As she sat there breathless, she heard through the window, open at the top, the distant beat of music. The tune was distinguishable rather by the vibrations of the air than by audible notes. But it seemed to Clara as if a full band were playing the Star-Spangled Banner. What could it mean? Nothing. The tune was claimed both by Rebels and Loyalists.
Hark! It had changed. What was it now? Surely that must be the air of “Hail Columbia.” Never before, since the breaking out of the Rebellion, had she heard that tune. As the wind now and then capriciously favored the music, it came more distinct to her ears. There could be no mistake.
And now the motion of the sounds was brisk, rapid, and lively. Could it be? Yes! These rash serenaders, whoever they were, had actually ventured to play “Yankee Doodle.” Was it possible the authorities allowed such outrages on Rebel sensibilities?
And now the sounds ceased, but only for a moment. A slower, a grand and majestic strain, succeeded. It arrested her closest attention. What was it? What? She had heard it before, but where? When? What association, strange yet tender, did it have for her? Why did it thrill and rouse her as none of the other tunes had done? Suddenly she remembered it was that fearful “John Brown Hallelujah Chorus,” which Vance had played and sung for her the first evening of their acquaintance.
The music ceased; and she listened vainly for its renewal. All at once a harsh sound, that chilled her heart, and seemed to concentrate all her senses in one, smote on her ears. The key of the parlor door was slowly turned. There was a step, and it seemed to be the step of a man.
Clara started up and pressed both bands on her bosom, to keep down the flutterings of her heart, which beat till a sense of suffocation came over her.
The awe and suspense of that moment seemed to protract it into a whole hour of suffering. “God help me!” was all she could murmur. Her terror grew insupportable. The steps came over the carpet,—they fell on the tessellated marble of the little closet-passage,—they drew near the half-open door which now alone intervened.
Then there was a knock on the wood-work. She wanted to say, “Who’s there?” but her tongue refused its office. The strength seemed ebbing from every limb. Horror at the thought of her helplessness came over her. Then a form—the form of a man—stood before her. She uttered one cry,—a simple “Oh!”—and sinking at his feet, put her arms about his knees and pressed against them her head.
There are times when a brief, hardly articulate utterance,—a simple intonation,—seems to carry in it whole volumes of meaning. That single Oh!—how much of heart-history it conveyed! In its expression of transition from mortal terror to entire trustfulness and delight, it was almost childlike. It spoke of unexpected relief,—of a joyful surprise,—of a gratitude without bounds,—of an awful sense of angelic guardianship,—of an inward faith vindicated and fulfilled against a tumultuous crowd of selfish external fears and misgivings.
The man whose appearance had called forth this intensified utterance wore the military cap and insignia of a Colonel in the United States service. His figure seemed made for endurance, though remarkable for neatness and symmetry. His face was that of one past the middle stage,—one to whom life had not been one unvaried holiday. The cheeks were bronzed; the eyes mobile and penetrating, the mouth singularly sweet and firm. Clara knew the face. It was that of Vance.