"I believe I would take his advice, Louise," she said at last. "I have not noticed the man much beyond the fact that he has been wonderfully attentive to your wants. What do you think of him--or of his motives?"

"I believe they are good," said the girl, promptly. "He is dissatisfied; I can see that--one of the insurrection sort who are always restless. He's entirely bound up in the issue of the war, as regards his own people. He suspects me and because he suspects me tries to warn me--to be my friend. When I am gone you may need some one here, and of all I see he is the one to be most trusted, though, perhaps, Dr. Delaven--"

"Is out of the question," and Judithe's decision was emphatic. "These people are his friends."

"They are yours, too, Marquise," said the girl, smiling a little; but no smile answered her, a slight shade of annoyance--a tiny frown--bent the dark brows.

"Yes, I remember that sometimes, but I possess an antidote," she replied, lightly. "You know--or perhaps you do not know--that it is counted a virtue in a Gypsy to deceive a Georgio--well, I am fancying myself a Gypsy. In the Mohammedan it is a virtue to deceive the Christian, and I am a Mohammedan for the moment. In the Christian it was counted for centuries a mark of special grace if he despoil the Jew, until generations of oppression showed the wanderer the real G.o.d held sacred by his foes--money, my child, which he proceeded to garner that he might purchase the privileges of other races. So, with my Jewish name as a foundation, I have created an imaginary Jewish ancestor whose wrongs I take up against the people of a Christian land; I add all this debt to the debt Africa owes this enlightened nation, and I shall help to pay it."

The eyes of Louise widened at this fantastical reason. She was often puzzled to determine whether the Marquise was entirely serious, or only amusing herself with wild fancies when she touched on pondrous questions with gay mockery.

Just now she laughed as she read dismay in the maid's face.

"Oh, it is quite true, Louise, it _is_ a Christian land--and more, it is the most Christian portion of a Christian land, because the South is entirely orthodox; only in the North will you find a majority of skeptics, atheists, and agnostics. Though they may be scarcely conscious of it themselves, it is because of their independent heterodox tendencies that they are marching today by thousands to war against a slavery not their own--the most righteous motive for a war in the world's history; but it cannot be denied that they are making war against an eminently Christian inst.i.tution." And she smiled across at Louise, whose philosophy did not extend to the intricacies of such questions.

"I don't understand even half the reasons back of the war," she confessed, "but the thing I do understand is that the black man is likely to have a chance for freedom if the North wins, and that's the one question to me. Miss Evilena said yesterday it was all a turmoil got up by Yankee politicians who will fill their pockets by it."

"Oh, that was after Judge Clarkson's call; she only quoted him in that, and he is right in a way," she added; "there is a great deal of political jugglery there without a vestige of patriotism in it, but they do not in the least represent the great heart of the people of the North; _they_ are essentially humanitarians. So you see I weigh all this, with my head, not my heart," she added, quizzically, "and having done so--having chosen my part--I can't turn back in the face of the enemy, even when met by smiles, though I confess they are hard weapons to face. It is a battle where the end to be gained justifies the methods used."

"_Ma belle_, Marquise," murmured the girl, in the untranslatable caress of voice and eyes. "Sometimes I grow afraid, and you scatter the fear by your own fearlessness. Sometimes I grow weak, and you strengthen me with reasons, reasons, reasons!"

"That is because the heart is not allowed to hamper the head."

"Oh, you tease me. You speak to me like a guardian angel of my people; your voice is like a trumpet, it stirs echoes in my heart, and the next minute you laugh as though it were all a play, and I were a child to be amused."

"'And each man in his time plays many parts,'" quoted Judithe, thoughtfully, then with a mocking glance she added: "But not so many as women do."

"There--that is what I mean. One moment you are all seriousness and the next--"

"But, my child, it is criminal to be serious all the time; it kills the real life and leads to melancholia. You would grow morbid through your fears if I did not laugh at them sometimes, and it would never--never do for me to approve them."

She touched the girl's hand softly with her own and looked at her with a certain affectionate chiding.

"You are going away from me, Louise, and you must not go in dread or despondency. It may not be for long, perhaps, but even if it should be, you must remember that I love you--I trust you. I pity you for the childhood and youth whose fate was no choice of yours. Never forget my trust in you; when we are apart it may comfort you to remember it."

The girl looked at her with wide black eyes, into which the tears crept.

"Marquise," she whispered, "you talk as if you might be sending me away for always. Oh, Marquise--"

Judithe raised her hand warningly.

"Be a soldier, child," she said, softly, "each time we separate for even a day--you and I--we do not know that we will ever meet again.

These are war times, you know."

"I know--but I never dreaded a separation so much; I wish you were not to remain. Perhaps that Pluto's words made me more nervous--it is so hard to tell how much he guesses, and those people--the Lorings--"

"I think I shall be able to manage the Lorings," said her mistress, with a rea.s.suring smile, "even the redoubtable Matthew--the tyrannical terror of the county; so cheer up, Louise. Even the longest parting need only be a lifetime, and I should find you at the end of it."

"And find me still your slave," said the girl, looking at her affectionately. "That's a sort of comfort to think, Marquise; I'm glad you said it. I'll think of it until me meet again."

She repeated it Wednesday morning when she entered the boat for the first stage of her journey to Savannah, and the Marquise nodded her comprehension, murmured kindly words of adieu, and watched the little vessel until a bend in the river hid it from view, when she walked slowly back to the house. Since her arrival in America this was the first time she had been separated from the devoted girl for more than a day, and she realized the great loss it would be to her, though she knew it to be an absolutely necessary one.

As for Louise, she watched to the last the slight elevation of the Terrace grounds rising like an island of green from the level lands by the river. When it finally disappeared--barred out by the nearer green of drooping branches, she wept silently, and with a heavy heart went downward to Pocotaligo, oppressed by the seemingly groundless fear that some unknown evil threatened herself or the Marquise--the dread lest they never meet again.

CHAPTER XIX.

"Hurrah! Hurrah! for Southern rights Hurrah!

Hurrah! for the bonney blue flag, That bears the single star!"

Evilena was singing this stirring ditty at the top of her voice, a very sweet voice when not overtaxed, but Dilsey, the cook, put both hands to her ears and vowed cooking school would close at once if that "yapping" was not stopped; she could not for the life of her see why Miss Lena would sing that special song so powerful loud.

"Why, Dilsey, it is my shout of defiance," explained the girl, stirring vigorously at a ma.s.s in a wooden bowl which she fondly hoped would develop into cookies for that evening's tea, when the party from Loringwood were expected. "It does not reach very far, but I comfort myself by saying it good and loud, anyway. That Yankee general who has marched his followers into Orleans fines everybody--even if its a lady--who sings that song. I can't make him hear me that far off, but I do my best."

"Good Lawd knows you does," agreed Dilsey. "But when you want to sing in this heah cookhouse I be 'bleeged if yo' fine some song what ain't got no battles in it. Praise the Lawd, we fur 'nough away so that Yankee can't trouble we all."

"Madam Caron saw him once," said the amateur cook, tasting a bit of the sweetened dough with apparent pleasure, "but she left Orleans quick, after the Yankees came. Of course it wouldn't be a place for a lady, then. She shut her house up and went straight to Mobile, and I just love her for it."

"Seems to me like she jest 'bout witched yo' all," remarked Dilsey; "every blessed n.i.g.g.e.r in the house go fallen' ovah theyselves when her bell rings, fo' feah they won't git thah fust; an' Pluto, he like to be no use to any one till aftah her maid, Miss Louise, get away, he jest waited on her, han' an' foot."

Dilsey had heretofore been the very head and front of importance in the servants' quarters on that plantation, and it was apparent that she resented the comparative grandeur of the Marquise's maid, and especially resented it because her fellow servants bowed down and paid enthusiastic tribute to the new divinity.

"Well, Dilsey, I'm sure she needed waiting on hand and foot while she was so crippled. I know mama was mighty well pleased he was so attentive; reckon maybe that's why she let him go riding with Madame Caron this morning."

"Pluto, he think plenty o' hisself 'thout so much pamperen," grumbled Dilsey. "Seem like he counted the whole 'pendence o' the family since Mahs Ken gone."

Evilena prudently refrained from expressing an opinion on the subject, though she clearly perceived that Dilsey was possessed of a fit of jealousy; so she proceeded to flatter the old soul into a more sunny humor lest dinner should go awry in some way, more particularly as regarded the special dishes to which her own little hands had added interest.

She was yet in the cookhouse when the guests arrived, and doffing the huge ap.r.o.n in which she was enveloped, skurried into the house, carrying with her the fragrance of cinnamon and sweet spices, while a dust of flower on curls and chin gave her a novel appearance, and the confession that she had been cooking was not received with the acclamation she had expected, though there was considerable laughter about it. No one appeared to take the statement seriously except Matthew Loring, who took it seriously enough to warn Margeret he would expect her to supervise all dishes _he_ was to partake of. His meals were affairs not to be trifled with.

Margeret and Ben had accompanied the party. Others of the more reliable house servants of Loringwood, were to commence at once work at the Pines, and Gertrude was almost enthusiastic over the change.

"You folks really _live_ over here," she declared to Mrs. McVeigh, "while at Loringwood--well, they tell me life used to be very gay there--but I can't remember the time. It seems to me that since the day they carried papa in from his last hunting field the place has been under a cloud. Nothing prospers there, n.o.body laughs or sings; I can't be fond of it, and I am so glad to get away from it again."

"Still, it is a magnificent estate," said Mrs. McVeigh, thoughtfully; "the a.s.sociations of the past--the history of your family--is so intimately connected with it, I should think you would be sorry to part with it."

"I should not!" said Gertrude, promptly, "the money just now would do me a great deal more good than family records of extravagance which all the Lorings but Uncle Matthew seem to have been addicted to; and he is the exact opposite, you know."

Mrs. McVeigh did know. She remembered hearing of him as a one-time gamester long ago in New Orleans, a man without the conviviality of his father or his brother Tom; a man who spent money in dissipations purely selfish, carrying the spirit of a speculator even into his pursuit of social enjoyment. Then, all at once, he came back to Loringwood, settled down and became a model in deportment and plantation management, so close a calculator of dimes as well as dollars that it was difficult to believe he ever had squandered a penny, and a great many people refused to credit those ancient Orleans stories at all. Kenneth's father was one of them.

"I don't believe I am very much of a Loring, anyway," continued Gertrude with a little sigh. "They were a wild, reckless lot so far back as I can learn, and I--well, you couldn't call me wild and reckless, could you?"

Mrs. McVeigh smiled at the query and shook her head. "Not the least little bit, and we are glad of it." She walked over to the window looking across the far fields where the road showed a glimpse of itself as it wound by the river. "I thought I saw some one on horseback over there, and every horseman coming our way is of special interest just now. I look for word from Kenneth daily--if not from the boy himself; he has had time to be home now. His stay has already been longer than he expected."

Gertrude joined her and gave her attention to the head of the road.