A FRIEND IN NEED

Dorothea had no definite plan in her mind when she went out on the long dark gallery. Her only desire was to be alone for a while to try to think of some way to aid the poor prisoner upstairs. But it required no reflection to show her that she was quite powerless. The case, as she saw it, was hopeless. The man was, in all probability a prisoner already and would be justified in thinking that she herself had taken a hand in his recapture.

She could see only one possibility of his escaping. If he was wakened in time he might be able to get out on the roof again and continue in hiding. She halted suddenly, an impulse coming to her to run upstairs and try to warn him, but she shook her head. Common sense told her it was too late to do anything.

She turned a corner of the house and looked out upon the lawn. There, dim shadows in the darkness, she could see the forms of several horses, and walking slowly up and down, with his gaze fixed upon the piazza roof, was a soldierly figure, intently watching. She stopped, half hidden by the turn in the house, and waited.

In a moment or two she heard a window raised in one of the rooms above.

“Are you down there, Mason?” It was Hal’s voice, pitched low.

“Yes, sir,” came the answer from the man pacing slowly across the lawn.

“Keep your eye open,” Hal called down. “I’m going to take a look along the roof here.”

Dorothea heard her cousin clamber out of the window and, a moment later, the creaking of the tin as he tiptoed over her head. She held her hand to her heart, tense with excitement, and dreading the outcome. From this move on Hal’s part she argued that the Confederate officers had not yet found their man. Perhaps he had gotten away, after all.

Her rising hope that this was true was confirmed by her cousin who called softly that there was no one on the roof. The girl’s spirits rose with a bound. The man was gone and she was more glad than she would have thought possible. He was an enemy of those with whom her sympathy lay. She still believed in the cause the South was fighting for. Yet for all that she could not help rejoicing that this man had escaped; indeed she felt like dancing. The music in the parlors called her and she turned to go back.

“It’s because they send hounds after them,” she thought to herself, trying to explain her perplexing state of mind. She would have denied with perfect sincerity that she wished the North to win the war, but she could not hide from herself the fact that she had seen things that had dulled the keen edge of her enthusiasm for the Confederate Cause.

As she was about to step through the doorway into the house she ran sharply into April coming out hurriedly. Both girls drew back and for an instant eyed each other in silence.

“I am sorry if you are not having a good time,” April said at length, with a touch of asperity in her tone. “I missed you and was wondering where you were.”

“Oh, but I was enjoying myself,” Dorothea strove to put enthusiasm in her words. “I just came out for a little air.”

April turned to go back into the parlor.

“You seem fond of the porch in the evenings,” she remarked over her shoulder, but there was no accompanying smile and Dorothea felt that a barrier of some sort had sprung up between them. For all that she was not convinced that her cousin’s errand was to seek her. She wondered at once if April knew what was going on upstairs. Perhaps, after all, this beautiful cousin had had a hand in the prisoner’s escape and was coming out to see if all were well. She could not be sure and again felt herself to be in the midst of affairs which she could not explain.

Then, as she was about to make her way into the parlors her heart gave a great thump with a realization of the possibility that the Union soldier might still be in her room. In that case he must be warned before a search of the whole house was made.

With this in mind she hurried up the stairs, crossed the hall, and closed her door softly behind her. She heard the murmur of men’s voices coming from Hal’s quarters, but knew no one had seen her.

Inside, the window was open, a dull fire still burned in the hearth, but she noted that the sandwiches and wine remained as she had left them, untouched. Evidently, she thought, the man had not had time to eat before he was forced to leave. She crossed the room, intending to shut the window but, ere she reached it, her eyes fell upon a dark heap on the floor beside her bed. She halted, looking down with a sudden fear in her heart and then breathed a sigh of relief.

“He took a disguise and left his clothes here,” she half murmured to herself. But, when she stooped down to examine the meager bundle more closely, she saw that there was a man still in the shabby uniform, a man so thin and wasted as to be little more than a skeleton.

She thought at first that he was dead, but, snatching her hand-glass, she held it in front of his parched lips and found it clouded. The man was alive, how long he could remain so she dared not think. In the half light from the fire, to her inexperienced eyes, he looked as if each succeeding minute might easily be his last.

But what was she to do now? Whom could she trust? Certainly none of the servants, who would probably scream in terror and alarm the entire household at the first sight of the poor, huddled body. Her mind was busy with this problem, but instinctively she had taken the glass of wine and was trying to force a little of it through the pale lips, when there came a knock at her door.

Instantly she was on her feet, her nerves taut; but by no means ready to give up without a fight. So far her part had been passive, now that the man could no longer help himself she meant to try her utmost to save him. That it was Hal or Val Tracy coming on a search of the house, she had no doubt. However they would not enter so long as she was there, and she vowed to herself that she would remain in the room till Doomsday rather than let either of them in.

“Who is it?” she asked, and expected to hear the deep voice of one of the men, but greatly to her consternation the door was opened and in walked Miss Imogene.

“It is I, honey,” said the dainty little lady, closing the door behind her and advancing into the room. “What are you doing here in the dark?”

“I just came up for a moment,” Dorothea replied, without a tremor in her voice. Here was a more dangerous situation even than she had anticipated and her wits were working fast to meet it. “I will go down with you at once.” She made a motion as if to start for the door, hoping that Miss Ivory would take the hint and go out too; but the latter evidently had no such intention for she stood before the fireplace, placing a dainty foot upon the fender to warm it before the fitful blaze.

“Do put another log on the fire, child,” she requested. “My toes are icy and—my dear, I want a little chat with you. I don’t think you can be enjoying your party—hiding alone up here.”

“Oh, but really I have been—indeed I have been,” Dorothea protested. “I just came up—”

“For the same reason you went out on the porch,” Miss Imogene interrupted, with a swift upward glance. “Come, child, put on a fresh log and let your old cousin have five minutes with you. The evening is not half over.”

There was a new tone in the pretty voice that surprised Dorothea. She had thought of Miss Imogene as a sweet and gentle spinster who spent most of her life in social gayety or in doing some pleasant task out of the hurry and bustle of the world. Now she felt that under the sweet manner there was a will that might prove stubborn if the cause arose. Moreover there was nothing to do but comply with the request unless she chose to be deliberately rude. That she could not be, even though she could find no excuse ready to her tongue.

Dorothea placed a fresh log on the fire and then stood beside her visitor, the two looking down in silence as the wood caught and flamed up in a cheerful blaze. Then, quite suddenly, so that Dorothea was surprised, Miss Imogene turned and glanced about the room.

Dorothea’s heart sank. She saw no possibility of the shrunken figure on the floor escaping Miss Imogene’s sharp eyes. Nor was she mistaken.

“It’s quite a pretty room by fire-light,” said the little lady and took a step toward the bed. A moment later she was beside the prostrate man, looking down at him.

“What’s this, child?” she asked in a whisper.

Dorothea hurried to her side.

“Oh, Cousin Imogene, it is a Union officer escaped from Andersonville,” Dorothea whispered. “They are hunting for him now. They think he’s here, and—”

“Why didn’t you tell one of the men, Hal or Val Tracy?” demanded the elder woman with a trace of severity in her tone.

“Because I wouldn’t give him up,” Dorothea maintained stoutly. “I’m not a real Rebel. I’m British; and though I do believe the South is right I don’t think they should hunt men with dogs. And, Cousin Imogene, I mean to do all I can to help him.”

“Do you know who he is?” was the next question. Dorothea’s plea did not seem to have made any impression on the little lady, who suddenly had grown rather imperious and whose gentleness had dropped from her like a cloak.

“No, of course not,” Dorothea answered, surprised. “But he’s a Federal officer and he’s been on the porch roof all night without anything to eat and—”

“Light a candle and bring it here,” her cousin commanded, dropping to her knees as Dorothea obeyed.

With a deft hand Miss Imogene turned the face of the shrunken figure to the light. As she looked at it she gave a smothered cry.

“It’s Larry Stanchfield!” she exclaimed and at the name the man opened his eyes and looked up at the two leaning over him.

For an instant there was silence, and then Miss Imogene spoke in a strained voice.

“I’ll help you, Dorothea,” she said. “Go lock the door.”