University of Virginia Library

XXIX.
BLOUNT'S SECRET.

It was two in the morning, and I never saw a
darker night. The hoof-strokes of my horse on the
turnpike sounded weird and ghostly. I must have
resembled a phantom horseman traversing a world
of silence.

An hour afterwards, travelling leisurely, I passed
through the quiet and apparently deserted village of
Paris, where not even a yelping cur greeted me, and
slowly continued my way up the mountain.

All at once, as I reached the summit, near the
“Big Poplar,” a shadow detached itself from the
tree, and, advancing rapidly, took the shape of a
mounted man, pistol in hand.

“Halt! Who goes there?” said the shadow.

“A friend; that is to say, if you are a friend of
The South,” I replied.

“Advance, friend; you answer straight out.”

“Because I know that there are no Yankees about
here. I am Colonel Surry, of General Lee's army.
What command is yours?”

“Captain Blount's, colonel.”

“I know him, — and am glad I know him. Where
is he?”

“Here, colonel.”

And a second shadow — this time on foot —
came out from beheath the “Big Poplar.” I had
already recognized Blount.

“Dismount, and come and rest yourself,” he said,
pressing my hand, and speaking in his deep, sad
voice; “you ride late, my dear colonel, and must
be tired. Come.”

“Willingly, my dear captain,” I said.

And, dismounting, I walked toward the poplar.
Blount had taken the bridle of my horse, and now
tethered him to a bough. A moment afterwards we
were seated beside a glimmering picket-fire. No
other human being was visible.

“You seem to be keeping `lonely watch' to-night,
captain,” I said, with a smile. “Where is
your command?”

“Oh! not far,” he said; “they are sleeping
yonder in that clump of trees. I will not move until
sunrise.”

“You are going —”

“On an expedition toward Berryville; and I
don't wish to make the attack I intend until to-morrow
night. So I am not in a hurry.”

“I see. I am very glad I have met you.”

“Thanks, colonel.”

And Blount inclined with sad but exquisite
courtesy. A tongue of flame had caught a bundle
of twigs near, and, by the light streaming up, I
could see the calm, noble face, the graceful figure,
in its close-fitting gray uniform; the cavalry-boots
fitting to the high and aristocratic instep, and the
light sabre balancing the revolver. Under the brown
hat with its gold cord shone the grave, soft eyes,
and I could see the sad smile plainly. It was hard
to realize that this man was one of those iron souls
who shrink from nothing.

We entered into conversation, for I was not
sleepy, and my companion seemed not to need rest.
A few words explained my errand to Fauquier, and
described the wedding party.

Blount remained silent for a moment.

“I have heard no firing toward Upperville,” he
said, at length, “and it is probable that the enemy
have not come that high up. It is a pity the wedding
party should have been interrupted, — a great
pity.”

“You say that,” I said, smiling, “as if you remembered
your own, and sympathized with Mr. and
Mrs. —”

Blount's head sank.

“I have never been married,” he said. “No,
no, colonel, — that has been spared me.”

“Spared you! Pardon me, but the future would

seem to indicate a very great indisposition to matrimony.”

“It expresses my sentiment.”

“You do not covet `connubial felicity,' then, as
the poets call it. Or perhaps you do not admire the
female sex.”

“They have worked my greatest woe, colonel.”

“Women?”

“One, at least.”

The words were uttered in a tone of the profoundest
sadness. For some moments I said nothing.
Then, thinking of the true face which had
shone upon me in Winchester: —

“Oh! you do them injustice,” I said; “these
poor women, so much maligned, captain. They are
thoughtless, they are capricious, but they are pure
gold under all.”

Something stern and bitter came to the face of
Blount.

“I am glad your experience is such, colonel. It
has not been mine,” he said.

“You are a woman-hater, then?”

“No; I do not hate them. My sentiment is different.”

I bowed my head, and could only murmur: —

“Something has wounded you deeply, and makes
you commit a terrible injustice, captain.”

Blount's eye flashed.

“An injustice, colonel! No, I am just. I am
not a stern or unkind person; I would cut off my
right hand before I would wrong a human being;
but do not ask me to have any respect for women.”

He paused and his flushed face was both sad and
lowering.

“I surprise you,” he said, “but my life has been
sorrowful. I am not fond of confidences, colonel,
but something in you wins it. Hear me say a few
words then. Suppose yourself young and unsuspecting,
— suppose you love a young girl who appears
the soul of truth and honour, — suppose she
plights you her troth, looks at you with eyes swimming
in tears of tenderness, tells you a thousand
times that you are dearer to her than the very life-blood
of her heart, and then betrays you, deceives
you, shipwrecks your life! Suppose that! and then
say if the betrayed person can respect women?”

For a moment I could not reply. Blount's
tones were terrible.

“That is a romance you relate,” I murmured.

“It is the truth,” he replied. “Antoinette
Du — Pshaw! here I am giving real names!
Let us speak of something else, colonel. This moves
me beyond my wont.”

And, passing his hand over his brow, Blount
seemed to clear away all the mists of rising anger
which had obscured his sight.

“I didn't intend to say so much, colonel,” he
went on sadly; “and I trust you will pardon me.
These old wounds will reopen sometimes. Look upon
all this as `a romance'!” — your word, — and let us
speak of other things.”

“Well, captain, but your words cause me unaffected
sorrow.”

“That is my mood habitually, colonel,” he said,
smiling. “I am not gay, and least of all to-night.”

“Something troubles you.”

“I have a presentiment.”

“A presentiment?”

Blount laughed; but his laugh was not gay.

“That I am going to die.”

“Pshaw! banish all these chimeras, captain. God
does not forewarn men. He strikes them when their
hour comes, and they fall. Let us be ready, but
not fearful.”

Blount's face became calm, his eyes full of a
sweet and grave kindness.

“You are right, friend,” he said, “and I thank
you for these words. I try to do my duty and leave
the rest to my Creator. I sin against him often. I
am ashamed of it, and try to reform. The enemy
drove me yonder lately in a fight near the river,
and I was so enraged at their running before
the young ladies who had come out on the lawn, that
I cursed and swore at them like a vulgar fellow.

On the next day I was ashamed, and went and begged
the young ladies to pardon me. I have already
asked pardon of God, colonel, and hope he will
forgive everything, for I am going to die soon. Now
let us not talk further of that. Tell me of Petersburg,
the chance there, and what you think of the
war?”

Blount evidently desired to change the subject,
and we accordingly spoke of public events. Half
an hour afterwards we were asleep, lying wrapped
in our capes by the camp-fire.

At sunrise the troop was moving, and I parted with
Blount at the river, where we swam our horses, —
he proceeding down the left bank, I toward “Bizarre.”

His last words to me, were: “Forget my foolish
talk last night, colonel! but I will remember your
words.”

“My words?” I said.

“As to the fates of men, `He strikes them when
their hour comes, and they fall. Let us be ready,
but not fearful.”'

A grave, sweet smile accompanied the words, and,
waving his hand with exquisite grace and courtesy,
Blount disappeared at the head of his troop in the
forest.

Half an hour afterwards I was at “Bizarre,” and
had exchanged a close pressure of the hand with
Landon.