The Bondwoman

He was rambling along inconsequently; McVeigh glanced at him, questioningly; it was so rare a thing to see the Judge ill at ease over any legal transaction, but he plainly was, now; and when his client reached over and took the paper from his hand he surrendered it and broke off abruptly his rambling explanation.

McVeigh unfolded the paper and glanced at it with an incredulous frown.

“What is the meaning of this agreement to purchase a girl of color, aged twelve, named Rhoda Larue? We have bought no colored people from the Lorings, nor from any one else.”

“The girl was contracted for without your knowledge, my boy, before your majority, in fact; though she is mentioned there as a girl of color she was to all appearances perfectly white, the daughter of an octaroon, and also the daughter of Tom Loring.”

The woman back of the curtain was listening now with every sense alert, never for one instant had it occurred to her that Kenneth McVeigh did not know! How she listened for his next words!

“And why should a white girl like that be bought for the McVeigh plantation?”

There was a pause; then Clarkson laid down the other papers, and faced him, frankly:

“Kenneth, my boy, she was never intended for the McVeigh plantation, but was contracted for, educated, given certain accomplishments that she might be a desirable personal property of yours when you were twenty.”

McVeigh was on his feet in an instant, his blue eyes flaming.

“And who arranged this affair?–not–my father?”

“No.”

“Thank God for that! Go on, who was accountable?”

“Your guardian, Matthew Loring. He explains that he made the arrangement, having in mind the social entanglement of boys within our own knowledge, who have rushed into unequal marriages, or–or associations equally deplorable with scheming women who are alert where moneyed youth is concerned. Mr. Loring, as your guardian, determined to forestall such complications in your case. From a business point of view he did not think it a bad investment, since, if you for any reason, objected to this arrangement, a girl so well educated, even accomplished, could be disposed of at a profit.”

McVeigh was walking up and down the room.

“So!” he said, bitterly, “that was Matthew Loring’s amiable little arrangement. That girl, then, belonged not to his estate, but to Gertrude’s. He was her guardian as well as mine; he would have given me the elder sister as a wife, and the younger one as a slave. What a curse the man is! It is for such hellish deeds that every Southerner outside of his own lands is forced to defend slavery against heavy odds. The outsiders never stop to consider that there is not one man out of a thousand among us who would use his power as this man has used it in this case; the many are condemned for the sins of the few! Go on; what became of the girl?”

“She was, in accordance with this agreement, sent to a first-class school, from which she disappeared–escaped, and never was found again. The money advanced from your estate for her education is, therefore, to be repaid you, with the interest to date; you, of course, must not lose the money, since Loring has failed to keep his part of the contract.”

“Good God!” muttered McVeigh, continuing his restless walk; “it seems incredible, damnable! Think of it!–a girl with the blood, the brain, the education of a white woman, and bought in my name! I will have nothing–nothing to do with such cursed traffic!”

Neither of them heard the smothered sobs of the woman kneeling there back of that curtain; all the world had been changed for her by his words.

She did not hear the finale of their conversation, only the confused murmur of their voices came to her; then, after a little, there was the closing of a door, and Colonel McVeigh was alone.

He was seated in the big chair where Matthew Loring had received the stroke which meant death. The hammock was still beside it, and she knelt there, touching his arm, timidly.

He had not heard her approach, but at her touch he turned from the papers.

“Well, my sweetheart, what is it?” he said, and with averted face she whispered:

“Only that–I love you!–no,” as he bent towards her, “don’t kiss me! I never knew–I never guessed.”

“Never guessed that you loved me?” he asked, regarding her with a quizzical smile. “Now, I guessed it all the time, even though you did run away from me.”

“No, no, it is not that!” and she moved away, out of the reach of his caressing hands. “But I was there, by the window; I heard all that story. I had heard it long ago, and I thought you were to blame. I judged you–condemned you! Now I see how wrong I was–wrong in every way–in every way. I have wronged you–you! Oh, how I have wronged you!” she whispered, under her breath, as she remembered the men she looked for, had sent for–the men who were to take him away a prisoner!

“Nonsense, dear!” and he clasped her hands and smiled at her reassuringly. “You are over-wrought by all the excitement here since yesterday; you are nervous and remorseful over a trifle; you could not wrong me in any way; if you did, I forgive you.”

“No,” she said, shaking her head and gazing at him with eyes more sad than he had ever seen them; “no, you would not forgive me if you knew; you never will forgive me when you do know. And–I must tell you–tell you everything–tell you now–”

“No, not now, Judithe,” he said, as he heard Masterson’s voice in the hall. “We can’t be alone now. Later you shall tell me all your sins against me.” He was walking with her to the door and looking down at her with all his heart in his eyes; his tenderness made her sorrows all the more terrible, and as he bent to kiss her she shrunk from him.

“No, not until I tell you all,” she said again, then as his hands touched hers she suddenly pressed them to her lips, her eyes, her cheek; “and whatever you think of me then, when you do hear all, I want you to know that I love you, I love you, I love you!”

Then the door closed behind her and he was standing there with a puzzled frown between his eyes when Masterson entered. Her intense agitation, the passion in her words and her eyes!–He felt inclined to follow and end the mystery of it at once, but Masterson’s voice stopped him.

“I’ve been trying all morning to have a talk, Colonel,” he said, carefully closing the door and glancing about. “There have been some new developments in Monroe’s case, in fact there have been so many that I have put in the time while waiting for you, by writing down every particle of new testimony in the affair.” He took from his pocket some written pages and laid them on the table, and beside them a small oval frame. “They are for your inspection, Colonel. I have no opinion I care to express on the matter. I have only written down Miss Loring’s statements, and the picture speaks for itself.”

McVeigh stared at him.

“What do you mean by Miss Loring’s statement?–and what is this?”

He had lifted the little frame, and looked at Masterson, who had resolutely closed his lips and shook his head. He meant that McVeigh should see for himself.

The cover flew back as he touched the spring, and a girl’s face, dark, bright, looked out at him. It was delicately tinted and the work was well done. He had a curious shock as the eye met his. There was something so familiar in the poise of the head and the faint smile lurking at the corner of the mouth.

There was no mistaking the likeness; it looked as Judithe might possibly have looked at seventeen. He had never seen her with that childish, care-free light of happiness in her eyes; she had always been thoughtful beyond her years, but in this picture–

“Where did you get this?” he asked, and his face grew stern for an instant, as Masterson replied:

“In Captain Monroe’s pocket.”

He opened his lips to speak, but Masterson pointed to the paper.

“It is all written there, Colonel; I really prefer you should read that report first, and then question me if you care to. I have written each thing as it occurred. You will see Miss Loring has also signed her name to it, preferring you would accept that rather than be called upon for a personal account. Your mother is, of course, ignorant of all this–”

McVeigh seemed scarcely to hear his words. Her voice was yet sounding in his ears; her remorseful repetition, “You will never forgive me when you do know!”–was this what she meant?

He laid down the picture and picked up the papers. Masterson seated himself at the other side of the room with his back to him, and waited.

There was the rustle of paper as McVeigh laid one page after another on the table. After a little the rustle ceased. Masterson looked around. The Colonel had finished with the report and was again studying the picture.

“Well?” said Masterson.

“I cannot think this evidence at all conclusive.” There was a pause and then he added, “but the situation is such that every unusual thing relating to this matter must, of course, be investigated. I should like to see Margeret and Captain Monroe here; later I may question Madame Caron.”

His voice was very quiet and steady, but he scarcely lifted his eyes from the picture; something about it puzzled him; the longer he looked at it the less striking was the likeness–the character of Judithe’s face, now, was so different.

He was still holding it at arm’s length on the table when Margeret noiselessly entered the room. She came back of him and halted beside the table; her eyes were also on the picture, and a smothered exclamation made him aware of her presence. He closed the frame and picked up the report Masterson had given him.

“Margeret,” he said, looking at her, curiously, “have you seen Madame Caron today?”

“Yes, Colonel McVeigh;” she showed no surprise at the question, only looked straight ahead of her, with those solemn, dark eyes. He remembered the story of her madness years ago, and supposed that was accountable for the strange, colorless, passive manner.

“Did she speak to you?”

“No, sir.”

Judithe opened the door and looked in; seeing that McVeigh was apparently occupied, and not alone, she was about to retire when he begged her to remain for a few minutes. He avoided her questioning eyes, and offered her a chair, with that conventional courtesy reserved for strangers. She noted the papers in his hand, and the odd tones in which he spoke; she was, after all, debarred from confessing; she was to be accused!

“A slight mystery is abroad here, and you appear to be the victim of it, Madame,” he said, without looking at her. “Margeret, last night when Miss Loring sent you into the corridor just before the shot was fired, did you see any of the ladies or servants of the house?”

“No, sir.”

There was not the slightest hesitation in the reply, but Judithe turned her eyes on the woman with unusual interest. Colonel McVeigh consulted his notes.

“Miss Loring distinctively heard the rustle of a woman’s dress as her door opened; did you hear that?”

“No, sir.”

“You saw no one and heard no one?”

“No one.”

There was a pause, during which he regarded the woman very sharply.

Judithe arose.

“Only your sister or myself could have been in that corridor without passing Miss Loring’s door; is Miss Loring suspicious of us?–Miss Loring!”–and her tone was beyond her control, indignant; of all others, Miss Loring! “Margeret, whatever you saw, whatever you heard in that corridor, you must tell Colonel McVeigh–tell him!”

Margeret turned a calm glance towards her for a moment, and quietly said, “I have told him, Madame Caron; there was no one in the corridor.”

“Very well; that is all I wanted to know.” His words were intended for dismissal, but she only bent her head and walked back to the window, as Masterson entered with Monroe. The latter bowed to Judithe with more than usual ceremony, but did not speak. Then he turned a nonchalant glance towards McVeigh, and waited. The Colonel looked steadily at Judithe as he said:

“Captain Monroe, did you know Madame Caron before you met her in my house? You do not answer! Madame Caron, may I ask you if you knew Captain Monroe previous to yesterday?”

“Quite well,” she replied, graciously; there was almost an air of bravado in her glance. She had meant to tell him all; had begged him to listen, but since he preferred to question her before these men, and at the probable suggestion of Miss Loring–well!

Masterson drew a breath of relief as she spoke. His Colonel must now exonerate him of any unfounded suspicions; but Monroe regarded her with somber, disapproving eyes.

“Then,” and his tone chilled her; it has in it such a suggestion of what justice he would mete out to her when he knew all; “then I am, under the circumstances, obliged to ask why you acknowledged the introduction given by Miss Loring?”

“Oh, for the blunder of that I was accountable, Monsieur,” and she smiled at him, frankly, the combative spirit fully awake, now, since he chose to question her–her!–before the others, “I should have explained, perhaps–I believe I meant to, but there was conversation, and I probably forgot.”

“I see! You forgot to explain, and Captain Monroe forgot you were acquainted when he was questioned, just now.”

“Captain Monroe could not possibly forget the honor of such acquaintance,” retorted Monroe; “he only refused to answer.”

The two men met each other’s eyes for an instant–a glance like the crossing of swords. Then McVeigh said:

“Where did you get the picture found on your person last night?”

“Stole it,” said Monroe, calmly, and McVeigh flushed in quick anger at the evident lie and the insolence of it; he was lying then to shield this woman who stood between them–to shield her from her husband.

“Madame Caron,” and she had never before heard him speak in that tone; “did you ever give Captain Monroe a picture of yourself?”

“Never!” she said, wonderingly. Margeret had taken a step forward and stood irresolutely as though about to speak; she was very pale, and Monroe knew in an instant who she was–not by the picture, but from Pluto’s story last night. The terror in her eyes touched him, and as McVeigh lifted the picture from the table, he spoke.

“Colonel McVeigh, I will ask you to study that picture carefully before you take for granted that it is the face of any one you know,” he said, quietly; “that picture was made probably twenty years ago.”

“And the woman?”

“The woman is dead–died long ago.” Margeret’s eyes closed for an instant, but none of them noticed her. Judithe regarded Monroe, questioningly, and then turned to McVeigh:

“May I not see this picture you speak of, since–”

But Monroe in two strides was beside the table where it lay.

“Colonel McVeigh, even a prisoner of war should be granted some consideration, and all I ask of you is to show the article in question to no one without first granting me a private interview.”

Again the eyes of the men met and the sincerity, the appeal of Monroe impressed McVeigh; something might be gained by conceding the request–something lost by refusing it, and he slipped the case into his pocket without even looking at Judithe, or noticing her question.

But Monroe looked at her, and noted the quick resentment at his speech.

“Pardon, Madame,” he said, gently; “my only excuse is that there is a lady in the question.”

“A lady who is no longer living?” she asked, mockingly. She was puzzled over the affair of the picture, puzzled at the effect it had on McVeigh. In some way he was jealous concerning it–jealous, how absurd, when she adored him!

Monroe only looked at her, but did not reply to the sceptical query. Gertrude Loring came to the door just then and spoke to McVeigh, who went to meet her. She wanted him to go at once to her uncle. He was trying so hard to speak; they thought he was endeavoring to say “Ken–Ken!” It was the only tangible thing they could distinguish, and he watched the door continually as though for someone’s entrance.

McVeigh assured her he would go directly, but she begged him to postpone all the other business–anything! and to come with her at once; he might be dying, he looked like it, and there certainly was some one whom he wanted; therefore–

He turned with a semi-apologetic manner to the others in the room.

“I shall return presently, and will then continue the investigation,” he said, addressing Masterson; “pending such action Captain Monroe can remain here.”

Then he closed the door and followed Gertrude.

Judithe arose at that calm ignoring of herself and moved to the table. She guessed what it was the dying man was trying to tell Kenneth–well, she would tell him first!

Pen and paper were there and she commenced to write, interrupting herself to turn to Masterson, who was looking out at the storm.

“Is there any objection to Captain Monroe holding converse with other–guests in the house?” she asked, with a little ironical smile.

Masterson hesitated, and then said: “I do not think a private interview could be allowed, but–”

“A private interview is not necessary,” she said, coolly. “You can remain where you are. Margeret, also, can remain.” She wrote a line or two, and then spoke without looking up, “Will you be so kind, Captain Monroe, as to come over to the table?”

“At your service, my lady.”

He did so, and remained standing there, with his hands clasped behind him, a curious light of expectancy in his eyes.

“You have endured everything but death for me since last night,” she said, looking up at him. She spoke so low Masterson could not hear it above the beat of the rain on the window. But he could see the slight bend of Monroe’s head and the smile with which he said:

“Well–since it was for you!”

“Oh, do not jest now, and do not think I shall allow it to go on,” she said, appealingly. “I have been waiting for help, but I shall wait no longer;” she pointed to the paper on the table, “Colonel McVeigh will have a written statement of who did the work just as soon as I can write it, and you shall be freed.”

“Take care!” he said, warningly; “an avowal now might only incriminate you–not free me. There are complications you can’t be told–”

“But I must be told!” she interrupted. “What is there concerning me which you both conspire to hide? He shall free you, no matter what the result is to me; did you fancy I should let you go away under suspicion? But, that picture! You must make that clear to me. Listen, I will confess to you, too! I have wronged him–Colonel McVeigh–it has been all a mistake. I can never atone, but”–and her voice sank lower, “it was something about that picture made him angry just now, the thought I had given you some picture. I–I can’t have him think that–not that you are my lover.”

“Suppose it were so–would that add to the wrongs you speak of?” His voice was almost tender in its gentleness, and his face had a strange expression, as she said: “Yes, it would, Captain Jack.”

“You mean, then–to marry him?”

Something in the tenseness of his tones, the strange look of anxiety in his eyes, decided her answer.

“I mean that I have married him.”

She spoke so softly it was almost a whisper, but if it had been trumpet-like he could not have looked more astonished. His face grew white, and he took a step backward from her. Masterson, who noticed the movement, walked down to the desk, where he could hear. Margeret was nearer to them than he. All he heard was Madame Caron asking if Captain Monroe would not now agree that she should see the picture since it was necessary to defend herself.

But Monroe had gone back to his chair, where he sat looking at her thoughtfully, and looking at Margeret, also, who had remained near the door, and gave no sign of having heard their words–had she?

“No, Madame Caron,” he said, quietly, “if there is any evidence in my favor you can communicate to Colonel McVeigh, I shall be your debtor, but the picture is altogether a personal affair of my own. I will, if I can, prevent it from being used in this case at all, out of consideration for the lady whom I mentioned before.”

CHAPTER XXX

Kenneth McVeigh walked the floor of his own room, with the bitterest thoughts of his life for company. Loyal gentleman that he was, he was appalled at the turn affairs had taken. It had cost him a struggle to give up faith in the man he had known and liked–but all that was as nothing compared to the struggle in which his own love fought against him.

In that room where death apparently stood on the threshold, and the dying man had followed him about the room with most terrible, appealing eyes, he had heard but few of the words spoken–all his heart and brain were afire with the scene he had just left; that, and the others preceding it! Every word or glance he had noticed between Monroe and the woman he loved returned to him! Trifles light as air before, now overwhelmed him with horrible suggestions; and her pleading for him that morning–all the little artifices, the pretended lightness with which she asked a first favor on her wedding morning–their wedding morning! for whatever she was or was not, she was, at least, his wife!

That fact must be taken into consideration, he could not set it aside; her disgrace meant his disgrace–God! was that why she had consented to the hurried marriage?–to shield herself under his name, and to influence his favor for her lover?

The spirit of murder leaped in his heart as he thought of it! He heard Gertrude send to the library for Margeret, and he sent word to Masterson he was detained and would continue the investigation later. When Pluto returned, after delivering the message, he inquired if Madame Caron was yet in the library, and Pluto informed him Madame Caron had gone to her room some time ago; no one was in the library now, the gentleman had gone back to the cottage.

He meant to see her alone before speaking again with Monroe, to know the worst, whatever it was, and then–

He used a magnifying glass to study the little picture; he took it from the frame and examined the frame itself. The statement of Monroe as to its age seemed verified. Certain things in the face were strange, but certain other things were wonderfully like Judithe as a happy, care-free girl–had she ever been such a girl?

The chance that, after all, the picture was not hers gave him a sudden hope that the other things, purely circumstantial, might also diminish on closer examination; the picture had, to him, been the strongest evidence against her; a jealous fury had taken possession of him at the sight of it; he was conscious that his personal feelings unfitted him for the judicial position forced upon him, and that he must somehow conquer them before continuing any examination.

An hour had passed; he had decided the picture was not that of his wife, but if Monroe were not her lover, why did he treasure so a likeness resembling her? And if she were not in love with him, why ignore their former acquaintance, and why intercede for him so persistently?

All those thoughts walked beside him as he strode up and down the room, and beyond them all was the glory of her eyes and the remembrance of her words: “Whatever you think of me when you know all, I want you to know that I love you–I love you!”

They were the words he had waited for through long days and nights; they had come to him at last, and after all–

A knock sounded on the door and Pluto entered with a large sealed envelope on which his name was written.

“From Madame Caron, sah; she done tole me to put it in yo’ own han’,” he said.

When alone again he opened the envelope. Several papers were in it. The first he unfolded was addressed to his wife and the signature was that of a statesman high in the confidence of the Northern people. It was a letter of gratitude to her for confidential work accomplished within the Confederate lines; it was most extreme in commendation, and left no doubt as to the consideration shown her by the most distinguished of the Federal leaders. It was dated six months before, showing that her friendship for his enemies was not a matter of days, but months.

There was one newly written page in her own writing. He put that aside to look at last of all, then locked the door and resumed the reading of the others.

And the woman to whom they were written moved restlessly from room to room, watching the storm and replying now and then to the disconsolate remarks of Evilena, who was doleful over the fact that everybody was too much occupied for conversation. Kenneth had shut himself up entirely, and all the others seemed to be in attendance on Mr. Loring. Captain Masterson was in and out, busy about his own affairs, and not minding the rain a particle, and she was full of questions concerning Captain Monroe, and why he had paid the brief visit to the library.