Part 116 (1/2)

So, conversing of a thousand things, we return to the Oaks wandering like boy and girl through the ”happy autumn fields.” May Surry flits through the old doorway and disappears.

As she goes the sun sinks behind the forest. But it will rise, as she will, to-morrow!

The smiling Colonel Beverly meets me on the threshold, with a note in his hand.

”A servant has just brought this,” he says, ”it is from your friend, Mordaunt.”

I opened the note and read the following words:--

”_My dear Surry_:--

”I send this note to await your appearance at the Oaks. Come and see me. Some old friends will give you a cordial greeting, in addition to

”Your comrade,

”Mordaunt.”

I had intended visiting Mordaunt in a day or two after my arrival. On the very next morning I mounted my horse, and set out for the house in the mountain, anxious to ascertain who the ”old friends” were, to whom he alluded.

In an hour I had come within sight of Mordaunt's mansion. Pa.s.sing through the great gate, I rode on between the two rows of magnificent trees; approached the low mansion with its extensive wings, overshadowed by the huge black oaks; dismounted; raised the heavy bronze knocker, carved like the frowning mask of the old tragedians; and letting it fall sent a peal of low thunder through the mansion.

Mordaunt appeared in a few moments; and behind him came dear Violet Grafton, as I will still call her, smiling. Mordaunt's face glowed with pleasure, and the grasp of his strong hand was like a vice. He was unchanged, except that he wore a suit of plain gray cloth. His statuesque head, with the long black beard and mustache, the sparkling eyes, and cheeks tanned by exposure to the sun and wind, rose as proudly as on that morning in 1865, when he had charged and cut through the enemy at Appomattox.

Violet was Violet still! The beautiful tranquil face still smiled with its calm sweetness; the lips had still that expression of infantile innocence. The blue eyes still looked forth from the shower of golden ringlets which had struck me when I first met her in the lonely house in the Wilderness, in the gay month of April, 1861.

I had shaken hands with Mordaunt, but I advanced and ”saluted” madam, and the cheek was suddenly filled with exquisite roses.

”For old times' sake, madam!”

”Which are the best of all possible times, Surry!” said Mordaunt, laughing.

And he led the way into the great apartment, hung round with portraits, where we had supped on the night of Pelham's hard fight at Barbee's, after Sharpsburg.

”You remember this room, do you not, my dear Surry?” said Mordaunt. ”It escaped during the war; though you see that my poor little grandmother, the child of sixteen there, with the curls and laces, received a sabre thrust in the neck. But you are looking round for the friends I promised. They were here a moment since, and only retired to give you a surprise.

”See! here they are!”

The door opened, and I saw enter--Mohun and Landon!

In an instant I had grasped the hands of these dear friends; and they had explained their presence. Mohun had come to make a visit to Mordaunt, and had prolonged his stay in order to meet me. Then Mordaunt had written to Landon, at ”Bizarre,” just over the mountain, to come and complete the party--he had promptly arrived--and I found myself in presence of three old comrades, any one of whom it would have been a rare pleasure to have met.

Mohun and Landon were as unchanged as Mordaunt. I saw the same proud and loyal faces, listened to the same frank brave voices, touched the same firm hands. They no longer wore uniforms--that was the whole difference. Under the black coats beat the same hearts which had throbbed beneath the gray.

I spent the whole day with Mordaunt, After dinner he led the way into the room on the right of the entrance--that singular apartment into which I had been shown by accident on my first visit to him, and where afterward I witnessed the test of poor Achmed's love. The apartment was unchanged. The floor was still covered with the rich furs of lions, tigers, and leopards--the agate eyes still glared at me, and the grinning teeth seemed to utter growls or snarls. On the walls I saw still the large collection of books in every language--the hunting and battle pictures which I had before so greatly admired--the strange array of outlandish arms--and over the mantel-piece still hung the portrait of Violet Grafton.

Seated in front of a cheerful blaze, we smoked and talked--Mordaunt, Mohun, Landon, and myself--until the shades of evening drew on.

Landon told me of his life at ”Bizarre,” near the little village of Millwood, through which we had marched that night to bury his dead at the old chapel, and where he had surrendered in April, 1865. Arden and Annie lived near him, and were happy: and if I would come to ”Bizarre,”