Yes, Rodney calculated to go in as private if he got in at all, but the prospect did not in the least dampen his ardor. Contrary to his expectations his mother did not say one word to turn him from his purpose; but good Southerner that she was, she heartily condemned the circumstances which, according to her way of thinking, made the parting necessary.
"I wish the Mayflower had been sunk fathoms deep in the ocean before she ever touched Plymouth Rock," she said to her husband. "The spirit of intolerance those Puritans brought over here with them is what is taking our boy from us now. No punishment that I can think of would be too severe for them."
Rodney lived in hopes that some of the company would ride out to see him during the course of the evening, but midnight came without bringing any of them, and the disappointed Barrington boy, giving his mother the last good-night kiss he imprinted upon her lips for more than fifteen long months, went to bed satisfied that he was to be left to work out his own destiny, with no Mooreville friend to encourage or advise him. He slept but little, but appeared at the breakfast table as fresh as a daisy and—dressed in citizen's clothing.
"This is a pill I don't like to swallow," said he, opening his coat and looking down at himself. "I said I wouldn't take off my gray uniform until the South had gained her independence; but I didn't know at the time that I would find it necessary to pass through the enemy's lines. Don't look so sober, mother. I just know I shall come out all right. I'll surely write when I reach St. Louis, and again the very day I find Dick Graham."
That was not a cheerful breakfast table, although every one tried to make it so. Before the meal was half over the family carriage, with Rodney's small trunk inside and his horse hitched behind, drew up at the door, and a crowd of weeping servants gathered about the foot of the wide stone steps to bid "young moster" good-by. Rodney saw it all through the window, and when he got ready to start stood not on the order of going, but cut short the parting and went at once. He arose from his chair before he had finished his second cup of coffee, put on his hat and light overcoat and turned toward his mother.
"Good-by, my dear boy," she said, in tones so firm and cheerful that Rodney was astonished. "Whatever fate may have in store for me, I hope I shall never hear that you failed to do your duty as a soldier."
There were no tears in her eyes—she was past that now—but didn't she suffer?
"The mother who conceals her grief
While to her breast her son she presses,
Then breathes a few brave words and brief
Kissing the patriot brow she blesses,
With no one but her secret God
To know the pain that weighs upon her—
Sheds holy blood as e'er the sod
Received on Freedom's field of honor!"
How many such partings there were all over this fair land of ours, brought about by the ambition of demagogues so few in number that we can count them on our fingers!
Rodney's heart was so full that he could not reply to his mother's brave words. Now that the test had come he found that he had less fortitude than she had. He gave her one kiss, gently disengaged himself from her clinging arms and bolted for the door.