 | LOVE AND LOYALTY. Hospital sketches and Camp and fireside stories |  |
4. LOVE AND LOYALTY.
DO you mean it, Rose?”
“Yes.”
“You set a high price on your love; I cannot pay it.”
“I think you will.”
She came a little nearer, this beautiful woman, whom
the young man loved with all the ardor of a first affection,
she laid her hand upon his arm, and looked up in
his face, her own wearing its most persuasive aspect; for
tenderness seemed to have conquered pride, and will was
concealed under a winning softness which made her
doubly dangerous, as she said, in the slow, sweet voice
that betrayed her Southern birth, —
“Remember what you ask,—what I offer; then tell me
which demands the highest price for love. You would
have me give up friends, fortune, home, all the opinions,
prejudices, and beliefs of birth and education, all the
hopes and purposes of years, for your sake. I ask nothing
of you but the relinquishment of a mistaken duty;
I offer you all I possess: a life of luxury and power, and,
— myself.”
She paused there, with a gesture of proud humility, as
if she would ignore the fact, yet could not quite conceal
the consciousness, that she had much to bestow upon the
lover who had far less to offer.
“Oh, Rose, you tempt me terribly,” he said; “not
because I love you more than a thousand fortunes or
a century of ease and power. Yet, dear as you are to
me, and barren as the world will be without you, I dare
not turn traitor even for your sake.”
“Yet you would have me do it for yours.”
“No: treachery to the wrong is allegiance to the
right, and I only ask you to love your country better than
yourself, as I try to do.”
“Who shall say which is right and which wrong? I
am tired of the words. I want to forget the ills I cannot
cure, and enjoy life while I may. Youth was made for
happiness; why waste it in a quarrel which time alone can
end? Robert, I do not ask you to turn traitor. I do
not care what you believe. I only ask you to stay with
me, now that I have owned how much you are to me.”
“God knows I wish I could, Rose; but idleness is
treason in times like these. What right have I to think
of my own happiness when my country needs me? It is
like deserting my old mother in extremest peril to stand
idle now; and when you tempt me to forget this, I must
deny your prayer, because it is the only one I cannot
grant.”
“But, Robert, you are little to the rest of the world,
and everything to me. Your country does not need you
half so much as I, — `a stranger in a strange land'; for,
in a great struggle like this, what can one man do?”
“His duty, Rose.”
She pleaded eloquently with voice, and eyes, and
hands; but something in the sad gravity of the young
man's face was a keener reproach than his words. She
felt that she could not win him so, and, with a swift and
from her, saying reproachfully, —
“Then do yours, and make some reparation for the
peace of mind you have destroyed. I have a right to ask
this. I came here as to a refuge, hoping to live unknown
till the storm was over. Why did you find me out, protect
me by your influence, lighten my exile by your society,
and, under the guise of friendship, teach me to
love you?”
Robert Stirling watched her with lover's eyes, listened
with lover's ears, and answered like a lover, finding her
the fairer and dearer for the growing fear that a hard
test was in store for him.
“I found you out, because your beauty would not be
concealed; I protected you, because you were a woman,
and alone; I gave you friendship, because I wished to
prove that we of the North hold sacred the faith our
enemies place in us by sending to our keeping the treasure
they most value; and, Rose, I loved you because I could
not help it.”
She smiled then, and the color deepened beautifully in
the half-averted face, but she did not speak, and Robert
took heart from the sign.
“I never meant to tell you this, fearing what has now
happened, and I resolved to go away. But, coming here
to say good-by, your grief melted my resolve, and I told
you what I could no longer hide. Have I been ungencrous
and unjust? If you believe so, tell me what reparation
I can make, and, if it is anything an honest man
may do, I will do it.”
She knew that, was glad to know it; yet, with the
exacting affection of a selfish woman, she felt a jealous
must assure herself by some trial that she was all in
all to her young lover. He waited for her answer with
such keen anxiety, such wistful tenderness, that she felt
confident of success; and, yielding to the love of power
so strong within her, she could not resist the desire of
exercising it over this new subject, finding her excuse in
the fond yet wayward wish to keep from danger that
which was now so dear to her.
“I have lost enough by this costly war: I will lose no
more,” she said. “It is easier to part at once than later,
when time has more endeared us to each other. Choose
between the country which you love and the woman who
loves you, and by that choice we will both abide.”
“Rose, this is cruel, this is hard! Let me choose both,
and be the better man for that double service.”
“It is impossible. No one can serve two mistresses.
I will have all or nothing.”
As she spoke she gently, but decidedly, freed herself
from his detaining hold, and stood away from him, as if
to prove both her strength and her sincerity. The act
changed the words of separation trembling on Robert's
lips to words of entreaty; for, though his upright nature
owned the hard duty, his heart clung to its idol, feeling
that it must be wrenched away.
“Wait a little, Rose. Give me time to think. Let
me prove that I am no coward; then I will serve you,
and you alone.”
“No, Robert; if you truly loved me, you would be
eager and glad to make any sacrifice for me. I would
willingly make many for you; but this one I cannot,
because it robs me of you in a double sense. If you
less, for how can I accept a hand reddened with the
blood of those I love?”
He had no answer, and stood silent. She saw that this
moment of keen suffering and conflicting passions was
the turning-point in the young man's life, yet, nothing
doubting her power, she hardened herself to his pain that
she might gain her point now and repay his submission
by greater affection hereafter. Her voice broke the brief
silence, steady, sweet, and sad:
“I see that you have chosen; I submit. But go at
once, while I can part as I should; and remember, we
must never meet again.”
He had dropped his face into his hands, struggling
dumbly with honest conscience and rebellious heart.
Standing so, he felt a light touch on his bent head, heard
the sound of a departing step, and looked up to see Rose
passing from his sight, perhaps forever. An exclamation
of love and longing broke from his lips; at the sound she
paused, and, turning, let him see that her face was bathed
in tears. At that sight duty seemed doubly stern and
cruel, the sacrifice of integrity grew an easy thing, and
separation an impossibility. The tender eyes were on
him, the imploring hands outstretched to him, and the
beloved voice cried, brokenly, —
“Oh, Robert, stay!”
“I will!”
He spoke out defiantly, as if to silence the inward
monitor that would not yield consent; he offered his hand
to seal the promise, and took one step toward the fair
temptation, — no more; for, at the instant, up from
singing, —
That shall never call retreat;
He is sifting out the hearts of men
Before his judgment-seat;
Oh, be swift, my soul, to answer him;
Be jubilant, my feet!
For God is marching on.”
The song broke the troubled silence with a martial
ring that, to one listener, sounded like a bugle-call,
banishing with its magic breath the weakness that had
nearly made a recreant of him; for the opportune outbreak
of the familiar voice, the memories it woke, the
nobler spirit it recalled, all made that sweet and stirring
strain the young man's salvation. Both stood motionless,
and so still that every word came clearly through
the sunny hush that filled the room. Rose's face grew
anxious, a flash of anger dried the tears, and the expression
which had been so tender changed to one of
petulant annoyance. But Robert did not see it; he no
longer watched her; he had turned towards the open
window, and was looking far away into the distance,
where seemed to lie the future this moment was to make
or mar, while his whole aspect grew calm and steady,
as if with the sense of self-control came the power of
self-sacrifice.
As the song ended, he turned, gave one parting look
at the woman whom he loved, said, “I have chosen!
Rose, good-by,” and was gone.
Out into the beautiful spring world he went, blind to
its beauty, deaf to its music, unconscious of its peace.
uncovered head, brown hair blowing in the wind, thoughtful
eyes bent on the ground, and lips still softly singing,
as he walked. This brother, always just and gentle,
always ready with sympathy and counsel, now seemed
doubly dear to the sore heart of Robert, as, hurrying to
him, he grasped his arm as a drowning man might clutch
at sudden help; for, though the victory seemed won, he
dared not trust himself alone, with that great longing
tugging at his heart.
“Why, Rob! what is it?” asked his brother, pausing
to wonder at the change which had befallen him since
they parted but a little while ago.
“Ask no questions, Richard; but sing on, sing on,
and, if you love me, keep me fast till we get home,”
answered Robert, excitedly.
Something in his manner, and the glance he cast over
his shoulder, seemed to enlighten his brother. Richard's
face darkened ominously for a moment, then softened
with sincerest pity as he drew the hand closer through
his arm, and answered, with an almost womanly compassion,
—
“Poor lad, I knew it would be so! but I had no fear
that you would become a slave to that beautiful tyrant.
The bitter draught is often more wholesome than the
sweet, and you are wise to let her go before it is too late.
Tell me your trouble, Rob, and let me help you bear it.”
“Not now! not here! Sing, Rick, if you would not
have me break away and go back to her again.”
His brother obeyed him, not with the war-song, but
with the simpler air their mother's voice had made a
lullaby, beloved by them as babies, boys, and men.
poor Robert turned his face away and let his brother
lead him where he would, the first sharpness of his pain
was eased by a recollection born of the song; for he
remembered that though one woman had failed him,
there still remained another whose faithful love would
know no shadow of a change.
As they came into the familiar room, where every
object spoke of the dear household league lasting unbroken
for so many years, a softer mood replaced the
pain and passion that had struggled in the lover's heart;
and, throwing himself into the ancient chair where so
many boyish griefs had been consoled, he laid his head
upon his arms, and forgot his manhood for a little while.
Richard stood beside him, with a kind hand on his
shoulder, to assure him of a sympathy too deep and wise
for words, till the fitting moment should appear. It
soon came; and when the younger brother had made
known his trouble, and the elder given what cheer he
could, he tried to lead Robert's thoughts to other things,
that he might forget disappointment in action.
“Nothing need detain you now, Rob,” he said; “for
the loss of one hope opens the way to the attainment of
another. You shall enlist at once, and march away to
fight the good fight.”
“And you, Rick? We have both longed to go, but
could not decide which it should be. Why should not
you march away, and let me stay with mother till my
turn comes?”
“Need I tell you why? We did delay at first, because
we could not choose which should stay with the dear old
lady who has only us left now. But lately you have
leave you till I knew how you fared. That is all over
now; and surely it is best for you to put States between
you, and let absence teach you to forget.”
“You are right, and I am a weak fool to dream of
staying. I ought to go; but the spirit that once would
have made the duty easy has deserted me. Richard, I
have lost faith in myself, and am afraid to go alone.
Come with me, to comfort and keep me steady, as you
have done all my life.”
“I wish I could. Never doubt nor despond, no; but
remember that we trust you, we expect great things of
you, and are sure you never will disgrace the name father
gave into our keeping.”
“I'll do my best, Rick; but I shall need you more
than ever: and if mother only knew how it is with me,
I think she would say, `Go.”'
“Mother does say it, heartily!”
Both started, and turned to see their mother watching
them with an untroubled face. A right noble old woman,
carrying her sixty years gracefully and well, — for her
tall figure was unbent; below the gray hair shone eyes
clear as any girl's, and her voice had a cheery ring to it
that roused energy and hope in those who heard it; while
the benignant power of her glance, the motherly compassion
of her touch, brought confirmation to the wavering
resolve and comfort to the wounded heart.
With the filial instinct which outlives childhood, Robert
leaned against her as she drew his head to the bosom that
could always give it rest, and told his sorrow in one
broken exclamation, —
“Oh, mother, I loved her so!”
“I know it, dear: I saw it, and I warned you. But
you thought me unjust. I desired to be proved so, and
it has ended here. You have loved like a man, have
withstood temptation like a man; now bear your loss like
one, and do not mar your sacrifice to principle by any
vain regrets.”
“Ah, mother, all the courage, energy, and strength
seem to have gone out of me, and I am tired of my life.”
“Not yet, Rob; wait a little, and you will find that
life has gained a new significance. This trouble will
change the boy into a man, braver and better for the
past, because, if I know my son, he will never let his life
be thwarted by a selfish woman's folly or caprice.”
She spoke proudly, and Robert lifted his head with an
air as proud.
“You are right. I will not. But you must let me go!
I cannot answer for myself if I stay here.”
“You shall go, and Rick with you.”
“But, mother, can we, — ought we, — to leave you
alone?” began Richard, longing, yet loath, to go.
“No, my boys, you neither can nor will; for I go
with you.”
“With us?” cried both brothers, in a breath.
“Ay, lads, that I will!” she answered, heartily.
“There is work for the old hands as well as for the
young; and while my boys fight for me, I will both nurse
and pray for them.”
“But, mother, the distance and danger, the hardships
and horrors of such a life, will be too much for you. Let
one of us stay, and keep you safely here at home.”
“Not while you are needed elsewhere. Other mothers
give their boys; why should not I give mine? Other
hospitals; can I not do as much? You offer your young
lives; surely I may offer the remains of mine. Say no
more: I must enlist with my boys. I could never sit
with folded hands at home, tormenting myself with fears
for you, although God knows I send you willingly.”
“You should have been a Roman matron, mother,
with many sons to give for your country and few tears
for yourself,” said Richard, watching the fire of her
glance, and listening to the steady voice that talked so
cheerfully of danger and of death.
“Ah, Rob, the ancient legends preserved the brave
words of the Roman matrons, but they left no record of
the Roman mothers' tears, because they kept them for
the bitter hours that came when the sacrifices had been
made.” And, as she spoke, two great drops rolled down
to glitter upon Robert's hair.
For a moment no one stirred, as the three looked their
new future in the face, and, seeing all its perils, owned
its wisdom, accepted its duties, and stood ready to fulfil
them to the last.
Mrs. Stirling spoke first:
“My sons, these are times to try the metal of all souls;
and if we would have ours ring clear, we must follow
with devout obedience the strong convictions that prompt
and lead us to the right. Go, lads, and do your best,
remembering that mother follows you, to rejoice if you
win, to comfort you if you fail, to nurse you if you need
it, and if you fall to lay you tenderly into your graves,
with the proud thought, `They did their duty: God will
remember that, and comfort me.”'
The faces of the brothers kindled as she spoke; their
enthusiasm of young blood, and both made a silent
vow of loyalty, to last inviolate through all their lives,
as, laying a hand on either head, that brave old mother
dedicated sons and self to the service of the liberties
she loved.
II.
The Army of the Potomac was on its march northward,
to defeat Lee's daring raid and make a little Pennsylvania
village forever memorable. The heights above
the town were already darkened by opposing troops; the
quiet valley was already tumultuous with the tramp of
gathering thousands, and the fruitful fields already reploughed
for the awful human harvest soon to be gathered
in. Every road swarmed with blue coats, every
hill-side was a camp, every grove a bivouac, every wayside
stream a fountain of refreshment to hundreds of
weary men spent with the privations and fatigues of those
forced marches through midsummer heats.
By one of these little brooks a dusty regiment was
halted for brief repose. At the welcome order, many of
the exhausted men dropped down where they stood, to
snatch an hour's sleep; some sought the grateful shade
of an orchard already robbed of its early fruit, and ate
their scanty fare with a cheerful content that made it
sweet; others stretched themselves along the trampled
borders of the brook, bathing their swollen feet, or drinking
long draughts of the turbid water, which, to their
parched lips, was a better cordial than the costliest wine.
Apart from all these groups, two comrades lay side by
side in the shadow of the orchard-wall. Both were
bronzed by a Southern sun, although this was their first
campaign. Both were silent, yet neither slept, and in
their silence there was a marked difference, — one lay
looking straight up through the waving boughs at the
clear blue overhead, with an expression as serene; the
other half leaned on his folded arm, moodily plucking at
the turf which was his pillow, with now and then an
impatient sigh, a restless gesture. One of these demonstrations
of discontent presently roused his comrade
from a waking dream. He sat up, laid a cool hand on the
other's hot forehead, and said, with brotherly solicitude,—
“Not asleep yet, Rob? I hope you've not had a sunstroke,
like poor Blake; for, if you are left behind, we
shall both lose our share of the fight.”
“As well die that way as with a rebel bullet through
your head; though, if I had my choice, I'd try the last,
as being the quickest,” replied the other, gloomily.
“That doesn't sound like you, Rob, — you'll think
better of it to-morrow, when you've had a night's sound
sleep. This has been a hard march for a young soldier's
first.”
“How much older are you than I, either as man or
soldier, Rick?” asked Robert, half petulantly, half
proudly.
“Three hours older as a man, ten minutes as a soldier:
you know I enlisted first. Yet I'm much the elder
in many things, as you often tell me,” said Richard, with
the smile that always soothed his brother's more fiery
spirit. “One of the privileges of my seniority is the
care of you; so tell me what harasses you and scares
rest away?”
“The old pain, Rick. All these weeks of absence
have not lessened it; and the thought of going into a
battle out of which I may never come alive, without seeing
her once more, makes me almost resolve to desert,
and satisfy myself at any cost. You cannot understand
this, for you don't know what it is to love — to have a
woman's face haunting you day and night, to hear a
woman's voice always sounding in your ears with a distinctness
that will not let you rest.”
“I know it all, Rob!”
The words seemed to slip involuntarily from the young
man's lips, for he checked himself sharply, and cast
an anxious look at his brother. But Robert was too
absorbed in his own emotions to read those of another,
and only answered, in a cheerier tone, —
“You mean mother. God bless her, wherever she is,
and send us safely home to her!”
An almost pathetic patience replaced the momentary
agitation Richard's face betrayed, and his eyes turned
wistfully towards the green hills that lay between the
mother and her boys, as he answered, with a smile of
sorrowful significance, —
“Every man is better and braver for a woman's love;
so, as I have no younger sweetheart, I shall take the
dear old lady for my mistress, and try to serve her like a
loyal knight.”
“Rick!” exclaimed his brother, earnestly, “if the
coming battle proves my last as well as my first, promise
that for my sake you'll befriend poor Rose, — that you
will forgive her, love her, care for her, as if in truth she
were my widow.”
Richard grasped the hand outstretched to him, and
“I promise, Rob!” then added quickly, “But there
will be no need of that; for, if mortal man can do it, I
will keep you, to care for Rose yourself.”
Through the momentary pause that followed came the
pleasant sound of falling water.
“Hark, Rob! do you hear it? Give me your canteen,
and I'll bring you a cool draught that shall remind
you of the old well at home.”
Rising as he spoke, Richard went to the low wall that
rose behind them, swung himself over, and, plunging
down a ferny slope, found a hidden spring dripping musically
from mossy crevices among the rocks into a little
pool below. Pausing a moment to let the shadowy solitude
of the green nook bathe his weary spirit in its
peace, he turned to catch the coolest drops that fell; but,
as he bent, the canteen slipped from his hand and
splashed unheeded into the pool, for, just opposite,
through thickly-growing brakes, he caught the glitter of
a pair of human eyes fixed full upon his face. An
instant he stood motionless, conscious of that subtle
thrill through blood and nerves which sudden danger or
surprise can bring to the stoutest heart. Before he could
move or speak, the brakes were parted, and the weird,
withered face of an old woman was lifted to the light.
One of the despised race, clothed in rags, covered with
dust, spent with weariness and pain, she lay there, such a
wild and woful object that the lonely spot seemed chosen
not as a resting-place, but as a grave. Leaning on one
arm, she stretched the other trembling hand towards the
young man, whispering, with an assuring nod, —
“Don't be skeered, honey; I'se only a pore ole contyban',
down by de way.”
“Are you sick, or hurt, or only tired, my poor soul?”
asked Richard, with such visible compassion in his face
that the woman's brightened as she answered, with a
cheerfulness which made her utter destitution more pathetic,
—
“I'se all dem, and starved inter de bargain; but, bress
yer, chile, I'se done got used ter dat, and don't mind em
much ef I kin jes git on a piece ter-day. I'se ben porely
fer a spell, and layin' by; but I'se mendin' fas', and de
sight ob de blue-coats and de kine face is mos' as relishin'
as vittles.”
“You shall have all three, as far as I can give them
to you,” said Richard, offering the last of his day's ration,
and sitting down opposite the poor old creature,
who, muttering hasty thanks, seized and devoured the
food with an almost animal voracity, which proved how
great her need had been. As the last morsel vanished,
she drew a long breath, uttered a sigh of satisfaction,
and, sitting more erect, said, with a deprecating gesture
and a grateful glance, —
“Massa, I couldn't help forgittin' manners, kase I'se
ben widout a mouffle sence yisterday, scept two green
apples and de mint growin' ober dar.”
“Have you been lying here all night? Where do you
come from, and where are you going? Tell me, without
fear, and let me help you if I can.”
“De Lord lub yer kine heart, chile, and keep yer fer
yer mudder. My boys is all gone now; but I knows de
feelin', and I'll trus' yer, fer's I dares. Yer see, I'se
come from Souf Car'liny, and I'se gwine to de bressed
she lef' us bery suddin.”
“What part of the North do you want to find?” asked
Richard, eager to offer the desolate being such help as
lay in his power. She saw the friendly impulse, and
thanked him for it with a look; but the distrust born of
many wrongs was stronger than the desire for sympathy,
and cautiously, yet humbly, she said, —
“Massa mus' please ter 'scuse me ef I doesn't tell jes'
whar I'se gwine. My pore old man is all dey's lef me;
and ef missis knowed any ways dat I was lookin' fer
him, she'd tote him some place whar I couldn't come. It's
way off bery fur; but de name of de town is wrote
down in my heart, and, ef I lives, I'll fine it, shore.”
“Where are your boys?” asked Richard, interested
in spite of the woman's uninviting aspect.
“I'se had seven chil'en, honey, but dey's ben sent
eberywhich way, and I doesn't know whar dey is now,
scept de dead ones. My darters was sole off years ago;
one ob my boys was whipped to def, and one tore so wid
de houn's it was a mercy de dear Lord tuk him. Two
was put to work on de fortycations down dar; and the
las' one, my little Mose, starved in my arms as we was
wadin' fru de big swamps, where we runned when word
come dat de Yanks was comin' and we'd be free ef we
got to um. It was bery hard to leave de pore chile dar,
but dere was two or free more little grabes to keep him
comp'ny; so I come on alone, and, Glory Halleluyer!
here I is.”
“Now, how can I help you, ma'am?” said Richard,
involuntarily adding respect to pity, as he heard the
short, sad story of the losses now past help.
“Ef yer has a bit of money dat yer could spar, chile,
dat would 'sist me a heap: I kin hide it handy, and git
vittles or a lif' when de roads is bery bad. I'se mos'
wore out, fer I'se ben weeks a comin', kase I dunno de
way, and can't trus' folks much. Now the Yanks is
gwine my road, I wants to foller fas' as I kin, fer I'se
shore dey's right.”
While she rambled on, Richard had taken out his
purse, and halving the small store it contained, offered
it, saying, kindly, —
“There old friend; I'd gladly do more for you if I
could. I may be going where I shall never need money
any more; and, you know, they who give to the poor
lend to the Lord: so this much will be saved up for me.”
The woman rose to her knees, and, taking the
generous hand in both her dusky ones, kissed it with
trembling lips, wet it with grateful tears, as she cried,
brokenly, —
“Bress yer, chile! bress yer! I'se no words white
'nuff to tank yer in, but I'll 'member yer all my days,
and pray de Lord to hold yer safe in de holler ob His
han'.”
“Thank you, ma'am. What else can I do for you
before I go?”
“Jes' tell me yer name, honey, so I kin 'mind de Lord
ob yer tickerlally; fer dere's such a heap ob prayers
gwine up to Him dese bitter times, He mightn't mine
sech pore ones as ole June's ef de good name warn't in
um.”
“Richard Stirling,” answered the young man, smiling
at the poor soul's eagerness. “Good-by, old mother.
Keep up a stout heart, and trust the blue-coats when
North.”
While he refilled the canteen, the contraband, with
the fine sentiment so often found in the least promising
of this affectionate race, hastily gathered a delicate fern
or two, and, adding the one wild rose that blossomed in
that shady spot, offered her little nosegay, with a humility
as touching as her earnestness.
“It's a pore give, chile; but I'se nuffin' else sceptin'
de wish dat yer'll hab all yer want in dis world and de
nex'.”
As Richard took it, through his mind flashed the
memory of old romantic legends, wherein weird women
foretold happy fortunes to young knights pausing at some
wayside well, — fortunes to be won only by unshaken
loyalty to virtue, love, and honor. Looking down upon
the flower, whose name lent it a double charm to him,
he said low, to himself, with quickened breath and
kindling eyes, —
“A propitious wish! May it be fulfilled, if I deserve
it!”
Then, as the first drum-beat sounded, he pressed the
hard hand that gave the gift, and sprang up the bank,
little dreaming how well the grateful heart he left behind
him would one day remember and repay his charity.
Three days later, the brothers stood side by side in the
ranks at Gettysburg, impatiently awaiting their turn to
attack a rebel battery that must be silenced. From
height to height thundered the cannon; up and down
the long slopes surged a sea of struggling humanity; all
the air was darkened by wavering clouds of smoke and
dust, which lifted only when iron messengers of death
of flame; while, in the brief pauses that sometimes fell,
the bands crashed out with dance-music, as if the wild
excitement of the hour had made them fitting minstrels
for an awful “dance of death.”
“Remember, Rob, where that goes, we follow while
we can,” whispered Richard, glancing up at the torn flag
streaming overhead.
“I'm ready, Rick,” returned his brother, with flashing
eyes, set teeth, and in every lineament such visible resolve
to do and dare, that one hour seemed to have made
the boy a hero and a man.
As the words left his lips, down the long line rang the
welcome order, “Forward! charge!” and, with a shout
that rose sharp and shrill above the din of arms, the
brave —th dashed into the rain of shot and shell.
Stirred by one impulse, the brothers followed wherever
through the smoke they caught the flutter of the flag, as
it was borne before them up the hill. More than once
it dropped from a dead hand, to be caught up by a living
one before it touched the ground. Robert Stirling's was
one of these; and, as he seized the staff, the battle-madness
seemed to fall upon him, for, waving the banner,
with a ringing shout he sprang upon the wall, behind
which rebel riflemen were lying. The sharp sting of a
ball in the right arm reminded him that he was mortal,
and at the same instant his brother's hand clutched him,
his brother's voice called through the din, —
“You're wounded, Rob! For God's sake fall back.”
But, with a grim smile, Robert passed the banner into
the keeping of his other hand, saying, as his arm dropped
useless at his side, —
“Not yet. Clear the way for me, Rick, and let the
old flag be the first up.”
A loyal cheer from behind drowned the rebel yell that
rose in front, as a blue wave rolled up and broke over
the wall, carrying the brothers with it. Above the deadly
conflict that went on below, the Stars and Stripes tossed
wildly to and fro; but steadily the color-bearer struggled
higher, and steadily his body-guard of one went on before
him, forcing a passage through the press, till, in a single
instant, there came a hurtling sound, a deafening crash,
a fiery rain of death-dealing fragments, and, with an
awful vision of dismembered bodies, wrathful faces panic-stricken
in the drawing of a breath, and a wide gap in
the swaying mass before him, Robert Stirling was flung,
stunned and bleeding, against the wall so lately left.
Cries of mortal anguish roused him from a moment's merciful
oblivion, and showed him that, for his brother and
himself, the battle was already done. Not far away, half
hidden under a pile of mingled blue and gray, Richard
lay quiet on the bloody grass, and, as Robert's dizzy
eyes wandered up and down his own bruised body to discover
whence came the sharp agony that wrung his
nerves, he saw that but one arm now hung shattered at
his side; the left was gone, and a single glance at the
ghastly wound sent such a pang of horror through him
that he closed his eyes, muttering, with white lips, —
“Poor mother! it will be hard to lose us both.”
Something silken-soft swept across his face, and, looking
up, he saw that the flag had fallen with him, and lay
half upright against the wall, still fluttering bravely
where many eyes could see it, many willing hearts press
on to defend it. Faithful to the last, he leaned across
waited patiently for the coming of friend or foe. How
the battle went he no longer knew; he scarcely cared;
for now to him the victories and defeats of life seemed
over, and Death standing ready to bestow the pale cross
of the legion of honor, laid on so many quiet breasts as
the loyal souls depart to their reward.
With strange distinctness came the roar of cannon, the
sharp, shrill ringing of the minie-halls, the crash of
bursting shells, the shouts, the groans, even the slow drip
of his blood, as it plashed down upon the stones; yet
neither hope nor fear disturbed him now, as all the past
flashed through his mind and faded, leaving three memories,
— his love for Rose, his brother's death, his
mother's desolation, — to embitter the memorable moment
when, with a deathly coldness creeping to his heart, he
leaned there bleeding his young life away.
To him it seemed hours, yet but a few short minutes
passed before he became conscious of a friendly atmosphere
about him, and, through the trance of suffering
fast reaching its climax, heard a commanding voice
exclaim, —
“It is Stirling: I shall remember this. Take him to
the rear, and see that he is cared for.”
Robert knew his Colonel's voice, and, gathering up
both failing strength and sense, he tried to stand erect,
tried to salute with his one arm, and, failing, said, with
a piteous look at either wound, —
“I have done my best, sir.”
“My brave fellow, you have! What more could you
do for the old flag?”
Something in the glance, the tone, the words of the
send new life through the fainting man. His dim eye
kindled, his voice grew strong and steady, as, forgetful
of the maimed body it inhabited, the unconquerable
spirit answered, fervently, —
“I could die for it.”
Then, as if in truth he had done his best, had died for
it, Robert Stirling fell forward in the shadow of the
flag, his head upon the same green pillow where his
brother's lay.
III.
“Here's the paper, and Fisher to read it for us, boys.
Hush, there, and let's hear what's up!”
An instant silence reigned through the crowded ward
as the chief attendant entered with the morning sheet
that daily went the rounds. The convalescents gathered
about him; the least disabled propped themselves upon
their arms to listen; even the weakest turned wistful
eyes that way, and ceased their moaning, that they might
hear, as Fisher slowly read out the brief despatches, and
then the mournful lists of wounded, dead, and missing.
Among the many faces in the room, one female one
appeared; a strong, calm face, with steadfast eyes, and
lips grown infinitely tender with the daily gospel of patience,
hope, and consolation which they preached in
words of motherly compassion. Still bathing and binding
up a shattered limb, she listened to the reading,
though her heart stood still to hear, and her face flushed
and paled with the rapid alternations of hope and fear.
Presently the one audible voice paused suddenly, and a
little stir ran through the group as the reader stole an
meaning, and in an instant seemed to have nerved herself
for anything. Sponge and bandage dropped from her
hands, a quick breath escaped her, and an expression of
sharp anguish for a moment marred the composure of her
countenance; but she fixed a tearless eye on Fisher,
asking, steadily, —
“Are my boys' names there?”
“Only one, ma'am, — only one, I do assure you; and
he's merely lost an arm. That's better luck than half
of 'em have; and now it's got to be a kind of an honor
to wear an empty sleeve, you know,” replied the old man,
with a half-encouraging, half-remorseful look, as he considerately
omitted to add the words, “and seriously
wounded in the right,” to the line, “R. Stirling, left
arm gone.”
A long sigh of thanksgiving left the mother's lips;
then, with one of the natural impulses of a strong character,
which found relief in action, she took up the roller
and resumed her work more tenderly than ever, — for in
her sight that shattered arm was her boy's arm now, —
only saying, with a face of pale expectancy, —
“Read on, Fisher: I have another son to keep or lose.”
So swift, so subtle, is the magnetism of human sympathy,
that not a man in all that room but instantly forgot
himself, his own anxieties, hopes, fears, and waited
breathlessly for the utterance of that other name. Several
sat upright in their beds to catch the good or evil tidings
in the reader's face; one dying man sighed softly, from
the depths of a homesick heart, “Lord, keep him for his
mother!” and the standing group drew closer about
Fisher, peering over his shoulder, that younger, keener
his lips too suddenly for one listener's ear.
Slowly name after name was read, and the long list
drew near its end. A look of relief already settled upon
some countenances, and one friendly fellow had turned to
nod reassuringly at the mother, when a hand clutched
Fisher's shoulder, and with a start he stopped short in
the middle of a word. Mrs. Stirling rose up to receive
the coming blow, and stood there mute and motionless, a
figure so full of pathetic dignity that many eyes grew
very dim. A gesture signified her wish, and, with choked
voice and trembling lips, poor Fisher softly read the brief
record that one word made so terrible, —
“R. Stirling, dead.”
“Give me the paper.”
A dozen hands were outstretched to serve her; and, as
she took it, trying to teach herself that the heavy tidings
were not false, several caps were silently swept off, — an
involuntary tribute of respect to that great grief from
rough yet tender-hearted men who had no words to offer.
The hurried entrance of a surgeon broke the heavy
silence; and his brisk voice jarred on every ear, as he
exclaimed, —
“Good-by, boys! I'm off to the front. God bless
me! what's the matter?”
“Bad news for Mrs. Stirling, sir. Do speak to her:
I can't,” whispered Fisher, with two great tears running
down his waistcoat.
There was no time to speak; three words had roused
her from the first stupor of her sorrow, and down the
long room she went, steady and strong again, straight to
the surgeon, saying, briefly, —
“To the front? When do you go?”
“In half an hour. What can I do for you?”
“Take me with you.”
“Mrs. Stirling, it is impossible,” began the astonished
gentleman.
“Nothing is impossible to me. I must find my boys,
— one living and one dead. For God's sake don't deny
me this!”
She stretched her hands to him imploringly; she made
as though she would kneel down before him; and her
stricken face pleaded for her more eloquently than her
broken words.
Dr. Hyde was an army surgeon; but a man's heart
beat warm behind his bright buttons, unhardened by all
the scenes of suffering, want, and woe through which he
had been passing for three memorable years. Now it
yearned over this poor mother with an almost filial pity
and affection, as he took the trembling hands into his
own and answered, earnestly, —
“Heaven knows I would not deny you if it were safe
and wise to grant your wish. My dear lady, you have
no conception of the horrors of a battle-field, or the awful
scenes you must witness in going to the front. These
hasty lists are not to be relied upon. Wait a little, and
let me look for your sons. On my soul, I promise to do
it as faithfully as a brother.”
“I cannot wait. Another week of such suspense would
kill me. You never saw my boys. I do not even know
which is living and which is dead. Then how can you
look for them as well as I? You would not know the
poor dead face among a hundred; you would not recognize
the familiar voice even in the ravings of pain or the
bear anything, do anything, go anywhere, to find my
boys. Oh, sir, by the love you bear your mother, I implore
you to let me go!”
The look, the tone, the agony of supplication, made
her appeal irresistible.
“You shall,” replied the doctor, decidedly, putting all
objections, obstacles and dangers out of sight. “I'll
delay one hour for you, Mrs. Stirling.”
Up she sprang, as if endowed with the spirit and activity
of a girl; hope, courage, gratitude, shone in her
eyes, flushed warm across her face, and sounded in her
eager voice, as she said, hurrying from the room, —
“Not an instant for me. Go as you first proposed. I
shall be ready long before the time.”
She was: for all her thought, her care, was for her
boys, not for herself; and, when Dr. Hyde went to seek
her in the matron's room, that busy woman looked up
from the case of stores she was unpacking, and answered,
with a sob, —
“Poor soul! she's waiting for you in the hall.”
News of her loss and her departure had flown through
the house; for no nurse there was so beloved and honored
as “Madam Stirling,” as the stately old lady was called
among the boys; and when the doctor led her to the
ambulance, it was through a crowd of wan and crippled
creatures gathered there to see her off. Many eyes followed
her, many lips blessed her, many hands were outstretched
for a farewell grasp; and, as the ambulance
went clattering away, old Fisher gave expression to the
general feeling, when he said, with an air of solemn conviction
of his brown countenance, —
“She'll find 'em! It's borne in upon me uncommon
strong that the Lord won't rob such a woman of her
sons, — bless her stout heart! so give her a cheer, boys,
and then clear the way!”
They did give her a cheer, a right hearty one, — though
the voices were none of the strongest, and nearly as many
crutches as caps were waved in answer to the smile she
sent them as she passed from sight.
It was not a long journey that lay before her, yet to
Mrs. Stirling it seemed interminable; for a heavy heart
went with her, and, through all the hopeful or despondent
thoughts that haunted her, one unanswerable question
continually sounded, like a sorrowful refrain, — “One
killed, one wounded. Which is living? which is dead?”
All along the road they went two streams of life continually
flowed, in opposite directions: one, a sad procession
of suffering humanity passing hospital, or homeward,
to live or die, as Heaven willed; the other, an
almost equally sad procession of pilgrims journeying to
the battle-field, to find their wounded or to weep their
dead, — men and women, old and young, rich and poor,
all animated by a spirit which made them as one great
family, through the same costly sacrifice, the same sore
affliction. It was well for Mrs. Stirling that the weary
way was a little shortened, the heavy hours a little lightened,
for her, by the companionship of others bent on a
like errand. In this atmosphere of general anxiety and
excitement, accustomed formalities and reserves were forgotten
or set aside; strangers spoke freely to each other;
women confidingly asked and gratefully received the
always found it ready in the hearts and eyes of
women as they told their sorrows and were comforted.
Many brief tragedies were poured into Mrs. Stirling's
ear; more than one weaker nature leaned upon her
strength; more than one troubled soul felt itself calmed
by the pious patience which touched that worn and venerable
countenance with an expression which made it an
unconscious comfort to many eyes; and in seeing, solacing
the woes of others, she found fresh courage to sustain
her own.
They came at last, with much difficulty and many delays,
to the little town in and along which lay nine thousand
dead, and nearly twenty thousand wounded men.
Although a week had not yet passed since the thunder of
the cannon ceased, the place already looked like the vast
cemetery which it was soon to become; for, in groves
and fields, by the roadside and along the slopes, wherever
they fell, lay loyal and rebel soldiers in the shallow graves
that now are green. The long labor of interment was
but just begun; for the living appealed more urgently to
both friend and stranger, and no heart was closed, no
hand grew weary, while strength and power to aid remained.
All day supply wagons and cars came full and
departed empty; all day ambulances rolled to and fro,
bringing the wounded from remoter parts of the wide
battle-field to the railroad for removal to fixed hospitals
elsewhere; all day the relief-stations, bearing the blessed
sign, “U. S. San. Com.,” received hundreds of sufferers
into the shelter of their tents, who must else have laid
waiting their turn for transportation in the burning July
sun; all day, and far into the night, red-handed surgeons
hard yet merciful labors, as shattered body after body
was laid before them, while many more patiently, even
cheerfully, awaited their turn; and all day mothers,
wives, and widows, fathers, friends, and lovers, roamed
the hills and valleys, or haunted the field-hospitals, searching
for the loved and lost.
Dr. Hyde was under orders; but for many hours he
neglected everything but Mrs. Stirling, going with her
from houses, tents, and churches, to barns, streets, and
crowded yards; for everywhere the wounded lay thick as
autumn leaves, — some on bloody blankets, some on scattered
straw, a few in cleanly beds, many on the bare
ground; and if anything could have added to the bitter
pain of hope deferred, it would have been the wistful
glances turned on the new-comers from eyes that, seeing
no familiar face, closed again with a pathetic patience that
wrung the heart. All day they searched; but nowhere
did the mother find her boys, nor any tidings of them;
and, as night fell, her companion besought her to rest
from the vain search, and accept the hospitality of a
friendly citizen.
“Dear Mrs. Stirling, wait here till morning,” the doctor
said. “I must go to my work, but will not till I
know that you are safe; for you can never wander here
alone. I will send a faithful messenger far and wide, to
make inquiries through the night, and hope to greet you
in the morning with the happiest news.”
She scarcely seemed to hear him, so intent was her
mind upon the one hope that absorbed it.
“Go to your work, kind friend,” she said; “the poor
souls need you more than I. Have no fears for me. I
must look for them both day and night, lest one hour of
idleness should make my coming one hour too late. I
shall go back to the station. A constant stream of
wounded men is passing there; and, while I help and
comfort them, I can see that my boys are not hurried
away while I am waiting for them here.”
He let her have her will, well knowing that for such
as she there was no rest till hope came, or exhausted
nature forced her to pause. Back to the relief-station
they went, and, while Dr. Hyde dressed wounds, issued
orders, and made diligent inquiry among the throngs that
came and went, Mrs. Stirling, with other anxious yet
hopeful, helpful women, moved about the tents, preparing
nourishment for the men, who came in faster than they
could be served. Through the whole night she worked,
lifting water to lips too parched to syllable the word,
wetting wounds unbandaged for days, feeding famished
creatures who had lain suffering in solitary places till
some minister of mercy found and succored them, whispering
words of good cheer, and, by the cordial comfort
of her presence, sending many a poor soul on his way
rejoicing. But, while she worked so tirelessly for others,
she still hungered for her children, and would not be
comforted. No ambulance came rumbling from the field
that she did not hurry out to scan the new-comers with
an eye that neither darkness nor disguise could deceive;
not a stretcher with its helpless burden was brought in
that she did not bend over it with the blessed cup of water
in her hand, and her poor heart fluttering in her breast;
and often, among the groups of sleepers that lay everywhere,
there went a shadowy figure through the night,
nowhere did Rick or Rob look back at her with the glad
cry, “Mother!”
At dawn, Dr. Hyde came to her. With difficulty did
he prevail upon her to eat a morsel and rest a little, while
he told her of his night's attempts, and spoke cheerfully
of the many mishaps, the unavoidable disappointments
and delay, of such a quest at such a time and place.
“We have searched the town; and Blake and Snow
will see that no Stirling leaves by any of the trains
to-day. But the hospitals on the outskirts still remain
for us, — besides the heights and hollows; for, on a
battle-field like this, many men might lie unfound for
days while search was going on about them. I have a
wagon here, — a rough affair, but the best I can get;
and, if you will not rest, let us go together, and look
again for these lost sons of yours.”
They went; and for another long, hot, summer day
looked on sights that haunted their memories for years,
listened to sounds that pierced their souls, and with each
hour felt the weight of impotent compassion weigh heavier
and heavier upon their hearts. Various and conflicting
rumors, conjectures, and relations from the comrades of
the brothers perplexed the seekers, and augmented the
difficulties of their task. One man affirmed that he saw
both Stirlings fall; a second, that both were taken prisoners;
a third, that he had seen both march safely away;
and a fourth, that Richard was mortally wounded and
Robert missing. But all agreed in their admiration for
the virtue and the valor of the brothers, heartily wishing
their mother success, and unconsciously applying, by their
commendations, the only balm that could mitigate her
pair; but evening came again, and still no sure
intelligence, no confirmed fear or happy meeting, lightened
the terrible uncertainty that tortured them.
“Dear madam, we have done all that human patience
and perseverance can do. Now, leave your boys in
God's hand, and let me care for you as if you were my
mother,” said the compassionate doctor, as they paused,
dusty, jaded, and dejected, at the good citizen's hospitable
door.
Mrs. Stirling did not answer him. She sat there, an
image of maternal desolation, her hands locked together
on her knee, her eyes fixed and unseeing, and in her face
a still, white anguish piteous to see. With gentlest
constraint, her friend led her in, laid the gray head down
upon a woman's breast, and left her to the tender care
of one who had known a grief like hers.
For hours she lay where kind hands placed her, physically
spent, yet mentally alert as ever. No passing
face escaped her, no sound fell unheeded on her ear, no
movement of those about her was unobserved: yet she
neither spoke, nor stirred, nor slept, till midnight gathered
cool and dark above a weary world. Then a brief
lapse into unconsciousness partially repaired the ravages
those two hard days had wrought. But even when the
exhausted body rested, the unwearied soul continued its
sad quest, and in her dreams the mother found her boys.
So vivid was the vision, that she suddenly awoke to find
herself thrilled with a strange joy, trembling with a
strange expectancy. She rose up in her bed, she put
away her fallen hair, fast whitening with sorrow's frost,
distant, yet near, seemed ringing through the room.
From without came the ceaseless rumble of ambulances
and the tread of hurrying feet; from within, the
sound of women weeping for their dead, and the low
moaning of a brave officer fast breathing his life away
upon his young wife's bosom. No voice spoke, that
human ear could hear; yet through the mysterious hush
that fell upon her in that hour, her spirit heard an
exceeding bitter cry, —
“Mother! mother! come to me!”
Like one possessed by an impulse past control, she
left her bed, flung on her garments, seized the little store
of comforts untouched till now, and, without sign or
sound, glided like a shadow from the house.
The solemn peace of night could not so soon descend
upon those hills again; nature's tranquillity had been
rudely broken; and, like the suffering humanity that
cumbered her wounded breast, she seemed to moan in
her troubled sleep. Lights flashed from hill and hollow,
some fixed, some wandering, — all beacons of hope to
the living or funeral torches for the dead. Many feet
went to and fro along the newly-trodden paths; dusky
figures flitted everywhere, and sounds of suffering filled
the night-wind with a sad lament. But, upheld by a
power beyond herself, led by an instinct in which she
placed blind faith, and unconscious of doubt, or weariness,
or fear, the solitary woman walked undaunted and
unscathed through that Valley of the Shadow of Death.
Out from the crowded town she went, turning neither
to the right nor left, up a steep path her feet had trodden
once that day, straight to the ruined breastworks formed
whose earthly labor was already done. There, gathered
from among the thickly-strewn dead, and sheltered by
an awning till they could be taken lower, lay a score of
men, blue coats and gray, side by side on the bare earth,
equals now in courage, suffering, and patience. The
one faithful attendant who kept his watch alone was
gone for water, that first, greatest need and comfort in
hours like those, and the dim light of a single lantern
flickered through the gloom. Utter silence filled the
dreary place, till from the remotest corner came a faint,
imploring cry, the more plaintive and piteous for being a
man's voice grown childlike in its weak wandering: —
“Mother! mother! come to me!”
“Who spoke?”
A woman's voice, breathless and broken, put the
question; a woman's figure stood at the entrance of the
rude shelter; and when a wakeful sufferer answered,
eagerly, “Robert Stirling, just brought in dying. For
God's sake help him if you can,” — a woman's face,
transfigured with a sudden joy, flashed swiftly, silently
before his startled eyes, to bend over one low bed,
whence came the sound of tender speech, prayerful
thanksgiving, and the strong sobbing of a man who in
his hour of extremest need found solace and salvation in
the dear refuge of his mother's arms.
IV.
They were alone together, the mother and her one son,
after weeks of suffering and a long, slow journey, safely
at home at last. Poor Rob was a piteous sight now, for
the elbow; yet sadder than the maimed body was the
altered face, for, though wan and wasted by much suffering,
a strong soul seemed to look out at the despairing
eyes, as if the captivity of helplessness were more than
he could bear. A still deeper grief cast its shadow over
him, making the young man old before his time, for day
and night his heart cried out for his brother, as if the tie
between the twin-born could not be divided even by
death. This longing, which the consolations of neither
tenderness nor time could appease, was now the only
barrier to his recovery. Vainly his mother assured him
that Richard's death had been confirmed by more than
one account; vainly she tried to comfort him by hopeful
reminders of a glad reunion hereafter, and endeavored to
rouse him by appeals to his filial love, telling him that he
was her all now, and imploring him to live for his old
mother's sake. He listened, promised, and tried to be
resigned, but still cherished an unconquerable belief that
Richard lived, in spite of all reports, appearances, or seeming
certainties. Asleep, he dreamed of him; awake, he
talked of him; and the hope of seeing him again in this
world seemed the only thing that gave Rob patience and
courage to sustain the burden which life had now become
to him.
“Mother, when shall I be freed from this dreadful
bed?” he broke out, suddenly, as she laid down the book
she had been reading to deaf ears, and brushed away a
lock of hair the wind had blown across his forehead, for
her watchful eye and tireless hand spared him the pain
of asking any service that recalled his loss.
“Weeks yet, dear. It takes nature long to repair
healing rapidly, thanks to your temperate life and hardy
frame.”
“And your devoted care, most faithful of nurses,”
added Robert, turning his lips to the hand that had
strayed caressingly from forehead to cheek. “Do your
best for me, mother, — and you can do more than any
other in the world; get me on my feet again as soon as
may be, and then, God willing, I'll find Rick if he's
above the sod.”
Mrs. Stirling opened her lips to remonstrate against
the vain purpose, but, seeing the sudden color that lent
the wan face a semblance of health, hearing the tone of
energy that strengthened the feeble voice, and remembering
how deep a root the hope had taken in the brother's
heart, she silently resolved to let it sustain him if it
could, undisturbed by a look or word of unbelief.
“We will go together, Rob. My first search was successful;
Heaven grant my second may be so likewise. I
will do my best; and when I see you your old self again
I shall be ready to follow anywhere.”
“My old self again! I never can be that, and why I
was spared to be a burden to you while Rick was taken
— no, not taken — I'll neither say nor think that. If he
were dead I should either follow him or find comfort in
the thought that he was at peace; but he is alive, for
day and night his spirit calls to mine, and I must answer
it as you answered me when I cried to you in what I
thought to be my dying hour. Remember, mother, how
many of our men were found after they were believed to
to have been killed or taken. John King's grave was
pointed out to his wife, you know; and, when she had
find him waiting for her there. Why should not some
such happy chance befall us? Let us believe and hope
till we can do so no longer, and then I will learn submission.”
His mother only answered with a gentler touch upon
his head, for in her heart she believed that her son was
dead. Perhaps the great fear of losing both had made
the loss seem less when one was spared, or perhaps she
thought that if either must go Richard was fittest for the
change, and the nearness she still felt to him made the
absence of his visible presence less keenly felt than that
of Robert would have been; for, though as dear, he was
not so spiritually akin to her as that stronger, gentler
son.
“Is Rose in town, mother?” was the abrupt question
that broke a momentary silence.
“Yes, she is still here.”
“Does she know we have come?”
“She cannot help knowing, when half the town has
been trooping by with welcomes, messages, and gifts for
you.”
“Do you think she will come to welcome us?”
“Not yet, dear.”
“Ah! her pride will keep her away, you think?”
“Her pity, rather. Rose has generous impulses, and,
but for her mistaken education, would have been a right
noble woman. She may be yet, if love proves strong
enough to teach her the hard, though happy lesson, that
shall give her back to you again.”
“That can never be, mother. What woman could
love such a wreck; and what right have I to expect or
love; my dream has had a stern awakening; do not talk
of the impossible to me.”
His mother smiled the wise smile of one who understood
the workings of a woman's heart, and, knowing
both its weakness and its strength, believed that all things
are possible to love. Perhaps some village gossip had
breathed a hint into her ear which confirmed her hope;
or, judging another by herself, she ventured to comfort
her son by prophesying the return of the dream which he
believed forever ended.
“I will leave that theme for a younger, more persuasive
woman to discourse upon, when the hour comes in which
you find that hearts do not always change with changing
fortunes, that affliction often deepens affection, and when
one asks a little pity one sometimes receives much love.”
“I shall never ask either of Rose.”
“If she truly loves you there will be no need of asking,
Rob.”
His face brightened beautifully as he listened; his eyes
shone, and he moved impetuously, as if the mere thought
had power to lift and set him on his feet, a hale and
happy man again. But weakness and helplessness held
him down; and, with a sharper pang than that of the
half-healed wounds, he lay back, exclaiming with a bitter
sigh, —
“No hope of such a fate for me! I must be content
with the fulfilment of my other longing, and think of poor
Rick all the more because I must not think of Rose.
Oh! if my worst enemy should bring the dear lad home
to me, I'd joyfully forgive, love, honor him for that one
act.”
As Robert spoke with almost passionate earnestness, a
shadow that had lain across the sunny threshold of the
door vanished as noiselessly as it had come; and unseen,
unheard, Rose glided back into the green covert of the
lane, saying within herself, as she hurried on, agitated
by the mingled pain, pride and passion of the new-born
purpose at her heart, —
“Yes, Mrs. Stirling, love shall prove strong enough to
make me what I should be, and Robert shall yet forgive
and honor me; for, if human power can do it, I will
bring his brother home to him.”
Completely absorbed by the design that had taken possession
of her, she hastened back, thinking intently as
she went; and, when she called her one faithful servant
to her, all her plans were laid, her resolution fixed, and
every moment seemed wasted till the first step was taken,
for now her impetuous spirit could not brook delay.
“Jupiter, I am going to Washington in the morning,
and shall take you with me — so be ready,” was the
rapid order issued to the astonished old man, who had no
answer to make, but the usual obedient — “Yes, missis.”
“I am going to look for Mrs. Stirling's son, the one
who is supposed to be dead.”
“Lors, missis, he is dead, shore, — ain't he?”
“I intend to satisfy myself on that point, if I search
the prisons, camps, hospitals, and graveyards, from Gettysburg
to Richmond. I have strength, courage, money,
and some power, and what better use can I make of them
than to look for this good neighbor, and ease the hearts
of those who love him best. Go, Jupe, tell no one of
my purpose, make ready in all haste, and be sure I will
reward you well if you serve me faithfully now.”
“Yes, missis, — you may 'pend on me.”
At dawn they were away, the young mistress and
her old slave. No one knew why they had gone, nor
whither; and village rumor said Miss Rose had left
so suddenly because young Stirling and his mother
had come home. When Mrs. Stirling heard of the
departure, her old eyes kindled with indignation, while
her voice trembled with grief, as she said to her
son, —
“I am bitterly disappointed in her; think of her no
more, Rob.”
But Robert turned his face to the wall, and neither
spoke nor stirred for many hours.
In ancient times, young knights went out to defend
distressed dames and free imprisoned damsels; but, in
our day, the errantry is reversed, and many a strong-hearted
woman goes journeying up and down the land,
bent on delivering some beloved hero from a captivity
more terrible than any the old legends tell. Rose was
now one of these; and, though neither a meek Una nor
a dauntless Britomart, she resolutely began the long quest
which was to teach her a memorable lesson, and make a
loyal woman of the rebel beauty.
At first she haunted hospitals; and, while her heart
was wrung by the sight of every form of suffering, she
marked many things that sunk deep into her memory,
and forced it to bear testimony to the truth. She saw
Confederate soldiers lying side by side with Union men,
as kindly treated, almost as willingly served, and twice
conquered by those who could smite hard like valiant
soldiers, and then lift up their fallen enemy like Christian
gentlemen. This sight caused her to recall other scenes
help, while rebels close by were cherished with every
demonstration of indulgent care by men and women,
who not only hardened their hearts against the sadder
sufferers, but found a cruel pleasure in tormenting them
by every deprivation and indignity their hatred could
devise. She had seen a woman, beautiful and young, go
through a ward leaving fruit, flowers, delicate food and
kind words behind her, for every Southern man that lay
there; then offer a cup of water to a Northern soldier,
and as the parched lips opened eagerly to receive the
blessed draught, she flung it on the ground and went her
way with a scornful taunt. This picture was in Rose's
mind as she stood in a Washington hospital, by the
death-bed of a former neighbor of her own, hearing the
fervent thanks uttered with the last breath he drew,
watching the sweet-faced nurse close the weary eyes,
fold the pale hands, and then forgetting everything but
the one fact, that some woman loved and mourned the
lost rebel, she “kissed him for his mother,” while Rose
turned away with full heart and eyes, never again to
speak contemptuously of Northern men and women.
She visited many battle-fields and graveyards, where
the low mounds rose thickly everywhere, and an army
of brave sleepers lay awaiting the call to God's great
review. Here, too, despite the dreary task before her,
and the daily disappointment that befell her, she could not
but contrast the decent burial given to dead enemies
with the sacrilegious brutality with which her friends
often tried to rob death of its sanctity by mutilation,
burning, butchery, and the denial of a few feet of earth
to cover some poor body which a brave soul had ennobled
but blush for those whom she once had blindly honored;
could not but heartily respect those whom she once had
as blindly distrusted and despised.
She searched many prisons; for, when neither eloquence
nor beauty could win its way, money proved a golden key,
and let her in. Here, as elsewhere, the same strong contrast
was forced upon her; for, while one side fed, clothed,
and treated their conquered with courteous forbearance,
often sending them back the richer and better for their
sojourn, the other side robbed, starved, tormented, and
often wantonly murdered the helpless victims of the
chances of war, or returned them worn out with privation
and neglect to die at home, or to endure the longer
captivity of strong souls pent in ruined bodies. And
Rose felt her heart swell with indignant grief and shame,
as she came out into the free world again, finding the
shadow of prison-bars across its sunshine, hearing the
sighs of long-suffering men in every summer wind, and
fully seeing at last how black a blight slavery and
treason had brought upon the land she loved.
She went to Hospital Directories, those kindly instituted
intelligence offices for anxious hearts, and there
she saw such sorrowful scenes, yet heard such cheerful,
courageous words, that sympathy and admiration contended
for the mastery in the Southern woman's breast.
She heard an old mother say proudly, as she applied for
a pass, “I have had seven sons in the army; three are
dead, and two are wounded, but I'm glad my boys went.”
She saw a young wife come to meet her husband, and
learn that he was waiting for her in his coffin; but
though her heart was broken, there was no murmuring
had made her life so desolate, only a sweet submission,
and sustaining consolation in the knowledge that the
great sacrifice had been freely made, and the legacy of
an honorable name had been bequeathed to the baby at
her breast. Lads came asking for fathers, and whether
they found them dead or wounded, the spirit of patriotism
burned undiminished in their enthusiastic hearts,
and each was eager to fill the empty place, undaunted
by pain and peril of the life. Old men mingled, with
their tearless lamentations for lost sons, their own regrets
that they too could not shoulder guns, and fight the
good fight to the end.
All these loyal demonstrations sunk deeply into Rose's
softened heart, and in good time bore fruit; for now she
began to think within herself, “Surely, a war which
does so much for a people, making women glad to give
their best and dearest, men eager to lay down their lives,
strengthening, purifying, and sustaining all, must be a
holy war, approved by God, and sure of victory in the
end.” The last touch needed to complete the work of
regeneration was yet to come; but slowly, surely this
long discipline made her ready to receive it.
Her search, meanwhile, had not proved fruitless, for
after many disappointments one fact was established
beyond doubt: Richard Stirling was not killed at Gettysburg.
By the merest chance she met, in one of the
Union hospitals which she visited, a rebel lieutenant who
told her that the same shell wounded both Stirling and
himself, and when the first attack was repulsed, that
Richard was taken prisoner, and sent to the rear with
others of his regiment. An hour later, the lieutenant
the charge; but whether Stirling lived or died he could
not tell: probably the latter, being severely wounded in
head and chest.
The smile, the thanks Rose gave in return for these
good tidings, and the comforts she gratefully provided,
would have made captivity dangerously alluring to the
young lieutenant had she remained. But armed with
this intelligence she went on her way rejoicing, eager to
trace and follow the army of prisoners that had gone
southward. Weeks had been consumed in her search,
and already rumors of the horrors of the Libby Prison-house
and Belle Island had disturbed and shocked the
North. Haunted with woful recollections of all the
varied sufferings she had seen, her imagination pictured
Richard weak and wounded, shivering and starving,
while she waited with full hands and eager heart to save,
and heal, and lead him home. Intent on reaching Richmond,
she besieged officials in high places as well as low,
money flowed like water, and every faculty was given to
the work. It seemed as if she had undertaken an impossibilty;
for though all pitied, tried to help, and heartily
admired the beautiful brave woman, no one could serve
her as she would be served; and she began to exercise
her fertile wit in devising some way in which she could
attain her object by stratagem, if all other means should
fail.
Waiting in her carriage, one day, at the door of a
helpful friend's office, while Jupe carried up a message,
she was startled from an anxious reverie by the sudden
appearance of an agitated black countenance at the window,
between laughter and tears, —
“Oh, bress de Lord, and sing hallyluyer! I'se foun'
her! I'se foun' her! Doesn't yer know me, Missy Rose?
I'se old June, and I'se run away; but I doesn't kere
nuffin what comes ob me ef missy'll jes' lem me see my
pore ole man once more.”
To Juno's infinite surprise, no frown appeared upon
the face of her young mistress, and no haughty reprimand
followed the recognition of the half-ludicrous, half-pathetic
tatterdemalion who addressed her, but a white
hand was put forth to draw the new-comer in, and the
familiar voice answered with a friendliness never heard
before, —
“Jupe is safe, and you shall see him soon. Come in,
you poor old soul, come in.”
In bundled the delighted creature, and began to tell
her story, but stopped in the middle to dart out again,
and fall upon the neck of the bewildered Jupiter, as he
came soberly up to deliver his message. Fortunately it
was a quiet street, else that tumultuous meeting might
have been productive of discomfort to all parties; for the
old couple wept, laughed, and sung, — went down upon
their knees to thank Heaven, — got up to embrace, and
dance, and weep again, in a perfect abandonment of
gratitude, affection and delight. When Rose could
make herself heard, she bade them both enter the carriage;
then drawing down the curtains, and ordering the
coachman to drive slowly round the square, she let the
reunited husband and wife give free vent to their emotions,
till from sheer weariness they grew calm again.
“We hopes missis will 'scuse us actin' so wild, but
undispected,” apologized Jupe, wiping away the last of
his own and Juno's tears with the same handkerchief,
which, very properly, was a miniature star-spangled
banner.
But Rose's own eyes were wet; and in her sight there
was nothing unlovely or unmannerly in that natural outbreak
of affection, for she had learned to feel for others
now, and the same stern discipline which made her both
strong and humble, taught her to see much that was true
and touching in the spectacle of the gray heads bent
towards each other; the wrinkled faces shining with joy;
the hard hands locked together, as the childless, friendless
old pair found freedom, happiness, and rest for a
moment in each other's arms. Like a true woman, Juno
calmed herself first, that she might talk; and, emboldened
by the gracious change in her once imperious
mistress, she told the story of her wanderings at length;
not forgetting the chief incident of her long and lonely
flight, the meeting with Robert Stirling. At the sound
of his name, both Rose and Jupe exclaimed, and Juno
was rapidly made acquainted with the mission which
had brought them there. Deeply impressed with the
circumstance, and a sense of her own importance, the
good soul entered heartily into the matter, saying, with
the pious simplicity of her race, —
“De ways ob de Lord is 'mazing 'sterious! but we's
boun' to b'lieve dat He'll take special kere ob dat dear
chile, elseways we shouldn't hab ben brung togedder so
cur'us. I tole de blessed gen'l'man I'd 'member him, and
I has; I prayed ter be spared ter see his kine face agin,
an' I was.”
“Where? when? Oh, Juno, you were surely sent to
me in my last extremity,” cried Rose, now trembling
with interest and impatience.
“It was dis way, missy. When dat dear gen'l'man
lef me I creeped on a piece, but was tuk sick, an' a kind
fam'ly kep' me a long time. Den I come on agin bery
slow, an' one day as I was gwine fru a town, — I'se los'
de name, but it don't matter, — as I was gwine fru dat
town, dere come a lot ob pris'ners frum Gettysbury,
or some place like dat, a gwine to Richmun. Dear heart,
honey, dey was an orfle sight, all lame, an' rags, an' hungry,
an' de folks run out into de street wid bread ter feed um.
De guard was bery ugly, and wouldn't let de folks come
night ter do it, so dey jes' fell back and frowed de vittles
ober de heads of dem rebs, and de pore souls cotched it
as ef it was de manny dey tells of in de Bible. I helped
um; yes, missy, I couldn't stay still noways, so I runned
into a bake-shop wid some more women, and we stood in
de winders and hev de bread down to de starvin' creeters
in de street mighty hearty, you'm be shore ob dat. I
had a big loaf in my han', and was lookin' roun' for de
starvinest man dar, when I saw de bery face dat looked
so kine inter mine younder by de spring. I tank de Lord
I'd kep de name handy, fer I screeched right out, `Oh,
Massa Stirlin'! Massa Stirlin'! dis yere's for you wid
my lub.' He looked up, he 'membered me, he larfed all
over his pore thin face, jes' as he done de day I gib him
de rose. Oh, missy! he was hurted bad; dey had tuk
away his hat, and coat, and shoes, and I saw his head
was tied up, and dere was a great red stain on de bosom
ob his shirt, and he looked so weak and wore down dat
I jes bus out cryin', and forgot all 'bout de bread till I
togedder and gib de loaf such a great chuck dat I mos'
fell out a winder, but he got it; I sawed him break it in
bits and gib em roun' to de pore boys side ob him, some
wid no arms to grab wid, some too hurted to fight and
run for it like de res. Den I'se fraid he won't had nuf
for his self, so I gets more and fros it far, and he larfs
out hearty like a boy, and calls to me, `I tank yer, ma'am.
God bless yer!' Dat set me cryin' agin, like a ole fool
as I is, and when I come to dey was movin' on agin, and
de las I see ob dat dear soul he was marchin' brave, wid
de sun beatin' down on his pore head, de hot sand burnin'
his pore feet, and a sick boy hangin' on his arm. But
fer all dat he kep lookin' back, noddin' and smilin' till
dey was clean gone, and dere was nuffin left but prayers
and sobbin' all dat day fer me.”
“It is certain then that he has gone to Richmond; I
must follow. Jupe, what message did Mr. Norton send
me?” asked Rose, remembering her unanswered inquiry
at last.
“He bery busy, Missis, elseways he come down and
see yer; but he says dere's no gittin' any passes, and de
only 'vice he can gib, is dat you goes to 'Napolis and
looks dere, kase dere's ben some pris'ners fetched dere
frum Belle Island, and dere's jes one chance dat Massa
Stirlin' mought be 'mong em.”
“I'll go! Jupe, order the man back to the hotel.
There's not a moment to be lost,” said Rose.
“Oh, missy, lem me go wid you!” implored Juno. “I
knows I don't look bery spectable, but I'll follow on hind
yer some ways: I'se good at nussin', I can pry roun' in
places whar a lady couldn't, and ef dat bressed gen'l'man
lan' ob bondage like I did myself.”
“You shall go, Juno, for without you I should still be
groping in the dark. Surely Heaven helps me, and I
feel that I shall find him now.”
She did find him, but how? She went to Annapolis,
where a hundred and eighty exchanged prisoners had
just arrived, and entering the hospital, stood aghast at
the sight before her. Men who for weeks had been confined
on that desert waste, Belle Island, without shelter
or clothing, almost without food, and no help, sick or
well, lay there dead or dying from starvation and neglect.
Nurses, inured to many forms of suffering, seemed dismayed
at the awful spectacle of living skeletons famishing
for food, yet too weak to taste when eager hands tried
to minister to them. Some were raving in the last stage
of their long agony; some were hopelessly insane; many
had died unconscious that they were among friends; and
others were too far gone to speak, yet dumbly grateful
for the help that came too late.
Heart-wrung and horror-stricken, Rose could only pray
that she might not find Richard among these victims of a
barbarous revenge which made her disown and denounce
the cause she had clung to until then, and oppressed her
with a bitter sense of remorse for ever giving it her allegiance.
As she stood struggling with a flood of thoughts
and feelings too strong for utterance, old Juno, who had
pressed on before her, beckoned with an eager hand.
Going to her, Rose found her bending over the mournful
ghost of a man who lay there like one dead, with hollow
eyes fast shut, the pinched mouth breathless, the wasted
limbs stiff and cold, and no trace of Richard Stirling visible,
and beard, so changed him that his own mother might
have passed by without a glance of recognition.
“It is not he, Juno. Poor soul, poor soul! cover his
face, and let him rest,” sighed Rose, with tremulous lips,
bending to lay her delicate handkerchief over the piteous
face, one glance at which had made her eyes too dim for
seeing, and seemed to utter a mute reproach, as if the
loss of this life lay at her door.
“It is de dear boy, missy; I'se shore ob it, fer see
what I foun' in dis faded little bag dat lay on his heart,
when I feeled to see if dere was any beat lef. Here's a
bit ob gray her in a paper wid somefin wrote on it, an'
here's de flower I gib him. I knows it by de red string
I pulled out ob my old shawl to tie de posy wid. Ah,
honey, I specks he smiled so when he tuk de rose, an'
kep it, kase he tort ob you, and lubbed you bery dear.”
The little case and the dead flower fell from Rose's
hand, as she read these words upon the worn paper that
held the gray curl: “For Rick from mother, May 10,
1863”; and she laid her warm cheek down beside that
chilly one, crying through the heartiest, happiest tears
she ever shed.
“Oh, Richard, have I come too late?”
Something in the touch of tender lips, the magnetism
of a living, loving heart, seemed to arrest the weary
spirit in its flight, and call it back to life by the power of
that passion which outlives death.
“De heart's a beatin', and de bref's a comin', shore.
Lif up his head, honey! Jupe, fan him bery kereful,
while I gets a drop ob brandy down his frote, an' rubs
Def may go 'way now!”
Juno both worked and spoke as if the young man were
her son; for she forgot all differences of rank, color, and
condition, in her glad gratitude to nurse him like a
mother. Rose laid the unconscious head upon her
bosom, and, brushing back the tangled hair, watched the
faint flutter of the eyelids, as life came creeping back,
and hope dawned again for both of them; for she felt that
Richard's restoration would win Robert's pardon, and be
her best atonement for the past.
It was long before he was himself again, but Juno
never left him, day or night; Jupe was a sleepless, tireless
guard, and Rose ministered to him with heart as
well as hand, seeming to hold death at bay by the sheer
force of an indomitable will. He knew the forms about
him, at last; and the happiest moment of Rose's life was
that in which he looked up in her face with eyes that
blessed her for her care, and whispered feebly, —
“I thought I had suffered much, but this atones for
all!”
After that, every hour brought fresh strength, and
renewed assurances that the danger had gone by. At
this point Juno discovered that her soul was stronger
than her body, for the latter gave out, and Rose commanded
her to rest.
“I need you no longer, for my work is nearly done,”
she said. “Jupe, I told you that if you served me well
you should be rewarded, and I will keep my word. This
paper assures your freedom, and your wife's, forever; this
purse contains a little fortune, to keep you above want
while you live. Take the late gift, my good old friends,
years.”
Rose's subdued yet earnest manner, and the magnitude
of the gift, restrained the rapture of the old pair, which
found vent only in a demonstration that touched Rose
more than a stream of thanks and blessings. Holding
fast the precious paper that gave them freedom only at
life's close, they put back the money, feeling too rich in
that other gift to fear want, and, taking one of the white
hands in their black ones, they kissed them, wet them
with grateful tears, and clung to them, imploring to be
allowed to stay with her, to serve her, love her, and be
her faithful followers to the end.
Much moved, she gave the promise; and happier than
any fabled king and queen of Olympus were the old
freedman and his wife, when they went away to nurse
each other for a little while, at their mistress's desire,
leaving her to tend the “General,” as Jupe insisted upon
calling Richard, laboring under a delusion that, because
he had suffered much, he must have received honor
and promotion.
Very quiet, useful hours were those that followed, and
these proved the sincerity of her amendment, by the zeal
with which she performed many a distasteful duty for
Richard and his companions in misfortune, the patience
with which she bore many discomforts, the energy with
which she met and conquered all obstacles to the fulfilment
of her purpose. Unconsciously Richard did more
for her than she for him: because, though unseen, his
work was both more difficult and more enduring than her
own. She nursed and nourished an exhausted body;
he, by the influence of character, soothed and sustained
through the force of a fair example, inspired her with
noble emulation. They talked much, at first: Rose was
the speaker, and an eloquent one; for Richard was very
like his brother, as she had last seen him, and she felt the
charm of that resemblance. Then, as Richard gained
strength, he loved to lie conversing upon many themes,
too happy in her presence to remember the sad past, or to
cherish a fear for the unknown future. Having lived a
deep and earnest life of late, Rose found herself fitted to
comprehend the deep and earnest thoughts that found
expression in those confidential hours; for if ever men
and women are their simplest, sincerest selves, it is when
suffering softens the one, and sympathy strengthens the
other.
Often Rose caught a wistful look fixed on her face, as
she read or worked beside her patient, in the little room
now set apart for him, and she could not but interpret it
aright, since the story of the rose had given her a key to
that locked heart. Poor Richard loved her still, and was
beginning to hope that Juno's wish might be fulfilled, for
Rose seldom spoke of Rob, had shivered and turned
pale when she told his great misfortune, and, man-like,
Richard believed that her love had changed to pity, and
might, in time, be given to Robert's unmarred counterpart.
He was very slow to receive this hope, very remorseful
when he thought of Rob, and very careful not
to betray the troubled joy that was doing more toward
his recovery than any cordial that passed his lips. But,
when the time came for them to think of turning homeward,
he felt that he could not meet his brother with any
secret hidden in his heart; and, with the courage that
and manfully went to meet his fate.
Rose had been reading him to sleep one night, and
fancying, from his stillness, that she had succeeded, she
closed her book, and sat watching the thin face that looked
so pale and peaceful in the shaded light that filled the
room. Not long did she study it, for suddenly the clear
eyes opened, and, as if some persistent thought found
utterance, almost against his will, he asked, —
“Rose, why did you come to find me?”
She divined the true meaning of the look, the words,
with a woman's instinct, and answered both with the
perfect truth which they deserved.
“Because your brother wanted you.”
“For his sake you came for me?”
“Yes, Richard.”
“Then, Rose, you — you love him still?”
“How can I help it, when he needs me more than
ever?”
For a moment Richard's face changed terribly; then
something seemed to gush warm across his heart, sending
a generous glow to cheek and forehead, banishing
the despair from his eyes, and lending to his voice a
heartiness unheard before.
“Forgive me, Rose; you are a nobler woman than I
thought you. He does need you more than ever; give
him your whole heart, and help me to make his hard life
happy.”
“I will — God bless my brother Rick!” and, bending,
Rose kissed him softly on the forehead, the only
token that ever betrayed her knowledge of his love, the
his loss.
Richard held the beautiful, beloved face close to his
own an instant, then turned his head away, and Rose
heard one strong, deep sob, but never any word of lamentation
or reproach. Too much moved to speak, yet
too full of sympathy to leave him, she leaned her head
upon the arm of the cushioned chair in which she sat,
and soon forgot the lapse of time in thoughts both sweet
and bitter. A light rustle and a faint perfume recalled
her to the present; and looking, without moving, she saw
Richard's almost transparent hand hold the dead rose in
the flame of the lamp until its ashes fluttered to the
ground; she saw him watch the last spark fade, and
shiver as he glanced drearily about the room, as if all the
warmth and beauty had died out of his life, leaving it
very desolate and dark; she saw him turn toward her
while his face grew clear and calm again, and, believing
himself unseen, he lifted a little fold of her dress to his
lips, as if he bade the woman whom he loved a long farewell;
then he lay down like one spent with some sore
struggle, which, though hardly fought, had been wholly
won.
At that sight Rose's tears fell fast; and, long after
Richard slept the sleep of utter weariness, she still sat
there, with her head pillowed on her arms, keeping a
vigil in which she consecrated her whole life to the service
of that cause which, through many trials, had taught
her a truer loyalty, a purer love.
In the ruddy glow of an October sunset, Rose led
Richard across the threshold of the dear old home, and
reigned; then, as the wonder, gratitude, and joy subsided,
all turned to Rose. She stood apart, silently receiving
her reward; and, though worn and weary with
her long labor, never had she seemed so beautiful as
then; for the once proud eyes were grown sweetly
humble, the serenity of a great content shone in her face,
and a fine blending of gentleness and strength gave the
crowning grace to one who was now, in truth, a “right
noble woman.”
The mother and her sons regarded her in silence for a
moment, and silently she looked back at them with a
glance, a gesture that said more eloquently than any
words: “Forgive me, love me, and forget the past.” Mrs.
Stirling opened her arms, and Rose clung to that motherly
bosom, feeling that no daughter could be dearer
than she was now, that all her pain and penitence was
known, and her reward secure at last.
“Rose, I have but one thing precious enough to give
you in return for the great service you have so beautifully
conferred upon me. If I read your heart aright, this is
the prize for which you have striven and suffered; and,
loving you the dearer for your constancy, I freely give
one-half my treasure to your keeping, sure that you will
find life richer, happier, and better for your devotion to
the man you love.”
Rose understood her, — felt that the mother wished to
prove the woman's pride, the lover's truth, — and well
she stood the test; for going straight to Robert, who had
scarcely spoken, but whose eye had never left her since
she came, she said, clearly and steadily, — too earnest
for any fear, —
“Robert, you once said you would never ask either
pity or love of me. Will you accept both when I offer
them humbly, heartily, and tell you that all my happiness,
my hopes, my peace, are now bound up in you?”
Poor Rob! he had no arms in which to receive her,
no words wherewith to welcome her, for speech failed
him when those tender eyes looked up into his own, and
she so generously gave him the desire of his life. He
only bowed his head before her, deliciously oppressed
with the happiness this double gift conferred. Rose read
his heart, and with a loving woman's skill robbed the moment
of all its bitterness and left only its sweetness; for,
putting both arms about his neck, she whispered like a
pleading child, —
“Dear, let me stay; I am so happy here!”
There was but one answer to that appeal; and as it
was given, Mrs. Stirling turned to beckon Richard from
the room, glad to have him all her own again. He had
already stolen out, and standing in the autumn sunshine,
looked across the quiet river with a countenance as cheerful
as the sunshine, as tranquil as the stream. His
mother scanned his face with a searching yet sorrowful
eye, that dimmed with sudden dew as, reading its significance,
her son met it with a glance that set her anxiety
at rest.
“Have no fears for me, mother; I have fought my
double fight, and am freed from my double captivity.
The lost love is not dead, but sleeping, never to waken
in this world, and its grave is growing green.”
“Ah, my good son, the world will see Rob's sacrifice,
through many temptations you have been loyal, both to
your country and yourself. God and your mother love
and honor you for that, although to other eyes you seem
to stand forgotten and alone.”
But Richard drew the gray head tenderly, reverently
down upon his breast, and answered, with the cheerful
smile unchanged, —
“Never alone while I have you, mother.”
| LOVE AND LOYALTY. Hospital sketches and Camp and fireside stories | |