CONFIDENCES

It was many months before Dorothea saw Val Tracy again and in the quiet days that followed the departure of all the men in the May household, she and Miss Imogene often speculated over what had happened to young Larry Stanchfield. There was no answer to their problem, but this common secret brought a close intimacy between the two.

It was not to be wondered at that the girl should find her heart drawn to this gentle, white-haired little lady; and the elder woman, perhaps because of her past memories, took a special interest in the child of her old friend.

Miss Imogene, looking back upon the days of her girlhood, regarded the life about her with the kindly eyes of that romantic time. Indeed the love affairs of the young people she knew seemed to interest her more than the momentous events that were happening in the world.

Stirring tales of Forrest’s raids, or of victory nearer home, such as the brilliant Confederate General Johnston’s defeat of Palmer, which roused April to wild enthusiasm, drew from her only an anxious inquiry about one or other of the young officers whose love secrets had been poured into her sympathetic ear.

“I wouldn’t like anything to happen to Bennie Hardee till he had made it up with Myrtle Clay,” she would murmur anxiously; or, knitting her brows, “Every General ought to talk seriously to his young officers about writing home the minute a battle is over. Emmie Polk hasn’t heard from Will Cary and she is half crazy with anxiety.”

“If Cousin Immie had her way all love stories would have a happy ending,” April had said and turned away, half bitterly.

Miss Imogene watched her go, then addressing Dorothea with a sigh, “It is so easy to miss the best things in life,” she told her. “When we are young how little we know where our real happiness lies. And, oh, how foolish are those who will not listen to what their hearts tell them.”

Dorothea knew well enough that Miss Imogene was thinking of April. The elder lady did not conceal the fact that she had little patience with her beautiful cousin’s attitude toward Lee Hendon, though she was wise enough not to force her opinions upon the girl herself.

“When one has missed the greatest happiness because of a coquettish whim—ah, then, my dear, a lifetime of regret is hard to bear,” she went on. “I know what I am talking about, Dorothea, my child. You remember Larry Stanchfield?”

“Yes, indeed,” Dorothea answered. “I’ve never ceased to wonder what has happened to him.”

“And perhaps you noticed, honey, that when I discovered who he was I was quite ready to set him safely on his way?” Miss Imogene asked with a gentle smile.

“You said it was because of an old friendship,” Dorothea replied, wondering what was coming.

“It was more than a friendship,” Miss Imogene admitted, looking off into the distance as if she pictured again the well-remembered scene from out of the past. “To think that he might have been my son, if—if I had not been so foolish a maid. I would not listen to my heart. Shall I tell you about it, dear?”

“Please do,” Dorothea murmured.

“It may serve as a warning to you, child,” Miss Imogene continued in her sweet gentle voice. “That boy’s father and I—well, he was madly in love with me and I with him. His name was Laurence, too; ‘Larry,’ I called him, and he came from up North, from Albany in New York State. I met him while he was visiting in Charleston, and, my dear, I say it without vanity, I was something of a toast in those days. Yes, I had many lovers and all would bend to my slightest whims. All but Larry—who was a man. He would not bend, and so—so I sent him off, but I never forgot him nor did any other come to take his place in my heart. Perhaps it was because he would not bend. It isn’t the man you can twist around your finger, honey, that you remember the longest.”

“What did you want of him that he wouldn’t do?” Dorothea asked after a pause.

“Nothing very much, it seemed to me at the time,” Miss Imogene replied, “but now I know that I asked him to sacrifice a principle, and that he would not do, even for me whom he loved. I know he did love me then—you remember that I said he was from the North.”

“But there wasn’t any war then,” Dorothea interrupted.

“No, there wasn’t; but Larry was an Abolitionist even in those days,” Miss Imogene explained. “To tease him I said that I should give my husband one of my negro boys for a body-servant. I thought what a fine joke it would be to make him a slave owner, little knowing that my whole happiness was at stake. And, honey, he refused my gift! So we parted—and to-day his son is fighting for the very Cause over which we quarreled twenty years ago. And I—I have lost over twenty years of happiness. All the slaves in the world were not worth it, and I knew it at the time; but I had a foolish pride and thought that no one should refuse me what I wanted. I have missed the best in life for a silly whim and when I see others about me who are running the same risk, I long to take them in my arms and whisper my story in their ears. I do not mean you, dear,” Miss Imogene ended, with a little laugh.

Dorothea knew to whom Miss Imogene referred, but she kept that knowledge to herself. Thereafter, however, she understood better why April’s affairs were of such vital interest to her cousin.

But love affairs were not the only matters these two discussed. As the weeks passed Dorothea grew to know more intimately the causes of the war between the North and the South and many perplexing questions entered her mind. Her sympathy for the Confederacy she had taken for granted; but, with an increasing knowledge of the actual conditions, she began to think for herself and, being an English girl, she was free from the prejudices that would have hampered the cool judgment of one born in America.

She was very glad to find that she could talk freely with Miss Imogene, who, although none doubted her loyalty, showed, to Dorothea at least, some understanding of the Union point of view.

“You know, honey,” Miss Imogene began upon one occasion, “I was at home in Charleston when this war broke out. It was my own State that began it, and perhaps if it hadn’t been for the lesson Larry Stanchfield had taught me I should have been as bitter as the other females who clamored for States’ rights and longed to see the old flag torn down at Fort Sumter. As it was, I had already determined to set all my negroes free; but I couldn’t do it all at once, either for their sakes or for my own. No, my dear, I had first to have them taught trades so that they could take care of themselves, and then I had to let them go secretly, one at a time.”

“But why, Cousin Imogene?” Dorothea asked, puzzled at this. “They belonged to you, didn’t they? You could do as you pleased with them, couldn’t you?”

“Yes, honey, but the feeling against freeing slaves was very marked,” Miss Imogene explained. “Particularly when the war began.”

“But the war wasn’t because of slavery,” Dorothea objected. “It was because of secession. That is what we all thought in England.”

“That is what we all said it was,” Miss Imogene agreed, “but the address that South Carolina sent to the other states invited them to form a ‘Confederacy of Slave-holding States.’ They are the very words, my dear—and then it went on to say that the North did not like slavery and would stop it sooner or later. It did not give one good reason for secession. I know, because I read it. I reckon I’m the only Southern woman who did!” She laughed a little as she ended.

“Would it have made any difference if they had read it?” Dorothea asked.

“Not a mite, honey,” Miss Imogene answered cheerfully. “We were all past reasoning, then. Every one was just swept along on one grand wave of excitement. There was martial music, and new uniforms; shouting, singing, sobbing—just anything to keep the war-fever up to its highest pitch. Nobody wanted to think. They just wanted to feel. It was all as contagious as the measles. And they believed in Toombs next to the Bible.”

“It isn’t quite easy to understand,” Dorothea said thoughtfully. “You’d think going to war was a serious matter.”

“And so it is, honey,” Miss Imogene replied, “and that’s the reason why nobody did any thinking in those days. The politicians wanted the war, General Toombs and such men didn’t want anybody to do anything but shout for secession. And there were sad things and funny things a-plenty, too. I saw the old flag go down on Fort Sumter. That did not seem sad to me then, though when I learned later that the fort had been evacuated and not surrendered, I confess I felt a throb of pride.”

“What were the funny things?” asked Dorothea.

“Well, there were the newspapers,” Miss Imogene went on. “All the dispatches from the North were printed under the heading ‘Foreign News.’ Just silly pretenses like that, which the politicians encouraged. But I’m silly, too, to be going over an old story.”

“But you were always for the South, Cousin Imogene,” Dorothea remarked half-questioningly.

“To be sure, honey,” came the ready answer. “I was no different from the others. And what else could I do? My home was here. I had no kin outside the South, and besides I was not accustomed to traveling without a gentleman escort. I’m not a strong-minded female, you know.” She laughed a little. “After all I’m just like the others you have met here, except that I learned a lesson when I wasn’t very old which has set me thinking. I don’t like war at all and shall be very glad when this one is over, as I hope it soon will be. But I don’t say that to any one but you. Particularly not to April.”

---

The life in the May household, of which Dorothea had become a permanent part, went on busily week after week. There were alternating periods of depression and elation as rumors of good or bad fortune for the Confederate armies reached the little town. But no matter whether they won or lost, the confidence of her Southern cousins never flagged. The social gayeties continued unabated, although the lack of young men emphasized the cause of their absence.

“I suppose you’d have us act like the Yanks had scared us till we forgot how to dance,” Harriot told Dorothea, echoing the opinion generally held by those about her.

And so the songs and merriment went on, and if there was a hollow ring in the laughter Dorothea was not able to detect it. The sherbets might be sweetened with watermelon sugar, the cake made of sorghum and rice flour, dresses might be re-dyed and refurbished till they were thread-bare; but the dances and parties never flagged.

Letters from her father had come several times to Dorothea, some by way of Mexico, others in a roundabout way from Canada, but he had warned her that it was becoming increasingly difficult to communicate with her, that few of her letters sent through his agents in England ever reached him. He suggested that in case of necessity a personal item in the Richmond Enquirer which coÖoperated with the New York Daily News would be forwarded to him. Meanwhile both must rest assured that no news was good news.

Mrs. Stewart remained in little Washington although she still talked of instant flight, and one day late in May she was visiting her sister-in-law and discussing the matter as if it were an entirely new subject.

“What I maintain,” she insisted, “is that there is no future for us here any longer. Even if we win the war, our good old Wilkes County families have been humiliated to the depths. I have seen my own child eat clabber from a cracked plate.” She looked about her, doubtless expecting groans from sympathetic relatives.

“Did it have cinnamon and sugar on it?” demanded Harriot. “Aunt Decent gives most of ours to the babies, but I just love it.”

They were interrupted at that moment by the sound of a horse trotting up the drive and Harriot ran out to see who it was.

“Oh, mother, here’s Hal!” she called, and a moment later the young man himself walked in.

He was lean and worn-looking and his mother gazed at him anxiously as she took him in her arms.

“You have bad news, I fear,” she murmured. “Is it your father?”

“You have heard from him since I have,” he answered quickly. “No, mother, there’s no personal misfortune to tell. All our kin have come through safely. Val Tracy has been made a Captain and is as well as you can expect. But I fear he’s hungry, or in love. He hasn’t been cheerful a minute since we left here.” He was striving to speak lightly, but his mother saw through the pretense.

“There is something troubling you, dear,” she insisted. “I can tell by your face that something is wrong.”

Hal shrugged his shoulders and half turned away.

“The fact is,” he said, after a slight pause, “the Yanks are getting a little too near to suit me. We hoped to hold them at Chattanooga, but you know what happened there!”

“I am going home to pack now!” Mrs. Stewart exclaimed, rising majestically to her feet. “Come, Corinne. We should have started for Mexico long ago.”

“You’d better hear Hal’s news before you go,” Mrs. May suggested.

“Yes, Aunt Cora,” Hal went on with the ghost of a smile. “You’ll have to decide on Brazil. Sherman has the jump on you.”

“You mean we’re cut off?” cried Mrs. Stewart in anguish.

“Oh, not entirely,” Hal answered, laughing at her exaggerated despair. “You can at least get out of Washington; but, if you’re going, I shouldn’t advise delay. Sherman isn’t one to lose time, and when he tears up a railroad he does it completely. He builds a great fire with the ties and heats the rails till they’re red-hot and twists them around trees. ‘Jeff Davis’ neckties,’ he calls them.”

“A very poor joke indeed!” Mrs. Stewart remarked with dignity. “I do not know what kind of neckties our good President Davis wears, but I am sure they are not twisted around trees.”

There was a laugh at this sally, at which Mrs. Stewart looked still more dignified and important, but Hal spoke directly to his mother.

“Seriously,” he went on, “I have really come to warn you that it is best you should leave Washington.”

“That’s quite impossible, Hal,” his mother answered quietly.

“Don’t say that yet,” he went on earnestly. “Of course there’s nothing positive in war and it may be that we shall give the Yanks a good beating after all; but to tell you the truth I don’t expect it. At any rate Sherman is in Georgia, and he doesn’t stand still!”

“I shall not go, in any circumstances,” Mrs. May replied firmly. “I do not believe the war has changed the Union officers into monsters. If we stay here we shall be respected even if the Yankees do come. I feel sure an empty house is much more likely to be a prey to stragglers.”

“Perhaps your mother is right, Hal,” Mrs. Stewart put in anxiously, her uncertainty again getting the better of her. “I have heard that there were a few really nice people in the North in spite of everything. I never quite believed it until I met a Mrs. Biddle from Philadelphia at the White Sulphur who was really quite a cultivated female. Though to be sure her mother was from Baltimore, which may account for it.”

“I am certain it is best to stay,” Miss Ivory cut in upon Mrs. Stewart with scant ceremony. “A party of ladies will be perfectly safe, no matter who gets the upper hand. But, Parthenia, my dear, if you have a wish to take the children and the servants to the Magnolia plantation I’ll stay here till you return. I can get along with Sally and Aunt Decent and one or two of the younger girls. We could manage nicely.”

“No, Imogene,” said Mrs. May, “it’s sweet of you to suggest it, but I have many reasons for staying. One of the best is that here I am half way between Hal and his father and can go to either one of them in case of need or have them brought home. So here I’ll stay. As to the girls, I think they’re perfectly safe. As a matter of fact, Hal,” she went on, turning directly to her son, “I cannot see what would take the Northern army in this direction. We have no iron mines or large manufactories. There are no supply depots to tempt an invader to Washington.”

“Now that is indeed a thought, ’Thenia,” her sister-in-law interjected. “You have almost persuaded me to stay with you. But I always have in mind what the conditions are likely to be after the war. Of course you may expect that the North will find some pretext for getting even for Andersonville. They will probably put thousands of our bravest boys in prison, literally thousands. As to our valuables,” she lifted her brows with a superior expression, “I know what to do with them.”

“You had best send them over here if you are determined to go away,” Mrs. May suggested.

“Indeed no, my dear,” was the answer, “I shall put them in a safer place still. Judge Andrews will care for them.”

“But he’s a Yankee—or as good as one!” Harriot exclaimed.

“Exactly,” her aunt went on. “He is a man with convictions, and I always have an admiration for a person who will stand up for his opinions. When all of you scorned him, I had ever a pleasant word for him. Of course I could not openly associate with him, in the circumstances, but I am sure he knows my sympathy. Now you see what I gain by looking ahead a little, and having a kind word to say to one in adversity. I shall have a safe place for my valuables, don’t you think?”

Miss Ivory emitted a lady-like little snort of contempt and Cora turned to her.

“Oh, I know how intolerant you are, Imogene!” she said, with a touch of anger in her voice. “But I can’t afford to be selfish. I have a daughter to provide for. For her sake I must curb my pride and take help where I can find it.”

Saying which she again rose and, giving every one the impression that she had been deeply injured, quitted the house, followed by Corinne, who took her cue from her mother.

“I am glad that a wise providence put it out of my power to marry a woman like that,” Miss Imogene said softly. “I do not quite understand how Charles Stewart has permitted her to live this long.”

“Don’t bother about her,” Hal interjected. “She’ll do as she pleases anyway, and no amount of advice will move her. And you can remember, too, that she isn’t the only one in the South who has been ‘looking ahead,’ as she calls it. There are thousands who are trying to prepare a place in the other camp, in case worst comes to worst.”

“Yes,” April, who up to that moment had scarcely said a word, now cried bitterly. “There are too many carrying water on both shoulders, and that is why people are beginning to talk about our losing. I did not expect it of you, Hal,” she ended, with a straight look at her brother.

“I can only see what the plain facts are, sis,” he answered. “Sherman has a hundred thousand men and we have less than fifty thousand. What are we going to do against such odds?”

“Do!” cried April in a ringing voice. “We’re going to fight till they’re beaten. There’s nothing else we can do!” At the words the young girl seemed transfigured. “A victory! A victory!” she cried, and running to the piano she started singing “Dixie.”

But for once she failed to carry her audience with her. “What is the matter with you-all?” she demanded, standing up pale but defiant beside the piano. “Are we to be beaten by talk? If we all grow glum when everything is not going right how can we expect to win? We wouldn’t deserve to win. The Yankees have twice as many men as we have, you say. Well, we have Johnston! He’ll stop Sherman if he only had quarter what he has. We shall win in spite of all the croaking and croakers!”

She was half beside herself for the moment, almost hysterical, and realizing it, or perhaps fearing that she would break down and cry, she quitted the room in haste.

Harriot began to sob from excitement and sympathy for the sister she adored, and Dorothea put an arm about her comfortingly.

Harriot looked at her cousin through her tears.

“I don’t think you care at all,” she murmured, and Dorothea was surprised to find that there was some truth in the words. At least she did not find herself sorrowing over the waning fortunes of the South.