University of Virginia Library

34. CHAPTER XXXIV.
POOR ARTHUR.

HE had kept his word, and piloted safely across the
mountains the prisoner left in Hetty's cabin.
His arrival at Paul Haverill's burning home had
preceded that of the Federal troops by twenty minutes
or more, and when he heard of Maude's danger, he followed
our soldiers up the hillside to where Maude held
the entrance to the cave. He saw her, and tried to make
his voice heard, but it was lost amid the strife and noise of
the conflict, and she only knew of his presence, when
Charlie, with chattering teeth, and a face as white as
ashes, clutched her dress frantically, and said:

“Come, sister, come this way to Arthur,—somebody—
shot him. Do you think he will die?”

Quick as lightning the remembrance of the thought,
which had yet scarcely been a thought, of just such a

contingency as this, flashed over Maude, sweeping away
all the pain, the terror, the shrinking she had felt when
she contemplated the fulfillment of her promise to Arthur
Tunbridge. He was lying there at her feet, and
the grass beneath him was all a pool of blood, while his
dim eyes showed that the objects around him were now
but faintly discerned. He saw Maude, though, and when
her loud cry met his ear he smiled a glad, grateful smile,
and said to her, as she knelt beside him and took his
head in her lap—

“You are sorry, Maude. It was a mistake. You did
love me some.”

She pressed her quivering lips to his, and said
again,

“Oh Arthur! Arthur! how came you here?”

Arthur knew he was dying, but, shaking off all thought
of his own pain, he explained to Maude how he came
there.

“The man,—you remember. I got him through, and
I am not sorry, for he told me of a blind mother and six
little children dependent upon him away off somewhere
among the Ohio hills. Think if they had been left without
support. I am glad I saved him even if it cost my
life. And still it is hard to die, Maude, just as you are
beginning to love me, for you are, and if I had lived you
would have kept your promise to me.

“Yes, Arthur, I would,” and Maude's white fingers
threaded the bloody hair and moved softly over the
ghastly face. “Who did it, Arthur?” she asked, and
Arthur's face flushed to a purple hue as with a moan he
said:

“Don't ask me,—there was a mistake. I had taken no
part in the fray, except to knock down the ruffian who fired

at you. I was standing right behind him. Yes, there
was a mistake. Oh Maude, it was a mistake.”

He kept repeating the words, while Maude tried to
stop the blood flowing so freely from the wound in his
temple. The ball had entered there, but had not penetrated
to the brain, and he retained his consciousness to
the last, smiling once kindly on Charlie, who, half frantic,
bent over him, and said:

“Yes, Arthur, it was a mistake, oh Arthur, oh Maude,
and you two were engaged. I did not know it before.”

Then a bright flush crept into Maude's white face, for
she knew the tall shadow on the grass beside her belonged
to Capt. Carleton, and he, she guessed, was
thinking of last night in the cave. He did think of
it, but only for a moment, and then his thoughts were
merged in his great anxiety for Lieutenant Arthur, who
he saw was dying. Arthur knew he was there, and
smiled when he asked if he felt much pain.

“None with Maude beside me. She was to have been
my wife, wern't you, Maude?”

“Yes, Arthur. I was to have been your wife.”

She spoke it openly, frankly, as if by so doing she was
seeking to atone for an error, and the eyes lifted to Tom's
face had in them something defiant, as if she would say,
“I mean it. I would have been his wife.”

But she met only pity in Tom's looks—pity for her, and
pity for the young man dying among the mountains on
that soft, summer morning, when the whole world seemed
so at variance with a death like that. It was a strange
scene, and one which those who witnessed it never could
forget. The broad, level plat on the mountain side, the
mounted horsemen, the group of prisoners, the beautiful,
queenly girl, whose lap pillowed the head of the dying
soldier, while her brilliant eyes wept floods of tears

which, with quick, nervous movements of her fingers, she
swept away. Beside her was Charlie, his face whiter
than that of the dying man, and his muscles working
painfully as if he was forcing back some terrible pang or
cry of agony. Tom Carleton, too, and Paul Haverill,
who had later joined the group and stood looking sadly
on, while toward the south the smoke and flame of his own
house was ascending, and in the east the early morning
was bright and fresh with the summer's golden sunshine.
And there on the mountain side they waited and watched,
while the young lieutenant talked faintly of his distant
home where the news would carry so much sorrow.

“Tell father I died believing in our cause, and were I
to live my life over I should join the Southern army; but
it's wrong about the prisoners. We ought not to abuse
those who fall into our hands. I've loved you Maude,
so long. Remember me when I am gone, not for anything
brilliant there was about me, but because I loved
you so well, and died in carrying out the work you gave
me to do.”

“Oh, Arthur! Arthur! speak some word of comfort
to me or I shall surely die. It was a mistake,” Charlie
whispered, as he crept close to Arthur's side.

The dying man's eyes rested inquiringly for a moment
in Charlie's face, then lighted up with a sudden
joy.

“Charlie! Charlie! come close,” he whispered. “Bend
your ear to my lips. Maude must not hear me.”

His head was still lying on Maude's lap, but he spoke
so low to Charlie that she did not hear the question
asked. She only knew that Charlie started quickly, and
throwing one arm across her neck as if to save her from
some evil, said, promptly, energetically:

“No, no, Arthur; no!”

Then the quivering lips went down again to Arthur's
ear, and Maude caught the word “mistake,” and that
was all. She did not know or think what it really
meant. It was all a mistake, the terrible war which had
brought her so much pain and suffering.

“I die easier now. It was so horrible before. Poor
Charlie! Don't let it trouble you. Care for Maude.
She would have been my wife. Stick to our cause. You
never forsook it,” came faintly from Arthur, and his eyes,
when again they rested on Maude's face, had lost the
strange, frightened look which she had observed when
she first came to his side. He was dying very fast, and
his mind seemed groping for some form of prayer with
which to meet the last great foe.

“Pray, somebody,” he moaned, and Paul Haverill,
who, wholly overcome with all he had passed through
during the last few hours, had stood dumb and motionless,
replied in a choking voice:

“I am not a praying man, but God be with you, my
boy, and land you safely on t'other side, where there's no
more fighting.”

“Yes, but that isn't `Our Father.' I used to say it at
home,” came feebly from the white lips, and then Tom
Carleton knelt beside the youth whose path had crossed
his own so often and so strangely, and with deep reverence
and earnest entreaty commended the departing spirit
to the God who deals more gently, and mercifully, and
lovingly with his children than they dealt with each other.

Tom thought of Isaac Simms, and the noisome, filthy
room in Libby where he had first learned to pray,
and the thought gave fervor to his prayer, to which
Arthur listened intently, his lips motioning the amen
he could not speak, for he had no power of utterance.
Once again they moved with a pleading kind of

motion, and Maude stooped over to kiss them, her long
hair falling across the pallid brow, where the blood stains
were, and when she lifted her head up, and pushed back
her heavy locks, there was the seal of death on Arthur's
face.