University of Virginia Library

32. CHAPTER XXXII.
SUSPICION.

MAUDE DE VERE had insisted that Captain
Carleton should have her room, inasmuch as he
would be more secure there; for, if the house
was suspected and searched, a catastrophe Paul Haverill
was constantly anticipating, no one would be likely to invade
the sanctity of her apartment.

And Tom found it so very pleasant, and quiet, and
home-like, that he was not at all indisposed to linger for
several days, particularly after Paul found an opportunity
for sending to the Federal lines a letter, which would
tell the anxious friends in Rockland of his safety. This
letter, which was directed to Mrs. William Mather, had
been the direct means of Tom's ascertaining that his
brother-in-law was not only alive, but had once shared
in the hospitalities now so freely extended to himself.
After learning this, Tom could not forbear tearing open
the envelope, and adding in a postscript:

That postscript was a most unlucky thought. The first
part of Tom's letter had been so guarded with regard to
the people who befriended him, that no harm to them
could possibly have accrued from its falling into hostile
hands; but in the postscript he forgot himself, and assumed
forms of speech which pointed directly to Paul
Haverill and his niece, Maude De Vere. And so the
guerrillas, who caught and half killed the refugee entrusted
with the letter, set themselves at once at work
to find the “noble man who had the beautiful niece.”
It was not a difficult task; and Paul Haverill, who had
been looked upon as so rank a Secessionist, was suddenly
suspected of treason.

Paul was popular and dangerous; while Maude De
Vere, whose principles were well known, was too much
beloved by the rough mountaineers, to allow of harm
falling upon her at once. But the writer of that letter,
—the “Yankee Carleton”—should not go unpunished,
and just at sunset one afternoon, Lois, who had been at
a neighboring cabin, came hurrying home, with that
ashen hue upon her dark face which is the negro's sign
of paleness.

“Mass'r Paul was suspicioned of harborin' somebody,”
she said; and already the hordes of mountaineers were
assembling around the Cross Roads, and concerting
measures for surprising and entrapping the Yankee.
“Chloe tell me she hear 'em say if they was perfectly
sure 'bout mass'r, and it wasn't for Miss Maude, they'd

set the house on fire; and they looks mighty like they's
fit to do it. The wust faces, Miss Maude, and they does
swar awful 'bout the Yankee. They's got halters, and
tar and feathers, and guns.”

Lois was out of breath by this time, and even if she
had not been, she would have paused with wonder at
the face of her young mistress. Maude had listened intently
to the first part of Lois's story, but felt no emotion
save that of scorn and contempt for the men assembled
at the Cross Roads, and whom “Uncle Paul
could manage so easily;” but when it came to the halter
for the Yankee, her face turned white as marble, and in
that moment of peril, she realized all that Captain Carleton
was to her, and knew what had been the result of
the last week's daily intercourse with one so gifted and
so congenial. She knew too that he was not for her.
Arthur Tunbridge stood in the way of that. She would
keep her faith with him, but she would save Captain
Carleton, or die.

“Lois,” she said, and there was no tremor in her voice,
“bring that dress I gave you last Christmas,—the one
you think is so long. Your shawl and bonnet, too, and
shoes; bring them to Captain Carleton's room.”

Lois comprehended her mistress at once, and hurried
away to her cabin after the dress, whose extra length
she had so often deplored, saying “it wasn't for such as
her to wear switchin' trains like the grand folks.”

Meanwhile Maude had communicated with her uncle,
who manifested no concern except for his guest, and
even for him he had no fears provided he could reach
the cave in safety. To accomplish that was Maude's
object, and as the Cross Roads lay in that direction a
great amount of tact and skill was necessary. But

Maude was equal to any emergency, and half an hour
later there issued from Paul Haverill's door, two figures
clad in female garments, and whom a casual observer
would have sworn were Maude De Vere and her servant
Lois. Maude had a revolver in her pocket, and another
in the basket she carried so carefully, and which was
supposed to contain the cups of jelly and custard she
was taking a poor sick neighbor, whose house was up
the mountain path. At her side, with the shuffling gait
peculiar to Lois, Tom Carleton walked, his nicely blackened
face hidden in the deep shaker which Lois had
worn for years, and his calico dress flopping awkwardly
about his feet. Lois fortunately was very tall, and so
her skirts did good service for the young man, whose
powers of imitation were perfect, and who walked and
looked exactly like the old colored woman watching his
progress from an upper window, and declaring that she
would almost “swar it was herself.”

At her side stood Charlie, a round spot of red burning
on either pale cheek, and his slender hands grasping a revolver,
while occasionally his blue eyes looked eagerly
along the mountain road, which as yet was quiet and
lonely.

“I never thought to raise my hand against my own
people,” he said, “but if they harm Uncle Paul I shall
shoot somebody.”

The sun had been gone from sight for some little time,
and the tall mountain shadows were lying thick and
black across the valley, when up the road several horsemen
came galloping, and Paul Haverill's house was ere
long surrounded by a band of as rough, savage looking
men as could well be found in the mountains of Tennessee.

Calmly and fearlessly Paul Haverill went out to meet

them, asking why they were there, and why they seemed
so much excited.

For a moment his old power over them asserted itself
again, and they hesitated to charge him with treason, as
they intended doing. But only for a brief space was
there a calm, and then amid oaths and imprecations, and
taunting sneers, and threats, they told him of the letter,
and deriding him as a traitor, demanded the sneaking
Yankee who had written that letter, and was now
hidden in the house. To reason with such people was
useless, and Paul Haverill did not try it. Standing upon
his doorstep, with his grey hair blowing in the evening
wind, and his hands deep in his pockets, he said,

“I admit your charge in part. There has been a
Union soldier in my house,—an escaped prisoner from
Columbia. I did care for him, and I am neither ashamed
nor afraid to own it. Fear is a stranger to old Paul
Haverill, as any of you who tries to harm him will find.”

“Never mind a speech, Paul,” said the leader of the
men. “Nobody wants to hurt you, though you deserve
hanging, perhaps. What we want is the Yankee. Fetch
him out, and let's see how he'll look dangling in the air.”

“Yes, fetch him out,” yelled a dozen voices in chorus.
“Bring out the Yankee, we want him. Hallo, puny face,
are you a bad egg, too?” they continued, as Charlie appeared
in the door.

“Shall I fire, Uncle Paul?” Charlie asked, and his
uncle replied,

“By no means, unless you would have them on us like
wolves. Friends,” and he turned to the mob, which had
been increased by some twenty or more, “friends, that
man is gone; he is not here; he has left my house. You
can search it if you like.”

“Where's Miss De Vere?” a coarse voice cried. “We

know her to be Union. She never tried to cover that as
you, hoary old villain, did. She was out and out. Let
her come and say the Yankee is gone and we will believe
her.”

“My niece, I regret to say, is not just now in either.
She is gone with Lois to take some nicknacks to a sick
neighbor.”

“That's so, boys. I met her myself as I came down
the mountain,” called out a young man of the company,
who seemed to be superior to his associates.

“Gone with Lois, hey? Then whose woolly pate is
that?” responded a drunken brute, who, rising in his
stirrups, fired a shot toward the garret window from
which Lois in an unguarded moment had thrust her
head.

Others had seen her, too, and as this gave the lie to
the story that Lois was gone, the maddened crowd
pressed against the house, declaring their intention to
search it and hang any runaway they might find secreted
here. It never occurred to them that the runaway could
have been with Maude in Lois's clothes; but the young
man who met the two lone women saw the ruse at once,
and influenced by Maude's beauty and the remembrance
of the sweet “Good evening, Mark,” with which she had
greeted him as he passed, he made his way to Charlie's
side and whispered,

“If you know where your sister has gone, and can warn
her, do so at once. Tell her if she is tolerably safe to
stay there and not return here to-night.”

Charlie needed no second bidding, and stealing from
the rear of the house he was soon speeding up the mountain
path in the direction of the cave. Meanwhile the
search in Paul Haverill's house went on. Closets were
thrown open; beds were torn to pieces; cellars were

ransacked, and old Lois was dragged from the ash-house,
where she had taken refuge, while, worse than all, Tom
Carleton's boots were found in the chamber where he
had dressed so hurriedly, and the sight of these maddened
the excited crowd, which, failing of finding their
victim, began to clamor for Paul Haverill's blood. But
Paul kept them at bay. In the rear of the house was a
small, dark room, to which there was but one entrance,
and that a steep narrow stairway. Here Paul Haverill
took refuge, and standing at the head of the stairs
threatened to shoot the first man who should attempt to
come up. They had not yet reached that state when
they counted their lives as nothing, and so amid yells
and oaths, and riding up and down the road, and drinking
the fine grape wines with which the cellar was stocked,
the hours of the short summer night wore on until just
as the dawn was breaking in the east, the marauders put
the finishing touch to their night's debauch by setting
fire to the house, and then starting in a body up the
mountain side in the direction of the cave.