Part 52 (1/2)
The fact of the prisoners' escape soon became evident, and there were haste, confusion, and running to and fro to no purpose. Suwanee imitated Roberta so closely that she was not suspected. Lieutenant Macklin and the rebel sergeant at last returned, giving evidence of strong vexation.
”We don't understand this,” began the lieutenant.
”Neither do we,” interrupted Mrs. Barkdale, so haughtily that they were abashed, although they directed keen glances towards Suwanee, who met their scrutiny unflinchingly.
The Barkdales were not people to be offended with impunity, and the lieutenant knew it. He added, apologetically: ”You know I must do my duty, madam. I fear some of your servants are implicated, or that guards have been tampered with.”
”You are at liberty to examine any one you please.”
They might as well have examined a carved, wrinkled effigy as old Cuffy, Lane's midnight guide. ”I don' know nuffin' 'tall 'bout it,”
he declared. ”My ole woman kin tell yo' dat I went to bed when she did and got up when she did.”
The guard, bought with kindness, was as dense in his ignorance as any of the others. At last Macklin declared that he would have to put citizens on the hunt, for his orders admitted of no delay.
The Union prisoners, together with the Confederates, when formed in line, gave a ringing cheer for ”Missy S'wanee and the ladies,”
and then the old mansion was left in more than its former isolation, and, as the younger girl felt, desolation.
She attended to her duties as usual, and then went to her piano.
The words spoken the previous evening would ever make the place dear to her. While she was there old Hildy crept in, with her feeble step, and whispered, ”I foun' dis un'er Cap'n Lane's piller.”
It was but a sc.r.a.p of paper, unaddressed; but Suwanee understood its significance. It contained these words: ”I can never repay you, but to discover some coin which a nature like yours can accept has become one of my supreme ambitions. If I live, we shall meet again.”
Those words formed a glimmering hope which grew fainter and fainter in the dark years which followed.
She did not have to mask her trouble very long, for another sorrow came like an avalanche. Close to the Union lines, on Cemetery Ridge, lay a white-haired colonel and his two tall sons. They were among the heroes in Pickett's final charge, on the 3d of July. ”Missy S'wanee” laughed no more, even in self-defence.
CHAPTER XLI.
SUNDAY'S LULL AND MONDAY'S STORM.
SUNDAY, the 12th of July, proved a long, restful sabbath to Marian and her father, and they spent most of its hours together. The great tension and strain of the past weeks appeared to be over for a time. The magnificent Union victories had brought gladness and hopefulness to Mr. Vosburgh, and the return of her friends had relieved his daughter's mind. He now thought he saw the end clearly.
He believed that hereafter the tide of rebellion would ebb southward until all the land should be free.
”This day has been a G.o.dsend to us both,” he said to Marian, as they sat together in the library before retiring. ”The draft has begun quietly, and no disturbances have followed. I scarcely remember an evening when the murmur of the city was so faint and suggestive of repose. I think we can both go to the country soon, with minds comparatively at rest. I must admit that I expected no such experience as has blessed us to-day. We needed it. Not until this respite came did I realize how exhausted from labor and especially anxiety I had become. You, too, my little girl, are not the blooming la.s.sie you were a year ago.”
”Yet I think I'm stronger in some respects, papa.”
”Yes, in many respects. Thank G.o.d for the past year. Your sympathy and companions.h.i.+p have made it a new era in my life. You have influenced other lives, also, as events have amply proved. Are you not satisfied now that you can be unconventional without being queer? You have not been a colorless reflection of some social set; neither have you left your home for some startling public career; and yet you have achieved the distinct individuality which truthfulness to nature imparts. You have simply been developing your better self naturally, and you have helped fine fellows to make the best of themselves.”
”Your encouragement is very sweet, papa. I'm not complacent over myself, however; and I've failed so signally in one instance that I'm vexed and almost saddened. You know what I mean.”
”Yes, I know,” with a slight laugh. ”Merwyn is still your unsolved problem, and he worries you.”
”Not because he is unsolved, but rather that the solution has proved so disappointing and unexpected. He baffles me with a trait which I recognize, but can't understand, and only admit in wonder and angry protest. Indeed, from the beginning of our acquaintance he has reversed my usual experiences. His first approaches incensed me beyond measure,--all the more, I suppose, because I saw in him an odious reflection of my old spirit. But, papa, when to his condescending offer I answered from the full bitterness of my heart, he looked and acted as if I had struck him with a knife.”
Her father again laughed, as he said: ”You truly used heroic surgery, and to excellent purpose. Has he shown any conceit, complacency, or patronizing airs since?”