Who Won the Pretty Widow: A Confederate's Story of the Confederacy

I.

PROLOGUE.

THIS is a story of the times of the Great Rebellion. It does not discuss political questions, but only presents an inside picture of the trials and sufferings of one who shared and sympathized with the misfortunes of a lost cause.

A thousand stories, much better told, have delineated the hardships of the Northern wife in that period of desolation ; may this one serve to illustrate the trials and endurance of her Southern sister.

CHAPTER I.

ANNO CONFEDERATIONS I, and in the interregnum of Jefferson Davis, and the consulship of J. Davis and A. Stephens, there lived in the Province of Mississippi, and not far from a gentle stream that finds its devious way to a neighboring bayou, a very pretty orphan girl. Her household consisted of an ancient maiden lady, and, occasionally, her uncle. To dispose of these at once, let us say, that the ancient maiden lady soon found her wise way through the lines of the two armies ; and the uncle, who was also her guardian, fell at the battle of Mill Springs, under General Zollicoffer.

As to the dwelling of our heroine, it was built, as many other Southern residences are, apparently on a succession of afterthoughts. Isolated rooms and curious cupboards suddenly developed themselves on the unwary, about the main building, or were stumbled over, in the surrounding enclosure, as if set out to cool. At a greater distance were the out-houses ; with the negro quarters, gin and sugar houses, and barn beyond them.

This pretty little orphan may be said to have been quite advanced in years, as she was exactly nineteen years older than the country in which she lived at the time our story commences. Perhaps her fame ought to be considered equal to her years, inasmuch as two great sections spent three or four hundred thousand lives, and endless dollars, to show that she was not just as old as the record in the family Bible testified. But, as her name is not found in any of the protocols and proclamations of that eventful period of proclamations, the temptation to compare her with Helen of Troy is resisted. Let us be satisfied with the fact that she was a very pretty girl indeed.

She was accomplished, and could play on the piano a great many selections from opera, and almost as many sweet old-fashioned-airs, in which the elder generation took great delight. She knew French, so as not to speak it correctly, and a little drawing, and a little botany, and a great deal of school chemistry of a very confusing nature to the learned and unlearned. She was a skilful dress-maker, too, and knew how to adorn that perishable little body of hers in a manner perfectly maddening. Then she could card and spin and weave, and her nimble fingers made up many a suit of homespun and plaid cotton for the negroes. With these she was a great favorite, and “ Miss Lucy says so,” or “ Miss Lucy won’t like,” was conclusive.

In this list of domestic accomplishments it would be scandalous to omit one upon which the lady prided herself not a little. She was mistress of the great art of providing savory viands for the delectation of the appetite ; not only the delicate dishes I shall not rashly undertake to name, but also the wholesome sturdy staves of life, so to speak, that fill the body comfortably. In the matter of coffee she was just perfect. Once try it, and forswear all weak decoctions of inferior artists, lest memory lose the flavor from the palate. The black cook pretended to explain it in the phrase, “You can’t make Miss Lucy skimpy¹ to de coffee-mill,” but I think she failed. The little maid became a domestic witch around the coffee-boiler, and seemed to infuse some of her own spicy freshness into the beverage.

She was also intensely and fearfully medical, but an All-wise Providence had tempered her rashness with a strong faith in homœopathy and little pills. Added to this, however, was an abiding confidence, in all acute cases, in calomel and quinine ; which last she pronounced kee-neen, as was her duty to her preceptors. It was medicine to a sick man just to see that brisk little figure step in, draw together the arched brows, as if they had been called into the consultation, and so pop a little pellet on the furred tongue, and depart, leaving many injunctions against coffee, tea, spices, and the like.

In the matter of religious instruction, no theologian of the new or old school could rival her. To see her at the cabins of a Sunday morning with Aunt Sarah, Aunt Lucy, and the cloud of monkey-like little blacks, with the Big Book before her, was a text, ay, and a sermon, of itself. She would read in a clear, fresh voice, with slight inflections of boarding-school taste, that could not spoil it, the parables of Our Lord. Her own nature so loved his sweet humanities, she mostly fell upon those that revealed his sympathies with childhood and youth ; and The Feast at Cana, The Prodigal Son, The Raising of Jairus’s Daughter, came round very often in her loving pictures of a Saviour. Hearing these simple lectures, in that wise childlike voice, you would agree with Uncle Ben, as he stood listening at his cabin door, to the holiness within. “ She ’s an angel of de Lord,” said Ben, throwing up a black brawny arm as he spoke,—“she’s an angel of de Lord; dat jes what she is.” Some months later he added, in his rough way, words she had read, “ When I forgits her, may dis right hand forgit his cunnin’, and de tongue cleave to de roof of my mouf.” But he did forget her for all that. Do not let us condemn him. The charity his little teacher taught was ample to cover this.

When the long political differences culminated in action, our little heroine found the opinions crystallized into a common sentiment, and she shared and sympathized with it in every fibre of her earnest, positive being. She was a very resolute, active little Rebel indeed, and thought her thought and spoke her speech, without the least awe of the Great Giant hid in the gloom. It was her duty, she believed, and she went into Rebellion just as briskly and resolutely as she went into other duties, associating them with her faith and religion.

She liked a good many things, however, besides duty. She liked a nice pony to ride, and a nice beau to ride with her ; she liked a flower-garden, and to dibble a little in it every morning ; she liked pretty curtains to her room, pretty dresses, pretty and pleasant companions about her when she could get them ; and then she would rob the pickle-jar, and sit with such boon companions in frightful cucumber dissipation till ever so much o’clock. She liked to have the biddable young men of the county around her, and to please them, and, yes, she did like to nibble sugar-biscuit and sweet-cakes, behind the cupboard door, between meals.

The beaux came, in spite of these notorious faults in our heroine. Gay fellows from the city, in gray oval hats, and stark riders from the plantations, in broad felt, hung their tiles on the hall rack, beside the ridiculous rims of suitors from the far North. But come as they might, and roofed in as they might, they had a pleasant visit till the end, and went to come no more. Yes, for, if Lucy was not in love, she had at least taken a strange inclination that way.

This was to a neighbor, the only son of his mother, and she a widow. His paternal farm adjoined Lucy’s greater possessions, and the two had grown up together. His father had been a man of promise in the neighborhood, and was once chosen to the State Legislature. He thought it an honor, but it was his ruin. It spoiled him as a planter, and he fell into the hands of the country store-keeper. This is the veritable dragon of the small planter, which no Saint George has yet overcome. Cotton, like other monarchs, favors those only who see much of him. The man of a hundred bales ships to his factor, and receives the return less a moderate commission. The great busy world watches over his interest; rival looms bid for the staple, rival factors keep down the commission, but the world’s huge spectacles cannot see microscopic crops, and the dragon eats up the small planter. The crop is hypothecated to the country merchant as soon as it is in the ground. He will supply necessaries on no other terms, for the dragons are pawnbrokers to a man. The planter has no individual credit, and the crop so pawned is paid for at a price set by the country merchant, in goods on which he sets his own price.

The father of Lucy’s lover got in this mill of the country merchants, and it ground him exceeding fine indeed. He fell into low ways and hung about the village cotton-gin, blacksmith-shop, and hideous country store with its dilute alcohol, and one day he was taken home starting and trembling in a sad way. He recovered a little before he died, and made a will, leaving all he had to his wife, and afterwards to his son ; or, in the event of his son’s death, to his nephew, a poor lame man of the neighborhood. Then urging that son to avoid his errors, he made his peace with God, and rested.

This advice the son was like to follow. He had taught school at seventeen, and farmed a little and traded a little, till he had a small capital of his own at his father’s death. With this he paid off immediate encumbrances, and by economy was slowly escaping the dragon’s fangs, when the war came between his work and his love for his pretty neighbor, Lucy Lanfranc.

CHAPTER II.

THE fall of Sumter committed the South irrevocably to the struggle. The success, the singular escape from the effusion of blood, seemed to foreshow a brilliant victory and bloodless independence. It stirred the gay and gallant spirits of the neighborhood ; a company was raised, and Lucy made a little speech and presented a flag ; and the captain made his little speech ; his two little speeches; in fact, and did n’t seem satisfied, altogether, with their effect. But he went his way as others before him, and after.

Then Manassas followed, and, the enthusiasm became furious. The cry was, “ The Yankees will be whipped before we can get there”; and the leopards scented blood and were eager to be off. A regiment was raised, one of Lucy’s favorites was the colonel, and then came the speeches. Lucy, presenting the flag, was charming and eloquent, and gave no symptom of breaking down ; but the colonel did break down wofully, both in private and in public, and so followed the captain.

In none of these gayeties and gallantries did the widow’s son take part. The fife and drum and the barbecue and picnic rejoiced in the grand Southern woods, as merry as if behind the day and balmy night the long ranks of the to-morrows did not march in Confederate gray and Union blue; but these allured him in vain. Lucy was vexed and uneasy. Could he tarry ? The war would be over, and all the glory harvested, and this preux chevalier of hers not be even at the gleaning. She made up her mind to do something, and did it.

She lured him at the village church, and bore him captive. It was very sweet, she felt, after all, to have this recreant knight at her bridle-rein ; but duty was duty, and she would have her word, cost what it may.

He explained, frankly enough, that, knowing her heart was in this cause, and not seeing his way clear to go, he had refrained from visiting her.

“ But why ? ” she asked ; “ is it not your country ? Even Moses, when the Lord was angry with the Jews, chose to be blotted out ot His book, rather than desert his countrymen.”

“ Yes,” said Victor Shandy, “but a later apostle, under a better dispensation, said that ‘ he who does not provide for his own household is worse than a heathen.’ My mother’s affairs are so embarrassed, I cannot afford to leave her to struggle alone.”

That was all he said. She understood now how this man who stayed was braver than all who had gone. He had sacrificed his ambition, his eager desire to be well with men, and risked even her love, upon the altar of filial affection. “ I did n’t know ; I did n’t think,” she said ; “but I — Could n’t I take care of your mother?”

It was enough, and although she protested that he and his mother were different persons, and she had never offered to take care of him, yet it was somehow arranged that way, and there was a quiet wedding soon after. We can suppose Victor Shandy allowed his wife to assist him, in the matter of his mother’s embarrassments, for he went soon after to the wars.

The little wife remained quietly at her home, busy with her household duties, for perhaps a year. One morning, however, she lost her head man, her overseer, a canny Scot. “ He could na just see his way,” he said, “ to bide at hame when sae mony braw men were i’ th’ field. His conscience gied him sair twinges there anent, and the slave boddies were a’ gude laddies ; belike the lady could sted the place alane.” So Lucy praised his resolution, and was left her own overseer and manager.

How did she get on ? Let her speak for herself. She wrote many letters to her soldier husband, in those days, — odd mixtures of practical sense, unpractical advice, and pious exhortations. Some of them are preserved, and we quote extracts.

“ I am no end of a planter,” she said. “ Up by day, I breakfast at sunrise, and mount Kitty Clyde for a morning ride over the fields where the men are at work. This keeps me till ten o’clock. Then for domestic duties until the afternoon, when I go again to look at the work and see that it is done right. . . . . That unlucky South Field wanted manure. Of course fertilizers were impossible. the blockade is so bad. But I ground the cotton-seed to a meal, and put it on, a thousand pounds to the acre, and vegetation comes out wonderfully. The stock eat the meal, but it is not good, because it spoils the milk, unless you mix other things with it. . . . . Your little wife has become a great spinster. Jane and Lucy and I carded, spun, and wove, not only stuffs for the hands, but heaps beside. The blockade is so bad, as I said, and the poor people just starving and in rags. McCandless, at the store, is so hard, I just thought I would try a little plan. I sold the soldiers’ wives the cloth very cheap. Why not give ? O, that is so like a silly man ! Because I took the little money, and Mr. Melden the preacher, who is a very good man, and not at all like the last you disliked so much, and — O yes ! Mr. Melden’s brother got me some sugar, coffee, etc., for the poor people with the money. I declare, what a funny sentence that is ! Never mind. You know what I mean, and I am in a hurry now. But McCandless is as mad about it, you don't know ; and the poor creatures seem to think I am making money at it somehow. . . . . As to the sale of cotton, the business — I don’t know how to spell ‘business,’ no more than I do ‘receive ’ and ‘ believe,’ or which letter is first. So I crook the ‘ s ’ just the least little bit, and the ‘ i ’ the least little bit, and put the dot above the middle of them. If you don’t fix it right, it is your bad spelling, not mine.”

Then she instructed him about the care of his health, in which, we may know, the quinine and little pills were not forgotten. “ I know,” she said, “ that soldiers must get wet; but whenever you do, as soon as you get to your tent, change everything to the skin, and have Floyd rub you hard with a coarse dry towel. Don't neglect this.” She was glad to hear “ he had been promoted for gallantry, and was a sergeant ” ; then she closed in simple expressions of love and prayers, so dear to the yearning absent.

At rare intervals letters came from him. Sometimes a batch, and then one or two stragglers, and then silence till the next opportunity. The mail facilities (?) in the Confederacy were a ridiculous failure at the best. Once old Mr. Sambre, a neighbor, found her frowning over a piece of information in one of these letters. He was a licensed grumbler, and went on, as usual, this morning till he attracted her attention.

“ I am afraid,” said he, hitching his discontent to some disconnected remarks, — “I am afraid we have not gained much by this cruel Rebellion.”

At another time she would have rebuked the expression and argued the point ; but she had her own private wrong to brood over. “ This cruel Rebellion,” he continued. “We are taxed this side and t’ other. We did n’t usen to have it, and had n’t ought to now. Now the government,” with a stress on the last syllable, “ is a goin’ for to take our cotton, callin’ of it a loan. Loan indeed ! it’s mighty like oldfashioned stealin’. I heered say this is the rich man’s war, an’ the poor man’s fight. It’s a sight wuss. It’s the poor man’s pay, too.”

“ Mr. Sambre,” said Lucy, rallying, “suppose you were to ask Mr. McCandless, down at the store, to buy you a certain article in New Orleans, and he did so, but the bill he presented for the goods was larger than you expected ; would you refuse to pay ? ”

“ That I would,” said he, triumphantly. “ I tell you, Miss Lanfranc, — Mrs. Shandy, I mean, — I wouldn’t trust that thar McCandless furder ’n you could throw a bull by the tail.”

“But,” said Lucy, trying to save her illustration, “ if McCandless was an honest man, would n’t you pay ? ”

“ I dunno ; more ’n likely I ’d have to. But,” he added stoutly, “ I’d grumble like the Devil.”

“ Well, well,” said Lucy, “ we ’ll just have to let you and such as you grumble and pay.”

“ But I want to be gittin’ what I done told McCandless to git. He may have went ² and spent it for somethin’ else, like that dern lickin’ our government’s done got up in Kantuck,” growled the irrepressible.

“ What do you mean ? ” said Lucy. “ Have you any late news ? ”

“ You done heered how Zollicoffer’s got licked, an’ we got licked at Donelson, and somebody’s done got licked som’er’s else I dunno whar. They ain’t none of ’em wuth a cuss, them ginirals. Ginrl Jackson’d tie the whole of ’em up in a bag and lick the hindsights off’n ’em. They don’t put up the right min as officers ; that’s what’s the matter,” said the old man.

“ I do not doubt you are right,” said Lucy. “ Would you believe it, there is my husband, Victor Shandy, only a sergeant ? I don’t know what that is, but it is neither suited to his position in society, nor abilities.” And she believed this neglect was fruitful of all the disasters.

“A sergeant, more partickler, a ordurely sergeant,” replied the old man. with a Southern softening of the vowel, “ ain’t bad. I was a ordurely sergeant myself once’t at the mustah.”

But Lucy did not hear him. She had gone to order the pony carriage, for a visit to the post-office, and was soon on her way.

the storekeeper was lounging with the customary idlers of such a place when she entered, and he showed his insolent dislike by the tardiness of his answer to her call.

“ My mail,” said she, impatiently.

He lounged over the counter, reaching one arm blindly to the letter-boxes, as he spoke.

“ And so Sandy’s left you, ma’am.”

“ My mail,” she said.

“ Sandy was a forehanded man with craps. It’s moighty tight ye bin wid him, when you drav him aff,” said he, with familiar impertinence.

“ Sandy is a true man,” said Lucy, flushing. “ He went to share the dangers, as he shared the bread of this people. He would have scorned to make a profit out of their hardships. It is more than you can say of yourself, I fear, Mr. McCandless.”

It provoked the wretch to a last piece of cruel impertinence. “ Sure an’ ye didn’t see your husband’s cousin, Misther John Shandy, as is come to take possission av the estate, now poor Vicky’s dead.”

“You lie, McCandless,” said a mild voice at variance with the words ; “ but, ma’am, I am your husband’s cousin.”

She turned, and saw a small man with one leg much distorted, that rested on a crutch. He was sallow and homely, quite a common-looking man, but the face, Lucy thought, was not a bad face, as he stood looking straight at her.

“ I have heard my husband speak of you,” she said. “ What does this man mean ? ”

“ Never mind his meaning,” said he. “ What he says of Victor, as well as of me, is, no doubt, false. If you will bring your mail into Mrs. McCandless’s sitting-room, I will explain.”

He asked her, when they were seated, if her mail contained any letter from her husband; and, being answered in the negative, he explained that there had been a great battle at Shiloh, near Pittsburg Landing, by which the enemy’s advance was

checked, but at the expense of a heavy loss in officers and men. A partial list of the casualties had been published, and Victor’s name was not included in it ; and he showed her the paper. “ I am very thankful,” said she, “both for the victory, and that my husband has been spared. What, then, did that man mean ? ”

“ O, nothing,” said he ; “only it had been suggested that one name, ‘W. Sanders, sergeant,’ might be a misprint for ‘ V. Shandy,’ as the former name was not remembered among the roll of the company that was familiar to the neighborhood.”

“ It is true, Victor is a sergeant,” said the wife.

“Very true; but such a mistake is not probable. Sanders is a common name; the regiment has been out eighteen months or more, and has doubtless recruited much. I would be willing to bet,” said he, “ that it has picked up half a dozen Sanders in that time, and this poor fellow is one of them. It would be a very morbid feeling, ma’am, from the very list that assures you that your husband is not hurt, to infer that he actually has been killed.”

In this way, reasoning and explaining, he assured the wife, till she was happy.

“Come,” said she, “you must go with me to ‘ The Bucks,’ and explain this to his mother as kindly as you have to me, and then dine with me at Malvoisee. Victor used to talk a great deal of you, and I almost seem to know you well.”

CHAPTER III.

As the two, Lucy and her cousin, came through the shop, McCandless half lounged over his counter, and leered, mocking, at the contrasted couple ; she was so straight, slender, and graceful ; and he so deformed and ungainly, as he labored and rattled on his crutch at her side.

“ A purty sight to see pride have a fall, and fast Lou Longfrank with nobeau but a damn lame fiddler,” said the storekeeper, as they passed out to the carriage. It was gross and offensive. John Shandy, after assisting his cousin into her carriage, had turned, when she spoke.

“ Come in,” she said ; “you are to go with me to ma, you know. Never mind that wretch. La ! do you think I would break my parasol at Mrs. McCandless’s poodle, — it is an ugly little vermin, and so is he, — because it barks at me? Remember Dr. Watts’s

“And—and,” hesitated he, “these poor limbs were never made to tear his eyes ; but I think my heart is ready to wish it.”

“ O yes, come on ; and we ’ll wish him all to pieces, if you like ! No harm in that, I hope. But seeing ma is the first thing.”

“Yes,” said he, following; “that is first. We will go.” And he followed her. The subject was not immediately dropped after they drove off, and he, hesitatingly, referred to his lameness, upon which McCandless had presumed.

“Very like,” said she ; “ I did n’t think of that.” And the remark soothed and pleased him.

One of the most painful reflections to the deformed must be the thought that their defect is in the mind of others with them ; and so Lucy’s casual rejoinder was pleasant to him.

In the store, old Mr. Sambre, who had followed Lucy to the post-office, spoke a word of caution.

“ Now you’ve done been gone done it.”

“ Done what ? ” said McCandless.

“ Jist sowed a crap o’ hell-fire in the best sile in —— County, I reckon,” replied the old man.

“ What, that gal ? Divil a bit do I care,” said McCandless-

“ Mebbe not,” said the other ; “ but ’t ain’t the gal this time. Them Shandys is gunpowder. Mighty cool and shiny ef you let ’em alone, but a spark sets ’em all off.”

“ What, the lame fiddler ! I 'd straighten his cruked leg aisier than moy little finger,” said the storekeeper, contemptuously.

“Yes, an’ git a mahogany bedstead in a doing of it,” said Sambre. And with this figurative description of our last narrow couch, the conversation closed.

But John Shandy did not dine at Malvoisee that day. He went to his humble apartments, and, after writing some letters, he sat and thought. That day a lady had been grossly insulted in his presence and through him, and he had suffered the insult to pass unrebuked. He wished now he had spoken in reply ; the matter might have ended in words, but it was too late for that. It was hard that this should come upon him. He had never felt his physical defects so keenly. His life, as he reviewed it, had been one of trial, but nothing like this. His new cousin was so kind to him, and her cool,’fresh voice like water-brooks in a dry and thirsty land. Others of her sex had been kind ; they were all kind in their way ; but the way was out of pity for his lameness, and because he was something different and less than other men. Lucy had been kind, forgetful of his physical defects, and because she seemed to regard him as one different and better than his kind ; something near to herself, and to be cherished accordingly. And this one woman of all the world had been repeatedly, and at last brutally, insulted in his presence, and by a reflection that aspersed his manhood.

He took a pistol from his trunk, cleaned and oiled it, and then reloaded it carefully, after trying the lock. He then sent out and got a bottle of liquor, of which he drank once, as a feverish man drinks water. He then dressed himself with great care, and sat down to think. His thoughts were very, very painful, for he soon lay on the bed crying like a child ; but he arose afterwards, resolved.

He was about to leave the room, when his violin-case caught his eye. He turned back, and taking the instrument tenderly, as if he loved it, he began to play. An inspiration, such as musicians will recognize as coming strangely at times, was upon him, and the strings yielded a soft bugle-like melody, so low and sweet, to his wish. Dear old farewell airs, suggested less, he thought, by himself than the violin, came marvellously to him, though he had not played them before for years. The music wailed and sobbed, and clung like a child to the bow and strings, as if loath to part. He heard the whispering voices of little children at the door, listening to the low, charmed melody, and he remembered his own sad, solitary childhood. Then the tender violin seemed to whisper rebukingly its early love and companionship. Yes, it had been his only friend, his only adviser, his only comforter. He remembered when his small hand could scarcely enclose the neck and finger the strings, and how he had struggled and toiled to learn that mysterious language, the melodious tongue spoken in the violin. He had learned it ; and he and the old violin, growing sweeter in companionship as the years rolled on, had talked many whispered secrets together, in the sweet, sad times. But it would never be so again ; and the violin wailed its sorrow with unspeakable tenderness. He tried again and again to put it down, but again and again the pleading old love conquered, in increasing melody. But it must be done. This violin was to him a pure, angelic spirit. It was the voice of innocence out of the heavens, enclosed in the dry wood and tender strings. He might do what he was resolved to do, what he knew he had to do ; but he could not return and lay his stained hand upon his violin again.

It was with a great effort he ceased, and, beginning at the treble, turned and stretched each string till it snapped with ringing jar ; and, laying the violin in its case, like a poor babe in its little coffin, he burst into a passion of tears. All was over. All ties to the past were broken with the sweet strings, and the future purpose was fixed. He gave a lingering look at the room and its furniture. He felt that, though he should see it a thousand times hereafter, it would never again look to him as now, never as it had looked to him in the past. His life there had not been happy, but it made him inexpressibly sad to know that he was parting with that life forever.

Strange to say, in all these meditations over what he was resolved to do, and its consequences, no thought of danger to himself had occurred to him. Weak, deformed, and unused to events requiring prompt and decisive action, and with an impossibly chivalrous conduct for his guidance, planned beforehand, the thought of any fatal result to himself never crossed his mind. Under these influences, therefore, he paused once more, pistol in hand, at the door, and looked back. It was John Shandy’s farewell to his old life.

He crossed the street, walking straight to McCandless’s door. The bully stood on the stoop, but turned hastily and went in, as he saw the lame man, and passed round the counter to his desk. By it stood his double-barrelled gun, heavily loaded. His hand was on it, but Shandy spoke : “ You scoundrel, do you insult a lady ? ” And the pistol cracked, McCandless dropped, and a crowd rushed around. John Shandy surrendered, and was held in custody, waiting the result of the wound, reported critical and very dangerous.

In the mean while Lucy, unconscious of the desperate resolution taken by the lame man, thought only of his kindness to her. “Just like Victor,” she said to herself, “ and his voice is like Victor’s ; just that pitch of pliant, watchful tenderness, as if it had been schooled in soothing little children, and yet the words so calm, wise, and firm, so cool and reasonable. It would have been hard to receive the mean stab of that wretch McCandless, had not he been there.” And then she thought indignantly of the offensive manner and last studied insult of the storekeeper, and, clinching her little hands, she thought of her absent protector.

Then, at the moment, she heard the news that she was avenged. It shocked her. It seemed as if some evil power had granted the last wicked wish in her mind ; and then she thought of her avenger less kindly than before he did this deed, or than if it had been undone Still she thought of him, and remembered that duty, perhaps, required something of her. She went to her mother, Mrs. Shandy, and the two visited the prisoner.

As McCandless recovered, Shandy was admitted to bail, on the bond of his aunt and cousin, and was free, but not the same man as before. He had received a great shock, and kept aloof more than ever. When his cousin saw it, she endeavored to comfort and cheer him, but he remained silent and depressed.

But a sorrow was coming to his comforter. John Shandy one day recognized an old schoolmate in a disabled soldier, and inquired the news.

“ Nothing since Shiloh,” said he. “ I suppose you heard of your cousin Victor’s death. Poor fellow ! he got his lieutenancy the day before he fell.”

“Victor dead! I will not believe it,” said John Shandy.

“ He’s dead, all the same. I saw him. We fell together. I left this other fellow,” pointing to his leg, “and poor Vic got a charge o’ grape right here,” pointing to his breast, said the soldier.

“Was he killed instantly?” asked Shandy.

“ Well, no ; we fell near together, I said. He sent some words of love and that sort of thing to his wife, and then went off. Indeed, I can’t say I saw him die, exactly, for this cursed bone was grinding me, and I sort o’ fainted ; but that was the last o’ him.” was the reply.

“ Poor Vic ! and have you told his wife ? ” said Shandy.

“Ne’er a time, at least not yet; want you to go ’long and sort o’ reinforce me. It ’s a bad job,” said the other.

“ No,” said John, “ you must go. It is better. She has been very good to me, and it will break her heart. I may see aunt, and break it to her. That is bad enough.”

Poor Lucy ! To lose the beloved in the waning years is hard ; but then the comfort is in the brief separation. One has only gone before to prepare a place for the other that will soon come. But to lose such, in the green and bourgeon of wedded life, is the fulness of woe. She thought of her youth and vigor pityingly, as another might lament old age and feebleness. It must be so long, so long bef re. she saw him again. But yesterday, she vainly thought, she was living for him, and all she did was for him ; but now, her work was done! If it only could be for an instant; if she could only close his eyes, and perform the last offices of love for him, that would be sweet; but she could do nothing for him any more. It was all done now, and ended.

Yesterday, and for him, she loved this life with its hardships and trials, for it was Victor’s life. She had loved to adorn her person and cherish it for his sake. Now it wearied her. This corporeal frame had been her servant, to do her will, to please her husband. She had loved its beauty, and cherished and cultivated its endowments, for his sake. Now this servant had become her terrible master. It willed for her to live, and she lived. It willed for her to toil and suffer, and she toiled and suffered unrewarded. Nothing she did was for herself; nothing she ever did hereafter could be for herself; all was for this stern, relentless body. It made her live, when she would be away and at rest. It made her toil and plan and suffer; it hungered and thirsted; it froze and burned ; it was never satisfied. She came to think of it as her deadly enemy; cruel, relentless, and persecuting, fastened upon her by chains she dared not break. She prayed to be released from it; prayed also, poor child, that she might be able to see God’s love still shining from his cross. We will not doubt the Comforter came.

A second sorrow, for a time, did her good, in raising her out of the selfishness of grief. Poor Mrs. Shandy, Victor’s mother, did not long survive the shock of her son’s death. She lived to bless her daughter and her nephew, at her bedside, and, smiling recognition of the loved in heaven, she passed away and was at peace.

After his aunt’s funeral, John Shandy, oppressed with his own sorrows, and driven by the sordid cares of earning a hard living, kept away from the widow, his cousin. She had borne up well in the care of her mother-in-law, and John Shandy was unaware of the extent of her dejection. He chanced, however, to meet the village physician, and learned with a shock of her condition.

“ Does she talk much,” at last Shandy asked, “ I mean about Victor ? ”

“Victor? oh! ah! yes! No, that topic is forbidden. It is dwelling upon that which saps her vital energies. Possibly we cannot minister to a mind diseased ; but avoiding injurious topics, we can afford the light, cheerful food of gossip, the news of the day, and so enable the mind to achieve its own cure.”

“ Throw physic to the dogs,” muttered John Shandy, as he thought of the doctors talking gossip and twaddle to such a patient, and he hobbled off.

Black Lucy,³ the maid of the poor little widow, admitted him. “ How is your mistress?” asked John Shandy.

“ Lord ! Mass John, she’s jis a peekin’ and a pinin’ away ; dat she is ! ” answered the maid.

“ Does she talk much about her husband ? ” he asked.

“ ’Bout Mass Vic ; bress de Lord, no ! Doctor done said, not. She jis lay on de bed a lookin’ and a lookin’ at Mass

Vic’s picter oba de mankel-shel all de time ” ; and so leading to the sittingroom, she announced, “Mass John done come.”

Lucy was lying on a little sociable, or sofa, as he entered. She rose to meet him, and spoke indifferent words of welcome. She had thought of John Shandy, in an idle way, in her grief, even wondering that, as her husband’s nearest relative, he had not come to her. With the curious selfishness of sorrow, she had even taken a little comfort in the thought that he had deserted her. Grief does so like to multiply and isolate itself sometimes. But now he had come and was welcome.

He gradually and easily led the conversation to Victor Shandy, bringing up reminiscences of his school-days and his generosity and kindness. Then he told of his earlier manhood and struggles, and how bravely he had faced misfortune and borne it down. He spoke of his love for his mother, and finally of his love and devotion to Lucy. Her memory and her love responded in the story of his enlistment, and of his generous love. So the two twined threads of tender recollection around the gallantry and gentleness of the dead ; and when' the thought of the noble close of that brief precious life was reached, Lucy could whisper of it.

She realized how rich she was in having won so precious a love, and worn it, and she was comforted. When John Shandy arose to go she thanked him, expressing her gratitude in few and simple words. She asked him to remain, at least a few days, and act for her on the farm. He consented, and finally it was. settled that he was to live at “The Bucks,” which place, Lucy, backed by her lawyer, declared to be his. On this point he resisted, but Victor’s death preceding his mother’s, the estate had never vested in Victor, but had gone directly to John Shandy. So John Shandy took “ The Bucks,” and assisted in the management of both places.

CHAPTER IV.

A YEAR with its alleviations passed slowly over the two in their new relations, adjusting them in their habits and peculiarities, each to the other. The widow felt that John Shandy’s presence was under the providential will of Him who cares for the widow; and John Shandy acknowledged a growth and purpose in life that made it valuable. A very dear secret had formed itself slowly in his heart, and diffused its delicious poison over the feeble frame of the lame man ; but he never spoke of it or hinted it to a creature in the world, not even to the long-neglected violin. If it was known at all, it was marred ; if it was told to one other, it was converted into a pain. It was his own and only his, and of its existence the widow was as unconscious as are the living of the good angels guarding them.

One morning these two were in consultation, when Black Lucy announced, in customary phrase, “ Miss Lucy, de sogers done come.”

It proved to be an agent of the Confederate government, levying the cotton loan. When Lucy understood, she said, “ Mr. Shandy will wait upon you ; take what you please, or all, if you please, and God prosper the cause that has the widow’s offering.”

Others were not so liberal. McCandless, defeated in the prosecution of John Shandy, had gone on prospering in other affairs, as such men did during the war. He now owned one or two large plantations, and had a large stock of cotton on hand, collected in his business. He tried various artifices to escape the levy, but to no purpose.

“ I am a subject of Quane Victory’s,” said he, as if the name of that mighty potentate was enough.

“ Confound ‘ Quane Victory,’ she’s been a little too much on the other side. We don’t want you, but the cotton.” And the cotton he would have ; and it was duly taken and placed under a small guard for removal the following week.

McCandless, however, did not give up so readily. It is supposed, from events, that he betrayed the seizure to the Federal forces hovering near, and also that he sought, at the same time, other revenges on those he hated.

A few nights later Lucy was wakened by a loud knocking, and Lucy, her maid, entered and said, “ Bress de Lord, miss, de Yankees done come.”These were visitors that would not take denial. She rose and went to the small drawing-room. A soldier in blue entered and bowed, speaking at once, coldly and clearly : 44 My name is E——. I am an officer in the Union Army, detailed to protect the seizure of certain confiscated cotton on your premises. I have taken your teams, and employed your farm-hands in its removal. It is also my painful duty to arrest one John Shandy, a Rebel spy, harbored or concealed about these premises.”

“ Did you arouse me, sir, to tell me you had robbed me of my cotton, stock, and slaves, and intended to murder my cousin ? ” said the widow, coldly.

“ I waked you to let you know my duty so far as it affected you. Deliver up the spy, and it may be in your favor at head-quarters,” said he.

“ I reject your bribe ; do your worst,” said she, stoutly.

The officer turned to the maid, that stood looking ashy pale at the scene. “ Where is John Shandy?” he asked, sharply.

“ Don’t you tell,” said Lucy to her. “ Lord, miss, how’d I know, ef he ain’t down at De Bucks,” stammered the maid.

“ We will find him,” said the officer ; and, as Lucy prayerfully hoped he would not, she heard the threats of the soldiery, as they searched, to hang her cousin at her door-porch. She would have spoken again bitterly, but just then, rising over the tramp of feet and the shouting, she heard the musical droll of a fiddle, and an irresistibly comical voice singing,—

And the violin drolly re-echoed “ peaea-ea-nuts ” in mocking treble. The house shook with the shouts and laughter of the delighted soldiery. As the violinist entered the room his instrument concluded with the long yawn and dissatisfied growl of a person newly aroused.

“ Humph ! ” said the officer, trying to appear grave amid the clamor, and looking at the player’s feet. “ We have got the Devil here, hoofs and all ; who else are you, sir ? Come, you seem to be a jolly dog. What’s this McCandless has told about you ? You don’t look like a dangerous spy, at all events,” said the officer.

An explanation followed; and the officer remained for some time, and John Shandy touched his violin in a different strain. Such sweet old airs as “ Bonnie Doon,” the “ Braes of Balquhidder,” “ Dumbarton’s Belle,” and “ Annie Laurie ” softened the heart towards the singer. “ Let me speak to Mrs. Shandy a moment.” said the officer; and, when Shandy had left the room, he added. “ This is a bad business. I don’t like it. It will not hurt Shandy. I will take care of that, but it will cost him some trouble. Of course, I must put him in custody as soon as he returns.”

Lucy smiled and said nothing; but I think she and the Federal soldier had one thought in common, — that John Shandy would not fall in the way again that night.

It vexed her, therefore, to meet her cousin, after the officer had gone out. “ What are you doing here ? ” she said. “ Why don’t you go ? ”

He replied, “ Go ! where am I to go ? I heard, down in the village, of your danger and I came. I must stay till it is over.” He did stay, but the party left without seeing him again. Perhaps purposely.

She censured his rashness the next morning, and more when she understood that he had information, at the time, of bribes and whiskey given by McCandless to the men, to inflame them to execute him at her door. “ You might have been killed, and what could I do without you ? ” she said, piteously.

The words thrilled him inexpressibly. Nor was his devotion lost upon Lucy. He was so brave, so rash, and yet so ready in resource ; his violin, so long neglected, had doubtless saved him. But there were other matters to demand attention.

It was found, the next morning, that a great part of the able-bodied slaves had gone off with the Federal soldiers. Part of the teams were taken, but with what remained, and the negroes, Lucy and John Shandy thought they could still manage to save the crop. It was the first shock of the battery against the “ peculiar institution.” and it was felt severely there as elsewhere ; the first crumbling of that huge fabric whose ruin crushed, for a time, beneath its weight, the energy and productive wealth of the South.

But the disorder among the slaves was not the only evil of this period. A bandit of the neighborhood had spread a terror that the false security of a home-guard company had increased. This holiday troop, having feasted and frolicked as “ our defenders,” and having been petted by the girls, who, poor creatures, in the absence of the real article, were fain to amuse themselves playing with these wooden soldiers, was one day bagged by the bandit, and ridiculously paroled “ not to take up arms,” After this, the violence and terror increased until John Shandy could bear it no more, and set out for the nearest Confederate military post to obtain efficient protection.

Very many things of another character had occurred to try John Shandy’s spirit at this time. While his fair mistress did not absolutely “go into society,” she began to receive attentions. Sturdy widowers came and talked crops and the difficulty of conducting a plantation without proper female guidance. Gay Confederate soldiers at home on leave courted her desperately, with professional audacity, for twenty-four hours on a stretch. Lucy would say. after such visits, how wretched she was, and do a sort of “hour’s penance” before poor Victor Shandy’s picture. One day the maid rebuked her in this way : —

“Why is you wretched? You’s got everything. Everybody jis say, Poor Lucy ! ’cause Mass Vic done gone and got hisself shot, and dey all fusses oba you. I think I ’se a heap wretcheder.” And the maid mightily bemoaned herself.

“You ! ” said Lucy, opening her eyes, “ why, what makes you wretched ? ”

“ All ’cause o’ dat nigger Floyd, went off wid Mass Vic,” said the girl.

“ Floyd ! Victor’s servant! Why, he is not killed too, is he?” asked the mistress.

“ No, miss, and dat’s jis what’s de matter. Ef Floyd done got hisself killed, everybody’d say, ‘ See dat po’ brack chile ! Her beau done got hisself shot,’ and de wimmen, and de brack genelem too, be a-comin’ mighty sorry for dis po’ gal. But now, Lord bress ye ! dey say, ‘ See dat little nigga mopin’ da, jis ’cause Mass Vic’s Floyd done gone off an’ lef’ her, an’ got married to some white gal up Norf.’” And the maid sobbed with honest vexation.

You need n’t fear,” said Lucy, “the Northern ladies are very far from marrying one of your color.”

“ Yes,” sobbed the maid, “ but dem niggas ses it all de same. Bet dat nigga Floyd done run de fus’ gun,” she added fiercely.

Lucy slightly modified her conduct after this. She no longer received suitors as such ; but her pastor began to be particular in his attentions, the gossips said. This was the Mr. Melden mentioned in one of Lucy’s letters. He was a quiet, scholarly young man, living with his widowed mother in the village parsonage. He had been driven from New Orleans, and had found his way to this quiet retreat. As an accomplished, though rather pedantic student, but more especially as her pastor, he was made welcome to Lucy’s house and table, and many a symposium was spread for him. His mother sometimes accompanied him, and quiet tea-drinkings took place, at which there was some serious love-making of a very proper character.

One of these pleasant repasts was suddenly interrupted by a shocking occurrence of imminent peril to the pretty widow, as well as to her serious lover. They were just seated and the usual grace pronounced, when there came a violent knocking, and the maid burst in, pale as ashes. “Lord! miss,” she screamed, “dem debbils done come.”

No need of further announcement. A stalwart ruffian, girt with pistols, stood in the door.⁴

“ Sorry I ’m so dern late ; knowed I was expected to grub too. O, don’t mind me, I ain’t petickler who I eats with ! Jack, straighten that thar fellow, he’s a failin’ off’n his cheer.”

Mr. Melden looked scared, and drew back. Lucy looked cold and pale. “ What does this mean ? ” she asked.

“Hell!” said he, briefly; “coffee, marm, and git out your liquor.”

Lucy rose from the table. “ Stop right thar ; durs n’t move out ’n your tracks,” said the bandit, rising.

She attempted to escape. He caught her in his rude arms, and pressed her lips with coarse, hot kisses. “ Mr. Melden,” she screamed, “are you a man ?”

“I — I am a minister of the Gospel. God alone can deliver us from this peril,” said the startled priest. But Lucy at last broke away and fled.

“ By Joe, she’s a game one. Jack, lock that outer door. She’s safe now, I reckon,” said the ruffian. “ Gal,” to the colored girl, “go in to your missis, an’ fix her up ; she ’s goin’ to git married. I ’ve come a purpose, and so’s the preacher here.” Then a scene took place between the minister and the bandit; the one swearing the other should perform a sort of ceremony over his horrid purpose ; and the other, who had recovered his firmness, refusing, amid the coarse jests of the ruffians, and the frantic cries and appeals of the mother. The bandit persisted, swearing he “ had had handmaids, like them patriarchs Jacob and Joseph and them,” but now he was going to have a wife, “ ef it was only to settle down, after fightin’ and fun was over, and be a honest man.”

•This contest gave our heroine time. At first she was paralyzed with terror, and her womanly horror of the man.

“ Lucy,” she said to her maid, when she understood his purpose, “what shall we do ? We must escape from this place.”

“ De Lord knows how ! Dis door done locked ; dey’s all in de dinin’room, and dey ain’t no udder,” said the scared negress.

“ Stay,” said Lucy, “ the Lord will provide.” And she opened a third door, and went in, the maid following.

The house was originally constructed on the usual plan of Southern country houses, with'a gallery in front, on which a small room had been closed in. This, in her school-days, had been Lucy’s room ; but the random addition of other apartments had made it superfluous as a chamber, and, for convenience, it had been converted into a clothes-room. The walls were hung with the garments of three generations. Opposite the door was a huge press, closing the window. The shutter was closed without, and likely to be overlooked ; especially as the ruffians had complete information of the plan of the house and of the use to which the small room had been put. Lucy tore out the clothing, and shook the loose, thin backing of the press, till it fell out, to one side. There was no sash, and the half-rotted shutter yielded to a steady push. Lucy peeped out. A large live-oak obscured the opening, and the figures, plainly visible by the torches that blinded the bearers, were distinctly to be seen. “ Fasten the outer and inner door, while I get two cloaks. Throw them out, now be quiet.” And the two were without.

The torches of the ruffians were an advantage. Avoiding the light, they reached the garden. “ Where shall we go now ?” said Lucy; “ I see a sentinel on the road above and below, and even one on the spring walk.”

“ Lord ! miss, why d’n’t I think,” said the maid, excitedly, “ we’s safe; come dissa way.”

“Where are you going?” asked Lucy, following.

“ Bress de Lord, jes to think, I ’s been here a many a time when de niggas used to run away, totin’ ’em vittles,” said the maid, hurrying on.

“ You, Lucy ? ” But it was no time to discuss the fugitive-slave question. The way was rough ; through oak scrub and palmetto brush, and gradually descending. The earth grew moist under foot ; and then the water rose over their shoes, over their ankles, up to their knees. Then the ground ascended a little, and they got among tangled jasmine-vines and green brier; they stumbled over the cypress knees, the foliage getting heavier and denser ; and the long drapery of Spanish moss hung lower and lower, trailing the ground from the boughs above. They turned, and, with eyes used to the gloom, discovered themselves to be in a sort of hut, roofed with the broad fans of palmetto.

The maid, whose evening task of lighting lamps supplied her with matches, lighted a small fire of dried leaves and tinder. The girls sat trembling, hearing in the distance the shouts of the bandits. “ Are n’t you afraid the light will betray us ? ” asked Lucy.

“ Lord no ! dey ain’t nuffin kin fine us but dogs ; and Massa Earle ⁵ done kill all dem,” said the girl.

“ That is true ; I never expected to be glad that poor Tray and Blanche were shot,” said Lucy, thankfully.

They sat for some time, and the night slowly waned. At length Lucy said with a yawn, “ Are you sure we ’re safe, Lucy? Do you know, I’m right down sleepy.”

“ Dar’s de bed,” said the maid, pointing to a low couch of Spanish moss, in one corner; “jis wrap up in ole mas’r’s cloak. Lord, miss, you’s jis as safe as — as — ”

“ Don’t say Lord, always Lucy,” said her mistress. “When you don’t say it in prayer, it sounds like — like it was in something else.” And with this characteristic admonition, the tired little widow fell asleep.

Will Wallace Harney.