“Since Dan went away.” As the Governor completed her sentence, he turned and looked thoughtfully into her face. “It's hard to judge the young, my dear, but—” he broke off as Betty had done, and added after a pause, “I wonder where he is now?”
Betty raised her eyes and met his look. “I do not know,” she answered, “but I do know that he will come back;” and the Governor, being wise in his generation, said nothing more.
That afternoon he went down into the country to inspect a decayed plantation which had come into his hands, and returning two days later, he rode into Leicesterburg and up to the steps of the little post-office, where, as usual, the neighbouring farmers lounged while they waited for an expected despatch, or discussed the midday mail with each newcomer. It was April weather, and the afternoon sunshine, having scattered the loose clouds in the west, slanted brightly down upon the dusty street, the little whitewashed building, and the locust tree in full bloom before the porch.
When he had dismounted, the Governor tied his horse to the long white pole, raised for that purpose along the sidewalk, and went slowly up the steps, shaking a dozen outstretched hands before he reached the door.
“What news, gentlemen?” he asked with his pleasant smile. “For two days I have been beyond the papers.”
“Then there's news enough, Governor,” responded several voices, uniting in a common excitement. “There's news enough since Tuesday, and yet we're waiting here for more. The President has called for troops from Virginia to invade the South.”
“To invade the South,” repeated the Governor, paling, and a man behind him took up the words and said them over with a fine sarcasm, “To invade the South!”
The Governor turned away and walked to the end of the little porch, where he stood leaning upon the railing. With his eyes on the blossoming locust tree, he waited, in helpless patience, for the words to enter into his thoughts and to readjust his conceptions of the last few months. There slowly came to him, as he recognized the portentous gravity in the air about him, something of the significance of that ringing call; and as he stood there he saw before him the vision of an army led by strangers against the people of its blood—of an army wasting the soil it loved, warring for an alien right against the convictions it clung to and the faith it cherished.
His brow darkened, and he turned with set lips to the group upon the steps. He was about to speak, but before the words were uttered, there was a cheer from the open doorway, and a man, waving a despatch in his hand, came running into the crowd.
“Last night there was a secret session,” he cried gayly, “and Virginia has seceded! hurrah! hurrah! Virginia has seceded!” The gay voice passed, and the speaker, still waving the paper in his hand, ran down into the street.