"But you don't answer my question—what do you think he has done?"
Ashley might have responded that his conclusions were not subject to her inquisition. But his suave methods of thought and conduct could not compass this unmannerly retort. Moreover, it was a relief to his feelings to canvass the matter so paramount in his mind with an irresponsible woman, rather than with his brother officers, among whom it was rife, thereby sending his speculations and doubts and views abroad as threads to be wrought into the warp and woof of their opinion, and possibly give undue substance and color to the character of the fabric.
"Why,—of course this is just my own view,—formed on what I hear from outsiders,—and I think it is the general view. Baynell knew the young man was hidden in the house, on a stolen visit to his father, thinking he had no ultimate intentions but to escape at a convenient opportunity. These separations must be very cruel indeed, with no means of communication. Baynell, though very wrongfully, might have indulged this concealment from motives of—ah—er—friendship to the family, for young Roscoe would undoubtedly have been dealt with as a spy, had he been captured in lurking here. The two may have been more or less associated,—certainly they came together in an altercation that resulted in blows. I think Baynell possibly discovered Roscoe's scheme, and threatened him with arrest. Roscoe knocked him down the stairs and fled from the house to the grotto, considering this safe, for he might have crossed from the balcony to the firs without observation if he had been lucky, as at that time none of us knew that the grotto existed. Now these are my conclusions—but for the integrity of the service Baynell's acts and his motives must be sifted. They may not bear to an impartial mind even so liberal a construction as this. It is a threatening situation, and I am apprehensive—I am very apprehensive."
Mrs. Gwynn's hand fell with a discordant crash on the keys of the piano.
"Why—why—what can they do to him?" she gasped.
Vertnor Ashley shied from the subject like a frightened horse.
"Ah—oh—ah—er—well," he said, "let us not think of that." He paused abruptly. Then, "To forecast the immediate future is enough of disaster. There is already said to be an official investigation on the cards. No doubt charges will be preferred, and he will be brought to a court-martial."
He sighed again, and looked about futilely, as if for suggestion. He rose at length, and with his pleasant, cordial manner and a smile of deprecating apology, he said, "I am afraid my grim subjects do not commend me for a lady's parlor." Then with a light change of tone, "So much obliged for that lovely little French song—what is it—Quel est cet attrait qui m'attire? I want to be able to distinguish it, for may I not ask for it again some time?" And bowing, and smiling, and prosperous, he took his graceful departure.
Mrs. Gwynn stood motionless, her eyes on the carpet, her mind almost dazed by the magnitude, by the terrors, of the subjects of her contemplation. She felt she must be more certain; she could not leave this disastrous complication thus. She could not speak to this man, friendly though he had seemed, lest she betray some fact of her own knowledge that might be of disadvantage to another who had meant no ill—nay, she was sure had done no ill. Then she was beset by the realization of the sophistry of circumstance. But if circumstance could be adduced against Baynell, should it not equally prevail in his favor? When she, knowing naught of the lurking Julius, had sent to his hiding-place this Federal officer, did not instantly the clamors of discovery resound through the house? She could hear even now in the tones of his voice, steadied and sonorous by the habit of command, sharp and decisive on the air, the words, "You are my prisoner!" twice repeated, that had summoned her, stricken with sudden panic, from her flowers on the library table to the hall, where she saw the balustrade of the stairs still shaking with the concussion of a heavy fall. And as she stood there, another moment—barely a moment—brought the apparition of Julius, flying as if for his life, a pistol in his hand, and covered with blood. Dreams! Who said aught of dreams! This was not the course a man would take who desired to shield a concealed Rebel. There was no eye-witness of the altercation. But she, on the lower floor, had heard it all—the swift ascent for the book, the exclamation of amazement, then the stern voice of command, the words of arrest, the impact of the blow, and the clamors of the fall. Then the flight; she had seen Julius, fleeing for safety, fleeing from the house into the very teeth of the camps.
Should not Baynell know this, the event that preceded the long insensibility which had so blunted his impressions, his recollections? She resolved to confer with Judge Roscoe. How much he knew of Julius Roscoe's lurking visit, how much he cared for her to know, she could not be sure. She suspected that old Ephraim was fully informed, for without his services the visitor could hardly have been maintained. But neither had been at hand at the moment of discovery, of collision.