CHAPTER XIX. IRENE'S DILEMMA—THE BROTHERS MEET.
To Irene the varied and startling changes that had lately taken place, brought perplexity and grief. The political question, that she had heard discussed since her early childhood, until it had become to her as familiar as a household pet, and been deemed as harmless, had broken up the family, and now bade fair to destroy the Nation. Often in her childish innocence had she laughed to hear little Abner declare himself "Papa's Whig," little dreaming of the awful meaning lurking in these words, a meaning powerful for the destruction of homes and country.
A monster had been taken into the Tompkins' family and laughed over and caressed, and now it had arisen in its wrath to prove their destroyer. That monster was difference of political opinion. Irene, with her clear good senses saw the great mistake in the life of her foster parents. Their difference of opinion, kept alive by frequent discussion, and veiled by light and gentle jests, had at last thrown off all disguises, and stood forth a frightful reality, widening with alarming rapidity the chasm opened between them. It may be doubted, if it is safe for husband and wife to differ even in jest.
Irene had puzzled her brain in her endeavor to devise some plan, which might restore to the family the happy harmony of old, but, like many good men whose minds were engrossed with the same endeavor for the country's good, she failed.
The regiment of which Abner Tompkins was a member had returned to the Junction, and the regiment which Colonel Scrabble commanded was again in the neighborhood of Snagtown. Both Abner and Oleah had sent word to their parents that they would probably be able to visit home, while their companies were encamped in the neighborhood.
Colonel Scrabble, finding his position in the vicinity of Snagtown rather uncomfortably near the Junction, where Colonel Holdfast and two other regiments were quartered, fell back about twenty miles south, beyond the Twin Mountains. The good people about Snagtown felt greatly relieved at the departure of the colonel's forces, for they had been kept in a constant state of alarm, expecting battle every day.
It was the third day after the retirement of the Confederates that a single horseman, a cavalry officer, galloped down the long hill on the road leading from Snagtown to Mr. Tompkins' residence. He was a fearless looking young fellow, with blue eyes and dark brown hair, and he rode alone, though he wore the blue uniform of a Union captain.
Arriving at the front gate, he swung from the saddle, handing his reins to a negro boy, and walked quickly up the front walk, meeting his father on the lawn.
"Quite safe and sound, you see," he said in reply to Mr. Tompkins' eager, anxious eyes.
Father and son went together to the house, and, at the sound of the well-known voice, Mrs. Tompkins, with a cry of joy, rushed from her room to clasp her son in her arms. What though he wore the hated uniform of a Union soldier? He was still her son.
Irene's cheeks glowed with pleasure at sight of Abner, whom she had so long believed to be her brother. She gave him a sister's welcome, as it was.
During the evening, when alone with his father, Abner related the mysterious appearance and disappearance of Yellow Steve, and his strange words. Mr. Tompkins also had something singular to relate on that subject, and for half an hour they discussed this strange individual and his possible connection with Irene's history.
"He says he holds the key, which will unlock the mystery of her parentage," said Mr. Tompkins, "but how are we to get him to turn it?"
Abner said he would make it one of the duties of his life to search out this mysterious stranger.
"It will have to be managed carefully," said the father, "for should he be so inclined, this man, perhaps, might destroy the last trace of her parentage. My impression is that it was he who placed her, when a baby, at our door."
"What could have been his motive?" asked Abner.
"Motive? Any one of a thousand things might have been his motive. He might have done it with the hope of securing a reward for the recovery of the child, or he may thus have taken revenge for some real or fancied wrong, or he may have been hired by the parents."
"Come, Irene," said the young officer when tea was over. "I want to look around the old place once more."
They paused in the garden, where the air was sweet with the fragrance of Summer flowers, and pulsating with the evening songs of birds.
"I never come out here now," said Irene. "It is so lonesome with you and Oleah so far away," and sat down upon a rustic seat.
As Abner gazed into the depths of those soft, gray eyes he thought so much beauty had never before been concentrated in one being. Irene's goodness of heart he had learned to know long ago. He was he thought, almost on the eve of discovering her parentage, but he determined to win her, be it high or low.
"Irene," he said, "I am glad to be once more in this dear old home, to be once more with the parents I love; but the greatest happiness of all is to have you again by my side."
"O Abner," she answered, lifting her earnest, tearful eyes, "do not say to me again what you said to me that last night! It breaks my heart to give you pain, but I know that you are wrong, that you have mistaken your own feelings. I have loved you so long as a sister! Oh, how terribly all things have changed! Do not you change, Abner! Be my brother still!"
"Let what is broken so remain,
The gods are hard to reconcile,"
said Abner, looking sorrowfully into the pale, pleading face. "When change has come, nothing can bring back the old order of things. But I will wait, I will promise you not to speak again of my love, until you can answer me without tears in your eyes. Now, let me see you smile, Irene, once more before I go."
Irene could not sleep that night; her bed chamber was in the south wing of the house, and her window looked out upon a portion of the grounds directly shaded with trees and shrubbery. It was late when voices on the lawn below attracted her attention. The family, she knew, had been buried in sleep for hours, and it was something unusual for the slaves to select that portion of the grounds for midnight consultation. At last she arose and cautiously approached the window.
The night was beautiful, the moon shone brightly, even penetrating the dark shade of the trees, beneath one of which two figures were distinctly visible. The night was very still, and, though the men were at some distance from the house, she could hear distinctly every word they spoke.
The voice of one sounded familiar to Irene, and it took only a second glance to show her that it was Crazy Joe, engaged in conversation with some stranger.
Crazy Joe had always made a strange impression on Irene. From her earliest recollection he had been either a resident or frequenter of the Tompkins' plantation. The poor lunatic had always shown the warmest attachment for her, and his strange wild talk, the mingling of early Scriptural and classical lessons, with ideas dwarfed by some sudden shock, had always had a strange fascination for her.
All her fear instantly vanished as she recognized Crazy Joe, for she knew that no harm could ever come to any one of them through him, but her curiosity to know who was his companion and what their topic of conversation, became almost painful in its intensity.
Crazy Joe had of late divided his time between the plantation and the cabin at the foot of Twin Mountains. Uncle Dan, when he entered the army, tried to induce Joe to desert the place altogether, but this he refused to do, always declaring he must have the house of his Uncle Esau ready at his coming.
Irene could discover that Joe's companion was a negro, a man past the middle age of life, of strong frame and strongly marked features. It was with a thrill of astonishment that she heard these words.
"When do you remember seeing your father last?"
"'Twas when my father dwelt in a distant land. I was much beloved of my father, for I was the sun of his old age."
"Oh, don't talk such nonsense! What was your father's name?"
"Jacob, my father was Jacob, the son of Isaac."
"No, he wasn't," replied the man. "Try and think if your father didn't have another name than Jacob."
The poor fellow for a moment puzzled his brain and then said slowly:
"No, it could not be otherwise. Joseph was the son of Jacob, and Jacob the son of Isaac, and Isaac the son of Abraham; so you see my father must have been Jacob. Joseph was sold into bondage and carried into Egypt, and I am Joseph, so my father must have been Jacob."
"Can't you recollect that your father had another name?"
"No, he never had any other name but Jacob, the son of Isaac."
"Your father's name was Henry," said the man. "Now don't you remember that his Christian name was Henry?"
The moonlight fell full on Joe's troubled face, and Irene thought she could discover a strange expression cross it, as though a stream of memory's sunshine had suddenly been let in on his long clouded mind, but a moment after it was passed, and he said:
"No, it must have been Jacob, and if Jacob is not my father, my father must be dead. The famine has been very sore in the land of Canaan."
"There has been no famine in the land where your father dwells," said the man, earnestly. "Your father never knew a famine, never knew want or care. He was a reckless, passionate man, but at times he was gentle and kind."
"My father, Jacob, was always good and kind," said Joe, thoughtfully.
"Your father's name was not Jacob," said the man, evidently annoyed and puzzled. "Your father's name was Henry—" Irene listened with strained attention to hear the last name, but the voice of the speaker was lowered, so that she failed to catch it. "Now," went on the stranger, "try and remember, while I tell you about your father and your home. Your father was a handsome man, with dark hair and eyes and heavy jet black whiskers. Do you not remember the home of your childhood—a large, brown stone mansion, surrounded with palmetto trees, and orange groves, and cane brakes? Do you not remember the vast fields of cotton and rice and sugar-cane, with negroes working in them, and your father riding about in his carriage with you by his side? Can't you remember your mother? Can't you remember the tiny boats she made for you to float on the lake?"
The mulatto paused, and looked eagerly at his companion, as though to catch a gleam of intelligence. Again that curious, puzzled look came over the face of Joe, and he seemed trying to pierce the gloom of forgetfulness with his blunted recollection. After a moment his face brightened, and he said:
"Yes, I remember the fields of cotton, and the carriage and my mother. I remember the great palmetto tree by the lake, where I floated my boats and made my flutter-mills."
"Well, listen now," said the black, still more earnestly. "Can you not remember what your name was when you played by the lake under the big palmetto tree by the lake?"
"I was not Joseph then."
"Can you not remember what your name was?"
"No."
"Would you remember if I was to tell you?"
"Yes."
Irene was leaning against the window-sill, holding the half-closed shutter in her hand. In her eagerness she pressed forward, pushing the shutter so far open that it slipped from her hold and swung crashing back against the house. She sprang back into the room to prevent discovery, and when next she glanced from her window, Crazy Joe was alone. His strange companion had disappeared, and Joe sat nodding under the tree more than half asleep.
It was nothing uncommon for Joe to pass the night under a tree, and Irene only watched to see him stretch down under a tree and compose himself to sleep, when she crept to her own bed, filled with wonder and curiosity. Crazy Joe's parentage, like her own, was shrouded in mystery, and perhaps it may have been their common misfortune that had awakened her sympathy and drawn her so strongly towards the lunatic.
It was late before Irene closed her eyes for sleep, and when she did, Joe's troubled eyes, Abner's eyes, sad and reproachful, and the gleaming eyes of the stranger haunted her dreams.
Early next morning she went out to where Crazy Joe was sitting on the grass, communing with himself. As she approached him she heard him say:
"Yes, yes, I remember the cotton fields and the palmetto tree by the lake, the boats I sailed there, but then something heavy strikes my brain."
She tried to persuade him to tell her who it was he was talking with on the night before, but the light of memory faded from his face, and his mind immediately averted to his father Jacob, who was soon to come down into Egypt.
It was about two weeks after Abner's visit that Oleah found himself at the head of a small scouting party in the neighborhood of his home.
Scouting parties were no novelty in and near the village of Snagtown, for this village lay about half way between the two hostile forces, and the scouts of both armies frequently entered it. These parties, not always made up of the most honorable men, kept the good citizens in the vicinity in a constant state of alarm. Hen roosts were robbed, apple orchards devastated, and melon patches stripped, vines and all.
Oleah's party, however, attempted no exploits of this kind, for his men knew that he would regard it as base and dastardly an act to filch from an unoffending citizen as to fly from an enemy.
Our friend Diggs was of the party, and when Oleah stationed his men in a grove, about a mile distant, and set out to visit his home, Mr. Diggs volunteered to accompany him. Oleah was annoyed, but, having no good excuse for refusal, submitted with what grace he could to the infliction. The short-legged soldier was now all smiles and satisfaction, being, in his own estimation, the favored of his captain.
"I tell you—hem, hem, hem!" said Diggs, as he kicked his heels into the flanks of his horse—not January, but a spiteful little mustang—to keep up with the fierce black charger on which the captain was mounted. "I tell you—hem, hem!—this reminds me more of the return of the knights of old after a battle, or a crusade, than any thing in my experience."
Diggs' conversation was not noted for brilliancy or point, but Oleah thought he never knew him to be so flat and pointless as on this occasion.
"I can't for the life of me, Diggs," he said, "see that we bear any possible likeness to knights or crusaders."
"Why, you see, they left their homes, and so did we. We are alike there."
Oleah made no answer. He was probably convinced.
Mr. Diggs went on triumphantly:
"They went off to fight, so did we; they came back clothed with victory and glory, so did we."
"I doubt whether either of us have achieved any victory to be boasted of. As to the glory, I lay claim to none, and you must have little, unless you acquired it in creek bottoms or turkey roosts."
It was Mr. Diggs' turn to be silent now. His face became almost livid with momentary rage, and the ill-assorted companions road on without speaking, until the Tompkins' mansion was reached.
The second son, in Confederate gray, was as gladly welcomed by his father as Abner in his loyal blue, while in the mother's eyes shone not only a mother's tender love, but the proud patriotism of a woman, who had given her son to the cause she believed holy and just.
"And here is friend Diggs, too," said the planter, taking the hand of the little Confederate with such cordiality that Mr. Diggs was in ecstasies of delight. "Have you been well?"
"Quite well, Mr. Tompkins—hem, hem!—have been quite well, except a few gun-shot wounds, received at Carrick's Ford. Hem, hem, hem!"
Mrs. Tompkins, too, welcomed him with gracious hospitality, and, when Irene met him with friendly greeting, he felt more than rejoiced, that he had not given up a soldier's life. He had fought his battles and was now winning his just reward, and "sweet the treasure, sweet the pleasure, sweet the pleasure after pain."
"Hem, hem, hem!—my friends—hem, hem!—my dear friends, he, he, he!" chuckled the little fellow, looking as silly as it was possible for a man of his size, with glasses on, to look; "this gives me—hem, hem!—unbounded, I may say unlimited, satisfaction."
At this moment another character entered on the scene. It was Crazy Joe; he paused a moment, and a look of recognition lit up his features. He walked forward, and, placing his hand on Diggs' shoulder, angrily demanded:
"Why are you here, sir? Why did you not remain where I left you? When I make a man out of clay, and stand him up, I want him to stay where I leave him, until I can show people the greatness of my handiwork."
It was impossible for those present to restrain their involuntary smiles, and Diggs, seeing this, lost his temper.
"Go away, fool," he cried; "take off your hands."
"Oh, Mr. Diggs, that is very unkind," said Irene.
"Yes," said Crazy Joe, sorrowfully, as he left the room, "it is very unkind for him to address such language to the man who made him."
In spite of themselves, those present could hardly restrain their laughter; but Mr. Diggs was easily pacified, and harmony was soon restored, and he related his hair-breadth escapes and miraculous victories.
Oleah had interesting adventures to relate, and the humorous mishaps of our friend Mr. Diggs, brought out the long unheard-of music of Irene's laughter. During the evening he told his father of his meeting of Yellow Steve at Mrs. Juniper's ball.
"Strange," said the father, "that he should have escaped us all. He knows something of Irene's history." Then he told Oleah what he himself had seen, and what Abner had told him of Yellow Steve's visit, the evening before the battle of Bull Run.
"I will fathom this mystery," exclaimed Oleah, "though it takes a lifetime to do it. He shall reveal all he knows, the next time we meet, if he does it at the point of my sword."
"Be not too rash, my son," said the father. "Never frighten a bird you wish to catch."
Then his mother and Irene came in, and with a loving imperiousness, as his brother had done, he made Irene come out with him, walked through the same paths and sat down at last on the same seat, with the same words trembling on his lips.
The sun had gone down, the moon was rising round and full in the East, and the whip-poor-wills were making night melodious with their song. Oleah was talking very earnestly to his fair companion; not only earnestly, but passionately.
"Irene, you comprehend what I told you before I left my home to meet death and danger in the field, that the love I felt for you was deeper and stronger than a brother's. I love you—I love you more than all else on earth, more than life, and nothing shall keep you from me. You shall be mine—my wife."
"Oleah, believe me, let us keep the old love—I can give you no other. I can not give you what you want." Her voice died away. He saw the small, white fingers clasping and unclasping, and knew that she was resolutely keeping back her tears.
"This is something I can not understand," said Oleah, and his face clouded, "unless my brother has been before me."
Irene opened her white lips, but no words came.
"I understand now," exclaimed Oleah; "you can not choose between us; you know not which of us you prefer, or perhaps you prefer him." His eyes shone like burning coals, and his voice was hoarse with passion. "It is true, he must oppose me in every thing? When our country, our South, his birthplace and mine, is assailed by foes, he joins them. Is not that enough to turn all a brother's love to gall and bitterness? And now he would win you from me—my love, my love!"
"Oleah, do not so wrong your brother! I tell you truly that he does not know, he has no thought that he is opposing you," cried Irene, with an appealing look at the dark, angry face. "O, Oleah, for your mother's sake banish these evil thoughts. God made you brothers."
"Yes, and the devil made us enemies. It is coming at last—it has come! I have fought against it for the sake of our happy childhood, our parents, and the brothers' blood that flows in our veins, but it is useless. The fates have determined that we should hate each other, and the hatred of brothers is the hatred of devils. Irene," his voice softening, "I believe you love me though you will not speak," and Oleah seized her passionately in his embrace and rained kisses on her fair, pale face. "I must go now," he said, releasing her, "but you shall yet be mine, I swear it. Neither brother, nor father, nor mother, no power on earth shall prevent it."
Oleah went toward the house, and Irene stood motionless, where he had left her, till the trees hid him from her sight—her eyes widely strained, her face pale with terror, her lips white and bloodless. Those wild words Oleah had spoken in his passion, those fearful words, "The hatred of brothers is the hatred of devils," seemed burning into her brain.
And this was her work! This mischief she had done! She trembled like one guilty, and the love she would not own, and she could not master, seemed to her shuddering soul a crime.
So excited was her manner that it attracted the attention of others in the room. At this moment a negro boy entered the room, where Mr. and Mrs. Tompkins were sitting with Mr. Diggs, his face wearing a strangely puzzled look. He paused and looked around. Whether he was more frightened or puzzled it would have been difficult to tell.
"Well, Job, what is it?" asked Mr. Tompkins, noticing the negro's awkward manner.
"If you please, marster," he said, shaking his head, "Marster Abner—"
"What of him?" asked Mr. Tompkins, for the boy had paused.
"Why, he—he is comin'?"
Before any one could make reply, quick steps were heard on the graveled walk. Mr. Tompkins, motioning the servant aside, went himself to the door, and, as he opened it, heard Oleah's voice, imperious and harsh:
"You are my prisoner, sir!"
"Oleah, my son, this is a matter too serious for jesting," said the father.
"I am not jesting. My first duty is to my country. He is an enemy to my country, and my country's enemies are mine. My men are within call," he continued, turning to Abner. "Do you surrender?"
"Most assuredly I shall not," replied Abner.
"Then, by heavens! you shall fare no better than any other Yankee spy. You are within our lines!"
He snatched his sword from its scabbard, and before Mr. Tompkins could interpose, there was a clash.
Again the door opened, and Mrs. Tompkins and Mr. Diggs appeared; but the sight that met their eyes froze to terror the smile of welcome on the mother's lips, and sent Diggs, his radiant complacency all gone, shrinking back into the house, muttering, "Oh, Lordy, I know I shall be killed."
Clash, clash! clank, clank! the swords went, circling in the air, thrusting, crossing, clashing. Irene came flying down the path, and Mr. Tompkins sprang between and threw them apart.
"Hold!" he cried, "if you must have kindred blood, turn your swords first on me, and on your mother and sister. Abner, if your enemies are near, go. Let them not find you in your own father's house. Go at once!"
Without a word, Abner returned his sword to its scabbard and started to leave his home. His mother and Irene followed him to the gate, and, a moment later, his horse's feet were heard clattering up the hill toward Snagtown.
Oleah, soon after, left with Diggs, to join his men. Mr. Tompkins and his wife sat in silence in the silent house, while Irene, who believed herself the guilty cause of this new sorrow, crept up to her room to weep and pray.