rifles," said De Saussure.
"Our boys will mow them down like grass," said Ransom. "And inNew Orleans the fever will take care of them. How soon,mother, will the fever be there?"
Mamma and Ransom compared notes upon the probable and usualtime for the yellow fever to make its appearance, when itwould wield, its scythe of destruction upon the fresh harvestof life made ready for it, in the bands of the Northernsoldiers in Louisiana. My whole soul was in a stir ofopposition to the speakers. I had to be still, but painstruggled to speak.
"You do not enjoy the prospect -" Hugh Marshall said, softly.
I only looked at him.
"Nor do I," said he, shaking his head. "A fair fight is onething. - It is a terrible state of affairs at home, MissRandolph."
I had the utmost difficulty to keep quiet and give no sign. Icould have answered him with a cry which would have startledthem all. What if Thorold were ordered down there? He mightbe. He would go where he was ordered. That thought broughthelp; for so would I! A soldier, in another warfare, Iremembered my ways were appointed, even as his; only morewisely, more surely, and on no service that could by any meansbe in vain. But yet the pain was very sharp, as I looked atthe group who were eagerly discussing war matters; my father,my mother, my brother, and De Saussure, who in the interest ofthe thing had left my side; how keen they were! So were otherskeen at home, who had swords in their hands and pistols intheir belts. It would not do to think. I could but repeat tomyself, - "I am a soldier - I am a soldier - and just now myduty is to stand and bear fire."
There was little chance in those days at Lucerne for me to bealone with papa. The opportunities we had we both enjoyedhighly. Now and then mamma would be late for breakfast, oreven take hers in bed; once in a while go out to a visit fromwhich I begged off. Then papa and I drew together and had agood time. One of these chances occurred a few days after thenews came of General Lyon's death. We were alone, and I wasdrawing, and papa had been watching me a little while insilence.
"Daisy," he began, "am I wrong? It seems to me that you do notlook upon matters at home with just the eye that the rest ofus have for them?"
"What matters, papa?" I said, looking up, and feelingtroubled.
"You do not like the war."
"Papa, - do you?"
"Yes. I think our countrymen are right, and of course I wishthat they should have their rights."
"Papa," said I, "don't you think it must be very strongreasons that can justify so dreadful a thing as a war?"
"Undoubtedly; but the preservation of liberty is one of thestrongest that can be conceived."
"Papa - you know I want liberty for the blacks."
"It is like you, my dear child," my father said, after pausinga minute; "it is like your generous nature; but Daisy, I thinkthose people do not want it for themselves."
"Papa, if they did not, I should think it would be one of thestrongest arguments on my side; but I am sure they do. I knowa great many of them that do."
"Did not you, perhaps, bring about that desire in them, byyour kind and possibly somewhat misjudged indulgences?"
"No indeed, papa; it was our overseer, with his wicked ways.That Mr. Edwards is dreadful, papa!"
"All overseers are not good," said my father with a sigh. "Thepeople at Magnolia are as well treated, on the whole, - asthey can be anywhere, I think, - I hope."
"You do not know, papa. If they are, you have said all. Andthere is our old Maria, who has nothing to do with Mr.Edwards; she has no hope nor anticipation which does not gobeyond this world; and it is so with a great many of them.They have that hope; but they sing, "I am bound for thepromised land!" - in a minor key; and to a plaintive air thatmakes your heart ache."
"Yours, Daisy," said my father with a somewhat constrainedsmile.
"Papa," I went on, trembling, but I thought it best toventure, - "if the issue of this war could be to set all thosepeople free, I could almost be glad."
"That will not be the issue, Daisy," he said.
"Papa, what do you think will?"
"It can have but one issue. The Southern people cannot be putdown."
"Then, if they succeed, what will be the state of thingsbetween them and the North?"
"It is impossible to tell how far things will go, Daisy, nowthat they have actually taken up arms. But I do not think theSouthern people want anything of the North, but to be letalone."
"How would it be, if the North succeeded, papa?"
"It cannot succeed, Daisy. You have heard a differentlanguage, I suppose; but I know the men, - and the women, - ofthe South. They will never yield. The North must, sooner orlater."
I could not carry this on, and turned the conversation. But Ihad to listen to a great deal of the same sort of thing, inwhich I took no part. It came up every day. I discovered thatmy mother was using her influence and all her art to induceour two young friends to return home and enter the Southernarmy. She desired with equal vehemence that Ransom should takethe same course; and as they all professed to be strong in theinterests and sympathies that moved her, I was a littlepuzzled to understand why they delayed so long. For they diddelay. They talked, but nothing came of it. Still we went onfresh excursions and made new expeditions; spending days ofdelight on the mountain sides, and days of enchantment in themountain valleys; and still our party was of the same four. Itis true that papa did not at all share mamma's eagerness tohave Ransom go; but Ransom did not greatly care for papa'slikings; and in the case of the others, I did not see whatheld them.
The printed news from home we had of course, regularly; and asfar as I could without being watched, I studied them. Thepapers after all were mostly Southern, and so filled withoutrageous invective and inflated boasting, that I could notjudge anything very certainly, from what they said. Nothing ofgreat importance seemed to be transpiring between thebelligerent parties. I supposed that it wanted but some suchoccurrence or occasion to send off our three young men like aball from a rifle, straight to the seat of war. Meanwhile weenjoyed ourselves. Others did, and I did also, whenever Icould put down fear and lift up hope; and I was young, andthat happened to me sometimes. So the weeks ran on.
"I really don't see why I should be in a hurry to plungemyself into that angry confusion of things at home," HughMarshall said one day. "It seems to me, they can get throughit without my help."
"Well, you are not in a hurry." I answered.
We were out as usual for a day's pleasure among the mountains,and Hugh and I were resting on a sunny bank waiting for theothers to come up. We had distanced them.
"What do you think about it?" he said, suddenly drawinghimself up from the grass and looking in my face.
"Men do not rule their course by what women think," - Ianswered.
"No, you are wrong; they do! Sometimes they do," - he said. "Ihave no mother nor sister to counsel me; only Mrs. Randolphbids me go home and be a soldier; but I would as lieve takeadvice from you. What would you tell me to do - if I were yourbrother?"
"I do not tell Ransom anything."
"He is under his mother's tutelage; but I am not. Tell me whatto do, Miss Randolph. I am sure your counsel would be good. Doyou wish me to go and fight the North, as your mother says Iought?"
"I wish people would not fight at all," I said, with my heartstraitened.
"Of course; but here we are in it, or they are; and it is thesame thing. Don't you think they can get through it withoutme? or do you say as your mother, - 'Every one go!' "
He looked at me more earnestly than was pleasant, and I wasgreatly at a loss what to answer. It was wisest for me not tocommit myself to a course opposed to my mother's; and yet,truth is wisest of all. I looked to see Ransom and Mr. DeSaussure, but they were not in sight.
"You are not speaking in jest," I said; "and I have nobusiness to speak in earnest."
"You never speak any other way," he rejoined. "Tell me yourmind. You are never violent; do you feel as Mrs. Randolph doesabout it? Would you like me better if I went heart and soulinto the fray at home
?"
"That would depend upon the-views and motives with which youwent into it."
"Well - if I did it for love of you?" he said smiling.
"I cannot imagine that anybody should do such a thing for loveof me. Nothing but the strongest and purest convictions ofduty can justify such a thing as fighting."
"I suppose I know what that means," he said somewhat gloomily.
"No," said I hastily, "I don't think you do."
"What does it mean, then?" he asked.
"Permit me to ask first, Are your convictions strong andclear, that it is your duty to go home