"Certainly, certainly, Mr. Lincoln, that's it exactly." Then with a lowered voice: "Perhaps you don't realize, Mr. Lincoln, that every instant a man in that situation, who is known and recognized, and who holds no commission, and wears no federal uniform, has his life in his hands--is in more danger than any soldier ever is, and--"

"Realize! Didn't I tell you so? Didn't I ask you to go better protected?

Didn't I--?"

Griffith waved his hand and went on.

"I somehow couldn't bring myself to take the att.i.tude and position of a soldier. I am a man of peace, a non-combatant, a clergyman, and--and then there was some sort of sentiment--of---- Mr. Lincoln, it isn't necessary to try to explain _my_ position. The fact is, I doubt if I could, if I tried, make you understand wholly; but I want this Government to protect Lengthy Patterson with all the power and all the devices it has. And I want him to have a commission that will place him where he will receive respect and consideration in our own ranks; and if he is captured. I want money paid to him to live on afterward, if he should be hurt--and he can never live in his old home again. I want--"

He had risen and was standing near the President again. His voice had grown intense in its inflection. "Lengthy Patterson has taken my place, and I want--and--if you will just give him all that--I don't see how you can date it back either, or he will suspect that _I_ am paying him--and he wouldn't take a cent; but if--can't you just----"

A great gleam of light seemed to break over the ragged face of the President. He arose suddenly, and threw one arm around Griffith's shoulders, and grasped his hand again.

"G.o.d bless my soul! Certainly! Of course! By the lord Harry, I didn't understand you at first, I-- Why, certainly, the man who took your place shall have both the commission that will s.h.i.+eld him and the pay he deserves, certainly, certainly!" They were moving toward the door.

"Anything else, Mr. Davenport?"

"I reckon you will have to let him think that _I_ took--that I was both commissioned and--and paid, Mr. Lincoln, or he won't take it--and--and there isn't the least reason why _he_ should not. He _must._ Can I leave it all--will you see that----?"

"Oh, yes, yes, that's all right. I'll fix that-- I'm glad it's that way----" He broke off and took Griffith's hand. "Well, good-bye. Goodbye.

I hope, when we meet again, it will not be--I hope this war will be over, and that I shall have no more need to test men like you. But--ah, you have a son who loves you and the other one is safe! I wish to heaven all loyal men were as well off as you are to-night. I am glad for you, and yet I sometimes think I shall never feel really glad again," and the strong homely face sank from its gently quizzical smile into the depths of a mood which had come to be its daily cast. He stretched out his hand for another message, and stood reading it as Griffith closed the door behind him. "New Orleans is ours," was all that the message said, but Mr. Lincoln sighed with relief and with pain. Victory was sweet, but carnage tortured his great and tender soul. The sadly tragic face deepened again in its lines, and yet he said softly, as he turned to his desk: "Thank G.o.d! Thank G.o.d! one more nail is driven into the coffin of the Confederacy. Let us hope that rebellion is nearly ready to lie down in it and keep still. Then perhaps we can be glad again--perhaps we can forget!"

CHAPTER XXIII.

_"Through the shadows of the globe we sweep into the younger day."_

Tennyson

"When the war is over and the boys all get home," Griffith was fond of saying, as he sat and talked with Katherine, "how good it will seem just to live! I've seen all the suffering and shadows of tragedy I want to see for my whole life. The boys and I will make it up to you, Katherine, and these gray hairs that have come," he touched the wavy hair with tender fingers, "these gray hairs that have come since we went away, shall be only memoranda of the past, not heralds of the future."

It was such infinite relief to have him at home and well that Katherine almost forgot for a time to feel troubled about her sons. News had come daily from the first about Roy; but now that he was so much improved the letters gradually grew a little less frequent. Sometimes Emma West wrote them, and then the letters were very minute indeed, and full of anxious hopefulness. Her praise of Roy's fort.i.tude, her descriptions of his wonderful courage and the insistence with which she a.s.sured Katherine that no duty of all their lives--her father's and mother's--had ever been done with half so hearty a good-will as was the nursing of the young Captain, had in it all a spirit of devotion and a guarded tenderness that Katherine thought she understood. Although it is true that no girl is ever quite good enough to marry any mother's son, Katherine tried to adjust herself with reasonable fort.i.tude to the idea of what she thought she saw in the future. Of course it would be many years in the future before the finality must be faced, and Katherine was learning to live in the present and to push aside that which threatened or even promised, as too uncertain to dwell upon. At last short notes, and then longer ones, from Roy himself began to come, and the time seemed not far off when the invalid would arrive. It was wholly unlikely, he said, that he would be fit for service again during the war, unless the war should last much longer than his original term of enlistment and he should enlist again. Of his final recovery he felt certain. The crushed side was doing well, and he would be only slightly lame, the doctor said. To get him out of the army by even so heroic a process gave his mother comfort, and she felt that she could keep him out now even should he recover before his enlistment period were over, she would, if need be, appeal to Mr. Lincoln, and she felt sure, from all Griffith had told her, that the President would give Roy an honorable discharge. Two of her _brood_ were safe again, she argued with herself, and meantime news from Howard and Beverly was frequent and a.s.suring. Life seemed about to drop into less tragic lines in the little household. Griffith fell to humming his favorite hymns once more, and sometimes as he sat on the porch and watched or greeted the pa.s.sers-by or read his paper, he would stop to tell Katherine stories of his recent adventures, where they did not trench too closely upon the sorrowful memories of the cold faces and bitter feelings of his one-time friends.

To no one else did he speak of where he had been. His townsmen knew that he had been away, of course. The Bishop and the college trustees alone knew why. To all others his few months' absence was no more significant than many another trip he had taken since he came among them. The duty he had felt forced to do had been too painful in its nature to make him willing to discuss it even after it was over. Most of those about him were bitter toward the South with a bitterness born of ignorance of conditions and of the times of excitement. To this man, who had pa.s.sed through the fire before the general conflagration was kindled, there was no bitterness. He understood. His sympathy was still with those who were caught on the under side of the wheel of progress as it had revolved.

His beliefs and convictions had long ago traveled with the advance line; but he left all sense of unkindness and revenge to those who were less competent to see the conflict from the side of understanding, and who judged it through the abundance of their ignorance and prejudice. To Griffith it was like watching the tide rise on the sea. It was unavoidable, and those who were caught out beyond the safety line were bound to go down. He did not blame the sea. He only deplored the inevitable loss, the sorrow, the suffering, and the mistakes which made it all possible. That his own part of it was in and of the past lightened his heart. One day as he sat listlessly on the side porch reading his Gazette, he noticed vaguely the half-witted girl, now almost grown to womanhood, circling about the gate and making aimless pa.s.ses toward the end of the house. He watched her covertly over his paper for a moment and went on humming, "He leadeth me, oh, blessed thought!" The movements of the demented creature seemed to take on more definiteness.

Griffith arose and stepped to the end of the porch. There sat aunt Judy, smoking her pipe, and swaying her body in time with his humming, "O words with heavenly comfort fraught! Where'er I go, whate'er I be,"--Griffith's step had attracted the old woman and she opened her eyes and looked up at him. "Still 'tis His hand that leadeth me,"

Griffith finished, smiling at her.

"Lawd ama.s.sy, honey, I des been a settin' heah wid my po' ole eyes shet, a listenin' to dat dar song er yoahrn! Hit sholy do seem des lack ole times come back agin t' heah yoh sing dat a way! Hit sholy do! Lawsy, honey, dey want no singin' 'roun' heah whilse you wus gone all dat longtime. Dey want dat! Hit wus des dat gloomysome dat hit seem lack somebody daid _all_ de time. Hit sholy do go good t' set heah an' listen ter yoh singin' agin! Hit sholy do, Mos' Grif." She suddenly looked toward the street. "Mos' Grif, what dat dare fool gal doin'? She des do like dat a way _all_ de time. I hain't nebberseed her when she don't do des dat er way. I ax her wat she want, an I ax er wat ails'er, an' she don't say nothin' 'tall. She des keep on doin' dat way."

"She's afflicted, aunt Judy. She's a poor afflicted creature and--"

"Lawsy, honey, anybody kin see dat she's 'flicted; but wat I axes yoh is, what fer she do dat away at me? She ain' do dat a way at yoh, an'

she ain' do dat a way at Mis' Kate--an' she ain' do dat a way at Mis'

Marg 'et, needer. Des at me. She tryin' ter witch me. Dat's what!"

Griffith laughed. The point of view was so unexpected and yet so wholly characteristic that it struck him as humorous beyond the average of aunt Judy's mental processes. His laugh rang out loud and clear. His broad shoulders shook. He had grown quite portly, and his face was the picture of health and fine vigor.

"What fer yoh laugh dat a way, Mos' Grif? Dat dar fool gal would a witched me long time ago if hit hadn't a been fer dat." She took from her bosom, where it hung from a string, the rabbit foot: "Dat's so. Des as sho' as yo' bawn, honey; dey ain' no two ways 'bout dat!"

The fascination of the strange black face for this clouded intellect seemed never to lose its power. Whenever and wherever Judy had crossed her path all else faded from the half vacant brain, and such mind and attention as there was, fixed itself upon the old colored woman. Judy had tried every art she possessed to engage the girl in conversation, but with no results. She would continue to circle about and make her pa.s.ses of indirection with one hand outstretched and the other hung aimlessly pen dent at her side in that helpless fas.h.i.+on which defies simulation. Judy had even tried threatening the girl with her cane; but no threat, no coaxing and no cajolery served to free her from this admirer who seemed transfixed as a bird is fascinated by a snake--with the fascination of perplexity and fear--in so far as the vacant soul could know such lively and definite sensations. Judy had finally--long ago--taken refuge in her rabbit foot, and made up her mind that in compet.i.tion in the black art, only, was safety. She shook the foot at the girl, who responded in the usual fas.h.i.+on. How long the contest might have lasted it would be difficult to say, had not Griffith walked toward the gate. The instant the bulk of his body hid the old black woman from her eyes, nature did the rest. The vacant mind, no longer stimulated by the sight of the uncanny face, lost all interest and continuity of thought and wandered aimlessly on; forgetful alike of her recent object of attention and equally unguided by future intent, her steps followed each other as a succession of physical movements only, and had no object and no destination. Aimlessly, listlessly, walking; going no one knew where; thinking no one knew what--if, indeed, her poor vague mental operations might be cla.s.sified as thought--living, no one knew why; following the path of least resistance, as how many of her betters have done and will do to the end of time; looking no farther than the scope of present vision; remembering nothing; learning nothing; an object of pity, of persecution, of fear or of aversion according as she crossed the path of civilized or savage, of intelligent and pitiful or of pitiless ignorance. Griffith watched her as she wove her devious way and wondered where, in the economy of Nature, such as she could find a useful place, and why, in the providence of G.o.d, she had been cast adrift to c.u.mber the earth, to suffer, to endure and at last to die--where and why and how? He was not laughing as he returned to the house, and aunt Judy scanned his face narrowly, and then carefully replaced the rabbit foot in its resting-place in her bosom.

"Druv' er off. She know! _She_ know a preacher o' de gospil o' de Lawd Jesus Chris' w'en she see'um! Dey ain't no two ways 'bout dat--'flicted or no 'flicted. Dat dar gal's 'flicted o' course, but she know 'nuf ter know _dat!_ She been tryin ter witch me, _dat_ she is; but Lawd G.o.d A'mighty, she hain't got no sense, ter try ter witch _dis_ house wid Mos' Grif an' dat rabbit foot _bofe_ in hit! Dat dar gal's a plum bawn fool ter try dat kine er tricks. She is dat. She's wus dan 'flicted.

She's a plum bawn ejiot ter try dat kine er tricks aroun' dese heah diggins. She is dat! Lawsy, Lawsy, she ain' got no sense worf talkin'

'bout I Mos' Grif an' dat rabbit foot bofe t' match up wid! Lawsy, Lawsy, dat dar pore 'flicted gal's a plum bawn fool!" And poor old aunt Judy, still talking to herself, hobbled into the house, satisfied with her estimate of all parties concerned and content with the world as she found it, so long as that world contained for her both a Mos' Grif and her precious rabbit foot.

White or black, bond or free, war or peace, were all one to old aunt Judy; nothing mattered in all this infinite puzzle called life, if but there remained to her these two strongholds of her faith and her dependence! And who shall say that aunt Judy was not wise in her day and generation? So wise was she that sorrow, anxiety, and care had pa.s.sed her lightly by to the end that her eighty years sat upon her shoulders like a pleasant mantle, adjusted, comfortable to a summer breeze.

CHAPTER XXIV.

_"And what are words? How little these the silence of the soul oppress!

Mere froth,--the foam and flower of seas whose hungering waters heave and press Against the planets and the sides of night,--mute, yearning, mystic tides!"_

Bulwer.

"I am coming home next month," wrote Roy, "with my wife--the very dearest, sweetest, most lovable and beautiful girl in the whole world.

We have decided not to wait, but to be married at once--as soon as she can get ready, and I a bit stronger--and go home for our bridal trip.

The winter at home with you will finish up my recovery (and if anything on earth could facilitate it, Emma's nursing and care and love will,) and then if the war is not over, of course I'll go back if I am needed--enlist again. My time is out now; but I hope and believe that the war will be over, or, at least, on its last legs by that time, and then I can begin business at once. My own idea is to take the stock-farm, if father is willing, instead of leaving it to those Martins who don't know the first thing about stock-breeding, and go in for fine horses and a few fine cows, too. I got hold of some books on those subjects here. Emma's father used to have a fancy that way, and I've read up and talked a lot with him on the subject in these four months.

Don't you think we could fix the house out there on the place so it would do very well, indeed, for a couple of young folks who won't care so very much about anything at all but each other?"

Griffith stopped reading the letter to laugh. "Tut, tut, tut! Here's more love in a cottage business for you. Well, well, I _am_ surprised, Katherine! I am----"

"I am not. I've been expecting it all along--only--I did hope--I didn't think it would be quite so _soon_. Roy is only twen----"

"Well, well,'pon my soul, it looks as if you didn't get out of one kind of a frying-pan in this world until you got into another. I was just building all sorts of castles about the future and--and to tell the mortal truth, Katherine, I never once thought of making a place for a daughter-in-law! Never once! Why----"

There was a long pause. Griffith finished the letter in silence and handed it to his wife. As she read--she began back at the beginning--he gazed straight before him with unseeing eyes and a low hum ran along with unsteady and broken measure. "'How tedious--mmmm--mm--the hours, Mmmmm--no longer mmm mm; Sweet pros--mmm, swee--et mmm mm mm, mmmm, Ha--ave all mm mm mm mm to me.' But we'll have to expand the castle, Katherine--build on an addition for a daughter-in-law," he said as if there had been no break in the conversation, albeit almost half an hour had pa.s.sed during which each had been wrapped in thought, and the singing--if Griffith's natural state of vocalization may be called by that name--was wholly unnoticed by both.

"Yes," said Katherine in a tired voice; "yes, but I had hoped for a reunion of--of just ourselves first; but--but--we will try to feel that she _is_ one of ourselves--and surely we ought to be very grateful for the way they have nursed Roy and--His letter--" Katherine fell to discussing his letter and the new plans and needs, and how short a time it would be until they would come.

Little Margaret hailed with delight the idea of a new sister. They all remembered the pretty face of the school-girl Emma. Letters of congratulation and welcome were written and posted, and it seemed to Katherine that nothing in the whole world could ever either surprise or startle her any more. She felt sure that whatever should come to her in the future would find her ready. She would take the outstretched hand of any new experience and say, "I was expecting you." Her powers seemed to her to have taken up their position upon a level surface and to have lost all ability to rise or fall. The fires had burned too close to have left material to ever flare up again. There was nothing left, she thought, to kindle a sudden or brilliant blaze. She had accepted the thought of a new daughter with a placidity which shocked herself, when she thought of it, until she a.n.a.lyzed her sensations or her lack of them.

The month pa.s.sed. When the happy young creatures came, the very beauty of their faces and forms about the house gave warmth and color. Roy was still limping a little and his lung needed care, but he was as handsome as a young fellow could be, and as proud and bright in his new happiness as if the earth were his. "Is she not beautiful?" he would ask twenty-times a day, holding the laughing young wife at arm's length.

"_Isn't_ she beautiful, father?" and Griffith would pretend to turn critical eyes upon her and tease the son with an a.s.sumption that it was necessary to look for a beauty which was both rare and graciously, brilliantly endowed.

"Well, let me see! L-e-t--me s-e-e! Turn around, daughter--No, not so far--M-mm. Well--it--seems--to--me--she is r-a-t-h-e-r fair!" and Griffith's eyes would twinkle with pleasure when Emma tweaked his ears or drowned his pretense in a dash of music. The old piano gave place to a new one, and the home was once more filled with laughter and music and a happiness that not even the shadow cast by the thought of the two absent ones could make dark enough to veil the spirits of the two who had come. With the others it had also its infection. So true is it that after long and terrible strains we hail partial relief with such peans of joy that the shadows that remain seem only to temper the light that has burst upon our long darkened vision and to render us only the better able to bear the relief. Griffith sang the old hymns daily now, and even essayed to add his uncertain voice to the gay music that Emma and Roy flung forth.

"And the nights shall be filled with music, And the thoughts that infest the day, Shall fold their tents, like the Arabs, And as silently steal away."

Emma's voice rang out clear and sweet, and it seemed to Katherine that, after all, it was very delightful to have a new daughter like this one, and if Roy _must_ marry, why----

Good news continued to come from the front. Howard and Beverly were well and unhurt. In their different ways they wrote cheerful and cheering letters. Emma grew more radiant every day as she watched the returning color come to Roy's cheeks, and one day Griffith took her by both arms as she was flas.h.i.+ng past him. He held her at arm's length and laughed.