above its head,—symbols with which, of old, they loved to represent Genius. This miniature was set in diamonds; it was the mother's gift to the father of the child: this woman's gift to the man whom loyal men to-day call traitor, rebel, alien, enemy.
And thus he appealed to her. Oh, tender was the voice! This love that called had in its utterances proof that it held by its immortality. The love that pleaded with her appealed to recollections the most sacred, the most dear, the perpetual,—knowing what was in her heart, knowing how it would respond.
But there, where Julius left the miniature, it lay; a letter beside it now, and a purse of gold,—pure gold,—not a Confederate note among it.
Poor Julia Edgar! she need not open the case that shone with such starry splendor. Never could be hidden from her eyes the face of the child. How should she not see again, in all its beauty, the garden where her darling had played, little hands filled full of blooms, little face whose smiling was as that of angels, butterflies sporting around her as the wonderful one of old flitted about St. Rose,—alas! with as sure a prophecy as that black and golden one? How clearly she saw again, through heavy clouds of tears that never broke, the garden's glory, all its peace, its happiness, its pride, and love!
No argument, no word, could have pleaded for the father of the child like this. But it was love pleading against love,—Earth's beseeching and need, against Heaven's warning and sufficience.
At last she spoke again.
"What is your reward, Julius, for all this danger you've incurred for him, and for me?"
"He said it should be my liberty."
How he spoke those words! Liberty! it was the golden dream of the man's life, yet he named it with a self-control that commanded her admiration and reverence.
"I give it to you at this moment, here!" she said.
For an instant the slave seemed to hesitate; but the hesitation was of utterance merely, not of will.
"My errand isn't half done, Madam. I never broke my word yet. I'll go back."
"Tell him, then, that I gave you your freedom, and you would not accept it. And—go back! 't is a noble resolve, worthy of you. Take the purse. I do not need it. Say that I have no need of it. And you will, perhaps."
No other message for him? Not one word from herself to him! For she knew where safety lay.
The slave looked at her, helpless, hopeless, with indecision. The woman was incomprehensible. He had set out on his errand, had persevered through difficulties, and had withstood temptations too many to be written here, with not a doubt as to the success that would attend him. He remembered the wife of General Edgar in her home; to that home of happy love and noble hospitality, and of all social dignities, he had no doubt he should restore her. But now, humbled by defeat, he said,—
"I've looked a great while for you, Madam. I would never 'a' give up, though, if I'd gone to Maine or Labrador, and round by the Rocky Mountains, hunting for you. I heard you singing in the church this morning, and I knew your voice. Though it didn't sound natural right,—but I knew it was nobody else's voice,—as if the North mostly hadn't agreed with it. And I heard it yesterday somewhere,—that's what 'sured me. I was going along the street, when I heard it; but it was not this house you were in."
"And it was you, then, Julius, who betrayed me to the person who supposes himself to be your protector,—and this because you thought surely I must be glad to return, when I had lost my friends here through ill report! Is that the way your war is carried on?"
"My war, Madam?"
But Julius did not look at his mistress; he looked away, and shrugged his shoulders. The device of which he was convicted had seemed to him so good, so sure, nevertheless had failed.
She had scarcely finished speaking, when a note was brought to the door. It was from Adam von Gelhorn.
"I am making my preparations to go at nine to-morrow," said the note. "Will you come to the church before? I would like to remember having seen you there last, at the organ. There's a bit of news just reached me, said to be a secret. General Edgar's command aims at preventing the junction of our forces before Y–. He is strong enough, numerically, to overthrow either division in separate conflict, and this is his Napoleonic strategy. But he will be outwitted. There's no doubt of it. Do not despair of our cause, whatever you hear during the coming fortnight. I shall report myself immediately to McClellan, and he may make a drummer-boy of me, if he will. Henceforth I am at his service till the war ends.
Thrice she read this note; when her eyes lifted at last, Julius was still standing where she had left him. She started, seeing him, as if his presence there at the moment took a new significance; her heart fainted within her.
Had he heard this secret of which Von Gelhorn spoke? It was her husband's life that was in jeopardy!
"When are you going, Julius?" she asked.
"To-morrow. Oh, Madam, give me some word for him!"
Red horror of death, how it rises before her sight! She shuddered, cowered, sank before the blackness of darkness that followed fast on that terrific spectacle of carnage, before which a whirlwind seemed to have planted her. She heard the cries and yells, the groans and curses of bleeding, dying men; saw banners in the dust, horsemen and horses crushed under the great guns, mortality in fragments, heaps upon heaps of ruin on the field Aceldama.
Where was he? Who would search among the slain for him? Who from among the dying would rescue him? Who will stanch his bleeding wounds? Who will moisten his parched lips? Whose voice sound in the ears that have heard the roar of guns amid the crash of battle? What hand shall bathe and fan that brow? What eyes shall watch till those eyelids unlock, and catch the whisper of those lips? Nay, who will save his life from the needless sacrifice? tell him that his plans are known, warn him back, warn him of spies and of treachery? Has Julius betrayed him?
She looked at the slave. But before she looked, her heart reproached her for having doubted him.
"You will need this gold," she said. "Take it. Restore the miniature to your master. And go,—go at once. If success be in store for him, I share not the shame of it. If defeat, adversity, sickness,—your master knows his wife fears but one thing, has fled but from one thing. Her heart is with him, but she abhors the cause to which he has given himself. She will not share his crime."
Difficult as these words were to speak, she spoke them without faltering, and they admitted no discussion.
The slave lingered yet longer, but there was no more that she would say. Assured at last of that, he said,—
"I obey you," and was gone.
He was gone,—gone! and she had betrayed nothing,—had given no warning,—had uttered not a word by which the life that was of all lives most precious to her might have been saved!
VII
By eight o'clock next morning Mrs. Edgar was in the church. Von Gelhorn preceded her by five minutes; he was walking up the aisle when she entered, impatient for her appearing, eager to be gone,—wondering, boy-like, that she came not.
He has performed a prodigious amount of labor since they last met. His pictures were all removed to the Odeon, he said. His studio, haunt of dreams, beloved of fame so long, stripped and barren, looked like any other four-walled room,—and he, a freeman, stood equipped for service.
