CHAPTER XX. IN THE ARSENAL
There was a dismal tea at Colonel Carvel's house in Locust Street thatevening Virginia did not touch a mouthful, and the Colonel merely made apretence of eating. About six o'clock Mrs. Addison Colfax had driven infrom Bellegarde, nor could it rain fast enough or hard enough to washthe foam from her panting horses. She did not wait for Jackson to comeout with an umbrella, but rushed through the wet from the carriageto the door in her haste to urge the Colonel to go to the Arsenal anddemand Clarence's release. It was in vain that Mr. Carvel assured herit would do no good, in vain that he told her of a more important matterthat claimed him. Could there be a more important matter than hisown nephew kept in durance, and in danger of being murdered by Dutchbutchers in the frenzy of their victory? Mrs. Colfax shut herself up inher room, and through the door Virginia heard her sobs as she went downto tea.
The Colonel made no secret of his uneasiness. With his hat on his head,and his hands in his pockets, he paced up and down the room. He let hiscigar go out,--a more serious sign still. Finally he stood with his faceto the black window, against which the big drops were beating in a fury.
Virginia sat expressionless at the head of the table, still in that gownof white and crimson, which she had worn in honor of the defenders ofthe state. Expressionless, save for a glance of solicitation at herfather's back. If resolve were feminine, Virginia might have sat forthat portrait. There was a light in her dark blue eyes. Underneath therewere traces of the day's fatigue. When she spoke, there was little lifein her voice.
"Aren't you going to the Planters' House, Pa The Colonel turned, andtried to smile.
"I reckon not to-night, Jinny. Why?"
"To find out what they are going to do with Clarence," she saidindignantly.
"I reckon they don't know at the Planters' House," he said.
"Then--" began Virginia, and stopped.
"Then what?" he asked, stroking her hair.
"Then why not go to the Barracks? Order the carriage, and I will go withyou."
His smile faded. He stood looking down at her fixedly, as was sometimeshis habit. Grave tenderness was in his tone.
"Jinny," he said slowly, "Jinny, do you mean to marry Clarence?"
The suddenness of the question took her breath. But she answeredsteadily:
"Yes."
"Do you love him?
"Yes," she answered. But her lashes fell.
Still he stood, and it seemed to her that her father's gaze pierced toher secret soul.
"Come here, my dear," he said.
He held out his arms, and she fluttered into them. The tears werecome at last. It was not the first time she had cried out her troublesagainst that great heart which had ever been her strong refuge. Fromchildhood she had been comforted there. Had she broken her doll, hadMammy Easter been cross, had lessons gone wrong at school, was sheill, or weary with that heaviness of spirit which is woman's inevitablelot,--this was her sanctuary. But now! This burden God Himself had sent,and none save her Heavenly Father might cure it. Through his great lovefor her it was given to Colonel Carvel to divine it--only vaguely.
Many times he strove to speak, and could not. But presently, as ifashamed of her tears, she drew back from him and took her old seat onthe arm of his chair.
By the light of his intuition, the Colonel chose tins words well. Whathe had to speak of was another sorrow, yet a healing one.
"You must not think of marriage now, my dear, when the bread we eat mayfail us. Jinny, we are not as rich as we used to be. Our trade wasin the South and West, and now the South and West cannot pay. I had aconference with Mr. Hopper yesterday, and he tells me that we must beprepared."
She laid her hand upon his.
"And did you think I would care, dear?" she asked gently. "I can bearwith poverty and rags, to win this war."
"His own eyes were dim, but pride shone in them. Jackson came in ontiptoe, and hesitated. At the Colonel's motion he took away the chinaand the silver, and removed the white cloth, and turned low the lightsin the chandelier. He went out softly, and closed the door.
"Pa," said Virginia, presently, "do you trust Mr. Hopper?"
The Colonel gave a start.
"Why, yes, Jinny. He improved the business greatly before this troublecame. And even now we are not in such straits as some other houses."
"Captain Lige doesn't like him."
"Lige has prejudices."
"So have I," said Virginia. "Eliphalet Hopper will serve you so long ashe serves himself. No longer."
"I think you do him an injustice, my dear," answered the Colonel. Butuneasiness was in his voice. "Hopper is hard working, scrupulous to acent. He owns two slaves now who are running the river. He keeps out ofpolitics, and he has none of the Yankee faults."
"I wish he had," said Virginia.
The Colonel made no answer to this. Getting up, he went over to thebell-cord at the door and pulled it. Jackson came in hurriedly.
"Is my bag packed?"
"Yes, Marsa."
"Where are you going?" cried Virginia, in alarm.
"To Jefferson City, dear, to see the Governor. I got word thisafternoon."
"In the rain?"
He smiled, and stooped to kiss her.
"Yes," he answered, "in the rain as far as the depot, I can trustyou, Jinny. And Lige's boat will be back from New Orleans to-morrow orSunday."
The next morning the city awoke benumbed, her heart beating but feebly.Her commerce had nearly ceased to flow. A long line of boats lay idle,with noses to the levee. Men stood on the street corners in the rain,reading of the capture of Camp Jackson, and of the riot, and thousandslifted up their voices to execrate the Foreign City below Market Street.A vague terror, maliciously born, subtly spread. The Dutch had brokenup the camp, a peaceable state institution, they had shot down innocentwomen and children. What might they not do to the defenceless city undertheir victorious hand, whose citizens were nobly loyal to the South?Sack it? Yes, and burn, and loot it. Ladies who ventured out that daycrossed the street to avoid Union gentlemen of their acquaintance.
It was early when Mammy Easter brought the news paper to her mistress.Virginia read the news, and ran joyfully to her aunt's room. Three timesshe knocked, and then she heard a cry within. Then the key was turnedand the bolt cautiously withdrawn, and a crack of six inches disclosedher aunt.
"Oh, how you frightened me, Jinny!" she cried. "I thought it was theDutch coming to murder us all, What have they done to Clarence?"
"We shall see him to-day, Aunt Lillian," was the joyful answer. "Thenewspaper says that all the Camp Jackson prisoners are to be set freeto-day, on parole. Oh, I knew they would not dare to hold them. Thewhole state would have risen to their rescue."
Mrs. Colfax did not receive these tidings with transports. She permittedher niece to come into her room, and then: sank into a chair before themirror of her dressing-table, and scanned her face there.
"I could not sleep a wink, Jinny, all night long. I look wretchedly. Iam afraid I am going to have another of my attacks. How it is raining!What does the newspaper say?"
"I'll get it for you," said Virginia, used to her aunt's vagaries.
"No, no, tell me. I am much too nervous to read it."
"It says that they will be paroled to-day, and that they passed acomfortable night."
"It must be a Yankee lie," said the lady. "Oh, what a night! I saw themtorturing him in a thousand ways the barbarians! I know he had to sleepon a dirty floor with low-down trash."
"But we shall have him here to-night, Aunt Lillian!" cried Virginia."Mammy, tell Uncle Ben that Mr. Clarence will be here for tea. We musthave a feast for him. Pa said that they could not hold them."
"Where is Comyn?" inquired Mrs. Colfax. "Has he gone down to seeClarence?"
"He went to Jefferson City last night," replied Virginia. "The Governorsent for him."
Mrs. Colfax exclaimed in horror at this news.
"Do you mean that he has deserted us?" she cried
. "That he has left ushere defenceless,--at the mercy of the Dutch, that they may wreak theirvengeance upon us women? How can you sit still, Virginia? If I were yourage and able to drag myself to the street, I should be at the Arsenalnow. I should be on my knees before that detestable Captain Lyon, evenif he is a Yankee." Virginia kept her temper.
"I do not go on my knees to any man," she said. "Rosetta, tell Ned Iwish the carriage at once."
Her aunt seized her convulsively by the arm.
"Where are you going, Jinny?" she demanded. "Your Pa would never forgiveme if anything happened to you."
A smile, half pity, crossed the girl's anxious face.
"I am afraid that I must risk adding to your misfortune, Aunt Lillian,"she said, and left the room.
Virginia drove to Mr. Brinsmade's. His was one of the Union houses whichshe might visit and not lose her self respect. Like many Southerners,when it became a question of go or stay, Mr. Brinsmade's unfalteringlove for the Union had kept him in. He had voted for Mr. Bell, and laterhad presided at Crittenden Compromise meetings. In short, as a man ofpeace, he would have been willing to sacrifice much for peace. And nowthat it was to be war, and he had taken his stand uncompromisingly withthe Union, the neighbors whom he had befriended for so many years couldnot bring themselves to regard him as an enemy. He never hurt theirfeelings; and almost as soon as the war began he set about that workwhich has been done by self-denying Christians of all ages,--the reliefof suffering. He visited with comfort the widow and the fatherless, andmany a night in the hospital he sat through beside the dying, Yankee andRebel alike, and wrote their last letters home.
And Yankee and Rebel alike sought his help and counsel in time ofperplexity or trouble, rather than hotheaded advice from their ownleaders.
Mr. Brinsmade's own carriage was drawn up at his door; and thatgentleman himself standing on the threshold. He came down his stepsbareheaded in the wet to hand Virginia from her carriage.
Courteous and kind as ever, he asked for her father and her aunt ashe led her into the house. However such men may try to hide their owntrials under a cheerful mien, they do not succeed with spirits of akindred nature. With the others, who are less generous, it mattersnot. Virginia was not so thoughtless nor so selfish that she could notperceive that a trouble had come to this good man. Absorbed as she wasin her own affairs, she forgot some of them in his presence. The fireleft her tongue, and to him she could not have spoken harshly even ofan enemy. Such was her state of mind, when she was led into thedrawing-room. From the corner of it Anne arose and came forward to throwher arms around her friend.
"Jinny, it was so good of you to come. You don't, hate me?"
"Hate you, Anne dear!"
"Because we are Union," said honest Anne, wishing to have no shadow ofdoubt.
Virginia was touched. "Anne," she cried, "if you were German, I believeI should love you."
"How good of you to come. I should not have dared go to your house,because I know that you feel so deeply. You--you heard?"
"Heard what?" asked Virginia, alarmed.
"That Jack has run away--has gone South, we think. Perhaps," she cried,"perhaps he may be dead." And tears came into the girl's eyes.
It was then that Virginia forgot Clarence. She drew Anne to the sofa andkissed her.
"No, he is not dead," she said gently, but with a confidence in hervoice of rare quality. "He is not dead, Anne dear, or you would haveheard."
Had she glanced up, she would have seen Mr. Brinsmade's eye upon her. Helooked kindly at all people, but this expression he reserved for thosewhom he honored. A life of service to others had made him guess that,in the absence of her father, this girl had come to him for help of somekind.
"Virginia is right, Anne," he said. "John has gone to fight for hisprinciples, as every gentleman who is free should; we must rememberthat this is his home, and that we must not quarrel with him, becausewe think differently." He paused, and came over to Virginia. "There issomething I can do for you, my dear?" said he.
She rose. "Oh, no, Mr. Brinsmade," she cried. And yet her honesty was asgreat as Anne's. She would not have it thought that she came for otherreasons. "My aunt is in such a state of worry over Clarence that I cameto ask you if you thought the news true, that the prisoners are to beparoled. She thinks it is a--" Virginia flushed, and bit a rebellioustongue. "She does not believe it."
Even good Mr. Brinsmade smiled at the slip she had nearly made. Heunderstood the girl, and admired her. He also understood Mrs. Colfax.
"I'll drive to the Arsenal with you, Jinny," he answered. "I knowCaptain Lyon, and we shall find out certainly."
"You will do nothing of the kind, sir," said Virginia, with emphasis."Had I known this--about John, I should not have come."
He checked her with a gesture. What a gentleman of the old schoolhe was, with his white ruffled shirt and his black stock and his eyekindling with charity.
"My dear," he answered, "Nicodemus is waiting. I was just going myselfto ask Captain Lyon about John." Virginia's further objections were cutshort by the violent clanging of the door-bell, and the entrance of atall, energetic gentleman, whom Virginia had introduced to her asMajor Sherman, late of the army, and now president of the Fifth StreetRailroad. The Major bowed and shook hands. He then proceeded, as wasevidently his habit, directly to the business on which he was come.
"Mr. Brinsmade," he said, "I heard, accidentally, half an hour ago thatyou were seeking news of your son. I regret to say, sir, that the news Ihave will not lead to a knowledge of his whereabouts. But in justice toa young gentleman of this city I think I ought to tell you what happenedat Camp Jackson."
"I shall be most grateful, Major. Sit down, sir."
But the Major did not sit down. He stood in the middle of the room. Withsome gesticulation which added greatly to the force of the story,he gave a most terse and vivid account of Mr. John's arrival at theembankment by the grove--of his charging a whole regiment of Unionvolunteers. Here was honesty again. Mr. Sherman did not believe inmincing matters even to a father and sister.
"And, sir," said he, "you may thank the young man who lives next door toyou--Mr. Brice, I believe--for saving your son's life."
"Stephen Brice!" exclaimed Mr. Brinsmade, in astonishment.
Virginia felt Anne's hand tighten But her own was limp. A hot wave sweptover her, Was she never to hear the end of this man.
"Yes, sir, Stephen Brice," answered Mr. Sherman. "And I never in my lifesaw a finer thing done, in the Mexican War or out of it."
Mr. Brinsmade grew a little excited. "Are you sure that you know him?"
"As sure as I know you," said the Major, with excessive conviction.
"But," said Mr. Brinsmade, "I was in there last night, I knew the youngman had been at the camp. I asked him if he had seen Jack. He told methat he had, by the embankment. But he never mentioned a word aboutsaving his life."
"He didn't," cried the Major. "By glory, but he's even better than Ithought him, Did you see a black powder mark on his face?"
"Why, yes, sir, I saw a bad burn of some kind on his forehead."
"Well, sir, if one of the Dutchmen who shot at Jack had known enough toput a ball in his musket, he would have killed Mr. Brice, who was onlyten feet away, standing before your son."
Anne gave a little cry--Virginia was silent--Her lips were parted.Though she realized it not, she was thirsting %a hear the whole of thestory.
The Major told it, soldier fashion, but well. How John rushed up to theline. How he (Mr. Sherman) had seen Brice throw the woman down andhad cried to him to lie down himself how the fire was darting down theregiment, and how men and women were falling all about them; and howStephen had flung Jack and covered him with his body.
It was all vividly before Virginia's eyes. Had she any right to treatsuch a man with contempt? She remembered hour he had looked, at her whenhe stood on the corner by the Catherwoods' house. And, worst of all, sheremembered many spiteful remarks she had made, even to Anne, the gist ofwhi
ch had been that Mr. Brice was better at preaching than at fighting.She knew now--and she had known in her heart before--that this was thegreatest injustice she could have done him.
"But Jack? What did Jack do?"
It was Anne who tremblingly asked the Major. But Mr. Sherman,apparently, was not the man to say that Jack would have shot Stephen hadhe not interfered. That was the ugly part of the story. John would haveshot the man who saved his life. To the day of his death neither Mr.Brinsmade nor his wife knew this. But while Mr. Brinsmade and Anne hadgone upstairs to the sickbed, these were the tidings the Major toldVirginia, who kept it in her heart. The reason he told her was becauseshe had guessed a part of it.
Nevertheless Mr. Brinsmade drove to the Arsenal with her that Saturday,in his own carriage. Forgetful of his own grief, long habit came tohim to talk cheerily with her. He told her many little anecdotes of histravel, but not one of them did she hear. Again, at the moment when shethought her belief in Clarence and her love for him at last secure, shefound herself drawing searching comparisons between him and the quieteryoung Bostonian. In spite of herself she had to admit that Stephen'sdeed was splendid. Was this disloyal? She flushed at the thought.Clarence had been capable of the deed,--even to the rescue of an enemy.But--alas, that she should carry it out to a remorseless end--wouldClarence have been equal to keeping silence when Mr. Brinsmade cameto him? Stephen Brice had not even told his mother, so Mr. Brinsmadebelieved.
As if to aggravate her torture, Mr. Brinsmade's talk drifted to thesubject of young Mr. Brice. This was but natural. He told her of thebrave struggle Stephen had made, and how he had earned luxuries, andoften necessities, for his mother by writing for the newspapers.
"Often," said Mr. Brinsmade, "often I have been unable to sleep, andhave seen the light in Stephen's room until the small hours of themorning."
"Oh, Mr. Brinsmade," cried Virginia. "Can't you tell me something badabout him? Just once."
The good gentleman started, and looked searchingly at the girl by hisside, flushed and confused. Perhaps he thought--but how can we tell whathe thought? How can we guess that our teachers laugh at our pranks afterthey have caned us for them? We do not remember that our parents haveonce been young themselves, and that some word or look of our own bringsa part of their past vividly before them. Mr. Brinsmade was silent, buthe looked out of the carriage window, away from Virginia. And presently,as they splashed through the mud near the Arsenal, they met a knot ofgentlemen in state uniforms on their way to the city. Nicodemus stoppedat his master's signal. Here was George Catherwood, and his father waswith him.
"They have released us on parole," said George. "Yes, we had a fearfulnight of it. They could not have kept us--they had no quarters."
How changed he was from the gay trooper of yesterday! His bright uniformwas creased and soiled and muddy, his face unshaven, and dark rings ofweariness under his eyes.
"Do you know if Clarence Colfax has gone home?" Mr. Brinsmade inquired.
"Clarence is an idiot," cried George, ill-naturedly. "Mr. Brinsmade, ofall the prisoners here, he refused to take the parole, or the oath ofallegiance. He swears he will remain a prisoner until he is exchanged."
"The young man is Quixotic," declared the elder Catherwood, who was nothimself in the best of humors.
"Sir," said Mr. Brinsmade, with as much severity as he was ever knownto use, "sir, I honor that young man for this more than I can tell you.Nicodemus, you may drive on." And he slammed the door.
Perhaps George had caught sight of a face in the depths of the carriage,for he turned purple, and stood staring on the pavement after hischoleric parent had gone on.
It was done. Of all the thousand and more young men who had upheldthe honor of their state that week, there was but the one who chose toremain in durance vile within the Arsenal wall--Captain Clarence Colfax,late of the Dragoons.
Mr. Brinsmade was rapidly admitted to the Arsenal, and treated with therespect which his long service to the city deserved. He and Virginiawere shown into the bare military room of the commanding officer, andthither presently came Captain Lyon himself. Virginia tingled withantagonism when she saw this man who had made the city tremble, who hadset an iron heel on the flaming brand of her Cause. He, too, showed themarks of his Herculean labors, but only on his clothes and person. Hislong red hair was unbrushed, his boots covered with black mud, and hiscoat unbuttoned. His face was ruddy, and his eye as clear as thoughhe had arisen from twelve hours' sleep. He bowed to Virginia (not toopolitely, to be sure). Her own nod of are recognition did not seem totrouble him.
"Yes, sir," he said incisively, in response to Mr. Brinsmade's question,"we are forced to retain Captain Colfax. He prefers to remain a prisoneruntil he is exchanged. He refuses to take the oath of allegiance to theUnited States.
"And why should he be made to, Captain Lyon? In what way has he opposedthe United States troops?"
It was Virginia who spoke. Both looked at her in astonishment.
"You will pardon me, Miss Carvel," said Captain Lyon, gravely, "if Irefuse to discuss that question with you." Virginia bit her tongue.
"I understand that Mr. Colfax is a near relative of yours, Miss Carvel,"the Captain continued. "His friends may come here to see him duringthe day. And I believe it is not out of place for me to express myadmiration of the captain's conduct. You may care to see him now--"
"Thank you," said Virginia, curtly.
"Orderly, my respects to Captain Colfax, and ask him if a he will bekind enough to come in here. Mr. Brinsmade," said the Captain, "Ishould like a few words with you, sir." And so, thanks to the Captain'sdelicacy, when Clarence arrived he found Virginia alone. She was muchagitated She ran toward him as he entered the door, calling his name.
"Max, you are going to stay here?"
"Yes, until I am exchanged."
Aglow with admiration, she threw herself into his arms. Now, indeed, wasshe proud of him. Of all the thousand defenders of the state, he alonewas true to his principles--to the South. Within sight of home, he alonehad chosen privation.
She looked up into his face, which showed marks of excitement andfatigue. But above all, excitement. She knew that he could live onexcitement. The thought came to her--was it that which sustained himnow? She put it away as treason. Surely the touch of this experiencewould transform the boy into the man. This was the weak point in thearmor which she wore so bravely for her cousin.
He had grown up to idleness. He had known neither care norresponsibility. His one longing from a child had been that love offighting and adventure which is born in the race. Until this gloomyday in the Arsenal, Virginia had never characterized it as a love ofexcitement---as any thing which contained a selfish element. She lookedup into his face, I say, and saw that which it is given to a woman onlyto see. His eyes burned with a light that was far away. Even with hisarms around her he seemed to have forgotten her presence, and that shehad come all the way to the Arsenal to see him. Her hands dropped limplyfrom his shoulders She drew away, as he did not seem to notice.
So it is with men. Above and beyond the sacrifice of a woman's life, thejoy of possessing her soul and affection, is something more desirablestill--fame and glory--personal fame and glory, The woman may sharethem, of course, and be content with the radiance. When the Governorin making his inauguration speech, does he always think of the help thelittle wife has given him. And so, in moments of excitement, when we seefar ahead into a glorious future, we do not feel the arms about us,or value the sweets which, in more humdrum days, we labored so hard toattain.
Virginia drew away, and the one searching glance she gave him he didnot see. He was staring far beyond; tears started in her eyes, and sheturned from him to look out over the Arsenal grounds, still wet andheavy with the night's storm. The day itself was dark and damp. Shethought of the supper cooking at home. It would not be eaten now.
And yet, in that moment of bitterness Virginia loved him. Such are theways of women, even of the proudest, who love their country too. It
wasbut right that he should not think of her when the honor of the Southwas at stake; and the anger that rose within her was against those ninehundred and ninety-nine who had weakly accepted the parole.
"Why did Uncle Comyn not come?" asked Clarence.
"He has gone to Jefferson City, to see the Governor.."
"And you came alone?"
"No, Mr. Brinsmade brought me."
"And mother?"
She was waiting for that question. What a relief that should have comeamong the first.
"Aunt Lillian feels very badly. She was in her room when I left. She wasafraid," (Virginia had to smile), "she was afraid the Yankees would killyou."
"They have behaved very well for Yankees," replied he, "No luxury, andthey will not hear of my having a servant. They are used to doing theirown work. But they have treated me much better since I refused to taketheir abominable oath."
"And you will be honored for it when the news reaches town."
"Do you think so, Jinny?" Clarence asked eagerly, "I reckon they willthink me a fool!"
"I should like to hear any one say so," she flashed out.
"No," said Virginia, "our friends will force them to release you. Ido not know much about law. But you have done nothing to be imprisonedfor."
Clarence did not answer at once. Finally he said. "I do not want to bereleased."
"You do not want to be released," she repeated.
"No," he said. "They can exchange me. If I remain a prisoner, it willhave a greater effect--for the South."
She smiled again, this time at the boyish touch of heroics. Experience,responsibility, and he would get over that. She remembered once, longago, when his mother had shut him up in his room for a punishment, andhe had tortured her by remaining there for two whole days.
It was well on in the afternoon when she drove back to the city with Mr.Brinsmade. Neither of them had eaten since morning, nor had they eventhought of hunger. Mr. Brinsmade was silent, leaning back in the cornerof the carriage, and Virginia absorbed in her own thoughts. Drawing nearthe city, that dreaded sound, the rumble of drums, roused them. A shotrang out, and they were jerked violently by the starting of the horses.As they dashed across Walnut at Seventh came the fusillade. Virginialeaned out of the window. Down the vista of the street was a mass ofblue uniforms, and a film of white smoke hanging about the columns ofthe old Presbyterian Church Mr. Brinsmade quietly drew her back into thecarriage.
The shots ceased, giving place to an angry roar that struck terror toher heart that wet and lowering afternoon. The powerful black horsesgalloped on. Nicodemus tugging at the reins, and great splotches ofmud flying in at the windows. The roar of the crowd died to an ominousmoaning behind them. Then she knew that Mr. Brinsmade was speaking:--"From battle and murder, and from sudden death--from all sedition, privyconspiracy, and rebellion,--Good Lord, deliver us."
He was repeating the Litany--that Litany which had come down through theages. They had chanted it in Cromwell's time, when homes were ruined andlaid waste, and innocents slaughtered. They had chanted it on the dark,barricaded stairways of mediaeval Paris, through St. Bartholomew'snight, when the narrow and twisted streets, ran with blood. They hadchanted it in ancient India, and now it was heard again in the New Worldand the New Republic of Peace and Good Will.
Rebellion? The girl flinched at the word which the good gentleman haduttered in his prayers. Was she a traitor to that flag for which herpeople had fought in three wars? Rebellion! She burned to blot itforever from the book Oh, the bitterness of that day, which was prophecyof the bitterness to come.
Rain was dropping as Mr. Brinsmade escorted her up her own steps.He held her hand a little at parting, and bade her be of good cheer.Perhaps he guessed something of the trial she was to go through thatnight alone with her aunt, Clarence's mother. Mr. Brinsmade did not godirectly home. He went first to the little house next door to his. Mrs.Brice and Judge Whipple were in the parlor: What passed between themthere has not been told, but presently the Judge and Mr. Brinsmade cameout together and stood along time in, the yard, conversing, heedless ofthe rain.
The Crisis — Complete Page 33