_ Supper at Bellegarde was not the simple meal it had been for a year past
at Colonel Carvel's house in town. Mrs. Colfax was proud of her table,
proud of her fried chickens and corn fritters and her desserts. How
Virginia chafed at those suppers, and how she despised the guests whom
her aunt was in the habit of inviting to some of them! And when none was
present, she was forced to listen to Mrs. Colfax's prattle about the
fashions, her tirades against the Yankees.
"I'm sure he must be dead," said that lady, one sultry evening in July.
Her tone, however, was not one of conviction. A lazy wind from the river
stirred the lawn of Virginia's gown. The girl, with her hand on the
wicker back of the chair, was watching a storm gather to the eastward,
across the Illinois prairie.
"I don't see why you say that, Aunt Lillian," she replied. "Bad news
travels faster than good."
"And not a word from Comyn. It is cruel of him not to send us a line,
telling us where his regiment is."
Virginia did not reply. She had long since learned that the wisdom of
silence was the best for her aunt's unreasonableness. Certainly, if
Clarence's letters could not pass the close lines of the Federal troops,
news of her father's Texas regiment could not come from Red River.
"How was Judge Whipple to-day?" asked Mrs. Colfax presently.
"Very weak. He doesn't seem to improve much."
"I can't see why Mrs. Brice,--isn't that her name?--doesn't take him to
her house. Yankee women are such prudes."
Virginia began to rock slowly, and her foot tapped the porch.
"Mrs. Brice has begged the Judge to come to her. But he says he has
lived in those rooms, and that he will die there,--when the time comes."
"How you worship that woman, Virginia! You have become quite a Yankee
yourself, I believe, spending whole days with her, nursing that old man."
"The Judge is an old friend of my father's; I think he would wish it,"
replied the girl, in a lifeless voice.
Her speech did not reveal all the pain and resentment she felt. She
thought of the old man racked with pain and suffering in the heat, lying
patient on his narrow bed, the only light of life remaining the presence
of the two women. They came day by day, and often Margaret Brice had
taken the place of the old negress who sat with him at night. Worship
Margaret Brice! Yes, it was worship; it had been worship since the day
she and her father had gone to the little whitewashed hospital.
Providence had brought them together at the Judge's bedside. The
marvellous quiet power of the older woman had laid hold of the girl in
spite of all barriers.
Often when the Judge's pain was eased sufficiently for him to talk, he
would speak of Stephen. The mother never spoke of her son, but a light
would come into her eyes at this praise of him which thrilled Virginia
to see. And when the good lady was gone, and the Judge had fallen into
slumber, it would still haunt her.
Was it out of consideration for her that Mrs. Brice would turn the Judge
from this topic which he seemed to love best? Virginia could not admit
to herself that she resented this. She had heard Stephen's letters to
the Judge. They came every week. Strong and manly they were, with
plenty of praises for the Southern defenders of Vicksburg. Only
yesterday Virginia had read one of these to Mr. Whipple, her face
burning. Well that his face was turned to the window, and that Stephen's
mother was not there!
"He says very little about himself," Mr. Whipple complained. "Had it not
been for Brinsmade, we should never know that Sherman had his eye on him,
and had promoted him. We should never have known of that exploit at
Chickasaw Bluff. But what a glorious victory was Grant's capture of
Vicksburg, on the Fourth of July! I guess we'll make short work of the
Rebels now."
No, the Judge had not changed much, even in illness. He would never
change. Virginia laid the letter down, and tears started to her eyes as
she repressed a retort. It was not the first time this had happened. At
every Union victory Mr. Whipple would loose his tongue. How strange
that, with all his thought of others, he should fall short here!
One day, after unusual forbearance, Mrs. Brice had overtaken Virginia on
the stairway. Well she knew the girl's nature, and how difficult she
must have found repression. Margaret Brice had taken her hand.
"My dear," she had said, "you are a wonderful woman." That was all. But
Virginia had driven back to Belle. garde with a strange elation in her
heart.
Some things the Judge had forborne to mention, and for this Virginia was
thankful. One was the piano. But she had overheard Shadrach telling old
Nancy how Mrs. Brice had pleaded with him to move it, that he might have
more room and air. He had been obdurate. And Colonel Carvel's name had
never once passed his lips.
Many a night the girl had lain awake listening to the steamboats as they
toiled against the river's current, while horror held her. Horror lest
her father at that moment be in mortal agony amongst the heaps left by
the battle's surges; heaps in which, like mounds of ashes, the fire was
not yet dead. Fearful tales she had heard in the prison hospitals of
wounded men lying for days in the Southern sun between the trenches at
Vicksburg, or freezing amidst the snow and sleet at Donelson.
Was her bitterness against the North not just? What a life had been
Colonel Carvel's! It had dawned brightly. One war had cost him his
wife. Another, and he had lost his fortune, his home, his friends, all
that was dear to him. And that daughter, whom he loved best in all the
world, he was perchance to see no more.
Mrs. Colfax, yawning, had taken a book and gone to bed. Still Virginia
sat on the porch, while the frogs sang of rain, and the lightning
quivered across the eastern sky. She heard the crunch of wheels in the
gravel.
A bar of light, peopled by moths, slanted out of the doorway and fell on
a closed carriage. A gentleman slowly ascended the steps. Virginia
recognized him as Mr. Brinsmade.
"Your cousin Clarence has come home, my dear," he said. "He was among
the captured at Vicksburg, and is paroled by General Grant."
Virginia gave a little cry and started forward. But he held her hands.
"He has been wounded!"
"Yes," she exclaimed, "yes. Oh, tell me, Mr. Brinsmade, tell me--all--"
"No, he is not dead, but he is very low. Mr. Russell has been kind
enough to come with me."
She hurried to call the servants. But they were all there in the light,
in African postures of terror,--Alfred, and Sambo, and Mammy Easter, and
Ned. They lifted the limp figure in gray, and carried it into the hall
chamber, his eyes closed, his face waxen under a beard brown and shaggy.
Heavily, Virginia climbed the stairs to break the news to her aunt.
There is little need to dwell on the dark days which followed--Clarence
hanging between life and death. That his life was saved was due to
Virginia and to Mammy Easter, and in no particle to his mother. Mrs.
Colfax flew in the face of all the known laws of nursing, until Virginia
was driven to desperation, and held a council of war with Dr. Polk. Then
her aunt grew jealous, talked of a conspiracy, and threatened to send for
Dr. Brown--which Dr. Polk implored her to do. By spells she wept, when
they quietly pushed her from the room and locked the door. She would
creep in to him in the night during Mammy Easter's watches and talk him
into a raging fever. But Virginia slept lightly and took the alarm.
More than one scene these two had in the small hours, while Ned was
riding post haste over the black road to town for the Doctor.
By the same trusty messenger did Virginia contrive to send a note to Mrs.
Brice, begging her to explain her absence to Judge Whipple. By day or
night Virginia did not leave Bellegarde. And once Dr. Polk, while
walking in the garden, found the girl fast asleep on a bench, her sewing
on her lap. Would that a master had painted his face as he looked down
at her!
'Twas he who brought Virginia daily news of Judge Whipple. Bad news,
alas! for he seemed to miss her greatly. He had become more querulous
and exacting with patient Mrs. Brice, and inquired for her continually.
She would not go. But often, when he got into his buggy the Doctor found
the seat filled with roses and fresh fruit. Well he knew where to carry
them.
What Virginia's feelings were at this time no one will ever know. God
had mercifully given her occupation, first with the Judge, and later,
when she needed it more, with Clarence. It was she whom he recognized
first of all, whose name was on his lips in his waking moments. With the
petulance of returning reason, he pushed his mother away. Unless
Virginia was at his bedside when he awoke, his fever rose. He put his
hot hand into her cool one, and it rested there sometimes for hours.
Then, and only then, did he seem contented.
The wonder was that her health did not fail. People who saw her during
that fearful summer, fresh and with color in her cheeks, marvelled.
Great-hearted Puss Russell, who came frequently to inquire, was quieted
before her friend, and the frank and jesting tongue was silent in that
presence. Anne Brinsmade came with her father and wondered. A miracle
had changed Virginia. Her poise, her gentleness, her dignity, were the
effects which people saw. Her force people felt. And this is why we
cannot of ourselves add one cubit to our stature. It is God who
changes,--who cleanses us of our levity with the fire of trial. Happy,
thrice happy, those whom He chasteneth. And yet how many are there who
could not bear the fire--who would cry out at the flame.
Little by little Clarence mended, until he came to sit out on the porch
in the cool of the afternoon. Then he would watch for hours the tassels
stirring over the green fields of corn and the river running beyond,
while the two women sat by. At times, when Mrs. Colfax's headaches came
on, and Virginia was alone with him, he would talk of the war; sometimes
of their childhood, of the mad pranks they played here at Bellegarde, of
their friends. Only when Virginia read to him the Northern account of
the battles would he emerge from a calm sadness into excitement; and he
clenched his fists and tried to rise when he heard of the capture of
Jackson and the fall of Port Hudson. Of love he spoke not a word, and
now that he was better he ceased to hold her hand. But often when she
looked up from her book, she would surprise his dark eyes fixed upon her,
and a look in them of but one interpretation. She was troubled.
The Doctor came but every other day now, in the afternoon. It was his
custom to sit for a while on the porch chatting cheerily with Virginia,
his stout frame filling the rocking-chair. Dr. Polk's indulgence was
gossip--though always of a harmless nature: how Mr. Cluyme always managed
to squirm over to the side which was in favor, and how Maude Catherwood's
love-letter to a certain dashing officer of the Confederate army had been
captured and ruthlessly published in the hateful Democrat. It was the
Doctor who gave Virginia news of the Judge, and sometimes he would
mention Mrs. Brice. Then Clarence would raise his head; and once (she
saw with trepidation) he had opened his lips to speak.
One day the Doctor came, and Virginia looked into his face and divined
that he had something to tell her. He sat but a few moments, and when he
arose to go he took her hand.
"I have a favor to beg of you, Jinny," he said, Judge has lost his nurse.
Do you think Clarence could spare you for a little while every day? I
shouldn't ask it," Dr. Polk continued, somewhat hurriedly for him, but
the Judge cannot bear a stranger near him, And I am afraid to have him
excited while in this condition."
"Mrs. Brice is ill?" she cried. And Clarence, watching, saw her color
go.
"No," replied Dr. Polk, "but her son Stephen has come home from the army.
He was transferred to Lauman's brigade, and then he was wounded." He
jangled the keys in his pocket and continued "It seems that he had no
business in the battle. Johnston in his retreat had driven animals into
all the ponds and shot them, and in the hot weather the water was soon
poisoned. Mr. Brice was scarcely well enough to stand when they made the
charge, and he is now in a dreadful condition He is a fine fellow, added
the Doctor, with a sigh, "General Sherman sent a special physician to
the boat with him. He is--Subconsciously the Doctor's arm sought
Virginia's back, as though he felt her swaying. But he was looking at
Clarence, who had jerked himself forward in his chair, his thin hands
convulsively clutching at the arms of it. He did not appear to see
Virginia.
"Stephen Brice, did you say?" he cried, "will he die?"
In his astonishment the Doctor passed his palm across his brow, and for a
moment he did not answer. Virginia had taken a step from him, and was
standing motionless, almost rigid, her eyes on his face.
"Die?" he said, repeating the word mechanically; "my God, I hope not.
The danger is over, and he is resting easily. If he were not," he said
quickly and forcibly, "I should not be here."
The Doctor's mare passed more than one fleet--footed trotter on the road.
to town that day. And the Doctor's black servant heard his master utter
the word "fool" twice, and with great emphasis.
For a long time Virginia stood on the end of the porch, until the heaving
of the buggy harness died on the soft road, She felt Clarence gaze upon
her before she turned to face him.
"Virginia!" He had called her so of late. "Yes, dear."
"Virginia, sit here a moment; I have something to tell you."
She came and took the chair beside him, her heart beating, her breast
rising and falling. She looked into his eyes, and her own lashes fell
before the hopelessness there But he put out his fingers wasted by
illness, and she took them in her own.
He began slowly, as if every word cost him pain.
It Virginia, we were children together here. I cannot remember the time
when I did not love you, when I did not think of you as my wife. All I
did when we played together was to try to win your applause. That was my
nature I could not help it. Do you remember the day I climbed out on
the rotten branch of the big pear tree yonder to get you that pear--when
I fell on the roof of Alfred's cabin? I did not feel the pain. It was
because you kissed it and cried over me. You are crying now," he said
tenderly. "Don't, Jinny. It isn't to make you tad that I am saying
this.
"I have had a great deal of time to think lately, Jinny, I was not
brought up seriously,--to be a man. I have been thinking of that day
just before you were eighteen, when you rode out here. How well I
remember it. It was a purple day. The grapes were purple, and a purple
haze was over there across the river. You had been cruel to me. You
were grown a woman then, and I was still nothing but a boy. Do you
remember the doe coming out of the forest, and how she ran screaming when
I tried to kiss you? You told me I was good for nothing. Please don't
interrupt me. It was true what you said, that I was wild and utterly
useless, I had never served or pleased any but myself,--and you. I had
never studied or worked, You were right when you told me I must learn
something,--do something,--become of some account in the world. I am
just as useless to day."
"Clarence, after what you have done for the South?"
He smiled with peculiar bitterness.
"What have I done for her?" he added. "Crossed the river and burned
houses. I could not build them again. Floated down the river on a log
after a few percussion caps. That did not save Vicksburg."
"And how many had the courage to do that?" she exclaimed.
"Pooh," he said, "courage! the whole South has it, Courage! If I did not
have that, I would send Sambo to my father's room for his ebony box and
blow my brains out. No, Jinny, I am nothing but a soldier of fortune.
I never possessed any quality but a wild spirit for adventure, to shirk
work. I wanted to go with Walker, you remember. I wanted to go to
Kansas. I wanted to distinguish myself," he added with a gesture. "But
that is all gone now, Jinny. I wanted to distinguish myself for you.
Now I see how an earnest life might have won you. No, I have not done
yet."
She raised her head, frightened, and looked at him searchingly.
"One day," he said, "one day a good many years ago you and I and Uncle
Comyn were walking along Market Street in front of Judge Whipple's
office, and a slave auction was going on. A girl was being sold on whom
you had set your heart. There was some one in the crowd, a Yankee, who
bid her in and set her free. Do you remember him?"
He saw her profile, her lips parted, her look far away, She inclined her
head.
"Yes," said her cousin, "so do I remember him. He has crossed my path
many times since, Virginia. And mark what I say--it was he whom you had
in mind on that birthday when you implored me to make something of
myself, It was Stephen Brice."
Her eyes flashed upon him quickly.
"Oh, how dare you?" she cried.
"I dare anything, Virginia," he answered quietly. "I am not blaming you.
And I am sure that you did not realize that he was the ideal which you
had in mind."
The impression of him has never left it. Fate is in it. Again, that
night at the Brinsmades', when we were in fancy dress, I felt that I had
lost you when I got back. He had been there when I was away, and gone
again. And--and--you never told me."
"It was a horrible mistake, Max," she faltered. "I was waiting for you
down the road, and stopped his horse instead. It--it was nothing--"
"It was fate, Jinny. In that half-hour I lost you. How I hated that
man," he cried, "how I hated him?"
"Hated!" exclaimed Virginia, involuntarily. "Oh, no!"
"Yes," he said, "hated! I would have killed him if I could. But now--"
"But now?"
"Now he has saved my life. I have not--I could not tell you before: He
came into the place where I was lying in Vicksburg, and they told him
that my only chance was to come North, I turned my back upon him,
insulted him. Yet he went to Sherman and had me brought home--to you,
Virginia. If he loves you,--and I have long suspected that he does--"
"Oh, no," she cried, hiding her face "No."
"I know he loves you, Jinny," her cousin continued calmly, inexorably.
"And you know that he does. You must feel that he does. It was a brave
thing to do, and a generous. He knew that you were engaged to me. He
thought that he was saving me for you. He was giving up the hope of
marrying you himself."
Virginia sprang to her feet. Unless you had seen her then, you had never
known the woman in her glory,
"Marry a Yankee!" she cried. "Clarence Colfax, have you known and loved
me all my life that you might accuse me of this? Never, never, never!"
Transformed, he looked incredulous admiration.
"Jinny, do you mean it?" he cried.
In answer she bent down with all that gentleness and grace that was hers,
and pressed her lips to his forehead. Long after she had disappeared in
the door he sat staring after her.
But later, when Mammy Easter went to call her mistress for supper, she
found her with her face buried in the pillows. _