“No; just a fine, warm drizzle. It won’t last.”
“All the better!” she cried, brightening; and it seemed to the young officer as though the sun had gleamed for an instant on the tent wall. But it was only the radiant charm of her, transfiguring, with its youthful brilliancy, the dull light in the tent; and, presently, the Colonel went away, leaving her very busy with her saddlebags.
There was a cavalry trooper’s uniform in one bag; she undressed hurriedly and put it on. Over this she threw a long, blue army cloak, turned up the collar, and, twisting her hair tightly around her head, pulled over it the gray, slouch campaign hat, with its crossed sabres of gilt and its yellow braid.
It was a boyish-looking rider who mounted at the Colonel’s tent and went cantering away through the warm, misty rain, mail pouch and sabre flopping.
There was no need for her to inquire the way. She knew Waycross, the Carryl home, and John Deal’s farm as well as she knew her own home in Sandy River.
The drizzle had laid the dust and washed clean the roadside grass and bushes; birds called expectantly from fence and thorny thicket, as the sun whitened through the mist above; butterflies, clinging to dewy sprays, opened their brilliant wings in anticipation; swallows and martins were already soaring upward again; a clean, sweet, fragrant vapor rose from earth and shrub.
Ahead of her, back from the road, at the end of its private avenue of splendid oaks, an old house glimmered through the trees; and the Special Messenger’s eyes were fixed on it steadily as she rode.
Pillar, portico, and porch glistened white amid the leaves; Cherokee roses covered the gallery lattice; an old negro was pretending to mow the unkempt lawn with a sickle, but whenever the wet grass stuck to the blade he sat down to examine the landscape and shake his aged head at the futility of all things mundane. The clatter of the Special Messenger’s horse aroused him; at the same instant a graceful woman, dressed in black, came to the edge of the porch and stood there as though waiting.
The big gateway was open; under arched branches the Messenger galloped down the long drive and drew bridle, touching the brim of her slouch hat. And the Southern woman looked into the Messenger’s eyes without recognition.
Miss Carryl was fair, yellow-haired and blue-eyed—blonder for the dull contrast of the mourning she wore—and her voice was as colorless as her skin when she bade the trooper good afternoon.