82. LXXXII.
VIOLET GRAFTON'S SECRET.
I RODE back toward Elm Cottage, but was not destined to
arrive as soon as I expected.
My horse had scarcely brought me again in sight of the
house, when I saw a figure standing in the road before me, and,
drawing nearer, recognized Violet Grafton.
In a moment I had dismounted, and we had exchanged a cordial
greeting. By the light of the moon, which had now fully
risen, I could make out every feature and expression of the
charming face—the large blue eyes, with their mild and tranquil
splendor, the innocent mouth, the cheeks upon which two blush-roses
seemed blooming, and the broad fair brow, upon each side
of which fell those closely curled ringlets of bright golden hair.
She was very simply clad, but her figure was exquisitely graceful,
with the light shawl drooping from the shoulders.
“I recognized you as you followed Lieutenant Surry,” she
said in her calm sweet voice.
“He is my brother; we have been talking for an hour.”
And I related every thing.
“This terrible war!” she said with a sigh. “Oh, when will it
end? I am in fear and trembling for my friends in the army,
all the time.”
“Perhaps I can give you news of some of them,” I said.
“I have very few,” was her reply, accompanied by a quick
look toward me, which I did not understand. I thought she was
about to add something, but she only colored slightly.
All at once, I know not why, I thought of the night ride of the
young lady with Mordaunt, before the battle of Manassas, and
said:
“You remember Colonel Mordaunt, do you not?”
I was startled by the effect which my words produced. Her
head turned quickly, and I could see her become suddenly pale.
“Has any thing happened to him!” she exclaimed in a quick,
agitated voice. “He is not wounded!”— I saw that she had
not strength to add, “or dead.” Her eyes dwelt, with an expression
of agony almost, upon my face. That look revealed the
secret of Violet Grafton.
“He is perfectly well,” was my reply.
She drew a long breath—her bosom heaved.
“I am very glad,” she murmured, rapidly regaining her calmness.
“I heard something of a battle on the Rapidan, in which
his regiment was engaged.”
“The report was correct. Mordaunt made a splendid charge
in the action, but came out of it entirely unhurt.”
She inclined her head, and we walked on toward the cottage.
`My interest in Colonel Mordaunt, perhaps, surprises you,”
she said in an instant; “but we became very good friends on
that night ride from Manassas, before the battle.”
“Is it possible? Mordaunt is the coldest of the cold toward
your sex.”
“Yes, that is true.”
I hesitated for a moment, and then said:
“Did you give him his package? Do not think me a prying
person, Miss Grafton. I chance to know that those letters were
written by his wife.”
And I went on to speak of some portions of the narrative
which I had heard from the lips of Fenwick.
“I see that you know every thing—even more than myself,”
was her low reply; “but you are in error upon one point. That
package did not contain letters, but a regular journal, written by
my poor cousin from day to day—from the moment that she
left home until the time when she became insane.”
“And from those papers Mordaunt knew all.”
She gently inclined her head, and I walked on in silence. I
had then been instrumental in convincing Mordaunt of his wife's
fidelity and devotion. The contents of that package had lifted
from his life, to some extent at least, the deep shadow of misery
which rendered the whole female sex abhorrent to him. He
knew, from that journal of the poor dead woman, that she had
loved him to the last—that he was still her `darling.' To a
man like Mordaunt, writhing under a sense of shame, this con-viction,
I felt, must be an inexpressible relief.
“It is a happiness to me, Miss Grafton,” I said at length, “to
know that Colonel Mordaunt has thus been enlightened in regard
to this horrible mystery. I will add that he is fortunate
too—solitary and unhappy as he may be—in securing your
friendship.”
“Oh! that is nothing—he is very noble!”
And the telltale cheek again glowed.
“You cannot like him more than I do,” was my reply; “he is
the soul of honor, and is noted throughout the army for his
reckless courage. He is not far off now, and perhaps may have
time to call and see you.”
I had scarcely uttered the words when hoof-strokes were
heard upon the road, and a horseman, followed a few paces in
rear by another, was seen approaching. In the foremost I
recognized Mordaunt—in the latter, his Moorish servant, Achmed.
Mordaunt recognized us in an instant, and bowed to Miss
Grafton with an air of cold, proud courtesy. Then dismounting,
he calmly held out his hand to me, and said:
“You don't seem to be afraid of capture, Major. Do you
know that you are outside my picket, and very near the
enemy?”
“I supposed so,” was my laughing reply; “but if Colonel
Mordaunt can risk it, I can.”
“I shall be busy to-morrow, and came to see my friends here
for a moment.”
And bowing again to the young lady he walked on—Achmed
having taken his horse.
There was a happy light in Violet Grafton's eyes, which no
longer left me in any doubt—and I sighed. What evil fortune
had made this girl of such exquisite nature place her affections
upon that marble statue? It was spring-rose and icicle,
sunshine and snow. Would the snow ever melt?
I was asking myself that question, when Violet Grafton
dropped her handkerchief. Before Mordaunt or myself could
pick it up, Achmed, the young Moor, had bounded to the spot,
lifted it from the ground, and pressed it to his lips with a passionate
gesture, which betrayed his warm Eastern blood.
As he did so, his face became erimson, his sparkling eyes sank
before the cold look of Mordaunt, and, with head bowed submissively
on his breast, he approached Miss Grafton, knelt upon
one knee, and, with the air of a slave in presence of his mistress,
presented the handkerchief. As she took it, his forehead sank
lower, he crossed both hands upon his breast, and remained
thus with abased eyes, until the young lady passed. He did
not see, or dared not take the hand which she held out to him.
“He is asking you to pardon his presumption in pressing your
handkerchief to his lips,” said Mordaunt, coolly; “the boy is the
creature of impulse.”
And they walked on. Before reaching the house, however, I
thought I could see in the face of the young Moor, who now
gravely followed, an expression which accounted for that sudden
act. Had I discovered, in one evening, a double secret? Had
Achmed ever seen the young lady before?—and what was the
meaning of that passionate glance?
And Mordaunt? That mask of ice showed nothing.
