her by her name.
Absently she took her way again up the drive, now pausing, now going on, forgetful. First it was alarm she felt when her cousin leaped down at her side,--then dread.
"I thought I should never get back," he cried breathlessly, as he threw his reins to Sambo. "I ought not to have asked you to wait outside. Did it seem long, Jinny?"
She answered something, There was a seat near by under the trees. To lead her to it he seized her hand, but it was limp and cold, and a sudden fear came into his voice.
"Jinny!"
"Yes."
She resisted, and he dropped her fingers. She remembered long how he stood in the scattered light from the bright windows, a tall, black figure of dismay. She felt the yearning in his eyes. But her own response, warm half an hour since, was lifeless.
"Jinny," he said, "what is the matter?"
"Nothing, Max. Only I was very foolish to say I would wait for you."
"Then--then you won't marry me?"
"Oh, Max," she cried, "it is no time to talk of that now. I feel to-night as if something dreadful were to happen."
"Do you mean war?" he asked.
"Yes," she said. "Yes."
"But war is what we want," he cried, "what we have prayed for, what we have both been longing for to-night, Jinny. War alone will give us our rights--"
He stopped short. Virginia had bowed her head an her hands, and he saw her shoulders shaken by a sob. Clarence bent over her in bewilderment and anxiety.
"You are not well, Jinny," he said.
"I am not well," she answered. "Take me into the house."
But when they went in at the door, he saw that her eyes were dry.
Those were the days when a dozen young ladies were in the habit of staying all night after a dance in the country; of long whispered talks (nay, not always whispered) until early morning. And of late breakfasts. Miss Russell had not been the only one who remarked Virginia's long absence with her cousin; but Puss found her friend in one of those moods which even she dared not disturb. Accordingly Miss Russell stayed all night with Anne.
And the two spent most of the dark hours remaining in unprofitable discussion as to whether Virginia were at last engaged to her cousin, and in vain queried over another unsolved mystery. This mystery was taken up at the breakfast table the next morning, when Miss Carvel surprised Mrs. Brinsmade and the male household by appearing at half-past seven.
"Why, Jinny," cried Mr. Brinsmade, "what does this mean? I always thought that young ladies did not get up after a ball until noon."
Virginia smiled a little nervously.
"I am going to ask you to take me to town when you go, Mr. Brinsmade."
"Why, certainly, my dear," he said. "But I under stood that your aunt was to send for you this afternoon from Bellegarde."
Virginia shook her head. "There is something I wish to do in town."
"I'll drive her in, Pa," said Jack. "You're too old. Will you go with me, Jinny?"
"Of course, Jack."
"But you must eat some breakfast, Jinny," said Mrs Brinsmade, glancing anxiously at the girl.
Mr. Brinsmade put down his newspaper.
"Where was Stephen Brice last night, Jack?" he asked. "I understood Anne to say that he had spoke; of coming late."
"Why, sir," said Jack, "that's what we can't make out. Tom Catherwood, who is always doing queer things, you know, went to a Black Republican meeting last night, and met Stephen there. They came out in Tom's buggy to the Russells', and Tom got into his clothes first and rode over. Stephen was to have followed on Puss Russell's horse. But he never got here. At least I can find no one who saw him. Did you, Jinny?"
But Virginia did not raise her eyes from her plate. A miraculous intervention came through Mrs. Brinsmade.
"There might have been an accident, Jack," said that lady, with concern. "Send Nicodemus over to Mrs. Russell's at once to inquire. You know that Mr. Brice is a Northerner, and may not be able to ride."
Jack laughed.
"He rides like a dragoon, mother," said he. "I don't know where he picked it up."
"The reason I mentioned him," said Mr. Brinsmade, lifting the blanket sheet and adjusting his spectacles, "was because his name caught my eye in this paper. His speech last night at the Library Hall is one of the few sensible Republican speeches I have read. I think it very remarkable for a man as young as he." Mr. Brinsmade began to read: "'While waiting for the speaker of the evening, who was half an hour late, Mr. Tiefel rose in the audience and called loudly for Mr. Brice. Many citizens in the hall were astonished at the cheering which followed the mention of this name. Mr. Brice is a young lawyer with a quiet manner and a determined face, who has sacrificed much to the Party's cause this summer. He was introduced by Judge Whipple, in whose office he is. He had hardly begun to speak before he had the ear of everyone in the house. Mr. Brice's personality is prepossessing, his words are spoken sharply, and he has a singular emphasis at times which seems to drive his arguments into the minds of his hearers. We venture to say that if party orators here and elsewhere were as logical and temperate as Mr. Brice; if, like him, they appealed to reason rather than to passion, those bitter and lamentable differences which threaten our country's peace might be amicably adjusted.' Let me read what he said."
But he was interrupted by the rising of Virginia. A high color was on the girl's face as she said:
"Please excuse me, Mrs. Brinsmade, I must go and get ready."
"But you've eaten nothing, my dear."
Virginia did not reply. She was already on the stairs.
"You ought not have read that, Pa," Mr. Jack remonstrated; "you know that she detests Yankees."
CHAPTER XIV. THE BREACH BECOMES TOO WIDE ABRAHAM LINCOLN!
At the foot of Breed's Hill in Charlestown an American had been born into the world, by the might of whose genius that fateful name was sped to the uttermost parts of the nation. Abraham Lincoln was elected President of the United States. And the moan of the storm gathering in the South grew suddenly loud and louder.
Stephen Brice read the news in the black headlines and laid down the newspaper, a sense of the miraculous upon him. There again was the angled, low-celled room of the country tavern, reeking with food and lamps and perspiration; for a central figure the man of surpassing homeliness,--coatless, tieless, and vestless,--telling a story in the vernacular. He reflected that it might well seem strange yea, and intolerable--to many that this comedian of the country store, this crude lawyer and politician, should inherit the seat dignified by Washington and the Adamses.
And yet Stephen believed. For to him had been vouchsafed the glimpse beyond.
That was a dark winter that followed, the darkest in our history. Gloom and despondency came fast upon the heels of Republican exultation. Men rose early for tidings from Charleston, the storm centre. The Union was cracking here and there. Would it crumble in pieces before Abraham Lincoln got to Washington?
One smoky morning early in December Stephen arrived late