The Atlantic Monthly, Volume 13, No. 77, March, 1864. Various

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СКАЧАТЬ "what sort of person we've got here in our organist?"

      Indignant was the speaker's voice, and indignant were his eyes; he spoke quick, breathed hard, showed all the signs of violent emotion.

      The minister's bland face had a puzzled expression, as he answered,—

      "A first-rate musician, Deane,—and a lady. That's about the extent of my information."

      "A Rebel! and the wife of a Rebel!" was Deane's wrathful answer.

      Hitherto, what had he not said or done in the way of supporting the organist?

      "A Rebel?" exclaimed the minister, thrown suddenly off his guard.

      He might have heard calumny uttered against one under his tender care by the way that single word burst from him.

      "The wife of a Rebel general, and a spy!"

      Deane's voice made one think of the Inquisition, and of inevitable forfeitures, unfailing executions of unrelenting judgments.

      "For a spy, she makes poor use of her advantages," said the minister. "She's never anywhere, that I can learn, except in the church and her own room."

      "I dare say anybody will believe that whom she chooses to have believe it. How do you or I know what she is? or where? or what she does? We're not the kind of men for her to take into confidence. She is evidently shrewd enough to see that it wouldn't be safe to tamper with us! But we must get rid of her, or we shall have the organ demolished and the church about our ears. Let the mob once suspect that we employ a spy here to do our music for us, and see what our chance would be! There's no use asking for proof. There's a young man in my storehouse, a contraband, who recognized her somewhere in the street this morning, and he says she is the wife of the Rebel General Edgar; and if it's true, and there's no question about that, I say she ought to be arrested."

      "Pooh! pooh!"—the minister was thrown off his guard, and failed to estimate aright the kind of patriotism he bluffed off with so little ceremony;—"the negro"–

      "Negro! face as white as mine, Sir! Well, yes, negro, I suppose,—slave, any way,—do you want him summoned in here? Do you want to see him? He gives his testimony intelligently enough. Or shall we send for Mrs. Edgar? For it's high time she were thrown on her own resources, instead of being maintained at our expense for the benefit of the enemy."

      Precisely as he finished speaking sounded a peal from the great organ, and Mr. Deane just half understood the look on the minister's face as he turned from him to listen.

      A better understanding would have kept him silent longer; but, unable to control himself, he said,—

      "We're buying that at too high a price. Better go back to drunken Mallard,—a great sight better. McClellan would tell us so; so would Jeff Davis."

      "What can be done?" asked the minister.

      Never had that good man looked and felt so helpless as at this moment. His words, and still more his look, vexed and surprised the ever-ready Deane.

      "Exactly what would be done, if the woman played fifty times worse, and looked like a beggar. A medium performer with an ugly visage would not find us stumbling against duty. No respect should be shown to persons, when such a charge is brought up. The facts must be tested, and Miss Edgar—What's the reason she never owned she was a Mrs.?"

      "Why, Deane, did you ever hear me address her or speak of her in any other way? I knew she was a married woman."

      "Did you know she had a husband living, too?"

      "No."

      Mr. Muir spoke as if it were beneath him to suppose that use was to be made, to the damage of the woman, of such acknowledgment.

      "It don't look well that people in general are ignorant of the fact. I tell you it's suspicious. It strikes me I never heard anybody call her anything but Miss Edgar. Excuse me; of course you knew better."

      "Yes, and some beside myself. She told me she was a married woman. But really, Deane, we couldn't expect, especially of a woman who has been living for months, as it seems to me, in absolute retirement, that she should go about making explanations in regard to her private affairs. I have inferred, I confess, that she had in some unfortunate manner terminated her union with her husband; and I have always hoped that her coming here might prove a providential, happy thing,—that somehow she might find her way out of trouble, and resume, what has evidently been broken off, a peaceful and happy life. She is familiar with happiness."

      "Well, Sir!" Deane exploded on the preacher's mildness, of which he had grown in the last few seconds terribly impatient, "I don't know how far Christian charity may go,—a great way farther, it seems, than it need to, if it will submit to the impertinence of a traitor's coming among us and accepting our support, at the same time that she takes advantage of her sex and position to betray us. For that business stands just where it did before. There isn't the slightest doubt that she will find abettors enough who are as false and daring and impudent as herself. Whether we shall suffer them is a question, it seems. Excuse my plain speaking, but I am surprised all round."

      "No more than I am, Mr. Deane. It is, as you say, our duty immediately to examine into this business; but we cannot, look at it as you will, we cannot do so with too much caution. It is a disagreeable errand for a man to undertake. Let us at least defer judgment for the present. I will speak to Mrs. Edgar about it myself, and communicate the result immediately to you. Do you prefer to remain here till I return?"

      He arose as he spoke, but Deane rose also. It had at last penetrated the brain of this most shrewd, but also very dull man, that the business might be conducted with courtesy, and that a little skill might manage it as effectually as a good deal of courage.

      "No, no," he said; "he could trust the business to the minister. Liked to do so, of course. If there was any shame or remorse in the woman, Mr. Muir was the proper person to deal with it."

      And so Deane retired.

      But when he was gone, the minister stood listening to his departing steps as long as they could be heard; then he sat down in his study-chair, and seemed in no haste to go about the business with which he stood commissioned.

      Still the organ-music wandered through the church. Prayer of Moses, Miserere, De Profundis, the Voice of One crying in the Wilderness, a Song in the Night, the darkness of desolation rifted only by the cry for deliverance, tragic human experience, exhausted human hope, and dying faith,—he seemed to interpret the sounds as they swept from the organ-loft and wandered darkly down the nave among the great stone pillars, till they stood, a dismal congregation, at the low door of the vestry-room, pleading with him for her who sent them thither, and astounding him by the hot calumniation that preceded them.

      At last, for he was a man to do his duty, in spite of whatsoever shrinking,—and if this accusation were true, it would be indeed hard to forgive, impossible to overlook the offence,—the minister walked out from the vestry into the church.

      The organist must have heard him coming, for she broke off suddenly, and dismissed the boy who worked the bellows, at the same moment herself rising to depart.

      Just then the minister ascended the steps that led into the choir.

      She had no purpose to remain a moment, and merely paused for civil speech, choosing, however, that he should see she was detained.

      He did not accept the signs, and, with his usual grave deference СКАЧАТЬ