"Come here, Ashley, and see if you can make anything of Baynell," said the infantry lieutenant, whose regiment lay in camp a little to the west, as the colonel reined in his horse under the tree where Seymour was hanging on to Baynell's stirrup-leather. "He hasn't a syllable to say. I want to know what is the name of that pretty girl at Judge Roscoe's."
Ashley came riding up with his inimitable pompous swagger, half the result of jocose bravado, half of genuine and justifiable vanity. It went very well with the suggestions of his high cavalry boots, his clanking sword, and his jingling spurs. His somewhat broad ruddy face had the merit of a sidelong glance of great archness, delivered from a pair of vivacious hazel eyes, and he twirled his handsome, long, dark mustache with the air of a conqueror at the very mention of a pretty girl.
"I can tell you more about Judge Roscoe's family than Fluellen Baynell ever will," Ashley declared gayly. "So ask me what you want to know, Mark, and don't intrude on Nellie's finical delicacy."
Throughout the campaign Colonel Ashley's squadrons had coöperated with Baynell's artillery. The officers had come to know and respect each other well in the stress of danger and mutual dependence. It may be doubted whether any other man alive could with impunity have called Fluellen Baynell "Nellie."
Baynell was in full uniform, splendidly mounted, awaiting the hour appointed, and now and again casting his eye on the camp "street" at some distance, the stable precincts all a turmoil of hurrying drivers and artillerymen harnessing horses and adjusting accoutrements, while a continuous hum of voices, jangling of metal, and tramping of steeds came on the air. He withdrew his attention with an effort.
"Why, what do you want me to tell?" he demanded sarcastically;—"what they had for supper?"
"No—no—but just be neighborly. For sheer curiosity I want to know his daughter's name," persisted the lieutenant of infantry.
"Judge Roscoe has no daughter," replied Baynell.
"His granddaughter, then."
"His granddaughters are children—I have forgotten their names."
"Well, who is that young lady there?—a beauty of beauties. I caught a glimpse of her at the window the day we pitched our camp in the peach orchard over there."
"She is the most beautiful girl I have ever seen," solemnly declared Ashley, who had artistic proclivities. "I never saw a face like that—such chiselling, so perfect—unless it were some fine antique cameo. It has the contour, the lines, the dignity, of a Diana! And her hair is really exquisite! Who is she, Fluellen?"
Baynell was conscious of the constraint very perceptible in his voice as he replied, "She is Judge Roscoe's niece, Mrs. Gwynn."
Ashley stared. "Mrs.! Why, she doesn't look twenty years old!" Then, with sudden illumination, "Why—that must be the 'widder 'oman!'" with an unctuous imitation of old Ephraim's elocution. "I am surprised. Mrs. Gwynn! 'De widder 'oman!'" He broke off to laugh at a sudden recollection.
"I wish you could have heard old Janus's account of his effort to clean the knives to suit her. She seems to be in command of the commissariat up there. The old darkey came into camp, searching for the methods of polishing metals that the soldiers use for their accoutrements. 'Brilliancy without labor,' was Uncle Ephraim's desideratum. I gave him some rotten-stone. His sketch of how the judgment day would overtake him still polishing knives for the 'widder 'oman' was worth hearing."
Baynell would not have so considered it—thus far apart were the friends in prejudice and temperament. Yet there was no derogation in the simple gossip. To the campaigners the Roscoe household was but the temporary incident of the mental landscape, and the confidential bit of criticism and comment served only to make conversation and pass the time.
All of Vertnor Ashley's traits were on a broad scale, genial and open. He had the best opinion imaginable of himself, and somehow the world shared it—so ingratiating was his joviality. His very defects were obviated and went for naught. Although, being only of middle height, his tendency to portliness threatened the grace of his proportions, he was esteemed a fine figure and a handsome man. He made a brave show in the saddle, and was a magnificent presentment of a horseman. He was a poor drill; his discipline was lax, for he dearly loved popularity and fostered this incense to his vanity. He was adored in his regiment, and he never put foot in stirrup to ride in or out of camp that even this casual appearance was not cheered to the echo. "That must be Vert Ashley, or a rabbit!" was a usual speculation upon the sound of sudden shouting, for the opportunity to chase a rabbit was a precious break in the monotony of the life of the rank and file.
Baynell's coming and going, on the contrary, was greeted with no demonstration. He was a rigid disciplinarian. He exacted every capacity for work that the men possessed, and his battery was one of the most efficient of the horse artillery in the service. But when it came to the test of battle, the cannoneers could not shout loud and long enough. They were sure of fine execution and yet of careful avoidance of the reckless sacrifice of their lives and the capture of their guns, often returning, indeed, from action, covered with glory, having lost not one man, not so much as a sponge-staff. So fine an officer could well dispense with the arts that fostered popularity and ministered to vanity. Thus the slightest peccadillo made the offender and the wooden horse acquaint.
None of Baynell's qualities were of the jovial order. He was a martinet, a technical expert in the science of gunnery, a stern and martial leader of men. His mind was an orderly assimilation of valuable information, his consciousness a repelling exclusive assortment of sensitive fibres. He had a high and exacting moral sense, and his pride of many various kinds passed all bounds. He listened with aghast dismay to the story of Mrs. Gwynn's unhappy married life that Ashley rehearsed—the ordinary gossip of the day, to be heard everywhere—and then a discussion took place as to whether or not the horse that killed her husband were the vicious charger now ridden by the colonel of a certain regiment.
"It couldn't be," said Ashley, "that happened nearly a year ago."
This talk hung on for a long time, as it seemed to Baynell. Yet he did not welcome its conclusion, for a greater source of irritation was to come.
"But now that you have a footing there, Fluellen, I want you to introduce me," said Colonel Ashley, who was a person of consideration in high and select circles at home, and spoke easily from the vantage-ground of an acknowledged social position. "I should be glad to meet Mrs. Gwynn. I never saw any one whose appearance so impressed me."
"Take me with you when you two call," the lieutenant, all unprescient, interjected casually. The next moment he was flushing angrily, for, impossible as it seemed, Baynell was declining in set terms.
"My footing there would not justify me in asking to introduce my friends," he said. "I should be afraid of a refusal."
Ashley, too, cast a swift, indignant glance upon him. Then, "I'll risk it," he said easily; for ill-humor with him was "about face" so suddenly that it was hardly to be recognized.
Baynell showed a stiff distaste for the persistence, but maintained his position.
"Judge Roscoe made it plain that it was only for the sake of his friendship with my father that he offered any civility to me—no concession politically. My status as an officer of the 'Yankee army' is an offence and a stumbling-block to him."
"Bless his fire-eating soul! I don't want to convert him from his treason. I desire only to call on the lady."
"I myself could not call on Mrs. Gwynn," protested Baynell. "She hardly spoke a word to me."
"It will be quite sufficient for her to listen to me," laughed Ashley.
"She took only the most casual notice of my presence—barely