Nothing more was said upon the subject of the mourning; and Bell Crawford made the necessary arrangements for procuring her clothing that suggested no remembrance of her recent loss.
John Crawford had not forgotten the words of the old man, as to money in his granddaughter's name, lying in one of the city banks. He suggested the matter to her, aware that she would be anxious to rid herself from any feeling of absolute dependence,—and she answered him at once. She knew the name of the bank, and nearly the amount that should be standing to her credit, which was, as her grandfather had said, quite enough to make her comfortable for an ordinary life, ranging closely upon fifty thousand dollars. He procured her some checks, and she filled up one in a hand of crow-quill lightness, which looked indescribably like herself, but with a readiness which showed that she must have been before familiar with banking business. He presented the check, and it was honored without enquiry, this fact proving that her signature was known; and thus all anxiety on the pecuniary question was set at rest.
The young girl had said, in that dreadful hour by the death-couch, when speaking of her grandfather's fervent Union sentiments, "I do not know anything about politics, myself!" The truth that she had no knowledge or no feeling on the subject of the struggle between the two sections, was made manifest before she had been twenty-four hours an inmate of Richard Crawford's house. John continued to fight, mentally, though wounded and absent from the army. Richard was an ardent loyalist, as we have seen. The brothers naturally ran into warm denunciations of rebellion, and confident prophecies of the success of the Union cause, in spite of all past disasters. Bell and Marion were both present when they launched into the first of these; but before the conversation had lasted many minutes, the young Virginian girl rose and left the room with a word of apology. Both the brothers noticed the act and her manner. It did not indicate anger or dissatisfaction—simply a total want of interest.
The next morning something still more conclusive on this subject occurred. Richard Crawford had been much in the habit, during his illness, of being read to by his sister, Joe Harris, or any other friend who would take the trouble to amuse him in that manner. As he began to recover, he did not lose the relish for that description of lazy luxury. On the morning in question, John had gone out, Bell was busy, and Marion and her host happened to be alone in the room, when the morning papers were brought in.
"Miss Hobart, will you be so kind as to read the news to me?" suggested the invalid.
"If you wish, Mr. Crawford," she said at once. "I do not read very well aloud. But I will do my best." She picked up one of the papers and commenced reading. European news—news from Central and South America—railroad accidents—dramatic notices—everything except the news from Washington and the war, which happened to be all that he cared to hear at all! He looked at her in some surprise, but watched her closely and saw that she did not do this by chance, but that she carefully avoided the columns containing the news from the army. Directly Bell entered the room, and she began, at his request, to read the war news. Then Marion left the room, with an apology, as she had done the day before.
When John returned, his brother related the incident to him. In return John informed him of her words on the first night of their meeting, and the two agreed that she had an unaccountable antipathy to everything connected with the war, and that nothing more should be said to her on the subject.
"What if she should be a little secesh?" asked Richard, very much at random.
"She?" said John. "The granddaughter of that man? Not a bit of it! She is a little of an oddity, and a very pretty little oddity—don't you think so, Richard?" and so the conversation dropped.
The young girl had evidently had a fine musical education. She played very sweetly, though only upon request. Once she sang an English ballad, upon still more urgent request, but she seemed to do so with such unwillingness that she was not pressed again. Her voice, as shown on that occasion, was mournfully sweet and pure, and highly cultivated. She spoke French with singular facility and unusual correctness for an American. Bell and the brothers hoped that when the novelty of her position had worn away, she would more fully enter into their tastes and habits, and become less impracticable, if not happier.