The Crisis Part 60

"I should like to hear any one say so," she flashed out.

"No," said Virginia, "our friends will force them to release you. I do not know much about law. But you have done nothing to be imprisoned for."

Clarence did not answer at once. Finally he said. "I do not want to be released."

"You do not want to be released," she repeated.

"No," he said. "They can exchange me. If I remain a prisoner, it will have a greater effect--for the South."

She smiled again, this time at the boyish touch of heroics. Experience, responsibility, and he would get over that. She remembered once, long ago, when his mother had shut him up in his room for a punishment, and he had tortured her by remaining there for two whole days.

It was well on in the afternoon when she drove back to the city with Mr.

Brinsmade. Neither of them had eaten since morning, nor had they even thought of hunger. Mr. Brinsmade was silent, leaning back in the corner of the carriage, and Virginia absorbed in her own thoughts. Drawing near the city, that dreaded sound, the rumble of drums, roused them. A shot rang out, and they were jerked violently by the starting of the horses.

As they dashed across Walnut at Seventh came the fusillade. Virginia leaned out of the window. Down the vista of the street was a ma.s.s of blue uniforms, and a film of white smoke hanging about the columns of the old Presbyterian Church Mr. Brinsmade quietly drew her back into the carriage.

The shots ceased, giving place to an angry roar that struck terror to her heart that wet and lowering afternoon. The powerful black horses galloped on. Nicodemus tugging at the reins, and great splotches of mud flying in at the windows. The roar of the crowd died to an ominous moaning behind them. Then she knew that Mr. Brinsmade was speaking:-- "From battle and murder, and from sudden death--from all sedition, privy conspiracy, and rebellion,--Good Lord, deliver us."

He was repeating the Litany--that Litany which had come down through the ages. They had chanted it in Cromwell's time, when homes were ruined and laid waste, and innocents slaughtered. They had chanted it on the dark, barricaded stairways of mediaeval Paris, through St. Bartholomew's night, when the narrow and twisted streets, ran with blood. They had chanted it in ancient India, and now it was heard again in the New World and the New Republic of Peace and Good Will.

Rebellion? The girl flinched at the word which the good gentleman had uttered in his prayers. Was she a traitor to that flag for which her people had fought in three wars? Rebellion! She burned to blot it forever from the book Oh, the bitterness of that day, which was prophecy of the bitterness to come.

Rain was dropping as Mr. Brinsmade escorted her up her own steps.

He held her hand a little at parting, and bade her be of good cheer.

Perhaps he guessed something of the trial she was to go through that night alone with her aunt, Clarence's mother. Mr. Brinsmade did not go directly home. He went first to the little house next door to his. Mrs.

Brice and Judge Whipple were in the parlor: What pa.s.sed between them there has not been told, but presently the Judge and Mr. Brinsmade came out together and stood along time in, the yard, conversing, heedless of the rain.

CHAPTER XXI. THE STAMPEDE

Sunday dawned, and the people flocked to the churches. But even in the house of G.o.d were dissension and strife. From the Carvel pew at Dr.

Posthelwaite's Virginia saw men and women rise from their knees and walk out--their faces pale with anger. At St. Mark's the prayer for the President of the United States was omitted. Mr. Russell and Mr.

Catherwood nodded approvingly over the sermon in which the South was justified, and the sanction of Holy Writ laid upon her Inst.i.tution.

With not indifferent elation these gentlemen watched the departure of brethren with whom they had labored for many years, save only when Mr.

Brinsmade walked down the aisle never to return. So it is that war, like a devastating flood, creeps insistent into the most sacred places, and will not be denied. Mr. Davitt, at least, preached that day to an united congregation,--which is to say that none of them went out. Mr. Hopper, who now shared a pew with Miss Crane, listened as usual with a most reverent attention. The clouds were low and the streets wet as people walked home to dinner, to discuss, many in pa.s.sion and some in sorrow, the doings of the morning. A certain clergyman had prayed to be delivered from the Irish, the Dutch, and the Devil. Was it he who started the old rumor which made such havoc that afternoon? Those barbarians of the foreign city to the south, drunk with power, were to sack and loot the city. How it flew across street and alley, from yard to yard, and from house to house! Privileged Ned ran into the dining-room where Virginia and her aunt were sitting, his eyes rolling and his face ashen with terror, crying out that the Dutch were marching on the city, firebrands in hand and murder in their hearts.

"De Gen'ral done gib out er procl'mation, Miss Jinny," he cried. "De Gen'ral done say in dat procl'mation dat he ain't got no control ober de Dutch soldiers."

Mrs. Colfax fainted.

"Oh Miss Jinny, ain't you gwineter Glencoe? Ain't you gwineter flee away? Every fambly on dis here street's gwine away--is packin' up fo' de country. Doan't you hear 'em, Miss Jinny? What'll your pa say to Ned of he ain't make you clear out! Doan't you hear de carridges a-rattlin' off to de country?"

Virginia rose in agitation, yet trying to be calm, and to remember that the safety of the household depended upon her alone. That was her thought,--bred into her by generations,--the safety of the household, of the humblest slave whose happiness and welfare depended upon her father's bounty. How she longed in that instant for her father or Captain Lige, for some man's strength, to depend upon. Would there be wisdom in flight?

"Do you want to go, Ned?" she asked. She has seen her aunt swoon before, and her maid Susan knows well what to do. "Do you want to go, Ned?"

"Laws Mussy, no, Miss Jinny. One n.i.g.g.e.r laik me doan't make no difference. My Marsa he say: 'Whaffor you leave ma house to be ramsacked by de Dutch?'

"What I gwineter answer? Oh Miss Jinny, you an' Miss Lill an' Mammy Easter an' Susan's gwine with Jackson, an' de othah n.i.g.g.ahs can walk.

Ephum an' me'll jes' put up de shutters an' load de Colonel's gun."

By this time the room was filled with excited negroes, some crying, and some laughing hysterically. Uncle Ben had come in from the kitchen; Jackson was there, and the women were a wailing bunch in the corner by the sideboard. Old Ephum, impa.s.sive, and Ned stood together. Virginia's eye rested upon them, and the light of love and affection was in it. She went to the window. Yes, carriages were indeed rattling outside, though a sharp shower was falling. Across the street Alphonse, M. Renault's butler, was depositing bags and bundles on the steps. M. Renault himself bustled out into the rain, gesticulating excitedly. Spying her at the window, he put his hands to his mouth, cried out something, and ran in again. Virginia flung open the sash and listened for the dreaded sound of drums. Then she crossed quickly over to where her aunt was lying on the lounge.

"O Jinny," murmured that lady, who had revived, "can't you do something?

Haven't you done anything? They will be here any moment to burn us, to murder us--to--oh, my poor boy! Why isn't he here to protect his mother!

Why was Comyn so senseless, so thoughtless, as to leave us at such a time!"

"I don't think there is any need to be frightened," said Virginia, with a calmness that made her aunt tremble with anger. "It is probably only a rumor. Ned, run to Mr. Brinsmade's and ask him about it."

However loath to go, Ned departed at once. All honor to those old-time negroes who are now memories, whose devotion to their masters was next to their love of G.o.d. A great fear was in Ned's heart, but he went.

And he believed devoutly that he would never see his young mistress any more.

And while Ned is running to Mr. Brinsmade's, Mrs. Colfax is summoning that courage which comes to persons of her character at such times. She gathers her jewels into a bag, and her fine dresses into her trunk, with trembling hands, although she is well enough now. The picture of Clarence in the diamond frame she puts inside the waist of her gown. No, she will not go to Bellegarde. That is too near the city. With frantic haste she closes the trunk, which Ephum and Jackson carry downstairs and place between the seats of the carriage. Ned had had the horses in it since church time. It is not safe outside. But where to go?

To Glencoe? It is three in the afternoon, and Jackson explains that, with the load, they would not reach there until midnight, if at all.

To Kirkwood or Webster? Yes; many of the first families live there, and would take them in for the night. Equipages of all sorts are pa.s.sing,--private carriages and public, and corner-stand hacks. The black drivers are cracking whips over galloping horses.

Pedestrians are hurrying by with bundles under their arms, some running east, and some west, and some stopping to discuss excitedly the chances of each direction. From the river comes the hoa.r.s.e whistle of the boats breaking the Sabbath stillness there. It is a panic to be remembered.

Virginia leaned against the iron railing of the steps, watching the scene, and waiting for Ned to return from Mr. Brinsmade's. Her face was troubled, as well it might be. The most alarming reports were cried up to her from the street, and she looked every moment for the black smoke of destruction to appear to the southward. Around her were gathered the Carvel servants, most of them crying, and imploring her not to leave them. And when Mrs. Colfax's trunk was brought down and placed in the carriage where three of them might have ridden to safety, a groan of despair and entreaty rose from the faithful group that went to her heart.

"Miss Jinny, you ain't gwineter leave yo' ol mammy?"

"Hush, Mammy," she said. "No, you shall all go, if I have to stay myself. Ephum, go to the livery stable and get another carriage."

She went up into her own deserted room to gather the few things she would take with her--the little jewellery case with the necklace of pearls which her great-grandmother had worn at her wedding. Rosetta and Mammy Easter were of no use, and she had sent them downstairs again.

With a flutter she opened her wardrobe door, to take one last look at the gowns there. You will pardon her. They were part of happier days gone by. She fell down on her knees and opened the great drawer at the bottom, and there on the top lay the dainty gown which had belonged to Dorothy Manners. A tear fell upon one of the flowers of the stays.

Irresistibly pressed into her mind the memory of Anne's fancy dress ball,--of the episode by the gate, upon which she had thought so often with burning face.

The voices below grow louder, but she does not hear. She is folding the gown hurriedly into a little package. It was her great-grandmother's; her chief heirloom after the pearls. Silk and satin from Paris are left behind. With one glance at the bed in which she had slept since childhood, and at the picture over it which had been her mother's, she hurries downstairs. And Dorothy Manners's gown is under her arm. On the landing she stops to brush her eyes with her handkerchief. If only her father were here!

Ah, here is Ned back again. Has Mr. Brinsmade come?

What did he say? Ned simply pointed out a young man standing on the steps behind the negroes. Crimson stains were on Virginia's cheeks, and the package she carried under her arm was like lead. The young man, although he showed no signs of excitement, reddened too as he came forward and took off his hat. But the sight of him had acurious effect upon Virginia, of which she was at first unconscious. A sense of security came upon her as she looked at his face and listened to his voice.

"Mr. Brinsmade has gone to the hospital, Miss Carvel," he said. "Mrs.

Brinsmade asked me to come here with your man in the hope that I might persuade you to stay where you are."

"Then the Germans are not moving on the city?" she said.

In spite of himself, Stephen smiled. It was that smile that angered her, that made her rebel against the advice he had to offer; that made her forget the insult he had risked at her hands by coming there. For she believed him utterly, without reservation. The moment he had spoken she was convinced that the panic was a silly scare which would be food for merriment in future years. And yet--was not that smile in derision of herself--of her friends who were running away? Was it not an a.s.sumption of Northern superiority, to be resented?

"It is only a malicious rumor, Miss Carvel," he answered. "You have been told so upon good authority, I suppose," she said dryly. And at the change in her tone she saw his face fall.

"I have not," he replied honestly, "but I will submit it to your own judgment. Yesterday General Harney superseded Captain Lyon in command in St. Louis. Some citizens of prominence begged the General to send the troops away, to avoid further ill-feeling and perhaps--bloodshed." (They both winced at the word.) "Colonel Blair represented to the General that the troops could not be sent away, as they had been enlisted to serve only in St. Louis; whereupon the General in his proclamation states that he has no control over these Home Guards. That sentence has been twisted by some rascal into a confession that the Home Guards are not to be controlled. I can a.s.sure you, Miss Carvel," added Stephen, speaking with a force which made her start and thrill, "I can a.s.sure you from a personal knowledge of the German troops that they are not a riotous lot, and that they are under perfect control. If they were not, there are enough regulars in the city to repress them."

He paused. And she was silent, forgetful of the hub-bub around her. It was then that her aunt called out to her, with distressing shrillness, from the carriage:-- "Jinny, Jinny, how can you stand there talking to young men when our lives are in danger?"