A WAR STORY
WHEN the war broke out, Helen and Marie Mason, twin sisters, were left at home with no protector save two old slaves, Dan and Lois. Their father had given every dollar he had to the cause of the South. The two girls had grown up without a mother's care, for she had died when they were ten years old, and their father had mourned her so deeply that he had never thought of giving them a new mother. But they were not spoiled—they lived in this simple little home, tenderly guarded by their father, and all their needs had been carefully looked after by the two old slaves, who would have laid down their lives for them.
But when in the second year of the war, Mr. Mason went into the army, their hearts were nearly broken. They declared they could not spare him, the "old darling." Were there not plenty of younger and stronger men? and besides, they were half Union at heart, and did not share their father's sentiments of fidelity to the Southern cause.
They showed no signs of their sorrow at the parting, but, with Spartan endurance, bade him a long farewell, and he set off, followed by the prayers of his beautiful daughters. Letters and messages came often to the little home by the Mississippi, and time did not hang quite as heavily as they had feared it would; but their father's letters were filled with bitter rancor, and he sought earnestly to impress upon their minds the enmity which they should cultivate as daughters of the sunny South, against the soldiers of the North.
But there was one chapter in their life which he had not fully conned. Marie would sigh deeply over her father's messages, but Helen, who had more independence and self-reliance, found words of consolation for her.
In the days before the war, their home had been the scene of many a pleasant gathering, and among their guests were several young men of Northern birth, whom business or pleasure had brought to the South, and who had found great attractions within their charmed circle. Marie did not know why she took such pleasure in the coming of Walter Ryder, or why she felt so lonely when he was away. Her father had liked the young man for his manly, straightforward bearing and honest principles, but he could not tolerate his becoming a Union soldier, and when he learned of his intention, he forbade his gentle Marie ever to see him again.
In vain Walter had striven to see her, if only for an instant, so that he might say good-bye to her. She would not disobey her father, and yet it was with a bitter pang that she refused to meet him once more before his departure.
Old Aunt Lois saw how her lily drooped, but she had great faith in her master's judgment, and she didn't "like Northerners nohow," and yet she wiped many a tear away with the corner of her blue-checked apron, as she lamented about "diswah dat upset eberybody's 'pinions so."
Walter had gone without a word to cheer him. He had gone from the place which had grown so dear, and while pretty Marie wept, Helen chided her for her lack of fortitude.
The months went by, and they often heard through returned soldiers of Walter Ryder. Then came news that he was wounded, and then that he had died of his wound. The whole world seemed to have stopped then for poor Marie. She grew thin and white, and she reproached herself incessantly because she had so cruelly refused to see Walter. The house grew strangely still, for there were no more social meetings, and Helen shared the gloom that enveloped Marie.
"Pears to me dat eberyting goes wrong," Aunt Lois said, as she stopped in her mixing bread, and gazed out upon the landscape, which was beautiful to look upon.
But Aunt Lois was no poet or artist, only the colored cook in this lovely home. "Fust de wall cum—den Massa Mason brung home to die, and pretty Missie Helen sitting dar in her bodoor all alone all day, neber speaking a word to po' Miss Marie, who lubed her father dearly. Don't I know dat po' little gal is breaking her heart 'tween losing dat foolish man and her dear father?"
"Lois—Aunt Lois!" a sweet and girlish voice called.
"What is it, honey—Ise coming!"
Before she could take her hands from the dough a slender young girl, whose pure face would have made the veriest stranger admire it, burst into the kitchen, and sank in a heap at the feet of the old negress, who, now actually alarmed, seized her by the arm, and with a look of anxiety on her black face, asked the girl what had happened.
"I've seen him—seen Walter. They said he was dead. Oh, Aunt Lois, he looked so brave, so happy. I never thought he could look happy again," and the tears streamed down her face.
"Now cum here, chile, and sit in yo' old auntie's lap as yo' used to when yo' was a tiny gal, and I used to tell yo' stories and sing de old plantation melodies. Come, and you'll forgit all about yo' trubbles."
Lois had cleared her hands by this time of the dough, and as she took the girl by the hand, a loud rap sounded on the outside door.
"Oh, look, there's a whole lot of soldiers on the lawn, but he ain't with them!" Marie added, as she peered from the window.
"Ise not afraid of sogers! What do you want?" Aunt Lois said, boldly advancing to the door, where a tall soldier in blue stood, with a dozen men, all armed. "Hello!" he said rather roughly, but catching sight of Marie, whose face was blanched with terror, he spoke more courteously: "I beg pardon, Miss, but we are in search of a spy who goes by the name of Walter Ryder. We have tracked him to this place, and have orders to arrest him."
"My—" she choked the telltale words, and with dignity answered: "Walter Ryder is not a spy, neither is he here."
"I regret the necessity, Miss, but I must search the house."
"You can," she said, haughtily.
Leaving the soldiers posted around the house, the sergeant and two of the men entered the dwelling, and commenced the search, but it was useless, for no trace of Walter was found. When they came to the door of Helen's room, they found it locked, and yet they heard voices.
"I thought you were dead," some one was saying. "My sister has mourned you constantly."
They struck the butts of their guns against the panels of the door, and demanded admission, but no one answered. They pushed it open, and the girl who sat there sprang to her feet, thoroughly frightened, but no one else was in the room.
The three men looked at each other with a puzzled look. There was but one window in the apartment, and that was covered with a mass of clinging vines so dense and thick that they formed a complete mat. They pushed their bayonets through the tangled mass, but no one was there.
Helen gazed at them as if half stupefied. The sergeant courteously raised his cap, and said: "Miss, we are in search of a man whom we think is a spy—he certainly was seen in these grounds."
"We do not harbor spies, sir."
"I do not think you do—but he may have used your premises for a hiding-place. I beg your pardon for intruding. Right about face!" to his men, A still more prolonged search of the grounds revealed nothing, and after placing a guard, the remainder left.
But where was Marie? As soon as the soldiers had left the room she went back to Helen, who sat with bowed head, and touching her gently on the arm, she whispered—"Sister." A tender light shone in Helen's face, but she answered—"Marie, if you only knew how I have injured you—I have not been a sister to you."
"Not a sister to me, dear Helen? Why, you are the dearest of sisters. What do you mean?"
"Marie, could you dream that your sister, who loves you so dearly, would willingly have wronged you so that you never can forgive me?"
"I cannot believe you, Helen. Explain, will you?"
"I poisoned our father's mind against you. I wrote him that you were receiving Walter Ryder's attentions, and that I had prevented an elopement by my watchfulness."
"Helen! How could you? And that is the reason that he would not see me when they brought him home wounded. How cruel! Father, you cannot hear me, but you must know the truth now."
"I dare not ask your forgiveness, nor dare I tell you why I did it."
The girl stood before her sister, and in low and pleading tones she urged—"Tell me all, Helen. I will call you sister," as the other put up her hand with a gesture of pain. "You know how fond you were of Walter once."
A frown contracted the brow of the girl who listened, and she buried her face in Marie's lap, as she continued—
"I am ashamed to tell you, my unselfish sister, that I have done such a grievous wrong. I, too, loved Walter Ryder. Do not start. I was infatuated, and when he asked our dear father's permission to address you, I hated him, and from that hour I lost no chance of ruining him in his estimation. He went into the Northern army, and that helped my cause. Father swore that no daughter of his should marry a man who would take up arms against the South. I played a double part. I told Walter of our father's objections, and also persuaded him that you were half promised to a colonel in our army. He went away, and was killed at Chattanooga." And the stately Helen broke into a passion of weeping.
"Sister, who told you that he was killed?"
"I have letters from cousin Will, telling me so, and lamenting his death, for he was much attached to him."
"Did you not hear the soldier to-day charge Walter with being a spy?"
"I did not hear the name of the man they were looking for—it surely was not Walter?"
The rosy flush that rose to her cheeks made Marie turn faint. Could it be that her sister cared for him yet?
"Do not look at me as if you doubted me. That foolish passion has burned itself out. My only hope is that he lives, so that I may repair, in a measure, the wrong I have done you both. When I have seen you pining, my heart has ached for you."
"Oh, Helen dear, how good you are!"
The twilight deepened, as they sat there, and a shot was heard, which brought them both to their feet. Another rang out, and with a wild cry of alarm the girls fled from the house, toward the spot from whence they came. Marie saw a form fleeing into the darkening woods, and heard the command "Halt!" It never paused, and as the soldiers raised their rifles to fire, she sprang almost in front of their weapons, and cried—"Do not fire again. You have killed him."
"We have not fired at all. It was not our shot that struck him, but we were about to fire on the man who wounded him, and whom you saw running away," Sergeant Hughes said, respectfully.
At a short distance they found Walter Ryder, who was wounded in the side, and as they carried him back to camp, he said—
"Take me to the Lieutenant. I can prove my innocence." Marie and Helen threw themselves into each other's arms. Old Lois wrung her hands in despair.
"I tole you no good wud cum outen dat man's comin' round here," she said to old Dan.
"I doant know why not," he said. "Wat you got agin him?"
"He ain't our sort," she said, contemptuously. "Nordern men am diffunt from Soudern—doan yo' sense it?"
"Dat's not for me to explaticate. But who was it gib'd us our freedom but dem same Nordern men; and isn't it worf sumfing to own yo'self? Dat's wat de Nordern 'trash,' as you call 'em, has done for you and me."
"I neber could talk wif you, old man, for youse always on de contrary side," and she left the partner of her joys and sorrows with what was intended for a very lofty step.
"De old gal doant like my plain speaking," Dan chuckled. "But Ise on de right side always."
Next morning dawned brightly. As the birds sang their welcome to early day, a young girl left the house and walked rapidly toward the camp, a quarter of a mile distant. No one would have recognized the elegant Helen in her disguise. She wore a calico dress, much faded and too large for her, pinned in folds about her form. A sunbonnet hid her lovely face, and an old black cape completed the outfit. She carried a basket of fruit, and to all appearances was a country lassie seeking a market for her goods.
No challenge was given her. The customary "Halt!" was replaced by a gracious smile from the guard, and permission was given her to enter.
"I want to see the General who has charge here," she said. A broad smile was on the soldier's face. "The General is out on business just now, Miss. Indeed, I haven't seen him for some time. Won't the Lieutenant do as well?"
The haughty look she gave him brought the flippant fellow to his senses.
"Miss," he stammered, in an apologetic tone, "if you've got anything to sell, why you'd do better to see the cook. He buys all our provender, and will take your fruit, I'm certain."
"I wish to see the officer who is in command here," she continued.
"Bob," the guard said, "go tell the officer of the day that a lady wishes to see him."
"The Lieutenant will see the lady at once," the man said, on his return. Conducting her to a tent, she entered, and saw a very handsome young man, "far handsomer," she thought, "than Walter." His brown eyes rested inquiringly upon her as he arose and politely handed her a camp stool. She seated herself, but remained silent. He kindly said—
"Did you wish to see me on any particular matter? I am at your service."
Helen's heart beat fast. She knew that she was placed in a strange position, but she felt she could endure any unjust comment, so that she could undo the wrong she had done her sister and Walter Ryder.
"Sir, I came to ask you if the young man who was shot yesterday, was killed?" and her voice faltered.
"Ah," Lieutenant Gordon thought, "she is no simple country girl. Why is she interested in a Union soldier?" The query gave his voice a tinge of bitterness as he made reply—
"He was not, though he deserved death, for he is a Confederate spy."
"Oh, sir, you are wrong. Believe me, he is no spy, and I will prove it to you, if you will only listen."
In her excitement she had risen to her feet, and her sun-bonnet had fallen off, while her long dark hair rippled over her face, which was flushed and eager. Again that bitter feeling crossed the officer's mind as he gazed at her, half forgetting that she was waiting for his permission to explain.
"You will not shoot him as a spy—you cannot be so cruel!"
"Miss, it does not rest with me to decide the fate of the young man. He will be tried on the charge of being a spy, and if guilty—why, you know the rules of war."
She looked at him steadily, and as their gaze met he felt there was some powerful reason for the feeling she showed. He waited courteously for her to speak, but her lips trembled and her voice failed her.
"Have you any reason to give why he should not be punished?"
"I have—he is innocent, and I come to you to ask for his life. I must tell you the truth, and leave it to your honor to conceal as much of the facts as you can, consistent with his safety. My twin sister and I are deeply interested in him."
"And so you are yet," he thought, with a jealous pang. "He asked my father's consent to address her, but was refused because he joined the Northern army. I did not like the thought of her marrying him, and I did all I could to prevent it. He went away a long time ago, and we heard of him now and then, but at last we learned that he was killed at Chattanooga. Then my heart turned to fire, for I had driven him away without giving him a chance to hear my sister's promises of fidelity. I learned quite lately that he was not dead, but that his company was doing guard duty at this place. I was so thankful to know that he was alive, that I resolved to see him and tell him the truth. I wrote him, begging him to come to our house, and at a signal agreed upon I would see him and all would be made right. I signed my sister's name, for I wanted to be sure he would come. He was just outside my window, and I had begun to explain, when your soldiers burst into my room, and he hid in old Dan's quarters."
"I trust the men were not rude to you," Lieutenant Gordon said, alarmed.
"Oh, no, they treated us as all true soldiers will, with respect. But oh, if Walter is shot, I shall be a murderess!" The look of distress upon her beautiful face made her still more lovely, so the Lieutenant thought.
"I believe your story, Miss," he said, "and will investigate at once. He had no right to be absent from his post without leave, but I suppose 'the end justifies the means,'" smiling into her inquiring face. "Meanwhile I will send a guard with you to insure your safety."
"Please do not. I came here disguised as a fruit peddler, so as to excite no remarks, and I can go back the same way."
"But you have not told me what you have done with the young man?"
"He has been placed in the hospital. His wound is quite severe, but not fatal. The strangest part of the affair is, that not one of our men fired a shot. He was wounded by some one unknown to us."
"Who could have done it?"
"I have no idea—possibly he has some enemy; most of us have."
"I must hurry away. Breakfast will be ready, and my absence will make them wonder. Good-morning, sir, and many thanks for your kindness."
"Good-morning, Miss—"
"Mason. I live but a half mile away, and I hope, if you are ever near us, you will call and tell us how Walter is. Or, rather, I had better send old Dan, our servant, here every day to inquire."
"Do not trouble yourself to do that. I will do myself the honor of calling, to inform you how his wound progresses."
It was strange how long it took Walter to recover, or at least how many calls Lieutenant Gordon was compelled to make, ere he deemed Marie's nerves would endure the shock of seeing him. Helen always had a bright welcome for the Lieutenant, and when she requested him to allow Marie and herself to visit Walter, the officer shook his head wisely and promised to help the wounded soldier over at a very early day. The latter had been chafing at the delay. Lieutenant Gordon had long since received proofs of his innocence as a spy, and was satisfied that his punishment had been severe enough, but his own case perplexed him. Was he pleasing in her sight; could she care for him; and how dared he tell her his own feelings?
Old Lois was always shaking her head in solemn disapproval. "What has dun got into dem two chilien?" she often asked old Dan. "Dey seems to be gitting 'witched wif dem couple Norvern men. Dey cahnt eider ob 'em hold a candle to Massa Colonel Allison, who's dun gone, on Miss Marie. Why, he's de man after my own mind. His big black eyes flash like diamonds, and dat booful beard falls over his mouf like a willow tree. Doan know what young gals is tinking of nowadays." Another shake of the head and a puckering up of the thick lips. "But here cums Dan; he never did like Massa Allison, so I won't 'spute wid him, for I 'spises family quarrels."
Old Dan walked slowly and as if thinking deeply, up the path to the kitchen door, and stood there, looking in. Aunt Lois at first thought she would ignore his presence entirely, but curiosity triumphed, and as he showed no desire to talk, but turned off into the woods, she unbent from her dignity, and called loudly—"Dan—ole man!"
He turned impatiently, and said—"Let me alone, Ise engaged on particular business, dat wimmen don't know nufhn about conducting."
Lois' nose went up into the air, or rather would have gone, were it not so flat and heavy she could not elevate it.
"How high and mighty old niggers can be!" was her retort. For a day or two there was an air of mystery about Dan which offended Lois deeply, but she wouldn't ask any questions. "If my ole man has any secrets from me now at his time of life, well, I'll find 'em out," she said to herself. One forenoon he astonished her by saying—
"Does yo' like Massa Allison?"
"I dus. He's de kind of a gemman dat I likes to see 'roun. Whar's Miss Marie's eyes when she cahnt see how far s'perior he is to dose Norvern sogers who am jess libin' here now."
"Yer wouldn't like him so well if yer knew he was a 'sassin, would yer?"
The old negress was all attention. "A 'sassin, what's dat?"
"A wicked man what tries to murder anuder jess becase he lubs de same gal dat he does."
"Whose de man? Whar am he?"
"I'll tell yer sumfing, but yer musn't tell. Ise had de secret a long time, but I cahnt keep it any longer."
"Perceed, old man."
"Massa Allison lubs our sweet mistis."
"Which one?"
"Why, Miss Marie, ob course. I 'lows Miss Helen is all right, but she cahnt—"
"Dar yo' go, way off from de subjict. What did he do?" Dan tiptoed nearer to his spouse. "Yer 'members de day Massa Walter was shot. I was in dem woods after rabbits, when I seed Massa Allison wid a musket, lying flat on his face in some high bushes. I felt it was kind o' queer; yo' know he's home on leab ob absence, and so I watched him. Quick I heard de report, and saw Massa Walter fall right down, and Massa Allison rund away fast as a deer. I picked up his hankcher and his name is printed right on it, and I've kep' it in my bussum ever since."
"You telling de troof? If yo' is, my symperthies go right ober to dat ar wounded boy."
"Ise telling de troof, ole woman. And now yo' see why Ise got no lub for Massa Allison."
"Well, we'd best keep dis yere news to ourselves. Yo' know a nigger's word never'd go before a white man's down here, so we'll jess keep our moufs shut."
But Aunt Lois' prejudices were strong yet, and it took some little persuasion on the part of Dan before she would acknowledge that Massa Walter was as nice as one ob deir "own Soudern men were."
Lieutenant Gordon had at first, when the company was assigned to provost duty, chafed restlessly, for he preferred being at the front, but as the weeks rolled on he became wonderfully resigned to his orders, and so one day he assumed a fierce martial look, and stormed the fortress of Helen's affections. It was a singularly easy victory, for she capitulated at once.
Walter's recovery was slow. When he first met Marie, his joy was almost overshadowed by timidity. He could scarce credit the assurance that she loved him. He never alluded to her sister's part in their separation, and this delicacy won for him the gratitude of that young girl. The old slave, Dan, was jubilant. It had been arranged that Lois and he should accompany the two sisters to their Northern homes, where the parents of both the bridegrooms were awaiting them, eager to receive them. The dear old home was to be occupied by their cousin Will and his wife, a sweet-faced Southern girl, who assured them that it would ever be a home for them as well.
One fine morning in May a double solemn ceremony was performed which bound Marie and Walter and Helen and Lieutenant Harry Gordon together, for life. A few chosen friends were there, and Lois and Dan were decked out in all the colors of the rainbow. Dan chuckled audibly as he informed Lois that "dat ar Union was what de whole Souf and Norf ought to celebrate—a Union forever."
Walters period of service had expired, and he was free to go. Lieutenant Gordon was to remain behind until the boys were discharged from the service.
"It will not be long before we shall be together again, dear sister," Helen said. "General Lee has surrendered, the armies of both sides are being disbanded, and the time will pass quickly." They sat on the veranda, where they had so often sat, and talked over their dreams and hopes.
The Colonel, whose shot came near ending a life, had disappeared after his murderous attempt. They never heard from him again, and in their luxurious homes the sisters dwell, loving and beloved.