Part 9

"What's your name?" asked the Squire.

"I'm name Tuck, suh. None er you all ain't seed nothin' er Marse----"

"Who do you belong to?"

"I b'longs ter de Cloptons down dar in Georgy, suh. None er you-all ain't seed nothin'----"

"What are you doin' here?" demanded Squire Fambrough, somewhat angrily. "Don't you know you are liable to get killed any minute? Ain't you makin' your way to the Yankee army?"

"No, suh." The negro spoke with unction. "I'm des a-huntin' my young marster, suh. He name Dave Henry Clopton. Dat what we call him--Marse Henry. None er you-all ain't seed 'im, is you?"

"Jule," said the Squire, rubbing his nose thoughtfully, "ain't that the name of the chap that used to hang around here before the Yankees got too close?"

"Do you mean Lieutenant Clopton, father?" asked Julia, showing some confusion.

"Yessum." Tuck grinned and rubbed his hands together. "Marse Dave Henry is sholy a lieutender in de company, an' mistiss she say he'd a done been a giner'l ef dey wa'nt so much enviousness in de army."

"I saw him this morning--I mean--" Julia blushed and hesitated. "I mean, I heard him talking out here in the grove."

"Who was he talking to, Jule?" The Squire put the question calmly and deliberately.

There was a little pause. Julia, still blushing, adjusted an imaginary hair-pin. The negro looked sheepishly from one to the other. The Squire repeated his question.

"Who was he talking to, Jule?"

"Nobody but me," said the young lady, growing redder. Her embarrassment was not lessened by an involuntary "eh--eh," from the negro. Squire Fambrough raised his eyes heavenwards and allowed both his heavy hands to drop helplessly by his side.

"What was he talkin' about?" The old man spoke with apparent humility.

"N-o-t-h-i-n-g," said Julia, demurely, looking at her pink finger-nails. "He just asked me if I thought it would rain, and I told him I didn't know; and then he said the spring was coming on very rapidly, and I said, 'Yes, I thought it was.' And then he had found a bunch of violets and asked me if I would accept them, and I said, 'Thank you.'"

"Land of the livin' Moses!" exclaimed Squire Fambrough, lifting his hands above his head and allowing them to fall heavily again. "And they call this war!"

"Yessum!" The negro's tone was triumphant. "Dat sholy wuz Marse Dave Henry. War er no war, dat wuz him. Dat des de way he goes 'mongst de ladies. He gi'um candy yit, let 'lone flowers. Shoo! You can't tell me nothin' 'tall 'bout Marse Dave Henry."

"What are you wanderin' 'round here in the woods for?" asked the Squire. His tone was somewhat severe. "Did anybody tell you he was here?"

"No, suh!" replied Tuck. "Dey tol' me back dar at de camps dat I'd fin' 'im out on de picket line, an' when I got dar dey tol' me he wuz out dis a-way, whar dey wuz some sharp-shootin' gwine on, but I ain't foun' 'im yit."

"Ain't you been with him all the time?" The Squire was disposed to treat the negro as a witness for the defence.

"Lor, no, suh! I des now come right straight fum Georgy. Mistiss--she Marse Dave Henry's ma--she hear talk dat de solyers ain't got no cloze fer ter w'ar an' no vittles fer ter eat, skacely, an' she tuck'n made me come an' fetch 'im a box full er duds an' er box full er vittles. She put cake in dar, yit, 'kaze I smelt it whiles I wuz handlin' de box. De boxes, dey er dar at de camp, an' here me, but wharbouts is Marse Dave Henry? Not ter be a-hidin' fum somebody, he de hardest white man ter fin' what I ever laid eyes on. I speck I better be knockin' 'long. Good-by, marster; good-by, young mistiss. Ef I don' fin' Marse Dave Henry no wheres, I'll know whar ter come an' watch fer 'im."

The Squire watched the negro disappear in the woods, and then turned to his daughter. To his surprise, her eyes were full of tears; but before he could make any comment, or ask any question, he heard the noise of tramping feet in the woods, and presently saw two Union soldiers approaching. Almost immediately Julia called his attention to three soldiers coming from the Confederate side.

"I believe in my soul we're surrounded by both armies," remarked the Squire dryly. "But don't git skeer'd, honey. I'm goin' to see what they're trespassin' on my premises for."

IV. COMMERCE AND SENTIMENT.

"Upon my sowl," said O'Halloran, as he and Captain Somerville went forward, the big Irishman leading the way, "I'm afeard I'm tollin' you into a trap."

"How?" asked the captain.

"Why, there's three of the Johnnies comin', sor, an' the ould man an' the gurrul make five."

"Halt!" said the captain, using the word by force of habit. The two paused, and the captain took in the situation at a glance. Then he turned to the big Irishman, with a queer look on his face.

"What is it, sor?"

"I'm in for it now. That is my father yonder, and the young lady is my sister."

"The Divvle an' Tom Walker!" exclaimed O'Halloran. "'Tis quite a family rayanion, sor."

"I don't know whether to make myself known or not. What could have possessed them to stay here? I'll see whether they know me." As they went forward, the captain plucked O'Halloran by the sleeve. "I'll be shot if the Johnny with his arm in the sling isn't my brother."

"I was expectin' it, sor," said the big Irishman, giving matters a humorous turn. "Soon the cousins will be poppin' out from under the bushes."

By this time the two were near enough to the approaching Confederates to carry on a conversation by lifting their voices a little.

"Hello, Johnny," said O'Halloran.

"Hello, Yank," replied Kilpatrick.

"What's the countersign, Johnny?"

"Tobacco. What is it on your side, Yank?"

"Tay an' coffee, Johnny."

"You are mighty right," Kilpatrick exclaimed. "Stack your arms agin a tree."

"The same to you," said O'Halloran.

The Irishman, using his foot as a broom, cleared the dead leaves and twigs from a little space of ground, where he deposited his bundle, and Kilpatrick did the same. John Fambrough, the wounded Confederate, went forward to greet his father and sister, and Lieutenant Clopton went with him. The Squire was not in a good humor.

"I tell you what, John," he said to his son, "I don't like to be harborin' nary side. It's agin' my principles. I don't like this colloguin' an' palaverin' betwixt folks that ought to be by good rights a-knockin' one another on the head. If they want to collogue an' palaver, why don't they go som'ers else?"

The Squire's son tried to explain, but the old gentleman hooted at the explanation. "Come on, Jule, let's go and see what they're up to."

As they approached, the Irishman glanced at Captain Somerville, and saw that he had turned away, cap in hand, to hide his emotion.

"You're just in time," the Irishman said to Squire Fambrough in a bantering tone, "to watch the continding armies. This mite of a Johnny will swindle the Government, if I don't kape me eye on him."

"Is this what you call war?" the Squire inquired sarcastically. "Who axed you to come trespassin' on my land?"

"Oh, we'll put the leaves back where we found them," said Kilpatrick, "if we have to git a furlough."

"Right you are!" said the Irishman.

"It is just a little trading frolic among the boys!" Captain Somerville turned to the old man with a courteous bow. "They will do no harm. I'll answer for that."

"Well, I'll tell you how I feel about it!" Squire Fambrough exclaimed with some warmth. "I'm in here betwixt the hostiles. They ain't nobody here but me an' my daughter. We don't pester nobody, an' we don't want nobody to pester us. One of my sons is in the Union army, I hear tell, an' the other is in the Confederate army when he ain't in the hospital. These boys, you see, found their old daddy a-straddle of the fence, an' one clomb down one leg on the Union side, an' t'other one clomb down t'other leg on the Confederate side."

"That is what I call an interesting situation," said the captain, drawing a long breath. "Perhaps I have seen your Union son."

"Maybe so, maybe so," assented the Squire.

"Perhaps you have seen him yourself since the war began?"

Before the Squire could make any reply, Julia rushed at the captain and threw her arms around his neck, crying, "O brother George, I know you!"

The Squire seemed to be dazed by this discovery. He went towards the captain slowly. The tears streamed down his face and the hand he held out trembled.

"George," he exclaimed, "God A'mighty knows I'm glad to see you!"

O'Halloran and Kilpatrick had paused in the midst of their traffic to watch this scene, but when they saw the gray-haired old man crying and hugging his son, and the young girl clinging to the two, they were confused. O'Halloran turned and kicked his bundles.

"Take all the tay and coffee, you bloody booger! Just give me a pipeful of the weed."

Kilpatrick shook his fist at the big Irishman.

"Take the darned tobacco, you red-mouthed Mickey! What do I want with your tea and coffee?" Then both started to go a little way into the woods. Lieutenant Clopton following. The captain would have called them back, but they wouldn't accept the invitation.

"We are just turnin' our backs, sor, while you hold a family orgie," said O'Halloran. "Me an' this measly Johnny will just go on an' complate the transaction of swappin'."

At this moment Tuck reappeared on the scene. Seeing his young master, he stopped still and looked at him, and then broke out into loud complaints.

"Marse Dave Henry, whar de namer goodness you been? You better come read dish yer letter what yo' ma writes you. I'm gwine tell mistiss she come mighty nigh losin' a likely nigger, an' she'll rake you over de coals, mon."

"Why, howdy, Tuck," exclaimed Lieutenant Clopton. "Ain't you glad to see me?"

"Yasser, I speck I is." The negro spoke in a querulous and somewhat doubtful tone, as he produced a letter from the lining of his hat. "But I'd 'a' been a heap gladder ef I hadn't mighty nigh trapsed all de gladness out'n me."

Young Clopton took the letter and read it with a smile on his lips and a dimness in his eyes. The negro, left to himself, had his attention attracted by the coffee and tobacco lying exposed on the ground. He looked at the display, scratching his head.

"Boss, is dat sho nuff coffee?"

"It is that same," said O'Halloran.

"De ginnywine ole-time coffee?" insisted the negro.

"'Tis nothin' else, simlin-head."

"Marse Dave Henry," the negro yelled, "run here an' look at dish yer ginnywine coffee! Dey's nuff coffee dar fer ter make mistiss happy de balance er her days. Some done spill out!" he exclaimed. "Boss, kin I have dem what's on de groun'?"

"Take 'em," said O'Halloran, "an' much good may they do you."

"One, two, th'ee, fo', fi', sick, sev'n." The negro counted the grains as he picked them up. "O Marse Dave Henry, run here an' look! I got sev'n grains er ginnywine coffee. I'm gwine take um ter mistiss."

The Irishman regarded the negro with curiosity. Then taking the dead branch of a tree he drew a line several yards in length between himself and Kilpatrick.

"D'ye see that line there?" he said to the negro.

"Dat ar mark? Oh, yasser, I sees de mark."

"Very well. On that side of the line you are in slavery--on this side the line you are free."

"Who? Me?"

"Who else but you?"

"I been hear talk er freedom, but I ain't seed 'er yit, an' I dunner how she feel." The negro scratched his head and grinned expectantly.

"'Tis as I tell you," said the Irishman.

"I b'lieve I'll step 'cross an' see how she feel." The negro stepped over the line, and walked up and down as if to test the matter physically. "'Tain't needer no hotter ner no colder on dis side dan what 'tis on dat," he remarked. Then he cried out to his young master: "Look at me, Marse Dave Henry; I'm free now."

"All right." The young man waved his hand without taking his eyes from the letter he was reading.

"He take it mos' too easy fer ter suit me," said the negro. Then he called out to his young master again: "O Marse Dave Henry! Don't you tell mistiss dat I been free, kase she'll take a bresh-broom an' run me off'n de place when I go back home."

V. THE CURTAIN FALLS.

Squire Fambrough insisted that his son should go to the house and look it over for the sake of old times, and young Clopton went along to keep Miss Julia company. O'Halloran, Kilpatrick, and the negro stayed where they were--the white men smoking their pipes, and the negro chewing the first "mannyfac" tobacco he had seen in many a day.

The others were not gone long. As they came back, a courier was seen riding through the woods at break-neck speed, going from the Union lines to those of the Confederates, and carrying a white flag. Kilpatrick hailed him, and he drew rein long enough to cry out, as he waved his flag:

"Lee has surrendered!"

"I was looking out for it," said Kilpatrick, "but dang me if I hadn't ruther somebody had a-shot me right spang in the gizzard."

Lieutenant Clopton took out his pocket-knife and began to whittle a stick. John Fambrough turned away, and his sister leaned her hands on his shoulder and began to weep. Squire Fambrough rubbed his chin thoughtfully and sighed.

"It had to be, father," the captain said. "It's a piece of news that brings peace to the land."

"Oh, yes, but it leaves us flat. No money, and nothing to make a crop with."

"I have Government bonds that will be worth a hundred thousand dollars. The interest will keep us comfortably."

"For my part," said Clopton, "I have nothing but this free nigger."

"You b'lieve de half er dat," spoke up the free nigger. "Mistiss been savin' her cotton craps, an' ef she got one bale she got two hundred."

The captain figured a moment. "They will bring more than a hundred thousand dollars."

"I have me two arrums," said O'Halloran.

"I've got a mighty fine pack of fox-hounds," remarked Kilpatrick with real pride.

There was a pause in the conversation. In the distance could be heard the shouting of the Union soldiers and the band with its "Yankee Doodle, howd'y-do?" Suddenly Clopton turned to Captain Fambrough:

"I want to ask you how many troops have you got over there--fighting men?"

The captain laughed. Then he put his hand to his mouth and said in a stage whisper:

"Five companies."

"Well, dang my hide!" exclaimed Kilpatrick.

"What is your fighting force?" Captain Fambrough asked.

"Four companies," said Clopton.

"Think o' that, sir!" cried the Irishman; "an' me out there defendin' meself ag'in a whole army."

"More than that," said Clopton, "our colonel is a Connecticut man."

"Shake!" the captain exclaimed. "My colonel is a Virginian."

"Lord 'a' mercy! Lord 'a' mercy!" It was Squire Fambrough who spoke. "I'm a-goin' off some'rs an' ontangle the tangle we've got into."

Soon the small company separated. The Squire went a short distance towards the Union army with his new-found son, who was now willing to call himself George Somerville Fambrough. Kilpatrick and the negro went trudging back to the Confederate camp, while Clopton lingered awhile, saying something of great importance to the fair Julia and himself.

His remarks and her replies were those which precede and follow both comedy and tragedy. The thunders of war cannot drown them, nor can the sunshine of peace render them commonplace.

THE ROSE IS SUCH A LADY.

BY GERTRUDE HALL.

The rose is such a lady-- So stately, fresh, and sweet; It joys to hold her image The rain pool at her feet.

They look such common lasses, Those red pinks in a line; The rose is such a lady-- So dignified and fine.

The winds would wish to kiss her, And yet they scarcely dare; The rose is such a lady-- So courteous, pure, and fair.

Here's one come from a garden To die within this book-- See, in the faded features The old lady-like look!

THE COUNT DE LESSEPS OF TO-DAY.

BY R. H. SHERARD.

Seated in an arm-chair, now feebly turning over the leaves of his "Souvenirs of Forty Years," now letting his dimmed eyes wander listlessly over the broad expanse of fields and woodlands outside the windows, Ferdinand de Lesseps, the great Frenchman, drags out the agony of his old age.

The visitor to him in his retreat arrives at La Chesnaye to some extent attuned to melancholy, for the long diligence ride from the nearest railway station, twenty-four kilometres away, is across a most desolate country. This part of the ancient duchy of Berry is one of the districts in France which has most suffered by the ruin of the vine-culture; the lands seem deserted and abandoned; the roads are neglected, and little life is seen anywhere till the sleepy burgh of Vatan is reached. From Vatan, which is a market-town on the old and now disused high-road from Paris to Toulouse, to the chateau of La Chesnaye, there are four more kilometres of road across an equally desolate country to be taken. The buildings of the home farm are the first human habitations that one sees all the long way. An oppressive sense of desolation imposes itself on even the casual wayfarer, and prepares for the sorrowful sight that awaits him who goes to La Chesnaye to salute the fallen greatness of the old man who but two years ago was the greatest Frenchman in France.

The chateau of La Chesnaye, a modest country-house of irregular shape and flanked at the angles with towers, has been in the possession of M. de Lesseps for fifty years. Except for a large modern wing, it stands just as Agnes Sorel, its first occupant, left it. In her days it had served as a hunting-box for her royal patron and the Berry squires, and at present is still surrounded with fields scantily timbered. There is no well-kept lawn, but the fields of grass are full of violets, and there is a trim look about the stables. On a bright day the white of the stone, contrasted with the green of the grass, gives a cheerful look to the scene, but it is indescribably mournful of aspect in the days of rain and snow and wind.

About half a mile on the road before the chateau is in sight, an avenue of trees is reached. "Those trees were planted by M. de Lesseps himself, forty years ago, and every time that he passes this way he relates the fact."

So spoke to me the English governess of the De Lesseps children, whom Madame de Lesseps had despatched to meet me with the pony-carriage at Vatan.

"The countess is terribly busy to-day with her papers, for she is expecting a barrister from Paris, who is to receive some instructions in view of the new trial; but she will manage to give you an hour, and wants you to drive to church with her, so that you can talk on the way." As we entered the courtyard the countess's carriage was in waiting at the front entrance. It was the landau of the days of triumphant drives in the Champs Elysees, and the horses were the same pair which excited the admiration and envy of the connoisseurs of the Avenue des Acacias, "Juliette" and "Panama," which latter is now never called by that name. It is talked about as "the other," for the ill-fated word, Panama, is never even whispered, lest any echo of it should reach the ears of him to whom this word has meant ruin and disgrace and a broken heart. I waited for the countess at the bottom of the spiral stair-case, and presently saw a lady descending, who greeted me in a familiar voice, but whom I failed to recognize. "But, yes," she said, holding out her hand, "I am Madame de Lesseps. I have changed, have I not?"

When I last met Madame de Lesseps in Paris, though at that time the shadow of the present was already upon her, she was in the full of her matronly beauty, large, ample, and flourishing. It was a wasted woman who addressed me, pinched and thin. "If I were to remove my veil," she added, "you would see an even greater change."

"It is a sad moment that you have chosen to visit us, and you find us in terrible circumstances," she said as we drove away. Then turning to the lady who accompanied her, she remarked, "This is the first time I have been out for three weeks, and I ought not to have gone out to-day, except for the fact that I can't miss going to church again. It is the only comfort I have left to me. All my days and most of my nights, when not attending on my husband, are taken up answering letters and telegrams which keep pouring in upon me from all parts of the world. And then I am in constant correspondence with the lawyers in Paris as to the prosecution of my son for corruption, and the revision of the last judgment of the Court of Appeal."

The church which is attended by the La Chesnaye party is situated in a village about three miles off, which is called Guilly, "the mistletoe hamlet," as all the trees around are covered with this parasite. We were passing a fine old oak tree, the upper part of which was loaded with mistletoe, when the lady who was with us laughed scornfully, and, pointing, said: "One would say Herz, Arton, and the rest," referring to the Panama parasites. "Would you believe me," said Madame de Lesseps, "that until these recent revelations I had never even heard the names of either Arton or Herz or the Baron de Reinach?"