Kitabı oku: «The Bondwoman», sayfa 20
“Why did you leave the place without seeing me again?” she demanded. “This suspense seems to me entirely unnecessary.”
“It was the best I could do, Madame,” he answered, hurriedly. “Masterson, unknown to the McVeighs, had spies within hearing of every word between us, and to write was too great a risk. His man followed me beyond the second fortification.”
“And you eluded him?”
“No; I left him,” answered Pierson, grimly. “I wore his uniform back–he did not need it.”
Judithe drew a deep, shuddering breath, but made no comment. “Give me the contents of the destroyed despatch,” was all she said.
“McVeigh received official notification of promotion today. Important instructions were included as to the movements of his brigade. These instructions must be received by us tonight in order to learn their plans for this wing of the army.”
“And you depend on me?”
“No other way to secure them quickly, but some of our men have been landed north of Beaufort. They are under cover in the swamp and cane brakes awaiting your commands–so if it can’t be done quietly there is another way–a raid for any purpose you may suggest, and incidentally these instructions would be among the souvenirs from this especial plantation.”
“Colonel McVeigh only remains over tomorrow night. Suppose I succeed, how shall I communicate with you or with the detachment of Federals?”
“I will return tonight after the house is quiet. I shall be in sight of the balcony. You could drop them from there; or, if you have any better plan of your own I will act on it.”
She could see Kenneth on the veranda, and knew he was looking for her. The moments were precious now; she had to think quick.
“It may not be possible to secure them tonight; the time is so short; and if not I can only suggest that the commander of the landed troops send a detachment tomorrow, capture Colonel McVeigh and Captain Masterson, and get the papers at the same time. There are also official documents in McVeigh’s possession relating to the English commissions for additions to the Confederate Navy. I must go; they are looking for me. You can trust a black man here called Pluto–but do not forget that a detachment of Confederates came today to the fortifications below here, don’t let our men clash with them; good bye; make no mistake.”
She moved away as she spoke, and the man dropped back unseen into the shadows as she went smilingly forward to meet the lover, whose downfall she was debating with such cool judgment.
And the lover came to meet her with ardent blue eyes aglow.
“Have you fled to the shadows to avoid us all?” he demanded, and then as he slipped her hand through his arm and looked down in her face, he asked, more tenderly, “or may I think you only left the crowd to think over my audacity.”
She gave him one fleeting, upward glance, half inviting, half reproving–it would help concentrate his attention until the man in the shadows was beyond all danger of discovery.
“You make use of every pretext to avoid me,” he continued, “but it won’t serve you; no matter what cool things you say now, I can only hear through your words the meaning of those Fontainbleau days, and that one day in Paris when you loved me and dared to say it. Judithe, give me my answer. I thought I could wait until tomorrow, but I can’t; you must tell me tonight; you must!”
“Must?” She drew away from him and leaned against a tall garden vase overrun with clustering vines. They were in the full blaze of light from the windows; she felt safer there where they were likely to be interrupted every minute; the man surely dared not be wildly sentimental in full view of the crowd–which conclusion showed that she was not yet fully aware of what Kenneth McVeigh would dare do where a woman–or the woman was in question.
“An hour ago you said: ‘Will you?’ Now it is: ‘You must!’” she said, with a fine little smile. “How quick you are to assume the tone of master, Monsieur.”
“If you said slave, the picture would have been more complete,” he answered. “I will obey you in all things except when you tell me to leave you;” he had possessed himself of her hand, under cover of the vines; “it’s no use, Judithe, you belong to me. I can’t let you go from me again; I won’t!”
All of pleading was in his voice and eyes. Moved by some sudden impulse not entirely guileless, she looked full at him and let her hand remain in his.
“Well, since you really cannot,” she murmured.
“Judithe! You mean it?” and in an instant both his hands were clasping hers. “You are not coquetting with me this time? Judithe!”
She attempted to draw her hand away, but he bent his head, and kissed the warm palm. Margeret who was lighting an extinguished lantern, saw the caress and heard the low, deep tones. She turned and retraced her steps instead of passing them.
“Do you realize that all who run may read the subject of your discourse?” she asked, raising her brows and glancing after the retreating woman.
“Let them, the sooner they hear it the better I shall be pleased; come, let us tell my mother; I want to be sure of you this time, my beautiful Judithe. What time more fitting than this for the announcement–come!”
“What is it you would tell her?” she asked, looking straight ahead of her into the shadows on the lawn. Her voice sounded less musical than it had a moment before. Her eyes avoided his, and for one unguarded instant the full sculpturesque lips were tense and rigid.
“What is it?” he repeated, “why, that I adore you! that you have been the one woman in the world to me ever since I met you first; that I want you for my wife, and that you–confess it again in words, Judithe–that you love me.”
She shook her head slowly, but accompanied that half denial with a bewildering smile.
“Entirely too much to announce in one evening,” she decided; “do you forget they have had other plans for you? We must give your family more time to grow accustomed to me and to–your wishes.”
“Our wishes,” he said, correctively, and she dropped her eyes and bent her head in assent. She was adorable in the final surrender. He murmured endearing, caressing words to her, and the warm color merged across her face, and receding, left her a trifle pale. All her indifference had been a pretense–he knew it now, and it strengthened his protests against delay. He drew her away from the steps as the dance ended, and the people came chattering and laughing out from the brilliantly lit rooms.
“You talk of haste, but forget that I have waited three years, Judithe; remember that, won’t you? Put that three years to my credit; consider that I wooed you every day of every year, and I would if I had been given the chance! You talk of time as if there were oceans of it for us, and you forget that I have but one more day to be with you–one day; and then separation, uncertainty. I can’t leave you like that, now that I know you care for me–I won’t.”
“Oh–h!” and she met his look with a little quizzical smile. “You mean to resign your commission for the sake of my society? But I am not sure I should admire you so much then. I am barbarian enough to like a fighter.”
“I should fight all the better for knowing it was a wife I was leaving behind instead of a sweetheart, Judithe; marry me tomorrow!”
She made a little gesture of protest, but he clasped her hand in his and held it close to prevent her from repeating it. “Why not?” he continued. “No one need know unless you wish; it can be kept secret as the engagement would be. Then, wherever the fortunes of war may send me, I can carry with me the certainty of your love. Speak to me, Judithe! Say yes. I have waited three years; I want my wife!”
“Your wife! Your– oh!”–and she flung out her hands as though putting the thought away from her. A tear fell on his hand–she was weeping.
“Judithe, sweetheart!” he murmured, remorsefully.
“Tomorrow–not tonight,” she half whispered. “I must think, so much is to be considered.”
“No! Only one thing is to be considered;” he held her hands and looked in her face, with eyes ardent, compelling; “Only one thing, Judithe, and that is, do you love me–now?”
“Now, and from the first day we ever met,” she answered, looking up at him; her eyes were like stars glimmering through the mist of late tears. There came to them both the remembrance of that other avowal, behind those plunging horses in the Paris boulevard. They had unconsciously repeated the words uttered then.
For an instant his arms were about her–such strong, masterful, compelling arms. A wild temptation came to her to remain in that shelter–to let all the world go by with its creeds, its plots, its wars of right and wrong–to live for love, love only, love with him.
“My queen!” he whispered, as her head bent in half avoidance of his caresses even while her hand clasped his closely, convulsively, “it has all been of no use; those three years when you kept me away. It is fate that we find each other again. I shall never let you go from me–never! Do you hear me, Judithe? You are so silent; but words matter little since you belong to me. Do you realize it?–that you must belong to me always!”
The words over which he lingered, words holding all of hope and happiness to him brought to her a swift revulsion of feeling. She remembered those other human creatures who belonged to him–she remembered–
A moment later and he stood alone in the sweet dusk of the night. She had fairly run from him along the little arbor to the side door, where she vanished unseen by the others. How she was for all her queenly ways! What a creature of moods, and passions, and emotions! The hand on which her tear had fallen he touched to his cheek. Why had she wept at his confession of love for her? She had not wept when the same words were spoken on that never-to-be-forgotten day in Paris!
CHAPTER XXVII
The love affair of Colonel McVeigh was not the only one under consideration that evening. Delaven was following up the advice of the Judge and Madame Caron to the extent of announcing to Mistress McVeigh during a pause in the dance that his heart was heavy, though his feet were light, and that she held his fate in her hands, for he was madly in love, which statement she had time to consider and digest before the quadrille again allowed them to come close enough for conversation, when she asked the meaning of his mystery.
“First, let me know, Mrs. McVeigh, which you would prefer if you had a choice–to have me for your family physician, or a physician in your family?”
She smiled at the excentric question, but as the dance whisked him off just then she waited for the next installment of his confidence.
“You must tell me, first, what relationship you seek to establish,” she demanded, as he came up for his answer.
He looked at her quizzically, and seeing a slight gleam of humor in her fine eyes, he launched into the heart of the question.
“What relationship? Well, I should say that of husband and wife, if I was not afraid of being premature;” he glanced at her and saw that she was interested and not in the least forbidding. “To be sure, I am poor, while you are wealthy, but I’m willing to overlook that; in fact, I’m willing to overlook anything, and dare all things if you would only consider me favorably–as a son-in-law.”
“You are actually serious?”
“Serious, am I–on my faith, it’s a life and death affair with me this minute!”
“And my little Evilena the cause?”
“Yes, our Evilena, who does not feel so small as you may imagine. Look at her now. Could a dozen seasons give her more confidence in her own powers than she has this minute by reason of those uniformed admirers?–to say nothing of my own case.”
“Our Evilena?” and Mrs. McVeigh raised her brows inquiringly–“then you have proposed?”
“Indeed, no! I have not had the courage until tonight; but when I see a lot of lads daft as myself over her, I just whispered in the ear of Delaven that he’d better speak quick. But I would not propose without asking your permission.”
“And if I refused it?”
“You could not be so hard-hearted as that?”
“But suppose I could–and should?”
He caught the gleam of teasing light in her eyes, and smiled back at her:
“I should propose just the same!”
“Well,” said Evilena’s mother, with a combination of amusement and sympathy in her expression, “you may speak to her and let me know the result.”
“I’d get down on my knees to kiss the toe of your slipper, this minute,” he whispered, gratefully, “but the Judge would scalp me if I dared; he is eyeing me with suspicion already. As to the result–well, if you hear a serenade in the wee small hours of the night, don’t let it disturb you. I’ve got the guitar and the uniform all ready, and if I fail it will not be because I have overlooked any romantic adjuncts to successful wooing. I’ll be under your daughter’s window singing ‘Sweet Evilena,’ rigged out like a cavalier in a picture-book. I’m wishing I could borrow a feather for the hat.”
She laughed at the grotesque picture he suggested, but asked what he meant by the uniform, and laughed still more when he told her he was going to borrow one for the occasion from Kenneth, as Evilena had announced her scorn for all ununiformed men, and he did not mean to risk failure in a dress suit. Later he had an idea of applying for a uniform of his own as surgeon in the army.
“If you could introduce that into your serenade I have no fear my little girl would refuse you,” said Mrs. McVeigh, encouragingly, “at least not more than two or three times.”
On leaving Mrs. McVeigh he stumbled against Masterson, who was in the shadow just outside the window within which Monroe was in interested converse with Matthew Loring and some other residents of the county. He had been deliberately, and, in his own opinion, justifiably, a listener to every sentence advanced by the suspected Northerner, whom he felt was imposing on the hospitality of the South only to betray it.
Earnest as his convictions were he had not yet been able to discern the slightest trace of double intent in any of Monroe’s remarks, which were, for the most part, of agricultural affairs, foreign affairs, even the possible future of the Seminoles in the Florida swamp; of everything, in fact, but the very vital question of the day surrounding them, which only tended to confirm his idea that the man was remarkably clever, and he despaired of securing sufficient evidence against him in the brief time at his disposal.
He had just arrived at that conclusion when Delaven, high-hearted with hope, saw only the stars over his head as he paced the veranda, and turning the corner stumbled on Masterson.
There was an exclamation, some words of apology, and involuntarily Masterson stepped backward into the stream of light from the open window, and Monroe, looking around, read the whole situation at a glance. Masterson still suspected him, and was listening! Monroe frankly laughed and made a little sound, the mere whisper of a whistle, as he met Masterson’s baffled look with one of cool mockery; it was nonchalant to the verge of insolence, and enraged the Southerner, strong in his convictions of right, as a blow could not have done. For a blow a man could strike back, but this mockery!
Delaven walked on, unconscious of the suppressed feeling between the two. Masterson was handicapped by the fact that he dared not again mention his suspicions to the McVeigh family, and he strode down the steps to the lawn, furious at the restraint put upon him, and conscious, now, that surveillance was useless, since the Northerner had been put upon his guard.
His impatience filled him with rage. He was honest, and he was a fighter, but of what use was that since he had blundered? He had dealt clumsy strokes with both hands, but the other had parried each thrust with a foil. He was worsted–the game was up, but he at least meant to let the interloper know that however clever he might be, there were some people, at least, whom he could not deceive.
That was the humor he was in when he saw Monroe excuse himself to Loring, step through the window, and light a cigar, preparatory to a stroll towards the tryst with Pluto.
Masterson watched him sauntering carelessly down the steps. He had removed the cigar and was whistling very softly, unconsciously, as one who is deep in some quandary, but to Masterson it seemed the acme of studious carelessness to ignore his own presence; it seemed insolent as the mocking glance through the window, and it decided him. His shoulders unconsciously squared as he stepped forward.
“Captain Monroe, I want a word with you,” and his tone was a challenge in itself. Monroe turned his head, slowly, finished the bar he was whistling in a slightly louder tone–loud enough to distinguish that it was “Rally ’Round the Flag,” whistled very badly. Monroe had evidently little music in his soul, however much patriotism he had in his heart.
“Only one, I hope,” he said, carelessly, with an irritating smile.
“You may have to listen to several before you get away from here!”
“From–you?” and there was perceptible doubt in the tone; it added to Masterson’s conviction of his own impotence. He dared not fight the man unless Monroe gave the challenge, though it was the one thing he wanted to do with all his heart.
“From those in authority over this section,” he said, sternly.
“Ah!–that is a different matter.”
“You may find it a very serious matter, Captain Monroe.”
“Oh, no; I shan’t find it, I’m not looking for it,” and Monroe softly resumed, “The Union Forever.”
“If you take my advice,” began Masterson, angrily, “you’ll”–but Monroe shook his head.
“I shan’t, so don’t mention it,” he said, blandly. Masterson’s wordy anger showed him that he was master of the situation, so he only smiled as he added, “advice, you know, is something everybody gives and nobody takes,” and Monroe resumed his whistle.
“You think yourself cursedly clever,” and it was an effort for Masterson to keep from striking the cool, insolent face. “You thought so today when Madame Caron was suspected instead of yourself.”
“Madame Caron!” Monroe ceased the whistle and looked at him with a momentary frown, which Masterson welcomed as a sign of anger.
“Ah, that touches you, does it?”
“Only with wonder that you dare speak of her after your failure to make her the victim of your spies today,” and Monroe’s tone was again only contemptuous. “First you arrest me, then accuse Madame Caron. Evidently you are out of your sphere in detective work; it really requires considerable cleverness, you know. Yet, if it amuses you–well”–he made a little gesture of indifference and turned away, but Masterson stepped before him.
“You will learn there is enough cleverness here to comprehend why you came to this plantation a willing prisoner,” he said, threateningly. Monroe resumed his “Rally Once Again,” and raised his brows inquiringly, “and also why you ignored a former acquaintance with Madame Caron and had to be introduced. Before you are through with this business, Captain Monroe, you’ll whistle a different tune.”
“Oh, no, I shan’t; I don’t know any other,” said Monroe, amiably, and sauntered away as some of the guests, with gay good nights, came down the steps. The evening, delightful as it had been, fraught with emotion as it had been, was passing. The late hour reminded Monroe that he must no longer delay seeing Pluto if he was to see him at all. They had exchanged glances several times, but the black man’s duties had kept him occupied every minute, and they had found no opportunity to speak unobserved.
Judithe stood beside Mrs. McVeigh on the veranda exchanging good nights with some of the people, who expected to be her neighbors in the near future, and who were delighted with the prospect. She had been a decided success with the warm-hearted Southerners, and had entered the rooms a short time after her interview with her host, so gay, so bright, that he could scarcely believe those brilliant eyes were the ones he had seen tear-wet in the dusk. She had not avoided him, but she had made a tete-a-tete impossible; for all that he could only remember the moment when she had leaned upon his breast and confessed that the love was not all on his side; no after attempt at indifference could erase an iota of that!
Monroe stopped to look at her, himself unseen, and as she stood there smiling, gracious, the very star of the evening, he thought he had never before seen her so absolutely sparkling. He had always known her beautiful; tonight she was regal beyond comparison. Always in the years to follow he thought of her as she stood there that night, radiant, dominant, at the very pinnacle of success in all things. He never again saw her like that.
As he passed on he relit the cigar, forgotten during his meeting with Masterson, and Pluto, who had been on nettles of anxiety to get away from his duties all the evening, seized the opportunity when no one was looking, and followed closely the light of the cigar as it moved along the hedge past the dining room windows.
He carried the treasured bag holding the dead Rosa’s belongings.
“Couldn’t get away a mite sooner, not to save me, Mahsa Captain,” he said, breathlessly; “had to run now to get ’way from them niggahs in the kitchen, who wanted to know what I was toten. I had this here hid in the pantry whah I had no chance to look through it, so if you’ll s’cuse me I jest gwine dump em out right heah; the picture case, it’s plum down in the bottom; I felt it.”
Monroe smoked in silence while the darky was making the search. He no longer needed the picture in order to convince Madame Caron of the truth of Pluto’s story, yet concluded it best that she have possession of so compromising a portrait until her clever maid was out of the country.
He could hear Colonel McVeigh asking for Pluto, and Caroline offering information that “Pluto jest gone out through the pantry.”
“You’d better hurry, my man,” suggested Monroe, “they’ll be looking for you.”
“They will that–folks all gwine home, an’ need a sight o’ waiten’ on; thah’s the likeness, Mahs Captain;” he handed him a small oval frame, commenced crowding the other articles hurriedly back into the bag; “fo’ God’s sake, be careful o’ that; I don’ want it to fetch harm to that gal, but I don’ allow neither fo’ Madame Caron to be made trouble if I can help it.”
“You’re a faithful fellow; there’s a coin in exchange for the picture; you’d better go. I’ll see you in the morning.”
Pluto was profuse in his thanks, while Monroe hunted for a match with which to view the picture.
He struck a light and opened the little closed frame as Pluto started for the side door. An instant later he snapped it shut again, and as the darky reached the steps Monroe’s hand was on his shoulder:
“Wait a bit,” he said, briefly. “You say that is the picture of Rhoda’s mother? Now tell me again what her name is.”
“Who?–Margeret? Why, her name Margeret Loring, I reckon, but Nelse did say her right name was ’Caris–Lacaris. Retta Lacaris what she called when she jest a young gal an’ Mahs Tom Loring fust bought her.”
Monroe repeated the name in order to impress it on his memory. He took a pencil and note book out of his pocket.
Pluto half offered his hand for the little oval frame, for there was enough light where they stood to see it by, but Monroe slipped it with the note book into an inner pocket. “The Colonel will want you; you had better go,” he said, turning away, and walking directly from the house he crossed the lawn out of sight and hearing of the departing guests. All the gay chatter jarred on him, oppressed as he was with the certainty of some unknown calamity overhanging those laughing people on the veranda. What it was he did not know, but he would leave in the morning.
He had been gone an hour. He was missed, but no one except Masterson took any special notice of it, and he was wary about asking questions, remembering Colonel McVeigh’s attitude in the morning over the disputed question. But as he was enjoying a final cigar with Judge Clarkson on the lawn–the Judge was the very last to leave and was waiting for his horse–all his suspicions were revived with added strength as McVeigh strode hurriedly across the veranda towards them.
“Phil, I was looking for you,” and his tone betrayed unusual anxiety reflected in his face as he glanced around to see if there were possible listeners. But the rooms on the first floor were deserted–all dark but for a solitary light in the hall. In the upper rooms little gleams stole out from the sleeping rooms where the ladies had retired for the night.
“Anything wrong, Colonel?” asked Masterson, speaking in a suppressed tone and meeting him at the foot of the steps.
“Who is that with you, the Judge?” asked McVeigh first. “Good! I’m glad you are here. Something astounding has occurred, gentlemen. The papers, the instructions you brought today, together with some other documents of importance, have been stolen from my room tonight!”
“Ah-h!” Masterson’s voice was scarcely above a whisper. All his suspicions blazed again. Now he understood Monroe’s presence there.
“But, my dear boy,” gasped the Judge, thunderstruck at the news, “your commission stolen? Why, how–”
“The commission is the least important part of it,” answered McVeigh hopelessly. He was pacing back and forth in decided agitation. “The commission was forwarded me with instructions to take charge of the entire division during the temporary absence of the Major General commanding.”
“And you have lost those instructions?” demanded Masterson, who realized the serious consequences impending.
“Yes,” and McVeigh halted in his nervous walk, “I have lost those instructions. I have lost the entire plan of movement! It has been stolen from my room–is perhaps now in the hands of the enemy, and I ignorant of the contents! I had only glanced at them and meant to go over them thoroughly tonight. They are gone, and it means failure, court martial, disgrace!”
He had dropped hopelessly on the lower step, his face buried in his hands; the contrast to the joy, the absolute happiness of an hour ago was overwhelming. Masterson stood looking at him, thinking fast, and wondering how much he dared express.
“When did you discover the loss, Colonel?”
“Just now,” he answered, rising and commencing again the nervous pacing. “I had gone to my room with Dr. Delaven to find an old uniform of mine he had asked to borrow. Then I found the drawer of my desk open and my papers gone. I said nothing to him of the loss. Any search to be made must be conducted without publicity.”
“Certainly, certainly,” agreed Judge Clarkson, “but a search, Kenneth, my boy? Where could we begin?”
McVeigh shook his head, but Masterson remembered that Delaven was also an outsider–and Delaven had borrowed a Confederate uniform!
“Colonel,” he asked, with a significance he tried ineffectually to subdue, for all subterfuge was difficult to his straightforward nature, “may I ask for what purpose that uniform was borrowed?”
The tone was unmistakable. McVeigh turned as if struck.
“Captain Masterson!”
“Colonel, this is no time to stand on ceremony. Some one who was your guest tonight evidently stole those papers! Most of the guests were old, tried friends, but there were exceptions. Two are foreigners, and one belongs to the enemy. It is most natural that the exceptions be considered first.” Clarkson nodded assent to this very logical deduction and Masterson felt assured of his support. “The borrowing of the uniform in itself is significant, but at this time is especially so.”
“No, no, no!” and his superior officer waved aside the question impatiently. “Dr. Delaven is above suspicion; he is about to offer his services as surgeon to our cause–talked to me of it tonight. The uniform was for some jest with my sister. It has nothing whatever to do with this.”
“What became of the man you suspected as a spy this morning?” asked the Judge, and McVeigh also looked at Masterson for reply.
“No, it was not he,” said the latter, decidedly. “He was watched every minute of his stay here, and his stay was very brief. But Colonel McVeigh–Kenneth; even at the risk of your displeasure I must remind you that Dr. Delaven is not the only guest here who is either neutral or pledged to the cause of our enemies–I mean Captain Jack Monroe.”
“Impossible!” said McVeigh; but Masterson shook his head.
“If the name of every guest here tonight were mentioned you would feel justified in saying the same thing–impossible, yet it has been possible, since the papers are gone. Who but the Federals would want them? Captain Monroe of the Federal army allowed himself to be taken prisoner this morning and brought to your home, though he had a parole in his pocket! The careless reason he gave for it did not satisfy me, and now even you must agree that it looks suspicious.”
McVeigh glanced from one to the other in perplexity. He felt that the Judge agreed with Masterson; he was oppressed by the memory of the accusation against the sailor that morning. Spies and traitors at McVeigh Terrace! He had placed his orderly on guard in the room so soon as he discovered the rifled drawer, and had at once come to Masterson for consultation, but once there no solution of the problem suggested itself. There seemed literally no starting point for investigation. The crowd of people there had made the difficulty greater, for servants of the guests had also been there–drivers and boatmen. Yet who among them could have access to the rooms of the family? He shook his head at Masterson’s suggestion.
“Your suspicions against Captain Monroe are without foundation,” he said decidedly. “The papers had not yet reached me when he arrived. He had no knowledge of their existence.”
“How do we know that?” demanded Masterson. “Do you forget that he was present when I gave you the papers?”
McVeigh stopped short and stared at him. By the thin edge of the wedge of suspicion a door seemed forced back and a flood of revelations forced in.
“By Jove!” he said, slowly, “and he heard me speak of the importance of my instructions!”
