[Illustration: _Frontispiece—Bobbie._

“Is it all right at the house?” See p. 122.]




                                “BOBBIE”

                              _A STORY OF_
                             THE CONFEDERACY

                                   BY
                           KATE LANGLEY BOSHER
                     _Author of “When Love is Love”_

                               ILLUSTRATED

                              PHILADELPHIA
                          HENRY ALTEMUS COMPANY

                            COPYRIGHT, 1899,
                                   BY
                              KATE CAIRNS.

                            COPYRIGHT, 1905,
                                   BY
                             HENRY ALTEMUS.




_IN MEMORY OF “THE DAYS THAT ARE NO MORE.”_

[Illustration]




[Illustration: _“You see dis?” she said._]




[Illustration: “BOBBIE”]




CHAPTER I.


He always said he never knew which was worse, his name or his nose; but
as he could get rid of neither, he accepted both in his own bright, happy
way, and that ended the matter with him.

Peter Black had given him the name of Mars’ Bobbie to distinguish him
from Mars’ Robert, his father, and it seemed to fit so exactly and suit
so well his cheery, lovable little self as a baby, and later as a boy,
and even on to young manhood, that no one thought of calling him anything
else, or loved any other name half so well for him.

He was such a long time in coming, he used to say laughingly, that when
he did get here his parents and friends and relatives, together with
all the negroes on the plantation, thought he was going to be something
extra; and then to be called “_Bobbie_,” and to have a broken nose,
was so hurtful to his vanity, that, after thinking the matter over, he
settled it by deciding that never again would he allow the subject to
enter his mind, with the result that he became more lovable and loving
than ever, and the secret of the charm all lay in the decision about
his nose and name—he never thought of himself, but always of every one
else first; and that is why he was so loved—he was so brave and true and
honest and glad always.

“White Point,” where he was born, was the centre of the Rockland
district; and while the neighborhood in that section of the country was
tolerably well settled, still the “quality folks” were not very numerous,
and in a radius of some twenty miles there were scarcely half a dozen
families that kept up any kind of an establishment. Consequently, with
the exception of “Grey Cliffs”—Dr. Trevillian’s place—“White Point”
stood alone for a synonym of all that was grand and elegant, and as a
gathering place for all the “bus heads” of the neighboring counties, as
well as many cities.

Over two hundred slaves were owned by the master, and the stables were
reckoned the finest in the State, for the stock included many animals
of well-known and enviable records. There was a private race-track
at one end of the plantation, and when at the spring and fall meets
the neighbors from his own and adjoining counties met at Mars’ Robert
Tayloe’s, there were times to be remembered, and good old times they were!

The gentlemen brought their own horses and dogs, and in the morning after
breakfast it was no unusual sight to see fifty or more blooded animals
brought out by the stable boys and walked up and down for the inspection
and discussion of the gentlemen who had come down to see their favorites;
and it was owing to one of these occasions that Bobbie made his nose
immortal.

Though his eighth birthday had not yet been reached, he knew every detail
of stable matters to what his mother thought an alarming degree, and the
ambition of his life was to get astride a race horse. Never had he been
allowed that privilege, though he had ridden bareback everything else on
the place; and when he heard his father discussing, the night before the
big race, the relative merits of his special pride—Dare Devil—as compared
with Major Dalrymple’s Lady Virginia, he could stand it no longer, and he
crept out to look for Peter Black.

Had Bobbie known what an _alter ego_ was, he would have said that Peter
Black was it; for one was the substance, the other the shadow; and when
Bobbie was wanted Peter Black was generally called.

By right of birth he really belonged to Sallie Tom, Bobbie’s mammy; but
for all other intents and purposes he was owned body and soul by little
Mars’ Bobbie, to whom Mars’ Robert had given him on the morning of the
great day when the little master “done come.” The big master had made
him creep softly in the missus’ beautiful room, and had shown him the
new wonder, and told him that he was to belong to him hereafter, and
that he must always be very careful, and never let any harm come to him;
and Peter Black had promised solemnly, and walked out of the room as one
would come out of a holy place, and no king on his coronation day was
ever half so proud as he.

Sallie Tom, his mother, was present at this installation into office,
and she tried hard to conceal the pride she felt at the selection of
the little marsa’s body servant. She said no word at the time, but when
she got down to her cabin she put Peter Black on a chair and had a
conversation with him.

Peter was her one and only offspring, and though she loved him very
much in her own peculiar way, it was something very different from the
absolute idolatry she had for her master and mistress, and now for the
little stranger that for ten long years she had hoped and prayed would
come to fill the sore need of a child up in the big house.

There was a strain of Indian blood somewhere in Sallie Tom, it was
thought, and the rest of the negroes were far more afraid than fond of
her. They declared she “cungered” them, and some would have nothing to
do with her; and for that reason, though the best worker on the place,
she had been put in the house by her mistress. At the birth of the baby
she had been installed as nurse-in-chief, and from that hour she ruled as
despot of the nursery kingdom.

In more ways than one did she assert her Indian peculiarities. No one
knew for certain that she possessed a drop of such blood; but her hate
once aroused was implacable, and her devotion once given was as intense
as it was enduring and genuine.

After the birth of the baby Sallie Tom moved up into the house
altogether, but she was still allowed to retain her cabin, and there
Peter Black slept at night, and there in her hours of recreation or
investigation she went to look after her private matters and to see that
all things continued in their usual spotless condition.

On the afternoon of the day that made Peter Black henceforth the property
of the few-hours-old heir, Sallie Tom interviewed her offspring as to the
responsibilities and obligations now resting upon him as a body servant;
and if at the end of the interview Peter Black failed to understand what
he was to be and to do, it was because he was only six years old, and not
yet equal to taking life altogether seriously.

One thing, however, he fully appreciated, and that was the old horse-hair
whip that hung near the chimney corner. Sallie Tom took it down and shook
it out in the air.

“You see dis?” she said, as she arose from her seat to go back to the
house. “You see dis heah, Peter Black? Mars’ Robert told you to-day dat
you b’long to de little marsa, now, and so you does. Yo’ foots is to run
for him, yo’ han’s is to work for him, yo’ tongue is to talk up for
him, yo’ eyes is to look out for him; but you b’long to me, too, Peter
Black, and when yo’ foots don’t run, and yo’ hands don’t work, and yo’
eyes don’t see, and you gets to any foolin’, den me and dis heah frien’
of yourn will hav’ suppin to say to you, Peter Black, and now go long wid
you,” and Sallie Tom turned and threw her arms around him and hugged him
passionately, and then sent him out to play.

From the day of his induction into office Peter Black never gave cause
for any regret as to his selection. His idolatry of his little master was
almost pathetically absurd. It was he who called him Mars’ Bobbie, the
day he crowed so lustily in his face, and the name seemed to fit so well
the rollicking, laughing, happy little soul that it just stayed, and no
one wanted it changed. When he first began to crawl it was over Peter
Black’s back, and Peter’s was the only hand he would touch when he tried
to make his first steps, and almost before he could call his mother he
would cry for “B’ Bac,” and “B’ Bac” was always there.

On up through the days of infancy the comradeship continued to grow, and
though Bobbie’s was the imperious one of babyhood, he loved Peter Black
better than anything on earth, and shared faithfully every piece of cake
or candy that was given him, and it was due to this absolute and complete
submission to his will that Peter Black let his young master have his way
about the horses, an indulgence which resulted in Bobbie’s broken nose.
When the latter crept out of his room the night before the big race he
made Peter Black promise to wake him up the next morning at 4 o’clock.
“I’m not going to tell you what for,” said Bobbie, “but you wake me up;”
and Peter Black did as he was bidden.

Together they crept through the house and down to the stables, and then
Bobbie told his plans. “Major Dalrymple said last night he knowed Lady
Virginia was a-going to beat the whole place, and I know there ain’t a
horse in the world that can beat my father’s Dare Devil, and I just
want to tell him so, and I’m going to try and see. You must get on Lady
Virginia and I will ride Dare Devil; and don’t let’s have any saddles,
’cause my feet don’t touch.”

They almost ran as they talked, and it was in vain that Peter Black
protested and begged his little master not to do so dreadful a thing; but
Bobbie’s blood was up, and words had no effect. They opened the stable
and led out their favorites to the track, and slipped up on their backs.
“Now, when I count three you let her go, and you make her _go_, ’cause
I don’t want to win easy. If I come back here first, _I_ beat; if _you_
first, then I’ll tell father it’s no use. Now, listen. One, two”—Bobbie’s
voice trembled with excitement—“three!”—and they were off.




CHAPTER II.


They said afterward that the big race wasn’t half so exciting as this one
witnessed by an unexpected audience. They had hardly mounted their horses
and gotten under way before several of the stable boys and the visiting
grooms were rushing wildly to the track. The horses had been missed at
once, and already up to the house the message had been sent that Mars’
Bobbie and Peter Black were racing.

Hardly waiting to slip on their clothes, down came Mr. Tayloe and Dr.
Trevillian, followed by some three or four of the gentlemen guests and
numerous servants, all making madly for the race track.

Both children could be distinctly seen, though now half way round the
bend, and breathlessly the men stood and watched. Mr. Tayloe’s face
was deathly white, and his hands shook as he grasped the gate-post at
the entrance to the track. The rest, however, had forgotten who were on
the horses. It was a race that they were watching, and so intense was
the interest that they almost held their breath as again the children
appeared in sight, for neck and neck they were going now. Both horses
were being ridden at break-neck speed. All sense of servant and master
was forgotten in Peter Black’s and Bobbie’s minds; it was a race to win,
and all else save winning was driven out. Nearer and nearer they came,
and up through the stillness of the early morning could be heard the
ringing of the horses’ hoofs upon the hard-packed track; and now they
could see that each was stretched almost flat upon the back of his horse,
holding on in some mysterious way known only to himself.

Neck and neck they still held, and though Major Dalrymple felt afraid of
an accident, he mentally determined that if Tayloe wanted to get rid of
Peter Black after this escapade, he would buy him and have him trained
for a jockey. He had the making of one in him, and Lady Virginia was
doing well, even as it was.

On they came, and instinctively the men and stable hands breathed hard.
For the life of them not one could say which he thought would come in
ahead. Louder and louder sounded the hoof-beats on the hard earth; and
though his heart was beating almost out of his bosom, even Mr. Tayloe
could scarce repress a smile when he saw the eager excitement on his
little son’s face as he neared the stretch that would decide the race.
Peter Black was losing his head, but Bobbie leaned still lower and
touched Dare Devil on the forehead, as he was accustomed to do in the
stables, and then he saw the crowd at the gate and his father’s white
face among them. “Dare Devil, we _must_!” he cried, almost frantically.
“Don’t you see father? We _must_;” and he bent his feet against his
flanks, and Dare Devil gave a great leap—and Peter Black was behind!

The men set up a shout, and Dare Devil, almost maddened, kept up his
wonderful speed, and in a moment it was over—the goal was reached, and
Bobbie had loosened his hold and was shouting wildly to his father, when
Dare Devil gave another spurt—and Bobbie lay on the ground, flung against
the fence. Every man rushed quickly to the spot; but already his father
had him in his arms, and Dr. Trevillian was bending over him. Peter Black
was there, too, and they said afterward that he was as white as Bobbie.
It was quite five minutes before they brought him to, and his first words
caused a great cheer to break the awful stillness that had followed his
fall. “We beat him father! tell him so; tell him that Dare Devil can beat
them all!” he cried; and then he lifted his hand to his face and saw the
blood with which it was stained.

“What is it?” he asked, trying to rise, and looking at it again
wonderingly. “Oh, father,” he pleaded, “don’t tell mother ’bout the
blood—take me down to Sallie Tom’s cabin—don’t let mother see it—you
can do anything you want with me, father,” he continued, and he tried
hard to look up bravely in the latter’s face, “only don’t let mother
know I am hurt, and don’t punish Peter Black. I made him do it—he didn’t
want to, and he’s mine, you know father, and you haven’t the right.” He
watched his father’s face eagerly. “Promise me,” he cried, “promise me.”
And though his father had an intense desire to see Peter Black soundly
thrashed, he knew he had no right to do it, for he had simply obeyed his
little master, as he himself had ordered him to do.

Up at the house there was great excitement when it was known that
Bobbie’s nose was broken, and more than ever was his sway over the
household absolute and entire, as he lay for a few days a prisoner in his
little bed, waiting for the great surgeon from the North to come down and
make it all straight and well again.

That night his mother knelt by his bed and held him passionately to her
heart and thanked God that he was still her own, and then she asked him
what he most wanted to play with while he was waiting to get well, and
his answer brought the first tiny twinge of jealousy of which she had
ever been conscious. “I want Dorothy, mother,” he said, putting his arms
around her neck in his old sweet, baby way. “I want Dorothy most of all.
I’m sorry she ain’t a boy as big as me—but maybe I’ll be glad she is a
girl when she gets bigger—for I’ll have to have a sweetheart, won’t I,
mother?” But before she could answer he was fast asleep in her arms. The
seed, however, had fallen on fruitful ground, and with a sigh of which
she was half ashamed, his mother began to think it would not be so very
long before her realm in her boy’s heart would be invaded, and she no
longer reign supreme.

The same night she told her husband of Bobbie’s wish, and also what
he had said, and together they laughed at the way he regarded the
inevitability of a sweetheart, and though neither said anything more,
it seemed too absurd to discuss children scarce seven and three years
old—still the idea took root, and the hope was born that some day Bobbie
and Dorothy would keep up the life in the big house when they were
growing old, or when, perchance, they had passed away.

[Illustration: “Louder and louder sounded the hoof-beats.”]

Dorothy came the next day, Dr. Trevillian bringing her over himself in
answer to the urgent note sent him by Bobbie’s father, and for a week
the two were blissfully happy. At the end of that time Dorothy was taken
back, the promise that she should come again being the only way of
stopping her sobs at parting. Bobbie was standing in the doorway with
his hands clutched closely together, trying hard to keep back the tears;
but when the carriage was lost sight of by a turn in the road, he ran
to his mother and buried his head in her lap. “He can take her from me
now, ’cause I’m little and can’t help it,” he blurted out, gulpingly,
“but when we get bigger I won’t let any man, not even her father, take
her from me; for, mother,” and he slipped up into her lap and locked his
arms around her neck, “if I tell you something will you promise not to
tell—not even father?” and he whispered something solemnly in her ear,
and his mother laughed and kissed him, and held him a little closer to
her heart.

When Dr. Trevillian put his little daughter into the carriage and started
off for home, he wondered why he had been fool enough to let her stay
away from him and her own home for seven long days, and then when he
saw the beautiful baby eyes, with their wondrously beautiful lashes all
filled with tears, and heard the little catch in her voice because she
was leaving her playfellow, he felt himself a selfish brute, and his
heart smote him at the thought of the loneliness of his motherless child.

The Tayloes and Trevillians had been friends loyal and true for
generations back, but only of late had the Doctor begun again to visit
“White Point.” After the terrible shock of his wife’s death he had
refused to go among his former friends or take up his old life as before,
and not until Dorothy was nearly three years old did he realize the error
of his way, or the injustice to his child that such a life entailed. He
began gradually to resume his practice and to visit a little, and when
he yielded to Mr. Tayloe’s request that Dorothy should come and pay them
a visit, it was only after a severe struggle and the urgent pleading
of his maiden sister that the child should have this pleasure, that he
finally gave in, and the pain it cost him to let her go was known only to
himself.

And that was the way it went on. Year in and year out they grew up,
seeing each other so constantly that no thought of either was ever
kept from the other; and while over everybody else in the house and
neighborhood Bobbie reigned supreme, to Dorothy alone did he succumb, and
mercilessly she tyrannized over him with all the inconsistency of the
woman nature that was in her.




CHAPTER III.


Bobbie was sixteen when his father finally made up his mind to send him
to college. It nearly broke his mother’s heart, to say nothing of the
terrible blow it was to Peter Black and Sallie Tom, who still kept up
their passionate love for the boy; yet it was admitted by all that the
going was a necessity. Bobbie simply would not study at home. By dawn
of the day he was off on his horse, and every inch of ground for miles
around was as familiar as the lawn in front of the house. Every bend of
the river with all its fish, every bird that flew, every insect that
hummed, and every kind of game in the woods, were as near and dear to
Bobbie and Peter Black as old and tried friends; and though his progress
with his tutors was not always as great as it might have been, his tall,
straight body, his supple limbs, and his clear eyes and bright, clever
face more than repaid for the neglect of his books.

His father had a serious talk with him before he left, and Bobbie’s face
took on a new expression while he listened. “All right, father,” he said
when he left him, “I know it’s time for me to study now, and you shan’t
be ashamed of me when I come back;” and his father was satisfied, for
Bobbie’s word, once given, he knew would never fail.

Such a time there was the day he left! Had the sun been in an eclipse,
and all the world in total darkness, there could not have been greater
gloom than that which pervaded the entire household, with all the cabin
contingent, on the morning he was to leave. Bobbie’s heart was out of its
accustomed place, and stuck so persistently in his throat that he found
talking difficult. The remembrance of his mother’s face, he felt would
go with him through life, and the intense dolefulness of Peter Black was
oppressive. Sallie Tom was a kind of nightmare. So heartily did she
disapprove of this move of the master that she had kept away as long as
possible, but now that her idol, her pride, was leaving, she could hold
out no longer. Like a cyclone she rushed through the line of darkies, all
drawn up by the big gate waiting to see the young master off, and in a
minute she had him in her arms and almost off his feet. “Gord A’mighty
tek care of my chile!” she sobbed, rocking him backwards and forwards in
a way highly uncomfortable to poor Bobbie, who yet had not the heart to
rebuff her. “Gord A’mighty tek care of my po’ chile, gwine out alone, all
by hissef, and bring him back to his old mammy!” and she strained him
passionately to her heart, and with a cry of real anguish she let him go
and rushed wildly down to her cabin, and for two days nobody saw Sallie
Tom.

At last all the partings were over and Bobbie and his father had waved
as long as they could see them, to the waiting crowd, and then a silence
long and oppressive fell upon both. Bobbie dared not trust himself to
speak, and his father was watching solicitously one of the back wheels
of the carriage, and only the hoarse, choky “Git up dar, Jonah, git up,
you Whale, you,” of Uncle Lias as he jerked the horses, trying to make
out there was nothing unusual in the trip they were taking, broke the
stillness of the air. A turn in the road, however, made Bobbie start,
and caused his heart to give an extra leap. There, waiting under the big
willow down by the river road, were Dr. Trevillian and Dorothy, and the
former called cheerily that they were waiting to ride part of the way as
escort, and to his dying day Bobbie never forgot this gracious act of
letting him see Dorothy once more before leaving. He had left her the
night before just at twilight, but a new feeling possessed him as he
saw her now sitting so quietly, yet so firmly on the little pony he had
broken and trained for her until safe for her to ride.

Ever since the day his nose was broken, and she had come over to play
with him, she had possessed him absolutely and entirely, and no tree was
ever too high to climb for birds’ eggs for Dorothy; no briars ever too
sharp to hunt for the berries and flowers and nuts she liked the best,
and no trouble ever too great to take, if only she were pleased; but
it was simply as comrades, as boy and girl, that they had played and
quarreled and made up again, but to-day it was different. Bobbie felt it,
but did not understand—he only had a fierce desire to take that gawk of
a fellow, John Coxe, away with him—he would be finding all the flowers
that Dorothy loved, and would get all the chinquapins and chestnuts from
Pebble Hollow now, and he would be far, far away. They had both been
shy and unlike themselves last night. Bobbie had slipped over early to
tell her good-bye, and they had stayed down at the spring until almost
dark and talked over all the foolish little nothings that neither was
interested in, and Bobbie had almost kicked out the toe of his boot
against the pebbles trying to appear natural. “I’m awfully sorry you’re
going,” said Dorothy, at last, making a desperate effort, however, to
look as if she did not mind much. “There won’t be anything to do now
except to think about Christmas, and after Christmas the summer, and
that seems like a hundred years off,” and as the blankness all came over
her, she threw herself down on the grass and forgot to make believe
anything except that she was lonely and miserable, and didn’t want Bobbie
to go, and in a minute he was down there beside her, and both were
fighting desperately hard to keep back the tears, and Bobbie tried to say
something to her and he couldn’t—he could only choke and then get angry
with himself, and then he told her he must go, and he put his arms around
her and kissed her.

And now when he saw her sitting so easily on her horse, waiting for him,
his heart gave a great leap. They merely nodded to each other, and Dr.
Trevillian became actually merry and jolly in his efforts to keep up
the spirits of the party. He would miss the lad sorely. He knew how his
old friend’s heart ached at the thought of sending his boy out into the
world, and he felt keenly for him, but it would never do to show it now.
Dorothy and Bobbie talked but little, and soon they reached the point
where they must separate. Bobbie took off his hat and shook hands with
Dr. Trevillian. “I have a favor to ask of you, Doctor,” he said in his
frank, fearless way, “Will you let Dorothy write to me sometimes, and
will you object to my telling her about the college, and the boys, etc.?
I wouldn’t expect her to do it often,” he went on, trying to repress the
eagerness in his voice, “but I would thank you very much.” Dr. Trevillian
looked a little taken back at this modest request, and he hesitated a
moment, and then he saw Bobbie’s eager face and Dorothy’s flushed one,
and he thought it would be no harm. “Very well,” he said, “I will make
it a reward of merit, if you make a certain average with your studies,
of which your father will tell me, and Dorothy makes the same with hers,
once a month you shall each send a letter—is that satisfactory?” and the
Doctor wrung the boy’s hand until it almost hurt.

“Perfectly,” answered Bobbie, returning the pressure gratefully, “and I
thank you very much. I promise you my letters will always come—will you
promise also, Dorothy?”

And Dorothy nodded, and without waiting to say good-bye, touched her
horse with her whip, and was far down the road before her father had
finished shaking hands with Mr. Tayloe.




CHAPTER IV.


It was five years before the coming home, and the going away of Bobbie
ceased to be the principal event of the year, both at “White Point” and
“Grey Cliffs,” and in fact to the whole neighborhood, and from the date
of one arrival until the next all events and happenings were reckoned,
for a truly royal time was made of these home-comings; and merry-makings
such as never will be the same again, were indulged in to an unlimited
degree. From morn till night was one continual round of pleasure, and
nothing was ever too much trouble if it contributed to the young people’s
enjoyment.

“He works so hard all during the session,” said Bobbie’s mother, when his
father was mildly remonstrating on the unceasing frolicking. “You know
how splendidly he has done at school, how he never fails at anything,
and now we must let him have all the relaxation he needs, poor dear, and
there can possibly be no harm, for Dorothy is always along.”

Her husband smiled a little as he stooped to fasten his stirrup straps.
“Yes, fortunately there is Dorothy, and if it were not for her I wouldn’t
be quite so sure of all those good reports we’ve been getting. He knows
there would be no letter without them, and no letter would be Bobbie’s
worse punishment.”

They looked at each other and laughed softly, and then he stooped over
and kissed her.

It was his fourth Christmas holiday that Bobbie noticed a great change in
Dorothy. He was greatly changed himself—stronger, taller, and straighter
than ever, yet with more grace and ease, and the polish that comes with
constant contact with gentlemen of his own class, and through it all ran
the old, sweet charm that made all who came near him love him. The strong
will of which he was possessed was evidenced more than ever in the firm
lines about his mouth, but Bobbie himself did not realize this, he saw
only the change in Dorothy.

It was Christmas-eve, and the night of the annual big party given in his
and his friends’ honor. He had not seen her since he had gotten home. He
had ridden over early in the morning and later, in the afternoon, and
each time he had been told she was too sick to see him, but was trying to
get well enough to come over at night, and now, as he stood watching the
different people enter, he was full of miserable uncertainty as to her
coming; and if she didn’t, why, what was the use of all this to do? He
had brought home six of his college chums for the holidays, and a finer
looking set of young men would be hard to find, thought Mr. Tayloe, as
he watched them grouped together near the huge fire-places in the big
parlors now a blaze of light, and filled, in every niche and corner, with
Christmas greens. Over the doors and on the walls, and banked about the
mantels were great festoons of holly, while a mass of foliage out in
the beautiful old hall hid completely from sight the musicians stationed
behind it. Through the opened doors could be seen the people going up the
wide stairs to leave their wraps, and now they were coming in, and Bobbie
and the boys had to take their positions by Mrs. Tayloe for awhile, and
very soon the rooms were crowded with all the country folks and many
strangers besides, and still no sign of Dorothy. Bobbie was beginning
to get restless. He had a cordial, merry greeting for all, but his eyes
were constantly watching the staircase. What if, after all, she did not
come! Presently his heart gave a great bound—nobody but Dorothy held her
head like that, though all he could see was a mass of soft, white, fluffy
stuff that enveloped from head to foot the figure trying hard to get up
the stairs, but who at every step was stopped and spoken to by others
coming or going.

Presently she was in the room, and Bobbie wanted to push everybody aside
and go to her and take her away—away from all this noise and music and
crowd, and have her to himself; but, instead, he never moved an inch,
only his face grew white, and he was ashamed of the furious beating of
his heart. She was trying to come with her father, whose arm she held,
to speak to his mother and the rest; but immediately she was surrounded
and almost hopelessly entangled as she laughingly tried to make her
way through the crowd. Bobbie leaned carelessly against the mantel and
awaited her coming with apparent quiet. She was a revelation to him
to-night. Surely it must be another Dorothy! The one he had left in the
early fall was a girl—this one was a woman. Bobbie did not know where
the charm lay; he saw it all in a flash—the long dress, the different
arrangement of the hair, and the manner that comes with the wearing,
filled him with entirely new sensations. Was she going to be changed
too? On she came, with her father and numerous followers, and soon she
stood near enough for Bobbie to see her in her quaint, short-waisted
gown of sheerest, daintiest white, over its satin slip, cut low in the
neck, and with great puffs for sleeves. Surely no head was ever poised
like Dorothy’s, and no hair was ever so soft, or curled so bewitchingly
around a forehead and neck as did that which escaped from the loose coil
at the back of her head. She wore no jewels or ornaments of any kind,
but in her hands she carried the huge bouquet of violets he had ordered
from the city and sent to her during the day. How exactly they matched
her eyes, he thought, as he watched her—those wondrously beautiful eyes,
with their wondrously beautiful lashes! She had spoken to his mother,
and now she turned to Bobbie: “I’ve had to fight my way up here,” she
said laughingly, holding out her hand to him in the sweet, frank way of
old, “but I suppose no penalty is too great to pay for the privilege of
speaking to so many college men;” and Bobbie, bending low over the hand
he held in his own, had scarce time for a word before she was speaking to
his chum next to him, and in a minute all the boys were crowding around
and holding out their hands to grasp hers. A moment more and she would be
gone. Bobbie slipped out of the line and touched her arm. “Dorothy,” he
whispered, “give me your card: these fellows will get every dance before
I have a chance.”

His tone was the old imperious one he used as a child when determined to
have his way. Dorothy looked in his face for a moment, hesitated, smiled,
and then handed her card to him, and recklessly he scribbled here and
there, until she protested, and made him give it back. Now she was gone,
and he could see her dancing down the long room, while dozens of eyes
watched her eagerly, for Dorothy was fair to look upon to-night.

She afterwards called it her “coming-out party,” and in truth it could in
reason be so called. She was a woman now—a very young one, it is true,
but full of all a woman’s witchery and grace, and Bobbie was by no means
the only one who loved her.

The last year and a half at college was a restless time for Bobbie, for
his ambition admitted of nothing less than first honors, that she might
be proud of him, and through it all he was possessed by a nameless dread.
Suppose she should not give him now the old love she bore him in their
childhood days! Their letters were always friendly and kind in tone, but
after awhile there was a formality in them which both tried to overlook,
yet neither succeeded in banishing, and they wrote of everything else but
the one thing dearest to their hearts.

The night Bobbie took his degree was a very proud and happy one, for he
was given the blissful surprise of knowing Dorothy was there with his
father and mother. “At the last moment father allowed me to come,” she
had managed to whisper, and then she had to leave him; and before the
evening was done, he almost angrily wished she had not come. Scarce a
word could he have with her before she was literally taken away from
him by a score of men, who were waiting to claim a dance in the ball
that followed the closing exercises of the year. It was late, very late,
before he got her away from them all. She was standing in a corner of the
room, as usual, surrounded by a gay group, when he walked up and placed
her hand upon his arm, and led her away from the crowd. “I’m sorry to
break you up,” he said, nodding to the others, standing stock still with
amazement at his nerve, “but I believe this dance is mine,” and he walked
off with Dorothy, quite as if she already belonged entirely to him.

“We are spoiling you to-night, Bobbie,” she said, laughing indulgently;
“even I am letting you do as you choose, but I just wonder if you expect
to keep it up—if you think that we are always going simply to follow your
lead?”

“No,” he answered, “no; after to-night you will lead, and I suppose I
will do the following; but to-night—we do not want to dance—I want to get
you away from all this crowd.”

He led her through the door, and down the length of the veranda, until
they came to a quiet corner, far removed from the ball-room and the gay
company within. There was a seat way back in the shadow, and he pushed
her gently in it, while he stood leaning against the railing, tearing the
blossoms off the vine that made so beautiful a drapery from the floor
quite to the top above. The moon was gloriously bright, but only in faint
glints could it be seen through the mass of leaves, and as Dorothy leaned
back its glimmer shone upon her hair, and for a moment rested lovingly
there, and then danced wickedly and distractingly up and down, until it
was all Bobbie could do to keep from kissing it, to make it still. He had
loved Dorothy all his life, and now that he wanted to tell her so, as man
to woman, his courage failed him. Faint strains of the rhythmic waltz
reached them, and Dorothy leaned back, with her hands loosely clasped in
her lap, and turned her face so that he could not see it well.

[Illustration: Dorothy.]

“What is it—are you tired?” he asked, uneasily, sitting beside her. “Ah,
Dorothy, you know it so well already!—know that always I have loved
you—and yet you make it so hard for me to tell you. You have held me off
and made me afraid to speak, but to-night—but to-night you must tell me,
Dorothy. Will you let the others go, and will you marry me, now I am
through college? Answer me, Dorothy, don’t make me wait.” He had his arms
around her, and he drew her face again to his, while his breath came fast
and hard, and he could distinctly hear the beating of his heart.

Dorothy looked at him for just a moment, and then she tried to free
herself from his arms. “Not until you answer me,” he said, holding her
tighter. “What is it?”

“I wonder why men are so stupid,” she said, laughing a little unsteadily,
“you take so long to find out what women know so soon. I like the others,
but—ah, Bobbie, you know”—and she looked up in his face and touched it
shyly with her hand.

And Bobbie knew, knew that of all men on earth _he_ was the most
supremely blessed, and he could not speak for the wonderful happiness
that filled him. He could only hold her in his arms and kiss the
quivering, trembling lips, and the beautiful violet eyes and the moon
glints in her hair.




CHAPTER V.


Sallie Tom and Peter Black had a conversation a night or two after the
return of the “white folks from the college,” and the announcement of
Dorothy’s and Bobbie’s engagement was of course its topic-in-chief.

“Dey do say,” said Sallie Tom, taking her pipe surreptitiously from the
depth of her bottomless pocket, and lighting it with a coal from the
hearth, “dey do say dat de Doctor done walk de flo’ all night long when
Mars’ Bobbie come over and axed for Miss Dorothy, jis as if he didn’t
kno’ dat it had to come; every nigger on the place know’d it was gwine to
end dat way, and tain’t no use fur de Doctor to say he didn’t spec it so
suddin’; tain’t nothin’ suddin’ bout it. Dey been a loving’ one another
ever sence dey been born, ever sence his nose got broke. Miss Dorothy is
mighty nice, but she ought to thank her Gord A’mighty every day that our
Mars’ Bobbie luv her,” and Sallie Tom kicked the ashes together on the
hearth and gave a little grunt, puffing vigorously at her pipe meanwhile.

“He sutny do luv her,” said Peter Black, leaning back in his chair and
clasping his knees between his hands, “ain’t no mistake about dat, and
dere ain’t goin’ to be no foolin’ ’bout gittin’ married if he kin hep
it, but the Doctor say he cayn’t let Miss Dorothy go way from home yit.
She ain’t quite turn eighteen, and Mars’ Bobbie he ain’t been long cum
twenty-one, and de Doctor say dere’s plenty time yit. It don’t mek much
difference to me,” he went on after a pause, “jis so dey stay home and
don’t go flyin’ all roun’ de worl’ enny mo’. I’m glad dey is gwine to git
married, but I do want de marsa to be home a little bit by hissef fust.
’Pears like I ain’t seen him good yit.”

“You’re right,” grunted Sallie Tom, between the puffs, “ain’t hardly
cotch a good look at him mysef, do’ he did come heah de night he got
home an ax me fur his buttermilk and hoecake, same ez what he use’ to do,
and sat over dere in de corner, like what he allus bin a doin’ sence he
wuz a baby; de Lord a-bless him!” And Sallie Tom wrapped her head up in
her big apron and rocked back and forth, quite overcome by the flood of
recollections called up by his presence at home again. It had been the
sorest trial in the lives of Sallie Tom and Peter Black, this going away
of Bobbie, and now that he was back, unspeakable joy reigned supreme in
the breasts of each. During the years at college, Peter Black had acted
as dining-room boy, helping the butler, who was getting rather old, but
he had been immediately reinstalled in his old position on Bobbie’s
return, and his love and allegiance to his young master was greater than
ever before.

It was in the summer of sixty (’60) that Bobbie got his degree at college
and the promise of Dorothy to be his wife, and while much gayety and
pleasure filled up the measure of many days, other and more weighty
subjects began to fill the air, and caused many long and serious
discussions among the men of the neighborhood, old and young alike, and
by the fall the one absorbing topic among all classes was the terrible
possibility of war.

It was a clear, cool October night that Dorothy and Bobbie had their
first serious talk about it. His horse was hitched to the post waiting
for him, and Dorothy had come out on the porch to say good-bye. The moon
shone clear and bright, softening the shadows cast by the great trees on
the lawn, and all the air was full of the sweet, fall fragrance which
belongs to that season of the year.

Bobbie was holding his hat in his hand, idly twirling it as he talked,
to hide the excitement he could scarce repress. “Father says,” and they
began to walk up and down the veranda, “father says if the State secedes,
he will organize a troop of cavalry at once, and I will of course join
him. Your father will be our surgeon, and you—has your father said
anything about it to you, Dorothy?” he asked abruptly, taking her hand
and drawing it through his arm and holding it there tightly. “Has he
mentioned any of his possible plans to you?”

“Yes,” she answered slowly, “yes, he has talked with me of every
possibility. I am to go to your mother in case there is any necessity.
Auntie will go to the city, so as to be near the hospitals, and you—and
father—and everybody I love will be in that horrible, cruel thing! Ah,
Bobbie, why must it happen—why cannot it be stopped?” and she shivered in
dread apprehension of the days that were awaiting her. Bobbie answered
her seriously and solemnly, “I would to Heaven it could, but if not, you
would not have me stay?”

“No,” she said, raising her head quickly. “I would not have you stay even
if it broke my heart to have you go. I did not know how much I loved my
South until now, when I must give up all I love most for it. I pray God
to help me—to make me brave—but sometimes I’m afraid I’m a coward; but
of course you must go, and who knows but I may yet have a major, or a
colonel, or a brigadier-general for a husband?” and she tried to laugh
bravely at the thought.

“You shall have one who is every inch a Southern soldier,” he said,
taking the upturned face in his hands. “And I can have nothing greater
than that,” she added proudly, and the moon rested lovingly for a moment
on their bent heads, and only the winds heard the vows they made to be
true to their cause—come what may, come what might.




CHAPTER VI.


Such a short, hurried time, it seemed afterwards, before everything was
decided, all preparations made, and all the great changes, which at first
they thought would only prove temporary, settled down to a permanent
thing. The neighborhood, once so gay and bright and full of all that
makes life worth the living, was turned into a kind of camping ground
or recruiting station, and “White Point” was the nucleus around which
everything centered.

Mr. Tayloe was the leading spirit of the place, and no better-drilled
body of cavalry entered the service than the “Rockland Home Guards” under
his command, with Bobbie as his first lieutenant and Dr. Trevillian as
surgeon. “Grey Cliffs” was to be closed, with only the servants in their
quarters, to take charge of the place as long as they proved faithful,
and Dorothy was established with Bobbie’s mother. Her aunt had left for
the city, where, she said sadly, she knew there would be plenty to do
after awhile, and soon the beautiful old home had a dreary, deserted
look, for the shadow of coming sorrow was hovering over it.

Bobbie had begged hard to be married before he should start for what
might perhaps be an interminable absence, but Dr. Trevillian was firm in
his refusal for a year longer at least.

“I am giving you the light of my life, Bobbie,” he said, putting his
hand on the young man’s shoulder, as he stood pleading his cause, just
two days before they received orders to join H.’s regiment at C—, “and
you must wait, my man, until she is a little older—she is so young yet!
Perhaps”—he cleared his throat and went on after a minute—“perhaps,
after I leave here, I may never come back; but remember always, that my
daughter’s happiness is in your power, and that I put into your hands the
most sacred trust one man can give another. I charge you to guard it
well.”

Bobbie bared his head as a knight of old. “So help me God,” he said
reverently, “I shall be worthy of it.” They shook hands in silence and
separated.

It was the night before they were to start. Mr. Tayloe and his wife were
shut in their room. The Doctor was in the library writing some final
directions to be sent over to “Grey Cliffs,” and Bobbie and Dorothy were
out on the lawn, under the old wishing-tree down by the gate. Every
preparation for departure had been made, and the start was to occur at
five the next morning. Peter Black was in an ecstasy of delight because
he was to accompany his young master as his body-servant, and Sallie Tom
was in the depths of stern and silent indignation and despair at the turn
affairs had taken.

She now had her son down in the cabin for final admonitions as to the
duties and obligations resting upon him, and for renewed charges that
no matter where they might be, in case anything happened to the young
master, he was to bring him home, if possible; if not, he was to come
himself and tell her that she might go to him.

Bobbie and Dorothy were silent for a long time, down under the old
wishing-tree, for neither could trust themselves to speak of the things
nearest their hearts, but after awhile Bobbie began to talk of the orders
received the day before. “If it were not for leaving you and mother,”
he said, “if it weren’t for that continual nightmare hanging over me, I
think I should enjoy going more than anything on earth. We have talked,
and argued, and discussed all this so long that I am glad the time has
come to fight it out; it is the only way to settle it, and the sooner
begun the sooner ended.”

Dorothy answered slowly, and after a long pause: “Yes, I know it is the
only way to settle it, but it is a horrible price that must be paid for
the final decision. Ah, I understand how you feel, but you are going
into it, into the danger, into work, into action—and—I know—into death,
too, perhaps,” and her voice shook a little, “but it is so much harder
for us—we who have to stay here—who must sit day after day—waiting to
hear. Of course, I can knit socks, and tear strips, and make bandages
to send to the city; but what can I do to make myself forget for one
single moment that you may be needing me—or father?”—and she broke down
in a genuine sob, and then in a minute she slipped away from him. “You
will think me a coward—and I know I am not that—see, I have brought you
something—you must keep it, and read it, and be the man it can make you,”
and she put in his hands a tiny pocket Testament, on the inside of which
she had pasted a small picture of herself.

“That will be my talisman,” he said, kissing it reverently, and putting
it in his inner pocket, “and will keep me from harm, please God.”

They talked until the night grew late and chill, and then he put his
arms around her for a last good-bye. The winds shivered in the tops of
the trees, and the whip-poor-wills ’way down by the brook were calling
plaintively to each other, and the moon slipped under a cloud, and only
the stars looked down and saw the sorrow that filled their brave young
hearts.

They were gone, and Dorothy and Bobbie’s mother turned from the porch,
from which they had watched as long as possible, and went inside, not
daring to speak, lest all the long-controlled feeling they had been
struggling to conceal should reveal itself at last.

They took up their new life courageously, and the influence of each was
great, both in the home and in the neighborhood; but it was not long
before trouble began to appear among the servants, and, as time went on,
greater and greater discontent became evident.

It was not until news of the first battle reached them that the horror of
it all made itself felt in full force to Dorothy. She had heard that a
battle must take place soon; and when Bobbie’s letter came, telling her
he hoped and prayed his regiment would have the honor of being allowed
to go into the first fight, her heart sank in miserable misgivings.

She wrote him, however, that if he were sent into this battle, she knew
the honor of old Rockland would be safe, and not by a single word did she
tell him how torturing was the anxiety, or how, all night long, she had
knelt at her window and prayed God to protect and keep him safe.

Not for ten days did she hear again, and then came such a battered and
soiled old envelope that the address was almost unreadable. It was very
short, and written in pencil on a scrap of paper torn from a note-book,
and ran as follows:

    “DEAR DOROTHY—We are drawn up in line of battle, facing the
    enemy, and waiting the signal to charge. I am using my cap to
    write on. I don’t know how it is going to be. I only know we
    are going to fight like our women expect us; and now, before
    it begins, I am trying to send you a word to tell you that the
    thought of you makes me dare all things. I am going to put
    this in my pocket. Peter Black knows what I want done in case
    I don’t send it myself. Tell mother she shall not be ashamed
    of her son. My love to her, and for you, little sweetheart, God
    bless you, and make me worthy of you!

                                                          “BOBBIE.”

Peter Black found it in his pocket, where he had been directed to look;
and though Bobbie declared it was only a scratch, it kept him close for a
week, and Peter Black’s powers as a nurse were tested pretty well in that
time.

It was shortly after this that Bobbie was appointed General H.’s special
scout. His well-known absence of fear, his reckless daring, together with
his wonderful ability to ferret his way through any section of country,
and his marvelous endurance, had already attracted the attention of his
regiment, and soon it became a common matter to send for him when the
situation demanded unusual haste and caution.




CHAPTER VII.


The first year of the war passed with comparatively little change at
“White Point,” but towards the middle of the second year the trouble
which had been brewing among the negroes for some time gave way to open
rebellion; and had it not been for Sallie Tom’s wonderful and cunjuring
influence over them, they would have left long before they did. Under
Mrs. Tayloe’s and Dorothy’s oversight, much of the farming had been kept
up; but towards the second harvesting it became evident that trouble
was ahead. A negro agitator and so-called preacher had appeared in the
village near by, and so great was the effect of his haranguing that the
entire neighborhood was demoralized, and nightly meetings were held down
at the cross-roads. Sallie Tom was constable-in-chief of the “White
Point” contingent, and every night she stationed herself in the road
usually taken by the servants and hands on their way to the meetings, a
gun in one hand and a pistol in the other, ready to shoot the first one
who passed. Every negro on the place believed in her cunjuring power,
and they would no sooner have thought of passing than of trying to ride
the moon. Things were beginning to look desperate. Even the loyal and
good servants showed signs of dissatisfaction under the influence of the
agitators, until finally only Dorothy’s old mammy Rachel, Jessie, the
dining-room servant, Uncle Lias, the carriage driver, and Sallie Tom
remained deaf to the promises of good fortune and prosperity advanced by
the younger element.

It was on a clear, bright October morning, that the result of all their
meetings and plannings were realized. Mrs. Tayloe and Dorothy came
down as usual, and found Sallie Tom and the three other servants drawn
up in line outside the dining-room door. Sallie Tom was almost wild
with excitement and anger. “They’re gone!” she cried, waving her hand
violently in the direction of the quarters, her voice trembling and her
whole body quivering. “They’re gone, every one of them—gone like thieves
in the night. They have took all their things, and six of the horses,
mos’ all the corn, and Gord A’mighty knows what else. Oh, Lordy!” she
went on, “to think of all the trouble what’s come to us ’count of dat
monstrous inturfurence bizness of them Yankees! To think I uver should
er lived to see my missus done treated so by niggers! Oh, Lord A’mighty,
what we gwine to do anyhow?” And Sallie Tom for the moment lost her
courage in the face of the dread possibilities of the future.

Mrs. Tayloe turned white to the lips, and Dorothy caught her hands and
held them in her own strong, tender ones.

“I suppose it had to come,” she said presently, nervously pressing
Dorothy’s hands in her own. “I am thankful it is no worse. We must do the
best we can, and not let the gentlemen know. Ah, no, we must not let the
gentlemen know!” Her voice broke, and she hurried back to her room, and
they left her there, for they knew it was best that she should be alone
for awhile.

It was Dorothy’s turn to advise and lead now. With all the courage and
hope of youth she began to take charge of the place. With the help of
the others she managed to keep up part of the farm, and from one end to
the other she rode daily on her horse, sometimes with saddle, sometimes
bareback. A new fear was beginning to grow in her heart. Every dollar on
earth possessed by both her father and Mr. Tayloe had been invested in
Confederate bonds, and she knew that very soon their purchasing value
would be of little account.

That they should ever suffer she did not allow herself to think; but it
was necessary to husband every resource, and every energy must be bent
toward keeping from Bobbie’s mother as long as possible the seriousness
of the situation. Life was by no means now a thing of ease or pleasure
to Dorothy. The days became weeks, and the weeks months, and the months
were becoming years, and the clouds which at first they thought would
be but temporary, were continually growing blacker and heavier, with
never a sign of lifting. It was not until the Christmas of ’63 that
any real alarm, however, was actually felt as to the outlook. By a
long-planned and well-timed scheme Mr. Tayloe, who now through successive
ranks had been promoted to that of colonel, and Dr. Trevillian, now a
surgeon-in-chief, had managed to get leave for a two days’ visit home,
the first they had been able to make together since they entered the
service. Bobbie’s movements were uncertain. He would be there, he wrote,
were it a matter of possibility, but he might be kept for some special
duty. He had managed to run in for a day or so at intervals of every few
months, and consequently was better prepared for the present condition of
things than were the others.

All through the three long years there never had been a time when it was
possible for him and Dorothy to be married. When he was at home, her
father and his were away, and he could never induce her to marry him
unless all were there.

Every effort was made to make this Christmas a memorable one. Mrs.
Tayloe’s happiness at having her husband home once more gave her a fresh
measure of strength, and the very best that had been carefully saved and
hoarded for many months past was now made into the good things of former
Christmas times; and though Dorothy knew they would have to stint for
months to come, yet she never let any one but Sallie Tom realize how
reckless it all was.

Sallie Tom’s joy at having once more a pretence of Christmas festivities
made itself known by her own peculiar way of snorting as she prepared
the various dishes that were best liked by the master and the Doctor,
to say nothing of those she surreptitiously made for Bobbie, in case he
should come. That he would come, she never doubted, and all day long on
Christmas-eve she had her ears, as well as her eyes, open to catch the
first sound of his horse’s hoofs on the frozen ground outside.

Colonel Tayloe and his wife had stayed much in their room, talking over
matters of minutest detail as to the new life of each, while Dorothy and
her father had a long talk after the latter’s return from “Grey Cliffs,”
where he had spent most of the day. He had brought back her mother’s
portrait, and told her he wanted it put in her room. “There is no telling
what may happen,” he said, trying, however, to speak cheerfully. “There
may be trouble around here yet. The negroes seem to be going crazy. Only
two are over there now—old Israel and his wife. I have buried all the
silver and a few other things,” and he told her where he had hidden them.
“I want you to understand about everything, Dorothy. You know it will all
be yours some day, and there is no telling”—he stopped abruptly at the
sight of the sad, pained face. “Don’t look that way, Dorothy, daughter,”
he went on, softly stroking the hand he held in both of his. “When the
end comes to me don’t grieve, but be glad, glad for me; for I’ve wanted
to go for a long time, except for leaving you, and I know that is all
right now. Bobbie has proven himself to be a soldier worthy of the cause
for which he fights, and I have been proud of him—very proud. I have made
you both wait much longer than I intended, but I did it to be satisfied,
and I am satisfied at last. I have lived for so many years with only the
memory of a past and the hope of a future that I am longing for the NOW
of her presence.” He paused for a moment, and Dorothy dared not trust
herself to speak; she could only cling to him in mute understanding of
the loneliness of his life. He stroked her hair softly, and after awhile
continued: “You have been the comfort of my life, my daughter—my dear
little daughter—but you will understand some day, and I only want you not
to grieve should the fate of some of those poor lads come to me. You know
I am on the field sometimes—you will remember, child—and go now and see
that everything is ready for Bobbie’s coming, for I am sure he will be
here, and when he comes I want to have a talk with him.”

She kissed her father in silence again and again, and then she left the
room; but the awful possibilities which his words suggested filled her
with unutterable sorrow and loneliness, and, like a child that longs for
warmth and cheer and comforting, she sank down on the rug in front of the
big blazing fire, and her lips quivered in her great longing for Bobbie.
She clasped her knees loosely with her hands, and the flames danced
merrily up and down before her blurred eyes. The corners of the room were
lost in shadows, and the flicker of the firelight played upon the walls.
It would be such a relief to give way and have a good cry. She bit her
lip to keep it back; and then she heard a little noise, and somebody had
his arms about her and was down on his knees beside her, and outside she
could hear Sallie Tom snorting, and Bobbie was telling her, almost out of
breath, that he had ridden like the wind all day and all night just to
spend a few hours with her and why didn’t she speak to him and tell him
she was glad to see him? And all she could do at first was to cling to
him, and let all the pent-up feeling and anxiety of the months past come
out between the laughter and tears; and Bobbie understood it all, and
soothed and quieted her as only he could do, and in a little while she
was her own brave self, and was making him answer a dozen questions at
once. She might have kept it up indefinitely had he not told her he was
starving, and that sent her flying for Sallie Tom.

It promised to be such a happy Christmas, after all. The knowledge that
this brief return of other days could last but a short while made every
moment precious, and such old-time doings as Bobbie insisted upon keeping
up made them forget for a few hours at least, the serious outlook for the
future. It was just before dinner on Christmas Day that Bobbie came to
Dorothy with a face full of intensely repressed feeling. She was standing
by the big window in the library watching the snow, now fast falling and
thickly covering the ground, and he went up to her and took both of her
hands in his. “Dorothy,” he said quietly, “has your father said anything
to you to-day about our marriage?”

“Not a word,” she answered, turning quickly and searching his face for
the meaning of the new light there. “We must not worry him about it,
Bobbie; he has had so much sorrow in his life that I dare not ask him to
give me entirely to you. We can afford to wait.”

“But if he says he wishes it, now, to-day, would you be willing?” He
drew her down on the sofa by him. “I have just had a long talk with
your father,” he continued, “and he told me that he would like us to be
married at once, while he is at home and we are all together.” He almost
crushed her hands in his as he waited her answer, controlling by a great
effort, his old boyish and imperious impatience.

“Dear father,” she said, and her eyes were full of tears, “I must see
him first, and then I will tell you, Bobbie. It is so sudden; and to
be married in such a hurry don’t seem just right somehow.” His look of
disappointment reproached her. She put her hand upon his face in the
quaint way peculiar to herself for just a moment, and then she drew
herself away.

She would not let him go with her, and it was fully half an hour before
she came back, bringing her father with her. Both showed the traces of
how tender had been the talk between them, and both were very quiet. Dr.
Trevillian led her to Bobbie, and put her hands in his. “She agrees to
our plans, my son,” he said, trying to speak brightly, and then he turned
abruptly and left them alone.

“You are not marrying your general, Dorothy,” said Bobbie, presently.
“What are you going to do about it?”

“Send off his scout to-night to report to _his_ general for new orders,”
she answered, trying to speak bravely, “but now we must hurry,” and her
face colored richly as she ran out of the room.




CHAPTER VIII.


Had a bomb been exploded at “White Point,” the excitement could hardly
have been greater than that caused by Bobbie’s announcement that the
marriage would occur that night. Such hurrying and scurrying for the
numberless preparations which Sallie Tom insisted should be made had not
been seen since the war began. Peter Black could hardly saddle the horse,
in such a tremor was he over the great news, and Colonel and Mrs. Tayloe
were gratefully pleased that the marriage should be consummated even in
such an unexpected way.

And now, while Bobbie was riding like mad through the fast-falling snow
and gathering darkness, Dorothy and his mother were deep in the mysteries
of certain old trunks, which, in the beginning of the war had been
brought over from “Grey Cliffs,” and in one of which lay her mother’s
wedding gown and veil.

It was a good five miles to the court-house, near which, fortunately, was
the minister’s heme; and though it was bitterly cold, and the snow cut
like ice in his face, Bobbie knew and felt nothing save the unutterable
happiness that filled his heart. He had made Peter Black stay at home to
help the women folks, and on he rode madly. He stopped only long enough
at the Rev. Dr. Miles’s house to tell the dear old gentleman that his
services would be needed at once, and to get his promise to go over with
all the family to the wedding. “Bundle them up in the sleigh, and take
the whole business over,” he called, as he rode off, scarcely waiting to
take breath. “We can’t have much of a frolic, but you all must be there.”

It took quite a long time to get through at the court-house. The old
clerk was indulging in his one and only dissipation of the year, and
fully an hour was lost in finding him, and one or two others, and
getting the license ready. The Reverend Doctor and his family had already
started when Bobbie passed his way again. He stopped for a moment to find
out, and then decided to make a short cut for home.

The wedding had been fixed for nine o’clock, Sallie Tom declaring it was
“monstrous” to talk of “gettin’ up a weddin’ supper in ten minutes,” and
they had laughingly agreed to the hour she set. From the time Bobbie
left Sallie Tom began bossing the whole affair, and soon everybody in
the house was running at her command. Uncle Lias’s rheumatism was pretty
bad, but she showed him no mercy, and gave the parlors to him to fix up
right. Every stick of wood she knew it was necessary to watch, but this
“was Mars’ Bobbie’s weddin’ night, and they should have as much fire as
they wanted, if they friz for it the rest of their lives,” she thundered
to Uncle Lias, who ventured to remonstrate on her reckless prodigality in
heaping up the logs in the great fire-places in the parlors. Peter Black
was piling the mantels and pictures with beautiful holly and mistletoe;
and between the windows where the ceremony was to take place he had
placed the white silken cushions on which his young master’s father and
mother had knelt when they were married so many years ago. Fortunately,
Anne Carter had come over just after Bobbie left—pretty Anne Carter,
Dorothy’s dear friend and almost sister—and under her fingers the rooms
began to wear the festive look of other days. The great wax candles
sputtered for a moment, and then flared up bravely in the beautiful
old silver candlesticks, and soon the rooms were a flood of warm, rich
light. Anne surveyed them for a moment, then ran up-stairs to report the
progress made to Dorothy. “Sallie Tom is snorting like an old porpoise,”
she declared, sitting down for a moment, and fingering almost reverently
the beautiful old lace veil lying on the bed, and stroking softly the
quaint, old-fashioned wedding gown. “She seems on the eve of spontaneous
combustion, but the dining room is a sight to behold! Where in the name
of reason she has raked up all those good things to eat will ever be one
of the mysteries of life to me. It looks so much like old times,” she
went on, still handling the soft, pretty things composing the bridal
outfit, “that it makes me positively sick to think of the awful change.
You know we’ve been on half rations for months, and how we’re going to
hold out is beyond my ken. Sallie Tom always was an uncanny old animal,
anyhow, and I believe she’s cunjured those things from the man in the
moon; but the very smell has made me disgracefully hungry, and I wish
Bobbie would make haste and come, so we can begin on the supper.” Dorothy
laughed a little, and looked up at the clock. “He ought to be here now,”
she said: “it’s seven, and he’s had plenty of time to get back.” “Perhaps
the Yanks have nabbed him,” suggested Anne, getting up and giving a last
touch to the silk stockings. “Father wrote us, some time ago, he thought
our section would be visited soon, and to look out for the raiders, as
he called them.”

Dorothy turned white to her lips, and caught hold of the chair nearest
to her, while her voice died away in her throat; and Anne, turning, saw
at once the effect of her thoughtless words. “Why, Dorothy,” she cried,
going straight to her and putting her hands on her shoulders, “you didn’t
think I was in earnest—I was joking, of course. You know there’s no
danger way off here, and Bobbie is as safe as I am. For heaven’s sake,
don’t look like that!” Dorothy smiled faintly, and the color came slowly
back to her face. “I don’t know what is the matter, but I have the most
curious feeling that something is going to happen—what—what was that?”
she cried nervously, catching Anne by the arm. “I’m sure I don’t know,”
answered Anne; “but I must say going to get married is having a curious
effect on you; now do hurry and get into the wedding garments,” she went
on, kissing her hurriedly, “while I go and see who’s arrived. I don’t
doubt Bobbie has ‘hollered’ at every house in the neighborhood as he
passed by—now hurry, do,” and Anne ran hastily down-stairs, her heart
beating a little faster than usual at the noises she heard outside. It
was only the Rev. Dr. Miles and family, however, and Colonel and Mrs.
Tayloe, with Dr. Trevillian, were welcoming them in hearty, hospitable
fashion when she reached the door. “Where is Bobbie?” she called out,
almost before speaking; “Didn’t he come with you?” “No; he went on to the
court-house,” answered Mrs. Miles, brushing the snow carefully from her
best silk gown; “and if poor old Mr. Turpin is in his usual Christmas
condition it will take some time to make out what Bobbie wants.” Anne
saw the uneasiness Mrs. Tayloe was trying so hard to conceal, and knew
that to keep everybody from crying everybody must laugh, and she began in
her own inimitable way to start the ball rolling. The Rutherfoords had
gotten over, Bobbie having called to them, they said, also Mrs. Trent and
her daughter; and Colonel Tayloe and the Doctor were besieged by the
women for news of the war. Every household in the county had one or more
members in the army, and every item of the life, with all its hardships
and its every exciting detail, was eagerly sought after.

Dorothy was still up in her room, now fully dressed for the ceremony.
Like a quaint, sweet picture of a day gone by, she stood in her mother’s
wedding gown waiting for Bobbie.

Anne Carter held her off at arm’s length and surveyed her critically,
from the two provoking little curls that wouldn’t lie smooth under
the beautiful veil to the tiny satin slippers that restlessly slipped
out now and then under the gown, and then she kissed her hastily. “I
never knew before exactly how wickedly good-looking you were, Dorothy
Trevillian—it’s a shame to be married with nobody but dear old Dr. Miles
and his family, and old Mrs. Rutherfoord and her maidens three, and pious
Mrs. Trent and that proper daughter of hers, to see you. Not a man
down-stairs except the two fathers. Heigho! what’s that?” In a flash she
was gone, and Dorothy, left standing at the open door, listened.

The parlor doors were thrown wide open, and Sallie Tom rushed wildly in.
“Gord A’mighty!” she cried hoarsely, clutching first at the Colonel and
then at the Doctor, “Gord A’mighty, get out o’ heah, Mars’ Robert, and
tek de Doctor wid you—dey done come. Peter Black seen six of ’em down
de road whar he gone to look fur Mars’ Bobbie; dey on dere way heah—he
heah’d dem talkin’ ’bout how to git heah. For Gord’s sake, hurry up in de
loft, top o’ de garret, and I’ll manage so dey won’t fine you. Dey got
orders to ’rest you all, and mos’ special Mars’ Bobbie, whar got some
papers. Peter Black heah’d ’em say so. Move long, all o’ you, and help
put out dese lights and shet dese rooms up, so dey won’t ketch on to
nothin’ special. You mus’ tell ’em,” she said, turning to Mrs. Tayloe,
who, white as a sheet, was sitting perfectly limp in her chair, “you mus’
tell ’em de parson is a goin’ to tek his Christmas supper wid you, and
dese heah friends, too. Go ’long in de libr’y and shet up dis heah part
de house.”

Every hand was instantly at work, and in a minute or two only the
smoldering fires gave evidence of the rooms having been used. Colonel
Tayloe and the Doctor had exchanged a few hurried words. They mortally
hated to hide in the loft, but it was their only resource. If found, it
would mean new anxiety and disaster to the women. They must take Sallie
Tom’s advice.

It took but a minute to reach the garret, and there through an opening
she thrust them into a side loft and closed the door, drawing a line
filled with old and long-disused garments across it, so that, unless
closely inspected, the door was not apt to be seen.

Down-stairs the utmost confusion reigned supreme. Mrs. Tayloe’s chief
thought was Bobbie, but by a superhuman effort she managed to conquer
herself, and think what was best to be done. The Miles children were
crying, but were ordered by Anne to keep quiet, and if they dared speak
a word the soldiers would eat them alive.

Quickly the dining room was dispossessed of all the wedding
paraphernalia, and only the necessities of a ministerial tea remained.

Dorothy had heard the confusion, and before Anne could reach her the
wedding garments were off, and she, in her usual quiet dress, was
hurriedly putting them back in the trunks. “They will search the entire
house,” she said in answer to Anne’s look of astonishment, “and they must
see nothing that would give them an idea of anything unusual going on.”

Dorothy was herself now, quiet and brave, and ready for whatever might
await her. The last thing had hardly been put away, the room straightened
and the lights lowered, before they heard the muffled sound of horses’
hoofs upon the snow outside, and soon a thunderous knock at the door.
Through the blinds they had seen several horsemen, one of whom seemed to
be giving directions to the others.

Dorothy slipped down the stairs, and for a moment looked into the
library. “Please do not look so frightened,” she called to the others,
“Sallie Tom and I will manage.” Then she went on to the door. A furious
gust of wind blew wildly around the corner of the house, and a voice
outside called out: “There is no use in resisting, you might as well open
at once.” Dorothy pushed Sallie Tom aside, and threw open the door. Two
officers stood without with pistols in hand, and as the light fell full
upon the slight, girlish figure standing in the doorway, they drew back,
as if startled themselves. For a moment no one spoke, then the taller of
the two stepped forward and lifted his cap. “I am sorry to trouble you,”
he said courteously, putting his pistol in his belt as he spoke, “but
I understand General H.’s scout, Robert F. Taylor, is here, and we are
under orders to search the house, and produce him, if possible, and also
any other soldiers who may be found here.”

Sallie Tom gave a most vicious snort, and Dorothy laid her hands upon
her. “You are at perfect liberty to search the house, gentlemen,” she
said quietly, trying hard to control her voice, as she motioned them
to enter that she might close the door, “but I am afraid you will have
your trouble for nothing, you are just a little too late; the gentleman
you are looking for did take his Christmas dinner with us, but that was
five hours ago; he left immediately afterwards.” She looked up almost
provokingly into their faces, and the least bit of a smile quivered on
her lips, as the officers exchanged glances.

It was impossible that this slip of a girl, this beautiful thing, could
be fooling them. They must search the house anyhow—could they be allowed
at once?

“Certainly,” she answered promptly, “Sallie Tom will show you every inch
of it.” “It is terribly cold,” she continued, seeing them rub their hands
together, “won’t you let the rest of the men come in also? they can at
least get warm while waiting.”

“Oh, they don’t mind,” one of them smilingly rejoined, “they are
accustomed to waiting, and cold, too, and besides I would not care to
fill your whole house.”

“I hardly think half a dozen men would do that,” she answered gravely.
“I suppose you would like to begin your search at once, however,” she
continued as she threw open the parlor door. “You can walk in and examine
at your leisure. You will pardon my leaving you, we have friends to tea.
Sallie Tom will show you every inch of space in the house.” She bowed to
them courteously and left.

The two men looked at each other blankly for a moment, and then the
younger one began to laugh at the expression on the other man’s face.
“This beats my time,” he said softly to the one in command—a lieutenant,
evidently, from his uniform. They lowered their voices so that Sallie
Tom couldn’t hear. “I’ll bet an even hundred that fellow’s about here
somewhere, and that girl’s determined to save him. She’s the coolest
thing I’ve struck since I entered the service, and by long odds the
prettiest. Did you notice her eyes?” “Hush,” said the other, “that old
woman’s a regular hawk, she’s pretending not to notice. Come, we must
search the house thoroughly, though it’s a nasty piece of business. I
wish that girl hadn’t been so polite.” The two men began to walk around
the room, looking more at the many old and elegant things it contained,
than with any expectation of finding a clue here to the hiding place
of any rebels that might be in the house. Their looks and bearing gave
evidence that they were gentlemen, who, while they disliked their
invasion of private property, were determined to obey to the letter the
orders they had undertaken to fill. These orders were to capture the
daring scout of General H⸺ and bring him to where their company was
camping temporarily, some five miles below “White Point.”

A scouting party of some six or seven men, under their young lieutenant,
had volunteered to make this capture, if possible, having heard that
young Taylor, as they thought the name was, would no doubt spend his
Christmas at home. They knew very well the importance attached to this
holiday by the Southern people, and what a time for home-coming it
was, and were confident of springing a trap and catching their unwary
victim in it. So confident of success had they been, that they would
take only some six or seven in their party, and now to be met in this
coolly prepared-for manner, and by such a demoralizing pretty girl, was
upsetting to their soldierly dignity and calculations. They moved slowly
round the room for a minute or two, talking in an undertone. Sallie Tom,
snorting in a suppressed kind of way, was walking about moving chairs
and sofas, shaking out curtains, and opening the doors of cabinets full
of bric-a-brac, but still not a word did she utter. How on earth was she
going to keep Bobbie away, and give him the signal of danger, was what
she was turning over her mind. Her cabin was a good distance from the
house. If she could only get there without exciting suspicion, or if
Peter Black had already gotten there with Dorothy’s message, all might
yet be well. She lifted herself up straight and changed her tactics—that
is, she ceased to snort; she would do the amiable act. It was Christmas
night; perhaps she could make the whole crowd drunk; and, if so, the
Colonel and Doctor could slip off with Bobbie.




CHAPTER IX.


“Has you gent’men seen everything in dis heah room what you would like
to?” She gave a low, cheerful, seductive kind of laugh as she asked the
question, resting her hands on her hips and looking at first one and then
the other, “’cause we’ve got a pow’ful lot of rooms in dis heah house,
and if you wants to get back to your Christmas-tree I reckon we’d better
be a movin’.”

The two men looked at her as a fresh kind of curiosity and laughed. “Oh,
I guess there isn’t much use in hurrying,” one answered; “it’s right
uncomfortable to be hidden somewhere, and you all might as well make up
your minds to give up the young gentleman; he can’t possibly escape, you
know. We’ve got men all outside the house. It would be dangerous for him
to try; he might get shot.”

Sallie Tom clutched her hands angrily together under her apron. She had
an intense desire to wring their necks, the little whippersnappers, she
muttered under her breath. Give up Mars’ Bobbie? Not as long as a drop of
blood was in her veins; but outwardly she gave no sign. “Yes, I seen you
is got a pow’ful lot of men outside,” she said, chuckling as if highly
amused. “I counted you when you comed up, an’ dere’s six of you; you two
is in heah, an’ de other fo’ is at de fo’ corner’s of de house. Lordy,
gent’mens, you all sutny don’t know nothin’ ’bout dis heah place when you
comes up wid six men to frighten a lot of women folks. Dis heah place is
‘White Point,’ an’ we all is jes ez used to seein’ men ’round heah ez
flies in summer. Why, our Mars’ Tayloe didn’t think nothin’ o’ callin’
up a hundred head o’ niggers at a time an’ givin’ em eggnog an’ sich on
Christmas. You all oughter bringed up suppin’ what would a-looked like
suppin’ when you was a-comin’; but I don’t s’pose you all is frum anywhar
near dese heah parts, an’ cose you didn’t kno’ no better.” Sallie Tom’s
cheerfully condescending tone was irresistible.

The two men laughed in spite of themselves. “We acknowledge our
ignorance, old woman,” the Lieutenant answered, “and now, as I don’t
think our friend is in any of these chairs or sofas, we would like to
move on.” Sallie Tom opened the door and they walked into the hall.
A cheerful light from the library streamed out, and the laughing and
talking sounded as if the inmates were entirely uninterested in the
search being made through the house. The two men stopped instinctively
at the door and bowed politely. Dorothy sprang from her chair and came
toward them, also Anne Carter, and whatever was in their hearts, they
concealed it well.

“You wish to search these rooms?” said Dorothy, pleasantly. “Don’t
hesitate to do so. Our pastor is taking his Christmas tea with us, also
a few other friends, and that is why I cannot go with you over the
house—unless they will excuse me. Let’s go anyhow, Anne,” she added,
turning quickly to her friend. “I’ve told you it would be useless,
however,” she went on. “Mr. Tayloe left here five hours ago; but of
course you must go through the house, and we might show you some nooks
and corners Sallie Tom would possibly leave out.” The two men glanced at
each other, then accepted Dorothy’s offer with thanks. It would certainly
do no harm to have two pretty girls go along. They looked around the
comfortable, homelike rooms a little longingly; how cosy everything was,
and how good that coffee smelt! One of them involuntarily sniffed it and
Mrs. Tayloe saw it, and her hospitable soul forgot for a moment they were
soldiers hunting for her boy. They were some other mother’s boys, and she
came forward in her sweet, gracious way, full of such quiet dignity that
the rudest boor would have felt its power. “It is very cold,” she said,
interrupting them as they stood talking together at the door; “will not
you gentlemen have a cup of coffee?” The Lieutenant and his Sergeant drew
back a little, as if they had not heard aright. They had read a great
deal about Southern hospitality, but it quite upset them to be offered
it under such circumstances. Sallie Tom had drawn Dorothy aside, and was
saying something in an undertone; but the latter had heard Mrs. Tayloe’s
question, and she answered it for them.

“Of course they will,” she broke in. “I’m sure they are hungry and
thirsty too, and I know they will have some supper after we get through
the search; but we must do that first. Sallie Tom will lead the way, the
gentlemen will follow, and Anne and I will bring up the rear.”

Laughingly they left the room, and faithfully did Sallie Tom pilot
them into every nook and corner. Every closet was opened and every
big box explored. Those left down-stairs in the library listened with
beating hearts and strained ears to every step, and when at last they
were heard mounting the garret stairs Mrs. Taylor sank helplessly in
her chair and buried her face in her hands. Down through the halls
sounded the apparently merry laughter of the girls, joined in now and
then by the two young officers, who were becoming momentarily more and
more impressed that they were making guys of themselves, and were being
laughed at good-naturedly for their pains. Notwithstanding all this,
however, very faithfully they performed their part, and not a nook lacked
investigation. When they reached the garret stairs Sallie Tom began to
mount as unconcernedly as she had shown every other part of the house.
She held her lamp high in hand and clattered noisily up the steps, as if
to give fair warning to the men hidden in the loft that their very breath
must be held during the search. The men followed a little indifferently.
It was evident they were having their trouble for nothing, and they were
anxious to get through. Anne and Dorothy, following behind, looked at
each other with white faces. Surely the beating of their hearts would be
heard if they stopped laughing and talking. The farce must be kept up a
little longer.

“I suppose this is where the family ghosts are kept,” said the younger of
the two men, as they began to mount the steps. “I should think, however,
they would soon be pretty well frozen out up here.”

“Not a bit of it,” answered Dorothy, laughing a little recklessly,
“we have some most interesting cases in the family, and this is their
principal scene of action. This is my first visit up here after dark
since I was so frightened when a child. It always gives me the creeps to
think of the place at night.”

“Then we feel highly honored at your presence with us,” answered the
Lieutenant, making a profound bow, as they reached the landing at the top
of the steps. “I wish I knew some of these wonderful ghost stories that I
hear are peculiar to this part of the country, and I would give something
pretty to see one of your ghosts.”

Sallie Tom pushed open the door, and they all entered. The long,
low-pitched room with its four dormer windows, stretched out into huge
weird dimensions as they stood silently for a moment looking around,
and then the men slipped farther in. Sallie Tom followed and held her
lamp high in hand, and the light fell so as to cause the opening to the
loft to be cast in such a shadow that it could not be distinguished from
the rest of the wall. All around the room were great packing-trunks and
cases, and from ropes stretched from side to side hung various pieces of
old clothing and bed covering. The room was completely dark save for the
stream of light cast by the lamp, and a gruesome, uncanny feeling crept
over them all, as the men wandered around the room, poking behind this
and that, and turning over old broken chairs and odd bits of furniture.
Anne touched Dorothy on the arm and pointed to a sheet near by.

“Let’s frighten them,” she whispered. “I’m positive that little
yellow-haired thing smells a rat; he’ll find that hole in the wall yet.”

Dorothy nodded and clutched Sallie Tom by the dress. She pointed to
Anne, who was softly drawing the sheet towards her. “Playing ghost!” she
muttered under her breath; “you shriek and run with the lamp.”

Dorothy walked over to the two officers and began to talk. “This used to
be our happy hunting-ground when we were children,” she began; “we always
played up here on rainy days, and such dressing in antique garments I am
sure you have never seen—unless,” she added, politely, “you had a similar
garret to play in.” They were getting dangerously near the entrance to
the loft. “We got frightened by what we thought was a ghost once, and
we never cared to play here again. What—what, oh, what is that!” she
cried, clutching the sleeve of one of the men. A terrific shriek from
Sallie Tom, as she rushed wildly down the steps with the lamp, made their
blood run cold. “Oh, Lordy, Lord Gord A’mighty!” she yelled, pitching
like something wild, on, down, down, until she reached the library.
“De ghostes done come like de trumpet bin a’blowed,” she shrieked. “Oh,
Lord, don’t mix us up wid dem inturferin’ Yankees. Lord A’mighty, hab
mercy on us, dey come a’meddlin’ fust. Oh, Lordy, Lordy!” they could hear
her shriek, but fainter and fainter as she neared the room below. The
two men turned quickly at the terrific sound of Sallie Tom’s voice, and
though the room was inky black save for the dim rays that came from the
dormer windows, they saw creeping towards them a flapping, white-winged
object. Both of them caught Dorothy with one hand, while with the other
they grasped their pistols. A muffled laugh broke from under the sheet,
and in a second it was dropped and Anne shook it off gaily. “Now confess
you were frightened,” she cried, merrily. “I do believe you were going to
shoot me. I didn’t think of that when I put the sheet on, but that is why
I dropped it in such a hurry. Did you ever hear such a shriek as Sallie
Tom gave? She’ll never forgive me for this—she’s such a firm believer in
‘ghostes.’ I wish she had left the lamp behind; it’s as dark as Egypt up
here, and I’m almost frozen.” Dorothy had dropped down on the top of a
chest, and apparently was quivering in every limb. The men broke into a
relieved laugh as they put their pistols back into their belts.

“It was pretty cold up here before the ghost appeared,” said the
Lieutenant, “but it makes me hot all over to think how near I came to
shooting you. Great heaven! suppose I had!” The man’s voice shook in
spite of himself, and he wiped his face with his handkerchief.

“You’re a plucky ghost,” said the Sergeant, still trying to get his
pistol fixed in his belt, “and I’m honest enough to acknowledge you
frightened me silly.” His blood was still tingling from the touch of
Dorothy’s hands—he wanted to get down to the light where he could see her
face again, and he made a move towards the door. Dorothy was laughing
now, a little foolishly.

“It was stupid in me to think it was really a ghost,” she said, rather
apologetically, “but Anne ought not to have frightened us like that. Are
you gentlemen through?” she added, “or shall I call Sallie Tom to bring
back the lamp?”

“I don’t think she would come if you called,” answered the Lieutenant.
“I guess we have taxed your patience quite long enough. Can I help you
down the steps?” He turned to Anne as he spoke and held out his hand
to lead her down. The Sergeant did the same for Dorothy, and soon they
were back in the library, where amidst much laughter they explained the
cause of Sallie Tom’s flight. “She is out in the kitchen now, trying to
get supper,” said Mrs. Tayloe, breathing freely once more; “but I don’t
believe you can persuade her you are not the genuine article, my dear.”
She pressed Anne by the hand, and the latter understood the signal. “Poor
old Sallie Tom,” she answered, getting up, “I must go and make peace
with her, or we won’t have anything much for supper, I’m afraid, and
I’m simply, absolutely starving.” She went out of the room with a mock
courtesy, and they heard her calling to Sallie Tom to “look out! the
‘ghostes’ were coming!” And then the kitchen door banged.




CHAPTER X.


It was not a difficult matter to persuade the men to stay to supper. Old
Uncle Lias kept piling up the fire, and the scene was so homelike—and
then it was Christmas night!

“You thought you were going to frighten us with your armed force,” said
Dorothy to the Sergeant, who managed to keep near her, “but I know you
have only four men outside, and it’s a shame to keep them on their
horses on such a bitter night.” She walked over to the window and looked
out. “It is snowing furiously! Why don’t you let them come in and have
some supper? I should hate to have any of our men outside of warmth and
shelter to-night,” she added, wondering miserably where Bobbie then
was. “Ask the Lieutenant to let them come in.” The Sergeant looked at
her curiously; surely she could not be scheming. He walked over to
the Lieutenant and repeated Dorothy’s request. They talked it over for
awhile, and then the Lieutenant accepted the invitation with thanks. The
men outside were men of his own class, and at least would appreciate the
courtesy of being asked in, and the superior officer had made up his mind
to stay and see something more of that ghost, if possible.

Women are nearly always good actors, and even the prim Misses Rutherfoord
and the proper Miss Trent nervously tried to appear in sympathy with the
reckless gayety of Dorothy and Anne, who, when the other four young men
came in, received them as they would have done the acquaintances of old
friends, and the dining-room became a scene of genuine Christmas cheer.
Dorothy’s hands shook as she handed first one and then another dainty
cup to their very much mixed-up guests; and if at times her laughter was
a little unusually gay for her, it was the only way she could keep back
the tears which treacherously hung under her lashes. This was to have
been her wedding night, she thought bitterly, between the sharp, witty
sayings which kept them all convulsively laughing, and under the table
she would press her hands together in an agony of terror, as the thought
of what might possibly have happened came over her. She was doing all
this to save him. Peter Black she knew was hidden down in the woods by
the road Bobbie must pass. They were to go to Sallie Tom’s cabin and stay
there until they heard from her. That was the message she had sent, and
now every moment was precious, yet she could not hurry lest suspicions
be aroused. Sallie Tom was still snorting over the fright of the ghost,
nevertheless her supper was in no wise injured, and when she finally
brought in a huge punch bowl filled to the brim with luscious, foaming
eggnog, she was greeted by a clapping of hands.

[Illustration: “Now confess you were frightened.”]

“Dis heah is suppin’ what you ain’t seen of en, I reckon,” she said to
one of the soldiers, as she put it down on the table with an air of
supreme satisfaction, “dis heah am de genuine artickle itsef, ain’t no
mek-believe ’bout dis,” she continued, stirring the contents with a
handsome old silver ladle. “Dis am de stuff what de quality folks all
drink in de Souf at Christmus times, and de missus she low’d we mus’ all
hav some to-night, even if all de men folks am away,” She added the last
mournfully, and as Dorothy took the ladle out of her hands, she pressed
Sallie Tom’s fingers in such a way that the latter understood, and
shortly afterwards left the room.

If the Yankee soldiers had never tried it before, they made up for lost
opportunities, and though the reverend parson walked restlessly up and
down the room, holding his only partly touched glass in his hand, he
dared not utter the protest that his conscience told him under other
circumstances he should, and Dorothy and Anne, with a silent prayer for
forgiveness, filled again and again the glasses of the men with the
foamy seductive stuff, and good cheer was being widely disseminated when
Sallie Tom entered again. She touched Dorothy’s dress in passing, and
began to break some more eggs to show the strangers how it was made, but
Anne had them now at the piano, and song after song she struck up and
led. Her clear soprano voice was joined in hilariously by every soldier
in the room, and even timidly by the Misses Rutherfoord and the Miles
children. Presently Uncle Lias, sent by Sallie Tom, came in with his old
banjo and began a jig, and such an uproariously gay time they were having
that they did not hear the soft click of the door or notice that Dorothy
was back in the room, her face flushed and lips quivering, or that Mrs.
Tayloe was missing. Sallie Tom’s cordial had done its work well. The
men were gloriously happy and magnanimously inclined towards the whole
Southern army much more these charming Southern women, and the good old
parson with his two pair of twins. Anne caught Dorothy’s eye and banged
louder and louder, then some one proposed the Virginia Reel. Miss Trent
took Anne’s place at the piano, and though navigation was a treacherous
thing for some of the boys in blue, still they bravely stood up and went
through it heroically, making a terrible clatter with their feet and
hands to the music, and through all Anne and Dorothy were the wildest,
gayest in the crowd. Romping, noisy games followed each other in quick
succession, during which Dorothy managed repeatedly to slip by one of the
windows and stealthily look out. Finally she was satisfied, and then she
declared herself worn out, and the Rev. Doctor Miles, with whom every now
and then she had contrived to catch a few words, understood it was time
to go, and the soldiers immediately took the hint. They were gentlemen,
and by no means inclined to presume upon the privileges of war; and when
he asked them in his nervous, timid way if it would be safe for him to
venture home with so many ladies in charge, they gallantly offered their
services as escort, though assuring him the road was perfectly safe so
far as their men were concerned.

“There is not apt to be much prying around on such a night as this,” the
Lieutenant added, shivering a little as he went out in the hall, “but I
know it is one we shall never forget,” and he bowed low over the hand
Mrs. Tayloe held out to him. “We have all heard of Southern hospitality,
of course, but we hardly expected to enjoy it under the present condition
of things. I can only assure you, madam, you will never regret it.” He
looked at Anne as he spoke, and held out his hand to her. “When all this
is over,” he whispered, “this beastly war, I mean, will you scorn to know
a man who fought on the other side?”

“I never scorn an honest man,” she answered, “even if he is a Yankee
soldier,” she added, laughing. “Good-bye.” She touched his hand lightly,
and drew back into the room. The horses pawed the ground and turned
restlessly round and round. The Mileses and Rutherfoords and Trents
piled hastily in their sleighs, and only the Sergeant stood at the door,
telling Dorothy again and again good-bye. The eggnog had been too much
for him, and his tone took a sentimental air as he held her hand for a
second.

“I say,” he whispered, “don’t tell the Lieutenant, but I’m mighty glad we
didn’t catch that fellow, and if I ever run across him again I won’t know
him! Good-bye, good-bye, you little Southern witch, good-bye.”

At last they were gone. The muffled sound of their horses’ hoofs,
together with their laughter, could be heard for a few moments only, and
then came still, intense, impenetrable silence.

Dorothy was back in the library for one brief minute. “Keep the lights
up, and the house just as it is, until I get back,” she said, hurriedly,
“Thank God, they got out safely,” she added, turning to Mrs. Tayloe, and
giving her a swift, tender kiss. “Did anybody miss me? I was wild with
terror lest they would suspect something, but I knew their only chance
was to get out during the noise and romping. I shall tell them good-bye
for you all. No, no! No one must go.” She was hastily wrapping herself
up as she talked, and when Sallie Tom appeared at the door, heavily
muffled about the head and face, they crept out together into the bitter,
bitter night.

It was a good half-mile down to the quarters, but already they could see
through the darkness a tiny light, and they struggled on through the
snow, almost falling in a drift, then up and on again. Neither spoke. The
reaction was beginning to tell on Dorothy, and her strength was tested
to the utmost. Much was yet to be done, however, and she bit her lips
almost to the blood, lest she should give some sign of how she suffered.
The snow muffled the sound of their coming, and while Sallie Tom knocked
softly at the door, Dorothy leaned heavily against it. In a moment it
was opened, and the men sprang forward to catch her, as she almost fell
inside. “I’m all right,” she cried. “Shut the door quick. You have not a
moment to lose. Are the horses ready?”

Bobbie took her up in his arms, as if she were a little child, and put
her in front of the fire. “Where is Dr. Miles?” he asked, hoarsely.
“Didn’t you bring him? I have the license here in my pocket. We _must_
be married before I leave you. Don’t tell me!”—. The look on her face
stopped him; and the reckless young soldier, who had faced death a
hundred times without a quiver, turned away, lest she should see the
bitter pain of this defeat. The two older men stood aside; this was too
sacred even for them. Sallie Tom was outside, helping Peter Black with
the horses, and only the sputtering of the logs broke the sorrowful
stillness that fell upon them all. Presently Bobbie stooped over and
kissed her. “I know all about it. We have been outwitted to-night; but
I swear here, in the presence of you all, that, if it is not possible
before, then on next Christmas night nothing but Almighty God himself
shall keep me from claiming my wife! I shall keep this”—and he touched
the license in his pocket—“whenever I come, will you be ready?” She
nodded without speaking, and silently they each bent and kissed her
good-bye, and through the stillness she heard the muffled sounds of their
horses’ hoofs upon the snow, and upon her heart lay the despair of utter
desolation.




CHAPTER XI.


The days that followed were very dreary ones. Little by little the
resources gave out, and actual, positive hunger began to be felt on
every side. “White Point” reflected the life of the county; and while
much of the real condition of things was kept from Mrs. Tayloe, lest her
sorrowing heart could not bear the strain upon it, yet even she knew how
necessary it was to count every mouthful eaten. Anne and Dorothy kept
up the spirits of the people until in August, when the terrible sorrow
came, and Dorothy sat like one stunned and crushed by its force. They
brought his body home; and not until she knelt over it and saw the almost
rapturous smile upon his face did she realize that to grieve would be
selfish indeed; that he was at last “at home”—at last “with her!” The
shock of her father’s death for a while broke almost her brave spirit.
It was a glorious death, Bobbie wrote her. It grieved him beyond words of
telling that he could not be with her in her sorrow, but more than ever
was he needed, and not for even one single day could he get leave.

After they buried him, right next to her mother, the old routine of
life became almost unendurable. She could not leave “White Point,” her
duty kept her there, and yet how she longed for work—hard, continuous,
ceaseless work—that she might not think. Anne’s cheerful, buoyant nature
was a helpful tonic, and Dorothy struggled hard to be brave. Always Anne
had something funny to tell of that “good-looking Lieutenant,” with whose
movements, in some mysterious way, she seemed to keep well posted; and
she made Dorothy take hold of life again, and in doing for others, her
own pain became a little dulled.

The weeks dragged into months, and still Bobbie had never gotten back.
Way off in a distant part of the country he had been in active service,
and his name had become a familiar one in the army, and they loved him
there as they had loved him in his home as a boy, and over the camp-fires
at night many a tale was told of his daring and skill as a soldier, and
his gentle touch as a nurse when the day was done.

Ten days had gone by and no sign or word had Dorothy received, and
Christmas-eve had come again. To no one had she ever spoken of the vow
made down in Sallie Tom’s cabin a year ago, but all through the dreary
days she had cherished it in her heart. Anne Carter was to spend the
holidays at “White Point,” and in obedience to her, and with the secret
hope that he would yet come, she had helped with the old-time decorations
of Christmas green. Her sorrow must not make the others sad, she thought,
and with brave unselfishness she tried hard to forget herself in them.
For the first time since the Christmas a year ago, when they had all been
home, she made Uncle Lias make a big fire in the library. The dining-room
was also bright with a cherry glow, and she walked from first one window
to the other watching the scene outside. The snow lay cold and deep and
white, but the night was beautifully clear. The moon was shining almost
magically upon the frozen earth, touching the trees with mystic splendor
in their crystal decorations, and all the air was still, so still that
the faintest echo could be heard.

[Illustration: “‘I never scorn an honest man,’ she answered.”]

The time dragged on and still no sign came, or was given by Dorothy
of what was so intensely filling her heart. Mrs. Tayloe sat in her
accustomed place by the fire, but the weary hands failed to knit so
rapidly as of old, and the sad, strained look upon her face told better
than words of that of which she could not speak.

Anne worked hard to keep up the spirit of the season, and when to their
intense surprise they heard the sound of bells outside and saw the Rev.
Dr. Miles and family drive up, all felt a great relief. “I’ve come to
bring good luck to you,” he said, shaking hands with Dorothy in his
understanding, sympathetic way. “There’s no telling when these boys will
turn up,” he added, trying to speak cheerfully, “so I thought I would
come over and be on hand in case I was needed,” and the dear old parson
patted her hands tenderly and softly. Everybody tried to be pleasant and
look natural and easy, but it was a dismal failure, and when the clock
struck ten Dorothy could stand it no longer. She slipped out on the long
veranda at the back of the house, and leaned wearily upon one of its
tall, straight columns. Down-stairs in the servants’ room Uncle Lias was
playing softly on his old violin. The last notes of the “Suwannee River”
died away upon the air, and then he began, low and soft and sad, the old,
sweet song that almost broke her heart, “Home, Home, Home, Sweet Home,”
quivered out upon the still frosty air, and such a longing for the old
life that was gone, such a craving for the one she loved so well, came
over her that she slipped down in the snow, and leaning against the
railing buried her face in her hands, and prayed Him who alone could
understand, to give back her home to her—for Bobbie was her home, her
life, her all. She felt something fall and touch her dress, and looked
up hastily; no sound broke the air—only that longing cry, “Home, Home,
Home, Sweet Home,” yet she strained her eyes in the darkness; surely that
was a shadow moving under the trees—a little bullet fell at her feet—she
jumped up hurriedly and in a flash she knew. Down through the snow she
fled, and out upon the air sounded softer and fainter: “Be it ever so
humble, there’s no place like home.” She reached the tree and staggered,
and Bobbie caught her—caught her and held her close. “I swore I’d come
if alive,” he said, brokenly, “and I’m here, though at the last minute I
came near missing it. Is it all right at the house?” He leaned against
the tree through utter weakness, and Dorothy could only nod affirmatively
to his question—the sudden joy had checked the power of speech. “I’ve
brought some one with me I didn’t intend,” Bobbie went on. “We came near
putting an end to each other, but stopped in time.” He nodded at a man
standing back in the shadow, and the latter came forward and held his cap
in his hand.

“I know it is very presumptuous,” he said, looking straight in Dorothy’s
face, “but I was bound to see that ghost again, and I risked it.”

In sheer excess of happiness she held out her hands. “It’s the
Lieutenant,” she cried; “don’t you know it’s the one who wanted you last
year—Oh, Bobbie! Bobbie!”

       *       *       *       *       *

There was a wedding after all—the queerest, strangest, happiest wedding
old Rockland county ever had recorded in its books. Bobbie was faint
and weak from lack of food and rest, and like some strange wonder that
had come into their midst, they hovered over and waited on him while he
told of how for forty-eight hours he had ridden night and day to reach
there in time. “Father is on the way,” he went on, while Sallie Tom held
out “jis a little drap of suppin warm for him.” “I left him down by
the old mill. He and Peter Black stopped for a few minutes to attend to
something. It was after I left father that I met this gentleman,” and
he nodded toward the Lieutenant, “and it’s lucky we’re both not out on
the road. Both fired and missed, and something made me ask where he was
going and who he was (Bobbie’s voice got a little husky), and I thought
I’d better not fire again. And now when father comes you will marry me,
Dorothy?” He asked the question before them all, looking steadfastly in
her face, while he took the license out of his pocket and laid it on the
table. “It came near being burnt up once,” he said, laughing. “It was a
close call, but I told you this would save me,” and he held up the little
Testament which was deeply dented in the middle. “The ball glanced off,
and I wasn’t hurt. Now, mother, what are you crying for?”

When the big master came Sallie Tom got to work. The Rev. Dr. Miles
couldn’t stay all night, but not until Christmas-Day would they be
married. When the clock struck twelve the ceremony would take place, and
poor Uncle Lias couldn’t make the fires quick enough in the big parlors,
and Peter Black was called here and there, just as he had been a year ago.

“Bobbie must wear his uniform,” Dorothy said. She could marry him in
nothing whose decorations would make her half so proud as would the
torn and battered, the faded and worn old suit which told of honorable
service. She whispered something to Bobbie, and the latter sprang to his
feet. Anne and the Lieutenant were freezing away off in one of the big
window seats, unconscious that they were cold, and evidently in a hot
discussion. Bobbie walked over and saluted. “I believe you are to be
Dorothy’s bridesmaid, Anne,” he said, looking at her provokingly and in a
way she didn’t understand.

“Of course I am,” she answered, slipping off the seat, “and I’ve got to
wear just what I have on. To my dying day it will be a mortification.
It’s the only decent gown I’ve got, and all on account of _this_ man and
his friends,” and she turned with a merry laugh to the Lieutenant, now
standing and slightly leaning against the window.

“I have come to ask him a favor,” answered Bobbie, turning toward him
also. “Will you do me the honor to be my best man, Lieutenant Hardwicke?”
and he held out his hand to the man in blue.

The other grasped it warmly. “Tell them who I am, for God’s sake, Bobbie.
I am proud to be a ‘Yankee soldier,’ as she calls me, but tell them who
else I am.” Anne had dropped into a chair, and Bobbie laughed at her look
of blank astonishment.

“This is Dick Hardwicke, of Boston, Anne. He graduated two terms before
I, and though he was older and we were not in the same classes, we were
always good friends while at college.”

“And did you come to search for your college friend as you would for a
thief?” she cried, her voice ringing with unutterable scorn, as she rose
to her feet.

“Not a bit of it,” he answered, fearlessly. “In open fight we would have
had to take the chances of this beastly war, but that the Robert F.
Taylor, as our order read, was our Bobbie Tayloe, I no more suspected
than you did my identity. Do you believe me?” She look at him a moment
searchingly.

“Yes,” she answered, after a long pause. “I hate to do it—but I’m bound
to.”

       *       *       *       *       *

It was just after the clock struck the birth of another Christmas-Day
that Bobbie led his bride into the beautiful parlors, and while they
plighted their troth with only those around who knew and loved them most,
Uncle Lias outside the door played softly on his old violin the sweet
old Christmas carol of “Peace on Earth—Good Will to Men,” and after it
was over the Blue and the Grey shook hands together, to the intense and
unqualified disgust of loyal old Sallie Tom.

[Illustration]