# My Lady of the South/Chapter 26

CHAPTER XXVI
I TALK WITH JEAN
FOR a moment her intense surprise robbed her of all power of speech, her round throat swelling, one hand pressed upon her heart. So still was everything I could hear a bird singing without, and the rustle of wind through the leaves.
"You have learned to love me—me?" she faltered at last, incredulously. "I did not expect to hear you say that, Lieutenant King."
"Yet I have said it," I insisted, "because it is the truth; and it is time, is it not, that the truth should be known between us?"
Her head drooped upon her hands, her arm supported by the dresser, and she remained silent, her slight form trembling perceptibly.
"Do you blame me for what occurred that night?"
She uplifted her eyes quickly, looking frankly into my face.
"You perhaps did the most natural thing, although I sincerely wish it had never occurred. No, I do not blame you; I—I have never felt in that way toward you. It is strange, is it not?" straightening up, and now looking me again frankly in the eyes. "There is certainly ​every reason why I should feel otherwise. I have no sympathy with your cause; all I love is connected with the South, and I am a thorough Rebel. Seeking to serve your flag you did me as grievous an injury as a man could do a woman. At first I was angry, indignant; I could have killed you, and felt my anger just. I can never understand the change which came over me, for, when we finally parted that night, we were almost friends. I have never been able to think of you since as an enemy."
"You have thought of me, then?"
"Could I do otherwise? Sergeant King certainly wrought havoc enough to make immediate forgetfulness impossible. Then Lieutenant King appeared—the artilleryman changed into a cavalry officer—but in voice and manner continually reminding me of the former. I did not know you were the same, but suspected it. I wanted to avoid you, yet that was impossible, and I have been compelled to accept your help, to trust and confide in you. Not only am I personally indebted to you, but you have served others who are near and dear to me. I had almost forgotten you wen; a Yankee, except for the constant reminder of your uniform. I even felt that we were destined to friendship, in spite of all the barriers between us; but now—now you have spoiled everything."
"I? How?"
"By your avowal—your expression of feeling toward me. You must have spoken those words in jest, and yet they are not easily forgotten."
"In jest!" and I arose to my feet, indignant that she ​should even suggest such a possibility. "Miss Denslow, you do not mean that; surely my sincerity can be felt. Perhaps I ought not to have spoken thus; it may be you have no right to listen. But I insist I have said no more than the truth. I realize now that from the moment of first seeing you while conversing with the old negro in the shed on your father's plantation, I was unusually interested in you. That first impression might, indeed, have passed away, had we not again been thrown together upon terms of peculiar intimacy. A certain tie was contracted between us which caused me to think of you even while we were absent from each other. I could not remain indifferent under such circumstances—could you?"
She hesitated, drawing slightly back, yet her honesty compelled a frank avowal.
"No, I—I could not be entirely indifferent."
"Human nature would prevent," I went on, encouraged by even this slight admission. "But our relationship was not destined to end even there. Some strange fate seemed to draw us together. My duty led me here, to meet you again under peculiar circumstances, and in the midst of peril compelling you to trust me. I believe now, Miss Denslow, that the seeds of love were in my heart from the moment of our first meeting, but the intimacy of the past few hours has brought the blossom. Legally I am your husband, and I cannot forbear telling you that my heart is yours also, although I feel I have no right to say this, or to force myself between you and another."
​She looked at me in strange bewilderment, her cheeks flushed, her breath rapid.
"I—I do not quite understand; you—you mean Calvert Dunn?"
"Certainly not. You forgot I have already overheard your opinion of the Lieutenant. My reference was to Colonel Donald."
"Oh!" the exclamation of surprise came through her parted lips without effort at restraint. "To Colonel Donald? You mean—"
"That I am not blind to your feeling toward him. Not only your actions, but your words as well, have convinced me that he is more to you than any of us. Am I not correct?"
"I deny the right of Lieutenant King to question me."
"But not that of your husband. This relationship, oddly as it came about, disagreeable as it may be to you, surely entitles me to know the truth."
She hesitated, her lips tightly compressed, as though thus holding back her first impulse to answer.
"Why do you ask this?"
"Because you are legally my wife, because my heart also claims you, and I cannot give you up without cause."
"With cause you will? With cause you will renounce all claim upon me, relinquish all effort to hold me through this form of marriage? "
"Yes," I assented soberly, "I will endeavor to act the part of a gentleman."
There was a moment of silence in which I looked at her, leaning against the dresser with eyes lowered to the ​floor. That she was embarrassed, doubtful, was plainly evident. Suddenly her eyes uplifted to mine.
"Ask me your question, and I will answer."
"Do you love Colonel Donald?"
She drew a quick breath, but there was no faltering in her steadfast gaze.
"I do," she said quietly. "Is that all?"
"That is surely enough," bitterly, "as it leaves me nothing further to hope for."
"Is that not best. Would you wish me to act less frankly?"
There was something in the depths of those gray-blue eyes which I could not fathom; something which seemed to contradict the speech of her lips, and to lure me on in unreasonable hopefulness. Perhaps it was a trace of coquetry in her nature she was unable wholly to restrain. Certainly, I was not insensible to it, nor could I feel, even yet, as one entirely cast aside.
"I accept your word, Miss Denslow," I answered quietly, "because I must, as I am pledged to it, and yet I feel you are not entirely indifferent toward me—that you do care."
Her lips were compressed, her hands clasping and unclasping nervously.
"Have I ever said otherwise?"
"No, but I wish you might feel justified in confessing. You say I am not a prisoner. I am strong enough now to travel, and, after what you have already said, there is no reason for me to delay departure. The demands of war are not likely to throw us together again, yet I wish ​I might bear away with me some knowledge that you do care, although it be ever so little. The real love of any man must have meaning to the memory of the one woman."
"And it has—will ever have to me."
There was an impulsiveness to these words which sent my heart throbbing.
"How-how could I be indifferent?" she went on, almost indignantly. "I am young, scarcely more than a girl, and this is all new to me; I hardly comprehend the meaning of it. But—but I cannot forget. No tale of romance could be stranger than the way in which we have been thrown together. You are a Yankee, an enemy to all I have been taught to revere, in warfare against my people, your first act a grievous wrong against myself, and—and yet I can't hate you. I've tried, but I can't! Oh, it is the strangest thing! I even believe I dread to have you go away, and yet you must, and I wish you to."
"Then I shall go, but you tempt me strongly."
"Tempt you?—how?—to what?"
"Tempt me to urge that the war will some time be over; tempt me to hope I may be welcome when that time comes."
"Have I said that?—have I said anything like that?"
"No; only that you are not indifferent; that you do care a little. It is not your words, but your eyes, which encourage me."
"I don't in the least want to like you," Jean replied, "but I do."
"Yes; I cannot explain, yet they seem to say I shall be welcome, even while your lips deny." I caught her clasped hands in mine, and separated them. "Which tell the truth?"
She made no effort to draw away from me, but laughed lightly.
"Neither, would be the safer guess," she responded, "for both are masks. You cannot understand me. Lieutenant King, and it is useless to try. I do not even understand myself. I am a continual contradiction; I don't in the least want to like you, but I do; I know I wish you to go away, and—and yet it is not so easy. You interest me; perhaps that is why I have such opposite moods. But really you must not take me too seriously either from the eyes or the lips. I do not promise that either tell all the truth."
"Where, then, can I discover the truth?"
"I am sure I do not know," innocently. "Would you expect to in a woman?"
"Yes, in a true woman. But you puzzle me. What are you?—a flirt?"
"Indeed no!"
"A coquette?"
"Certainly not, Lieutenant King."
"Then what?"
She was breathing heavily, her hands still clasped tightly in mine, her cheeks flushed.
​"Only a Rebel," she said softly, "an uncompromising Rebel."
"This would seem to imply that politics alone interfere."
"The spirit of rebellion might cover much more; yet surely that is enough to make anything further between us impossible."
"But there will be an end to this present conflict. One side or the other must win."
"I—I wish you would release my hands, Lieutenant King," she said, her lips trembling. "However this war terminates it can make no difference in our personal relations." Her face lit up with a quick smile, as she took a step backward. "I am an uncompromising Rebel, you see; one of the no-surrender kind."
I stood erect, gazing at her, unable to find any words for further argument, and thoroughly bewildered as to her real feeling toward me. I could not determine whether the girl mocked, or spoke in sincerity, and could discover nothing in the expression of her face to yield me a clue. Perhaps she s better able to decipher my state of mind, for she said gravely:
"I wish you to go away before either Colonel Donald or Lieutenant Dunn returns. The latter will certainly attempt to hold you prisoner, and it will be better for the former not to be any further involved in this matter. If you depart now, I alone am responsible for the escape, and I am perfectly willing to assume the blame. You will find a horse waiting you in front of the house."
​"But do I leave you alone here?" I questioned, recalling the tragedies of the past few nights.
"There is a guard of five men about the place, so you need have no fear as to my safety. The others will doubtless return before nightfall."
There was certainly nothing of compromise in either words or manner. She evidently did not intend I should go away with any lingering doubt in my mind as to her determination.
"This, then, is to be good-bye?" I asked, unable to refrain from one last effort.
"Yes, Lieutenant King. It shall be a friendly parting, but good-bye nevertheless."
She held out her hand, and I took it, almost unconscious of the action, my eyes looking into hers.
"You will go? You will not make this any harder for me?" she asked, a note of appeal in the soft voice.
"Yes, I will go."
I lifted the hand to my lips, and she drew back with flushed cheeks, holding the door ajar, to glance back at me.
"I thank you—good-bye."
She was gone, and, feeling the reaction of weakness, I dropped back again into the chair, resting my head upon one hand.