“Now confess you were frightened.”
“Dis heah is suppin’ what you ain’t seen of en, I reckon,” she said to one of the soldiers, as she put it down on the table with an air of supreme satisfaction, “dis heah am de genuine artickle itsef, ain’t no mek-believe ’bout dis,” she continued, stirring the contents with a handsome old silver ladle. “Dis am de stuff what de quality folks all drink in de Souf at Christmus times, and de missus she low’d we mus’ all hav some to-night, even if all de men folks am away,” She added the last mournfully, and as Dorothy took the ladle out of her hands, she pressed Sallie Tom’s fingers in such a way that the latter understood, and shortly afterwards left the room.
If the Yankee soldiers had never tried it before, they made up for lost opportunities, and though the reverend parson walked restlessly up and down the room, holding his only partly touched glass in his hand, he dared not utter the protest that his conscience told him under other circumstances he should, and Dorothy and Anne, with a silent prayer for forgiveness, filled again and again the glasses of the men with the foamy seductive stuff, and good cheer was being widely disseminated when Sallie Tom entered again. She touched Dorothy’s dress in passing, and began to break some more eggs to show the strangers how it was made, but Anne had them now at the piano, and song after song she struck up and led. Her clear soprano voice was joined in hilariously by every soldier in the room, and even timidly by the Misses Rutherfoord and the Miles children. Presently Uncle Lias, sent by Sallie Tom, came in with his old banjo and began a jig, and such an uproariously gay time they were having that they did not hear the soft click of the door or notice that Dorothy was back in the room, her face flushed and lips quivering, or that Mrs. Tayloe was missing. Sallie Tom’s cordial had done its work well. The men were gloriously happy and magnanimously inclined towards the whole Southern army much more these charming Southern women, and the good old parson with his two pair of twins. Anne caught Dorothy’s eye and banged louder and louder, then some one proposed the Virginia Reel. Miss Trent took Anne’s place at the piano, and though navigation was a treacherous thing for some of the boys in blue, still they bravely stood up and went through it heroically, making a terrible clatter with their feet and hands to the music, and through all Anne and Dorothy were the wildest, gayest in the crowd. Romping, noisy games followed each other in quick succession, during which Dorothy managed repeatedly to slip by one of the windows and stealthily look out. Finally she was satisfied, and then she declared herself worn out, and the Rev. Doctor Miles, with whom every now and then she had contrived to catch a few words, understood it was time to go, and the soldiers immediately took the hint. They were gentlemen, and by no means inclined to presume upon the privileges of war; and when he asked them in his nervous, timid way if it would be safe for him to venture home with so many ladies in charge, they gallantly offered their services as escort, though assuring him the road was perfectly safe so far as their men were concerned.
“There is not apt to be much prying around on such a night as this,” the Lieutenant added, shivering a little as he went out in the hall, “but I know it is one we shall never forget,” and he bowed low over the hand Mrs. Tayloe held out to him. “We have all heard of Southern hospitality, of course, but we hardly expected to enjoy it under the present condition of things. I can only assure you, madam, you will never regret it.” He looked at Anne as he spoke, and held out his hand to her. “When all this is over,” he whispered, “this beastly war, I mean, will you scorn to know a man who fought on the other side?”
“I never scorn an honest man,” she answered, “even if he is a Yankee soldier,” she added, laughing. “Good-bye.” She touched his hand lightly, and drew back into the room. The horses pawed the ground and turned restlessly round and round. The Mileses and Rutherfoords and Trents piled hastily in their sleighs, and only the Sergeant stood at the door, telling Dorothy again and again good-bye. The eggnog had been too much for him, and his tone took a sentimental air as he held her hand for a second.
“I say,” he whispered, “don’t tell the Lieutenant, but I’m mighty glad we didn’t catch that fellow, and if I ever run across him again I won’t know him! Good-bye, good-bye, you little Southern witch, good-bye.”
At last they were gone. The muffled sound of their horses’ hoofs, together with their laughter, could be heard for a few moments only, and then came still, intense, impenetrable silence.