CHAPTER VII
Miss Mildred Fisher was one of the happiest of women, and this was theresult of her own peculiar temperament, although she enjoyed theendowments of a kind fate, for she came of a good family and had a finefortune in expectation. Her resolute intention was to make the best ofeverything. With a strong, fresh, buoyant physique and an indomitablespirit it became evident to her in the early stages of this effort thatthe world is a fairly pleasant planet to live on. Her red hair--acapital defect in those days, when Titian's name was never associatedwith anything so unfashionable, and which bowed to the earth the soul ofmany an otherwise deserving damsel--was most skilfully manipulated, anddressed in fleecy billows, usually surmounted with an elaborate comb ofcarved tortoise-shell, but on special occasions with a cordon of veryfine pearls, as if to attract the attention that other flame-hairedpeople avoided by the humblest coiffure. By reason of this management itwas described sometimes as auburn, and even golden, but this last wasthe aberration usually of youths who had lost their own heads, red andotherwise, for Mildred was a bewildering coquette. She had singularlyfine hazel eyes, which she used rather less for the purpose of visionthan for the destruction of the peace of man. Her complexion of thatdelicate fairness so often concomitant of red hair did not present theusual freckles. In fact it was the subject of much solicitous care. Shewore so many veils and mufflers that her identity often might well be amatter of doubt as far as her features could be discerned, and Seymour,being a very glib young lieutenant, once facetiously threatened her witharrest for going masked and presumably entertaining designs perniciousto the welfare of the army. That she did entertain such designs, in adifferent sense, was indeed obvious, for with her determination to makethe best of everything, Miss Fisher had resolved to harass the heart ofthe invader the moment a personable man with a creditable letter ofintroduction presented himself. For she "received the Yankees," as thephrase went, while others closed their doors and steeled their hearts inbitterness.
"We _all_ receive the Yankees," she was wont to say smilingly. "It is afamily failing with us. My father and five brothers in the Confederatevanguard are waiting now to receive Yankees--as many Yankees as care tocome to Bear-grass Creek."
"Oh, Miss Fisher!" remonstrated the gay young lieutenant, perceiving herdrift; "how can you consign me so heartlessly to six red-handedRebels!"
"Only red-headed as yet, fiery,--_all_ of them! They'll be red-handedenough after you and they come to blows!"
This mimic warfare had a certain zest, and many were the youths amongthe officers of the garrison who liked to "talk politics" in this veinwith "Sister Millie," as she was often designated in jocose allusion tothe five fiery-haired brothers. And indeed, as the Fisher family was sonumerously represented in the Confederate army, she considered that herSouthern partisanship was thus comprehensively demonstrated, and shefelt peculiarly at liberty to make merry with the enemy if the enemywould be merry in turn.
Very merry and good-natured the enemy was pleased to be as far as shewas concerned. They wrote home for social credentials. They securedintroductions from brother-officers who had the entree, and especiallycourted for this purpose were two elderly colonels who had beenclassmates of her father's at West Point, where he was educated,although he had resigned from the army many years ago. The two hadsought and naturally had found a cordial welcome at the home of hiswife, sister, and mother. It was natural, too, that they should feel andexert a sort of prudential care of the household, in the midst ofinimical soldiers, and although their ancient companion-in-arms was inan adverse force hardly fifty miles away, they regarded this as merelythe political aspect of the situation, which did not diminish theiramity and bore no relation to their personal sentiment, as they came andwent in his house on the footing of friends of the family. Now and againthe incongruity was brought home to them by some audacity of MildredFisher's.
"If you should meet papa, Colonel Monette," she said one day as one ofthese elderly officers was going out to command a scoutingexpedition--"if you _should_ meet papa, don't fail to reintroduceyourself, and give him our prettiest compliments."
The elderly officer was a literal-minded campaigner, and as he put hisfoot in the stirrup he felt rather dolorously that if ever he did meetGuy Fisher again, it would probably be at point-blank range where onewould have to swallow the other's pistol ball.
The war, however, was seldom so seriously regarded at the Fishermansion, one of the fine modern houses of the town,--brick with heavylimestone facings and much iron grille work, perched up on a doubleterrace, from which two flights of stone steps descended to thepavement. The more youthful officers contrived to import fruits andhothouse flowers, the fresh books and sheet music of the day, and theystood by the piano and wagged their heads to the march in "Faust," whichwas all the rage at that time, and sped around nimbly to the vibrationsof its waltz, that might have made a pair of spurs dance. She had avery pretty wit of an exaggerated tenor, and it seemed to whet thephrase of every one who was associated with "The Fair One with theEquivocal Locks," as an imitator of her methods had dubbed her.
No order was so strictly enforced as to touch her mother's and heraunt's household. Their poultry roosted in peace. Their firearms wereleft by officers conducting searches through citizens' houses andconfiscating pistols, guns, and knives.
"_We_ are as capable of armed rebellion as ever," she would declarejoyously.
Miss Fisher's favorite horse bore her airy weight as jauntily down thestreet as if no impress had desolated equestrian society. On theseoccasions she was always accompanied by two or three officers, sometimesmore, and there was a fable in circulation that once the cavalcade wasso numerous that the guard was turned out at the fort, the sentriesmistaking the gayly caparisoned approach for the major generalcommanding the division and his mounted escort.
She sang in a very high soprano voice and with a considerable degree ofculture, but one may be free to say that her rendering of "Il Bacio" and"La Farfalletta" was by no means the triumph of art that it seemed toSeymour, and it was suggested to the mind of several of the elderofficers that there ought to be something more arduous for him to dothan to languish over the piano in a sentimental daze, fairlyhypnotized by the simpler melodies--"Her bright smile haunts me still"and "Sweet Evangeline."
Serious thoughts were sometimes his portion, and Vertnor Ashley now andagain received the benefit of them.
"I heard some news when I was in town to-day--and I don't believe it,"Seymour said as he sat on a camp-stool on the grass in front of thecolonel's tent.
The so-called "street" of the cavalry encampment lay well to the rear.Hardly a sound emanated therefrom save now and then the echo of a step,the jingling of a spur or sabre, and sometimes voices in drowsytalk--perhaps a snatch of song or the thrumming of a guitar. A sort ofluminous hush pervaded the atmosphere of the sunny spring afternoon. Theshadows slanted long on the lush blue-grass that, despite the tramplingto which it had been subjected, sent a revivifying impetus from itsthickly interlaced mat of roots and spread a turf like dark rich velvet.The impulse of bloom was rife throughout nature--in a sort of praiseoffering for the grace of the spring. Humble untoward sprigs ofvegetation, nameless, one would think, unnoticed, must needs wear a tinycorolla or offer a chalice full of dew--so minute, so apart fromobservation, that their very creation seemed a work of supererogation.The dandelions' rich golden glow was instarred along the roadside, andthere was a bunch of wood violets in the roots of the maple nearAshley's head, the branches of the tree holding far down their darkgarnet blossoms with here and there clusters of flat wing-likeseed-pods, striped with green and brown. A few paces distant was atulip-tree, gloriously aflare with red and yellow blooms through all itsboughs to the height of eighty feet, and between was swung Ashley'shammock with Ashley luxuriously disposed therein. His eyes were on theinfinite roseate ranges of the Great Smoky Mountains in the amethystinedistance; the purple Chilhowee darkly loomed closer at hand, and aboutthe foot-hills was belted the placid cestus
of tents, all gleamingwhite, while the splendid curves of the river, mirroring the sky, viedwith the golden west. Nothing could have more picturesquely suggestedthe warrior in his hours of ease. The consciousness of one's own gracesought to add a zest to their value, especially when vanity is asabsolutely harmless as Vertnor Ashley's enjoyment of his own goodopinion of himself.
"What news? Why don't you believe it? Grape-vine?" asked Ashley.(Grape-vine was the telegraph of irresponsible rumor.)
"No--no--nothing fresh from the army. I heard a rumor to-day about MissFisher--that she is engaged to be married."
"I am not surprised--the contrary would surprise me."
Seymour looked alarmed. "Had you heard it, too?"
"No; but from what I have seen of 'Sister Millie,' as they call herabout here, I should say she is a fine recruiting officer."
There was an interval of silence, while Ashley swung back and forth inthe hammock and Seymour sat in a clumped posture on the camp-stool, hishands on his knees, and his gloomy eyes on the square toes of his newboots. At length he resumed:--
"Did you ever hear of a fellow that hails from somewhere near here namedLloyd?"
"Lawrence Lloyd?"
"That's the man," said Seymour.
"I've heard of him. That's the Lloyd place a little down the river,--oldbrick house, but all torn down now--burned by Gibdon's men; good-sizedpark, or 'grove,' as they call it. That's the man, is it? Commanded someRebel cavalry in the Bear-grass Creek skirmish."
"Fought like a bear with a sore head--mad about his house, I suppose."
"If I _knew_ that Miss Fisher was engaged to him, I would send her abarrel or two of fine old books that I rescued from Gibdon'smen--thought I'd save 'em for the owner. They made a bonfire of thelibrary there."
"Lloyd used 'em up in a raid last fall--Gibdon's fellows. I don't blame'em. But, say Miss Fisher has not been fair to me if she is engaged tothat man."
"I always thought Miss Fisher was particularly fair--owing to asun-bonnet, rather than to a just mind."
"You think she would treat me as she has--encourage me to make a fool ofmyself--if she is engaged to another man?"
"I think she is likelier to be engaged to five than 'another.'"
"You should not say that, Ashley," retorted Seymour, gravely. "It is notappropriate. You should not say that," he urged again.
"Oh, I mean no offence, and certainly no disrespect to the lovely MissFisher, who is my heart's delight. But you have heard the five-swainstory?"
As Seymour looked an inquiry--
"Five Rebs in camp, all homesick, very blue, on a Sunday morning," beganAshley, graphically; "all sitting on logs, each brooding over hisfiancee's ivory-type. And, as misery loves company, one sympathized withanother, and, by way of boastfulness, showed the beautiful counterfeitpresentment of his lady-love. Their clamors brought up the rest of thefive, and _each_ had the identical photograph of Miss Millie Fisher. Shewas engaged to all five! There was nothing else they could do--so theyheld a prayer-meeting!"
"What bosh!" exclaimed Seymour, fretfully. "People are always at someextravagant story about her like that. It isn't true, of course."
"It is as much like her as if it were true," Ashley declared laughingly.
The serious, not to say petulant traits of Seymour were intensified bythe conscious jeopardy of his happiness, and the continual doubt in hismind as to whether he had any ground for hope at all.
"By George! if I knew she was engaged--or--if I knew--anything at allabout anything--I'd cut it all, and give it up. I don't want to be asource of amusement to her--or to be made a show of. Sometimes, I pledgeyou my word, I feel like a dancing bear."
"Miss Fisher has something of the style of a bear-ward, it must beconfessed," said Ashley. "I fancied at one time she had a notion ofgetting a chain on me--she is enterprising, you know."
Then, after a moment, "Why _don't_ you cut it all, Mark?"
"Oh," cried Seymour, with an accent of positive pain, "I can't.Sometimes I believe she _does_ care--she makes me believe it."
"Well," smiled Ashley, banteringly, "you dance very prettily--not a bitclumsily--a very creditable sort of bear."
Another interval of silence ensued.
"I blame Baynell for all this," said Seymour, sullenly.
"Why? Is he a rival?"
"No. But it was not at all serious--I wasn't so dead gone, I mean--whenI wanted him to take me to the Roscoes'. If I had had some other placeto visit--some other people to know--some distraction of a reasonablesocial circle, she couldn't have brought me to such a--a--"
"--state of captivity," suggested Ashley.
"Well, you know, seeing nobody else of one's own sort--and a charminggirl--and nothing to do but to watch her sing--and hear her talk--andall the other men wild about her--and--it's--it's--"
"You'll forget it all before long," suggested the consolatory Ashley."You know we are here to-day and gone to-morrow, in a sense that GeneralOrders make less permanent than Scripture. If the word should come tobreak camp and march--how little you would be thinking of Miss Fisher."
"I suppose you were never in love, Ashley," Seymour said, a trifledrearily, adding mentally, "except with yourself!"
"I!" exclaimed Ashley, twirling his mustache. "Oh, I have had my sadexperiences, too--but I have survived them--and partially forgottenthem."
"I have no interest now in going to the Roscoes'. Mrs. Fisher offered tointroduce me. She and Miss Millie are going there to-morrow to some sortof a sewing-circle--they just want an officer's escort through thesuburbs, I know. That sewing-circle is a fraud, and ought to beinterdicted. They pretend to sew and knit for the hospitals here andConfederate prisoners, and I feel sure they smuggle the lint and clothesand supplies through the lines to Rebels openly in arms. I hate to go."
"Well, now, I'll engage to eat all the homespun cotton shirts that MissFisher ever makes for the Rebel in arms, or any other man. You need haveno punctilio on that score."
"Oh, it isn't that. I hate to meet Baynell--what is he staying on therefor? He is as rugged now as ever in his life. Is he in love with thewidow?"
"He has a queer way of showing it if he is." And Ashley detailed thecircumstance of the impressing of the horse. Seymour listened with alook of searching, keen intentness.
"Baynell would never have done that in this world," he declared, "if youhad not been there to hear the neighing, too. Why, it stands to reason.The family must have known the horse might whinny at any moment. Theyrelied on his winking at it, and he would have done it if you had notbeen there. He took that pose of being so regardful of the needs of theservice because he has been favoring the Roscoes in every wayimaginable. Why, hardly anybody else has a stick of timber left, andevery day houses are seized for military occupation, and the ownersturned adrift, but _I_ know that when one of his men stole only a plankfrom Judge Roscoe's fence, he had the fellow tied up by his thumbs withthe plank on his back for hours in the sun. That was for the sake of_discipline_, my dear fellow--not for Judge Roscoe's plank. On thecontrary--quite the reverse!"
Seymour wagged his satiric head, unconvinced, and Ashley rememberedafterward that he vaguely wished that Baynell would not make so definitea point about these matters, provoking a sort of comment that ordinaryconduct could hardly incur. Baynell ought to be in camp.