The Battle Ground Part 35

Betty looked at her anxiously. "When will you be up?" she inquired, flus.h.i.+ng, as the old lady's sharp eyes pierced her through.

"I really think, my dear, that you are less sensible than I took you to be," returned Mrs. Lightfoot. "It was very foolish of you to allow yourself to take a fancy to Dan. You should have insisted upon preferring Champe, as I cautioned you to do. In entering into marriage it is always well to consider first, family connections and secondly, personal disposition; and in both of these particulars there is no fault to be found with Champe. His mother was a Randolph, my child, which is greatly to his credit. As for Dan, I fear he will make anything but a safe husband."

"Safe!" exclaimed Betty indignantly, "did you marry the Major because he was 'safe,' I wonder?"

Mrs. Lightfoot accepted the rebuke with meekness.

"Had I done so, I should certainly have proved myself to be a fool," she returned with grim humour, "but since you have fully decided that you prefer to be miserable, I shall take you with me tomorrow when I go for Dan."

But on the morrow the old lady did not leave her bed, and the doctor, who came with his saddlebags from Leicesterburg, glanced her over and ordered "perfect repose of mind and body" before he drank his julep and rode away.

"Perfect repose, indeed!" scoffed his patient, from behind her curtains, when the visit was over. "Why, the idiot might as well have ordered me a mustard plaster. If he thinks there's any 'repose' in being married to Mr.

Lightfoot, I'd be very glad to have him try it for a week."

Betty made no response, for her throat was strained and aching; but in a moment Mrs. Lightfoot called her to her bedside and patted her upon the arm.

"We'll go next week, child," she said gently. "When you have been married as long as I have been, you will know that a week the more or the less of a man's society makes very little difference in the long run."

And the next week they went. On a ripe October day, when the earth was all red and gold, the coach was brought out into the drive, and Mrs. Lightfoot came down, leaning upon Champe and Betty.

The Major was reading his Horace in the library, and though he heard the new pair of roans pawing on the gravel, he gave no sign of displeasure. His age had oppressed him in the last few days, and he carried stains, like spilled wine, on his cheeks. He could not ease his swollen heart by outbursts of anger, and the sensitiveness of his temper warned off the sympathy which he was too proud to unbend and seek. So he sat and stared at the unturned Latin page, and the hand he raised to his throat trembled slightly in the air.

Outside, Betty, in her most becoming bonnet, with her blue barege shawl over her soft white gown, wrapped Mrs. Lightfoot in woollen robes, and fluttered nervously when the old lady remembered that she had left her spectacles behind.

"I brought the empty case; here it is, my dear," she said, offering it to the girl. "Surely you don't intend to take me off without my gla.s.ses?"

Mitty was sent upstairs on a search for them, and in her absence her mistress suddenly decided that she needed an extra wrap. "The little white nuby in my top drawer, Betty--I felt a chill striking the back of my neck."

Betty threw her armful of robes into the coach, and ran hurriedly up to the old lady's room, coming down, in a moment, with the spectacles in one hand and the little white shawl in the other.

"Now, we must really start, Congo," she called, as she sat down beside Mrs.

Lightfoot, and when the coach rolled along the drive, she leaned out and kissed her hand to Champe upon the steps.

"It is a heavenly day," she said with a sigh of happiness. "Oh, isn't it too good to be real weather?"

Mrs. Lightfoot did not answer, for she was busily examining the contents of her black silk bag.

"Stop Congo, Betty," she exclaimed, after a hasty search. "I have forgotten my handkerchief; I sprinkled it with camphor and left it on the bureau.

Tell him to go back at once."

"Take mine, take mine!" cried the girl, pressing it upon her; and then turning her back upon the old lady, she leaned from the window and looked over the valley filled with suns.h.i.+ne.

The whip cracked, the fat roans kicked the dust, and on they went merrily down the branch road into the turnpike; past Aunt Ailsey's cabin, past the wild cherry tree, where the blue sky shone through naked twigs; down the long curve, past the tuft of cedars--and still the turnpike swept wide and white, into the distance, dividing gay fields dotted with browsing cattle.

At Uplands Betty caught a glimpse of Aunt Lydia between the silver poplars, and called joyfully from the window; but the words were lost in the rattling of the wheels; and as she lay back in her corner, Uplands was left behind, and in a little while they pa.s.sed into the tavern road and went on beneath the shade of interlacing branches.

Underfoot the ground was russet, and through the misty woods she saw the leaves still falling against a dim blue perspective. The suns.h.i.+ne struck in arrows across the way, and far ahead, at the end of the long vista, there was golden s.p.a.ce.

With the ten miles behind them, they came to the tavern in the early afternoon, and, as a small tow-headed boy swung open the gate, the coach rolled into the yard and drew up before the steps.

Jack Hicks started from his seat, and throwing his pipe aside, came hurriedly to the wheels, but before he laid his hand upon the door, Betty opened it and sprang lightly to the ground, her face radiant in the shadow of her bonnet.

"Let me speak, child," called Mrs. Lightfoot after her, adding, with courteous condescension, "How are you, Mr. Hicks? Will you go up at once and tell my grandson to pack his things and come straight down. As soon as the horses are rested we must start back again."

With visible perturbation Jack looked from the coach to the tavern door, and stood awkwardly sc.r.a.ping his feet upon the road.

"I--I'll go up with all the pleasure in life, mum," he stammered; "but I don't reckon thar's no use--he--he's gone."

"Gone?" cried the aghast old lady; and Betty rested her hand upon the wheel.

"Big Abel, he's gone, too," went on Jack, gaining courage from the accustomed sound of his own drawl. "Mr. Dan tried his best to git away without him--but Lord, Lord, the sense that n.i.g.g.e.r's got. Why, his marster might as well have tried to give his own skin the slip--"

"Where did they go?" sharply put in the old lady. "Don't mumble your words, speak plainly, if you please."

"He wouldn't tell me, mum; I axed him, but he wouldn't say. A letter came last night, and this morning at sunup they were off--Mr. Dan in front, and Big Abel behind with the bundle on his shoulder. They walked to Leicestersburg, that's all I know, mum."

"Let me get inside," said Betty, quickly. Her face had gone white, but she thanked Jack when he picked up the shawl she dropped, and went steadily into the coach. "We may as well go back," she added with a little laugh.

Mrs. Lightfoot threw an anxious look into her face.

"We must consider the horses, my dear," she responded. "Mr. Hicks, will you see that the horses are well fed and watered. Let them take their time."

"Oh, I forgot the horses," returned Betty apologetically, and patiently sat down with her arm leaning in the window. There was a smile on her lips, and she stared with bright eyes at the oak trees and the children playing among the acorns.

XIV

THE HUSH BEFORE THE STORM

The autumn crept into winter; the winter went by, short and fitful, and the spring unfolded slowly. With the milder weather the mud dried in the roads, and the Major and the Governor went daily into Leicesterburg. The younger man had carried his oratory and his influence into the larger cities of the state, and he had come home, at the end of a month of speech-making, in a fervour of almost boyish enthusiasm.

"I pledge my word for it, Julia," he had declared to his wife, "it will take more than a Republican President to sever Virginia from the Union--in fact, I'm inclined to think that it will take a thunderbolt from heaven, or the Major for a despot!"

When, as the spring went on, men came from the political turmoil to ask for his advice, he repeated the words with a conviction that was in itself a ring of emphasis.

"We are in the Union, gentlemen, for better or for worse"--and of all the guests who drank his Madeira under the pleasant shade of his maples, only the Major found voice to raise a protest.

"We'll learn, sir, we'll live and learn," interposed the old gentleman.

"Let us hope we shall live easily," said the doctor, lifting his gla.s.s.

"And learn wisdom," added the rector, with a chuckle.

Through the spring and summer they rode leisurely back and forth, bringing bundles of newspapers when they came, and taking away with them a memory of the broad white portico and the mellow wine.

The Major took a spasmodic part in the discussions of peace or war, sitting sometimes in a moody silence, and flaring up, like an exhausted candle, at the news of an abolition outbreak. In his heart he regarded the state of peace as a mean and beggarly condition and the sure resort of bloodless cowards; but even a prospect of the inspiring dash of war could not elicit so much as the semblance of his old ardour. His smile flashed but seldom over his harsh features--it needed indeed the presence of Mrs. Ambler or of Betty to bring it forth--and his erect figure had given way in the chest, as if a strong wind bent him forward when he walked.