“Will he? Well, I should think so! You have done just what he would want done––what he would do if it were possible. For two generations the McVeighs have neither bought nor sold slaves”––Judithe’s eyes shot one disdainful flash––“just kept those inherited; but I’m sure that boy of mine would have broken the rule for his generation in this case, and he’ll be so grateful to you for it. Pluto was his playmate and respected monitor as a child, and Pluto’s Zekal certainly will have a place in his affections.”
Judithe picked up one of several letters, over which she had glanced, and remarked that she would expect a visitor within a week––possibly in a day or two, the master of her yacht, which from a letter received, she learned had reached Savannah before Louise. A storm had been encountered somewhere along the southern coast, and he would submit the list of damages––not heavy, yet needing a certain amount of refitting.
“Fortunate Louise did go down,” she said, with a certain satisfaction, as she laid down the communication. “She will be perfectly happy, even hobbling around with a cane, if she is only buying things; she delights in spending money;” then, after a pause, “I presume Col. McVeigh’s return is still uncertain?”
“Yes, rather; yet I fancy each morning he will come before night, and each night that he may waken me in the morning. I have been living in that delightful hopefulness for a week.”
Lena called them and they went out to the rustic seat circling the great live oak at the foot of the steps. The others were there, and the Judge was preparing to drive the three miles home with his sister. Now that the invalid was better, and the wanderer returned from Mobile, Aunt Sajane bethought herself of the possible sixes and sevens of her own establishment, and drove away with promises of frequent visits on both sides.
Long after the others had retired for the night Judithe’s light burned, and there was little of the careless butterfly of fashion in her manner as she examined one after another of the letters brought her by the last mail, and wrote replies to some she meant to take to the office herself during her early morning ride; it was so delightful to have an errand, and Pluto had shown her the road. After all the others were done she picked up again the communication she had shown to Mrs. McVeigh––the report from the yacht master, and from the same envelope extracted a soft silken slip of paper with marks peculiar––apparently mere senseless scratches of a thoughtless pen, but it was over that paper and the reply most of the evening was spent. It was the most ancient method of secret writing known to history, yet, apparently, so meaningless that it might pass unnoticed even by the alert, or be turned aside as the ambitious scrawlings of a little child.
Each word as deciphered she had pencilled on a slip of paper, and when complete it read:
“Courant brings word McV. is likely to be of special interest. If he travels with guard we can’t interfere on road 243 from coast, and you will be only hope. A guard of Federals will be landed north of Beaufort and await your orders. Messenger will communicate soon as movements are known. You may expect Pierson. We await your orders or any suggestions.”
There was no signature. Her orders or suggestions were written in the same cipher, and required much more time and thought than had been given to the buying and freeing of Pluto’s pickaninny, after which she destroyed all unnecessary writings, and retired with the satisfied feeling of good work done and better in prospect, and in a short time was sleeping the calm, sweet sleep of a conscienceless child.