Again the eyes of the men met and the sincerity, the appeal of Monroe impressed McVeigh; something might be gained by conceding the request—something lost by refusing it, and he slipped the case into his pocket without even looking at Judithe, or noticing her question.

But Monroe looked at her, and noted the quick resentment at his speech.

"Pardon, Madame," he said, gently; "my only excuse is that there is a lady in the question."

"A lady who is no longer living?" she asked, mockingly. She was puzzled over the affair of the picture, puzzled at the effect it had on McVeigh. In some way he was jealous concerning it—jealous, how absurd, when she adored him!

Monroe only looked at her, but did not reply to the sceptical query. Gertrude Loring came to the door just then and spoke to McVeigh, who went to meet her. She wanted him to go at once to her uncle. He was trying so hard to speak; they thought he was endeavoring to say "Ken—Ken!" It was the only tangible thing they could distinguish, and he watched the door continually as though for someone's entrance.

McVeigh assured her he would go directly, but she begged him to postpone all the other business—anything! and to come with her at once; he might be dying, he looked like it, and there certainly was some one whom he wanted; therefore—

He turned with a semi-apologetic manner to the others in the room.

"I shall return presently, and will then continue the investigation," he said, addressing Masterson; "pending such action Captain Monroe can remain here."

Then he closed the door and followed Gertrude.

Judithe arose at that calm ignoring of herself and moved to the table. She guessed what it was the dying man was trying to tell Kenneth—well, she would tell him first!

Pen and paper were there and she commenced to write, interrupting herself to turn to Masterson, who was looking out at the storm.

"Is there any objection to Captain Monroe holding converse with other—guests in the house?" she asked, with a little ironical smile.

Masterson hesitated, and then said: "I do not think a private interview could be allowed, but—"

"A private interview is not necessary," she said, coolly. "You can remain where you are. Margeret, also, can remain." She wrote a line or two, and then spoke without looking up, "Will you be so kind, Captain Monroe, as to come over to the table?"

"At your service, my lady."

He did so, and remained standing there, with his hands clasped behind him, a curious light of expectancy in his eyes.

"You have endured everything but death for me since last night," she said, looking up at him. She spoke so low Masterson could not hear it above the beat of the rain on the window. But he could see the slight bend of Monroe's head and the smile with which he said:

"Well—since it was for you!"

"Oh, do not jest now, and do not think I shall allow it to go on," she said, appealingly. "I have been waiting for help, but I shall wait no longer;" she pointed to the paper on the table, "Colonel McVeigh will have a written statement of who did the work just as soon as I can write it, and you shall be freed."

"Take care!" he said, warningly; "an avowal now might only incriminate you—not free me. There are complications you can't be told—"

"But I must be told!" she interrupted. "What is there concerning me which you both conspire to hide? He shall free you, no matter what the result is to me; did you fancy I should let you go away under suspicion? But, that picture! You must make that clear to me. Listen, I will confess to you, too! I have wronged him—Colonel McVeigh—it has been all a mistake. I can never atone, but"—and her voice sank lower, "it was something about that picture made him angry just now, the thought I had given you some picture. I—I can't have him think that—not that you are my lover."

"Suppose it were so—would that add to the wrongs you speak of?" His voice was almost tender in its gentleness, and his face had a strange expression, as she said: "Yes, it would, Captain Jack."

"You mean, then—to marry him?"

Something in the tenseness of his tones, the strange look of anxiety in his eyes, decided her answer.

"I mean that I have married him."

She spoke so softly it was almost a whisper, but if it had been trumpet-like he could not have looked more astonished. His face grew white, and he took a step backward from her. Masterson, who noticed the movement, walked down to the desk, where he could hear. Margeret was nearer to them than he. All he heard was Madame Caron asking if Captain Monroe would not now agree that she should see the picture since it was necessary to defend herself.

But Monroe had gone back to his chair, where he sat looking at her thoughtfully, and looking at Margeret, also, who had remained near the door, and gave no sign of having heard their words—had she?

"No, Madame Caron," he said, quietly, "if there is any evidence in my favor you can communicate to Colonel McVeigh, I shall be your debtor, but the picture is altogether a personal affair of my own. I will, if I can, prevent it from being used in this case at all, out of consideration for the lady whom I mentioned before."



CHAPTER XXX.

Kenneth McVeigh walked the floor of his own room, with the bitterest thoughts of his life for company. Loyal gentleman that he was, he was appalled at the turn affairs had taken. It had cost him a struggle to give up faith in the man he had known and liked—but all that was as nothing compared to the struggle in which his own love fought against him.

In that room where death apparently stood on the threshold, and the dying man had followed him about the room with most terrible, appealing eyes, he had heard but few of the words spoken—all his heart and brain were afire with the scene he had just left; that, and the others preceding it! Every word or glance he had noticed between Monroe and the woman he loved returned to him! Trifles light as air before, now overwhelmed him with horrible suggestions; and her pleading for him that morning—all the little artifices, the pretended lightness with which she asked a first favor on her wedding morning—their wedding morning! for whatever she was or was not, she was, at least, his wife!

That fact must be taken into consideration, he could not set it aside; her disgrace meant his disgrace—God! was that why she had consented to the hurried marriage?—to shield herself under his name, and to influence his favor for her lover?

The spirit of murder leaped in his heart as he thought of it! He heard Gertrude send to the library for Margeret, and he sent word to Masterson he was detained and would continue the investigation later. When Pluto returned, after delivering the message, he inquired if Madame Caron was yet in the library, and Pluto informed him Madame Caron had gone to her room some time ago; no one was in the library now, the gentleman had gone back to the cottage.

He meant to see her alone before speaking again with Monroe, to know the worst, whatever it was, and then—

He used a magnifying glass to study the little picture; he took it from the frame and examined the frame itself. The statement of Monroe as to its age seemed verified. Certain things in the face were strange, but certain other things were wonderfully like Judithe as a happy, care-free girl—had she ever been such a girl?

The chance that, after all, the picture was not hers gave him a sudden hope that the other things, purely circumstantial, might also diminish on closer examination; the picture had, to him, been the strongest evidence against her; a jealous fury had taken possession of him at the sight of it; he was conscious that his personal feelings unfitted him for the judicial position forced upon him, and that he must somehow conquer them before continuing any examination.

An hour had passed; he had decided the picture was not that of his wife, but if Monroe were not her lover, why did he treasure so a likeness resembling her? And if she were not in love with him, why ignore their former acquaintance, and why intercede for him so persistently?

All those thoughts walked beside him as he strode up and down the room, and beyond them all was the glory of her eyes and the remembrance of her words: "Whatever you think of me when you know all, I want you to know that I love you—I love you!"

They were the words he had waited for through long days and nights; they had come to him at last, and after all—

A knock sounded on the door and Pluto entered with a large sealed envelope on which his name was written.

"From Madame Caron, sah; she done tole me to put it in yo' own han'," he said.

When alone again he opened the envelope. Several papers were in it. The first he unfolded was addressed to his wife and the signature was that of a statesman high in the confidence of the Northern people. It was a letter of gratitude to her for confidential work accomplished within the Confederate lines; it was most extreme in commendation, and left no doubt as to the consideration shown her by the most distinguished of the Federal leaders. It was dated six months before, showing that her friendship for his enemies was not a matter of days, but months.

There was one newly written page in her own writing. He put that aside to look at last of all, then locked the door and resumed the reading of the others.

And the woman to whom they were written moved restlessly from room to room, watching the storm and replying now and then to the disconsolate remarks of Evilena, who was doleful over the fact that everybody was too much occupied for conversation. Kenneth had shut himself up entirely, and all the others seemed to be in attendance on Mr. Loring. Captain Masterson was in and out, busy about his own affairs, and not minding the rain a particle, and she was full of questions concerning Captain Monroe, and why he had paid the brief visit to the library.

Judithe replied at random, scarcely hearing her chatter, and listening, listening each instant for his step or voice on the stair.

While she stood there, looking out at the low, dark clouds, a step sounded in the hall and she turned quickly; it was only Pluto; ordinarily she would not have noticed him especially, but his eyes were directed to her in so peculiar a manner that she gave him a second glance, and perceived that he carried a book she had left on a table in her own room.

"Look like I can't noway find right shelf fo' this book," he said, with some hesitation. "I boun' to ax yo' to show me whah it b'longs."

She was about to do so, but when the door of the bookcase opened, he handed her the book instead of placing it where she directed.

"Maybe yo' put it in thah fo' me," he suggested.

She looked at him, remembering she had told Pierson he could be trusted, and took the book without a word. Evilena was absorbed in Juliet's woes, and did not look up.

Pluto muttered a "thank yo'," and disappeared along the hall.

She took the book into the alcove before opening it, and found there what she had expected—a slip of paper with some pencilled marks. It was a cipher, from which she read, "All is right; we follow close on this by another road. Be ready. Lincoln"—she sank on her knees as she read the rest—"Lincoln has issued the proclamation of emancipation!"

It was Margeret who found her there a few minutes later. She was still kneeling by the window, her face covered by her hands.

"You likely to catch cold down there, Madame," said the soft voice. "I saw you come in here a good while ago, an' I thought I'd come see if I could serve you some way."

Judithe accepted the proffered hand and rose to her feet. For an instant Margeret's arms had half enfolded her, and the soft color swept into the woman's face. Judithe looked at her kindly and said:

"You have already tried to serve me today, Margeret; I've been thinking of it since, and I wonder why?"

"Any of the folks here would be proud to serve you, Madame Caron," said the woman, lapsing again into calm reticence.

Judithe looked at her and wondered what would become of her and the many like her, now that freedom was declared for the slaves. She could not understand why she had denied seeing her in the corridor, for they had met there, almost touched! Perhaps she was some special friend of Pluto's, and because of that purchase of the child—

"I leave tomorrow for Savannah," said Judithe, kindly. "Come to my room this evening, and if there is anything I can do for you—"

Margeret's hands were clasped tightly at the question, and those strange, haunting eyes of hers seemed to reach the girl's soul.

"There is one thing," she half whispered, "not now, maybe, not right away! But you've bought Loringwood, and I—I lived there too many years to be satisfied to live away from it. They—Miss Gertrude—wouldn't ask much for me now, and—"

"I see," and Judithe wished she could tell her that there would never be buying or selling of her again—that the law of the land had declared her free! "I promise you, Loringwood shall be your home some day, if you wish."

"God forever bless you!" whispered Margeret, and then she pushed aside the curtains and went through the library and up the stairs, and Judithe watched her, thoughtfully wondering why any slave should cling to a home where Matthew Loring's will had been law. Was it true that certain slavish natures in women—whether of Caucasian or African blood—loved best the men who were tyrants? Was it a relic of inherited tendencies when all women of whatever complexion were but slaves to their masters—called husbands?

But something in the delicate, sad face of Margeret gave silent negative to the question. Whatever the affection centered in Loringwood, she could not believe it in any way low or unworthy.

As she passed along the upper hall Pluto was on the landing.

"Any visitors today through all this storm?" she asked, carelessly.

"No out an' out company," he said, glancing around. "A boy from the Harris plantation did stop in out o' the rain, jest now. He got the lend of a coat, an' left his wet one, that how—"

He looked anxiously at the slip of paper yet in her fingers. She smiled and entered her own room, where everything was prepared for her journey the following day. She glanced about grimly and wondered where that journey would end—it depended so much on the temper of the man who was now reading the evidence against her—the proof absolute that she was the Federal agent sought for vainly by the Confederate authorities. She had told him nothing of the motive prompting her to the work—it had been merely a plain statement of work accomplished.

Her door was left ajar and she listened nervously for his step, his voice. It seemed hours since she had sent him the message—the time had really not been long except in her imagination. And the little slip of paper just received held a threat directed towards him! In an hour, at most, the men she had sent for would be there; she had laid the plan for his ruin, and now was wild to think she could noways save him! If she had dared to go to him, plead with him to leave at once, persuade him through his love for her—but it seemed ages too late for that! And she could only await his summons, which she expected every moment; she could not even conjecture what he meant to do.

* * * * *

Neither could Captain Masterson, who stood in McVeigh's room, staring incredulously at his superior officer.

"Colonel, are you serious in this matter? You actually mean to let Captain Monroe go free?"

"Absolutely free," said McVeigh, who was writing an order, and continued writing without looking up. "I understand your surprise, but we arrested an innocent man."

"I don't mean to question your judgment, Colonel, but the evidence—"

"The evidence was circumstantial. That evidence has been refuted by facts not to be ignored." Masterson looked at him inquiringly, a look comprehended by McVeigh, who touched the bell for Pluto.

"I must have time to consider before I decide what to do with those facts," he continued. "I shall know tonight."

"And in the meantime what are we to do with the squad from down the river?" asked Masterson, grimly. "They have just arrived to take him for court martial; they are waiting your orders."

"I will have their instructions ready in an hour."

"They bring the report of some definite action on the slavery question by the Federal authorities," remarked Masterson, with a smile of derision. "Lincoln has proclaimed freedom for our slaves, the order is to go into effect the first of the year, unless we promise to be good, lay down our arms, and enter the Union."

"The first of the year is three months away, plenty of time to think it over;" he locked his desk and arose. "Excuse me now, Phil," he said, kindly, "I must go down and speak with Captain Monroe." He paused at the door, and Masterson noticed that his face was very pale and his lips had a strange, set expression. Whatever task he had before him was not easy to face! "You might help me in this," he added, "by telling my mother we must make what amends we can to him—if any amends are possible for such indignities."

He went slowly down the stairs and entered the library. Monroe was wiping the rain from his coat collar and holding a dripping hat at arm's length.

"Since you insist on my afternoon calls, Colonel McVeigh, I wish you would arrange them with some regard to the elements," he remarked. "I was at least dry, and safe, where I was."

But there was no answering light in McVeigh's eyes. He had been fighting a hard battle with himself, and the end was not yet.

"Captain Monroe, it is many hours too late for apologies to you," he said, gravely, "but I do apologize, and—you are at liberty."

"Going to turn me out in a storm like this?" inquired his late prisoner, but McVeigh held out his hand.

"Not so long as you will honor my house by remaining," and Monroe, after one searching glance, took the offered hand in silence.

McVeigh tried to speak, but turned and walked across to the window. After a moment he came back.

"I know, now, you could have cleared yourself by speaking," he said; "yes, I know all," as Monroe looked at him questioningly. "I know you have borne disgrace and risked death for a chivalrous instinct. May I"—he hesitated as he realized he was now asking a favor of the man he had insulted—"may I ask that you remain silent to all but me, and that you pardon the injustice done you? I did not know—"

"Oh, the silence is understood," said Monroe, "and as for the rest—we will forget it; the evidence was enough to hang a man these exciting times."

"And you ran the risk? Captain, you may wonder that I ask your silence, but you talked with her here; you probably know that to me she is—"

Monroe raised his hand in protest.

"I don't know anything, Colonel. I heard you were a benedict, but it may be only hearsay; I was not a witness; if I had been you would not have found me a silent one! But it is too late now, and we had better not talk about it," he said, anxious to get away from the strained, unhappy eyes of the man he has always known as the most care-free of cadets. "With your permission I will pay my respects to your sister, whom I noticed across the hall, but in the meantime, I don't know a thing!"

As he crossed the hall Gertrude Loring descended the stairs and paused, looking after him wonderingly, and then turned into the library. Colonel McVeigh was seated at the table again, his face buried in his hands.

"Kenneth!"

He raised his head, and she hesitated, staring at him. "Kenneth, you are ill; you—"

"No; it is really nothing," he said, as he rose, "I am a trifle tired, I believe; absurd, isn't it? and—and very busy just now, so—"

"Oh, I shan't detain you a moment," she said, hastily, "but I saw Captain Monroe in the hall, and I was so amazed when Phil told us you had released him."

"I knew you would be, but he is an innocent man, and his arrest was all a mistake. Pray, tell mother for me that I have apologized to Captain Monroe, and he is to be our guest until tomorrow. I am sure she will be pleased to hear it."

"Oh, yes, of course," agreed Gertrude, "but Kenneth, the guard has arrived, and who will they take in his place for court-martial?"

She spoke lightly, but there was a subtle meaning back of her words. He felt it, and met her gaze with a sombre smile.

"Perhaps myself," he answered, quietly.

"Oh, Kenneth!"

"There, there!" he said, reassuringly; "don't worry about the future, what is, is enough for today, little girl."

He had opened the door for her as though anxious to be alone; she understood, and was almost in the hall when the other door into the library opened, and glancing over her shoulder she saw Judithe standing there gazing after her, with a peculiar look.

She glanced up at Kenneth McVeigh, and saw his face suddenly grow white, and stern; then the door closed on her, and those two were left alone together. She stood outside the door for a full minute, amazed at the strange look in his eyes, and in hers, as they faced each other, and as she moved away she wondered at the silence there—neither of them had spoken.

They looked at each other as the door closed, a world of appeal in her eyes, but there was no response in his; a few hours ago she meant all of life to him—and now!—

With a quick sigh she turned and crossed to the window; drawing back the curtain she looked out, but all the heavens seemed weeping with some endless woe. The light of the lamp was better, and she drew the curtains close, and faced him again.

"You have read—all?"

He bent his head in assent.

"And Captain Monroe?"

"Captain Monroe is at liberty. I have accepted your confession, and acted upon it."

"You accept that part of my letter, but not my other request," she said, despairingly. "I begged that you make some excuse and leave for your command at once—today—do you refuse to heed that?"

"I do," he said, coldly.

"Is it on my account?" she demanded; "if so, put me under arrest; send me to one of the forts; do anything to assure yourself of my inability to work against your cause, though I promise you I never shall again. Oh, I know you do not trust me, and I shan't ask you to; I only ask you to send me anywhere you like, if you will only start for your command at once; for your own sake I beg you; for your own sake you must go!"

All of pleading was in her eyes and voice; her hands were clasped in the intensity of her anxiety. But he only shook his head as he looked down in the beautiful, beseeching face.

"For your sake I shall remain," he said, coldly.

"Kenneth!"

"Your anxiety that I leave shows that the plots you confessed are not the only ones you are aware of," he said, controlling his voice with an effort, and speaking quietly. "You are my wife; for the plots of the future I must take the responsibility, prevent them if I can; shield you if I cannot."

"No, no!" and she clasped his arm, pleadingly; "believe me, Kenneth, there will be no more plots, not after today—"

"Ah!" and he drew back from her touch; "not after today! then there is some further use you have for my house as a rendezvous? Do you suppose I will go at once and leave my mother and sister to the danger of your intrigues?"

"No! there shall be no danger for any one if you will only go," she promised, wildly; "Kenneth, it is you I want to save; it is the last thing I shall ever ask of you. Go, go! no more harm shall come to your people, I promise you, I—"

"You promise!" and he turned on her with a fury from which she shrank. "The promise of a woman who allowed a loyal friend to suffer disgrace for her fault!—the promise of one who has abused the affection and hospitality of the women you assure protection for! A spy! A traitor! You, the woman I worshipped! God! What cursed fancy led you to risk life, love, honor, everything worth having, for a fanatical fight against one of two political factions?"

He dropped into a chair and buried his face in his hands. As he did so a handkerchief in his pocket caught in the fastening of his cuff, as he let his hand fall the 'kerchief was dragged from the pocket, and with it the little oval frame over which he had been jealous for an hour, and concerning which he had not yet had an explanation.

It rolled towards her, and with a sudden movement she caught it, and the next instant the dark, girlish face lay uncovered in her hand.

She uttered a low cry, and then something of strength seemed to come to her as she looked at it. Her eyes dilated, and she drew a long breath, as she turned and faced him again with both hands clasped over her bosom, and the open picture pressed there. All the tears and pleading were gone from her face and voice, as she answered:

"Because to that political question there is a background, shadowed, shameful, awful! Through the shadows of it one can hear the clang of chains; can see the dumb misery of fettered women packed in the holds of your slave ships, carried in chains to the land of your free! From the day the first slave was burned at the stake on Manhattan Island by your Christian forefathers, until now, when they are meeting your men in battle, fighting you to the death, there is an unwritten record that is full of horror, generations of dumb servitude! Did you think they would keep silence forever?"

He arose from the chair, staring at her in amazement; those arguments were so foreign to all he had known of the dainty woman, patrician, apparently, to her finger tips. How had she ever been led to sympathize with those rabid, mistaken theories of the North?

"You have been misled by extravagant lies!" he said, sternly; "abuses such as you denounce no longer exist; if they ever did it was when the temper of the times was rude—half savage if you will—when men were rough and harsh with each other, therefore, with their belongings."

"Therefore, with their belongings!" she repeated, bitterly, "and in your own age all that is changed?"

"Certainly."

"Certainly!" she agreed. "Slaves are no longer burned for insubordination, because masters have grown too wise to burn money! But they have some laws they use now instead of the torch and the whip of those old crude days. From their book of laws they read the commandment: 'Go you out then, and of the heathen about you, buy bondmen and bondmaids that they be servants of your household;' and again it is commanded: 'Servants be obedient unto your masters!' The torch is no longer needed when those fettered souls are taught God has decreed their servitude. God has cursed them before they were born, and under that curse they must bend forever!"

"You doubt even the religion of my people?" he demanded.

"Yes!"

"You doubt the divinity of those laws?"

"Yes!"

"Judithe!"

"Yes!" she repeated, a certain dauntless courage in her voice and bearing. She was no longer the girl he had loved and married; she was a strange, wild, beautiful creature, whose tones he seemed to hear for the first time. "A thousand times—yes! I doubt any law and every law shackling liberty of thought and freedom of people! And the poison of that accursed system has crept into your own blood until, even to me, you pretend, and deny the infamy that exists today, and of which you are aware!"

"Infamy! How dare you use that word?" and his eyes flamed with anger at the accusation, but she raised her hand, and spoke more quietly.

"You remember the story you heard here today—the story of your guest and guardian, who sold the white child of his own brother? and the day when that was done is not so long past! It is so close that the child is now only a girl of twenty-three, the girl who was educated by her father's brother that she might prove a more desirable addition to your bondslaves!"

"God in heaven!" he muttered, as he drew back and stared at her. "Your knowledge of those things, of the girl's age, which I did not know! Where have you gained it all? When you heard so much you must know I was not aware of the purchase of the girl, but that does not matter now. Answer my questions! Your words, your manner; what do they mean? What has inspired this fury in you? Answer—I command you!"

"'Servants, be obedient unto your masters!'" she quoted, with a strange smile. "My words oppress you, possibly, because so many women are speaking through my lips, the women who for generations have thought and suffered and been doomed to silence, to bear the children of men they hated; to have the most sacred thing of life, mother-love, desecrated, according to the temper of their masters; to dread bringing into the world even the children of love, lest, whether white or black, they prove cattle for the slave market!"

"Judithe!"

He caught her hand as though to force silence on her by the strength of his own horror and protest. She closed her eyes for an instant as he touched her, and then drew away to leave a greater space between them, as she said:

"All those women are back of me! I have never lived one hour out of the shadow of their presence. Their cause is my cause, and when I forget them, may God forget me!"

"Your cause!—my wife!" he half whispered, as he dropped her hand, and the blue eyes swept her over with a glance of horror. "Who are you that their cause should be yours?"

"Until this morning I was Madame La Marquise de Caron," she said, making a half mocking inclination of her head; "in the bill of sale you read today I was named Rhoda Larue, the slave girl who—"

"No!" He caught her fiercely by the shoulder, and his face had a murderous look as he bent above her, "don't dare to say it! You are mad with the desire to hurt me because I resent your sympathy with the North! But, dear, your madness has made you something more terrible than you realize! Judithe, for God's sake, never say that word again!"

"For God's sake, that is, for truth's sake, I am telling you the thing that is!"

He half staggered to the table, and stood there looking at her; her gaze met his own, and all the tragedy of love and death was in that regard.

"You!" he said, as though it was impossible to believe the thing he heard. "You—of all women! God!—it is too horrible! What right have you to tell me now? I was happy each moment I thought you loved me; even my anger against you was all jealousy! I was willing to forgive even the spy work, shield you, trust you, love you—but—now—"

He paused with his hand over his eyes as though to shut out the sight of her, she was so beautiful as she stood there—so appealing. The dark eyes were wells of sadness as she looked at him. She stood as one waiting judgment and hoping for no mercy.

"You have punished me for a thing that was not my fault," he continued. "I destroyed it—the accursed paper, and—"

"And by destroying it you gave me back to the Loring estate," she said, quietly. All the passion had burned itself out; she spoke wearily and without emotion. "That is, I have become again, the property of my half sister, my father's daughter! Are the brutal possibilities of your social institution so very far in the past?"

He could only stare at her; the horror of it was all too sickening, and that man who was dying in the other room had caused it all; he had moved them as puppets in the game of life, a malignant Fate, who had made all this possible.

"Now, will you go?" she asked, pleadingly. "You may trust me now; I have told you all."

But he did not seem to hear her; only that one horrible thought of what she was to him beat against his brain and dwarfed every other consideration.

"And you—married me, knowing this?"

"I married you because I knew it," she said, despairingly. "I thought you and Matthew Loring equally guilty—equally deserving of punishment. I fought against my own feelings—my own love for you—"

"Love!"

"Love—love always! I loved you in Paris, when I thought hate was all you deserved from me. I waited three years. I told myself it had been only a girlish fancy—not love! I pledged myself to work for the union of these states and against the cause championed by Kenneth McVeigh and Matthew Loring; for days and nights, weeks and months, I have worked for my mother's people and against the two men whose names were always linked together in my remembrance. The thought became a monomania with me. Well, you know how it is ended! Every plan against you became hateful to me from the moment I heard your voice again. But the plans had to go on though they were built on my heart. As for the marriage, I meant to write you after I had left the country, and tell you who you had given your name to. Then"—and all of despair was in her voice—"then I learned the truth too late. I heard your words when that paper was given to you here, and I loved you. I realized that I had never ceased to love you; that I never should!"

"The woman who is my—wife!" he muttered. "Oh, God!—"

"No one need ever know that," she said earnestly. "I will go away, unless you give me over to the authorities as the spy. For the wrong I have done you I will make any atonement—any expiation—"

"There is no atonement you could make," he answered, steadily. "There is no forgiveness possible."

"I know," she said, whisperingly, as if afraid to trust her voice aloud, "I know you could never forgive me. I—I do not ask it; only, Kenneth, a few hours ago we promised to love each other always," her voice broke for an instant and then she went on, "I shall keep that promise wherever I go, and—that is all—I think—"

She had paused beside the table, where he sat, with his head buried in his hands.

"I give you back the wedding ring," she continued, slipping it from her finger, but he did not speak or move. She kissed the little gold circlet and laid it beside him. "I am going now," she said, steadily as she could; "I ask for no remembrance, no forgiveness; but—have you no word of good-bye for me?—not one? It is forever, Kenneth—Kenneth!"

Her last word was almost a scream, for a shot had sounded just outside the window, and there was the rush of feet on the veranda and the crash of arms.

"Go! Go at once!" she said, grasping his arm. "They will take you prisoner—they will—"

"So!" he said, rising and reaching for the sword on the rack near him; "this is one of the plots you did not reveal to me; some of your Federal friends!"

"Oh, I warned you! I begged you to go," she said, pleadingly; again she caught his arm as he strode towards the veranda, but he flung himself loose with an angry exclamation:

"Let your friends look to themselves," he said, grimly. "My own guard is here to receive them today."

As he tore aside the curtains and opened the glass door she flung herself in front of him. On the steps and on the lawn men were struggling, and shots were being fired. Men were remounting their horses in hot haste and a few minutes later were clattering down the road, leaving one dead stranger at the foot of the steps. But for his presence it would all have seemed but a tumultuous vision of grey-garbed combatants.

It was, perhaps, ten minutes later when Kenneth McVeigh re-entered the library. All was vague and confused in his mind as to what had occurred there in the curtained alcove. She had flung herself in front of him with her arms about him as the door opened; there had been two shots in quick succession, one of them had shattered the glass, and the other—

He remembered tearing himself from her embrace as she clung to him, and he remembered she had sunk with a moan to the floor; at the time he thought her attitude and cry had meant only despair at her failure to stop him, but, perhaps—

He found her in the same place; the oval portrait was open in her hand, as though her last look had been given to the pretty mother, whose memory she had cherished, and whose race she had fought for.

Margeret was crouched beside her, silent as ever, her dark eyes strange, unutterable in expression, were fixed on the beautiful face, but the stray bullet had done its work quickly—she had been quite dead when Margeret reached her.

* * * * *

Monroe told McVeigh the true story of the portrait that night. The two men sat talking until the dawn broke. Delaven was admitted to the conference long enough to hear certain political reasons why the marriage of that morning should continue to remain a secret, and when the mistress of Loringwood was laid to rest under the century-old cedars, it was as Judithe, Marquise de Caron.

In settling up the estate of Matthew Loring, who died a few days later, speechless to the last, Judge Clarkson had the unpleasant task of informing Gertrude that for nearly twenty years one of the slaves supposed to belong to her had been legally free. Evidence was found establishing the fact that Tom Loring had given freedom to Margeret and her child a few days previous to that last, fatal ride of his. Matthew Loring had evidently disapproved and suppressed the knowledge.

Gertrude made slight comment on the affair, convinced as she was that the woman was much better off in their household than dependent on herself, and was frankly astonished that Margeret returned at once to Loringwood, and never left it again for the three remaining years of her life.

Gertrude was also surprised at the sudden interest of Kenneth in her former bondwoman, and when the silent octoroon was found dead beside the tomb of her master, it was Kenneth McVeigh who arranged that she be placed near the beautiful stranger who had dwelt among them for awhile.

A year after the war ended Gertrude, the last of the once dominant Lorings, married an Alabama man, and left Carolina, to the great regret of Mrs. Judge Clarkson and sweet Evilena Delaven. They felt a grievance against Kenneth for his indifference in the matter, and were disconsolate for years over his persistent bachelorhood.

When he finally did marry, his wife was a pretty little woman, who was a relative of Jack Monroe, and totally different from either Gertrude or Judithe Loring. Jack Monroe, who was Major Monroe at the close of the war, makes yearly hunting trips to the land of the Salkahatchie, and when twitted concerning his state of single blessedness, declares he is only postponing matrimony until Delaven's youngest daughter grows up, but the youngest has been superseded by a younger one several times since he first made the announcement.

The monument planned by Judithe has existed for many years; but only a few remember well the builder; she has become a misty memory—part of a romance the older people tell. She was a noted beauty of France and she died to save General McVeigh, who was young, handsome, and, it was said, her lover. He never after her death was heard to speak her name and did not marry until twenty years later—what more apt material for a romance? None of them ever heard of her work for the union of the states.

But when the local historians tell of the former grandeur of the Lorings, the gay, reckless, daring spirits among them, and end the list with handsome Tom, there are two veterans, one of the blue and the other of the grey, who know that the list did not end there, and that the most brilliant, most daring, most remarkable spirit of them all, was the one of their blood, who was born a slave.

THE END.

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