The Storm Centre. Mary Noailles Murfree

The place reminded him then and later of the storm centre of a cyclone. Outside the tempests of Civil War raged. He could hear, as he sat in the quiet, book-lined room, the turbulent drums fitfully beating in tented camps far down the Tennessee River. Through the broad, old-fashioned window he saw the purple hills opposite begin to glow with a myriad of golden gleams, pulsing like fireflies, that told of thousands of troops in bivouac. He read the mystic message of the signal lights, shining with a different lustre, moving athwart the eminence, then back again, expunged in blackness as a fort across the river flashed out an answer. A military band was playing at headquarters, down in the night-begloomed town, and now and again the great blare of the brasses came widely surging on the raw vernal gusts. In the shadowy grove in front of this suburban home his own battery of horse-artillery was parked. It had earlier made its way over many an obstacle, and, oddly enough, through its agency he was recently enabled to penetrate the exclusive reserve of this Southern household, always hitherto coldly aloof and averse to the invader.

He had chanced to send a pencilled message on his card to the mansion. It merely expressed a warning to lift the sashes of the windows during the trial practice of a new gun, lest in the firing the glass be shattered by the concussion of the air. His name was unusual, and seeing it on the card recalled many pleasant reminiscences to the mind of old Judge Roscoe. Another "Fluellen Baynell" had been his college chum, and inquiry developed the fact that this Federal captain of artillery was the son of this ancient friend. An interchange of calls ensued. And here sat Captain Baynell in the storm centre, the quiet of evening closing in, the lamp on the table serenely aglow, the wood fire flashing on the high brass andirons and fender, the lion delineated on the velvet rug respectfully crouching beneath his feet. But in this suave environment he was beginning to feel somewhat embarrassed, for the old colored servant who had admitted him and replenished the fire, and whom he had politely greeted as "Uncle Ephraim," in deference to his age, now loitered, volubly criticising the unseen, unknown inmates of the house, who would probably overhear, for at any moment the big oak door might usher them into the room.

His excuses for his master's delay to appear absorbed but little time, and he assiduously brushed the polished stone hearth with a turkey wing to justify his lingering in conversation with the guest. Unexpected business had called Judge Roscoe to the town, thus preventing him from being present upon the arrival of Captain Baynell, invited to partake of tea en famille.

"But den, he 'lowed dat Miss Leonora—dat's Mrs. Gwynn, his niece, a widder 'oman—would be ready, but Marster mought hev' knowed dat Miss Leonora ain't never ready for nuffin till day arter ter-morrow! Den dere's de ladies—dey hes been dressin' fur ye fur better dan an hour. But shucks! de ladies is so vain dat dey is jus' ez liable ter keep on dressin' fur anodder hour yit!"

This was indubitably flattering information; but Captain Baynell, a blond man of thirty, of a military stiffness in his brilliant uniform, and of a most uncompromising dignity, glanced with an uneasy monition at the door, a trifle ajar. He was sensible, notwithstanding, of an unusually genial glow of expectation. The rude society of camps was unacceptable to a man of his exacting temperament, and, the sentiment of the country being so adverse to the cause he represented, he had had scant opportunities here to enter social circles of the grade that would elsewhere have welcomed him. He had not adequately realized how he had missed these refinements and felt the deprivation of his isolation till the moment of meeting the ladies of Judge Roscoe's household was at hand. He had hardly expected, however, to create so great a flutter amongst them, and he was at once secretly elated and disdainful.

Although a stranger to the ladies, the officer was well known to the old servant. The guns had hardly been unlimbered in the beautiful grove in front of the house ere the ancient slave had appeared in the camp to express his ebullient patriotism, to thank his liberators for his freedom—for this was the result of the advance of the Federal army, a military measure and not as yet a legal enactment.

Despite his exuberant rhetoric, there was something tenuous about his fervent protestations, and the fact that he still adhered to his master's service suggested a devotion to the old régime incongruous with his loudly proclaimed welcome of the new day.

"Why don't you leave your servitude, then, Uncle Ephraim?" one of the younger officers had tentatively asked him.

"Dat is jes' whut I say!" diplomatically replied Uncle Ephraim, who thus came to be called "the double-faced Janus."

Now indeed, instead of a vaunt of liberty, he was disposed to apologize, for the sake of the credit of the house, that there were no more slaves to make a braver show in servitude.

"Dey ain't got no butler now—he's in a restauroar up north—nor no car'age driver; dat fool nigger went off wid de Union army, an' got killed in a scrimmage. He would hev' stayed wid Marster, dough, if de Fed'ral folks hedn't tuk de hosses off wid de cavalry; he 'lowed he wuz too lonesome yere, wid jes' nuffin' but two-footed cattle ter 'sociate wid."

Once more he whisked the turkey wing along the clean, smooth hearth; then, still on his knees before the fire, he again addressed himself to the explanations he deemed fit as to the reduced status of his master's household.

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