And Judge Roscoe, who had borne his own losses like a philosopher, had tears in his eyes for her losses. "Oh, poor Leonora!" he had exclaimed. "Your very presence is a boon, my dear. But for you to be so stricken and desolate and—"
He was about to say "robbed," but the facts forbade him; for Gwynn's legal rights rendered her position as difficult as unenviable. In her own house she had contrived to hold her belongings together. Now, day by day, came tidings of the sale of her special personal effects—her carriage, her domestic animals, her furniture, the very pictures on the walls; then had followed a letter from her husband, regretting all his misdeeds and promising infinite rehabilitation if she would but forgive him. Naught could provoke a remonstrance, could stimulate Leonora to action, could induce a return.
Judge Roscoe had said but little. He had the deep-seated juridical respect for the relation of man and wife as a creation of law, as well as an institution of God. When he was appealed to, he felt it his duty to place impartially before her the husband's arguments, and promises, and protestations, but he experienced intense relief when she tersely dismissed Rufus Gwynn's plea for a reconciliation. "I know him now," she replied.
"An' 'fore de Lawd, I knows him too!" her old nurse declared; "I jes' uped an' I sez, 'Marse Rufe, ye hev' got sech a notion o' sellin' out, ye mought sell old Chaney—ef ennybody would buy sech a contraption in dese days! So I'm goin' over to my old home at Judge Roscoe's place, to wait on Miss Leonora. I knows she needs me, an' I 'spect she's watchin' fur me now.' An' Marse Rufe, he says, 'Aunt Chaney, I don't know what you are talking about! Go over there, an' welcome! An' try to get my wife to see I was just overtaken in my temper and desperate; you persuade her to come back, Aunt Chaney.' Dat's what de debbil said ter me. I always heard dat de debbil had a club foot. But, mon, he ain't. Two long, slim, handsome feet, an' his boots, sah, made in New Orleens!"
The end had come characteristically at last! A horse, furiously ridden, brutally beaten, reared suddenly, lost his balance, fell backward, crushing the rider and breaking his neck. And so Rufus Gwynn reached his goal, and his wife was free at last.
Free as some defenceless, hunted, tremulous animal, miraculously escaping fierce fangs, and a furious rush of a murderous pursuit; forever dominated by the sense of disaster, and despair, and flight; forever looking backward, forever hearkening to the echoes of the troublous past—exhausted, listless, hopeless, every impulse of volition stunned.
It was well for her, doubtless, that the insistent duties of the care of her uncle's household had grown difficult in the changed conditions induced by the war; that the education, the training, the well-being, of the motherless little "ladies"—all restricted by the ever narrowing opportunity of the beleaguered town, and overshadowed by the impending clouds of disaster—appealed to her womanly heart and her maternal instincts. Their needs had roused her interest, stimulated her invention, elicited her self-control, that she might more definitely control them.
In the days of Captain Baynell's convalescence he had unique opportunities for observing the methods that had prevailed under her management, for all the life of the house revolved about the one big fire in the library. Sometimes, as he and Judge Roscoe sat there with papers and books and cigars, presumably oblivious of the minutiæ of the household matters, while the fire flared and the tobacco smoke hung in blue wreaths about the stuccoed ceiling and the carved ornaments of the tall book-cases, he fancied that it was the characteristic interest in trifles animating an invalid which caused him to smilingly watch the scholastic struggles of the "ladies,"—their turmoils with "jogaphy," for it was decreed that they should learn somewhat of the earth on which they lived; the anguish inflicted by that potent instrument of torture, the Blue Speller; the bowed head of juvenile despair on the wooden rim of the slate, over the mysteries of "subscraction," as the "lady" sobbed softly, under her breath, for loud weepings were interdicted, however poignant the woe might be. Mrs. Gwynn was indeed unfeeling in these crises and often sarcastic. "You might use your sponge to wipe away your tears, Geraldine," she would say, with that curt icy inflection of her soft voice. "I notice it is too dry for use on your slate."
Each slate had a string to which was attached a small sponge and a short slate-pencil, capable of an excruciating creak, which often set the judge's teeth on edge; as he would wince from the sound, Mrs. Gwynn would comment in this wise, "I have often heard that learned ladies do not contribute to household comfort,—so your Honor must suffer for the erudition that we have here."
And the activities of "subscraction" were never abated.