Kitabı oku: «The Bondwoman», sayfa 19
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.”
She glanced up at him with a pretense of dread such as a child might show; she was pleased to be alluringly gracious, but he could feel that she was more nervous than she had ever shown herself before–the strain was telling on her. Her beautiful eyes were not so slumbrous as usual; they were brilliant as from some inward fever, and, though she smiled and met his sombre gaze with a challenge, she smothered a sigh under her light words.
“I shan’t lecture you, Madame Caron; I have no right to interfere with what you call your–amusements,” and he glanced down at her, grimly; “but I leave in the morning because by remaining longer I might gain knowledge which, in honor, I should feel bound to report.”
“To Colonel–or, shall we say, General–McVeigh?”
He bent his head, and answered: “I have given you warning. He is my friend.”
“And I?” she asked, glancing at him with a certain archness. He looked down at her, but did not speak.
“And I?” she repeated.
“No,” he said, after a pause. “You, Madame, would have to be something more, or something less. The fates have decreed that it be less–so,” he made a little gesture dismissing the subject. “Pardon me, but I did not mean to attack you in that fashion. I came to look for you to ask you a question relating to the very pretty, very clever, maid you had in New Orleans, and whom, I hear, you brought with you on your visit here.”
“Oh! You are curious as to her–and you wish me to answer questions?”
“If you please, though it really does not matter to me. Are you aware that the woman was a runaway slave, and liable to recapture in this particular vicinity?”
“In this particular vicinity?” she repeated, questioningly.
“Yes, if Matthew Loring should once get suspicion of the fact that your maid was really his girl Rosa–no, Rhoda–it would be an awkward fact allied to the episode here today,” and he made a gesture towards the library window they were just passing.
“Come, we will go down the steps,” she suggested. They did so, and were promenading under the trees, lantern lit, on the lawn, when Colonel McVeigh came out on the veranda and felt a momentary envy of Monroe, who was free from a host’s duties. They were clear of the steps and of probable listeners before Judithe asked:
“Where did you get this information?”
“From a slave who wanted you warned that you without knowing it, are probably harboring the spy whom Captain Masterson spoke of today.”
“Ah, a slave?” she remarked, thoughtfully; and the curious, intense gaze of Margeret was recalled to her, only to be followed by the memory of Pluto’s anxiety that Louise should leave before the arrival of the Lorings; it was, then, without doubt, Pluto who gave the warning; but she remembered Zekal, and felt she had little to be anxious over.
“You probably are not aware,” he continued, “what a very serious affair it is considered here to assist in hiding a slave of that sort under assumed names or occupations. But if it is discovered it would prove ruinous to you just now.”
“In three days I shall be out of the country,” she answered, briefly. “I go down to Savannah, secure Louise from this blunder–for there is really nothing to be proven against her as a spy–and then, farewell, or ill, to Carolina. I do not expect to enter it again. My arrangements are all made. Nothing has been forgotten. As to my good Louise, your informer has not been made acquainted with all the facts. It is true she was a Georgian slave, but is so no longer. For over a year she has been in possession of the papers establishing her freedom. Her own money, and a clever lawyer, arranged all that without any trouble whatever. What Monsieur Loring would do if he knew I had a maid whose name was assumed, I neither know nor care. He could not identify her as the girl Rhoda Larue, even if he saw her. His sight has failed until he could not distinguish you from Colonel McVeigh if across the room. I learned that fact through Madame McVeigh before leaving Mobile, so, you perceive, I have not risked so much in making the journey with my pretty maid; and I shall risk no more when I make my adieus the day after tomorrow.”
She laughed, and looked up in his face. He looked down in her’s, but he did not laugh.
“And the estate you have just purchased in order to enjoy this Eden-like plantation life?”
“The purpose for which it was purchased will be carried out quite as well without my presence,” she said, quietly. “I never meant to live there.”
“Well, that beats me!” he said, halting, and looking squarely down at her. “You spend thousands to establish yourself in the heart of a seceding country, and gain the confidence of the natives, and then toss it all aside as though it were only a trifle! You must have spent fortunes from your own pocket to help the Federals!”
“So your President was good enough to say in the letter I tried to show you–and did not,” she replied, and then smiled, as she added, “but you are mistaken, Captain Monroe; it was only one fortune spent, and I will be recompensed.”
“When?”
“When that long-talked-of emancipation is announced.”
The bright music of a mazurka stole out of the open windows, and across the level could be seen a blaze of fat pine torches tied to poles and shedding lustre and black pitch over the negro quarters–they also were celebrating “Mahs Ken’s” return. Above the dreamy system of the parlor dances they could hear at times the exuberant calls and shouts of laughter where the dark people made merry. Judge Clarkson, who was descending the steps, halted to listen, and drew Monroe’s attention to it.
“Happy as children they are, over there tonight,” he remarked. “Most contented people on earth, I do believe.” He addressed some gallant words to Judithe, and then turned to Monroe.
“Mr. Loring has been inquiring for you, Captain Monroe. You understand, of course, that you are somewhat of a lion and one we cannot afford to have hidden. He is waiting to introduce you to some of our Carolina friends, who appreciate you, sir, for the protection shown a daughter of the South, and from your magnanimous care of a Carolina boy this past month–oh, your fame has preceded you, and I assure you, sir, you have earned for yourself a hearty welcome.”
Evilena joined them, followed by Delaven, who asked for a dance and was flouted because he did not wear a uniform. She did present him with a scarlet flower from her boquet, with the remark that if decked with something bright he might be a little less suggestive of funerals, and, attaching herself to Monroe, she left to look up Matthew Loring.
Delaven looked ruefully at the scarlet flower.
“It’s a poor substitute for herself,” he decided, “but, tell me now, Marquise, if you were fathoms deep in love, as I am this minute, and had so much of encouragement as a flower flung at you, what would you advise as the next move in Cupid’s game?”
She assumed a droll air of serious contemplation for an instant, and then replied, in one word:
“Propose.”
“I’ll do it,” he decided; “ah, you are a jewel of a woman to give a man courage! I’ll lay siege to her before I’m an hour older. Judge, isn’t it you would lend a boy a hand in a love affair? I’m bewitched by one of the fair daughters of the South you are so proud of; I find I am madly jealous of every other lad who leads her onto the dancing floor this night, but every one of them has dollars where I have dimes,” and he sighed like a furnace and glanced from one to the other with a comical look of distress; “so is it any wonder I need all the bracing up my friends can give me?”
“My dear sir,” said the Judge, genially, “our girls are not mercenary. You are a gentleman, so need fear comparison with none! You have an active brain, a high degree of intelligence, a profession through which you may win both wealth and honors for the lady in question–so why procrastinate?”
“Judge, you are a trump! With you to back me up with that list of advantages, I’ll dare the fates.”
“I am your obedient servant, sir. I like your enthusiasm–your determination to put the question to the test. I approve of early marriages, myself; procrastination and long engagements are a mistake, sir–a mistake!”
“They are,” agreed Delaven, with a decision suggestive of long experience in such matters. “Faith, you two are life preservers to me. I feel light as a cork with one of you on each side–though it was doleful enough I was ten minutes ago! You see, Judge, the lady who is to decide my fate has valued your friendship and advice so long that I count on you–I really do, now, and if you’d just say a good word to her–”
“A word! My dear sir, my entire vocabulary is at your service in an affair of the heart.” The Judge beamed on Delaven and bowed to Madame Caron as though including her in the circle where Love’s sceptre is ever potent.
“Faith, when America becomes a monarchy, I’ll vote for you to be king,” and Delaven grasped the hand of the Judge and shook it heartily; “and if you can only convince Mrs. McVeigh that I am all your fancy has pictured me, I’ll be the happiest man in Carolina tonight.”
“What!” Judge Clarkson dropped his hand as though it had burned him, and fairly glared at the self-confessed lover.
“I would that!–the happiest man in Carolina, barring none,” said the reckless Irishman, so alive with his own hopes that he failed to perceive the consternation in the face of the Judge; but Judithe saw it, and, divining the cause, laughed softly, while Delaven continued: “You see, Judge, Mrs. McVeigh will listen to you and–”
“Young man!” began Clarkson, austerely, but at that moment the lady in question appeared on the veranda and waved her fan to Delaven.
“Doctor, as a dancing man your presence in the house would be most welcome,” she said, coming slowly down the steps towards them.
“Madame, both my feet and my heart are at your disposal,” he said, hastening to meet her, and passing on to find some unpartnered damsels she suggested.
“What a charming young man he is,” remarked their hostess, “and exceedingly skillful in his profession for so young a physician. Don’t you consider him very bright, Judge?”
“I, Madame–I?” and Judithe retired, convulsed at the situation; “on my word, I wouldn’t trust him to doctor a sick cat!” Mrs. McVeigh looked astonished at the intensity of his words and was fairly puzzled to see Judithe laughing on the seat under the tree.
“Why, Judge! I’m actually surprised! He is most highly esteemed professionally, and in Paris–”
“Pardon me, but I presume his hair was the same color in Paris that it is here,” said the Judge, coldly, “and I have never in my life known a red-headed man who had any sense, or–”
“Oh!” Mrs. McVeigh glanced slowly from the Judge to Judithe and then smiled; “I remember one exception, Judge, for before your hair became white it was–well, auburn, at least.”
The Judge ran his fingers through the bushy curls referred to. The man usually so eloquent and ready of speech, was checkmated. He could only stammer something about exceptions to rules, and finally said:
“You will probably remember, however, that my hair was very dark–a dark red, in fact, a–a–brown red.”
Judithe, to hide her amusement, had moved around to the other side of the tree circled by the rustic seat. Her hostess turned one appealing glance towards her, unseen by the Judge, who had forgotten all but the one woman before him.
“No matter if he had hair all colors of the rainbow he is not worthy of you, Madame,” he blurted out, and Mrs. McVeigh took a step away from him in dismay; in all her knowledge of Judge Clarkson, she had never seen him show quite so intense a dislike for any one.
“Why, Judge! What is the matter tonight?” she asked, in despair. “You mean Dr. Delaven; not worthy of me?”
“He aspires to your hand,” blurted out the Judge, angrily. “Such an ambition is a worthy one; it is one I myself have cherished for years, but you must confess I had the courage to ask your hand in person.”
“Yes, Judge; but–”
“This fellow, on the contrary, has had the affrontery to come to me–to me! with the request that I use my influence in negotiating a matrimonial alliance with you!”
Mrs. McVeigh stared at him a moment, and then frankly laughed; she suspected it was some joke planned by Evilena. But the indignation of the Judge was no joke.
“Well, Judge, when I contemplate a matrimonial alliance, I can assure you that no one’s influence would have quite so much weight as your own;” she had ascended the steps and was laughing; at the top she leaned over and added, “no matter who you employ your eloquence for, Judge;” and with that parting shot she disappeared into the hall, leaving him in puzzled doubt as to her meaning. But the question did not require much consideration. The remembrance of the smile helped clear it up wonderfully. He clasped his hands under his coat tails, threw back his shoulders, walked the length of the veranda and back with head very erect. He was a very fine figure of a man.
“The Irishman’s case is quashed,” he said, nodding emphatically and confidentially to the oleander bush; “the fact that a woman, and that woman a widow, remembers the color of the plaintiff’s hair for twenty years, should convince the said plaintiff if he is a man possessed of a legal mind, that his case is still on the calendar. I’ll go and ask for the next dance.”
He had scarcely reached the steps when Judithe saw a flutter of white where the shadows were heaviest under the dense green shrubbery. She glanced about her; no one was in hearing. The veranda, for the instant, was deserted, and past the windows the dancers were moving. The music of stringed instruments and of laughter floated out to her. She saw Masterson in the hallway; he was watching Monroe. She saw Kenneth McVeigh speaking to his mother and glancing around inquiringly; was he looking for her? She realized that her moments alone now would be brief, and she moved swiftly under the trees to where the signal had been made. A man had been lying there flat to the ground. He arose as she approached, and she saw he was dressed in Confederate uniform, and that he wore no beard–it was Pierson.
