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2
LESION TYPE: PAPULE

Papule is Latin for pimple. A rash consisting of papules is called a papular exanthem.
Papular exanthems may be grouped (“lichenoid”) or disseminated (dispersed).
Lesions
• A papule is a superficial, elevated, solid lesion, generally <0.5 cm in diameter. Most of
the lesion is elevated above, rather than deep within, the plane of the surrounding skin.
• Papules are dome-shaped, cone-shaped, or elevated with a flat top; they can be
palpated.
• Elevation is a result of material built up within the lesion, whether metabolic or locally
produced deposits, localized cellular infiltrates, or inflammatory cellular elements.

DIAGNOSIS AND DIFFERENTIAL DIAGNOSIS

Papules may be well-defined (sharply marginated) or ill defined (diffuse). Superficial pap-
ules are usually well-defined, whereas deeper dermal papules have indistinct borders.

2
3
LESION TYPE: PLAQUE

Plaque is French for plate.

Lesions
• Plaques are formed from papules that become confluent and form larger, usually flat-
topped, circumscribed, plateau-like elevations above the skin surface.
• Plaques occupy a relatively large surface area in comparison with their height above the
skin.
• Plaques can be palpated.

DIAGNOSIS AND DIFFERENTIAL DIAGNOSIS

Plaques are usually well defined. Lichenification is a less well defined large plaque where
the skin appears thickened and the skin markings are accentuated. A patch is a barely
elevated plaque—a lesion fitting between a macule and a plaque.

3
4
LESION TYPE: NODULE

Nodule is Latin for small knot.

Lesions
• A nodule is a solid, round, or ellipsoidal lesion that is larger than a papule.
• Nodules can be palpated and may involve the epidermis, dermis, or subcutaneous
tissue.

DIAGNOSIS AND DIFFERENTIAL DIAGNOSIS

Nodules may be well defined (superficial) or ill defined (deep); if localized in the subcuta-
neous tissue, they can often be better felt than seen. Nodules can be hard or soft upon palpa-
tion. They may be dome-shaped and smooth or may have a warty surface or crater-like
central depression.
The depth of involvement and the size differentiate a nodule from a papule. Nodules
result from inflammatory infiltrates, neoplasms, or metabolic deposits in the dermis or
subcutaneous tissue.

4
5
LESION TYPE: WHEAL

Wheals are due to edema in the papillary body of the dermis. A rash consisting of wheals
is called a urticarial exanthema or urticaria.
Lesions
• A wheal is a rounded or flat-topped, pale red papule or plaque that is characteristically
evanescent, disappearing within 24–48 h.
• Wheals may be round, gyrate, or irregular with pseudopods changing rapidly in size and
shape due to shifting papillary edema.
• Wheals can be palpated.

5
6
LESION TYPE: VESICLES AND BULLAE

Vesicle is Latin for “little bladder,” and bulla is Latin for bubble. A rash consisting of
vesicles is called a vesicular exanthem; a rash consisting of bullae is called a bullous
exanthem.
Lesions
• A vesicle (<0.5 cm) or a bulla (>0.5 cm) is a circumscribed, elevated, superficial cavity
containing fluid.
• Vesicles and bulla can be palpated.
• Vesicles are dome-shaped, umbilicated (as in herpes simplex), or flaccid.
• Often the roof of a vesicle/bulla is so thin that it is transparent.

DIAGNOSIS AND DIFFERENTIAL DIAGNOSIS

The fluid in the vesicle/bulla can often be seen. Vesicles containing serum are yellowish;
those containing blood are from red to black. Vesicles and bullae arise from a cleavage at
various levels of the superficial skin; the cleavage may be subcorneal or within the visible
epidermis or at the epidermal–dermal interface. Since vesicles/bullae are always superfi-
cial, they are always well defined.

6
7
PUSTULE

Pustules are circumscribed superficial cavities of the skin that contain a purulent exudate.
A rash consisting of pustules is called a pustular exanthem.
Lesions
• Pustules may be white, yellow, greenish yellow, or bloody , and vary in size and shape.
• Pustules can be palpated.
• Pustules may arise in a hair follicle or independently.
• Pustules are usually dome-shaped, but follicular pustules are conical and usually contain
a hair in the center.

DIAGNOSIS AND DIFFERENTIAL DIAGNOSIS

Pustules differ from vesicles in that the content of the lesion is turbid and not clear.

7
8
LESION TYPE: CRUSTS

Crust is Latin for rind, bark, or shell.

Lesions
• Crusts develop when serum, blood, or purulent exudate dries on the skin surface.
• Crusts may be thin, delicate, and friable or thick and adherent.
• Crusts can be palpated.

DIAGNOSIS AND DIFFERENTIAL DIAGNOSIS

Crusts are yellow when formed from dried serum; green or yellow green when formed
from purulent exudate; or brown, dark red, or black when formed from blood. Superficial
crusts occur as honey-colored, delicate, glistening particulates on the surface. When the
exudate involves the entire epidermis, the crusts may be thick and adherent, and if it is
accompanied by necrosis of the deeper tissues (e.g., the dermis), the condition is known as
ecthyma.

8
9
LESION TYPE: SCALES

Squames is Latin for scale. A rash consisting of papules with scales is called a papulosqua-
mous exanthem.
Lesions
• Scales are flakes of stratum corneum.
• They may be large (like membranes, tiny [like dust], pityriasiform (Greek: pityron,
“bran”), adherent, or loose.
• Scales may occur by themselves or on top of other lesion types.
• Scales may or may not be palpated.
• Scales may be sharply marginated or diffuse.

9
10
LESION TYPE: EROSION

An erosion is a defect only of the epidermis, not involving the dermis.

Lesions
• An erosion is sharply defined, red, and oozing.
• Superficial erosions, which are subcorneal or run through the epidermis.
• Deep erosions are at the base of the papillary body.
• Erosions cannot be palpated.

DIAGNOSIS AND DIFFERENTIAL DIAGNOSIS

Except physical abrasions, erosions are always the result of intraepidermal or subepidermal
cleavage and thus of vesicles or bullae. Erosions always heal without a scar.

10
11
LESION TYPE: ULCER

Ulcer is Latin for sore.

Lesions
• An ulcer is a skin defect that extends into the dermis or deeper into the subcutis.
• Ulcers are always secondary to pathologically altered tissue.
• Ulcers may have elevated, undermined, hard, or soggy borders.
• Ulcers may ooze or have purulent discharge.

DIAGNOSIS AND DIFFERENTIAL DIAGNOSIS

The pathologically altered tissue giving rise to an ulcer is usually seen at the border or the
base of the ulcer and is helpful in determining its cause. The presence of any associated
topographic features, such as nodules, excoriations, varicosities, hair distribution, sweat-
ing, and arterial pulses can help determine the cause. Ulcers always heal with scar
formation.

11
12
LESION TYPE: SCAR

A scar is the fibrous tissue replacement of the tissue defect by previous ulcer or a wound.
Lesions
• Scars can be hypertrophic and hard.
• Scars can be atrophic and soft.
• There may be thinning or loss of all tissue compartments of the skin.
• Scars may or may not be palpable.

12
13
LESION TYPE: ATROPHY

Atrophy refers to a diminution of some or all layers of the skin.

Lesions
• Epidermal atrophy is manifested by a thinning of the epidermis.
• The epidermis becomes transparent, revealing the papillary and subpapillary vessels.
• There is loss of skin texture and cigarette paper-like wrinkling.
• In dermal atrophy, there is loss of connective tissue of the dermis and depression of the
lesion.

13
14
LESION TYPE: CYST

Lesions
• A cyst is a cavity containing liquid or solid or semisolid materials.
• Cysts may be superficial or deep.
• Cysts are spherical, most often dome-shaped like a papule or nodule; however, upon
palpation they are resilient.
• Cysts are lined by an epithelium and often have a fibrous capsule.

DIAGNOSIS AND DIFFERENTIAL DIAGNOSIS

Depending on the contents of the cyst, they may be skin colored, yellow, red, or blue. An
epidermal, and a pilar cyst produce keratinaceous material.

14
15
SUPERFICIAL SPREADING MELANOMA (SSM)

SSM is the most common melanoma (70%) type in light-skinned people and arises most
frequently on the upper back. It is a moderately slow-growing lesion with distinctive mor-
phology. Lesions are usually single, and can occur anywhere at any age. The median age of
onset is 30–50 years of age and SSM occurs in women slightly more often; SSM is rare in
darker-skinned people. Risk factors include precursor lesions, family history of melanoma,
light skin, and childhood sunburns.

CLINICAL MANIFESTATIONS
Lesions
There is an elevated, flat plaque with marked asymmetry, irregular well-defined borders.
Lesions are tan, brown, or black and the pigment variegation of SSM is similar to, but more
striking than, the variety of color present in most LMM. The color display is a mixture of
brown, dark brown, black, blue, and red, with slate-gray or gray regions in areas of tumor
regression. Most are >5 mm when discovered and arise in previously existing pigmented
lesions (dysplastic nevi). Development of papules and nodules reflect a switch to vertical
growth and invasion into the dermis.

DIAGNOSIS AND DIFFERENTIAL DIAGNOSIS

Diagnosis is made clinically and confirmed with dermoscopy and biopsy. Total excisional
biopsy with narrow margins is optimal, though incisional or punch biopsy is acceptable
when total excisional biopsy cannot be performed. Do not use shave biopsy that does not
show the level of invasion.

MANAGEMENT
Treatment is excision down to the fascia. For lesions <1 mm thick, ensure 1-cm margins
from lesion edges and biopsy lymph nodes only if nodes are palpable. For lesions >1 mm
thick, ensure biopsy of sentinel lymph nodes. Follow excision with direct closure or repair
with skin grafts. Perform lymphadenectomy only for nodal basins with occult tumor cells
or if nodes are clinically palpable and suspicious for tumor. Consider adjuvant therapy if
there is risk of recurrence (positive regional lymph nodes, advanced stage).

15
Exploring the Variety of Random
Documents with Different Content
Mrs. Charteris spoke with a kindling eye and the color suffused her
smooth cheek. Isabey looked at her admiringly. Her matronly beauty
was resplendent, and the high courage which made her eager to
give this darling only son to her country was worthy of the brave
days of old. Then Isabey spoke again of Angela, but evidently under
restraint.
“I wish,” he said, “that you, with your determination and high-
handedness, would stand by Mrs. Neville Tremaine and help to
disprove this horrid suspicion against her. It is ridiculous, as I say.
She has nothing to tell about military matters that would be worth
any man’s listening. She knows nothing; how can she?”
“One can hear a good many things,” replied Mrs. Charteris.
“My dear madam, you can depend upon it, the military authorities at
the North know quite as much as Mrs. Neville Tremaine or any other
girl in this county can tell them. Her position is painful enough, God
knows, and this frightful suspicion makes it that much worse. Only
exercise your own sound sense for a moment, Mrs. Charteris, and
see how impossible it is that Angela—that Mrs. Neville Tremaine
should be able to communicate anything.”
But Mrs. Charteris was obstinate. She was not a military critic, and
was well convinced, as she said, that people knew a great many
things. At last, however, she heard Isabey say under his breath:
“Poor, poor Angela!” Then Mrs. Charteris’s excellent heart was
touched. She put her hand impulsively into Isabey’s and said:
“After all, it may not be true, and I will stand Angela’s friend.”
Isabey pressed her plump hand softly and said in his musical,
insinuating voice:
“I knew you would be intelligent enough to see the absurdity of the
story, and kind enough not to hound that poor girl with the rest. I feel
for her very deeply. My strong attachment to Richard Tremaine since
our university days and the kindness of the Tremaines to my
stepmother and her daughter has touched me deeply. The thought of
the grief and mortification this story might bring to them is very
painful to me.”
Mrs. Charteris, being a woman, suspected that there were other
reasons than the attachment to Richard Tremaine and Colonel and
Mrs. Tremaine’s kindness which accounted for Isabey’s interest in
Angela. The novel thought pierced her mind that it was possible for a
man to feel a deep personal and secret interest in a married woman,
but he must be a very peculiar man, thought Mrs. Charteris, for she
had never known such a thing to be in Virginia. She looked at
Isabey, therefore, with new interest, and concluded that the French
Creoles were very different from the Virginians.
“Now,” she said triumphantly, “you must have snack.”
Isabey gracefully submitted, and drank a couple of glasses of
blackberry wine, and ate some cakes with coriander seeds in them
and sweetened with molasses, handed by the successor of the ex-
plowman. When Isabey was leaving, Mrs. Charteris went with him
out upon the porch and pointed to a great snow-covered field which
the year before had been down in clover and which another season
would grow cotton. She uttered at the same time the axiom of the
whole South:
“As long as we can raise cotton we can whip the North. Cotton is
king!”
Isabey returned to Harrowby uncertain whether or not Angela had an
ally in Mrs. Charteris.
After a month of storm and snow and sleet, Nature smiled once
more. The days grew long, the sun shone with the ardor of spring,
and under the melting snow the first tender shoots of grass made a
bold stand. Isabey watched for the first time the drama of the
development of the garden—a drama interpreted by Angela.
On a still, sunny March day he limped up and down the garden path
with Angela, who talked with lips and eyes to him. She examined the
tracks her little feet made along the path and laughed at them.
“You see,” she said, “I am wearing a pair of new shoes made by
Uncle Mat, the shoemaker who makes for the servants. I haven’t had
any new shoes for more than a year, not since the war began. So I
had Uncle Mat make me a pair in order to save my best shoes for
the time when I shall go to Neville. Uncle Mat can’t sew shoes—he
only pegs them; and see what funny marks the pegs leave in the
damp ground.”
Isabey looked at the tracks of the clumsy little shoes, but not even
Uncle Mat could wholly disguise the high-bred beauty of Angela’s
feet.
“Last night,” she continued, “I forgot all about the shoes being
pegged, and after I went upstairs sat for a long time with my feet to
the fire. The heat drew every blessed peg out of the soles, and this
morning Uncle Mat had to drive them back again, to stay until I put
my feet to the fire again. Oh, I don’t mind this; it is just like Marie
Antoinette and the Princess Elizabeth in the Temple!”
Pacing slowly up and down the broad, bright walk, she told with a
grave and serious air the story of the garden.
“Now,” she said, “in the springtime the overture begins. I have never
been to an opera, but I know exactly how it all goes; Mr. Lyddon and
Richard and Neville have told me. First the flutes and violins begin
softly, you know, and their odor is delicate. Then presently the other
flowers join in this silent music; the snowballs and the syringas are
added to the orchestra. I always think the big lilac bushes and the
calycanthus, that delicious sweet-smelling shrub which grows all
over the place, are like the bass viol and the violoncello in the
orchestra, they are so strong and overpowering. And the great pink
crape-myrtle is like the big drum; it blooms so loudly. The little
flowers, like the lilies of the valley and the violets and the hyacinths,
are like the new prima donnas, who are young and timid and afraid
to sing out loud. But then come the roses. They are the great prima
donnas, who are confident of themselves and know they will be
applauded and come out smiling and sing as loud as ever they
please. And the whole opera begins: June, July, August, September,
October, and November, when the curtain comes down and the
music stops until the next performance, which begins again in
March.”
Isabey smiled. After all, in many ways she was only a poetic and
fanciful child. Her imagination, stimulated by the reading of many
books, was vigorous, but she had in her the spirit of daring and
adventure, and her eyes and cheeks quickly kindled into flame at the
mere mention of action. He wondered what was to be the path her
delicate feet were to tread through life. If only he might walk beside
her forever!
The snow was all gone from the garden and the lane, but lingered in
patches in the woods, and in the old graveyard in the field there were
still white drifts upon the graves.
“In a week or two,” said Angela, “I will take you into the woods and
you can see the pink buds of the chestnut trees. They have the most
delicious fragrance of all the trees.”
“I shan’t be here by that time,” replied Isabey quietly. “When I am
able to walk as far as the woods I shall be able to return to duty.”
He watched her as he spoke, knowing well that at the mention of
separation the blood would drop out of her cheeks and her eyes
would become dark and troubled, like a pool over which a cloud is
passing. Nevertheless, Angela spoke quickly the thought in her
heart:
“Of course. A soldier can’t shirk his duty—you least of all. I could just
as soon imagine Neville or Richard seeking inglorious ease as you.
Though Neville is with the North, it makes me proud to feel that no
Southern man skulks at home.”
“That is true,” remarked Isabey. “Most of them want to go, and the
others dare not remain behind; the ladies won’t let them.”
“Do you mean to say,” indignantly asked Angela, “that any Southern
man would stay at home now?”
“A few would,” coolly replied Isabey. “But they are more afraid of
their womenkind than they are of Northern bullets. I know several
men of my own age in New Orleans who would have been very glad
to find business in Paris until this little zephyr blows over, but not one
of them ever dared to mention as much to his wife or mother or
sisters.”
“How long will the war last?” asked Angela.
“Until there is not enough lead in the Confederacy to fire another
round. We are not only fighting for our independence but for our
whole social and economic structure. No people ever had so great a
stake in war. How do we know what will happen if the war goes
against us? A military despotism may be established; we may be
reduced to a position like Carthage!”
Angela paused awhile and then asked:
“When will you go away from Harrowby?”
“Next week, I think. You see, although I am not able to go out on the
firing line just yet, I can do a great many things in camp. I have
written, therefore, to General Farrington at the camp of instruction,
offering my services for ordinary regimental duties and saying I can
report next week. And I have written my servant, whom I left with a
brother officer in my battery, to report at the instruction camp as soon
as possible; so you see I am preparing to break up my winter
quarters.”
“Then,” said Angela, “we must do everything we can to get you in
good condition and supply you with some comforts as soon as you
are in camp. I shall give you some tallow candles and blackberry
wine and everything else a soldier can use.”
How well fitted she was, thought Isabey, to be a soldier’s wife! No
idle repining, no tears to make the parting harder, no timid
apprehensions to be combated, were in this girl, but calm courage,
hope, cheerfulness, and faith.
That day a letter was received from Mrs. Tremaine. Richard was well
recovered and able to join his battery. His mother and Archie were
then in Richmond, staying at the hotel with Madame Isabey and
Adrienne. Adrienne was a great belle, and their little drawing-room
was full of officers every evening, riding in from the surrounding
country for an hour or two, to listen to Adrienne’s pretty French
songs and delightful conversation.
Mrs. Tremaine fully expected Adrienne and Madame Isabey to return
with her, but they had received a pressing invitation from some
friends above Richmond to spend a month or two, and had accepted
it. They promised, however, to return to Harrowby in the early
summer and to remain during the war. Archie was much
disappointed because Madame Isabey would not return to Harrowby
with them, and declared he admired her more than any of the pretty
girls he had seen so far in his career. Mrs. Tremaine hoped that
Captain Isabey was improving and that Angela had omitted nothing
to make him comfortable. Hard as the parting had been with Richard,
Mrs. Tremaine wrote she could no longer be satisfied away from
Colonel Tremaine, and hoped, as this was the longest separation of
their married life, that they would never be apart again.
Colonel Tremaine was like a lover expecting his mistress, and
Angela busied herself more than ever in training the green hands
about the house, so that Mrs. Tremaine should not miss the familiar
servants who had gone to the Yankees. There were no longer
twenty-five of them to be called by the bell on the back porch. Ten
only answered to the call, and most of these were half-grown boys
and girls.
A few days before Mrs. Tremaine arrived Isabey left Harrowby. On
the morning of his departure he lingered for a moment in the old
study, recalling the exquisite hours he had spent there listening to
Angela’s voice, watching her slight and supple figure and delicate
hands as she ministered to him. The sweetness and pain of it was so
sharp that he could not linger, and, going out, he began his farewells.
The servants were all sorry to part with him. Mammy Tulip, who had
“nursed him like a baby,” as she expressed it, called down blessings
on his head and warned him to keep well away from Yankee bullets,
which Isabey gravely promised her he would do.
Hector declared that the parting reminded him of when he bade a
last farewell to General Scott at the end of the Mexican War.
“De gineral when he shook my han’ say: ‘Hector, dis heah partin’ is
de hardest I ever see, but, thank Gord, I had you while I need you
most—when we was fightin’ dem damn, infernal, low-lived Mexicans.
An’ as fur dat scoundrel, Gineral Santa Anna, I never would ha’
cotch him ef it hadn’t been fur you.’”
Out on the porch in the spring morning stood Angela, Colonel
Tremaine, and Lyddon. Nothing could exceed the kindness of their
parting words. Colonel Tremaine urged Isabey to come to see them
whenever the pressure of his military duties relaxed, and especially if
he fell ill to remember that Harrowby was his home. Lyddon said with
truth that Isabey’s presence during the stormy winter had brightened
Harrowby. When Angela bade him farewell, Isabey thanked her with
French ceremony for her kindness to him and said truly it had helped
more than anything else toward his recovery.
“I hope it did,” replied Angela. “You were a very good patient, and I
liked to attend upon you.”
“Pray when you write to Neville give him my warm regards,” said
Isabey boldly, “and tell him that I respect his course while I lament it.”
“Thank you,” answered Angela with dignity. “I shall have pleasure in
writing this to Neville.”
Isabey still halted a little in his walk, but was able to mount and ride
gallantly away. As he cantered down the cedar lane Angela stood
watching him. All had left the porch except herself. At the end of the
lane, half a mile away, she saw Isabey stop his horse and turn in his
saddle and look long at the hospitable roof which had sheltered him.
Far in the distance though he was, she waved the corner of her
scarlet mantle to him and he took off his cap in reply. Angela turned
toward the garden with a strange feeling in her breast as if a chord
had snapped, like the breaking of the G string on a violin. No other
chord could replace it.
 CHAPTER XVII
LIKE THE LITTLE TRIANON

FOUR days after Isabey left Mrs. Tremaine and Archie returned.
Colonel Tremaine had met them on the road halfway between
Richmond and Harrowby.
Mrs. Tremaine was full of courage and cheerfulness. Richard’s
recovery had been complete, and as she said the first night the
family were assembled around the supper table:
“I have never seen our son look so strong and so handsome as he
did when I parted from him the day before we reached Richmond. At
first it was terrible to me to see him ill. I have been spared the
anxieties on that account which most mothers endure, for you well
know, my dear, how hardy our sons have been from their birth. But
Richard’s spirits were so good, his determination to become
thoroughly well so contagious, that I really never felt any anxiety on
his account except that he would return to the army before he was
able. However, with the help of the surgeons I managed to keep him
in his bed long enough to cure him, and I assure you, my dear,” she
continued, smiling at Colonel Tremaine, “there is a kind of
lovemaking between a mother and son which is almost as sweet as
that between lovers.”
At which Colonel Tremaine, flourishing his hand dramatically, replied:
“My dearest Sophie, I have ever felt our sons to be my only rivals.”
The only fly in the colonel’s ointment was that he felt compelled as
soon as Mrs. Tremaine arrived to resume his suit of homespun,
which he regarded very much as Nessus did his celebrated shirt.
At prayers that night the name of one son was omitted, and Neville’s
name was no longer mentioned after Angela ceased to fill Mrs.
Tremaine’s place.
Everything had gone on in an orderly manner, and Mrs. Tremaine
was particularly gratified that Angela had taken as good care of
Isabey as could be desired.
“I feel,” she said to Angela, “that in caring for Captain Isabey we
perform a patriotic as well as a pious duty. Some day during this
dreadful war it may be returned to my sons.”
“I hope so, if the occasion should come,” answered Angela. “But if I
should hear that Neville were wounded he would not be dependent
upon strangers. I should go to him whether he sent for me or not, or
even if he sent me word not to come, still I should go.”
Mrs. Tremaine turned away pale and silent, as she always was at the
rare mention of her eldest-born.
In a day or two letters arrived from Isabey, one to Colonel Tremaine
and another to Angela. Lyddon brought them on a bright spring
noontime from the post office, where there was an intermittent
delivery of letters.
She read the letter and then handed it to Mrs. Tremaine. It was
graceful and cordial and full of gratitude. After being passed around it
was returned to Angela. Half an hour afterwards Lyddon saw her
walk across the lawn and down to where the river ran wine-colored
in the old Homeric phrase.
Angela’s right hand was closed, and as she reached the shore,
lapped by the bright water, she opened her hand and dropped a
hundred tiny bits of paper into the clear green-and-gold water, and
stood watching them as they were tossed in the crystalline spray.
“It is Isabey’s letter,” said Lyddon to himself.
The orchestra of spring, as Angela had called it, was now playing
gloriously, and it seemed to her as if the ice-bound winter were but a
dream with all the beautiful unreality of a dream. She resolved to put
Isabey out of her mind, but who ever yet put the thing beloved out of
mind? All she could do whenever she thought of Isabey was to call
up a passionate loyalty to Neville Tremaine and to make herself the
most solemn of promises that never should any woman exceed her
in the kindness, tenderness, devotion, consideration that she would
give Neville Tremaine, not having the greater gift to bestow upon
him.
Isabey in a camp of five thousand men found plenty for a man to do
who had not full use of his right arm and leg.
His sanguine expectation of being able to join his battery in the field
was not borne out. In riding he wrenched his arm painfully, which
revived the whole trouble, and the doctors gave him no hope that his
arm would sufficiently recover for him to rejoin his battery before the
late autumn or early winter.
Meanwhile the ugly suspicion against Angela, of which Mrs.
Charteris had told him, came back in a hundred ways. It was
undoubtedly true that information concerning the Confederates was
mysteriously conveyed to the Federal commanders.
The charge that Angela Tremaine had supplied this information was
hinted at rather than spoken before Isabey. Once only had it been
said outright—at the officers’ mess by a raw young lieutenant
ignorant of most things. Isabey had turned upon him meaning to
contradict the story in a manner as cool as it was convincing. But
suddenly an impulse of rage seized him and before he knew it he
had dashed a glass of water in the face of the offender.
At once there was a fierce uproar, and Isabey ended the brief but
painful scene by rising and saying with some agitation:
“I have no apology to make for resenting a shocking charge against
an innocent and defenseless woman. I believe it has never yet been
known that any man in Virginia was ever called to account for
defending the name and fame of a woman.”
With that Isabey left the mess tent. The ranking officer at once
administered a stern rebuke to the young lieutenant and forbade that
he should demand the satisfaction, common enough in those days,
from Isabey for his act. Nevertheless, when the matter had been
arranged, the officers exchanged significant glances which said: “It
won’t do to speak of it, but—” and that “but” meant that it was
believed Angela Tremaine was playing the spy. Isabey felt this and
his soul was wrung by it.
With only thirty-five miles between the two great opposing forces,
each side began to throw out feelers before the actual shock of arms
commenced. The Federals made raids and reconnoissances through
the country at unexpected times.
Incidentally, the farmsteads and estates were swept clear of horses,
mules, cattle, and sheep, and the houses were searched for
Confederate soldiers. This last was done rather in the nature of a
warning than in expectation of making any captures. Occasionally
private soldiers, who had got leave on various pretexts and slipped
home for a few hours, were picked up by the Federals; but the
Confederates were wary and no important captures were made.
Small Federal gunboats ventured up the broad, salt, shallow rivers
which made in from the seas and intersected the low-lying, fertile
country. But these expeditions, like those by land, were rather for
investigation and warning than of a punitive nature. It might be
supposed that these raids by land and water were alarming to the
women and children left alone in their homes while their husbands,
sons, and brothers were in the Confederate army. On the contrary,
the Virginia ladies appear to have struck terror to the hearts of the
Northern officers, who, however bold their stand might be against the
Confederate soldiers, were pretty sure to beat a quick retreat before
the sharp language and indignant glances of the Virginia ladies.
Mrs. Charteris, when waked in the middle of the night by a horde of
Federal soldiers around her house and a fierce pounding at the hall
door, rose and, arraying herself in her dressing gown and with a
candle in her hand, went down surrounded by her excited servants,
and opened the hall door herself.
There stood a Federal officer, who politely desired her not to be
alarmed, as he had merely come to search the place for a
Confederate officer supposed to be in hiding there.
“Thank you very much,” tartly replied Mrs. Charteris, thrusting her
candle into the officer’s face and causing him to jump back a yard or
so. “I see nothing to frighten anybody in you or any of your men.
There is no Confederate officer here; they are all waiting for you with
arms in their hands outside of Richmond.”
In vain the officer endeavored to stop the torrent of Mrs. Charteris’s
wrathful eloquence and to escape the proximity of the candle which
she persistently thrust under his nose. It ended by his beating an
ignominious retreat to the gunboat lying in the river.
A few souvenirs in the way of ducks and turkeys and Mrs. Charteris’s
coach horses were carried off, but, as she triumphantly recounted at
church the next Sunday, “It was worth losing a pair of old carriage
horses—for both of mine were getting shaky on their legs—for the
pleasure of speaking my mind to that Yankee officer and see him run
away from me!”
Nearly every place on the river was visited at some time during the
spring by the gunboats, and the inland plantations were also raided
at different times by detachments of cavalry. Harrowby, however, by
a singular chance, escaped.
This was strange in itself and mightily helped the story floating about
concerning Angela’s supposed communication with the Federal
lines. The flight of the negroes to the Yankees had come to an end
because practically all of the young and able-bodied had gone. Only
the older, feebler, and more conservative ones, and the young
children and their mothers remained. There was no doubt that the
negroes who stayed at home had advance notice of the Federal
incursions and kept up a continual intercourse with those who had
fled to the Federal camp. No one realized this more than Angela,
who suddenly began to get letters with considerable regularity from
Neville.
He had been sent East and was then for a short time at Fort Monroe,
but knew not how long he would be there. It was easy enough to get
his letters as far as the Federal lines, and then there was always
opportunity of passing them from hand to hand among the negroes
until they reached Mammy Tulip, who, in turn, gave them to Angela.
Neville wrote in a spirit of sadness and even bitterness.
“I could be useful here,” he wrote, “far more than recruiting in the
West. We are as short of trained artillerists as the Confederates are,
and ordinarily I should have already had an opportunity to distinguish
myself. But I am distrusted by all except the few of my classmates of
West Point, who know me well. If ever I can get to the front then I
can prove to all that I am a true man and as ready to die for the
Union as any soldier who follows the flag. For yourself, make ready
to come to me at any day, for you may be assured that at the first
possible moment I shall send for you, the sweetest comfort left me.”
Then came a few words of deep tenderness which Angela read with
tears dropping upon the page. How hard a fate was Neville
Tremaine’s, after all!
She hastened to write to him, and would have put the letter then in
Mammy Tulip’s hands, but the old woman nervously refused it. She
seemed to have some vague and terrifying fear of keeping Angela’s
letters in her possession.
“De Cornfeds,” she whispered mysteriously to Angela, “might find out
dat I’se got a letter for a Yankee officer, an’ den—good Gord
A’might’! Dey might tek me up an’ k’yar me off to Richmun’ an’ hang
me ’fore Jeff Davis’s door. Naw, honey; you watch out to-night an’
when I kin tek dat letter, I light de candle in de window an’ wave it up
an’ down. An’ den you drap de letter on de groun’ an’ it will git to
Marse Neville, sho’. But I fear to tek it now.”
It was in vain to reason with Mammy Tulip, and Angela had to follow
the same routine whenever she wrote to Neville.
Meanwhile, the changes within the one year of the war concerning
the negroes had been very great at Harrowby. There was no longer
that superabundant life and motion made by the two hundred black
people, of whom now scarcely seventy remained. As each one had
left, Colonel Tremaine reiterated with stern emphasis his
determination to exact full compensation to the last farthing from the
Government at Washington for the loss of his negroes. The remnant
of servants left at Harrowby was made up of the very old, the very
young, and the mothers of the children. Not a single young man
remained on the place, although ten or twelve of the older ones,
headed by Hector, were still too loyal to the old régime or too
indifferent to the new to run away. Peter, Richard Tremaine’s body
servant, stood loyally by his young master.
Hector’s assistants in the dining room had gradually decreased in
size until by midsummer of 1862 they were two small boys of fifteen,
who were almost as skillful in eluding work as Hector himself.
Mrs. Tremaine, for all her executive ability, was totally unequal to
doing any of the work of the household. She was accustomed to
planning and contriving, ordering and directing, but her delicate
hands were unable to do the smallest task requiring manual
dexterity.
Not so Angela. The places of Mirandy and Sally and their colleagues
had been taken by small black girls whom Angela trained with tact
and patience but whose childish powers were unequal to women’s
work. Angela, however, was equal to anything, and Lyddon
complimented her in classic phrase the first morning he saw her with
her cotton skirts pinned up, her beautiful slender arms bare to the
elbow, and a red handkerchief tied with unconscious coquetry
around her fair hair as she wielded the broom and swept the
drawing-room.
Mrs. Tremaine nearly wept at the sight, and Colonel Tremaine
groaned aloud. Angela, however, was in high spirits. She was too
young, too full of vitality, too humorous to be depressed at this new
turn of Fate.
“The fact is,” she cried, sweeping industriously, while Colonel and
Mrs. Tremaine watched from the hall and Lyddon peered in from the
window, “all we have to do is just to imagine that we are noble
émigrés in England about 1793. You, Uncle Tremaine and Aunt
Sophia, can do the sentimental part of the business. Archie and I
with Mr. Lyddon will do the work. Archie, you know, is chopping wood
at the woodpile, and I have a job for you, Mr. Lyddon.”
“What is it?” asked Lyddon helplessly. “If it’s dusting, well, I can dust
books. As for chopping wood like Archie, I should not only chop off
both of my feet, but my head as well. However, I will do anything in
God’s name I can.”
“I can find you something,” knowingly replied Angela, “and something
I dare say those old Greek ragamuffins, of whom you think so much,
did in Thessaly and thereabouts.”
“My dearest Sophie and my dear Angela,” cried Colonel Tremaine
valiantly, “I feel that I must do my share in this domestic cataclysm. I
cannot chop wood—I am seventy-two years old—but I believe that I
could wind off the reels the cotton for the looms. I will do my best, my
dear Angela, if you will kindly instruct me.”
Angela stopped her sweeping and ran and fetched a cotton reel—a
rude contrivance consisting of a slender stick of wood about two feet
high stuck in a wooden box, with a large reel at the top on which the
hanks of cotton, fresh from the spinning wheels, were wound into
balls for the old-fashioned hand looms in the loom house.
“I think,” said Colonel Tremaine, with profound interest in the subject,
“that it would be better to carry the paraphernalia in the drawing-
room. Like most of my sex, I dislike extraneous objects in my library.”
Just then Archie appeared, red, perspiring, but grinning with delight
at his wood-chopping performance. He was charmed with the
thought of seeing his father wind cotton, and ran with the reel, which
he placed in the drawing-room. Then Angela put a hank of cotton on
it, found the end, started the ball, and instructed Colonel Tremaine in
his new employment. Mrs. Tremaine, quite woe-begone, yet
complimented Angela and Archie upon their readiness and industry.
It was as if the two were again children.
Hector and Mammy Tulip both came in to see the extraordinary sight
of “ole Marse wukkin’.” Hector was indignant at the turn of affairs.
“I ’clare, Marse,” he said, with solemn disapproval, “I never speck fur
to see you wukkin’ like Saul an’ de witch uv Endaw in de Bible. I tho’t
you was proud enough fur to lay down an’ starve ’fore you demean
you’sef wid wuk.”
“That is what you would do, you black scoundrel,” inadvertently
responded Colonel Tremaine, forgetting that others were present,
and then hastily adding: “Not that I have ever observed in you any
serious disinclination to do your proper work.” Which showed a very
great want of observation on Colonel Tremaine’s part.
The Colonel, sitting in a large pink satin armchair with the reel before
him, began his self-imposed domestic labors, remarking grimly to
Mrs. Tremaine: “It can no longer be said, my dearest Sophie, that
there is a distaff side to our family.”
“My dear,” replied Mrs. Tremaine in pathetic admiration, “the
spectacle of you, at your time of life, eager to assist in the household
labors and to lighten our tasks as much as possible is truly a lesson
to be commended.”
Colonel Tremaine, thus encouraged, sat up straight in the pink satin
armchair and proceeded to what Angela wickedly called his
“Herculean task.”
The reel, however, was refractory, and it took Archie to mend it and
Mammy Tulip to show him how. Hector, totally unable to tear himself
away from the spectacle of Colonel Tremaine at work, remained as
critic and devil’s advocate. In the end it required the services of Mrs.
Tremaine and nearly the whole domestic staff, including an awe-
stricken circle of negro boys and girls, to assist Colonel Tremaine in
winding half a hank of cotton.
Angela was as good as her word in providing work for Lyddon. When
Colonel Tremaine was thoroughly started upon his undertaking,
Angela triumphantly called Lyddon out on the dining-room porch.
There stood a great churn with a stool by it.
“Come, Daphius,” she cried, “your Chloe has work for you to do.”
She produced a huge apron of Hector’s, and, tying it around
Lyddon’s neck and making him roll up his sleeves, duly instructed
him in the art and mystery of churning. Lyddon thought he had not
seen her in such spirits for a long time, and as she stood laughing
before him, her cotton skirts still tucked up and her beautiful bare
arms crossed and the coquettish red silk handkerchief knotted high
upon her head, she was a captivating picture.
“Now,” she cried, “you must sing in order to make the butter come.”
“I sing!” cried Lyddon, wrathfully, but beginning to wield the dasher.
“When I sing pigs will fly.”
“But you must sing, ‘Come, butter, come,’ like the negro children
sing, and then if the butter won’t come you must get up and dance
the back step.”
She flung into a pretty dancing step, singing the old churning song
meanwhile.
Lyddon suddenly stopped churning and looked over Angela’s
shoulder on to the green lawn beyond. He laughed, but he was not
looking at Angela. When she finished she turned around, and there
was Isabey standing with his foot on the first step of the porch.
 CHAPTER XVIII
THE VISITATIONS OF WAR

ANGELA’S shock of delight at seeing him was obvious to Isabey,

and the two poor souls looked into each other’s eyes with love and
longing for one brief moment. Then reason and good sense resumed
their sway.
Isabey came up the steps and held out his hand, and Angela,
scarcely knowing what she did, put hers within it.
“I couldn’t imagine what was the matter,” he said, laughing and
shaking hands with Lyddon, who stopped churning long enough to
do so. “I rode up to the front of the house, and saw not a soul; then I
ventured around to the back and witnessed the present inspiring
spectacle.”
“Angela put me to it,” replied Lyddon. “Of all the house servants only
Hector and Mammy Tulip are left and some small blacks whose
names I never have found out. Colonel Tremaine, Archie, and I
couldn’t let Angela do all the work, so we have ventured to assist.”
“Hercules churned, I’m sure,” cried Angela, recovering herself, and
once more adopting an arch and merry tone. “Perhaps I shall put Mr.
Lyddon to spinning yet.”
“If you dance for him,” responded Isabey, smiling, “he will do better
than Herod and give you his own, not another man’s head upon a
charger, if you ask it.”
As he spoke Angela became suddenly conscious of her pinned-up
skirts, her bare arms, and the gay silk handkerchief around her hair.
In a moment her skirts were unpinned, her sleeves rolled down, her
bright hair uncovered, and she was a picture of demureness.
Then, examining the churn and seeing the butter had come, Angela
called Aunty Tulip to take charge of it, and they all went into the
drawing-room.
Mrs. Tremaine greeted Isabey with the utmost cordiality, as did
Colonel Tremaine. The Colonel, however, did not rise from his satin
chair, but, quickly releasing Isabey’s hand after grasping it, said
solemnly:
“My dear fellow, will you excuse me for two minutes until I finish this
hank of cotton? I have undertaken to assist the ladies of my family in
the tasks made necessary by the departure of our house servants,
and I feel that nothing, not even the arrival of a friend so valued as
yourself, can interfere with my nearly completed labor. Just a
moment more.”
He returned to his winding. Isabey then inquired about Richard, and
afterwards, turning to Angela, asked with calm courtesy when she
had heard from Neville and if he were well. Angela answered readily,
Colonel and Mrs. Tremaine maintaining, as always when Neville’s
name was spoken, a cold silence.
Then, as the last winding of the hank of cotton was finished, the reel
was removed and Colonel Tremaine was prepared to entertain his
guest.
Isabey looked fairly well but still limped slightly, and said that the
accident to his arm which occurred a month before had prevented
his coming to Harrowby. He mentioned that the general commanding
at camp had sent him down to get certain topographical information
which he would ask privately of Colonel Tremaine, and that he would
spend the day, preferring to return to camp by night.
There were some county maps in the old study, and thither Colonel
Tremaine, Lyddon, and Isabey repaired and spent nearly the whole
day in studying them.
The evening came, soft and sweet as July evenings are. Angela had
been busy all day long and had seen Isabey only at the three-o’clock
dinner. But the consciousness that she was in sound of his voice
was like wine in her veins.
In the afternoon she dressed herself carefully in a fresh white gown
and went out upon the lawn. Her afternoons were usually spent on
the lawn and in the old garden, which was now in its glory. All was a
wealth of bloom and perfume.
She remained in the garden thinking, hoping, fearing, and believing
that Isabey would seek her there.
When the shadows grew long and the sun hung low behind the
purple woods he came to her. She was standing before a great bed
of hollyhocks which flaunted their merry faces boldly in the soft air.
“How changed it is since we were last in this garden!” Isabey said;
“but I am not changed;” and then cursed himself for having been
betrayed into something dangerously near to sentiment. Angela, as
the case had ever been, passed with proud unconsciousness over
his words.
“The garden has not gone back this year as much as one would
think,” she said, moving toward the broad main walk. “As you know,
we have only two or three small boys to work it now, but it is so old
and so well conducted that it seems impossible for it to become wild
or irregular.”
They walked up and down the garden path a few times, and Angela
gathered some of the July roses, those princesses of the garden.
Isabey spoke with impatience of his being still unable to rejoin his
battery and called the surgeons fools for not curing his arm quickly.
Then, in an unguarded moment, he spoke of the delicious hours of
those snowbound days six months before.
Angela said little, but Isabey saw the quick rising and falling of her
fast-beating heart.
Presently they went back to the house and soon supper was served.
At table the conversation turned upon Colonel Gratiot, then on duty
at the camp of instruction, whom Colonel Tremaine had known as a
brother officer during the Mexican War.
“Gratiot is sixty years old, if he is a day,” complained Colonel
Tremaine bitterly, “and always was a puny fellow; yet he can serve
his country, while I, who never knew a day’s illness in my life and can
stand twelve hours in the saddle as well as I ever could——”
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