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The Bondwoman
Judithe replied at random, scarcely hearing her chatter, and listening, listening each instant for his step or voice on the stair.
While she stood there, looking out at the low, dark clouds, a step sounded in the hall and she turned quickly; it was only Pluto; ordinarily she would not have noticed him especially, but his eyes were directed to her in so peculiar a manner that she gave him a second glance, and perceived that he carried a book she had left on a table in her own room.
“Look like I can’t noway find right shelf fo’ this book,” he said, with some hesitation. “I boun’ to ax yo’ to show me whah it b’longs.”
She was about to do so, but when the door of the bookcase opened, he handed her the book instead of placing it where she directed.
“Maybe yo’ put it in thah fo’ me,” he suggested.
She looked at him, remembering she had told Pierson he could be trusted, and took the book without a word. Evilena was absorbed in Juliet’s woes, and did not look up.
Pluto muttered a “thank yo’,” and disappeared along the hall.
She took the book into the alcove before opening it, and found there what she had expected–a slip of paper with some pencilled marks. It was a cipher, from which she read, “All is right; we follow close on this by another road. Be ready. Lincoln”– she sank on her knees as she read the rest–“Lincoln has issued the proclamation of emancipation!”
It was Margeret who found her there a few minutes later. She was still kneeling by the window, her face covered by her hands.
“You likely to catch cold down there, Madame,” said the soft voice. “I saw you come in here a good while ago, an’ I thought I’d come see if I could serve you some way.”
Judithe accepted the proffered hand and rose to her feet. For an instant Margeret’s arms had half enfolded her, and the soft color swept into the woman’s face. Judithe looked at her kindly and said:
“You have already tried to serve me today, Margeret; I’ve been thinking of it since, and I wonder why?”
“Any of the folks here would be proud to serve you, Madame Caron,” said the woman, lapsing again into calm reticence.
Judithe looked at her and wondered what would become of her and the many like her, now that freedom was declared for the slaves. She could not understand why she had denied seeing her in the corridor, for they had met there, almost touched! Perhaps she was some special friend of Pluto’s, and because of that purchase of the child–
“I leave tomorrow for Savannah,” said Judithe, kindly. “Come to my room this evening, and if there is anything I can do for you–”
Margeret’s hands were clasped tightly at the question, and those strange, haunting eyes of hers seemed to reach the girl’s soul.
“There is one thing,” she half whispered, “not now, maybe, not right away! But you’ve bought Loringwood, and I–I lived there too many years to be satisfied to live away from it. They–Miss Gertrude–wouldn’t ask much for me now, and–”
“I see,” and Judithe wished she could tell her that there would never be buying or selling of her again–that the law of the land had declared her free! “I promise you, Loringwood shall be your home some day, if you wish.”
“God forever bless you!” whispered Margeret, and then she pushed aside the curtains and went through the library and up the stairs, and Judithe watched her, thoughtfully wondering why any slave should cling to a home where Matthew Loring’s will had been law. Was it true that certain slavish natures in women–whether of Caucasian or African blood–loved best the men who were tyrants? Was it a relic of inherited tendencies when all women of whatever complexion were but slaves to their masters–called husbands?
But something in the delicate, sad face of Margeret gave silent negative to the question. Whatever the affection centered in Loringwood, she could not believe it in any way low or unworthy.
As she passed along the upper hall Pluto was on the landing.
“Any visitors today through all this storm?” she asked, carelessly.
“No out an’ out company,” he said, glancing around. “A boy from the Harris plantation did stop in out o’ the rain, jest now. He got the lend of a coat, an’ left his wet one, that how–”
He looked anxiously at the slip of paper yet in her fingers. She smiled and entered her own room, where everything was prepared for her journey the following day. She glanced about grimly and wondered where that journey would end–it depended so much on the temper of the man who was now reading the evidence against her–the proof absolute that she was the Federal agent sought for vainly by the Confederate authorities. She had told him nothing of the motive prompting her to the work–it had been merely a plain statement of work accomplished.
Her door was left ajar and she listened nervously for his step, his voice. It seemed hours since she had sent him the message–the time had really not been long except in her imagination. And the little slip of paper just received held a threat directed towards him! In an hour, at most, the men she had sent for would be there; she had laid the plan for his ruin, and now was wild to think she could noways save him! If she had dared to go to him, plead with him to leave at once, persuade him through his love for her–but it seemed ages too late for that! And she could only await his summons, which she expected every moment; she could not even conjecture what he meant to do.
Neither could Captain Masterson, who stood in McVeigh’s room, staring incredulously at his superior officer.
“Colonel, are you serious in this matter? You actually mean to let Captain Monroe go free?”
“Absolutely free,” said McVeigh, who was writing an order, and continued writing without looking up. “I understand your surprise, but we arrested an innocent man.”
“I don’t mean to question your judgment, Colonel, but the evidence–”
“The evidence was circumstantial. That evidence has been refuted by facts not to be ignored.” Masterson looked at him inquiringly, a look comprehended by McVeigh, who touched the bell for Pluto.
“I must have time to consider before I decide what to do with those facts,” he continued. “I shall know tonight.”
“And in the meantime what are we to do with the squad from down the river?” asked Masterson, grimly. “They have just arrived to take him for court martial; they are waiting your orders.”
“I will have their instructions ready in an hour.”
“They bring the report of some definite action on the slavery question by the Federal authorities,” remarked Masterson, with a smile of derision. “Lincoln has proclaimed freedom for our slaves, the order is to go into effect the first of the year, unless we promise to be good, lay down our arms, and enter the Union.”
“The first of the year is three months away, plenty of time to think it over;” he locked his desk and arose. “Excuse me now, Phil,” he said, kindly, “I must go down and speak with Captain Monroe.” He paused at the door, and Masterson noticed that his face was very pale and his lips had a strange, set expression. Whatever task he had before him was not easy to face! “You might help me in this,” he added, “by telling my mother we must make what amends we can to him–if any amends are possible for such indignities.”
He went slowly down the stairs and entered the library. Monroe was wiping the rain from his coat collar and holding a dripping hat at arm’s length.
“Since you insist on my afternoon calls, Colonel McVeigh, I wish you would arrange them with some regard to the elements,” he remarked. “I was at least dry, and safe, where I was.”
But there was no answering light in McVeigh’s eyes. He had been fighting a hard battle with himself, and the end was not yet.
“Captain Monroe, it is many hours too late for apologies to you,” he said, gravely, “but I do apologize, and–you are at liberty.”
“Going to turn me out in a storm like this?” inquired his late prisoner, but McVeigh held out his hand.
“Not so long as you will honor my house by remaining,” and Monroe, after one searching glance, took the offered hand in silence.
McVeigh tried to speak, but turned and walked across to the window. After a moment he came back.
“I know, now, you could have cleared yourself by speaking,” he said; “yes, I know all,” as Monroe looked at him questioningly. “I know you have borne disgrace and risked death for a chivalrous instinct. May I”–he hesitated as he realized he was now asking a favor of the man he had insulted–“may I ask that you remain silent to all but me, and that you pardon the injustice done you? I did not know–”
“Oh, the silence is understood,” said Monroe, “and as for the rest–we will forget it; the evidence was enough to hang a man these exciting times.”
“And you ran the risk? Captain, you may wonder that I ask your silence, but you talked with her here; you probably know that to me she is–”
Monroe raised his hand in protest.
“I don’t know anything, Colonel. I heard you were a benedict, but it may be only hearsay; I was not a witness; if I had been you would not have found me a silent one! But it is too late now, and we had better not talk about it,” he said, anxious to get away from the strained, unhappy eyes of the man he has always known as the most care-free of cadets. “With your permission I will pay my respects to your sister, whom I noticed across the hall, but in the meantime, I don’t know a thing!”
As he crossed the hall Gertrude Loring descended the stairs and paused, looking after him wonderingly, and then turned into the library. Colonel McVeigh was seated at the table again, his face buried in his hands.
“Kenneth!”
He raised his head, and she hesitated, staring at him. “Kenneth, you are ill; you–”
“No; it is really nothing,” he said, as he rose, “I am a trifle tired, I believe; absurd, isn’t it? and–and very busy just now, so–”
“Oh, I shan’t detain you a moment,” she said, hastily, “but I saw Captain Monroe in the hall, and I was so amazed when Phil told us you had released him.”
“I knew you would be, but he is an innocent man, and his arrest was all a mistake. Pray, tell mother for me that I have apologized to Captain Monroe, and he is to be our guest until tomorrow. I am sure she will be pleased to hear it.”
“Oh, yes, of course,” agreed Gertrude, “but Kenneth, the guard has arrived, and who will they take in his place for court-martial?”
She spoke lightly, but there was a subtle meaning back of her words. He felt it, and met her gaze with a sombre smile.
“Perhaps myself,” he answered, quietly.
“Oh, Kenneth!”
“There, there!” he said, reassuringly; “don’t worry about the future, what is, is enough for today, little girl.”
He had opened the door for her as though anxious to be alone; she understood, and was almost in the hall when the other door into the library opened, and glancing over her shoulder she saw Judithe standing there gazing after her, with a peculiar look.
She glanced up at Kenneth McVeigh, and saw his face suddenly grow white, and stern; then the door closed on her, and those two were left alone together. She stood outside the door for a full minute, amazed at the strange look in his eyes, and in hers, as they faced each other, and as she moved away she wondered at the silence there–neither of them had spoken.
They looked at each other as the door closed, a world of appeal in her eyes, but there was no response in his; a few hours ago she meant all of life to him–and now!–
With a quick sigh she turned and crossed to the window; drawing back the curtain she looked out, but all the heavens seemed weeping with some endless woe. The light of the lamp was better, and she drew the curtains close, and faced him again.
“You have read–all?”
He bent his head in assent.
“And Captain Monroe?”
“Captain Monroe is at liberty. I have accepted your confession, and acted upon it.”
“You accept that part of my letter, but not my other request,” she said, despairingly. “I begged that you make some excuse and leave for your command at once–today–do you refuse to heed that?”
“I do,” he said, coldly.
“Is it on my account?” she demanded; “if so, put me under arrest; send me to one of the forts; do anything to assure yourself of my inability to work against your cause, though I promise you I never shall again. Oh, I know you do not trust me, and I shan’t ask you to; I only ask you to send me anywhere you like, if you will only start for your command at once; for your own sake I beg you; for your own sake you must go!”
All of pleading was in her eyes and voice; her hands were clasped in the intensity of her anxiety. But he only shook his head as he looked down in the beautiful, beseeching face.
“For your sake I shall remain,” he said, coldly.
“Kenneth!”
“Your anxiety that I leave shows that the plots you confessed are not the only ones you are aware of,” he said, controlling his voice with an effort, and speaking quietly. “You are my wife; for the plots of the future I must take the responsibility, prevent them if I can; shield you if I cannot.”
“No, no!” and she clasped his arm, pleadingly; “believe me, Kenneth, there will be no more plots, not after today–”
“Ah!” and he drew back from her touch; “not after today! then there is some further use you have for my house as a rendezvous? Do you suppose I will go at once and leave my mother and sister to the danger of your intrigues?”
“No! there shall be no danger for any one if you will only go,” she promised, wildly; “Kenneth, it is you I want to save; it is the last thing I shall ever ask of you. Go, go! no more harm shall come to your people, I promise you, I–”
“You promise!” and he turned on her with a fury from which she shrank. “The promise of a woman who allowed a loyal friend to suffer disgrace for her fault!–the promise of one who has abused the affection and hospitality of the women you assure protection for! A spy! A traitor! You, the woman I worshipped! God! What cursed fancy led you to risk life, love, honor, everything worth having, for a fanatical fight against one of two political factions?”
He dropped into a chair and buried his face in his hands. As he did so a handkerchief in his pocket caught in the fastening of his cuff, as he let his hand fall the ’kerchief was dragged from the pocket, and with it the little oval frame over which he had been jealous for an hour, and concerning which he had not yet had an explanation.
It rolled towards her, and with a sudden movement she caught it, and the next instant the dark, girlish face lay uncovered in her hand.
She uttered a low cry, and then something of strength seemed to come to her as she looked at it. Her eyes dilated, and she drew a long breath, as she turned and faced him again with both hands clasped over her bosom, and the open picture pressed there. All the tears and pleading were gone from her face and voice, as she answered:
“Because to that political question there is a background, shadowed, shameful, awful! Through the shadows of it one can hear the clang of chains; can see the dumb misery of fettered women packed in the holds of your slave ships, carried in chains to the land of your free! From the day the first slave was burned at the stake on Manhattan Island by your Christian forefathers, until now, when they are meeting your men in battle, fighting you to the death, there is an unwritten record that is full of horror, generations of dumb servitude! Did you think they would keep silence forever?”
He arose from the chair, staring at her in amazement; those arguments were so foreign to all he had known of the dainty woman, patrician, apparently, to her finger tips. How had she ever been led to sympathize with those rabid, mistaken theories of the North?
“You have been misled by extravagant lies!” he said, sternly; “abuses such as you denounce no longer exist; if they ever did it was when the temper of the times was rude–half savage if you will–when men were rough and harsh with each other, therefore, with their belongings.”
“Therefore, with their belongings!” she repeated, bitterly, “and in your own age all that is changed?”
“Certainly.”
“Certainly!” she agreed. “Slaves are no longer burned for insubordination, because masters have grown too wise to burn money! But they have some laws they use now instead of the torch and the whip of those old crude days. From their book of laws they read the commandment: ‘Go you out then, and of the heathen about you, buy bondmen and bondmaids that they be servants of your household;’ and again it is commanded: ‘Servants be obedient unto your masters!’ The torch is no longer needed when those fettered souls are taught God has decreed their servitude. God has cursed them before they were born, and under that curse they must bend forever!”
“You doubt even the religion of my people?” he demanded.
“Yes!”
“You doubt the divinity of those laws?”
“Yes!”
“Judithe!”
“Yes!” she repeated, a certain dauntless courage in her voice and bearing. She was no longer the girl he had loved and married; she was a strange, wild, beautiful creature, whose tones he seemed to hear for the first time. “A thousand times–yes! I doubt any law and every law shackling liberty of thought and freedom of people! And the poison of that accursed system has crept into your own blood until, even to me, you pretend, and deny the infamy that exists today, and of which you are aware!”
“Infamy! How dare you use that word?” and his eyes flamed with anger at the accusation, but she raised her hand, and spoke more quietly.
“You remember the story you heard here today–the story of your guest and guardian, who sold the white child of his own brother? and the day when that was done is not so long past! It is so close that the child is now only a girl of twenty-three, the girl who was educated by her father’s brother that she might prove a more desirable addition to your bondslaves!”
“God in heaven!” he muttered, as he drew back and stared at her. “Your knowledge of those things, of the girl’s age, which I did not know! Where have you gained it all? When you heard so much you must know I was not aware of the purchase of the girl, but that does not matter now. Answer my questions! Your words, your manner; what do they mean? What has inspired this fury in you? Answer–I command you!”
“‘Servants, be obedient unto your masters!’” she quoted, with a strange smile. ”My words oppress you, possibly, because so many women are speaking through my lips, the women who for generations have thought and suffered and been doomed to silence, to bear the children of men they hated; to have the most sacred thing of life, mother-love, desecrated, according to the temper of their masters; to dread bringing into the world even the children of love, lest, whether white or black, they prove cattle for the slave market!”
“Judithe!”
He caught her hand as though to force silence on her by the strength of his own horror and protest. She closed her eyes for an instant as he touched her, and then drew away to leave a greater space between them, as she said:
“All those women are back of me! I have never lived one hour out of the shadow of their presence. Their cause is my cause, and when I forget them, may God forget me!”
“Your cause!–my wife!” he half whispered, as he dropped her hand, and the blue eyes swept her over with a glance of horror. “Who are you that their cause should be yours?”
“Until this morning I was Madame La Marquise de Caron,” she said, making a half mocking inclination of her head; “in the bill of sale you read today I was named Rhoda Larue, the slave girl who–”
“No!” He caught her fiercely by the shoulder, and his face had a murderous look as he bent above her, “don’t dare to say it! You are mad with the desire to hurt me because I resent your sympathy with the North! But, dear, your madness has made you something more terrible than you realize! Judithe, for God’s sake, never say that word again!”
“For God’s sake, that is, for truth’s sake, I am telling you the thing that is!”
He half staggered to the table, and stood there looking at her; her gaze met his own, and all the tragedy of love and death was in that regard.
“You!” he said, as though it was impossible to believe the thing he heard. “You–of all women! God!–it is too horrible! What right have you to tell me now? I was happy each moment I thought you loved me; even my anger against you was all jealousy! I was willing to forgive even the spy work, shield you, trust you, love you–but–now–”
He paused with his hand over his eyes as though to shut out the sight of her, she was so beautiful as she stood there–so appealing. The dark eyes were wells of sadness as she looked at him. She stood as one waiting judgment and hoping for no mercy.
“You have punished me for a thing that was not my fault,” he continued. “I destroyed it–the accursed paper, and–”
“And by destroying it you gave me back to the Loring estate,” she said, quietly. All the passion had burned itself out; she spoke wearily and without emotion. “That is, I have become again, the property of my half sister, my father’s daughter! Are the brutal possibilities of your social institution so very far in the past?”
He could only stare at her; the horror of it was all too sickening, and that man who was dying in the other room had caused it all; he had moved them as puppets in the game of life, a malignant Fate, who had made all this possible.
“Now, will you go?” she asked, pleadingly. “You may trust me now; I have told you all.”
But he did not seem to hear her; only that one horrible thought of what she was to him beat against his brain and dwarfed every other consideration.
“And you–married me, knowing this?”
“I married you because I knew it,” she said, despairingly. “I thought you and Matthew Loring equally guilty–equally deserving of punishment. I fought against my own feelings–my own love for you–”
“Love!”
“Love–love always! I loved you in Paris, when I thought hate was all you deserved from me. I waited three years. I told myself it had been only a girlish fancy–not love! I pledged myself to work for the union of these states and against the cause championed by Kenneth McVeigh and Matthew Loring; for days and nights, weeks and months, I have worked for my mother’s people and against the two men whose names were always linked together in my remembrance. The thought became a monomania with me. Well, you know how it is ended! Every plan against you became hateful to me from the moment I heard your voice again. But the plans had to go on though they were built on my heart. As for the marriage, I meant to write you after I had left the country, and tell you who you had given your name to. Then”–and all of despair was in her voice–“then I learned the truth too late. I heard your words when that paper was given to you here, and I loved you. I realized that I had never ceased to love you; that I never should!”
“The woman who is my–wife!” he muttered. “Oh, God!–”
“No one need ever know that,” she said earnestly. “I will go away, unless you give me over to the authorities as the spy. For the wrong I have done you I will make any atonement–any expiation–”
“There is no atonement you could make,” he answered, steadily. “There is no forgiveness possible.”
“I know,” she said, whisperingly, as if afraid to trust her voice aloud, “I know you could never forgive me. I–I do not ask it; only, Kenneth, a few hours ago we promised to love each other always,” her voice broke for an instant and then she went on, “I shall keep that promise wherever I go, and–that is all–I think–”
She had paused beside the table, where he sat, with his head buried in his hands.
“I give you back the wedding ring,” she continued, slipping it from her finger, but he did not speak or move. She kissed the little gold circlet and laid it beside him. “I am going now,” she said, steadily as she could; “I ask for no remembrance, no forgiveness; but–have you no word of good-bye for me?–not one? It is forever, Kenneth–Kenneth!”
Her last word was almost a scream, for a shot had sounded just outside the window, and there was the rush of feet on the veranda and the crash of arms.
“Go! Go at once!” she said, grasping his arm. “They will take you prisoner–they will–”
“So!” he said, rising and reaching for the sword on the rack near him; “this is one of the plots you did not reveal to me; some of your Federal friends!”