The first year of the war passed with comparatively little change at “White Point,” but towards the middle of the second year the trouble which had been brewing among the negroes for some time gave way to open rebellion; and had it not been for Sallie Tom’s wonderful and cunjuring influence over them, they would have left long before they did. Under Mrs. Tayloe’s and Dorothy’s oversight, much of the farming had been kept up; but towards the second harvesting it became evident that trouble was ahead. A negro agitator and so-called preacher had appeared in the village near by, and so great was the effect of his haranguing that the entire neighborhood was demoralized, and nightly meetings were held down at the cross-roads. Sallie Tom was constable-in-chief of the “White Point” contingent, and every night she stationed herself in the road usually taken by the servants and hands on their way to the meetings, a gun in one hand and a pistol in the other, ready to shoot the first one who passed. Every negro on the place believed in her cunjuring power, and they would no sooner have thought of passing than of trying to ride the moon. Things were beginning to look desperate. Even the loyal and good servants showed signs of dissatisfaction under the influence of the agitators, until finally only Dorothy’s old mammy Rachel, Jessie, the dining-room servant, Uncle Lias, the carriage driver, and Sallie Tom remained deaf to the promises of good fortune and prosperity advanced by the younger element.
It was on a clear, bright October morning, that the result of all their meetings and plannings were realized. Mrs. Tayloe and Dorothy came down as usual, and found Sallie Tom and the three other servants drawn up in line outside the dining-room door. Sallie Tom was almost wild with excitement and anger. “They’re gone!” she cried, waving her hand violently in the direction of the quarters, her voice trembling and her whole body quivering. “They’re gone, every one of them—gone like thieves in the night. They have took all their things, and six of the horses, mos’ all the corn, and Gord A’mighty knows what else. Oh, Lordy!” she went on, “to think of all the trouble what’s come to us ’count of dat monstrous inturfurence bizness of them Yankees! To think I uver should er lived to see my missus done treated so by niggers! Oh, Lord A’mighty, what we gwine to do anyhow?” And Sallie Tom for the moment lost her courage in the face of the dread possibilities of the future.
Mrs. Tayloe turned white to the lips, and Dorothy caught her hands and held them in her own strong, tender ones.
“I suppose it had to come,” she said presently, nervously pressing Dorothy’s hands in her own. “I am thankful it is no worse. We must do the best we can, and not let the gentlemen know. Ah, no, we must not let the gentlemen know!” Her voice broke, and she hurried back to her room, and they left her there, for they knew it was best that she should be alone for awhile.
It was Dorothy’s turn to advise and lead now. With all the courage and hope of youth she began to take charge of the place. With the help of the others she managed to keep up part of the farm, and from one end to the other she rode daily on her horse, sometimes with saddle, sometimes bareback. A new fear was beginning to grow in her heart. Every dollar on earth possessed by both her father and Mr. Tayloe had been invested in Confederate bonds, and she knew that very soon their purchasing value would be of little account.
That they should ever suffer she did not allow herself to think; but it was necessary to husband every resource, and every energy must be bent toward keeping from Bobbie’s mother as long as possible the seriousness of the situation. Life was by no means now a thing of ease or pleasure to Dorothy. The days became weeks, and the weeks months, and the months were becoming years, and the clouds which at first they thought would be but temporary, were continually growing blacker and heavier, with never a sign of lifting. It was not until the Christmas of ’63 that any real alarm, however, was actually felt as to the outlook. By a long-planned and well-timed scheme Mr. Tayloe, who now through successive ranks had been promoted to that of colonel, and Dr. Trevillian, now a surgeon-in-chief, had managed to get leave for a two days’ visit home, the first they had been able to make together since they entered the service. Bobbie’s movements were uncertain. He would be there, he wrote, were it a matter of possibility, but he might be kept for some special duty. He had managed to run in for a day or so at intervals of every few months, and consequently was better prepared for the present condition of things than were the others.
All through the three long years there never had been a time when it was possible for him and Dorothy to be married. When he was at home, her father and his were away, and he could never induce her to marry him unless all were there.
Every effort was made to make this Christmas a memorable one. Mrs. Tayloe’s happiness at having her husband home once more gave her a fresh measure of strength, and the very best that had been carefully saved and hoarded for many months past was now made into the good things of former Christmas times; and though Dorothy knew they would have to stint for months to come, yet she never let any one but Sallie Tom realize how reckless it all was.
Sallie Tom’s joy at having once more a pretence of Christmas festivities made itself known by her own peculiar way of snorting as she prepared the various dishes that were best liked by the master and the Doctor, to say nothing of those she surreptitiously made for Bobbie, in case he should come. That he would come, she never doubted, and all day long on Christmas-eve she had her ears, as well as her eyes, open to catch the first sound of his horse’s hoofs on the frozen ground outside.
Colonel Tayloe and his wife had stayed much in their room, talking over matters of minutest detail as to the new life of each, while Dorothy and her father had a long talk after the latter’s return from “Grey Cliffs,” where he had spent most of the day. He had brought back her mother’s portrait, and told her he wanted it put in her room. “There is no telling what may happen,” he said, trying, however, to speak cheerfully. “There may be trouble around here yet. The negroes seem to be going crazy. Only two are over there now—old Israel and his wife. I have buried all the silver and a few other things,” and he told her where he had hidden them. “I want you to understand about everything, Dorothy. You know it will all be yours some day, and there is no telling”—he stopped abruptly at the sight of the sad, pained face. “Don’t look that way, Dorothy, daughter,” he went on, softly stroking the hand he held in both of his. “When the end comes to me don’t grieve, but be glad, glad for me; for I’ve wanted to go for a long time, except for leaving you, and I know that is all right now. Bobbie has proven himself to be a soldier worthy of the cause for which he fights, and I have been proud of him—very proud. I have made you both wait much longer than I intended, but I did it to be satisfied, and I am satisfied at last. I have lived for so many years with only the memory of a past and the hope of a future that I am longing for the NOW of her presence.” He paused for a moment, and Dorothy dared not trust herself to speak; she could only cling to him in mute understanding of the loneliness of his life. He stroked her hair softly, and after awhile continued: “You have been the comfort of my life, my daughter—my dear little daughter—but you will understand some day, and I only want you not to grieve should the fate of some of those poor lads come to me. You know I am on the field sometimes—you will remember, child—and go now and see that everything is ready for Bobbie’s coming, for I am sure he will be here, and when he comes I want to have a talk with him.”
She kissed her father in silence again and again, and then she left the room; but the awful possibilities which his words suggested filled her with unutterable sorrow and loneliness, and, like a child that longs for warmth and cheer and comforting, she sank down on the rug in front of the big blazing fire, and her lips quivered in her great longing for Bobbie. She clasped her knees loosely with her hands, and the flames danced merrily up and down before her blurred eyes. The corners of the room were lost in shadows, and the flicker of the firelight played upon the walls. It would be such a relief to give way and have a good cry. She bit her lip to keep it back; and then she heard a little noise, and somebody had his arms about her and was down on his knees beside her, and outside she could hear Sallie Tom snorting, and Bobbie was telling her, almost out of breath, that he had ridden like the wind all day and all night just to spend a few hours with her and why didn’t she speak to him and tell him she was glad to see him? And all she could do at first was to cling to him, and let all the pent-up feeling and anxiety of the months past come out between the laughter and tears; and Bobbie understood it all, and soothed and quieted her as only he could do, and in a little while she was her own brave self, and was making him answer a dozen questions at once. She might have kept it up indefinitely had he not told her he was starving, and that sent her flying for Sallie Tom.
It promised to be such a happy Christmas, after all. The knowledge that this brief return of other days could last but a short while made every moment precious, and such old-time doings as Bobbie insisted upon keeping up made them forget for a few hours at least, the serious outlook for the future. It was just before dinner on Christmas Day that Bobbie came to Dorothy with a face full of intensely repressed feeling. She was standing by the big window in the library watching the snow, now fast falling and thickly covering the ground, and he went up to her and took both of her hands in his. “Dorothy,” he said quietly, “has your father said anything to you to-day about our marriage?”
“Not a word,” she answered, turning quickly and searching his face for the meaning of the new light there. “We must not worry him about it, Bobbie; he has had so much sorrow in his life that I dare not ask him to give me entirely to you. We can afford to wait.”
“But if he says he wishes it, now, to-day, would you be willing?” He drew her down on the sofa by him. “I have just had a long talk with your father,” he continued, “and he told me that he would like us to be married at once, while he is at home and we are all together.” He almost crushed her hands in his as he waited her answer, controlling by a great effort, his old boyish and imperious impatience.
“Dear father,” she said, and her eyes were full of tears, “I must see him first, and then I will tell you, Bobbie. It is so sudden; and to be married in such a hurry don’t seem just right somehow.” His look of disappointment reproached her. She put her hand upon his face in the quaint way peculiar to herself for just a moment, and then she drew herself away.
She would not let him go with her, and it was fully half an hour before she came back, bringing her father with her. Both showed the traces of how tender had been the talk between them, and both were very quiet. Dr. Trevillian led her to Bobbie, and put her hands in his. “She agrees to our plans, my son,” he said, trying to speak brightly, and then he turned abruptly and left them alone.
“You are not marrying your general, Dorothy,” said Bobbie, presently. “What are you going to do about it?”
“Send off his scout to-night to report to his general for new orders,” she answered, trying to speak bravely, “but now we must hurry,” and her face colored richly as she ran out of the room.