allow her to pass. He said, instead,—
"Mrs. Edgar, I wish you might give me a moment, though I do not see how what I have undertaken can be said in that length of time. I choose that you should hear from one who wishes you nothing but good the strange story that troubles me."
"I remain, Mr. Muir," was the answer; and she sat down.
The subject was too disagreeable for him to dally with it. If the charge were a true one, no consideration was due; if untrue, the sooner that was made apparent, the better.
"It is said that the organist of St. Peter's is not as loyal a citizen of the United States as might be hoped by those who admire and trust her most; and not only so, but that she is the wife of a Rebel leader, and in communication with Rebels. It sounds harsh, but I speak as a friend. I do not credit these things; but they're said, and I repeat them to relieve others of what they might deem a duty."
Swiftly on his words came her answer.
"You have not believed it, Sir?"
Looking at her, it was the easiest thing for the minister to feel and say,—and, oh, how he wished for Deane!—
"Not one word of it, Madam."
"That is sufficient,—sufficient, at least, for me. But do they, does any one, desire that I should take the oath of fealty to the Constitution and to the Government? I am ready to do either, or both. I hardly reverence the Constitution more than I do the man who is at the head of our affairs. To me he is the hero of this age."
The minister smiled,—a cordial smile, right trustful, cordial, glad.
"It may be well," said he. "These are strange days to live in, and we all abhor suspicion of our loyalty. Besides, it may be necessary; for suspicion of this character is an ungovernable passion now. For myself, I should never have asked these questions; but it is merely right that you should know the whole truth. A person who reports of himself that he has escaped from Charleston avers that he has recognized in the organist of St. Peter's the wife of General Edgar. I don't know the man's name. But his statement has reached me directly. I give you information I might have withheld, because I perfectly trust both the citizen and the lady who has rendered us such noble service here."
"And such trust, I may say, is my right. I shall not forfeit it," said the organist, rising. "I am ready, at any time, to take the oath, and to bear my own responsibilities, Mr. Muir. I have neither fellowship nor communication with Rebels, and I deem it a strange insult to be called a spy. 'T is a great pity one should stay here to vex himself with puerile gossip."
She pointed to the stained windows emblazoned with sacred symbols, glorious now with sunlight, bowed, and was gone.
VI
There came, on Easter night, to the door of the organist's apartment, the "contraband" who at present was sojourning under the protection of Mr. Gerald Deane.
The hour was not early. Evening service was over, and Julius had waited a reasonable length of time, that his errand might be delivered when she should be at leisure. He might safely have gone at once; for guests never came at night, and rarely by day,—the organist's wish being perfectly understood among the very few with whom she came in contact, and she being consequently "let alone" with what some might have deemed "a vengeance." But it satisfied her, and no other dealing would.
Either this man—Julius Hopkins was his name—had not so recently come to H– as to be a stranger in any quarter of the town, or he had made use of his time here; for he seemed familiar with the streets and alleys as an old resident.
To find the organist was not difficult, when one had come within sight of the lofty spire of the church, for it was under its shadow she lived; but if he had been accustomed to carry messages to her door for years, he could not now have presented himself with fuller confidence as to what he should find.
When Mrs. Edgar opened the door, not a word was needed, as if these were strangers who stood face to face. In her countenance, indeed, was emotion,—unmeasured surprise; in her manner, momentary indecision. But the surprise passed into a lofty kindliness of manner, and the indecision gave place to the most entire freedom from embarrassment. She cut short the words he began to speak with an authoritative, though most quiet,—
"Julius, come in."
It was not as one addresses the servant of a friend, but spoken with an authority which the man instantly acknowledged by obedience. He came into the room, closed the door, and waited till she should speak. She asked,—
"Why are you here?"
He answered as if unaware that any great change had taken place in their relations.
"My master sent me. At last I have found my mistress. It took me a great while."
"Is your master still in arms?"
The man bowed.
"Against the Government?"
"He says, for the Government."
"Of Rebels?"
He bowed again.
"Then, there is no answer,—can be none. Did he not foresee it?"
The slave did not answer. What words that he came commissioned to speak could respond to the anguish her voice betrayed? She spoke again; she had recovered from the surprise of her distress, and, looking now at Julius, said,—
"You are excused from replying; but—you do not, in any event, propose to return home?"
"Yes, Madam, yes,—immediately, immediately."
It was the first time he had discovered this purpose, and he did so with a vehemence expressive of desire to vindicate himself where he should be understood. She answered slowly, but she did not seem amazed, as Deane would infallibly have been, as you and I had been,—such doubting worshippers, after all, of the great heroic.
"Do you not hear, Julius, everywhere, that you are a freeman? Is it possible no one has told you so? Do you not know it for yourself? It is likely."
"It don't signify. I tended him through one course,—he got a bad cut, Master did,—and I'll take care of him again. I a'n't through till he is."
"Is he well?"
"Thanks to me, and the Lord, he is well of the wound again, and gone to work."
At the pause that now ensued, as if he had only been waiting for this, the slave approached nearer to his mistress; but he did not lift his eyes,—he desired but to serve. She was so proud, he thought,—always was; if he could only get himself out of the way, and let this ugly, cruel business right itself without a witness! Master knew how to plead better than any one could for him. He produced a tiny case of chamois-leather.
"Master sent you this," he said; and it seemed as if he would have given it into her very hands; but they were folded; so he laid it on the edge of the piano, and stepped back a pace. He knew there was no need for him to explain.
Well she understood. Her husband had done his utmost to secure a reconciliation. Love had its rights, its sacrifices; with these she had to do, and not with his official conduct and public acts.
She knew well what that trifle of a chamois case contained. It was the miniature of their child, the little one of earth no more, but
