University of Virginia Library

33. CHAPTER XXXIII.
IN THE CAVE.

THE cave was dry and comparatively comfortable,
and Tom felt as he entered it almost like going
home. Will Mather had spent a day and a night
there, while better than all, Maude De Vere was with
him, her bright eyes shining upon him through the darkness,
and her hands touching his as she groped around

for the candle her uncle had said was on a shelf in the
rock.

It was presently found, and with the aid of the match
Maude had brought with her a light was soon struck, its
flickering beams lighting up the dark recesses of the
cavern with a ghastly kind of light, which to Maude
seemed more terrible than the darkness. She was not
afraid, but her nerves were shaken as only threatened
danger to Tom Carleton could shake them, and she felt
strangely alone on the wild mountain side and in that
silent cavern.

Tom did not seem like much of a protector in that
woman's garb, but when, with a shake and a kick and a
merry laugh, he threw aside the bonnet, shawl and dress,
and stood before her in his own proper person, minus
the boots, she felt all her courage coming back, and with
him beside her could have defied the entire Southern
army. There was water enough in the spring to wash
the black from his face, and Maude lent her own pretty
ruffled white apron for a towel, and then, when his
toilet was completed, began to speak of returning.

“At this hour, and alone, with the road full of robbers?
Never, Maude, never! You must either stay
here with me, or I shall go back with you,” Tom said,
and he involuntarily wound his arm around the waist of
the young girl, who trembled like a leaf.

She did not think of Arthur then, or her promise to
him, for something in Tom's voice and manner as he
put his arm about her and called her Maude, brought to
her a feeling such as she had never experienced before.
Perhaps Tom suspected that he was understood, for he
held her closer to him, and passing his hand caressingly
over her burning cheek, he whispered:

“Dear Maude, I cannot let you incur any danger

which I must not share. You understand me, don't
you?”

She thought of Arthur then, and the thought cut like
a knife through her heart. She must not understand;
she must not listen to words like these; she must not
stay there to hear them, and with a quick gesture she
was removing Tom's arm from her waist, when his wary
“Hist!” made her pause and stand where she was, leaning
against him, and heavily, too, as terror overcame
every other feeling. Footsteps were coming near, and
coming cautiously, too, up to the very entrance of the
cave, where they stopped as some one outside seemed to
be listening.

It was a moment of terrible suspense, and Maude could
hear the throbbing of her heart, while Tom strained her
so close to him that his chin rested on her hair, and she
felt his breath upon her cheek.

“Maude,—sister Maude,” came reassuringly in a low
whisper, and with a cry Maude burst away from Tom,
exclaiming:

“Charlie, what brings you here?”

He explained to her why he was there, and that she
must stay all night, and with a shudder as she thought
of what might befall her uncle, Maude acquiesced in the
decree, feeling glad that Charlie was with them, a hindrance
and preventive to the utterance of words she
must not hear. A hindrance he was, it is true, but not a
total preventive, for by and by the tired boy's eyes began
to droop as drowsiness stole over him, and when
Tom made him a bed with Lois's dress and shawl, and
bade him lie down and sleep, he did so at once, after first
offering the impromptu couch to Maude.

Seen by the dim candle-light, Maude's face was very
white, and her eyes shone like burning coals as she

watched Captain Carleton, and guessed his motive. Had
there been no Arthur in the way, she would not have
shrunk from Captain Carleton; but with that haunting
memory she could have shrieked aloud when she saw
the weary lids droop over Charlie's eyes, and knew by
his regular breathing that he was asleep.

Tom knew it as soon as she did, but for a time he
kept silence; then he came close to her, and sitting
down by her side, said, softly:

“Maude, you and I have been very strangely thrown
together, and as I once said to you, there is a meaning
in it, if we will but find it. Shall I try and solve it for
you, or do you know yourself what is in my mind?”

She did know, but she could not answer; and her face
drooped over her brother, whose head she had pillowed
upon her lap.

“Perhaps this is not the fitting place for me to speak,”
Tom continued, “but if the morning finds me in safety,
I must be gone, and no one can guess when we may meet
again. Let me tell you, Maude, of my early life before
ever I saw or dreamed of you.”

Surely she might hear this, and the bowed head lifted
itself a little, while Captain Carleton told first of his
home in Boston, of beautiful little Rose, and saucy,
dark-eyed Jimmie, and then of the pale, proud Mary, his
early manhood's love, who at the last had lost the pride
and hauteur inherited from her race, and had died so
gentle and lowly, and gone where her husband one day
hoped to meet her. Then there came a pause, and Tom
was thinking of a night when poor Jimmie sat by his
side before the lonely tent fire, and talked with him of
Annie Graham. Should he tell Maude of that? Yes,
he would; and by the even beating of his heart, as he
made that resolve, and thought of Annie, he knew he

had outlived his fancy for one of whom he spoke unhesitatingly,
praising her girlish beauty, telling how pure and
good she was, and how once a hope had stirred his heart
that he, perhaps, might win her.

“But I gave her up to Jimmie. Annie will be my sister,
and I know now why it was so appointed. God had
in store for me a gem as beautiful as Annie Graham, and
better adapted to me. I mean you, Maude. God intends
you for my wife. Do you accede willingly? Have
you any love for the poor Yankee soldier who has been
so long dependent upon you?”

He had her head now on his arm, and with his hand
was smoothing her bands of satin hair, while he waited for
her to speak. He had dealt honestly with her. She would
be equally truthful with him, and she answered at last:

“Oh, Mr. Carleton, you don't know how much it pains
me to tell you what I must. I might have loved you
once, but now it is too late. I promised Arthur, if he
would be kind to the poor prisoners and help the
escaped ones to get away, and,—oh, I don't know what,
but I am to be his wife when the dreadful war is over.
Pity me, Mr. Carleton, but don't love me. No, no, don't
make me more wretched by telling me of a love I cannot
return.

“Could you return it, Maude, if there were no promise
to Arthur?”

Tom spoke very low, with his lips close to her burning
cheek, but Maude did not reply, and Tom continued:

“Maude, was the getting me here in safety any part of
the price for which you sold yourself?”

She did not answer even then, but by the low, gasping
sob she gave as she shed back from her hot brow the
heavy hair, Tom knew the truth, and to himself he said,
“It shall not be.” And then from his heart there went

up a silent prayer that God would give him the brave,
beautiful girl, who drew herself away from him, and
leaning over her sleeping brother, sat with both hands
clasped upon her face. They did not talk together much
more, and once Tom thought Maude was asleep, she sat
so rigid and motionless, with her face turned toward the
entrance of the cave.

But she was not asleep, and her dark eyes were fixed
wistfully upon the one bright star visible to her, and
which seemed whispering to her of hope. Perhaps Arthur
would release her from her promise, and perhaps,—
but Maude started from that thought as from an evil
spirit, and her white lips whispered faintly, “God help
me to keep my promise.”

The night was very still, and as the hours wore on,
and the faint dawn of day came over the mountain tops,
Maude's quick ear caught the echo of the fierce shouts in
the valley below, and laying Charlie's head from her lap she
went out of the cave, followed by Captain Carleton, who
wondered to see how that one night had changed her.
The brilliant color was gone from her cheek, which looked
haggard and pale, as faces look when some great storm
of sorrow has passed over them. Her hair had fallen
down and lay in masses upon her neck, from which she
shook it off impatiently, and then intently listened to
the sounds which each moment grew louder. Shoutings
they were, and tones of command, mingled with the distant
tramp of horses' feet, while suddenly, above the tall
tree-tops which skirted the mountain side, arose a coil of
smoke. Too dark, too thick to have come from any
chimney where the early morning fire was kindled, it
told its own tale of horror, and Maude's eyes grew so
black and fierce that Tom shrunk back from her, as,

pointing her finger toward the fast increasing rings of
smoke and flame, she whispered:

“Do you see that, Captain Carleton? It's Uncle Paul's
dwelling; they have set it on fire. I never thought they
would do that, though I have watched more than one
burning house in these mountains, and have almost felt
a thrill of pride as I thought how dearly we were paying
for our love to the old flag; but when it comes to my
own home, the pride is all gone, the fire burns deeper,
and one is half tempted to question the price required
for the Union.”

Tom was about to speak to her, when she turned abruptly
upon him, and said:

“Captain Carleton, do you believe your Northern women,—your
Rose, your Annie would bear and brave what
the loyal women of the South endure? They may be
true to the Union,—no doubt they are, and they think
they know what war means; but I tell you they do not.
Did they ever see their friends and neighbors driven to
the woods and hills like hunted beasts, or watch the
kindling flames devouring their own houses, as I am doing
now? for I know that is my Uncle Paul's, and whether
he still lives, or is hung between the earth and heavens,
God only knows, and perhaps he has forgotten. I sometimes
think he has, else why does he not send us aid?
Where are your hordes of men? Why do they not come
to save us, when we have waited so long, and our eyes and
ears are weak and weary with watching for their coming?”

She was talking now more to herself than to her companion,
and she looked a very queen of tragedy, as, with
her hair floating over her shoulders, and her hands
pressed tightly together, she walked hurriedly the length
and breadth of the long flat rock which bordered a precipice
near to the cave.

Tom was about to answer her, when a ball went whizzing
past him, while the loud shouts of the men, whose
heads were visible beneath the distant trees, told that
he had been discovered.

To return to the cave and take Maude with him, was
the work of a moment, and amid yells of fury the
drunken mob came on to where Maude, forgetting everything
now except Tom Carleton, stood waiting for them.
They would not harm her, she knew, and like a lioness
guarding its young, she stood within the cave, but so
near the entrance that her face was visible to the men,
who at sight of her stopped suddenly, and asked what
she was doing there, and who she had with her.

“My brother Charlie and Captain Carleton, the man
whom you sought at Uncle Paul's,” she answered, fearlessly,
as she held with a firm grasp the dangerous-looking
weapon, which she knew how to use.

“And pray, what may you be doing with the Yankee?”
asked one of the coarser of the men; and Maude replied:

“I am standing between him and just such creatures
as you are,”

While Tom, grasping her shoulder, said:

“Step aside, Maude; I cannot endure this. You, a
girl, defending me! I must go out. Let me pass.”

“To certain death? Never!” Maude replied, thrusting
him back with a strength born of desperation.

Charlie, who had roused from his sleep, and fully comprehended
what was going on, caught Tom around the
neck, and nearly strangled him, as he said:

“Let Maude alone, Captain Carleton. They'll not
harm her. They would only shoot you down for nothing.”

Thus hampered and importuned, Tom stood back a
little, while Maude held a parley with her besiegers,

threatening to shoot the first man who should attempt
to pass her. She did not think of danger to herself, and
she stood firmly at her post; while the men consulted
together as to the best course to be pursued. And while
they talked, and Maude stood watchful and dauntless,
the flames of Paul Haverill's house rose higher in the
heavens, and strange, ominous sounds were heard in the
distance,—sounds as of many horsemen riding for dear
life, with shouts and excited voices; and Maude became
aware of some sudden influence working upon the crowd
around her.

Then a band of cavalry dashed into sight, and all was
wild hurry and consternation. But, above the din of
the strife without, Tom Carleton caught sounds which
made his heart leap up, and springing forward past
Maude De Vere, he exclaimed:

“Thank God, the Federals have come! We are
saved! Maude, we are saved!”

As his tall form emerged into view, a brutal soldier,
maddened by the surprise and unavoidable defeat, leveled
his gun and fired, recking little whether Tom or
Maude was the victim. The ball cut through the sleeve
of Maude's dress, and grazing her arm enough to draw
blood, lodged harmlessly in the rocks beyond.

At that sight all Charlie's fire was roused, and the
shot which went whizzing through the air made surer
work than did the one intended for Tom Carleton.
Tom was out upon the ledge of rocks by this time, grasping
the hands of the blue coats, who were a part of a
company sent out to reconnoiter, and who had reached
Paul Haverill's house just after the rebels had left it.
At first they had tried to extinguish the flames, but finding
that impossible, they had followed the enemy, most
of whom were made prisoners of war.

Some months before, John Simms had been transferred
from the Army of the Potomac to the Army of the
Cumberland, and he it was who led his men to the rescue,
doing it the more daringly and willingly when he
heard who was in danger. He was a captain now, and
he stood grasping Tom Carleton's hand, when a piercing
shriek rose on the air, and turning round, the young
men saw Maude De Vere bending over the prostrate form
of a soldier, whose head she gently lifted up, as she
moaned bitterly:

“Oh, Arthur, Arthur! how came you here?”