"Yes, we've all been hearing considerable about this charming foreigner of yours, who is daring enough to cross to a war-ridden country to pay visits."

"She owns a fine property in New Orleans, but left there in disgust when the Yankees took possession. I was delighted to find her in Mobile, and persuaded her to come along and see plantation life in our country. We met her first in Paris—Kenneth and I. He will be delightfully surprised to find her here."

"No doubt, no doubt," but Loring's assent was not very hearty; he remembered those first comments on her at Loringwood. "Dr. Delaven, also, was among her Parisian acquaintances, so you will have quite a foreign colony at the Terrace."

"I was much pleased with that fine young fellow, Dr. Delaven," remarked the Judge, "and really consider you most fortunate to secure his services—a very superior young man, and possessed, I should say, of very remarkable talent, and of too gay a heart to be weighed down with the importance of such special knowledge, as is too often the case in young professional men—yes, sir; a very bright young man."

Mrs. McVeigh, hearing laughter, had stepped out on the veranda, and smiled in sympathy with the couple who appeared on the step. The very talented young man just mentioned was wreathed in blossoms and wild vines; he carried Aunt Sajane's parasol, and was guided by reins formed of slender vines held in Miss Evilena's hands; the hat he wore was literally heaped with flowers, and he certainly did not appear to be weighed by the importance of any special knowledge at that moment. At sight of the Judge, Evilena dropped her improvised lines and ran to him.

"Oh, Judge, it is right kind of you to come over early today. Aunt Sajane is coming, she was down to the river with us; she laughed too much to walk fast. We were getting wild flowers for decorating—and here is Dr. Delaven."

"Yes, I'm one of the things she's been decorating," and he entered from the veranda, shook hands with Clarkson, and stood for inspection. "Don't I look like a lamb decked for the sacrifice? But faith it was the heart of a lion I needed to go into the moccasin dens where she sent me this day. The blossoms desired by your daughter were sure to grow in the wildest swamps."

"I didn't suppose a bog-trotter would object to that," remarked the girl, to Loring's decided amusement.

"Lena!" and at the look of horror on her mother's face she fled to the veranda.

"Ah—Mrs. McVeigh, I'm not hurt at all, but if she had murthered me entirely your smile would give me new life again; it's a guardian angel you are to me."

"You do need assistance," she replied, endeavoring to untwine the vines twisted about his shoulders, "now turn around."

He did, spinning in top fashion, with extended arms, while Evilena smiled at the Judge from the window. His answering smile grew somewhat constrained as his hostess deliberately put her pretty arm half way around the young man's shoulder in her efforts to untangle him.

"I say, Judge, isn't it in fine luck I am?—the undoing of Delaven!"

But the Judge did not respond. He grew a trifle more ceremonious as he turned from the window.

"Mistress McVeigh, I shall step out on the lawn to meet my sister and Miss Loring, and when you have concluded your present task, would you permit me to see the autumn roses you were cultivating? As a lover of flowers I certainly have an interest in their progress."

"Autumn roses—humph!" and Loring smiled in a grim way only discernible to Delaven, who had grown so accustomed to his sardonic comments on things in general that they no longer caused surprise.

"Of course, Judge; I'll show them to you myself," and Mrs. McVeigh let fall the last of the vines and joined him at the window—"so charming of you to remember them at all."

"Don't you want to go along and study the progress of autumn roses?" asked Evilena, peering around the window at Delaven, who laughed at the pretended demureness and timidity with which she invested the question.

"Not at this moment, my lady. Autumn roses, indeed!—while there's a wild flower in sight—not for the O'Delavens!"

And the O'Delaven's bright Irish eyes had so quizzical a smile in them the girl blushed and was covered with confusion as with a mantle, and gathering the blossoms in her arms seated herself ostentatiously close to Mr. Loring's chair while she arranged them, and Delaven might content himself with a view of one pink ear and a delicious dimple in one cheek, which he contemplated from the lounging chair back of her, and added to his occupation by humming, very softly, a bit of the old song:

"Ten years have gone by and I have not a dollar; Evilena still lives in that green grassy hollow; And though I am fated to marry her never, I'm sure that I'll love her for ever and ever!"

"For ever and ever! I say, Miss Evilena, how do you suppose the fellow in the song could be so dead sure of himself, for ever and ever?"

"Probably he wasn't an Irishman," suggested the girl, bending lower over the blossoms that he might not see her smiling.

"Arrah, now, I had conjured up a finer reason than that entirely; it had something to do with the charms of your namesake, but I'll not be telling you of it while you carry a nettle on your tongue to sting poor harmless wanderers with."

His pondrous sigh was broken in on by her laughter, and the beat of hoofs on the drive. While they looked at each other questioningly the voice of Judithe was heard speaking to Pluto, and then humming the refrain of Evilena's favorite, "Bonnie Blue Flag," she ran up to the veranda where Mrs. McVeigh met her.

"Oh, what a glorious gallop I had. Good morning, Judge Clarkson. How glad I am that you came right over soon as you got home. You are to us a recruit from the world whom we depend on to tell us all about doings there, and it is so good of you."

"It argues no virtue in a man, Madame, that he comes where beauty greets him," and the Judge's bow was a compliment in itself.

"Charming—is it not, Madame McVeigh? Truly your Southern men are the most delightful in the world."

"Ah, Madame," and Delaven arose from his chair with a lugubrious countenance, "for how am I to forgive you for adopting the fancy that Ireland is out of the world entirely?"

Judithe laughed frankly and put out her hand; she was exceedingly gay and gracious that morning; there was a delightful exhilaration in her manner, and it was contagious. Matthew Loring half turned in his chair and peered out at the speaker as she turned to Delaven.

"Not out of the world of our hearts, Dr. Delaven, and for yourself, you really should not have been born up where the snow falls. You really belong to the South—we need you here."

"Faith, it was only a little encouragement I was needing, Marquise. I'll ask the Judge to prepare my naturalization papers in the morning."

"Other friends have arrived during your ride, Judithe," and her hostess led her into the sitting room. "Allow me to present our neighbor, Mr. Loring, of the Loringwood you admired so greatly."

"And with such good reason," said Judithe, with gracious bend of her head, and a charming smile. "I have looked forward to meeting you for some time, Mr. Loring, and your estate really appealed to me—it is magnificent. After riding past it I was conscious of coveting my neighbor's goods."

"It is our loss, Madame, that you did ride past," and Loring really made an effort to be cordial and succeeded better than might have been expected. He was peering at her from under the heavy brows very intently, but she was outlined against the flood of light from the window, and it blurred his vision, leaving distinct only the graceful, erect form in its dark riding habit. "Had you entered the gates my niece would have been delighted to entertain you."

"What a generous return for my envy," exclaimed Judithe. "The spirit of hospitality seems ever abroad in your land, Mr. Loring."

He smiled, well pleased, for his pride in his own country, his own state, was very decided. He lifted the forgotten rose from the arm of his chair.

"I will have to depend on our friend, the Judge, to present you fine phrases in return for that pretty speech, Madame; I can only offer a substitute," and to Evilena's wide-eyed astonishment he actually presented the rose to the Marquise.

"She simply has bewitched him," protested the girl to Delaven, later. "I never knew him to do so gallant a thing before. I could not have been more surprised if he had proposed marriage to her before us all."

Delaven confessed he, too, was unprepared for so much amiability, but then he admitted he had known men to do more astonishing things than that, on short notice, for a smile from Madame Judithe.

She accepted the rose with a slight exclamation of pleasure.

"You good people will smother me with sweets and perfumes," she protested, touching her cheek with the beautiful flower; then, as she was about to smell it, they were astonished to see it flung from her with a faint cry, followed by a little laugh at the consternation of the party.

"How unpardonable that I discover a worm at the heart of your first friendly offering to me, Mr. Loring;" and her tones were almost caressing as she smiled at him; "the poor, pretty blossom, so lovely, and so helpless in the grasp of its enemy, the worm."

Pluto had entered with a pitcher of water which he placed on the stand. He had witnessed the episode of the rose, and picked it up from where it had been tossed.

"Margeret told me to see if you wanted anything, Mr. Loring," he said, gently, and Mr. Loring's answer was decided, brusque and natural.

"Yes, I do; I want to go to my room; get my stick. Mistress McVeigh, if you have no objection to me breaking up your party, I would like to have Judge Clarkson go along; we must settle these business matters while I am able."

"At your service, sir, with your permission, Madame," and the Judge glanced at Mrs. McVeigh, who telegraphed a most willing consent as she passed out on the veranda after Evilena and Delaven. Judithe stood by the little side table, slowly pulling off her gauntlets, when she was aware that the colored man Pluto was regarding her curiously, and she perceived the reason. He had looked into the heart of the rose, and on the floor where it had fallen, and had found no living thing to cause her dread of the blossom.

He dropped his eyes when she looked at him, and just then a bit of conversation came to him as the Judge offered his arm to Loring and assisted him to rise.

"I certainly am pleased that you feel like looking into the business matters," Clarkson was saying, "and the Rhoda Larue settlement cannot be postponed any longer; Colonel McVeigh may be back any time now, and we must be ready to settle with him."

Loring made some grumbling remark in which "five thousand dollars" was the only distinguishable thing, and then they passed out, and Pluto followed, leaving the Marquise alone, staring out of the window with a curious smile; she drew a deep breath of relief as the door closed.



CHAPTER XX.

Mrs. McVeigh entered the sitting room some time after and was astonished to find her still there and alone.

"Why, Judithe, I fancied you had gone to change your habit ages ago, and here you are, plunged in a brown study."

"No—a blue and green one," was the smiling response. "Have you ever observed what a paintable view there is from this point? It would be a gem on canvas; oh, for the talent of our Dumaresque!"

"Your Dumaresque," corrected Mrs. McVeigh. "I never can forgive you, quite, for sending him away; oh, Helene wrote me all about it—and he was such a fine fellow."

"Yes, he was," and Judithe gave a little sigh ending in a smile; "but one can't keep forever all the fine fellows one meets, and when they are so admirable in every way as Dumaresque, it seems selfish for one woman to capture them."

Mrs. McVeigh shook her head hopelessly over such an argument, but broke a tiny spray of blossom from a plant and fastened it in the lapel of Judithe's habit.

"It is not so gorgeous as the rose, but it is at least free from the pests."

Judithe looked down at the blossom admiringly. "I trust Mr. Loring will forgive my panic—I fear it annoyed him."

"Oh, no—not really. He is a trifle eccentric, but his invalidism gains him many excuses. There is no doubt but that you made a decided impression on him."

"I hope so," said Judithe.

Margeret entered the room just then, and with her hand on the door paused and stared at the stranger who was facing her. Judithe, glancing up, saw a pair of strange dark eyes regarding her. She noticed how wraith-like the woman appeared, and how the brown dress she wore made the sallow face yet more sallow. A narrow collar and cuffs of white, and the apron, were the only sharp tones in the picture; all the rest was brown—brown hair tinged with grey rippling back from the broad forehead, brown eyes with a world of patience and sadness in them and slender, sallow-looking hands against the white apron.

She looked like none of the house servants at the Terrace—in fact Judithe was a trifle puzzled as to whether she was a servant at all. She had not a feature suggesting colored blood, was much more Caucasian in appearance than Louise.

It was but a few seconds they stood looking at each other, when Margeret made a slight little inclination of her head and a movement of the lips that might have been an apology, but in that moment the strange woman's face fairly photographed itself on Judithe's mind—the melancholy expression of it haunted her afterwards.

Mrs. McVeigh, noticing her guest's absorbed gaze, turned and saw Margeret as she was about to leave the room.

"What is it, Margeret?" she asked, kindly, "looking for Miss Gertrude?"

"Yes, Mistress McVeigh; Mr. Loring wants her."

"I think she must have gone to her room, she and Mistress Nesbitt went upstairs some time ago."

Margeret gently inclined her head, and passed out with the noiseless tread Evilena had striven to emulate in vain that day at Loringwood.

"One of Miss Loring's retainers?" asked Judithe; "I fancied they only kept colored servants."

"Margeret is colored," explained Mrs. McVeigh, "that is," as the other showed surprise, "although her skin does not really show color, yet she is an octoroon—one-eighth of colored ancestry. She has never been to the Terrace before, and she had a lost sort of appearance as she wandered in here, did she not? She belongs to Miss Loring's portion of the estate, and is very capable in her strange, quiet way. There have been times, however, when she was not quite right mentally—before we moved up here, and the darkies rather stand in awe of her ever since, but she is entirely harmless."

"That explains her peculiar, wistful expression," suggested Judithe. "I am glad you told me of it, for her melancholy had an almost mesmeric effect on me—and her eyes!"

All the time she was changing her dress for lunch those haunting eyes, and even the tones of her voice, remained with her.

"Those poor octoroons!" and she sighed as she thought of them, "the intellect of their white fathers, and the bar of their mothers' blood against the development of it—poor soul, poor soul—she actually looks like a soul in prison. Oh!"—and she flung out her hands in sudden passion of impotence. "What can one woman do against such a multitude? One look into that woman's hopeless face has taken all the courage from me. Ah, the resignation of it!"

But when she appeared among the others a little later, gowned in sheer white, with touches of apple green here and there, and the gay, gracious manner of one pleased with the world, and having all reason to believe the world pleased with her, no one could suspect that she had any more serious problem to solve than that of arranging her own amusements.

Just now the things most interesting to her were the affairs of the Confederacy. Judge Clarkson answered all her questions with much good humor, mingled with amusement, for the Marquise, despite her American sympathies, would get affairs hopelessly mixed when trying to comprehend political and military intricacies; and then the gallant Judge would explain it all over again. Whether from Columbia or Charleston, he was always in touch with the latest returns, hopes, plans of the leaders, and possibilities of the Southern Confederacy, together with all surreptitious assistance from foreign sources, in which Great Britain came first and Spain close behind, each having special reasons of their own for widening the breach in the union of states.

From Mobile there came, also, through letters to Mrs. McVeigh, many of the plans and possibilities of the Southern posts—her brother being stationed at a fort there and transmitting many interesting views and facts of the situation to his sister on her more Northern plantation.

Thus, although they were out of the whirl of border and coast strife, they were by no means isolated as regards tidings, and the fact was so well understood that their less fortunate neighbors gathered often at the Terrace to hear and discuss new endeavors, hopes and fears.

"I like it," confessed Judithe to Delaven, "they are like one great family; in no country in the world could you see such unanimous enthusiasm over one central question. They all appear to know so many of the representative people; in no other agricultural land could it be so. And there is one thing especially striking to me in comparison with France—in all this turmoil there is never a scandal, no intrigues in high places such as we are accustomed to in a court where Madame, the general's wife, is often quite as much of a factor in the political scene as the general himself; it is all very refreshing to a foreigner."

"Our women of the South," said the Judge, who listened, "are more of an inspiration because they are never associated in our minds with any life but that of the home circle and its refining influences. When our women enter the arena, it is only in the heart and memory of some man whose ideals, Madame, are higher, whose ambitions are nobler, because she exists untouched by the notoriety attaching itself to the court intrigues you mention, the notoriety too often miscalled fame."

"Right you are, Judge," said Delaven, heartily. "After all, human nature is very much alike whether in kingdom or republic, and men love best the same sort of women the world over."

Matthew Loring entered the room just then, leaning on the arm of Gertrude, whose fair hair made harmony with the corn-colored lawn in which she looked daintily pretty, and as the two ladies faced each other the contrasted types made a most effective picture.

"You have not met the Marquise de Caron?" he asked of Gertrude; and then with a certain pride in this last of the Lorings, he continued: "Madame la Marquise, allow me to present my niece, Miss Loring."

The blue eyes of the Carolina girl and the mesmeric amber eyes of the Parisian met, with the slight conventional smile ladies favor each other with, sometimes. There was decided interest shown by each in the other—an interest alert and questioning. Judithe turned brightly to Loring:

"In your democratic land, my dear sir, I have dispensed with 'La Marquise.' While here I am Madame Caron, very much at your service," and she made him a miniature bow.

"We shall not forget your preference, Madame Caron," said Gertrude, "it is a pretty compliment to our institutions." Then she glanced at Delaven, "did we interrupt a dissertation on your favorite topic, Doctor?"

"Never a bit; it's yourself is an inspiration to continue the same topic indefinitely," and he explained the difference Madame Caron had noticed in political matter with and without the feminine element.

"For all that, there are women in the political machines here, also," said Loring, testily—"too many of them, secret agents, spies, and the like. Gertrude, what was it Captain Masterson reported about some very dangerous person of that sort in New Orleans?—a woman whose assistance to the Yankees was remarkable, and whose circle of acquaintances was without doubt the very highest—did he learn her name?"

"Why, no, Uncle Matthew; don't you remember he was finding fault with our secret agents because they had not established her identity—in fact, had only circumstantial evidence that it was a woman, though very positive evidence that the person belonged to the higher social circle there."

"Faith, I should think the higher circle would be in a sorry whirl just then—not knowing which of your neighbors at dinner had a cup or dagger for you."

"The daggers were only figurative," said the Judge, "but they were none the less dangerous, and the shame of it! each innocent loyal Southerner convinced that a traitor had been made as one of themselves—trusted as is the nature of Southerners when dealing with friends, just as if, in this Eden-like abode, Mistress McVeigh should be entertaining in any one of us, supposed to be loyal Southerners, a traitor to his country."

"How dreadful to imagine!" said Judithe, with a little gesture of horror, "and what do they do with them—those dangerous serpents of Eden?"

"It isn't nice at all to hear about, Madame Caron," spoke Aunt Sajane, who was, as usual, occupied with the unlovely knitting. "It gave me chills to hear Phil Masterson say how that spy would be treated when found—not even given time for prayers!"

"Captain Masterson is most loyal and zealous, but given to slight extravagancies in such matters," amended the Judge. "No woman has ever suffered the extreme penalty of military law for spy work, in this country, and especially would it be impossible in the South. Imprisonment indefinitely and the probable confiscation of all property would no doubt be the sentence if, as in this suspected case, the traitoress were a Southern woman of means. But that seems scarcely credible. I have heard of the affair mentioned, but I refuse to believe any daughter of the South would so employ herself."

"Thank you, Judge," said Gertrude, very prettily; "any daughter of the South would die of shame from the very suspicion against her."

"Who is to die?" asked Mrs. McVeigh, coming in; "all of you, and of hunger, perhaps, if I delay tea any longer. Come right on into the dining room, please, and let me hear this discussion of Southern daughters, for I chance to be a daughter of the South myself."

Captain Philip Masterson, from an adjoining plantation, arrived after they were seated at the table, and was taken at once into the dining room, where Judithe regarded with interest this extremist who would not allow a secret agent of the North time for prayers. He did not look very ferocious, though his manner had a bluntness not usual in the Southern men she had met—a soldier above and beyond everything else, intelligent, but not broad, good looking with the good looks of dark, curly hair, a high color, heavy mustache, which he had a weakness for caressing as he talked, and full, bold eyes roaming about promiscuously and taking entire advantage of the freedom granted him at the Terrace, where he had been received as neighbor since boyhood. He was a cousin of Gertrude's, and it was not difficult to see that she was the first lady in the county to him, and the county was the center of Philip Masterson's universe.

He was stationed at Charleston and was absent only for some necessary business at Columbia, and hearing Judge Clarkson was at the Terrace he had halted long enough to greet the folks and consult the Judge on some legal technicality involved in his journey.

Pluto, who had seen that the Captain's horse had also been given refreshment, came thoughtfully up the steps, puzzling his head over the perfect rose cast aside on a pretense. It puzzled him quite as much as the problem of Louise; and the only key he could find to it was that this very grand lady knew all about the identity of Louise, and knew why she had hurried away so when old Nelse recognized her.

He wished he had that picture of Margeret, brought by Rosa from Georgia. But it was still with a lot of Rosa's things over at the Larue plantation, with the child. He counted on going over to see the boy in a week at the furthest.

As he reached the top of the steps he could see Margeret through the open window of the sitting room. Her back was towards him, and she was so absorbed in regarding the party in the dining room that he approached unnoticed, and she turned with a gasp as of fear when he spoke:

"You're like to see more gay folks like that over here than you have at Loringwood," he remarked. "I reckon you glad to move."

"No," she said, and went slowly towards the veranda; then she turned and looked at him questionably, and with an interest seldom shown for anyone.

"You—you heard news from Larue plantation?" she asked, hesitatingly.

"Who, me? No, I aint had no news. I aint"—then he stopped and stared at her, slowly comprehending what news might come from there. "Fo' God's sake, tell me! My Zekal; my—"

She lifted her finger for silence and caught his arm.

"They hear you—they will," she said, warningly, "come in here."

She opened the door into the library and he followed; she could feel his hand tremble, and his eyes were pleading and full of terror. The light chatter and laughter in the dining room followed them.

"Sick?" and his eyes searched her face for reply, but she slowly shook her head and he caught his breath in a sob, as he whispered: "Daid! My baby, oh—"

"Sh-h! He's alive—your boy. It's worse than that, maybe—and they never let you know! Mr. Larue had gone down to Mexico, and the overseer has published all his slaves to be sold—all sold, and your child—your little boy—"

"God A'mighty!"

He was silent after that half-whispered ejaculation. His face was covered with his hands, while the woman stood regarding him, a world of pity in her eyes.

"They can't sell Zekal," he said, at last, looking up. "Mahs Larue tole me plain he give me chance. I got some o' the money, that eighteen dollah I paid on Rosa's freedom—that gwine be counted in—then I got most nine dollah 'sides that yet, an' I gwine Mahs Jean Larue an' go down my knees fo' that boy, I will! He only pickaninny, my Zekal, an' I promise Rosa 'fore she died our boy gwine be free; so I gwine Mahs Larue, I—"

Margeret shook her head.

"He's gone, I tell you—gone to Mexico, more miles away than you could count; sold to the sugar plantation and left the colored folks for lawyer and overseer to sell. They all to be sold—a sale bill came to Loringwood yesterday. Men like overseers and lawyers never take account of one little pickaninny among a hundred. One same as another to them—one same as another!"

Her voice broke and she covered her face with her hands, rocking from side to side, overcome by memories of what had been. Pluto looked at her and realized from his own misery what hers had been. Again the laughter and tinkle of tea things drifted in to them; some one was telling a story, and then the laughter came more clearly. Pluto listened, and his face grew hard, brutish in its sullen hate.

"And they can laugh," he muttered, sullenly, "while my baby—my Rosa's baby—is sold to the traders, sold away where I nevah can find him again; sold while the white folks laugh an' make merry," and he raised his hand above his head in a fury of suppressed rage. "A curse on every one of them! a curse—"

Margeret caught his arm with a command to silence.

"Hush! You got a kind master—a kind mistress. The people who laugh at that table are not to blame on account of Rosa's master, who holds your child."

"You stand up fo' the race that took yo' chile from yo?" he demanded, fiercely. "That held yo' a slave when yo' was promised freedom? That drove yo' wild fo' years with misery? The man is in that room who did all that, an' yo' stan' up fo' him along of the rest?"

He paused, glowering down at her as if she, too, were white enough to hate. When she spoke it was very quietly, almost reprovingly.

"My child died. What good was freedom to me without her? Where in all this wide world would I go with my freedom if I had it? Free and alone? No," and she shook her head sadly, "I would be like a child lost from home—helpless. The young folks laughing there never hurt me—never hurt you."

The people were leaving the dining room. Captain Masterson, who had time for but a brief call, was walking along the veranda in low converse with the Judge. Judithe had separated herself from the rest and walked through the sitting room into the library, when she halted, surprised at those two facing each other with the air of arrested combat or argument. She recovered her usual manner enough to glance at the clock, and as her eyes crossed Margeret's face she saw traces of tears there.

"It is time, almost, for the mail up from Pocotaligo today, is it not, Pluto?" she said, moving towards a book-case. Receiving no reply, she stopped and looked at him, at which he recovered himself enough to mutter, "Yes, mist'ess," and turned towards the door, his trembling tones and the half-groping movement as he put his hand out before him showed he was laboring under some emotion too intense for concealment, and involuntarily she made a gesture of command.

"Wait! You have grief—some sad misfortune?" and she glanced from his face to that of Margeret, questioningly. "Poor fellow—is it a death?"

"No death, and nothing to trouble a white lady with," he said, without turning, and with hopeless bitterness in his voice; "not fit to be told 'long side o' white folks merry-maken', only—only Rosa, my boy's mother, died yeah ago ovah on Larue plantation, an' now the chile hisself—my Rosa's baby—gwine to be sold away—gwine to be sold to the traders!"

His voice broke in a sob; all the bitterness was drowned in the wave of grief under which his shoulders heaved, and his broken breaths made the only sound in the room, as Judithe turned questioningly to Margeret, who bent her head in confirmation of his statement.

"But," and the questioner looked a trifle bewildered, "a little child, that would not mean a great expense, surely if your mistress, or your master, knew, they would help you."

Margeret shook her head, and Pluto spoke more calmly.

"Not likely; this war done crippled all the folks in money; that why Mahs Jean Larue sell out an' go ovah in Mexico; that why Loren'wood up fo' sale to strangers; that why Judge Clarkson done sell out his share in cotton plantation up the river; ain't nobody got hundreds these days, an' lawyers won't take promises. I done paid eighteen dollars on Rosa when she died, but I ain't got no writin'," he went on, miserably, "that was to go on Zekal, an' I have 'nigh onto nine dollars 'sides that. I gwine take it ovah to Mahs Larue nex' week, sure, an' now—an'—now—"

His words were smothered in a sigh; what use were words, any way? Judithe felt that Margeret's eyes were on her face as she listened—wistful, questioning eyes! Would the words be of no use?

"The Jean Larue estate," she said, meditatively, seating herself at the table and picking up a pen, "and your wife was named Rosa?"

"Yes'm." He was staring at her as a man drowning might stare at a spar drifting his way on a chance wave; there was but the shadow of a hope in his face as he watched with parted lips the hand with the pen—and back of the shadow what substance!

"And she is dead—how long?"

"A yeah gone now."

"And Mr. Larue asks how much for her child?"

"Hundred 'n' fifty dollar—this what he said, but, God knows, lawyers got hold o' things now, maybe even more 'n that now, an' anyway—"

His words sounded vague and confused in his own ears, for she was writing, and did not appear to hear.

"Where is this Larue place?" she asked, glancing up. "I heard of a Jean Larue plantation across in Georgia—is this it?"

"No'm," and he turned an eager look of hope towards Margeret at this pointed questioning, but her expression was unchanged; she only looked at the strange lady who questioned and showed sympathy.

"No, mist'ess, this Mahs Jean Larue did stay on they Georgy plantation till five yeah back, then they move ovah to Callina again; that how I come to meet up with Rosa. Larue place down river towards Beaufort—a whole day's walken'."

"What did you say this child was named?" she asked, without ceasing the movement of the pen over the white paper.

"His name Ezekal, but we ain't nevah call him anything but Zekal—he's so little yet."

"And when is this sale to be?"

Pluto looked helplessly towards Margeret.

"Tomorrow week, Madame Caron," she said, speaking for the first time, though her steady gaze had almost made Judithe nervous. It had a peculiar, appealing quality, which Judithe, with a little grimace, assured herself was so appealing it was compelling; it left her no choice but to do what she was doing and for which she could take no credit whatever to herself—the wistful eyes of the pale-faced bondwoman did it all.

"In a week there is plenty of time to arrange it," she said, turning kindly to Pluto. "You can rest in peace about your Rosa's boy. I will attend to it at once, and the traders shall never have him."

Margeret drew a sharp, inward breath of relief.

"Yo' mean you'll buy him in?" and Pluto's voice was scarcely more than a whisper. "Yo' mean I'll have a chance, maybe, to buy him back some day?"

"Not 'some day,' my good fellow," and Judithe folded the paper she had been writing; "from the day he is bought from the Larue estate he will have his freedom. He will never be bought or sold again."

The man stared at her, helplessly. No hope of his had ever reached so high as that! He tried to speak—failed—and his face was covered by his sleeve, as he went slowly out of the room.

"Don't—don't you think Pluto ain't thankful, Madame Caron," said the soft tones of Margeret, and they were not quite steady tones, either. Judithe did not look up for fear she should see tears in the melancholy, dark eyes; "that black boy just so thankful he can't speak. He'll worship you for what you've done for him, and well he may."

There was a soft rustle beside her—the presence of lips on her hand, and then Judithe was alone in the room, and stronger than when she had entered it so short a while since, braced by the certainty that here, at least, she had been of use—practical use her own eyes could see, and all the evening a bird sang in her heart, and the grateful touch of the bondwoman's lips gave her more pleasure than she could remember through the same tribute of any courtier.



CHAPTER XXI.

When Pluto brought her mail, an hour later, he tried to express more clearly in words the utter happiness showing through every feature of his dark face, but she stopped him with a little gesture.

"I see you are glad—no need to tell it," she remarked, briefly; "if you want to thank me do it by helping any of your people whom you find in trouble. There are many of them, no doubt."

And when Mrs. McVeigh thanked her for doing what she could not have done on such short notice, Judithe put the question aside quite as lightly.

"The man is a very good groom," she remarked. "I enjoyed my ride the more today for having him along to answer all my curious questions of the country. I meant to give him 'backsheesh,' as the Orientals call it, so why not select what the fellow most wants—even though it be a pickaninny?"

"Well, he certainly is singing your praises down in the cook-house. I even heard several 'hallelujas' from Aunt Dilsey's particular corner. Judge Clarkson has endorsed the check and will send a white man horseback with it to Larues in the morning. Pluto starts tonight on foot across country—says he can't sleep, any way—he's so happy. The women are arguing already as to which shall have the special care of Zekal. Altogether, you have created a sensation in the household, and we all love you for it."

"What further recompense to be desired? It really is not worth so much of praise."

"Kenneth will not think so when he comes home," and Kenneth's mother slipped her arm around the girl's shoulder affectionately, not noticing how her careless expression changed at mention of the name.

"Oh! Will he, then, be interested in such small things as pickaninnies?" and her light words belied the look in her eyes.

"Will he? Well, I should think so! You have done just what he would want done—what he would do if it were possible. For two generations the McVeighs have neither bought nor sold slaves"—Judithe's eyes shot one disdainful flash—"just kept those inherited; but I'm sure that boy of mine would have broken the rule for his generation in this case, and he'll be so grateful to you for it. Pluto was his playmate and respected monitor as a child, and Pluto's Zekal certainly will have a place in his affections."

Judithe picked up one of several letters, over which she had glanced, and remarked that she would expect a visitor within a week—possibly in a day or two, the master of her yacht, which from a letter received, she learned had reached Savannah before Louise. A storm had been encountered somewhere along the southern coast, and he would submit the list of damages—not heavy, yet needing a certain amount of refitting.

"Fortunate Louise did go down," she said, with a certain satisfaction, as she laid down the communication. "She will be perfectly happy, even hobbling around with a cane, if she is only buying things; she delights in spending money;" then, after a pause, "I presume Col. McVeigh's return is still uncertain?"

"Yes, rather; yet I fancy each morning he will come before night, and each night that he may waken me in the morning. I have been living in that delightful hopefulness for a week."

Lena called them and they went out to the rustic seat circling the great live oak at the foot of the steps. The others were there, and the Judge was preparing to drive the three miles home with his sister. Now that the invalid was better, and the wanderer returned from Mobile, Aunt Sajane bethought herself of the possible sixes and sevens of her own establishment, and drove away with promises of frequent visits on both sides.

Long after the others had retired for the night Judithe's light burned, and there was little of the careless butterfly of fashion in her manner as she examined one after another of the letters brought her by the last mail, and wrote replies to some she meant to take to the office herself during her early morning ride; it was so delightful to have an errand, and Pluto had shown her the road. After all the others were done she picked up again the communication she had shown to Mrs. McVeigh—the report from the yacht master, and from the same envelope extracted a soft silken slip of paper with marks peculiar—apparently mere senseless scratches of a thoughtless pen, but it was over that paper and the reply most of the evening was spent. It was the most ancient method of secret writing known to history, yet, apparently, so meaningless that it might pass unnoticed even by the alert, or be turned aside as the ambitious scrawlings of a little child.

Each word as deciphered she had pencilled on a slip of paper, and when complete it read:

"Courant brings word McV. is likely to be of special interest. If he travels with guard we can't interfere on road from coast, and you will be only hope. A guard of Federals will be landed north of Beaufort and await your orders. Messenger will communicate soon as movements are known. You may expect Pierson. We await your orders or any suggestions."

There was no signature. Her orders or suggestions were written in the same cipher, and required much more time and thought than had been given to the buying and freeing of Pluto's pickaninny, after which she destroyed all unnecessary writings, and retired with the satisfied feeling of good work done and better in prospect, and in a short time was sleeping the calm, sweet sleep of a conscienceless child.

She rode even further next morning than she had the preceding day, when Pluto was her guide, and she rode as straight east as she could go towards the coast. When she met colored folk along the road she halted, and spoke with them, to their great delight. She asked of the older ones where the road led to, and were the pine woods everywhere along it, and what about swamps and streams to ford, etc., etc. Altogether, she had gained considerable knowledge of that especial territory by the time she rode back to the Terrace and joined the rest at the late breakfast. She had been in the saddle since dawn, and recounted with vivacity all the little episodes of her solitary constitutional; the novelty of it was exhilarating. That it appeared a trifle eccentric to a Southerner did not suggest itself to her; all her eccentricities were charming to the McVeigh household, and Delaven lamented he had not been invited as proxy for Pluto, and amused the breakfast party by anecdotes of hunting days in Ireland, and the energy and daring of the ladies who rode at dawn there.

Several times during the day Judithe attempted to have a tete-a-tete with Mrs. McVeigh, and learn more about Miss Loring's silent maid, who was the first person she saw on her return from the ride that morning. The absolute self-effacement of an individual whose repose suggested self-reliance, and whose well shaped head was poised so admirably as to suggest pride, made the sad-faced servant a fascinating personality to any one interested in questions concerning her race. No other had so won her attention since she made compact with Kora in Paris.

But Mistress McVeigh was a very busy woman that day. Pluto's absence left a vacancy in the establishment no other could fill so intelligently. Miss Loring had promptly attached herself as general assistant to the mistress of the house. Delaven noticed how naturally she fell into the position of an elder daughter there, and, remembering Evilena's disclosures at Loringwood, and Matthew Loring's own statement, he concluded that the wedding bells might sound at any time after Kenneth's return, and he fancied they had been delayed, already, three years longer than suited the pleasure of her uncle.

Delaven, as well as Judithe, was attracted by the personality of Margeret. In the light, or the shadow, of the sad story he had listened to, she took on a new interest, an atmosphere of romance surrounded her. He pictured what her life must have been as a child, amid the sunshine of Florida, the favorite of her easy-living, easy-loving Greek father, the sole relic of some pretty slave! As she walked silently along the halls of the Terrace, he tried to realize Nelse's description of her gayety, once, in the halls of Loringwood. And when he observed the adoring eyes with which she regarded the Marquise after the pickaninny episode, he understood it was another child she was thinking of—a child who should have been freed, and was not, and the feelings of Pluto were as her own.

Two entire days passed without Pluto's return. There was some delay, owing to the absence of the overseer from the Larue estate; then, Zekal was ailing, and that delayed him until sundown of the second day, when he took the child in his arms—his own child now—and with its scanty wardrobe, and a few sundry articles of Rose's, all saved religiously by an old "aunty," who had nursed her—he started homeward on his long night tramp, so happy he scarce felt the weight of the boy in his arms, or that of the bundle fastened with a rope across his shoulders. He had his boy, and the boy was free! and when he thought of the stranger who had wrought this miracle his heart swelled with gratitude and the tears blinded him as he tramped homeward through the darkness.

The first faint color of dawn was showing in the east when he walked into Dilsey's cook-house and showed the child asleep in his arms.

What a commotion! as the other house servants mustered in, sleepily, and straightway were startled very wide awake indeed, and each insisted on feeling the weight of the newcomer, just, Dilsey said, as if there never was a child seen on that plantation before. And all had cures for the "brashy" spell the little chap had been afflicted by, and which seemed frightened away entirely, as he looked about him with eyes like black beads. All the new faces, and the petting, were a revelation to Zekal.

Dilsey put up with it till everything else seemed at a standstill in the morning's work, when she scattered the young folks right and left to their several duties, got Pluto an excellent breakfast, and gave the child in charge of one of the mothers in the quarters till "mist'ess" settled about him.

"Yo' better take his little duds, too, Lucy," suggested Pluto, as the boy was toddling away with her, contentedly, rich in the possession of two little fists full of sweet things; "they're tied up in that bandana—not the blue one! That blue one got some o' his mammy's things I gwine look over; maybe might be something make him shirts or aprons, an' if there is a clean dress in that poke I—I like to have it put on 'im 'fore she sees him—Madame Caron, an', an' Mist'ess, o' course! I like her to see he's worth while."

Then he asked questions about what all had been done in his absence, and learned there had been company coming and going so much Mahs Loring had his meals in his own room, "'cause o' the clatter they made." Margeret had been over at the Pines with Miss Loring to see about the work already commenced there, and Madame Caron and Miss Lena and Dr. Delaven just amused themselves.

He learned that the mail had been detained and no one had gone for it, and, tired though he was, started at once. He had noticed Madame Caron's mail was of daily importance, and it should not be neglected by him even if company did make the others forgetful.

He was especially pleased that he had gone, when the postmaster handed over to him, besides several other letters and papers, a large, important-looking envelope for the Marquise de Caron—a title difficult for Pluto to spell; though he recognized it at sight.

The lady herself was on the veranda, in riding garb, when he presented himself, and she smiled as she caught sight of that special envelope among the rest.

"Margeret tells me you brought back the boy," she said, glancing up, after peering in the envelope and ascertaining its contents, "and, Pluto, you paid me for Zekal when you brought this letter to me—so the balance is even."

Pluto made no comment—only shook his head and smiled. He could not comprehend how any letter, even a big one, could balance Zekal.

She retired to her room to examine the other letters, while Pluto placed the mail for the rest at their several places on the breakfast table.

Judithe unfolded the large enclosure and gave a sigh of utter content as her eyes rested on the words there. They conveyed to the Marquise de Caron, of France, an estate in South Carolina outlined and described and known as Loringwood. The house was sold furnished as it stood, and there followed an inventory of contents, excepting only family china and portraits.

"Not such an unlucky journey, after all, despite the coffins in the tea cups," and she smiled at the fearful fancies of Louise, as she laid the paper aside; for the time it had made her forget there were other things equally important.

There was another letter, without signature. It said: "McVeigh is in Charleston, detained by official matters. Pierson leaves with particulars. Mail too irregular to be reliable. Your latest word from Columbia most valuable; we transmitted it as you suggested. Your location fortunate. The Powers at W. delighted with your success, but doubtful of your safety—unhealthy climate except for the natives! Report emancipation will be proclaimed, but nothing definite heard yet."

She removed her habit and joined the rest at the breakfast table, clad in the daintiest of pink morning gowns, and listened with pleased surprise to Mrs. McVeigh's information that her son, the Colonel, might be expected at any time. They had passed the blockade successfully, reached Charleston two nights before; were detained by official matters, and hoped, surely, to reach home within twenty-four hours after the letter. His stay, however, would have to be brief, as he must move north at once with his regiment.

And in the midst of the delight, Judithe created a sensation by remarking:

"Well, my good people, I am not going to allow the Colonel all the surprise. I have had one of my own this morning, and I can scarcely wait to share it with you. It is the most astonishing thing!" and she glanced around at the expectant faces.

"If it's of interest to you, it will be the wide world's worth to us," affirmed Delaven, with exaggerated show of devotion, at which she laughed happily, and turned to her hostess.

"You remember I informed you in Mobile I meant to sell my Orleans property, as I would not occupy it under existing rule;" to which explanation Matthew Loring actually beamed commendation, "well, I left it in the hands of my business man with orders to invest the money from the sale in some interior plantations not under Federal control. I wanted a house furnished, colonial by choice—some historical mansion preferred. The particular reason for this is, I have no relatives, no children to provide for, and the fancy has come to me for endowing some educational institution in your land, and for such purpose a mansion such as I suggested would, in all ways be preferable. Well, they forwarded me a list of properties. I sent them back unread lest I should covet them all, for they all would cost so little! I repeated to them the description Madame McVeigh had given me of your ancestral home, my dear sir, and told them to secure me a property possessing just such advantages as yours does—near enough to the coast for yachting, and far enough from cities to be out of social chains, except the golden one of friendship," she added, letting her eyes rest graciously on her listeners. "Well, can you surmise the result of that order?"

Each looked at the other in wonder; her smile told half the truth.

"I am afraid to put my surmise in words," confessed Mrs. McVeigh, "for fear of disappointment."

"I'm not!" and Evilena flourished her napkin to emphasize her delight, "its Loringwood! Oh, oh, Madame Caron, you've bought Loringwood!"

Margeret was entering the room with a small tray containing something for Mr. Loring, whose meals she prepared personally. Delaven, who was facing her, saw her grow ashen, and her eyes closed as though struck a physical blow; a glass from the tray shivered on the floor, as he sprang up and saved her from falling.

"What ails you, Margeret?" asked Gertrude, with the ring of the silver sounding through her tones. "There—she is all right again, Dr. Delaven. Don't come into the dining room in future unless you feel quite well. Uncle can't endure crashes, or nervous people, about him."

"I know; I beg pardon, Miss Gertrude, Mistress McVeigh," and Margeret's manner was above reproach in its respectful humility, though Delaven observed that the firm lips were white; "the kitchen was very warm. I—I was faint for a minute."

"Never mind about the glass, Caroline will pick it up," said Mrs. McVeigh, kindly; "you go lay down awhile, it is very warm in the kitchen. Dilsey always will have a tremendous fire, even to fry an egg on; go along now—go rest where it's cool."

Margeret bent her head in mute acknowledgment of the kindness, and passed out of the room. Mr. Loring had pushed his plate away with an impatient frown, signifying that breakfast was over for him, any way.

Delaven, noticing his silence and the grim expression on his face, wondered if he, too, was doubtful of that excuse uttered by the woman. The kitchen, no doubt, was warm, but he had seen her face as she heard Evilena's delighted exclamation; it was the certainty that Loringwood was actually sold—Loringwood, and that grave under the pines? Possibly she had fostered hope that it might not be yet—not for a long time, and the suddenness of it had been like a physical shock to the frail, devoted woman. He had reasoned it out like that, and his warm, Irish heart ached for her as she left the room, and, glancing about the table, he concluded that only Matthew Loring and himself suspected the truth, or knew the real reason of her emotion, though the eyes of the Marquise did show a certain frank questioning as they met his own.

"Margeret's fit just frightened the plantation away for a minute," resumed Evilena, "but do own up, Madame Caron, is it Loringwood?"

"Yes," assented Judithe, "the letter from my lawyer, this morning, informs me it is really Loringwood."

"I am very much pleased to hear it, Madame," and Matthew Loring's tone was unusually hearty. "Since we part with it at all, I am pleased that no scrub stock gets possession. The place is perfectly adapted to the use you have planned, and instead of falling into neglect, the old home will become a monument to progress."

"So I hope," replied Judithe, with a subtle light, as of stars, in the depths of her eyes; "I am especially delighted to find that the old furnishings remain; it would be difficult for me to collect articles so in keeping with the entire scheme of arrangement, and it would make a discord to introduce new things from the shops."

"You will find no discords of that sort at Loringwood," said Gertrude, speaking for the first time; "and, I hope, not many of any kind. Many of the heavy, massive old things I disliked to part with, but they would be out of place at the Pines, or, in fact, in any house less spacious. Like uncle, I am pleased it goes into the keeping of one who appreciates the artistic fitness of the old-fashioned furnishings."

"Which she has never seen yet," supplemented Evilena, as Judithe received this not very cordial compliment with a little bow and a brilliant smile.

"We will remedy that just as soon as we can secure an invitation from the present lady of the manor," she said, in mock confidence to Evilena, across the table, at which the rest laughed, and Mr. Loring declared that now she was the lady of the manor herself, and his one regret was that he and his niece were not there to make her first entrance a welcome one.

"That would certainly add to the pleasure of the visit," and her smile was most gracious. "But even your wish to welcome me makes it all the more delightful. I shall remember it when I first enter the door."

Gertrude made an effort to be cordial, but that it was an effort Mrs. McVeigh easily discerned, and when they were alone, she turned to her in wonder:

"What is it, dear? Are you displeased about the sale? I feel so responsible for it; but I fancied it would be just what you would want."

"So it is, too; but—oh, I had no idea it could all be settled so quickly as this!"

"When people never hesitate to telegraph, even about trifles, and Judithe never does, they can have business affairs moved very quickly," explained Mrs. McVeigh; "but what possible reason have you for objecting to the settlement?"

"I don't object, but—you will think me silly, perhaps—but, I am sorry it is out of our hands before Kenneth returns. I should like to have him go over the old place, just once, before strangers claim it."

"Never mind, dear, the nearer you are to the Terrace the better that Kenneth will like it, and the Pines is a great improvement in that way."

"Yes; still it was at Loringwood I first saw him. Do you remember? You folks had just moved here from Mobile; it was my tenth birthday, and I had a party. Kenneth was the beau of the whole affair, because he was a new-comer, and a 'town boy,' and, I remember, we compared ages and found that he was three months older than I, and for a long time he assumed superior airs in consequence," and she smiled at the remembrance. "Well, Uncle Matthew is delighted, and I suppose I should be. It ends all our money troubles for awhile, any way. Now, what are you planning for Kenneth's home coming? All the people will want to see him."

"And so they shall. We certainly can depend on him for tomorrow night, and we will have a party. Pluto shall start with the invitations at once."

And Pluto did, just as soon as he had brought Zekal around for an inspection, which proved so entirely satisfactory that Evilena threatened to adopt him right away. He should be her own especial boy soon as he was big enough to run errands, which statement appeared to make an impression on Zekal not anticipated, for he so delighted to gaze on the pretty young white lady who petted him, that he objected lustily to being removed from the light of her countenance; and Delaven gave him a coin and informed him that he felt like himself, often. This remark, made in the presence of Madame Caron, who laughed, brought on a tilt at hostilities between himself and Miss Evilena, who declared he was mocking her, and trying to render her ridiculous in the eyes of the only foreigner she admired excessively! He endeavored to persuade her to extend the last by warbling "Sweet Evilena," which she declared she could not endure to hear for three distinct reasons.

"Let's hear them," he suggested, continuing the low humming:

"Ten years have gone by And I have not one dollar; Evilena still lives In that green grassy hollow."

"There! what sort of man would he be, any way?" she demanded, "a man who couldn't earn a dollar in ten years!"

"Arrah, now! and there's many a one of us travels longer and finds less, and never gets a song made about him, either; so, that's your first reason, is it?"

"And a very good one, too!" affirmed the practical damsel; "do you want to hear the second?"

"An' it please your sovereign grace!"

"Well, it doesn't, for you can't sing it," and she emphasized the statement by flaunting her garden hat at every word.

"Me, is it? Ah, now, listen to that! I can't sing it, can't I? Well, then, I'll practice it all day and every day until you change your mind about that, my lady!"

"I shan't; for I've heard it sung so much better—and by a boy who wore a uniform—and that's the third reason."

After that remark she walked up the steps very deliberately, and was very polite to him when they met an hour later, which politeness was the foundation for a feud lasting forty-eight hours; she determined that his punishment should be nothing less than that; it would teach him not to make her a laughing stock again. He should find he had not an Irish girl to tease, and—and make love to—especially before other folks!

And to shorten the season of her displeasure, he evolved a plan promising to woo the dimples into her cheeks again, for, if nothing but a uniformed singer was acceptable to her, a uniformed singer she should have. For the sake of her bright eyes he was willing to humor all her reasonable fancies—and most of her unreasonable ones. The consequences of this particular one, however, were something he could not foresee.



CHAPTER XXII.

The O'Delaven, as he called himself when he was in an especially Irish mood, was Mistress McVeigh's most devoted servant and helper in the preparations for the party. In fact, when Judge Clarkson rode over to pay his respects, a puzzled little frown persistently crept between his brows at the gallantry and assiduity displayed by this exile of Erin in carrying out the charming lady's orders, to say nothing of the gayety, the almost presumption, with which he managed affairs to suit his own fancy when his hostess was not there to give personal attention; and the child Evilena was very nearly, if not quite ignored, or at any rate, was treated in a condescending manner almost parental in its character, and which he perceived was as little relished by the girl as by himself.

He was most delighted, of course, to learn who was the purchaser of Loringwood—it was such an admirable transaction he felt everybody concerned was to be congratulated; even war news was forgotten for a space.

All the day passed and no Kenneth! His mother decided he would be there the following morning, and, with flags draped over walls, and all the preparations complete for his reception, she retired, weary and happy from the day's labors.

Judithe eyed those flags with the same inscrutable smile sometimes given to Matthew Loring's compliments. She pointed to them next morning, when Delaven and herself stood in the hall waiting for their horses. She had accepted him as cavalier for the time, and they were going for a ride in the cool of the morning before the others were stirring.

Margeret was in sight, however—Judithe wondered if she ever slept—and she came to them with delicious coffee and crisp toast, and watched them as they rode away.

It was while sipping the steaming coffee the flags were noticed, and Judithe remarked: "Those emblems mean so much down here, yet I never hear you discuss them, or what they stand for. Your nation is one always in rebellion against its unsympathetic governess. I should think you would naturally tend towards the seceders here."

"I do—towards several, individually," and he looked at her over the rim of the cup with quizzical blue eyes. "But I find three factions here instead of two, and my people have been too long under the oppressor for me not to appreciate what freedom would mean to these serfs in the South, and how wildly they long for it. No; I like the Southerners better than the Northerners, because I know them better; but in the matter of sympathy, faith! I forget both the warring factions and only think of Sambo and Sambo's wife and children."

Judithe raised her finger, as Margeret entered with the toast and quietly vanished.

"I was afraid she would hear you. I fancy they must feel sensitive over the situation; speak French, please. What was it the Judge was saying about emancipation last evening? I noticed the conversation was changed as Mr. Loring grew—well, excited."

"Oh, the old story; rumors again that the Federal government mean to proclaim freedom for the blacks. But when it was done in two states by the local authorities, it was vetoed at Washington; so it is doubtful after all if it is true, there are so many rumors afloat. But if it is done there will be nothing vague about it. I fancy it will be said so good and loud that there will be a panic from ocean to ocean."

"Insurrection?"

"No; the Judge is right; there is a peculiar condition of affairs here precluding the possibility of that unless in isolated instances, a certain personal sympathy between master and slave which a foreigner finds difficult of comprehension."

"What about the runaways?" she asked, with a little air of check, "several of them have escaped the sympathetic bonds in that way; in fact, they tell me Mr. Loring, or his niece, has lately lost some very valuable live stock through that tendency."

"Whisper now!—though I believe it is a very open secret in the community, the gentleman in question, my dear Marquise, is one of the isolated instances. If you are studying social institutions in this country you must make a note of that, and underline it with red ink. He is by no means the typical Southerner. He is, however, a proof of the fact that it is a dangerous law which allows every one possessing wealth an almost unlimited power over scores of human beings. To be sure, he is mild as skim-milk these days of convalescence, but there are stories told of the use he made of power when he dared, that would warrant the whole pack taking to their heels if they had the courage. They are not stories for ladies' ears, however, and I doubt if Miss Loring herself is aware of them. But in studying the country here, don't forget that my patient is one in a thousand—better luck to the rest."

"So!" and she arose, drawing on her glove slowly, and regarding him with a queer little smile; "you have been giving thought to something besides the love songs of this new country? Your ideas are very interesting. I shall remember them, even without the red ink."

Then they mounted the impatient horses and rode out in the pink flush of the morning—the only hours cool enough for the foreigners to exercise at that season. They were going no place in particular, but when the cross-country road was reached leading to Loringwood, she suddenly turned to him and proposed that he conduct her to her new purchase—introduce her to Loringwood.

"With all the pleasure in life," he assented gaily, somewhat curious to see how she would like the "pig in a poke," as he designated her business transaction.

When they reached the gate she dismounted and insisted on walking through the long avenue she had admired. He was going to lead the horses, but she said, "No, tie them to the posts there, they were both well behaved, tractable animals;" she could speak for her mount at any rate. Pluto had told her it was Col. McVeigh's favorite, trained by himself.

She wore a thin silken veil of palest grey circling her hat, covering her face, and the end fastened in fluffy loops on her bosom. Her habit was of cadet grey, with a military dash of braid on epaulettes and cuff; the entire costume was perfect in its harmonious lines, and admirably adapted to the girlish yet stately figure. Delaven, looking at her, thought that in all the glories of the Parisian days he had never seen la belle Marquise more delightful to the eye than on that oft-to-be-remembered September morning.

She was unusually silent as they walked along the avenue, but her eyes were busy and apparently pleased at the prospect before her, and when they reached the front of the house she halted, surveyed the whole place critically, from the lazy wash of the river landing to the great pillars of the veranda, and drew a little breath of content.

"Just what I expected," she remarked, in reply to his question. "I hope the river is not too shallow. Can we go in? I should like to, but not as the owner, please. They need not know of the sale until the Lorings choose to tell them."

Little Raquel had opened the door, very much pleased at their arrival. She informed them "Aunt Chloe laid up with some sort of misery, and Betsey, who was in the cook-house, she see them comen' an' she have some coffee for them right off," and she was proceeding with other affairs of entertainment when Judithe interrupted:

"No coffee, nothing for me. Now, Doctor, if you want to show me the library; you know we must not linger, this is to be a busy day at the Terrace."

They had gone through the lower rooms, of which she had little to say. He had shown her the dashing portrait of Marmeduke Loring and given her a suggestion of the character as heard from Nelse. He had shown her the pretty, seraphic portrait of Gertrude as a little child, and the fair, handsome face of Tom Loring, as it looked down from the canvas with a smile for all the world in his genial eyes.

They had made no further progress when Raquel appeared upon the scene again with a request from Aunt Chloe, "Would Mahs Doctor come roun' an' tell her jest what ailed her most, she got so many cu'eous compercations."

He followed to see what the complications were, and thus it happened that Judithe was left alone to look around her new possessions.

But she did not look far. After a brief glance about she returned to the last portrait, studying the frank, handsome face critically.

"And thou wert the man," she murmured. "Why don't such men bear faces to suit their deeds, that all people may avoid the evil of them? Fair, strong, and appealing!" she continued, enumerating the points of the picture, "and a frank, honest gaze, too; but the painter had probably been false in that, and idealized the face. Yet I have seen eyes that were as honest looking, cover a vile soul, so why not this one?"

The eyes that were as honest looking were the deep sea-blue eyes she had described once to Dumaresque, confessing with light mockery their witchcraft over her; she thanked God those days were over. She had now something more to dream over than sentimental fancies.

She heard the quick beat of horse hoofs coming up the avenue and stopping at the door; then, a man's voice:

"Good morning, Jeff—any of our folks over from the Terrace?"

"Yes, sah; good mawn, sah; leastwise I jest saw Miss Gertrude go in; they all stayen' ovah at Terrace; I reckon she rode back for something. I reckon you find her in library; window's open thah."

The man's voice replied from the hall, "All right," and he opened the door.

"Good morning, little woman," he said, cheerily, boyishly. "When I saw Hector at the gate with the side saddle I thought—"

What he thought was left unfinished. The slender figure in grey turned from the window, and throwing back the veil with one hand extended the other to him, with an amused smile at his mistake.

"Judithe!" He had crossed the room; he held her hand in both of his; he could not otherwise believe in the reality of her presence. In dreams he had seen her so often thus, with the smile and the light as of golden stars deep in the brown eyes.

"Welcome to Loringwood, Col. McVeigh," she said, softly.

"Your welcome could make it the most delightful homecoming of my life," he said, looking down at her, "if I dared be sure I was quite welcome to your presence."

"I am your mother's guest," and she met his gaze with cordial frankness; "would that be so if—oh, yes, you may be very sure I am pleased to see you home again, and especially pleased to see you here."

"You are? Judithe, I beg pardon," as she raised her brows in slight question. "I am not accountable this morning, Marquise; with a little time to recover myself in, I may grow more rational. To find you here is as much a surprise as though I had met you alone at sea in an open boat."

"Alone—at sea—in an open boat," she repeated, with a curious inflection; "but you perceive, Col. McVeigh, the situation is not at all like that. I am under my own roof tree, and a very substantial one it is," with a comprehensive glance about the imposing apartment; "and you are the first guest I have welcomed here—I am much pleased that it happened so." When he stared at this bit of information she continued: "I have just made purchase of the estate from your friends, the Lorings—this is my first visit to it, and you are my first caller. You perceive I am really your neighbor, Monsieur."

His eyes were bent on her with mute question; it all seemed so incredible that she should come there at all—to his country, to his home. He had left France cursing her coquetry; he had, because of her, gone straight to the frontier on his return to America, and lived the life of camps ever since; he had fancied no woman would ever again hold the sway over him she had held for that one brief season. Yet the graciousness of her tone, the frank smile in her eyes, and the touch of her hand—the beautiful hand!—

Delaven came in, and there were more explanations; then, to the regret of Raquel and Betsey, they left for the Terrace without partaking of the specially prepared coffee. Col. McVeigh had ridden from the coast with a party of the state guard, who were going to the river fortifications. Seeing his own saddle horse at the gate he had let them go on to the Terrace without him, while he stopped, thinking to find his mother or sister there.

The new mistress of Loringwood listened with an interested expression to this little explanation, and no one would have thought there was any special motive in leaving the horse tied there on the only road he would be likely to come, or that his statement that he traveled with a party of military friends conveyed a distinct message to her of work to be done.

She did not fail to notice that Col. McVeigh was a much handsomer man than the lieutenant had been. He appeared taller, heavier—a stalwart soldier, who had lost none of his impetuousness, and had even gained in self confidence, but for all that the light of boyhood was in his eyes as he looked at her, and she, well satisfied that it was so, rode happily to the Terrace beside him, only smiling when he pointed out a clump of beeches and said he never passed without thinking of the trees at Fontainbleau.

"And," with a little mocking glance, "do the violets and forget-me-nots also grow among the bushes here?"

"Yes;" and he returned her mocking look with one so deliberate that her eyes dropped, "the forget-me-not is hardy in my land, you know; it lives always if encouraged."

"Heavens!—will the man propose to me again before we reach the house or have breakfast?" she thought, and concluded it more wise to drop such dangerous topics. Until her expected messenger came she could not quite decide what was to be done or what methods employed.

"Forget-me-nots, is it?" queried Delaven, in strict confidence with himself; "oh, but you've been clever, the pair of you, to get so far as forget-me-nots, and no one the wiser;" then aloud he said, "I've an idea that the best beloved man on the plantation this day will be the one who announces your coming, Colonel; so if you'll look after Madame la Marquise—"

And then he dashed ahead congratulating himself on the way he was helping the Colonel.

"It's well to have a friend at court," he decided, "and it's myself may need all I can get—for pill boxes are a bad balance for plantations, Fitz; faith, they'll be flung to the moon at first tilt."

The two left alone had three miles to go and seemed likely to make the journey in silence. She was a trifle dismayed at Delaven's desertion, and could find no more light words. She attempted some questions concerning the blockade, but his replies showed his thoughts were elsewhere.

"It is no use," he said, abruptly. "I have only forty-eight hours to remain; I may not see you again for a year, perhaps, never, for I go at once to the front. There is only one thought in my mind, and you know what it is."

"To conquer the Yankees?" she hazarded.

"No, to conquer some pride or whim of the girl who confessed once that she loved me."

"Take my advice, Monsieur," she said with a cool little smile. "No doubt you have been fortunate enough to hear those words many times—I should think it quite probable," and she let her eyes rest approvingly for a moment on his face; "but it is well to consider the girls who make those avowals before you place full credence on the statement—not that they always mean to deceive," she amended, "but those three words have a most peculiar fascination for girlhood—they like to use them even when they do not comprehend the meaning."

He shook his head as he looked at her.

"It is no use, Madame la Marquise," he said, and the ardent eyes met her own and made her conscious of a sudden fear. "You reason it out very well—philosophy is one of your hobbies, isn't it? I always detested women with hobbies—the strong-minded woman who reasons instead of feeling; and now you are revenging the whole army of them by making me feel beyond reason. But you shan't evade me by such tactics. Do you remember what your last spoken words to me were, three years ago?"

Her face paled a little, she lifted the bridle to urge her horse onward, but he laid his hand on her wrist.

"No, pardon me, but I must speak to you—day and night I have thought of them, and now that you are here—oh, I know you sent me away—that is, you hid from me; and why, Judithe? I believe on my soul it was because you meant those words when you said: 'I love you now, and from the first moment you ever looked at me!' I told myself at first, when I left France, that it was all falsehood, coquetry—but I could not keep that belief, for the words rang too true—you thought you were going over that bank to death, and all your heart was in your voice and your eyes. That moment has come back to me a thousand times since; has been with me in the thick of battle, singing through my ears as the bullets whistled past. 'I love you now, and from the first moment you ever looked at me.' It is no use to pretend you did not mean those words then. I know in my heart you did. You were bound in some way, no doubt, and fancied you had no right to say them. The announcement of your engagement suggested that. But you are free now, or you would not be here, and I must be heard."

"Be satisfied then," she replied, indifferently, though her hand trembled on the bridle, "you perceive you have, thanks to your stronger arm, an audience of one."

"You are angry at my presumption—angry at the advantage I have taken of the situation?" he asked. "I grant you are right; but remember, it is now or perhaps never with me; and it is the presumption of love—a woman should forgive that."

"They usually do, Monsieur," she replied, with a little shrug and glance of amusement. For one bewildered instant she had lost control of herself, and had only the desire to flee; but it was all over now, she remembered another point to be made in the game—something to postpone the finale until she had seen Pierson.

"It is not just to me," he said, meeting her mocking glance with one that was steadfast and determined. "However your sentiments have changed, I know you cared for me that day, as I have cared for you ever since, and now that you have come here—to my own country, to my mother's house, I surely may ask this one question: Why did you accept the love I offered, and then toss it away almost in the same breath?"

"I may reply by another question," she said, coolly. "What right had you to make any offers of love to me at any time? What right have you now?"

"What right?"

"Yes; does your betrothed approve? Is that another of the free institutions in your land of liberties?"

"What do you mean?—my betrothed?"

"Your betrothed," she said, and nodded her head with that same cool little smile. "I heard her name that evening of the drive you remember so well; our friend, the Countess Helene, mentioned it to me—possibly for fear my very susceptible heart might be won by your protection of us," and she glanced at him again, mockingly. "You had forgotten to mention it to me, but it really does not matter, I have learned since then that gentlemen absolutely cannot go around reciting the lists of former conquests—it is too apt to prevent the acquisition of new ones. I did not realize it then—there were so many things I could not realize; and I felt piqued at your silence; but," with an expressive little gesture and a bright smile, "I am no longer so. I come to your home; I clasp hands with you; I meet your bride-elect, Miss Loring—she is remarkably pretty, Monsieur, and I am quite prepared to dance at your wedding; therefore—"

"Marquise, on my honor as a man," he did not see the scornful light in her eyes as he spoke of his honor; "there has never been a word of love between Gertrude Loring and myself; it is nothing but family gossip dating from the time we were children, and encouraged by her uncle for reasons entirely financial. We have both ignored it. We are all fond of her, and I believe my mother at one time did hope it would be so arranged, but I hope she wins a better fellow than myself; she cares no more for me than I for her."

They had turned into the Terrace grounds. Evilena was running out to meet them. She was so close now she could hear what he said if it were not for her own swiftness.

"Judithe! One word, a look; you believe me?"

She said nothing, but she did flash one meaning glance at him, and then his sister was at the stirrup and he swung out of the saddle to kiss her.



CHAPTER XXIII.

"Of course we are anxious to hear all you dare tell us about the success of your mission over there," said his mother, an hour later, when the riders had done justice to a delightful breakfast. "Are all the arrangements made by our people entirely satisfactory?"

"Entirely, mother. This is the twenty-second of September, isn't it? Well, it is an open secret now. The vessel secured goes into commission today, and will be called the Alabama."

"Hurrah for the Alabama!" cried Evilena, who was leaning on the back of her brother's chair. He put his arm around her and turned to Judithe.

"Have you become acquainted with the patriotic ardor of my little sister?" he asked. "I assure you we have to fight these days if we want to keep the affections of our Southern girls."

Gertrude smiled across the table at him.

"I can't fancy you having to fight very hard battles along that line, Monsieur," replied Judithe, in the cool, half mocking tone she had adopted for all questions of sentiment with him; and Gertrude, who saw the look exchanged between them, arose from the table.

"Uncle Matthew asked to see you when you have time, Kenneth."

"Thanks, yes; I'll go directly. Mother, why not ask the boys of the guard to stop over for your party? They are of Phil Masterson's company—all Carolina men."

"Of course, I shall invite them personally," and she left the room to speak to the men who were just finishing breakfast under an arbor, and congratulating themselves on the good luck of being travelling companions of Colonel McVeigh.

Evilena waltzed around the table in her delight at the entire arrangement; boys in uniform; the longed-for additions to the festivities, and they would have to be a formidable lot if she could not find one of their number worth dancing with; she would show Dr. Delaven that other men did not think her only a baby to be teased!

"Now, Madame Caron, we can show you a regular plantation jubilee, for the darkies shall have a dance at the quarters. You'll like that, won't you?"

"Anything that expresses the feminine homage to returning heroes," replied Judithe, with a little bow of affected humility, at which Colonel McVeigh laughed as he returned it. She passed out of the door with his sister and he stood looking after her, puzzled, yet with hope in his eyes. His impetuousness in plunging into the very heart of the question at once had, at any rate, not angered her, which was a great point gained. He muttered an oath when he realized that but for the Countess Biron's gossip they might never have been separated, for she did love him then—he knew it. Even today, when she would have run away from him again, she did not deny that! Forty-eight hours in which to win her—and his smile as he watched her disappear had a certain grim determination in it. He meant to do it. She had grown white when he quoted to her her own never forgotten words. Well, she should say them to him again! The hope of it sent the blood leaping to his heart, and he turned away with a quick sigh.

Gertrude, who had only stepped out on the veranda when she left the table, and stood still by the open glass door, saw the lingering, intense gaze with which he followed the woman she instinctively disliked—the woman who was now mistress of Loringwood, and had made the purchase as carelessly as though it were a new ring to wear on her white hand—a new toy to amuse herself with in a new country; the woman who threw money away on whims, had the manner of a princess, and who had aroused in Gertrude Loring the first envy or jealousy she had ever been conscious of in her pleasant, well-ordered life. From the announcement that Loringwood had passed into the stranger's possession her heart had felt like lead in her bosom. She could not have explained why—it was more a presentiment of evil than aught else, and she thought she knew the reason of it when she saw that look in Kenneth McVeigh's eyes—a look she had never seen there before.

And the woman who had caused it all was walking the floor of her own apartment in a fever of impatience. If the man she expected would only come—then she would have work to do—definite plans to follow; now all was so vague, and those soldiers staying over, was it only a chance invitation, or was there a hidden purpose in that retained guard? Her messenger should have arrived within an hour of Colonel McVeigh, and the hour was gone.

As she passed the mirror she caught sight of her anxious face in it, and halted, staring at the reflection critically.

"You are turning coward!" she said, between her closed teeth. "You are afraid to be left to yourself an hour longer—afraid because of this man's voice and the touch of his hand. Aren't you proud of yourself—you! He is the beast whose name you hated for years—the man for whom that poor runaway was taught the graces and accomplishments of white women—in this house you heard Matthew Loring mention the price of her and the portion to be forfeited to Kenneth McVeigh because the girl was not to be found. Do you forget that? Do you think I shall let you forget it? I shan't. You are to do the work you came here to do. You are to have no other interest in the people of this house."