A STRANGE GUEST

The year 1863, which was ushered in by the Emancipation Proclamation, was one of steadily waning fortune for the Confederate Cause. Even temporary successes in Virginia or elsewhere could hardly blind the South to such blows as the loss of Vicksburg and the Union victory of Gettysburg. Hope flared up after Chickamauga, but 1864 opened with no better prospect than had 1863, and resources dwindled steadily. Food became so scarce that many were actually near the starvation point. In the State of Georgia, however, which, as yet, the war had touched but lightly, there was comparative plenty, and the people of little Washington, though they were forced to give up many seeming necessities, lived in tolerable comfort.

Thus Mrs. May’s predictions apparently were far from fulfillment, and April’s conviction of the ultimate victory of the South was strengthened. Moreover, Georgia crops were counted upon to feed the army, and this kept men at home in legitimate employment and the life of the community took on a semblance of what it was in normal times. Officers on recruiting service or attached to the military prisons at Andersonville and Millen, were to be seen everywhere; so that there was no lack of escorts for ladies, who never stirred out of their native towns without a gentleman in attendance.

There was a continual round of parties and balls which, though they lacked the lavishness of former occasions, were gay and lively in spite of conditions that might well have depressed a less sanguine people.

And, as was natural, there was no hint upon the part of the soldiers that victory for the Southern arms was in the slightest degree doubtful. The gallant captains and lieutenants who, with the courtly grace of their time, bowed low over the dainty hands of their fair partners in the dance, never failed to promise success with so sincere a conviction that those who listened thereafter turned a deaf ear to all suggestions of possible defeat.

That the Yankees had won battles was not denied; but it served only to increase the bitterness in the hearts of most Confederates, and there was a good deal of talk at this time of seizing property belonging to those who were suspected of sympathizing with the North, of whom there were more than a few in the State. But this came to nothing. There were, indeed, some among the far-seeing Southerners who were not above placing a portion of their crops in the hands of these Union men, thinking thus to save a little from the inevitable wreck.

On the whole, however, April’s firm faith in the triumph of her cause appeared to be justified. As month after month passed, the memory of her mother’s warning grew less impressive. Moreover, the proclamation freeing the slaves had had no effect whatever upon the negroes owned by Colonel May, for they were well and kindly treated. Throughout the country generally there was more or less restlessness to be noted among the colored population, but those of them who ran away fled from indifferent or cruel masters, and the better class of Southerners showed little sympathy for such owners.

Moreover Mrs. May was one of the Kentucky Harriots who had always opposed secession. She had even heard herself referred to, in whispers to be sure, as “Henry May’s Yankee wife.” And in her own family she had never concealed a certain understanding of the North and had deplored the action of those hot-heads and politicians who had precipitated the conflict. But her husband was the colonel of a Georgia regiment, and her son, a lieutenant, and it never occurred to her to oppose their decision once it was taken.

Between April and her mother there was a very deep and true bond of affection; but, when Mrs. May strove to soften her daughter’s bitterness toward the Union, the girl could not forget the fact that Kentucky was largely loyal to the North, and discounted her mother’s opinion as being tinged with Yankee sentiments which a true Georgian could not accept. Thus, while there was no breach in their love for each other, the elder woman realized that circumstances made it impossible for her to ease the blow she believed must some day shatter April’s hopes. And the girl, seeing nothing of the increasing misery outside her own prosperous circle, and hearing only the most optimistic predictions from the scores of young officers who danced attendance upon her whenever the opportunity afforded, grew increasingly confident and was more than ever ready to testify to her loyalty by a resentment toward anything that savored of sympathy for her enemies. Yet out of this well-nigh fanatical spirit unhappiness was bound to come. Already April hid a secret sorrow which sometimes brought tears to wet her pillow ere she went to sleep.

The passing of a year changed Harriot but little. She was still a most practical and unsentimental young person who looked upon the procuring of food for herself as the first duty of a growing girl. It was with no surprise, therefore, that Mortality, another of Aunt Decent’s granddaughters, found her, one warm day in the early part of 1864, discreetly screened behind some shrubbery, munching persimmon dates.

“Oh, here yoh is!” exclaimed Mortality, flopping down on the grass beside the rustic chair on which Harriot sat. “Ah was a-thinkin’ yoh might know who-all ’tis what’s comin’ in. More refugee-ers, I ’spects.”

“Oh, goodness!” cried Harriot, standing up suddenly and peering through the bushes at a rather dilapidated ambulance drawn by two very thin mules which was slowly nearing the house. “If any more people come here I’ll have to sleep in a trundle bed in April’s room.”

Harriot’s wail was not without justice. Already the May house was overflowing with less fortunate individuals who had been driven out of their own homes or who were breaking their journeys about the country. The rich planters of the South boasted of their hospitality, and now that war had brought privations to less fortunate friends they felt an added obligation to share all they possessed. Every household that could afford it, sheltered some “refugees,” as those were called who had been forced to forsake their own homes.

But this new arrival at the May establishment hardly appeared to be one of these. As Harriot watched, she saw a young girl maneuver her wide hoops through the narrow door of the ancient vehicle and proceed gravely about the business of superintending the disposal of her luggage upon the broad piazza. Then, having paid the driver, the newcomer sat down upon one of her brass-studded boxes with a sigh of relief.

“’Clare to goodness,” chuckled Mortality, “that fancy miss ac’s lack she’d done come to stay. An she don’t appear to have no folks neither.”

“She must have come to the wrong house,” Harriot whispered. She had watched the proceedings of the stranger with increasing interest. There were no congenial girls of her own age living near, and her cousin Corinne was too grown-up to have any fun with these days. Harriot would have been glad to find a playmate; but she shook her head, being certain that this calm young stranger had made a mistake. No such guest was expected, that she knew.

“Mother and April are away, so I reckon I’d better tell her,” she went on half to herself, and, stepping out briskly from behind the shrubbery, she hurried toward the house, followed by Mortality.

“This is Mr. Henry May’s house,” Harriot began at once. “Colonel Henry May, you know. He’s my father, but of course he’s with the army.” She paused a moment, but no answer being forthcoming she continued rather breathlessly: “Mrs. Gordon May’s place is over on the Abbeville road. Perhaps they are the ones you’re looking for—or maybe the Beaumont Mays, though they’re no kin to us and are living in Augusta now.”

Again she paused, but the only response was a widening of the girl’s smile, and Harriot grew slightly embarrassed; but she noted the well-made and rather fashionable clothes of this silent stranger and her regret continued to deepen.

“It’s a pity that man drove off so fast,” she went on, feeling that some one must talk. “Our horses have mostly been pressed, and I don’t know what I’ll find to send you away in, ’specially as mother and April are at the Ladies’ Aid meeting, sewing for the soldiers. But of course I’m ’bliged to find something.”

“’Deed, Miss Harry, ’tain’t no use talkin’,” Mortality half whispered. “Don’t you-all see she’s one of ’em dumbies?”

At this the strange girl laughed outright, a bright, cheerful laugh that set Harriot to smiling too.

“Really I’m not dumb,” the visitor said with a chuckle. “I’ve just been wondering what happened to all my letters. I wrote weeks ago that I was coming.”

“Oh, you did?” Harriot replied vaguely. “Well, of course, now-a-days letters never go where you expect them to.”

The other nodded calmly, and Harriot regarded her with increasing admiration. She was so cool and self-possessed.

“At any rate, I’m here now!” the girl on the trunk remarked philosophically. “It’s too late to help that, isn’t it? But, if I’m in the way, I can go back to New York, can’t I? Though it’ll probably be no end of trouble.”

“To New York!” Harriot exclaimed incredulously. “Did you run the blockade?”

“No,” the other answered rather regretfully. “I wanted to—it would be a fine adventure, wouldn’t it?—but I wasn’t allowed. Papa wished me to travel by land, so they sent me down under a flag of truce. This is your mother coming in, isn’t it?”

A carriage was rolling briskly into the drive and in another moment it drew up at the block near the porch. As Mrs. May descended the stranger slipped down from the trunk and went to meet her.

“I’m sorry, Aunt Parthenia,” she said precisely. “I fancy I should have waited for an invitation from you, shouldn’t I? But father had to leave so unexpectedly—and even though we had had no answer to our letters he said it would be best for me to come, as he had information that you were still here. If you don’t want me, I suppose I can arrange for another flag of truce to go back under, can’t I?”

There was just the shadow of a break in the gentle voice as the strange girl said this; and the crisp pronunciation with its broad “a,” so different from the slow Southern drawl, held a certain appeal that went straight to Mrs. May’s heart.

“My dear child, of course you must stay,” she said, taking the young girl in her motherly arms. “You are most welcome but—but, honey, who are you?”