he dare in the presence of the others.

“But I owe it to myself to offer the proof now,” she insisted, “and at the same time I shall ask Mr. Pierson to offer himself for personal search if Captain Masterson yet retains suspicion of his honesty;” she glanced towards Pierson, who smiled slightly, and bowed without speaking. Then she turned to Delaven, who had been a surprised onlooker of the scene.

“Dr. Delaven, in the cause of justice, may I ask you to examine the contents of this letter?” and she tore open the envelope and offered it.

“Anything in the wide world to serve you, Madame la Marquise,” he answered, with a shade more than usual of deference in his manner, as he took it. “Are the contents to be considered professionally, that is, confidentially?”

She had taken Evilena by the hand, bowed slightly to the group, and had moved to the door, when he spoke. Monroe, who had watched every movement as he stood there in a fever of suspense for her sake, drew a breath of relief as she replied:

“Oh, no! Be kind enough to read it aloud, or Captain Masterson may include you in the dangerous intrigues here,” and, smiling still, she passed out with Evilena to the lawn.

But a few seconds elapsed, when a perfect shout of laughter came from the library. The special detective did not share in it, for he thrust his hands into his pockets with a curse, and Masterson turned to him with a frowning, baffled stare–an absolutely crestfallen manner, as he listened to the following, read in Delaven’s best style:

“To Madame Smith, “Mobile, Ala.:

“The pink morning gown is perfect, but I am in despair over the night robes! I meant you to use the lace, not the embroidery, on them; pray change them at once, and send at the same time the flounced lawn petticoats if completed. I await reply.

“Judithe de Caron.”

CHAPTER XXV

“Certainly, I apologize,” and Masterson looked utterly crushed by his mistaken zeal; “apologize to every one concerned, collectively and individually.”

Even McVeigh felt sorry for his humiliation, knowing how thoroughly honest he was, how devoted to the cause; and Mrs. McVeigh was disconsolate over “loyal, blundering Phil Masterson,” whom, she could not hope, would remain for the party after what had occurred, and she feared Judithe would keep to her room–who could blame her? Such a scene was enough to prostrate any woman.

But it did not prostrate Judithe. She sent for Mrs. McVeigh, to tell her there must on no account be further hostilities between Colonel McVeigh and Captain Masterson.

“It was all a mistake,” she insisted. “Captain Masterson no doubt only did his duty when presented with the statements of the secret service man; that the statements were incorrect was something Captain Masterson could not, of course, know, and she appreciated the fact that, being a foreigner, she was, in his opinion, possibly, more likely to be imposed upon by servants who were not so loyal to the South as she herself was known to be.”

All this she said in kindly excuse, and Mrs. McVeigh thought her the most magnanimous creature alive.

Her only anxiety over the entire affair appeared to be concerning her maid Louise, who, also, was suffering the suspicion attaching to foreigners who were non-residents; it was all very ridiculous, of course, but would necessitate her going personally to Savannah. She could not leave so faithful a creature in danger.

Mrs. McVeigh prevailed upon her to send word with Mr. Pierson to the authorities, and remain herself for two days longer–until Kenneth and his men left for the front, which Judithe consented to do.

Masterson, who for the first time in his life found the McVeighs lacking in cordiality to him (Evilena, even, disposed to look on him as dead and buried so far as she was concerned), felt his loyal heart go out to Gertrude, who was the only one of them all who frankly approved, and who was plainly distressed at the idea of him going at once to join his company.

“Don’t go, Phil,” she said, earnestly; “something is wrong here–terribly wrong; I can’t accuse anyone in particular–I can’t even guess what it really means, but, Phil,” and she glanced around her cautiously before putting the question, “What possible reason could Madame Caron and Captain Monroe have for pretending they met here as strangers, when it was not a fact?”

Whereupon Gertrude told him of her discovery in that direction.

“I can’t, of course, mention it to Kenneth or Mrs. McVeigh, now,” she whispered; “they are so infatuated with her, Kenneth in particular. But I do hope you will put aside your personal feelings; make any and every sort of apology necessary, but remain right here until you see what it all means. You may prove in the end that you were not entirely mistaken today. What do you think of it?”

Think! His thoughts were in a whirl. If Madame Caron and Captain Monroe were secretly friends it altered the whole affair. Monroe, whose conduct on arrest was unusual; who had a parole which might, or might not, be genuine; who had come there as by accident just in time to meet Pierson; who had been in the room alone with Pierson before Madame Caron came down the stairs–he knew, for he had been in sight when she crossed the hall.

He had been a fool–right in theory, but wrong as to the individual. He would remain at the Terrace, and he would start on a new trail!

Mrs. McVeigh was very glad he would remain; she believed implicitly in his profound regret, and had dreaded lest the question be recalled between the two men after they had gone to the front; but, if Phil remained their guest, she hoped the old social relations would be completely restored, and she warned Evilena to be less outspoken in regard to her own opinions.

So, Captain Masterson remained, and remained to such purpose that during the brief hour of Mr. Pierson’s stay he was watched very closely, and the watcher was disappointed that no attempt was made at a private interview with Captain Monroe, who very plainly (Masterson thought, ostentatiously) showed himself in a rather unsocial mood, walking thoughtfully alone on the lawn, and making no attempt to speak, even with Madame Caron.

Pierson had a brief interview with her, rendered the more brief that he was conscious of Masterson’s orderly lounging outside the window, but plainly within hearing, and the presence of Mrs. McVeigh, who was all interest and sympathy concerning Louise.

When he said: “Don’t be at all disturbed over the work to be done, Madame; there is plenty of time in which to complete everything,” the others present supposed, of course, he referred to the repairs on the yacht; and when he said, in reply to her admonitions, “No fear of me losing the road again, I shall arrive tonight,” they supposed, of course, he referred to his arrival at the coast. Judithe knew better; she knew it meant his return, and more hours of uncertainty for her.

Colonel McVeigh helped to keep those hours from dragging by following up his love-making with a proposal of marriage, which she neither accepted or declined, but which gave her additional food for thought.

All the day Pluto brooded over that scene in the library. He was oppressed by the dread of harm to Madame Caron if some one did not at once acquaint her with the fact that the real spy was Madame’s maid, who had fled for fear of recognition by the Lorings. He had been curious as to what motive had been strong enough to bring her back to the locality so dangerous to her freedom. He was puzzled no longer–he knew.

But, how to tell Madame Caron? How could a nigger tell a white lady that story of Rhoda and Rhoda’s mother? And if part was told, all must be told. He thought of telling Dr. Delaven, who already knew the history of Margeret, but Dr. Delaven was a friend to the Lorings, and how was a nigger to know what a white man’s honor would exact that he do in such a case? And Pluto was afraid to ask it.

Instinctively his trust turned to the blue uniformed “Linkum soldier.” No danger of him telling the story of the runaway slave to the wrong person. And he was Madame Caron’s friend. Pluto had noted how he stepped beside her when Masterson brought his accusation against her, or her agent, Pierson. Monroe had been a sort of divinity to him from the moment the officer in blue had walked up the steps of the Terrace, and Pluto’s admiration culminated in the decision that he was the one man to warn Madame Caron of her maid’s identity without betraying it to any other.

The lady who caused all this suppressed anxiety was, apparently, care-free herself, or only disturbed slightly over the report concerning Louise. She knew the girl was in no real danger, but she knew, also, that at any hint of suspicion Louise would be in terror until joined by her mistress.

She heard Matthew Loring had sent over for Judge Clarkson to arrange some business affairs while Kenneth was home, and despite Mrs. McVeigh’s statement that they neither bought nor sold slaves, she fancied she knew what one of the affairs must be.

Judge Clarkson, however, was not at home–had been called across the country somewhere on business, but Aunt Sajane sent word that they would certainly be over in the evening and would come early, if Gideon returned in time.

But he did not. Several of the guests arrived before them; Colonel McVeigh was employed as host, and the business talk had to be deferred until the following morning.

Altogether, the sun went down on a day heavy with threats and promises. But whatever the rest experienced in that atmosphere of suppressed feeling, Kenneth McVeigh was only responsive to the promises; all the world was colored by his hopes!

And Monroe, who saw clearly what the hopes were, and who thought he saw clearly what the finale would be, had little heart for the festivities afoot–wished himself anywhere else but on the hospitable plantation of the McVeighs, and kept at a distance from the charming stranger who had bewitched the master of it.

Twilight had fallen before Pluto found the coveted opportunity of speaking with him alone. Monroe was striding along the rose arbor, smoking an after-supper cigar, when he was suddenly confronted by the negro who had questioned him about the Federal policy as to slavery.

He had been running along the hedge in a stooping position so as not to be seen from the windows of the dining room, where the other servants were working, and when he gained the shadows of an oleander tree, straightened up and waited.

“Well,” remarked Monroe, as he witnessed this maneuver, “what is it?”

Pluto looked at him steadily for an instant, and then asked, cautiously:

“Mahs Captain, you a sure enough friend of Madame Caron?”

“‘Sure enough’ friend–what do you mean?”

“I mean Madame Caron gwine to have trouble if some sure enough friend don’t step in an’ tell her true who the spy is they all talk ’bout today.”

“Indeed?” said Monroe, guardedly; his first thought was one of suspicion, lest it be some trick planned by Masterson.

“Yes, sah; I find out who that woman spy is, but ain’t no one else knows! I can’t tell a white lady all that story what ain’t noways fitten’ fo’ ladies to listen to, but–but somebody got to tell her, somebody that knows jest how much needs tellen’, an’ how much to keep quiet–somebody she trusts, an’ somebody what ain’t no special friend o’ the Lorings. Fo’ God’s sake, Mahsa Captain, won’t yo’ be that man?”

Monroe eyed him narrowly for an instant, and then tossed away the cigar.

“No fooling about this business, mind you,” he said, briefly; “what has Madame Caron to do with any spy? And what has Matthew Loring?”

“Madame not know she got anything to do with her,” insisted Pluto, eagerly, “that gal come heah fo’ maid to Madame Caron, an’ then ole Nelse (what Lorings use to own) he saw her, an’ that scare her plum off the place. An’ the reason why Mahsa Loring is in it is ’cause that fine French maid is a runaway slave o’ his–or maybe she b’long to Miss Gertrude, I don’ know rightly which it is. Any how, she’s Margeret’s chile an’ ought to a knowed more’n to come a ’nigh to Loring even if she is growd up. That why I know fo’ suah she come back fo’ some special spy work–what else that gal run herself in danger fo’ nothen’?”

“You’d better begin at the beginning of this story, if it has one,” suggested Monroe, who could see the man was intensely in earnest, “and I should like to know why you are mixing Madame Caron in the affair.”

“She bought my baby fo’ me–saved him from the trader, Mahsa Captain,” and Pluto’s voice trembled as he spoke. “Yo’ reckon I evah fo’get that ar? An’ now seems like as how she’s got mixed up with troubles, an’ I come to yo’ fo’ help ’cause yo’ a Linkum man, an’ ’cause yo’ her frien’.”

It was twenty minutes later before Pluto completed his eager, hurried story, and at its finish Monroe knew all old Nelse had told Delaven, and more, too, for confidential servants learn many hidden things, and Rosa–afterwards Pluto’s wife–knew why Margeret’s child was sent to the Larue estate for training. Mistress Larue, whose conscience was of the eminently conventional order, seldom permitting her to contest any decision of her husband, yet did find courage to complain somewhat of the child’s charge and her ultimate destination–to complain, not on moral, but on financial grounds–fully convinced that so wealthy a man as Matthew Loring could afford to pay more for her keeping than the sum her husband had agreed to, and that the youth, Kenneth McVeigh, to whose estate the girl was partly sold, could certainly afford more of recompense than his guardian had agreed to.

Pluto told that portion of the story implicating his master with considerable reluctance, yet felt forced to tell it all, that Monroe should be impressed with the necessity of absolute secrecy to every one except Madame Caron, and she, of course, must not hear that part of it.

“Name o’ God, no!” burst out Pluto, in terror of what such a revelation would mean. “What yo’ reckon Madame Caron think o’ we all ef she done heah that? Don’t reckon his own ma evah heard tell a whisper o’ that ar; all Mahs Matt Loring’s doin’s, that sale was–must a been! Mahs Ken wan’t only a boy then–not more’n fifteen, so yo’ see–”

Monroe made no comment, though he also had a vision of what it would mean if Madame Caron–she of all women!–should hear this evidently true story just as Pluto related it.

He walked along the rose hedge and back again in silence, the colored man regarding him anxiously; finally he said:

“All right, my man. I’ll speak to Madame and be careful not to tell her too much. You are all right, Pluto; you did right to come to me.”

Some one called Pluto from the window. He was about to go when Monroe asked:

“What about that picture you said your wife had of the girl? Madame Caron may not be easy to convince. You’d better let me have it to show her. Is it a good likeness?”

“’Fore God I don’ know! I only reckon it is, ’cause Nelse took her, on sight, fo’ Margeret’s ghost, which shows it must be the plain image of her! I done been so upset since I got back home with Zekal I nevah had a minute to look ovah Rosa’s b’longens’, but the likeness is in that bundle somewhere; Rosa alles powerful careful o’ that locket thing, an’ kep’ it put away; don’t mind as I evah seen it but once, jest when we fust married. I’d a clean fo’got all ’bout it, only fo’ an accident–an’ that’s the woman now it was painted from.”

He pointed to a window where Margeret stood outlined for an instant against the bright background.

“Don’t look more like her now, I reckon,” he continued, “all her trouble must a’ changed her mightily, fo’ the ole folks do say she was counted a beauty once. Little Rhoda went a’most crazy when some one stole the locket, so Rosa said; then by and by the gal what took it got scared–thought it was a hoodoo–an’ fetched it back, but Rhoda gone away then. My Rosa took it an’ kep’ it faithful, waiten’ fo’ that chile to come back, but she nevah come back while Rosa lived.”

Monroe was staring still at the figure of Margeret, seen dimly, now, through the window.

“Look here!” he said, sharply, “if the old man recognized the likeness, how comes it that the mother herself did not see it?”

“Why, Margeret she not get here till nex’ day after Madame Caron’s maid start down the river to take the cars fo’ Savannah,” explained Pluto. “Then Miss Gertrude come a visiten’ an’ fetch Margeret along. Yo’ see, sah, that woman done been made think her chile dead a long time ago, an’ when Margeret went clean ’stracted the word went down to Larues that she dead or dyen’–one! any way my Rosa nevah know’d no different till Larues moved back from Georgy, so there wan’t no one heah to ’dentify her, an’ there wan’t no one heah to let that gal know she had a liven mammy.”

Again Caroline called Pluto.

“Go on,” said Monroe, “but get me the picture soon as you can. I leave in the morning.”

“I be right heah with it in hour’s time,” promised Pluto; “don’ reckon I can slip away any sooner, a sight o’ quality folks a’ comen’.”

CHAPTER XXVI

As Monroe entered the hall Judithe came down the stairs, a dainty vision in palest rose. She wore armlets and girdle of silver filagree, a silver comb in the dark tresses, and large filagree loops in her ears gave the beautiful face a half-oriental character.

Admire her though he must, he felt an impatience with her, a wonder that so beautiful a being, one so blest with all the material things of life, should forsake harmony, home, and her own land, for the rude contests where men fought, and plotted, and died–died ingloriously sometimes, for the plots and intrigues through which she claimed to find the only escape from ennui.

She saw him, hesitated an instant, and then came towards him, with a suggestion of daring in her eyes.

“I might as well hear the worst, first as last,” she said, taking his arm. “Is not the veranda more cool than in here? Come, we shall see. I prefer to be out of hearing of the people while you lecture me for today’s mishap.”