Part 14 (1/2)

”A great comfort, old man. Don't be bearish, now, but just wait a while and see.”

”Precisely what I intend to do,” said Newell.

In the mean time Gardis, in the privacy of her own room, was making a solemn funeral pyre on the hearth, composed of the blue gown, the slippers, and the pink rose, and watching the flame as it did its work.

”So perish also the enemies of my country!” she said to herself. (She did not mean exactly that they should be burned on funeral pyres, but merely consigned them on this, as on all occasions, to a general perdition.) The old dress was but a rag, and the slippers were worthless; but, had they been new and costly, she would have done the same. Had they not been desecrated? Let them die!

It was, of course, proper that the guests should call at Gardiston House within a day or two; and Roger Saxton, ignoring the coldness of his reception, came again and again. He even sought out Cousin Copeland in his study, and won the heart of the old bachelor by listening a whole morning to extracts from the doc.u.ments. Gardis found that her reserve was of no avail against this bold young soldier, who followed her into all her little retreats, and paid no attention to her stinging little speeches. Emboldened and also angered by what she deemed his callousness, she every day grew more and more open in her tone, until you might have said that she, as a unit, poured out upon his head the whole bitterness of the South. Saxton made no answer until the time came for the camp to break up, the soldiers being ordered back to the city.

Then he came to see her one afternoon, and sat for some time in silence; the conversation of the little mistress was the same as usual.

”I forgive this, and all the bitter things you have said to me, Gardis,”

he remarked abruptly.

”Forgive! And by what right, sir--”

”Only this: I love you, dear.” And then he poured out all the tide of his young ardor, and laid his heart and his life at her feet.

But the young girl, drawing her slight figure up to its full height, dismissed him with haughty composure. She no longer spoke angrily, but simply said, ”That you, a Northerner and a soldier, should presume to ask for the hand of a Southern lady, shows, sir, that you have not the least comprehension of us or of our country.” Then she made him a courtesy and left the room. The transformation was complete; it was no longer the hot-tempered girl flas.h.i.+ng out in biting little speeches, but the woman uttering the belief of her life. Saxton rode off into town that same night, dejected and forlorn.

Captain Newell took his leave a day later in a different fas.h.i.+on; he told Miss Duke that he would leave a guard on the premises if she wished it.

”I do not think it will be necessary,” answered the lady.

”Nor do I; indeed, I feel sure that there will be no further trouble, for we have placed the whole district under military rule since the last disturbance. But I thought possibly you might feel timid.”

”I am not timid, Captain Newell.”

The grave captain stroked his mustache to conceal a smile, and then, as he rose to go, he said: ”Miss Duke, I wish to say to you one thing. You know nothing of us, of course, but I trust you will accept my word when I say that Mr. Saxton is of good family, that he is well educated, and that he is heir to a fair fortune. What he is personally you have seen for yourself--a frank, kind-hearted, manly young fellow.”

”Did you come here to plead his cause?” said the girl scornfully.

”No; I came here to offer you a guard, Miss Duke, for the protection of your property. But at the same time I thought it only my duty to make you aware of the real value of the gift laid at your feet.”

”How did you know--” began Gardis.

”Roger tells me everything,” replied the officer. ”If it were not so, I--” Here he paused; and then, as though he had concluded to say no more, he bowed and took leave.

That night Gardiston House was left to itself in the forest stillness.

”I am glad that bugle is silenced for ever,” said Gardis.

”And yet it was a silvern sound,” said Cousin Copeland.

The rains began, and there was no more walking abroad; the excitement of the summer and the camp gone, in its place came the old cares which had been half forgotten. (Care always waits for a cold or a rainy day.) Could the little household manage to live--live with their meager comforts--until the next payment of rent came in? That was the question.

Bitterly, bitterly poor was the whole Southern country in those dreary days after the war. The second year was worse than the first; for the hopes that had buoyed up the broken fortunes soon disappeared, and nothing was left. There was no one to help Gardis Duke, or the hundreds of other women in like desolate positions. Some of the furniture and ornaments of the old house might have been sold, could they have been properly brought forward in New York City, where there were people with purses to buy such things; but in the South no one wanted Chinese images, and there was nothing of intrinsic value. So the little household lived along, in a spare, pinched way, until, suddenly, final disaster overtook them: the tenant of the warehouse gave up his lease, declaring that the old building was too ruinous for use; and, as no one succeeded him, Gardiston House beheld itself face to face with starvation.

”If we wasn't so old, Pomp and me, Miss Gardis, we could work for yer,”

said Dinah, with great tears rolling down her wrinkled cheeks; ”but we's just good for not'ing now.”