Part 72 (1/2)
The deputy wiped his muddy feet. He made his men do likewise. Then he entered the chill drawing-room, threw open the blinds and glanced around him.
”I expect all that we want is right here,” he said. And at the sight of the great chandelier, with its cut-gla.s.s crystals, he whistled. Then he walked over to the big English Rothfield piano and lifted the lid.
The man was a musician. Involuntarily he rested himself on the mahogany stool, and ran his fingers over the keys. They seemed to Virginia, standing motionless in the ball, to give out the very chords of agony.
The piano, too, had been her mother's. It had once stood in the brick house of her grandfather Colfax at Halcyondale. The songs of Beatrice lay on the bottom shelf of the what-not near by. No more, of an evening when they were alone, would Virginia quietly take them out and play them over to the Colonel, as he sat dreaming in the window with his cigar,--dreaming of a field on the borders of a wood, of a young girl who held his hand, and sang them softly to herself as she walked by his side. And, when they reached the house in the October twilight, she had played them for him on this piano. Often he had told Virginia of those days, and walked with her over those paths.
The deputy closed the lid, and sent out to the van for a truck. Virginia stirred. For the first time she heard the words of Mammy Easter.
”Come along upstairs wid yo' Mammy, honey. Dis ain't no place for us, I reckon.” Her words were the essence of endearment. And yet, while she p.r.o.nounced them, she glared unceasingly at the intruders. ”Oh, de good Lawd'll burn de wicked!”
The men were removing the carved legs. Virginia went back into the room and stood before the deputy.
”Isn't there something else you could take? Some jewellery?” She flushed. ”I have a necklace--”
”No, miss. This warrant's on your father. And there ain't nothing quite so salable as pianos.”
She watched them, dry-eyed, as they carried it away. It seemed like a coffin. Only Mammy Easter guessed at the pain in Virginia's breast, and that was because there was a pain in her own. They took the rosewood what-not, but Virginia s.n.a.t.c.hed the songs before the men could touch them, and held them in her arms. They seized the mahogany velvet-bottomed chairs, her uncle's wedding present to her mother; and, last of all, they ruthlessly tore up the Brussels carpet, beginning near the spot where Clarence had spilled ice-cream at one of her children's parties.
She could not bear to look into the dismantled room when they had gone.
It was the embodied wreck of her happiness. Ned closed the blinds once more, and she herself turned the key in the lock, and went slowly up the stairs.
CHAPTER V. THE AUCTION
”Stephen,” said the Judge, in his abrupt way, ”there isn't a great deal doing. Let's go over to the Secesh property sales.”
Stephen looked up in surprise. The seizures and intended sale of secession property had stirred up immense bitterness and indignation in the city. There were Unionists (lukewarm) who denounced the measure as unjust and brutal. The feelings of Southerners, avowed and secret, may only be surmised. Rigid ostracism was to be the price of bidding on any goods displayed, and men who bought in handsome furniture on that day because it was cheap have still, after forty years, cause to remember it.
It was not that Stephen feared ostracism. Anne Brinsmade was almost the only girl left to him from among his former circle of acquaintances.
Miss Carvel's conduct is known. The Misses Russell showed him very plainly that they disapproved of his politics. The hospitable days at that house were over. Miss Catherwood, when they met on the street, pretended not to see him, and Eugenie Renault gave him but a timid nod.
The loyal families to whose houses he now went were mostly Southerners, in sentiment against forced auctions.
However, he put on his coat, and sallied forth into the sharp air, the Judge leaning on his arm. They walked for some distance in silence.
”Stephen,” said he, presently, ”I guess I'll do a little bidding.”
Stephen did not reply. But he was astonished. He wondered what Mr.
Whipple wanted with fine furniture. And, if he really wished to bid, Stephen knew likewise that no consideration would stop him.
”You don't approve of this proceeding, sir, I suppose,” said the Judge.
”Yes, sir, on large grounds. War makes many harsh things necessary.”
”Then,” said the Judge, tartly, ”by bidding, we help to support starving Union families. You should not be afraid to bid, sir.”
Stephen bit his lip. Sometimes Mr. Whipple made him very angry.
”I am not afraid to bid, Judge Whipple.” He did not see the smile on the Judge's face.
”Then you will bid in certain things for me,” said Mr. Whipple. Here he hesitated, and shook free the rest of the sentence with a wrench.