The Storm Centre. Mary Noailles MurfreeЧитать онлайн книгу.
no touch of distinction, no thought, no care for appearances. As he rose, with "the ladies" affectionately clinging about him, and bowed low in the moment of introduction, his searching eyes discerned every minute detail. It was like a sun picture upon his consciousness, realized and fixed in his mind as if he had known it forever. And with a sudden ignoble recollection his face flushed from his forehead to his high military collar. Was it her hair, the old gossip had said, or was it a chair?
It was impossible to look at her without noticing her hair. A rich, golden brown, it waved back from her white brow in heavy undulations, caught and coiled in a great glittering knot at the back of her head, with no ornament, simplicity itself. Certainly, he reflected, no preparations were in progress in this quarter for his captivation. One of the ready-made crape collars of the period was about her neck, the delicate, fine contour of her throat displayed by the cut of her dress. Her luminous gray eyes, with their long black lashes, cast upon him a mere glance, cool, casual, unfriendly, it might even seem, if it were worth her languid while.
He sought to win her to some demonstration of interest when they were presently at table, with old Janus skirmishing about the dining room with a silver salver, hindering the meal rather than serving it. Only conventional courtesy characterized her, although she gave Baynell a radiant smile when offering a second cup of tea; an official smile, so to speak, strictly appertaining to her pose as hostess, as she sat behind the massive silver tea service that had been in the Roscoe family for many years.
She left the conversation almost wholly to the gentlemen when they had returned to the library. Quiescent, inexpressive, she leaned back in a great arm-chair, her beautiful eyes fixed reflectively on the fire. The three "ladies," on a small sofa, apparently listened too, the little dumb girl seeming the most attentive of the trio, to the half-hearted, guarded, diplomatic discussion of politics, such as was possible in polite society to men of opposing factions in those heady, bitter days. Only once, when Baynell was detailing the names of his brothers to gratify Judge Roscoe's interest in the family of his ancient friend, did Mrs. Gwynn suggest her individuality. She suddenly rose.
"You would like to see the portraits of Judge Roscoe's sons," she said as definitely as if he had asked this privilege. It may not have been the fact, but Baynell felt that she was making amends to the absent for the apostasy of "entertaining a Yankee officer," as the phrase went in that day, by exhibiting with pride their cherished images and forcing him to perform polite homage before them.
He meekly followed, however, as she took from a wide-mouthed jar on the table a handful of tapers, made of rolled paper, and, lighting one at the fire, led the way across the wide hall and into the cold, drear gloom of the drawing-rooms. There in the dim light from the hall chandelier, shining through the open door, she flitted from lamp to lamp, and instantly there was a chill, white glitter throughout the great apartments, showing the floriated velvet carpets, affected at that time, the carved rosewood furniture upholstered with satin damask of green and gold, the lambrequins of a harmonizing brocade and lace curtains at the windows, the grand piano, and marble-topped tables, and on the walls a great inexpressive mirror, above each of the white marble mantelpieces, and some large oil paintings, chiefly the portraits of the family.
The three "ladies" gathered under the picture of their father with the fervor of pilgrims at a votive shrine. Clarence Roscoe's portrait seemed to gaze down at them smilingly. He it was who had given his little daughters their quaint, formal sobriquet of "the ladies," the phrase seriously accepted by others, until no longer recognized as a nickname. Suddenly the deaf mute rushed back to officiously claim the officer's attention. Her brilliant eyes were aglow; the fascination of her smile transfigured her face; she was now gazing at another portrait. This was of a very young man, extraordinarily handsome, in full Confederate uniform, and, carrying her hand to her forehead with the most spirited air imaginable, she gave the military salute.
"That is her sign for Julius," cried Mrs. Gwynn, delightedly. "We have seen many armies with banners, but Julius is her ideal of a soldier, and the only one in all the world whom she distinguishes by the military salute."
"My younger son," explained Judge Roscoe; while "the ladies" with their quick transitions from subject to subject were sidling about the rooms, sinking their feet as deep as possible into the soft pile of the velvet carpets, and feeling with their slim fingers the rich gloss of the satin damask coverings, complacent in the consciousness that it was all very fine and revelling in a sense of luxury. Poor little ladies!
But Mrs. Gwynn with a word presently sent them scuttling back to the warmth of the library. As she began to extinguish the lamps Baynell offered to assist. She accepted civilly, of course, but with the unnoting, casual acquiescence that had begun to pique him, and as they closed the door upon the shadowy deserted apartments he thought they were of a grewsome favor, that the evening was of an untoward drift, and he lingered only for the conventional interval after returning to the library before he took his leave.
As the door closed after him he noted that the stars were in the dark sky. The wind was laid. The lights in the many camps had all disappeared, for "taps" had sounded. Now and again in close succession he heard the clocks in divers towers in Roanoke City striking the hour. There was no token of military occupation in all the land, save that from far away on a turnpike toward the dark west came the dull continuous roll of wagon wheels as an endless forage train made its way into the town; and as he passed out of the portico, a sentry posted on the gravelled drive in front of the house challenged him. He had ordered a guard to be stationed there for its protection against wandering marauders, so remote was the place. He gave the countersign, and took his way down through the great oak and tulip trees of the grove that his authority had also been exerted to preserve. His father's old friend had this claim upon his courtesy, he felt, for century oaks cannot be replaced in a fortnight, and without them the home would indeed be bereft.
Thinking still of the placid storm centre, Leonora Gwynn's face was continually in his mind; the tones of her voice echoed in his revery. And then suddenly he heard his step ringing on the frosty ground with a new spirit; he felt his finger tips tingle; his face glowed with rancor. The man was dead, and this indeed was well! But—profane thought! was it her hair? her beautiful hair? "The coward! the despicable villain!" he called aloud between his set teeth.
CHAPTER II
The next day naught of interest would Baynell detail of his venture into the storm centre. His invitation to the house of Judge Roscoe, somewhat noted for the vigor of his rebellious sentiments, resentful, implacable, even heady in the assumptions of his age, had roused the curiosity of Baynell's two most intimate friends concerning the traits of that secluded inner exclusive circle which only the accident of ancient association had enabled him to penetrate. In the tedium of camp routine even slight matters were of interest, and it was the habit of the three to compare notes and relate for mutual entertainment their varied experiences since last they had met.
The battery of six pieces which Baynell commanded enjoyed a certain renown as a crack corps, and spectators were gathering to witness the gun-drill—a number of soldiers from the adjoining cavalry and infantry camps, a few of the railroad hands from the repair work on a neighboring track, and a contingent of freedmen, jubilantly idle. Standing a little apart from these was a group, chiefly mounted, consisting of several officers of the different arms of the service, military experts, critically observant, among whom was Colonel Vertnor Ashley, who commanded a volunteer regiment of horse, and a younger man, Lieutenant Seymour of the infantry.
It was a fine fresh morning, with white clouds scudding across a densely blue sky chased by the wind, the grass springing into richer verdure, the buds bourgeoning, with almost the effect of leaflets already, in the great oak and tulip trees of the grove. Daffodils were blooming here and there, scattered throughout the sward—even beneath the carriages of the guns a score perhaps, untrampled still, reared aloft the golden "candlesticks" with an illuminating effect. The warm sun was flashing with an embellishing glitter on the rows of the white tents of the army on the hills around the little city as far as the eye could reach. The deep, broad river, here and there