STUART.

An hour afterward, I had delivered my message to Mordaunt, and was returning by the road over Fleetwood Hill, thinking of the singular dialogue between Mohun and the gray woman.

What had these worthies meant by their mysterious allusions? How had Mohun found himself face to face on this stormy night, with two human beings whom he thought dead?

These questions puzzled me for half an hour; then I gave up the mystery, laughing. An hour afterward I had pa.s.sed through Culpeper Court-House, crossed the fields, and had reached General Stuart's headquarters.

Stuart's tent, or rather the strip of canvas which he called one, was pitched beneath a great oak on a wooded knoll about a mile south of the little village. Above it drooped the ma.s.ses of fresh June foliage; around, were grouped the white canvas "flies" of the staff; in a glade close by gleamed the tents d'abri of the couriers. Horses, tethered to the trees, champed their corn in the shadow; in the calm, summer night, the battle-flag drooped and clung to its staff. Before the tent of Stuart, a man on guard, with drawn sabre, paced to and fro with measured steps.

A glance told me that Mohun's singular prisoner had arrived. A courier was holding her fine animal near the general's tent, and as I dismounted, three figures' appeared in the illuminated doorway. These were the figures of Stuart, the "gray woman," and a young aid-de-camp.

"Farewell, madam," said Stuart, bowing and laughing; "I am sorry to have made your acquaintance under circ.u.mstances so disagreeable to you; but I trust you will appreciate the situation, and not blame me."

"Blame you? Not in the least, general. You are a very gallant man."

And the gay words were accompanied by a musical laugh.

"You will have an opportunity of seeing the Confederate capital," said Stuart, smiling.

The lady made a humorous grimace.

"And of abusing me upon the way thither; and afterward on the route to Port Monroe and Washington, as you will not be detained, I am sure."

"I shall not abuse you, sir. You are the n.o.blest gentleman I have ever known."[1]

[Footnote 1: The real words of Stuart's prisoner]

And with mutual salutes they parted--the young aid-de-camp accompanying the lady to her horse, and aiding her to mount. They then set forward toward the Court-House. Stuart had ordered the prisoner to be conducted thither, and detained at the village tavern, under guard, until morning, when she would be sent to Richmond.

As they disappeared, I entered the general's tent, and found him laughing. Leaning one hand upon his desk, covered with papers, upon which rested his feather-decorated hat, he carelessly played with the ta.s.sel of his yellow sash with the other hand. His blue eyes sparkled, and his mustache curled with humor.

"That is really a beauty, Surry?" he said, "and I have laughed heartily."

He threw himself on his red blanket as he spoke, and began playing with his two setter pups, whose names were "Nip" and "Tuck." He had brought them out of the lines on his saddle.

"Well, you are really a magician," I said. "You charm the evil spirit, and make prisoners laugh."

Stuart laughed in reply.

"That is a curious person that Mohun sent me," he said; "at first she was disdainful enough; but I paid her a few compliments, and now she is in an excellent humor, as you saw."

"Yes."

"But what about the fight?"

I made my report of the events of the evening.

"Well, Mohun is a trump," said Stuart. "A new man, but seems made of the right stuff--real steel. What does Mordaunt say of the attack?"

"Only a scout."

"Right, and this lady is our spoil! She is handsome, is she not? But a more curious face I have never seen. White cheeks and red lips--a sort of devil and angel mixed! Who is she, I wonder, and what was her errand. Something is under it. She gave her name as 'Mrs. Darke,'--and her horse made me break the tenth commandment, Surry! Lady and courser are splendid."

"She is certainly a beauty."

"And what eyes!"

"Dangerous."

Stuart remained silent for some moments, and then I heard him sigh.

"Do you know, my dear Surry," he said, "that if people heard us talk in this way, they would call us libertines--immoral--any thing? There are two things that people will not disbelieve about me--that I am impure, and a drunkard! Do you know what a good man was heard to say of me the other day? 'Stuart would be one of the greatest soldiers in the army, if he did not drink so hard!'[1] And others add: 'if he were not a libertine.' Well, need I defend myself to _you_, from these charges? I promised my mother in my childhood, never to touch ardent spirits, and a drop has never pa.s.sed my lips, except the wine of the communion.[2] I know I need not tell you that I am equally guiltless of the other imputation. That person does not live who can say that I ever did any thing improper of that description. And yet I am a drunkard--a libertine--I, who never touched drink, and love but one person in this world!"

[Footnote 1: This was actually said of Stuart.]

[Footnote 2: His words]

Stuart's head sank, and he uttered a weary sigh.

"They will not let me alone," he muttered, "and yet I am here fighting for my country. But I defy them to take my good name away from me, Surry!"

And he rose to his feet.

"General Lee knows me! Jackson knew me! I have the regard of the one, and I had the love of the other. What do I care? If my children only will not hear these ign.o.ble charges! _One_ can never hear them, Surry-- my beloved little Flora! She died while I was fighting near Middleburg in the fall of '62--that nearly broke me down--"

And Stuart paused and covered his eyes with his hand. Between the fingers I saw a tear.

For a moment his breast heaved--something like a sob issued from the brave lip, whereon the heavy mustache trembled.

"I think of her often--I shall never get over her death, Surry!"[1] he murmured. "They think me hard and cold, and bad perhaps--it is nothing.

Since she died I care less for men's opinion, and only try to do my duty, till the ball comes that will end me."

[Footnote 1: His words.]

And dashing a tear from his eyes, Stuart walked to the door of his tent, from which he gazed forth upon the stars.

Five minutes pa.s.sed thus, and I did not speak. Then all at once I heard Stuart call out: "Orderly!"

"Yes, sir," came from the man on post near the tent.

"Tell Sweeney to come and bring his banjo!"

And walking fifty steps, Stuart caressed the glossy neck of his mare "Lady Margaret," who was tethered to a bough, and looked around affectionately at her master.

When he returned he was humming "The dew lay on the blossom," and following him was Sweeney--the same old Sweeney!--ever mild, courteous, almost sad, doffing his cap, saluting with simple grace, and tuning his banjo.