 | Hospital sketches and Camp and fireside stories |  |
CAMP AND FIRESIDE STORIES.
1. THE KING OF CLUBS
AND
THE QUEEN OF HEARTS.
A STORY FOR YOUNG AMERICA.
FIVE-and-twenty ladies, all in a row, sat on one side
of the hall, looking very much as if they felt like the
little old woman who fell asleep on the king's highway
and awoke with abbreviated drapery, for they were all
arrayed in gray tunics and Turkish continuations, profusely
adorned with many-colored trimmings. Five-and-twenty
gentlemen, all in a row, sat on the opposite side
of the hall, looking somewhat subdued, as men are apt to
do when they fancy they are in danger of making fools
of themselves. They, also, were en costume, for all the
dark ones had grown piratical in red shirts, the light ones
nautical in blue; and a few boldly appeared in white,
making up in starch and studs what they lost in color,
while all were more or less Byronic as to collar.
On the platform appeared a pile of dumb-bells, a
regiment of clubs, and a pyramid of bean-bags, and
stirring nervously among them a foreign-looking gentleman,
the new leader of a class lately formed by
Dr. Thor Turner, whose mission it was to strengthen
the world's spine, and convert it to a belief in air and
merrily, while enjoying the “Sun-cure” on a large scale.
His advent formed an epoch in the history of the town;
for it was a quiet old village, guiltless of bustle, fashion,
or parade, where each man stood for what he was; and,
being a sagacious set, every one's true value was pretty
accurately known. It was a neighborly town, with
gossip enough to stir the social atmosphere with small
gusts of interest or wonder, yet do no harm. A sensible,
free-and-easy town, for the wisest man in it wore the
worst boots, and no one thought the less of his understanding;
the belle of the village went shopping with
a big sun-bonnet and tin pail, and no one found her
beauty lessened; oddities of all sorts ambled peacefully
about on their various hobbies, and no one suggested
the expediency of a trip on the wooden horse upon
which the chivalrous South is always eager to mount
an irrepressible abolitionist. Restless people were soothed
by the lullaby the river sang in its slow journey to the
sea, old people found here a pleasant place to make
ready to die in, young people to survey the world from,
before taking their first flight, and strangers looked back
upon it, as a quiet nook full of ancient legends and
modern lights, which would keep its memory green
when many a gayer spot was quite forgotten. Anything
based upon common sense found favor with the inhabitants,
and Dr. Turner's theories, being eminently so,
were accepted at once, and energetically carried out. A
sort of heathen revival took place, for even the ministers
and deacons turned Musselmen; old ladies tossed bean-bags
till their caps were awry, and winter-roses blossomed
on their cheeks; school-children proved the worth
pound of cure,” by getting their backs ready before the
burdens came; pale girls grew blithe and strong swinging
their dumb namesakes; and jolly lads marched to and
fro embracing clubs as if longevity were corked up in
those wooden bottles, and they all took “modest quenchers”
by the way.
August Bopp, the new leader of the class, was a German
possessing but a small stock of English, though a
fine gymnast; and being also a bashful man, the appointed
moment had no sooner arrived than he found his carefully
prepared sentences slipping away from his memory
as the ice appears to do from under unhappy souls first
mounted upon skates. An awful silence reigned: Mr.
Bopp glanced nervously over his shoulder at the staring
rows, more appalling in their stillness than if they had
risen up and hooted at him; then piling up the bags for
the seventh time, he gave himself a mental shake, and,
with a crimson visage, was about to launch his first
“Ladees und gentlemen,” when the door opened, and a
small, merry-faced figure appeared, looking quite at ease
in the novel dress, as, with a comprehensive nod, it
marched straight across the hall to its place among the
weaker vessels.
A general glance of approbation followed from the gentlemen's
side, a welcoming murmur ran along the ladies',
and the fifty pairs of eyes changed their focus for a moment.
Taking advantage of which, Mr. Bopp righted
himself, and burst out with a decided, —
“Ladees und gentlemen: the time have arrived that
we shall begin. Will the gentlemen serve the ladees to a
and follow the motions I will make as I shall count.”
Five minutes of chaos, then all fell into order, and
nothing was heard but the leader's voice and the stir of
many bodies movings imultaneously. An uninitiated observer
would have thought himself in Bedlam; for, as the
evening wore on, the laws of society seemed given to the
winds, and humanity gone mad. Bags flew in all directions,
clubs hurtled through the air, and dumb-bells played
a castinet accompaniment to peals of laughter that made
better music than any band. Old and young gave themselves
up to the universal merriment, and, setting dignity
aside, played like happy-hearted children for an hour.
Stout Dr. Quackenboss gasped twice round the hall on
one toe; stately Mrs. Primmins ran like a girl of fifteen
to get her pins home before her competitor; Tommy
Inches, four feet three, trotted away with Deacon Stone
on his shoulder, while Mr. Steepleton and Miss Maypole
hopped together like a pair of lively young ostriches, and
Ned Amandine, the village beau, blew arrows through a
pop-gun, like a modern Cupid in pegtops instead of
pinions.
The sprightly young lady whose entrance had been so
opportune seemed a universal favorite, and was overwhelmed
with invitations to “bag,” “hop,” and “blow”
from the gentlemen who hovered about her, cheerfully
distorting themselves to the verge of dislocation in order
to win a glance of approbation from the merry black
eyes which were the tapers where all these muscular
moths singed their wings. Mr. Bopp had never seen such
a little piece of earnestness before, and began to think
the young lady must be training for a boat-race or the
arms looked like the sails of a windmill; she hit out
from the shoulder with a vigor that would have done
execution had there been anything but empty air to
“punish”; and the “one, two, three!” of the Zouave
movement went off with a snap; while the color deepened
from pink to scarlet in her cheeks, the black braids
tumbled down upon her shoulders, and the clasp of her
belt flew asunder; but her eye seldom left the leader's
face, and she followed every motion with an agility and
precision quite inspiring. Mr. Bopp's courage rose as
he watched her, and a burning desire to excel took possession
of him, till he felt as if his muscles were made
of india-rubber, and his nerves of iron. He went into
his work heart and soul, shaking a brown mane out of
his eyes, issuing commands like a general at the head of
his troops, and keeping both interest and fun in full blast
till people laughed who had not laughed heartily for years;
lungs got their fill for once, unsuspected muscles were
suddenly developed, and when the clock struck ten, all
were bubbling over with that innocent jollity which
makes youth worth possessing, and its memory the sunshine
of old age.
The last exercise was drawing to a close, and a large
ring of respectable members of society were violently
sitting down and rising up in a manner which would have
scandalized Miss Wilhelmina Carolina Amelia Skeggs to
the last degree, when Mr. Bopp was seen to grow very
pale, and drop in a manner which it was evident his
pupils were not expected to follow.
At this unexpected performance, the gentlemen took
advantage of their newly-acquired agility to fly over all
successfully lessened their unusual bloom by staring wildly
at one another and suggesting awful impossibilities. The
bustle subsided as suddenly as it arose; and Mr. Bopp,
rather damp about the head and dizzy about the eye, but
quite composed, appeared, saying, with the broken English
and appealing manner which caused all the ladies to
pronounce him “a dear” on the spot, —
“I hope you will excoose me for making this lesson to
be more short than it should; but I have exercise nine
hours this day, and being just got well from a illness, I
have not recover the strength I have lost. Next week I
shall be able to take time by the hair, so that I will not
have so much engagements in one day. I thank you for
your kindness, and say good-efening.”
After a round of applause, as a last vent for their
spirits, the class dispersed, and Mr. Bopp was wrestling
with a vicious pin as he put on his collar (“a sure sign
he has no ma to see to his buttons, poor lamb!” thought
Mrs. Fairbairn, watching him from afar); when the
sprightly young lady, accompanied by a lad the masculine
image of herself, appeared upon the platform, saying,
with an aspect as cordial as her words, —
“Good-evening, sir. Allow me to introduce my
brother and myself, Dick and Dolly Ward, and ask you,
in my mother's name, to come home with us; for the
tavern is not a cosy place, and after all this exertion you
should be made comfortable. Please come, for Dr. Turner
always stayed with us, and we promised to do the
honors of the town to any gentleman he might send to
supply his place.”
“Of course we did; and mother is probably freezing
her, Bopp. It's all settled; the sleigh's at the door, and
here's your coat; so, come on!”
Dick was a fine sample of young America in its best
aspect, and would have said “How are you?” to Louis
Napoleon if he had been at hand, and have done it so
heartily that the great Frenchman would have found it
hard to resist giving as frank an answer. Therefore, no
wonder that Mr. Bopp surrendered at once; for the
young gentleman took possession of him bodily, and shook
him into his coat with an amiable impetuosity which
developed a sudden rent in the well-worn sleeve thereof,
and caused an expression of dismay to dawn upon the
owner's countenance.
“Beg pardon; never mind; mother'll sew you up in
two seconds, and your overcoat will hide the damage.
Where is it? I'll get it, and then we'll be off.”
Mr. Bopp colored distressfully, looked up, looked down,
and then straight into the lad's face, saying simply, —
“Thank you; I haf no coat but one.”
Dick opened his eyes, and was about opening his mouth
also, for the exit of some blunderingly good-natured
reply, when a warning poke from his sister restrained
him; while Dolly, with the innocent hypocrisy which is as
natural to some women as the art of tying bows, said, as
she led the way out, —
“You see the worth of gymnastics, Dick, in this
delightful indifference to cold. I sincerely hope we may
reach a like enviable state of health, and look upon greatcoats
as effeminate, and mufflers a weakness of the flesh.
Do you think we shall, Mr. Bopp?”
He shook his head with a perceptible shiver as the keen
look half merry, half sad, —
“It is not choice, but what you call necessitee, with
me; and I truly hope you may never haf to exercise to
keep life in you when you haf sold your coat to pay your
doctor's bill, or teach the art of laughing while your
heart is heavy as one stone. You would not like that, I
think, yet it is good, too; for small things make much
happiness for me, and a kind word is often better than a
rix-dollar.”
There was something in the young man's tone and
manner which touched and won his hearers at once.
Dolly secretly resolved to put an extra blanket on his bed,
and shower kind words upon him, while Dick tucked him
up in buffalo robes, where he sat helplessly beaming down
upon the red hood at his side.
A roaring fire shone out hospitably as they came, and
glorified the pleasant room, dancing on ancient furniture
and pictured walls till the jolly old portraits seemed to
wink a visible welcome. A cheery-faced little woman,
like an elder Dolly, in a widow's cap, stood on the
threshold, with a friendly greeting for the stranger, which
warmed him as no fire could have done.
If August Bopp had been an Englishman, he would
have felt much, but said less on that account; if he had
been an American, he would have tried to conceal his
poverty, and impress the family with his past grandeur,
present importance, or future prospects; being a German,
he showed exactly what he was, with the childlike frankness
of his race. Having had no dinner, he ate heartily
of what was offered him; being cold, he basked in the
generous warmth; being homesick and solitary, he enjoyed
told his story, sure of sympathy; for even in prosaic
Yankeedom he had found it, as travellers find Alpine
flowers among the snow.
It was a simple story of a laborious boyhood, being
early left an orphan, with a little sister dependent on him,
till an opening in America tempted him to leave her, and
come to try and earn a home for her and for himself.
Sickness, misfortune, and disappointment had been his
companions for a year; but he still worked, still hoped,
and waited for the happy hour when little Ulla should
come to him across the sea. This was all; yet as he
told it, with the magical accompaniments of gesture,
look, and tone, it seemed full of pathos and romance to
his listeners, whose faces proved their interest more flatteringly
than their words.
Mrs. Ward mended the torn coat with motherly zeal,
and gave it many of those timely stitches which thrifty
women love to sew. The young folks devoted themselves
to their guest, each in a characteristic manner. Dick, as
host, offered every article of refreshment the house
afforded, goaded the fire to a perpetual roar, and discussed
gymnastics, with bursts of boyish admiration for the
grace and skill of his new leader, whom he christened
King of Clubs on the spot. Dolly made the stranger one
of them at once by talking bad German, as an offset to
his bad English, and unconsciously symbolized his future
bondage by giving him a tangled skein to hold for the
furtherance of her mother's somewhat lengthened job.
The Cupid of the present day was undoubtedly “raised”
in Connecticut; for the ingenuity and shrewdness of that
small personage could have sprung from no other soil. In
Colin bleated forth his passion in rhyme, and cast sheep's
eyes from among his flock, while Phyllis coquetted with
her crook and stuck posies in his hat; royal Ferdinand
and Miranda played at chess; Ivanhoe upset his fellowmen
like nine-pins for love of lackadaisical Rowena; and
“sweet Moll” turned the pages while her lover, Milton,
sang. But in our day, the jolly little god, though still a
heathen in the severe simplicity of his attire, has become
modernized in his arts, and invented huskings, apple-bees,
sleigh-rides, “dropins,” gymnastics, and, among his finer
snares, the putting on of skates, drawing of patterns, and
holding skeins, — the last-named having superior advantages
over the others, as all will testify who have enjoyed
one of those hand-to-hand skirmishes.
August Bopp was three-and-twenty, imaginative, grateful
and heart-whole; therefore, when he found himself
sitting opposite a blooming little damsel, with a head
bound by a pretty red snood bent down before him, and
very close to his own a pair of distracting hands, every
finger of which had a hit to make, and made it, it is not
to be denied that he felt himself entering upon a new and
very agreeable experience. Where could he look but in
the face opposite, sometimes so girlishly merry and sometimes
so beautifully shy? It was a winning face, full of
smooth curves, fresh colors, and sunshiny twinkles, — a
face every one liked, for it was as changeful as an April
day, and always pleasant, whether mischievous, mournful
or demure.
Like one watching a new picture, Mr. Bopp inspected
every feature of the countenance so near his own; and
as his admiration “grew by what it fed on,” he fell into
Like one watching a new picture, Mr. Bopp inspected every feature of the countenance so dear to his own.—Page 108.
[Description: 442EAF. Image of Mr. Bopp holding the yarn for Mrs. Bopp and staring at her intently. She is looking down towards the floor where the dog is sitting.]
were very kind, the smooth cheeks reflected a pretty
shade of his own crimson, and the smiling lips seemed
constantly suggesting, with mute eloquence, that they
were made for kissing, while the expressive hands picked
at the knots till August felt like a very resigned fly in
the web of a most enticing young spider.
If the King of Clubs saw a comely face, the Queen of
Hearts saw what observing girls call a “good face”;
and with a womanly respect for strength, the manliest
attribute of man, she admired the broad shoulders and
six feet one of her new master. This face was not handsome,
for, true to his fatherland, Bopp had an eminent
nose, a blonde beard, and a crop of “bonnie brown hair”
long enough to have been gathered into a ribbon, as in
the days of Schiller and Jean Paul; but Dolly liked it,
for its strength was tempered with gentleness; patience
and courage gave it dignity, and the glance that met her
own was both keen and kind.
The silk was wound at last, — the coat repaired. Dick
with difficulty concealed the growing stiffness of his
shoulders, while Dolly turned up the lamp, which bluntly
hinted bedtime, and Mrs. Ward successfully devoured
six gapes behind her hand, but was detected in the
seventh by Mr. Bopp, who glanced at the clock, stopped
in the middle of a sentence, and, with a hurried “gootnight,”
made for the door without the least idea whither
he was going. Piloted by Dick, he was installed in the
“best chamber,” where his waking dreams were enlivened
by a great fire, and his sleeping ones by an endless
succession of skeins, each rapturously concluded in the
style of Sam Weller when folding carpets with the pretty
maid.
“I tell you, Dolly, it won't do, and I'm not going to
have it.”
“Oh, indeed; and how will you help it, you absurd
boy?”
“Why, if you don't stop it, I'll just say to Bopp, —
`Look here, my dear fellow; this sister of mine is a
capital girl, but she will flirt, and' — ”
“Add it's a family failing, Dick,” cut in Dolly.
“Not a bit of it. I shall say, `Take care of your
heart, Bopp, for she has a bad habit of playing battledore
and shuttlecock with these articles; and, though it
may be very good fun for a time, it makes them ache when
they get a last knock and are left to lie in a corner.”'
“What eloquence! But you'd never dare to try it on
Mr. Bopp; and I shouldn't like to predict what would
happen to you if you did.”
“If you say `dare,' I'll do it the first minute I see
him. As for consequences, I don't care that for 'em;”
and Dick snapped his fingers with an aspect of much
disdain. But something in his sister's face suggested the
wisdom of moderation, and moved him to say, less like a
lord of creation, and more like a brother who privately
adored his sister, but of course was not going to acknowledge
such a weakness, —
“Well, but soberly, now, I wish you wouldn't plague
Bopp; for it's evident to me that he is hit; and from the
way you've gone on these two months, what else was to
be expected? Now, as the head of the family, — you
needn't laugh, for I am, — I think I ought to interfere;
and so I put it to you, — do you like him, and will you
have him? or are you merely amusing yourself, as you
like him, all serene. I'd rather have him for a brother
than any one I know, for he's a regular trump, though he
is poor; but if you don't, I won't have the dear old fellow
floored just because you like to see it done.”
It may here be remarked that Dolly quite glowed to hear
her brother praise Mr. Bopp, and that she endorsed every
word with mental additions of double warmth; but Dick
had begun all wrong, and, manlike, demanded her confidence
before she had made up her mind to own she had
any to bestow; therefore nothing came of it but vexation
of spirit; for it is a well-known fact that, on some
subjects, if boys will tease girls will fib, and both maintain
that it is right. So Dolly whetted her feminine
weapon, and assumed a lofty superiority.
“Dear me! what a sudden spasm of virtue; and why,
if it is such a sin, has not the `head of the house' taken
his sister to task before, instead of indulging in a like
degeneracy, and causing several interesting persons to
tear their hair, and bewail his forgetfulness, when they
ought to have blessed their stars he was out of the way?”
Dick snow-balled a dozing crow and looked nettled; for
he had attained that age when “Tom Brown at Oxford”
was the book of books, the twelfth chapter being the
favorite, and five young ladies having already been
endowed with the significant heliotrope flower, — all of
which facts Dolly had skilfully brought to mind, as a
return-shot for his somewhat personal remarks.
“Bah! they were only girls, and it don't amount to
anything among us young folks; but Bopp is a grown
man, and you ought to respect him too much to play
such pranks with him. Besides, he's a German, and
can see by the way he acts when you snub him. He is
proud, too, for all his meekness, and waits till he's sure
you like him before he says anything; and he'll need the
patience of a family of Jobs at the rate you're going on,
— a honey-pot one day and a pickle-jar the next. Do
make up your mind, and say yes or no, right off, Dolly.”
“Would you have me meet him at the door with a
meck courtesy, and say, `Oh, if you please, I'm ready to
say, Yes, thank you, if you'll be good enough to say,
Will you'?”
“Don't be a goose, child; you know I mean nothing
of the kind; only you girls never will do anything
straight ahead if you can dodge and fuss and make a
mess of it. Just tell me one thing: Do you, or don't
you, like old Bopp?”
“What an elegant way to put it! Of course I like
him well enough as a leader; he is clever, and sort of
cunning, and I enjoy his funny ways; but what in the
world should I do with a great yellow-haired laddie who
could put me in his pocket, and yet is so meek that I
should never find the heart to hen-peck him? You are
welcome to him; and since you love him so much, there's
no need of my troubling myself on his account; for with
you for a friend, he can have no earthly wish ungratified.”
“Don't try to be cutting, Dolly, because you look
homely when you do, and it's a woman's business to be
pretty always. All I've got to say is, you will be
in a nice state of mind if you damage Bopp; for every
one likes him, and will be down upon you for a heartless
little wretch; and I shan't blame them, I promise you.”
“I wish the town wouldn't put its fingers in other
and all I have to say is, that you men have more
liberty than you know what to do with, and we women
haven't enough; so it's perfectly fair that we should show
you the worth of the thing by taking it away now and
then. I shall do exactly as I please: dance, walk, ride
and flirt, whenever and with whomever I see fit; and the
whole town, with Mr. Dick Ward at their head, can't
stop me if I choose to go on. Now then, what next?”
After which declaration of independence Dolly folded
her arms and wheeled about and faced her brother, a spirited
statuette of Self-Will, in a red hood and mittens.
Dick sternly asked, —
“Is that your firm decision, ma'am?”
“Yes.”
“And you will not give up your nonsense?”
“No.”
“You are quite sure you don't care for Bopp?”
“I could slap him with all my heart.”
“Very good. I shall see that you don't get a chance.”
“I wouldn't try a skirmish, for you'll get beaten,
Dick.”
“We'll prove that, ma'am.”
“We will, sir.”
And the belligerents loftily paced up the lawn, with
their purpose so well expressed by outward signs that
Mrs. Ward knew, by the cock of Dick's hat and the
decided tap of Dolly's heels, that a storm was brewing,
before they entered the door.
This fraternal conversation took place some two
months from the evening of Mr. Bopp's advent, as the
young folks were strolling home from school, which school
remarks. It was an excellent institution in all
respects; for its presiding genius stood high in the townfolks'
esteem, and might have served as an example to
Dr. Watts' “busy bee,” in the zeal with which he improved
his “shining hours,” and laid up honey against
the winter, which many hoped would be long in coming.
All manner of aids were provided for sprouting souls and
bodies, diversions innumerable, and the best society. But,
sad to relate, in spite of all these blessings, the students
who resorted to this academy possessed an Adam-and-Eve-like
proclivity for exactly what they hadn't got and
didn't need; and, not contented with the pleasures provided,
must needs play truant with that young scamp
Eros, and turn the ancient town topsy-turvy with modern
innovations, till scandalized spinsters predicted that the
very babies would catch the fever, refuse their panada in
jealous gloom, send billets-doux in their rattles, elope in
wicker-carriages, and set up housekeeping in dolls' houses,
after the latest fashion.
Certain inflammable Southerners introduced the new
game, and left such romantic legends of their loves behind
them that their successors were fired with an ambition to
do the like, and excel in all things, from cricket to
captivation.
This state of things is not to be wondered at; for
America, being renowned as a “fast” nation, has become
a sort of hot-bed, and seems to force humanity into early
bloom. Therefore, past generations must not groan over
the sprightly present, but sit in the chimney-corner and
see boys and girls play the game which is too apt to end
in a checkmate for one of the players. To many of the
puppet-show; for, with the enthusiasm of youth, the
actors performed their parts heartily, forgetting the audience
in their own earnestness. Bless us! what revolutions
went on under the round jackets, and what
love-tokens lay in the pockets thereof. What plots and
counterplots occupied the heads that wore the innocent-looking
snoods, and what captives were taken in the
many-colored nets that would come off and have to be
taken care of. What romances blossomed like dandelions
along the road to school, and what tales the river might
have told if any one could have learned its musical
speech. How certain gates were glorified by daily lingerings
thereat, and what tender memories hung about
dingy desks, old pens, and books illustrated with all manner
of symbolical designs.
Let those laugh who will: older and wiser men and
women might have taken lessons of these budding heroes
and heroines; for here all was honest, sincere, and fresh;
the old world had not taught them falsehood, self-interest,
or mean ambitions. When they lost or won, they frankly
grieved or rejoiced, and wore no masks except in play,
and then got them off as soon as possible. If blue-eyed
Lizzie frowned, or went home with Joe, Ned, with a wisdom
older lovers would do well to imitate, went in for
another game of foot-ball, gave the rejected apple to little
Sally, and whistled “Glory Hallelujah” instead of
“Annie Laurie,” which was better than blowing a rival's
brains out, or glowering at womankind forever after.
Or, when Tom put on Clara's skates three successive
days, and danced with her three successive evenings,
leaving Kitty to freeze her feet in the one instance and
gave her mother an extra kiss, and waited till the recreant
Tom returned to his allegiance, finding his little friend a
sweetheart in nature as in name.
Dick and Dolly were foremost in the ranks, and expert
in all the new amusements. Dick worshipped at many
shrines, but most faithfully at that of a meek divinity,
who returned charming answers to the ardent epistles
which he left in her father's garden wall, where, Pyramus
and Thisbe-like, they often chatted through a chink; and
Dolly was seldom seen without a staff of aids who would
have “fought, bled, and died” for her as cheerfully as
the Little Corporal's Old Guard, though she paid them
only in words; for her Waterloo had not yet come.
With the charming perversity of her sex in such
matters, no sooner had Dolly declared that she didn't
like Mr. Bopp, than she began to discover that she did;
and so far from desiring “to slap him,” a tendency to
regard him with peculiar good-will and tenderness developed
itself, much to her own surprise; for with all her
coquetry and seeming coldness, Dolly had a right
womanly heart of her own, though she had never
acknowledged the fact till August Bopp looked at her
with so much love and longing in his honest eyes.
Then she found a little fear mingling with her regard,
felt a strong desire to be respected by him, discovered a
certain something which she called conscience, restraining
a reckless use of her power, and, soon after her lofty
denial to Dick, was forced to own that Mr. Bopp had
that came in with Adam and Eve, and have kept all
creation turning somersets ever since. Of course these
discoveries were unconfessed, even to that best bosom
friend which any of us can have; yet her mother suspected
them, and, with much anxiety, saw all, yet held
her peace, knowing that her little daughter would, sooner
or later, give her a fuller confidence than could be demanded;
and remembering the happiest moments of her
own happy past, when an older Dick wooed another
Dolly, she left that flower, which never can be forced, to
open at its own sweet will.
Meanwhile, Mr. Bopp, though carrying his heart upon
his sleeve, believed his secret buried in the deepest gloom,
and enjoyed all the delightful miseries lovers insist upon
making for themselves. When Dolly was quiet or absent,
he became pensive, the lesson dragged, and people fancied
they were getting tired of the humbug; when Dolly
was blithe and bland, he grew radiant, exercised within
an inch of his life as a vent for his emotions, and people
went home declaring gymnastics to be the crowning triumph
of the age; and when Dolly was capricious, Mr.
Bopp became a bewildered weathercock, changing as the
wind changed, and dire was the confusion occasioned
thereby.
Like the sage fowl in the story, Dick said nothing, but
“kept up a terrible thinking,” and, not having had experience
enough to know that when a woman says No she
is very apt to mean Yes, he took Dolly at her word.
Believing it to be his duty to warn “Old Bopp,” he
resolved to do it like a Roman brother, regardless of his
own feelings or his sister's wrath, quite unconscious that
the young person who ruled every one else.
Matters stood thus, when the town was electrified by
a general invitation to the annual jubilee at Jollyboys
Hall, which this spring flowered into a masquerade, and
filled the souls of old and young with visions of splendor,
frolic and fun. Being an amiable old town, it gave
itself up, like a kind grandma, to the wishes of its children,
let them put its knitting away, disturb its naps, keep
its hands busy with vanities of the flesh, and its mind in a
state of chaos for three mortal weeks. Young ladies were
obscured by tarlatan fogs, behind which they concocted
angels' wings, newspaper gowns, Minnehaha's wampum,
and Cinderella's slippers. Inspired but incapable boys
undertook designs that would have daunted a costumer
of the first water, fell into sloughs of despond, and,
emerging, settled down from peers and paladins into
jovial tars, friar waterproofs, and officers in miscellaneous
uniforms. Fathers laughed or grumbled at the whole
thing, and advanced pecuniary loans with good or ill
grace, as the case might be; but the mothers, whose
interest in their children's pleasure is a sort of evergreen
that no snows of time can kill, sewed spangles by the
bushel, made wildernesses of tissue-paper blossom as the
rose, kept tempers sweet, stomachs full, and domestic
machinery working smoothly through it all, by that maternal
magic which makes them the human providences
of this naughty world.
“What shall I go as?” was the universal cry. Garrets
were taken by storm, cherished relics were teased out of
old ladies' lavendered chests (happy she who saw them
again!), hats were made into boots, gowns into doublets,
plumage, silken cauliflowers sown broadcast over the
land, and cocked-up caps erected in every style of architecture,
while “Tag, Rag, and Bobtail” drove a smashing
business, and everybody knew what everybody else
was going to be, and solemnly vowed they didn't, —
which transparent falsehood was the best joke of the
whole.
Dolly allowed her mates to believe she was to be the
Queen of Hearts, but privately laid hold of certain
brocades worn by a trim grandmother half a century
ago, and one evening burst upon her brother in a charming
“Little Bo-Peep” costume, which, for the benefit of
future distressed damsels, may be described as a white
silk skirt, scarlet overdress, “neatly bundled up behind,”
as ancient ladies expressed it, blue hose with red clocks,
high-heeled shoes with silver buckles, a nosegay in the
tucker, and a fly-way hat perched on the top of black
curls, which gave additional archness to Dolly's face as
she entered, singing that famous ditty.
Dick surveyed her with approval, turning her about
like a lay figure, and expressing his fraternal opinion
that she was “the sauciest little turnout he ever saw,”
and then wet-blanketed the remark by adding, “Of
course you don't call it a disguise, do you? and don't
flatter yourself that you won't be known; for Dolly
Ward is as plainly written in every curl, bow, and
gimcrack, as if you wore a label on your back.”
“Then I shan't wear it”; and off went the hat at one
fell blow, as Dolly threw her crook in one corner, her
posy in another, and sat down an image of despair.
“Now don't be a goose, and rip everything to bits;
then, when you've had fun enough, take it off and do the
pretty. It will make two rigs, you see, and bother the
boys to your heart's content.”
“Dick, I insist upon kissing you for that brilliant suggestion;
and then you may run and get me eight yards
of cambric, just the color of Fan's; but if you tell any
one, I'll keep her from dancing with you the whole
evening;” with which bribe and threat Dolly embraced
her brother, and shut the door in his face, while he,
putting himself in good humor by imagining she was
somebody else, departed on his muddy mission.
If the ghosts of the first settlers had taken their walks
abroad on the eventful Friday night, they would have
held up their shadowy hands at the scenes going on under
their venerable noses; for strange figures flitted through
the quiet streets, and, instead of decorous slumber, there
was decidedly —
“A sound of revelry by night.”
Spurs clanked and swords rattled over the frosty
ground, as if the British were about to make another
flying call; hooded monks and nuns paced along, on
carnal thoughts intent; ancient ladies and bewigged
gentlemen seemed hurrying to enjoy a social cup of tea,
and groan over the tax; barrels staggered and stuck
through narrow ways, as if temperance were still among
the lost arts, while bears, apes, imps and elves pattered
or sparkled by, as if a second Walpurgis Night had
come, and all were bound for Blocksberg.
“Hooray for the rooster!” shouted Young Ireland,
encamped on the sidewalk to see the show, as Mephistopheles'
he left a pink domino at the ladies' dressing-room door,
with the brief warning, “Now cut your own capers and
leave me to mine,” adding, as he paused a moment at
the great door, —
“By Jove! isn't it a jolly sight, though?”
And so it was; for a mammoth boot stood sentinel at
the entrance; a Bedouin Arab leaned on his spear in one
corner, looking as if ready to say, —
“Fly to the desert, fly with me,”
irreproachable legs, settled his plumage in another, still
undecided to which Ophelia he would first address —
“The honey of his music vows.”
that would have filled that stout potentate with respectful
admiration, while Queen Katherine flirted with a Fire
Zouave. Alcibiades whisked Mother Goose about the
room till the old lady's conical hat tottered on her head,
and the Union held fast to a very little Mac. Flocks of
friars, black, white and gray, pervaded the hall, with
flocks of ballet-girls, intended to represent peasants, but
failing for lack of drapery; morning and evening stars
rose or set, as partners willed; lively red demons
harassed meek nuns, and knights of the Leopard, the
Lion, or Griffin, flashed by, looking heroically uncomfortable
in their gilded cages; court ladies promenaded
with Jack-tars, and dukes danced with dairy-maids, while
Brother Jonathan whittled, Aunt Dinah jabbered, Ingomar
and vigorously jolly.
“Ach himmel! Das ist wunder schön!” murmured a
tall, gray monk, looking in, and quite unconscious that
he spoke aloud.
“Hullo, Bopp! I thought you weren't coming,” cried
Mephistopheles in an emphatic whisper.
“Ah, I guess you! yes, you are well done. I should
like to be a Faust for you, but I haf no time, no purse
for a dress, so I throw this on, and run up for a hour
or two. Where is, — who is all these people? Do you
know them?”
“The one with the Pope, Fra Diavolo, the telegraph,
and two knights asking her to dance, is Dolly, if that's
what you want to know. Go in and keep it up, Bopp,
while you can; I am off for Fan;” and Mephistopheles
departed over the banisters with a weird agility that delighted
the beholders; while the gray friar stole into a
corner and watched the pink domino for half an hour, at
the end of which time his regards were somewhat confused
by discovering that there were two pink damsels so
like that he could not tell which was the one pointed out
by Dick, and which the new-comer.
“She thinks I will not know her, but I shall go now
and find out for myself;” and, starting into sudden activity,
the gray brother strode up to the nearest pink
lady, bowed, and offered his arm. With a haughty little
gesture of denial to several others, she accepted it, and
they joined the circle of many-colored promenaders that
eddied round the hall. As they went, Mr. Bopp scrutinized
his companion, but saw only a slender figure
resting on his arm.
“I will speak; then her voice will betray her,” he
thought, forgetting that his own was undisguisable.
“Madame, permit me that I fan you, it is so greatly
warm.”
A fan was surrendered with a bow, and the masked
face turned fully towards his own, while the hood trembled
as if its wearer laughed silently.
“Ah, it is you, — I know the eyes, the step, the
laugh. Miss Dolly, did you think you could hide from
me?”
“I did not wish to,” was the whispered answer.
“Did you think I would come?”
“I hoped so.”
“Then you are not displease with me?”
“No; I am very glad; I wanted you.”
The pink head drooped a little nearer, and another
white glove went to meet its mate upon his arm with a
pretty, confiding gesture. Mr. Bopp instantly fell into a
state of bliss, — the lights, music, gay surroundings,
and, more than all, this unwonted demonstration, put the
crowning glory to the moment; and, fired with the hopeful
omen, he allowed his love to silence his prudence, and
lead him to do, then and there, the very thing he had
often resolved never to do at all.
“Ah, Miss Dolly, if you knew how much, how very
much you haf enlarged my happiness, and made this
efening shine for me, you would more often be a little
friendly, for this winter has been all summer to me,
since I knew you and your kind home, and now I haf no
sorrow but that after the next lesson I come no more
here, when so much people are about us, because I cannot
stop it; and you will forgif me that I cannot wait
any longer.”
“Mr. Bopp, please don't, please stop!” began the
pink domino in a hurried whisper. But Mr. Bopp was
not to be stopped. He had dammed up the stream so
long, that now it rushed on fast, full and uncontrollable;
for, leading her into one of the curtained recesses near
by, he sat down beside her, and, still plying the fan,
went on impetuously, —
“I feel to say that I lofe you, and tho' I try to kill it,
my lofe will not die, because it is more strong than my
will, more dear than my pride, for I haf much, and I do
not ask you to be meine Frau till I can gif you more
than my heart and my poor name. But hear now: I
will work, and save, and wait a many years if at the end
you will take all I haf and say, `August, I lofe you.'
Do not laugh at me because I say this in such poor
words; you are my heart's dearest, and I must tell it or
never come again. Speak to me one kind yes, and I will
thank Gott for so much joy.”
The pink domino had listened to this rapid speech
with averted head, and, when it ended, started up, saying
eagerly, “You are mistaken, sir, I am not Dolly;” but
as she spoke her words were belied, for the hasty movement
partially displaced her mask, and Mr. Bopp saw
Dolly's eyes, a lock of dark hair, and a pair of burning
cheeks, before the screen was readjusted. With redoubled
earnestness he held her back, whispering, —
“Do not go mitout the little word, Yes, or No; it is
not much to say.”
“Well then, No!”
“You mean it? Dolly! truly mean it?”
“Yes, let me go at once, sir.”
Mr. Bopp stood up, saying, slowly, — “Yes, go now;
they told me you had no heart; I beliefe it, and thank
you for that No;” then bowed, and walked straight out
of the hall, while the pink domino broke into a fit of
laughter, saying to herself, —
“I've done it! I've done it! but what a piece of work
there'll be to-morrow.”
“Dick, who was that tall creature Fan was parading
with last night? No one knew, and he vanished before
the masks were taken off,” asked Dolly, as she and her
brother lounged in opposite corners of the sofa the
morning after the masquerade, “talking it over.”
“That was old Bopp, Mrs. Peep.”
“Gracious me! why, he said he wasn't coming.”
“People sometimes say what they don't mean, as you
may have discovered.”
“But why didn't he come and speak to a body,
Dick?”
“Better employed, I suppose.”
“Now don't be cross, dear, but tell me all about it,
for I don't understand how you allowed him to monopolize
Fan so.”
“Oh, don't bother, I'm sleepy.”
“No you're not; you look wicked; I know you've
been in mischief, and I insist upon hearing all about it,
so come and tell this instant.”
Dolly proceeded to enforce her command by pulling
away his pillow and dragging her brother into a sitting
posture, in spite of his laughing resistance and evident
desire to exhaust her patience; for Dick excelled in teasing,
and kept his sister in a fidget from morning till
night, with occasional fits of penitence and petting which
lasted till next time. Therefore, though dying to tell, he
was undecided as to the best method of executing that
task in the manner most aggravating to his listener and
most agreeable to himself, and sat regarding her with
twinkling eyes, and his curly pate in a high state of
rumple, trying to appear innocently meek, but failing
signally.
“Now, then, begin,” commanded Dolly.
“Well, if you won't take my head off till I'm done,
I'll tell you the best joke of the season. Are you sure
the pink domino with Bopp wasn't yourself, — for she
looked and acted very like you?”
“Of course I am. I didn't even know he was there,
and think it very rude and ungentlemanly in him not to
come and speak to me. You know it was Fan, so do go
on.”
“But it wasn't, for she changed her mind and wore a
black domino; I saw her put it on myself. Her Cousin
Jack came unexpectedly, and she thought if she altered
her dress and went with him, you wouldn't know her.”
“Who could it have been, Dick?”
“That's the mystery, for, do you know, Bopp proposed
to her.”
“He didn't!” and Dolly flew up with a startled look
that, to adopt a phrase from his own vocabulary, was
“nuts” to her brother.
“Yes he did; I heard him.”
“When, where, and how?”
“In one of those flirtation boxes; they dropped the
curtain, but I heard him do it, on my honor I did.”
“Persons of honor don't listen at curtains and keyholes.
What did they say?”
“Oh, if it wasn't honorable to listen, it isn't to hear;
so I won't tell, though I could not help knowing it.”
“Mercy! don't stop now, or I shall die with curiosity.
I dare say I should have done the same; no one minds
at such a place, you know. But I don't see the joke
yet,” said Dolly dismally.
“I do,” and Dick went off into a shout.
“You idiotic boy, take that pillow out of your mouth,
and tell me the whole thing, — what he said, what she
said, and what they both did. It was all fun, of course,
but I'd like to hear about it.”
“It may have been fun on her part, but it was solemn
earnest on his, for he went it strong I assure you. I'd
no idea the old fellow was so sly, for he appeared
smashed with you, you know, and there he was finishing
up with this unknown lady. I wish you could have
heard him go on, with tears in his eyes — ”
“How do you know, if you didn't see him?”
“Oh, well, that's only a figure of speech; I thought
so from his voice. He was ever so tender, and took to
Dutch when English was too cool for him. It was
really touching, for I never heard a fellow do it before;
and, upon my word, I should think it was rather a tough
job to say that sort of thing to a pretty woman, mask or
no mask.”
“What did she say?” asked Dolly, with her hands
lips.
“She said No, as short as pie-crust; and when he
rushed out with his heart broken all to bits, apparently,
she just burst out laughing, and went and polked at a
two-forty pace for half an hour.”
Dora unclasped her hands, took a long breath, and
cried out, —
“She was a wicked, heartless hussy! and if I know
her, I'll never speak to her again; for if he was really
in earnest, she ought to be killed for laughing at him.”
“So ought you, then, for making fun of poor Fisher
when he went down on his knees behind the berry bushes
last summer. He was earnest enough, for he looked as
blue as his berries when he got home. Your theory is
all right, ma'am, but your practice is all bosh.”
“Hold your tongue about that silly thing. Boys in
college think they know everything, can do everything,
have everything, and only need beckon, and all womankind
will come and adore. It made a man of him, and
he'll thank me for taking the sentimental nonsense and
conceit out of him. You will need just such a lesson at
the rate you go on, and I hope Fan will give it to you.”
“When the lecture is over, I'll go on with the joke, if
you want to know it.”
“Isn't this all?”
“Oh, bless you, no! the cream of it is to come.
What would you give to know who the lady was?”
“Five dollars, down, this minute.”
“Very good, hand 'em over, and I'll tell you.”
“Truly, Dick?”
“Yes, and prove it.”
Dolly produced her purse, and, bill in hand, sat waiting
for the disclosure. Dick rose with a melo-dramatic
bow, —
“Lo, it was I.”
“That's a great fib, for I saw you flying about the
whole evening.”
“You saw my dress, but I was not in it.”
“Oh! oh! who did I keep going to, then? and what
did I do to make a fool of myself, I wonder?”
Purse and bill dropped out of Dolly's hand, and she
looked at her brother with a distracted expression of
countenance. Dick rubbed his hands and chuckled.
“Here's a jolly state of things! Now I'll tell you the
whole story. I never thought of doing it till I saw Bopp
and told him who you were; but on my way for Fan I
wondered if he'd get puzzled between you two; and then
a grand idea popped into my head to puzzle him myself,
for I can take you off to the life. Fan didn't want me
to, but I made her, so she lent me hoops, and gown, and
the pink domino, and if ever I thanked my stars I wasn't
tall, I did then, for the things fitted capitally as to length,
though I kept splitting something down the back, and scattering
hooks and eyes in all directions. I wish you
could have heard Jack roar while they rigged me. He
had no dress, so I lent him mine, till just before the
masks were taken off, when we cut home and changed.
He told me how you kept running to him to tie up your
slippers, find your fan, and tell him funny things, thinking
it was me. I never enjoyed anything so much in my
life.”
“Go on,” said Dolly, in a breathless sort of voice, and
the deluded boy obeyed.
“I knew Bopp, and hovered near till he came to find
out who I was. I took you off in style, and it deceived
him, for I'm only an inch or two taller than you, and
kept my head down in the lackadaisical way you girls
do; I whispered, so my voice didn't betray me; and
was very clinging, and sweet, and fluttery, and that
blessed old goose was sure it was you. I thought it was
all over once, for when he came the heavy in the recess
I got a bit flustered, he was so serious about it, my
mask slipped, but I caught it, so he only saw my eyes
and forehead, which are just like yours, and that finished
him, for I've no doubt I looked as red and silly as you
would have done in a like fix.”
“Why did you say No?” and Dolly looked as stern
as fate.
“What else should I say? You told me you wouldn't
have him, and I thought it would save you the bother of
saying it, and him the pain of asking twice. I told him
some time ago that you were a born flirt; he said he
knew it; so I was surprised to hear him go on at such a
rate, but supposed that I was too amiable, and that
misled him. Poor old Bopp, I kept thinking of him all
night, as he looked when he said, `They told me you had
no heart, now I believe it, and I thank you for that No.'
It was rather a hard joke for him, but it's over now, and
he won't have to do it again. You said I wouldn't dare
tell him about you; didn't I? and haven't I won the —”
The rest of the sentence went spinning dizzily through
Dick's head, as a sudden tingling sensation pervaded his
left ear, followed by a similar smart in the right; and,
for a moment, chaos seemed to have come again. Whatever
Dolly did was thoroughly done: when she danced,
it was warm work while it lasted; and when she was
angry, it thundered, lightened, and blew great guns till
the shower came, and the whole affair ended in a rainbow.
Therefore, being outwitted, disappointed, mortified
and hurt, her first impulse was to find a vent for
these conflicting emotions; and possessing skilful hands,
she left them to avenge the wrong done her heart, which
they did so faithfully, that if ever a young gentleman's
ears were vigorously and completely boxed, Dick was
that young individual. As the thunder-clap ceased, the
gale began, and blew steadily for several minutes.
“You think it a joke, do you? I tell you it's a
wicked, cruel thing; you've told a lie; you've broken
August's heart, and made me so angry that I'll never
forgive you as long as I live. What do you know about
my feelings? and how dare you take it upon yourself to
answer for me? You think because we are nearly the
same age that I am no older than you, but you're mistaken,
for a boy of eighteen is a boy, a girl of seventeen
is often a woman, with a woman's hopes and plans; you
don't understand this any more than you do August's love
for me, which you listened to and laughed at. I said I
didn't like him, and I didn't find out till afterward that I
did; then I was afraid to tell you, lest you'd twit me
with it. But now I care for no one, and I say I do like
him, — yes, I love him with all my heart, and soul, and
might, and I'd die this minute if I could undo the harm
you've done, and see him happy! I know I've been
selfish, vain, and thoughtless, but I am not now; I hoped
he'd love me, hoped he'd see I cared for him, that I'd
done trifling, and didn't mind if he was poor, for I'd
after all his troubles; that I'd send for the little sister he
loves so well, and never let him suffer any more; for he
is so good, so patient, so generous, and dear to me, I
cannot do enough for him. Now it's all spoilt; now I
can never tell him this, never comfort him in any way,
never be happy again all my life, and you have done it!”
As Dolly stood before her brother, pouring out her
words with glittering eyes, impetuous voice, and face
pale with passionate emotion, he was scared; for, as his
scattered wits returned to him, he felt that he had been
playing with edge-tools, and had cut and slashed in rather
a promiscuous manner. Dazed and dizzy, he sat staring
at the excited figure before him, forgetting the indignity
he had received, the mistake he had made, the damage
he had done, in simple wonder at the revolutions going
on under his astonished eyes. When Dolly stopped for
breath, he muttered with a contrite look, —
“I'm very sorry, — it was only fun; and I thought it
would help you both, for how the deuce should I know
you liked the man when you said you hated him?”
“I never said that, and if I'd wanted advice I should
have gone to mother. You men go blundering off with
half an idea in your heads, and never see your stupidity
till you have made a mess that can't be mended; we
women don't work so, but save people's feelings, and are
called hypocrites for our pains. I never meant to tell
you, but I will now, to show you how I've been serving
you, while you've been harming me: every one of those
notes from Fan which you admire so much, answer so
carefully, and wear out in your pocket, though copied by
her, were written by me.”
“The dickins they were!” Up flew Dick, and clapping
his hand on the left-breast pocket, out came a dozen
pink notes tied up with a blue ribbon, and much the
worse for wear. He hastily turned them over as Dolly
went on.
“Yes, I did it, for she didn't know how to answer
your notes, and came to me. I didn't laugh at them, or
make fun of her, but helped her silly little wits, and made
you a happy boy for three months, though you teased me
day and night, for I loved you, and hadn't the heart to
spoil your pleasure.”
“You've done it now with a vengeance, and you're a
pair of deceitful minxes. I've paid you off. I'll give
Fan one more note that will keep her eyes red for a
month; and I'll never love or trust a girl again as long
as I live, — never! never!”
Red with wrath, Dick threw the treasured packet into
the fire, punched it well down among the coals, flung
away the poker, and turned about with a look and gesture
which would have been very comical if they had not
been decidedly pathetic, for, in spite of his years, a very
tender heart beat under the blue jacket, and it was grievously
wounded at the perfidy of the gentle little divinity
whom he worshipped with daily increasing ardor. His
eyes filled, but he winked resolutely; his lips trembled,
but he bit them hard; his hands doubled themselves up,
but he remembered his adversary was a woman; and, as
a last effort to preserve his masculine dignity, he began
to whistle.
As if the inconsistencies of womankind were to be
shown him as rapidly as possible, at this moment the
shower came on; for, taking him tenderly about the neck,
rigidly erect till a great tear dropped off the end of his
nose, Dick gave in, and laying his head on Dolly's
shoulder, the brother and sister quenched their anger,
washed away their malice, and soothed their sorrow by
one of those natural processes so kindly provided for
poor humanity, and so often despised as a weakness when
it might prove a better strength than any pride.
Dick cleared up first, with no sign of the tempest but
a slight mist through which his native sunshine glimmered
pensively.
“Don't, dear, don't cry so; it will make you sick, and
won't do any good, for things will come right, or I'll
make 'em, and we'll be comfortable all round.”
“No, we never can be as we were, and it's all my
fault. I've betrayed Fan's confidence, I've spoiled your
little romance, I've been a thoughtless, wicked girl, I've
lost August; and, oh, dear me, I wish I was dead!”
with which funereal climax Dolly cried despairingly.
“Oh, come now, don't be dismal, and blame yourself
for every trouble under the sun. Sit down and talk it
over, and see what can be done. Poor old girl, I forgive
you the notes, and say I was wrong to meddle with Bopp.
I got you into the scrape, and I'll get you out if the sky
don't fall, or Bopp blow his brains out, like a second
Werther, before to-morrow.”
Dick drew the animated fountain to the wide chair,
where they had sat together since they were born, wiped
her eyes, and patted her back, with an idea that it was
soothing to babies, and why not to girls?
“I wish mother was at home,” sighed Dolly, longing
for that port which was always a haven of refuge in
domestic squalls like this.
“Write, and tell her not to stay till Saturday.”
“No; it would spoil her visit, and you know she
deferred it to help us through this dreadful masquerade.
But I don't know what to do.”
“Why, bless your heart, it's simple enough. I'll tell
Bopp, beg his pardon, say `Dolly's willing,' and there
you are all taut and ship-shape again.”
“I wouldn't for the world, Dick. It would be very
hard for you, very awkward for me, and do no good in
the end; for August is so proud he'd never forgive you
for such a trick, would never believe that I `had a heart'
after all you've said and I've done; and I should only
hear with my own ears that he thanked me for that No.
Oh, why can't people know when they are in love, and
not go heels over head before they are ready!”
“Well, if that don't suit, I'll let it alone, for that is all
I can suggest; and if you like your woman's way better,
try it, only you'll have to fly round, because to-morrow is
the last night, you know.”
“I shan't go, Dick.”
“Why not? we are going to give him the rosewood
set of things, have speeches, cheers for the King of
Clubs, and no end of fun.”
“I can't help it; there would be no fun for me, and I
couldn't look him in the face after all this.”
“Oh, pooh! yes you could, or it will be the first time
you dared not do damage with those wicked eyes of
yours.”
“It is the first time I ever loved any one.” Dolly's
this brief confession was apparently put away in Dick's
pocket; and, being an exceedingly novel one, filled
that ardent youth with a desire to deposit a similar
one in the other pocket, which, being emptied of its
accustomed contents, left a somewhat aching void in itself
and the heart underneath. After a moment's silence, he
said, —
“Well, if you won't go, you can settle it when he
comes here, though I think we should all do better to
confess coming home in the dark.”
“He won't come here again, Dick.”
“Won't he! that shows you don't know Bopp as well as
I. He'll come to say good-by, to thank mother for her
kindness, and you and me for the little things we've done
for him (I wish I'd left the last undone!), and go away
like a gentleman, as he is, — see if he don't.”
“Do you think so? Then I must see him.”
“I'm sure he will, for we men don't bear malice and
sulk and bawl when we come to grief this way, but stand
up and take it without winking, like the young Spartan
brick when the fox was digging into him, you know.”
“Then of course you'll forgive Fan.”
“I'll be hanged if I do,” growled Dick.
“Ah ha! your theory is very good, sir, but your practice
is bosh,” quoted Dolly, with a gleam of the old mischief
in her face.
Dick took a sudden turn through the room, burst out
laughing, and came back, saying heartily, —
“I'll own up; it is mean to feel so, and I'll think about
forgiving you both; but she may stop up the hole in the
wall, for she won't get any more letters just yet; and you
Well, what is it? free your mind, and have done with it;
but don't make your nose red, or take the starch out of
my collar with any more salt water, if you please.”
“No, I won't; and I only want to say that, as you
owe the explanation to us both, perhaps it would be best
for you to tell August your part of the thing as you come
home to-morrow, and then leave the rest to fate. I can't
let him go away thinking me such a heartless creature,
and once gone it will be too late to mend the matter.
Can you do this without getting me into another scrape,
do you think?”
“I haven't a doubt of it, and I call that sensible. I'll
fix it capitally, — go down on my knees in the mud, if it
is necessary; treat you like eggs for fear of another
smash-up; and bring him home in such a tip-top state,
you'll only have to nod and find yourself Mrs. B. any
day you like. Now let's kiss and be friends, and then
go pitch into that pie for luncheon.”
So they did; and an hour afterward were rioting in
the garret under pretence of putting grandma's things
away; for at eighteen, in spite of love and mischief, boys
and girls have a spell to exorcise blue devils, and a happy
faculty of forgetting that “the world is hollow, and their
dolls stuffed with sawdust.”
Dick was right, for on the following evening, after the
lesson, Mr. Bopp did go home with him, “to say good-by,
like a gentleman as he was.” Dolly got over the first
greeting in the dusky hall, and as her guest passed on to
the parlor, she popped her head out to ask anxiously, —
“Did you say anything, Dick?”
“I couldn't; something has happened to him; he'll
your time, and do what you like;” with which vague
information Dick vanished, and Dolly wished herself anywhere
but where she was.
Mr. Bopp sat before the fire, looking so haggard and
worn-out that the girl's conscience pricked her sorely for
her part in the change; but plucking up her courage, she
stirred briskly among the tea-cups, asking, —
“What shall I give you, sir?”
“Thank you, I haf no care to eat.”
Something in his spiritless mien and sorrowful voice
made Dolly's eyes fill; but knowing she must depend
upon herself now, and make the best of her position, she
said kindly, yet nervously, —
“You look tired: let me do something for you if I
can; shall I sing for you a little? you once said music
rested you.”
“You are kind; I could like that I think. Excoose
me if I am dull, I haf, — yes, a little air if you please.”
More and more disturbed by his absent, troubled manner,
Dolly began a German song he had taught her, but
before the first line was sung he stopped her with an
imploring, —
“For Gott sake not that! I cannot hear it this night;
it was the last I sung her in the Vaterland.”
“Mr. Bopp, what is it? Dick says you have a trouble;
tell me, and let us help you if we can. Are you
ill, in want, or has any one injured you in any way?
Oh, let me help you!”
Tears had been streaming down Mr. Bopp's cheeks,
but as she spoke he checked them, and tried to answer
steadily, —
“No, I am not ill; I haf no wants now, and no one
has hurt me but in kindness; yet I haf so great a grief,
I could not bear it all alone, and so I came to ask a little
sympathy from your good Mutter, who has been kind
to me as if I was a son. She is not here, and I thought
I would stop back my grief; but that moosic was too
much; you pity me, and so I tell you. See, now! when
I find things go bright with me, and haf a hope of much
work, I take the little store I saved, I send it to my
friend Carl Hoffman, who is coming from my home, and
say, `Bring Ulla to me now, for I can make life go well
to her, and I am hungry till I haf her in my arms again.'
I tell no one, for I am bold to think that one day I come
here with her in my hand, to let her thank you in her so
sweet way for all you haf done for me. Well, I watch
the wind, I count the days, I haf no rest for joy; and
when Carl comes, I fly to him. He gifs me back my
store, he falls upon my neck and does not speak, then I
know my little girl will never come, for she has gone to
Himmel before I could make a home for her on earth.
Oh, my Ulla! it is hard to bear;” and poor Mr. Bopp
covered his face, and laid it down on his empty plate, as
if he never cared to lift it up again.
Then Dolly forgot herself in her great sympathy, and,
going to him, she touched the bent head with a soothing
hand; let her tears flow to comfort his; and whispered
in her tenderest voice, —
“Dear Mr. Bopp, I wish I could cure this sorrow, but
as I cannot, let me bear it with you; let me tell you how
we loved the little child, and longed to see her; how we
should have rejoiced to know you had so dear a friend to
make your life happy in this strange land; how we shall
and love for you. I cannot say this as I ought, but, oh,
be comforted, for you will see the child again, and,
remembering that she waits for you, you will be glad to
go when God calls you to meet your Ulla in that other
Fatherland.”
“Ah, I will go now! I haf no wish to stay, for all
my life is black to me. If I had found that other little
friend to fill her place, I should not grieve so much,
because she is weller there above than I could make her
here; but no: I wait for that other one; I save all my
heart for her; I send it, but it comes back to me; then
I know my hope is dead, and I am all alone in the
strange land.”
There was neither bitterness nor reproach in these
broken words, only a patient sorrow, a regretful pain, as
if he saw the two lost loves before him, and uttered over
them an irrepressible lament. It was too much for
Dolly, and with sudden resolution she spoke out fast and
low, —
“Mr. Bopp, that was a mistake. It was not me you
saw at the masque; it was Dick. He played a cruel
trick; he insulted you and wronged me by that deceit,
and I find it very hard to pardon him.”
“What! what is that?” and Mr. Bopp looked up with
tears still shining in his beard, and intense surprise in
every feature of his face.
Dolly turned scarlet, and her heart beat fast as she
repeated with an unsteady voice, —
“It was Dick, not me.”
A cloud swept over Mr. Bopp's face, and he knit his
brows a moment as if Dolly had not been far from right
he spoke in a tone she had never heard before, —
cold and quiet, — and in his eye she thought she read
contempt for her brother and herself:
“I see now, and I say no more but this; it was not
kind when I so trusted you. Yet it is well, for you and
Richart are so one, I haf no doubt he spoke your wish.”
Here was a desperate state of things. Dolly had done
her best, yet he did not, or would not, understand, and
before she could restrain them, the words slipped over
her tongue, —
“No! Dick and I never agree.”
Mr. Bopp started, swept three spoons and a tea-cup off
the table as he turned, for something in the hasty whisper
reassured him. The color sprang up to his cheek, the
old warmth to his eye, the old erectness to his figure, and
the eager accent to his voice. He rose, drew Dolly
nearer, took her face between his hands, and bending,
fixed on her a look tender, yet commanding, as he said,
with an earnestness that stirred her as words had never
done before, —
“Dollee, he said No! do you say Yes?”
She could not speak, but her heart stood up in her
eyes, and answered him so eloquently that he was satisfied.
“Thank the Lord, it's all right!” thought Dick, as,
peeping in at the window ten minutes later, he saw Dolly
enthroned upon Mr. Bopp's knee, both her hands in his,
and an expression in her April countenance which proved
that she found it natural and pleasant to be sitting there,
with her head on the kind heart that loved her; to hear
herself called “meine leibchen”; to know that she alone
place.
“They make a very pretty landscape, but too much
honey isn't good for 'em, so I'll go in, and we'll eat,
drink, and be merry, in honor of the night.”
He rattled the latch and tramped on the mat, to warn
them of his approach, and appeared just as Dolly was
skimming into a chair, and Mr. Bopp picking up the
spoons, which he dropped again to meet Dick, and kissing
him on both cheeks, after the fashion of his country,
as he said, pointing to Dolly, —
“See, it is all fine again. I forgif you, and leave all
blame to that bad spirit, Mephistopheles, who has much
pranks like that, but never pays one for their pain, as
you haf me. Heart's dearest, come and say a friendly
word to Richart, then we will haf a little health: Long
life and happiness to the King of Clubs and the Queen
of Hearts.”
“Yes, August, and as he's to be a farmer, we'll add
another: `Wiser wits and better manners to the Knave
of Spades.”'
2. MRS. PODGERS' TEAPOT.
AH, dear me, dear me, I'm a deal too comfortable!”
Judging from appearances, Mrs. Podgers certainly had
some cause for that unusual exclamation. To begin
with, the room was comfortable. It was tidy, bright,
and warm; full of cosy corners and capital contrivances
for quiet enjoyment. The chairs seemed to extend their
plump arms invitingly; the old-fashioned sofa was so
hospitable, that whoever sat down upon it was slow to get
up; the pictures, though portraits, did not stare one out
of countenance, but surveyed the scene with an air of
tranquil enjoyment; and the unshuttered windows allowed
the cheery light to shine out into the snowy street
through blooming screens of Christmas roses and white
chrysanthemums.
The fire was comfortable; for it was neither hidden in
a stove nor imprisoned behind bars, but went rollicking
up the wide chimney with a jovial roar. It flickered
over the supper-table as if curious to discover what
savory viands were concealed under the shining covers.
It touched up the old portraits till they seemed to wink;
it covered the walls with comical shadows, as if the portly
chairs had set their arms akimbo and were dancing a
jig; it flashed out into the street with a voiceless greeting
to every passer-by; it kindled mimic fires in the
and, best of all, it shone its brightest on Mrs. Podgers,
as if conscious that it couldn't do a better thing.
Mrs. Podgers was comfortable as she sat there, buxom,
blooming, and brisk, in spite of her forty years and her
widow's cap. Her black gown was illuminated to such
an extent that it couldn't look sombre; her cap had
given up trying to be prim long ago, and cherry ribbons
wouldn't have made it more becoming as it set off her
crisp black hair, and met in a coquettish bow under her
plump chin; her white apron encircled her trim waist,
as if conscious of its advantages; and the mourning-pin
upon her bosom actually seemed to twinkle with satisfaction
at the enviable post it occupied.
The sleek cat, purring on the hearth, was comfortable,
so was the agreeable fragrance of muffins that pervaded
the air, so was the drowsy tick of the clock in the corner;
and if anything was needed to give a finishing touch to
the general comfort of the scene, the figure pausing in
the doorway supplied the want most successfully.
Heroes are always expected to be young and comely,
also fierce, melancholy, or at least what novel-readers
call “interesting”; but I am forced to own that my
present hero was none of these. Half the real beauty,
virtue, and romance of the world gets put into humble
souls, hidden in plain bodies. Mr. Jerusalem Turner
was an example of this; and, at the risk of shocking
my sentimental readers, I must frankly state that he was
fifty, stout, and bald, also that he used bad grammar,
had a double chin, and was only the Co. in a prosperous
grocery store. A hale and hearty old gentleman, with
cheerful brown eyes, a ruddy countenance, and curly gray
and independence that was pleasant to behold. There
he stood, beaming upon the unconscious Mrs. Podgers,
softly rubbing his hands, and smiling to himself with the
air of a man enjoying the chief satisfaction of his life,
as he was.
“Ah, dear me, dear me, I'm a deal too comfortable!”
sighed Mrs. Podgers, addressing the teapot.
“Not a bit, mum, not a bit.”
In walked the gentleman, and up rose the lady, saying,
with a start and an aspect of relief, —
“Bless me, I didn't hear you! I began to think you
were never coming to your tea, Mr. 'Rusalem.”
Everybody called him Mr. 'Rusalem, and many people
were ignorant that he had any other name. He liked it,
for it began with the children, and the little voices had
endeared it to him, not to mention the sound of it from
Mrs Podgers' lips for ten years.
“I know I'm late, mum, but I really couldn't help it.
To-night's a busy time, and the lads are just good for
nothing with their jokes and spirits, so I stayed to steady
'em, and do a little job that turned up unexpected.”
“Sit right down and have your tea while you can,
then. I've kept it warm for you, and the muffins are
done lovely.”
Mrs. Podgers bustled about with an alacrity that
seemed to give an added relish to the supper; and when
her companion was served, she sat smiling at him with
her hand on the teapot, ready to replenish his cup before
he could ask for it.
“Have things been fretting of you, mum? You
looked down-hearted as I came in, and that ain't accordin'
'Rusalem, stirring his tea with a sense of solid satisfaction
that would have sweetened a far less palatable draught.
“It's the teapot; I don't know what's got into it
to-night; but, as I was waiting for you, it set me
thinking of one thing and another, till I declare I felt as
if it had up and spoke to me, showing me how I wasn't
grateful enough for my blessings, but a deal more comfortable
than I deserved.”
While speaking, Mrs. Podgers' eyes rested on an
inscription which encircled the corpulent little silver teapot:
“To our Benefactor.—They who give to the poor lend
to the Lord.” Now one wouldn't think there was anything
in the speech or the inscription to disturb Mr.
'Rusalem; but there seemed to be, for he fidgeted in his
chair, dropped his fork, and glanced at the teapot with a
very odd expression. It was a capital little teapot, solid,
bright as hands could make it, and ornamented with a
robust young cherub perched upon the lid, regardless of
the warmth of his seat. With her eyes still fixed upon
it, Mrs. Podgers continued meditatively, —
“You know how fond I am of the teapot for poor
Podgers' sake. I really feel quite superstitious about
it; and when thoughts come to me, as I sit watching it,
I have faith in them, because they always remind me of
the past.”
Here, after vain efforts to restrain himself, Mr. 'Rusalem
broke into a sudden laugh, so hearty and infectious
that Mrs. Podgers couldn't help smiling, even while she
shook her head at him.
“I beg pardon, mum, it's hysterical; I'll never do it
went soberly on with his supper.
It was a singular fact that whenever the teapot was
particularly alluded to he always behaved in this incomprehensible
manner, — laughed, begged pardon, said it
was hysterical, and promised never to do it again. It
used to trouble Mrs. Podgers very much, but she had
grown used to it; and having been obliged to overlook
many oddities in the departed Podgers, she easily forgave
'Rusalem his only one. After the laugh there was a
pause, during which Mrs. Podgers sat absently polishing
up the silver cherub, with the memory of the little son
who died two Christmases ago lying heavy at her heart,
and Mr. 'Rusalem seemed to be turning something over
in his mind as he watched a bit of butter sink luxuriously
into the warm bosom of a muffin. Once or twice
he paused as if listening, several times he stole a look at
Mrs. Podgers, and presently said, in a somewhat anxious
tone, —
“You was saying just now that you was a deal too
comfortable, mum; would you wish to be made uncomfortable
in order to realize your blessings?”
“Yes, I should. I'm getting lazy, selfish, and forgetful
of other folks. You leave me nothing to do, and
make everything so easy for me that I'm growing young
and giddy again. Now that isn't as it should be,
'Rusalem.”
“It meets my views exactly, mum. You've had your
hard times, your worryments and cares, and now it's
right to take your rest.”
“Then why don't you take yours? I'm sure you've
extra work than holidays for your share.”
“Oh well, mum, it's different with me, you know.
Business is amusing; and I'm so used to it I shouldn't
know myself if I was out of the store for good.”
“Well, I hope you are saving up something against
the time when business won't be amusing. You are so
generous, I'm afraid you forget you can't work for other
people all your days.”
“Yes, mum, I've put by a little sum in a safe bank
that pays good interest, and when I'm past work I'll fall
back and enjoy it.”
To judge from the cheerful content of the old gentleman's
face he was enjoying it already, as he looked about
him with the air of a man who had made a capital
investment, and was in the receipt of generous dividends.
Seeing Mrs. Podgers' bright eye fixed upon him, as
if she suspected something, and would have the truth
out of him in two minutes, he recalled the conversation
to the point from which it had wandered.
“If you would like to try how a little misery suits
you, mum, I can accommodate you if you'll step upstairs.”
“Good gracious, what do you mean? Who's up there?
Why didn't you tell me before?” cried Mrs. Podgers, in
a flutter of interest, curiosity, and surprise, as he knew
she would be.
“You see, mum, I was doubtful how you'd like it. I
did it without stopping to think, and then I was afraid
you'd consider it a liberty.”
Mr. 'Rusalem spoke with some hesitation; but Mrs.
Podgers didn't wait to hear him, for she was already at
known where to go, “up-stairs” being a somewhat vague
expression. The old gentleman led the way to the room
he had occupied for thirty years, in spite of Mrs. Podgers'
frequent offers of a better and brighter one. He
was attached to it, small and dark as it was, for the joys
and sorrows of more than half his life had come to him
in that little room, and somehow when he was there it
brightened up amazingly. Mrs. Podgers looked well
about her, but saw nothing new, and her conductor said,
as he paused beside the bed, —
“Let me tell you how I found it before I show it. You
see, mum, I had to step down the street just at dark, and
passing the windows I give a glance in, as I've a bad
habit of doing when the lamps is lighted and you a setting
there alone. Well, mum, what did I see outside but
a ragged little chap a flattening his nose against the
glass, and staring in with all his eyes. I didn't blame
him much for it, and on I goes without a word. When
I came back I see him a lying close to the wall, and
mistrusting that he was up to some game that might give
you a scare, I speaks to him: he don't answer; I
touches him: he don't stir; then I picks him up, and seeing
that he's gone in a fit or a faint, I makes for the
store with a will. He come to rapid; and finding that
he was most froze and starved, I fed and warmed and
fixed him a trifle, and then tucked him away here, for
he's got no folks to worry for him, and was too used up
to go out again to-night. That's the story, mum; and
now I'll produce the little chap if I can find him.”
With that Mr. 'Rusalem began to grope about the bed,
chuckling, yet somewhat anxious, for not a vestige of an
agitation of the clothes, a squeak, and the unexpected
appearance out at the foot of the bed of a singular figure,
that dodged into a corner, with one arm up, as if to
ward off a blow, while a sleepy little voice exclaimed
beseechingly, “I'm up, I'm up, don't hit me!”
“Lord love the child, who'd think of doing that!
Wake up, Joe, and see your friends,” said Mr. 'Rusalem,
advancing cautiously.
At the sound of his voice down went the arm, and
Mrs. Podgers saw a boy of nine or ten, arrayed in a
flannel garment that evidently belonged to Mr. 'Rusalem,
for though none too long it was immensely broad, and
the voluminous sleeves were pinned up, showing a pair
of wasted arms, chapped with cold and mottled with
bruises. A large blue sock still covered one foot, the
other was bound up as if hurt. A tall cotton nightcap,
garnished with a red tassel, looked like a big extinguisher
on a small candle; and from under it a pair of dark,
hollow eyes glanced sharply with a shrewd, suspicious
look, that made the little face more pathetic than the
marks of suffering, neglect, and abuse, which told the
child's story without words. As if quite reassured by
'Rusalem's presence, the boy shuffled out of his corner,
saving coolly, as he prepared to climb into his nest
again, —
“I thought it was the old one when you grabbed me.
Ain't this bed a first-rater, though?”
Mr. 'Rusalem lifted the composed young personage
into the middle of the big bed, where he sat bolt upright,
surveying the prospect from under the extinguisher with
an equanimity that quite took the good lady's breath
saying, “There he is, mum,” with as much pride and
satisfaction as if he had found some rare and valuable
treasure; for the little child was very precious in his
sight. Mrs. Podgers really didn't know whether to
laugh or cry, and settled the matter by plumping down
beside the boy, saying cordially, as she took the grimy
little hands into her own, —
“He's heartily welcome, 'Rusalem. Now tell me all
about it, my poor dear, and don't be afraid.”
“Ho, I ain't afraid a you nor he. I ain't got nothin'
to tell, only my name's Joe and I'm sleepy.”
“Who is your mother, and where do you live, deary?”
asked Mrs. Podgers, haunted with the idea that some
woman must be anxious for the child.
“Ain't got any, we don't have 'em where I lives. The
old one takes care a me.”
“Who is the old one?”
“Granny. I works for her, and she lets me stay
alonger her.”
“Bless the dear! what work can such a mite do?”
“Heaps a things. I sifs ashes, picks rags, goes beggin',
runs arrants, and sometimes the big fellers lets me
call papers. That's fun, only I gets knocked round,
and it hurts, you'd better believe.”
“Did you come here begging, and, being afraid to ring,
stand outside looking in at me enjoying myself, like a
selfish creeter as I am?”
“I forgot to ask for the cold vittles a lookin' at warm
ones, and thinkin' if they was mine what I'd give the little
fellers when I has my tree.”
“Your what, child?”
“My Christmas-tree. Look a here, I've got it, and
all these to put on it to-morrer.”
From under his pillow the boy produced a small
branch of hemlock, dropped from some tree on its passage
to a gayer festival than little Joe's; also an old
handkerchief which contained his treasures, — only a
few odds and ends picked up in the streets: a gnarly
apple, half-a-dozen nuts, two or three dingy bonbons,
gleaned from the sweepings of some store, and a bit of
cheese, which last possession he evidently prized highly.
“That's for the old one; she likes it, and I kep it for
her, — cause she don't hit so hard when I fetch her
goodies. You don't mind, do you?” he said, looking
inquiringly at Mr. 'Rusalem, who blew his nose like a
trumpet, and patted the big nightcap with a fatherly
gesture more satisfactory than words.
“What have you kept for yourself, dear?” asked Mrs.
Podgers, with an irrepressible sniff, as she looked at the
poor little presents, and remembered that they “didn't
have mothers” where the child lived.
“Oh, I had my treat alonger him,” said the boy,
nodding toward 'Rusalem, and adding enthusiastically,
“Wasn't that prime! It was real Christmasy a settin'
by the fire, eating lots and not bein' hit.”
Here Mrs. Podgers broke down; and, taking the boy
in her arms, sobbed over him as if she had found her
lost Neddy in this sad shape. The little lad regarded
her demonstration with some uneasiness at first, but
there is a magic about a genuine woman that wins its
way everywhere, and soon the outcast nestled to her,
feeling that this wonderful night was getting more
“Christmasy” every minute.
Mrs. Podgers was herself again directly; and seeing
that the child's eyelids were heavy with weakness and
weariness, she made him comfortable among the pillows,
and began to sing the lullaby that used to hush her little
son to sleep. Mr. 'Rusalem took something from his
drawer, and was stealing away, when the child opened
his eyes and started up, calling out as he nodded, till the
tassel danced on this preposterous cap, —
“I say! good night, good night!”
Looking much gratified, Mr. 'Rusalem returned, shook
the little hand extended to him, kissed the grateful face,
and went away to sit on the stairs with tear after tear
dropping off the end of his nose, as he listened to the
voice that, after two years of silence, sung the air this
simple soul thought the loveliest in the world. At first,
it was more sob than song, but soon the soothing music
flowed on unbroken, and the wondering child, for the
first time within his memory, fell asleep in the sweet
shelter of a woman's arms.
When Mrs. Podgers came out, she found Mr. 'Rusalem
intent on stuffing another parcel into a long gray stocking
already full to overflowing.
“For the little chap, mum. He let fall that he'd
never done this sort of thing in his life, and as he hadn't
any stockings of his own, poor dear, I took the liberty
of lending him one of mine,” explained Mr. 'Rusalem,
surveying the knobby article with evident regret that it
wasn't bigger.
Mrs. Podgers said nothing, but looked from the stocking
to the fatherly old gentleman who held it; and it is
my private belief, that if Mrs. Podgers had obeyed the
impulse of her heart, she would have forgotten decorum,
went briskly into her own room, whence she presently
returned with red eyes, and a pile of small garments in
her hands. Having nearly exhausted his pincushion in
trying to suspend the heavy stocking, Mr. 'Rusalem had
just succeeded as she appeared. He saw what she
carried, watched her arrange the little shirt, jacket and
trousers, the half-worn shoes and tidy socks, beside the
bed, with motherly care, and stand looking at the uncouscious
child, with an expression which caused Mr.
'Rusalem to dart down stairs, and compose himself by
rubbing his hair erect, and shaking his fist in the painted
face of the late Podgers.
An hour or two later the store was closed, the room
cleared, Mrs. Podgers in her arm-chair on one side of
the hearth, with her knitting in her hand, Mr. 'Rusalem
in his arm-chair on the other side, with his newspaper on
his knee, both looking so cosy and comfortable that any
one would have pronounced them a Darby and Joan on
the spot. Ah, but they weren't, you see, and that spoilt
the illusion, to one party at least. Both were rather
silent, both looked thoughtfully at the fire, and the fire
gave them both excellent counsel, as it seldom fails to do
when it finds any kindred warmth and brightness in the
hearts and souls of those who study it. Mrs. Podgers
kindled first, and broke out suddenly with a nod of great
determination.
“'Rusalem, I'm going to keep that boy if it's possible!”
“You shall, mum, whether it's possible or not,” he
answered, nodding back at her with equal decision.
“I don't know why I never thought of such a thing
and heaven knows I'm wearying for some little child to fill
my Neddy's place. I wonder if you didn't think of this
when you took that boy in; it would be just like you!”
Mr. 'Rusalem shook his head, but looked so guilty,
that Mrs. Podgers was satisfied, called him “a thoughtful
dear,” within herself, and kindled still more.
“Between you, and Joe, and the teapot, I've got
another idea into my stupid head, and I know you won't
laugh at it. That loving little soul has tried to get a
tree for some poor babies who have no one to think of
them but him, and even remembered the old one, who
must be a wretch to hit that child, and hit hard, too, I
know by the looks of his arms. Well, I've a great
longing to go and give him a tree,—a right good one, like
those Neddy used to have; to get in the `little fellers'
he tells of, give them a good dinner, and then a regular
Christmas frolic. Can't it be done?”
“Nothing could be easier, mum;” and Mr. 'Rusalem,
who had been taking counsel with the fire till he quite
glowed with warmth and emotion, nodded, smiled, and
rubbed his hands, as if Mrs. Podgers had invited him to
a Lord Mayor's feast, or some equally gorgeous jollification.
“I suppose it's the day, and thinking of how it came
to be, that makes me feel as if I wanted to help everybody,
and makes this Christmas so bright and happy that
I never can forget it,” continued the good woman, with
a heartiness that made her honest face quite beautiful to
behold.
If Mrs. Podgers had only known what was going on
under the capacious waistcoat opposite, she would have
tender-hearted she grew, the harder it became for Mr.
'Rusalem to restrain the declaration which had been
hovering on his lips ever since old Podgers died. As
the comely relict sat there talking in that genial way,
and glowing with good-will to all mankind, it was too
much for Mr. 'Rusalem; and finding it impossible to
resist the desire to know his fate, he yielded to it, gave
a porpentous hem, and said abruptly,—
“Well, mum, have I done it?”
“Done what?” asked Mrs. P., going on with her
work.
“Made you uncomfortable, according to promise.”
“Oh dear, no, you've made me very happy, and will
have to try again,” she answered, laughing.
“I will, mum.”
As he spoke Mr. 'Rusalem drew his chair nearer,
leaned forward, and looking straight at her, said deliberately,
though his voice shook a little, —
“Mrs. Podgers, I love you hearty; would you have
any objections to marrying of me?”
Not a word said Mrs. Podgers; but her knitting
dropped out of her hand, and she looked as uncomfortable
as she could desire.
“I thought that would do it,” muttered Mr. 'Rusalem;
but went on steadily, though his ruddy face got paler and
paler, his voice huskier and huskier, and his heart fuller
and fuller every word he attempted.
“You see, mum, I have took the liberty of loving you
ever since you came, more than ten years ago. I was
eager to make it known long before this, but Podgers
spoke first and then it was no use. It come hard for a
learn not to love you, being as it was impossible. Since
Podgers died I've turned it over in my mind frequent,
but felt as if I was too old, and rough, and poor every
way to ask so much. Lately, the wish has growed too
strong for me, and to-night it won't be put down. If
you want a trial, mum, I should be that I'll warrant, for
do my best, I could never be all I'm wishful of being
for your sake. Would you give it name, and if not
agreeable, we'll let it drop, mum, we'll let it drop.”
If it hadn't been for the teapot, Mrs. Podgers would
have said Yes at once. The word was on her lips, but as
she looked up the fire flashed brightly on the teapot
(which always occupied the place of honor on the
sideboard, for Mrs. P. was intensely proud of it), and
she stopped to think, for it reminded her of something.
In order to explain this, we must keep Mr. 'Rusalem
waiting for his answer a minute.
Rather more than ten years ago, old Podgers happening
to want a housekeeper, invited a poor relation to fill
that post in his bachelor establishment. He never would
have thought of marrying her, though the young woman
was both notable and handsome, if he hadn't discovered
that his partner loved her. Whereupon the perverse old
fellow immediately proposed, lest he should lose his
housekeeper, and was accepted from motives of gratitude.
Mrs. Podgers was a dutiful wife, but not a very
happy one, for the world said that Mr. P. was a hard,
miserly man, and his wife was forced to believe the
world in the right, till the teapot changed her opinion.
There happened to be much suffering among the poor
one year, owing to the burning of the mills, and contributions
though a rich man, refused to give a penny, but it was
afterwards discovered that his private charities exceeded
many more ostentatious ones, and the word “miserly”
was changed to “peculiar.” When times grew prosperous
again, the workmen, whose families had been so
quietly served, clubbed together, got the teapot, and left
it at Mr. Podgers' door one Christmas Eve. But the
old gentleman never saw it; his dinner had been too
much for him, and apoplexy took him off that very
afternoon.
In the midst of her grief Mrs. Podgers was surprised,
touched and troubled by this revelation, for she had
known nothing of the affair till the teapot came. Womanlike,
she felt great remorse for what now seemed like
blindness and ingratitude; she fancied she owed him
some atonement, and remembering how often he had
expressed a hope that she wouldn't marry again after he
was gone, she resolved to gratify him. The buxom
widow had had many opportunities of putting off her
weeds, but she had refused all offers without regret till
now. The teapot reminded her of Podgers and her vow;
and though her heart rebelled, she thought it her duty to
check the answer that sprung to her lips, and slowly, but
decidedly, replied, —
“I'm truly grateful to you, 'Rusalem, but I couldn't
do it. Don't think you'd ever be a trial, for you're the
last man to be that to any woman. It's a feeling I have
that it wouldn't be kind to Podgers. I can't forget how
much I owe him, how much I wronged him, and how
much I can please him by staying as I am, for his
don't marry, Jane.”'
“Very well, mum, then we'll let it drop, and fall back
into the old ways. Don't fret yourself about it, I shall
bear up, and —” there Mr. 'Rusalem's voice gave out,
and he sat frowning at the fire, bent on bearing up manfully,
though it was very hard to find that Podgers dead
as well as Podgers living was to keep from him the happiness
he had waited for so long. His altered face and
broken voice were almost too much for Mrs. P., and she
found it necessary to confirm her resolution by telling it.
Laying one hand on his shoulder, she pointed to the teapot
with the other, saying gently, —
“The day that came and I found out how good he
was, too late to beg his pardon and love him for it, I
said to myself, `I'll be true to Podgers till I die, because
that's all I can do now to show my repentance and respect.'
But for that feeling and that promise I couldn't
say No to you, 'Rusalem, for you've been my best friend
all these years, and I'll be yours all my life, though I
can't be anything else, my dear.”
For the first time since its arrival, the mention of the
teapot did not produce the accustomed demonstration
from Mr. 'Rusalem. On the contrary, he looked at it
with a momentary expression of indignation and disgust,
strongly suggestive of an insane desire to cast the precious
relic on the floor and trample on it. If any such
temptation did assail him, he promptly curbed it, and
looked about the room with a forlorn air, that made
Mrs. Podgers hate herself, as he meekly answered, —
“I'm obliged to you, mum; the feeling does you
up again directly.”
He retired behind his paper as he spoke, and Mrs.
Podgers spoilt her knitting in respectful silence, till Mr.
'Rusalem began to read aloud as usual, to assure her that
in spite of the blow he was up again.
In the gray dawn the worthy gentleman was roused
from his slumbers, by a strange voice whispering shrilly
in his ear, —
“I say, there's two of em. Ain't it jolly?”
Starting up, he beheld a comical little goblin standing
at his bedside, with a rapturous expression of countenance,
and a pair of long gray stockings in its hands.
Both were heaping full, but one was evidently meant for
Mr. 'Rusalem, for every wish, whim and fancy of his
had been guessed, and gratified in a way that touched
him to the heart. If it were not indecorous to invade
the privacy of a gentleman's apartment, I could describe
how there were two boys in the big bed that morning;
how the old boy revelled in the treasures of his stocking
as heartily as the young one; how they laughed and
exclaimed, pulled each others nightcaps off, and had a
regular pillow fight; how little Joe was got into his new
clothes, and strutted like a small peacock in them; how
Mr. 'Rusalem made himself splendid in his Sunday best,
and spent ten good minutes in tying the fine cravat
somebody had hemmed for him. But lest it should be
thought improper, I will merely say, that nowhere in the
city did the sun shine on happier faces than these two
showed Mrs. Podgers, as Mr. 'Rusalem came in with
Joe on his shoulder, both wishing her a merry Christmas,
ever seen.
Mrs. Podgers was as brisk and blithe as they, though
she must have sat up one-half the night making presents
for them, and laid awake the other half making plans
for the day. As soon as she had hugged Joe, toasted
him red, and heaped his plate with everything on the
table, she told them the order of performances.
“As soon as ever you can't eat any more you must
order home the tree, 'Rusalem, and then go with Joe to
invite the party, while I see to dinner, and dress up the
pine as well as I can in such a hurry.”
“Yes, mum,” answered Mr. 'Rusalem with alacrity;
though how she was going to do her part was not clear
to him. But he believed her capable of working any
miracle within the power of mortal woman; and having
plans of his own, he soon trudged away with Joe prancing
at his side, so like the lost Neddy, in the little cap
and coat, that Mrs. Podgers forgot her party to stand
watching them down the crowded street, with eyes that
saw very dimly when they looked away again.
Never mind how she did it, the miracle was wrought,
for Mrs. Podgers and her maid Betsey fell to work with
a will, and when women set their hearts on anything it
is a known fact that they seldom fail to accomplish it.
By noon everything was ready, the tree waiting in the
best parlor, the dinner smoking on the table, and Mrs.
Podgers at the window to catch the first glimpse of her
coming guests. A last thought struck her as she stood
waiting. There was but one high chair in the house,
and the big ones would be doubtless too low for the little
people. Bent on making them as comfortable as her
matter by bringing out from Podgers' bookcase several
fat old ledgers, and arranging them in the chairs. While
busily dusting one of these it slipped from her hands,
and as it fell a paper fluttered from among the leaves.
She picked it up, looked at it, dropped her duster, and
became absorbed. It was a small sheet filled with figures,
and here and there short memoranda, — not an interesting
looking document in the least; but Mrs. Podgers
stood like a statue till she had read it several times; then
she caught her breath, clapped her hands, laughed and
cried together, and put the climax to her extraordinary
behavior by running across the room and embracing the
astonished little teapot.
How long she would have gone on in this wild manner
it is impossible to say, had not the the jingle of bells, and
a shrill, small cheer announced that the party had arrived.
Whisking the mysterious paper into her pocket, and
dressing her agitated countenance in smiles, she hastened
to open the door before chilly fingers could find the bell.
Such a merry load as that was! Such happy faces
looking out from under the faded hoods and caps! Such
a hearty “Hurrah for Mrs. Podgers!” greeted her
straight from the grateful hearts that loved her the
instant she appeared! And what a perfect Santa Claus
Mr. 'Rusalem made, with his sleigh full of bundles as
well as children, his face full of sunshine, his arms full
of babies, whom he held up that they too might clap
their little hands, while he hurrahed with all his might.
I really don't think reindeers, or the immemorial white
beard and fur cap, could have improved the picture; and
the neighbors were of my opinion, I suspect.
It was good to see Mrs. Podgers welcome them all in
a way that gave the shyest courage, made the poorest
forget patched jackets or ragged gowns, and caused them
all to feel that this indeed was merry Christmas. It
was better still to see Mrs. Podgers preside over the
table, dealing out turkey and pudding with such a bounteous
hand, that the small feasters often paused, in
sheer astonishment, at the abundance before them,
and then fell to again with renewed energy, as if they
feared to wake up presently and find the whole a dream.
It was best of all to see Mrs. Podgers gather them
about her afterwards, hearing their little stories, learning
their many wants, and winning their young hearts by
such gentle wiles that they soon regarded her as some
beautiful, benignant fairy, who had led them from a cold,
dark world into the land of innocent delights they had
imagined, longed for, yet never hoped to find.
Then came the tree, hung thick with bonbons, fruit
and toys, gay mittens and tippets, comfortable socks and
hoods, and, lower down, more substantial but less showy
gifts; for Mrs Podgers had nearly exhausted the Dorcas
basket that fortunately chanced to be with her just then.
There was no time for candles, but, as if he understood
the matter and was bent on supplying all deficiencies, the
sun shone gloriously on the little tree, and made it doubly
splendid in the children's eyes.
It would have touched the hardest heart to watch the
poor little creatures, as they trooped in and stood about
the wonderful tree. Some seemed ready to go wild with
delight, some folded their hands and sighed with solemn
satisfaction, others looked as if bewildered by such
unwonted and unexpected good fortune; and when Mr.
from their loving playmate's broken bough, little Joe hid
his face in Mrs. Podgers' gown, and could find no vent
for his great happiness but tears. It was not a large
tree, but it took a long while to strip it; and even when
the last gilded nut was gone the children still lingered
about it, as if they regarded it with affection as a generous
benefactor, and were loath to leave it.
Next they had a splendid round of games. I don't
know what will be thought of the worthy souls, but Mr.
'Rusalem and Mrs. Podgers played with all their might.
Perhaps the reason why he gave himself up so freely to
the spirit of the hour was, that his disappointment was
very heavy; and, according to his simple philosophy, it
was wiser to soothe his wounded heart and cheer his sad
spirit with the sweet society of little children, than to
curse fate and reproach a woman. What was Mrs.
Podgers' reason it is impossible to tell, but she behaved
as if some secret satisfaction filled her heart so full that
she was glad to let it bubble over in this harmless
fashion. Both tried to be children again, and both succeeded
capitally, though now and then their hearts got
the better of them. When Mr. 'Rusalem was blinded he
tossed all the little lads up to the ceiling when he caught
them, kissed all the little girls, and, that no one might
feel slighted, kissed Mrs. Podgers also. When they
played “Open the gates,” and the two grown people
stood hand in hand while the mirthful troops marched
under the tall arch, Mrs. Podgers never once looked Mr.
'Rusalem in the face, but blushed and kept her eyes on
the ground, as if she was a bashful girl playing games
with some boyish sweetheart. The children saw nothing
wouldn't have understood it if they had; but it was perfectly
evident that the gray-headed gentleman and the
mature matron had forgotten all about their years, and
were in their teens again; for true love is gifted with
immortal youth.
When weary with romping, they gathered round the
fire, and Mr. 'Rusalem told fairy tales, as if his dull
ledgers had preserved these childish romances like flowers
between their leaves, and kept them fresh in spite of
time. Mrs. Podgers sung to them, and made them sing
with her, till passers-by smiled and lingered as the childish
voices reached them, and, looking through the screen
of roses, they caught glimpses of the happy little group
singing in the ruddy circle of that Christmas fire.
It was a very humble festival, but with these poor
guests came also Love and Charity, Innocence and Joy,
— the strong, sweet spirits who bless and beautify the
world; and though eclipsed by many more splendid celebrations,
I think the day was the better and the blither
for Mrs. Podgers' little party.
When it was all over, — the grateful farewells and
riotous cheers as the children were carried home, the
twilight raptures of Joe, and the long lullaby before he
could extinguish himself enough to go to sleep, the congratulations
and clearing up, — then Mr. 'Rusalem and
Mrs. Podgers sat down to tea. But no sooner were
they alone together than Mrs. P. fell into a curious flutter,
and did the oddest things. She gave Mr. 'Rusalem
warm water instead of tea, passed the slop-bowl when
he asked for the sugar-basin, burnt her fingers, laid her
handkerchief on the tray, and tried to put her fork in her
began to fear the day had been too much for her.
“You're tired, mum,” he said presently, hearing her
sigh.
“Not a bit,” she answered briskly, opening the teapot
to add more water, but seemed to forget her purpose,
and sat looking into its steamy depths as if in search of
something. If it was courage, she certainly found it,
for all of a sudden she handed the mysterious paper to
Mr. 'Rusalem, saying solemnly, —
“Read that, and tell me if it's true.”
He took it readily, put on his glasses, and bent to
examine it, but gave a start that caused the spectacles to
fly off his nose, as he exclaimed, —
“Lord bless me, he said he'd burnt it!”
“Then it is true? Don't deny it, 'Rusalem; it's no
use, for I've caught you at last!” and in her excitement
Mrs. Podgers slapped down the teapot-lid as if she had
got him inside.
“I assure you, mum, he promised to burn it. He
made me write down the sums, and so on, to satisfy him
that I hadn't took more'n my share of the profits. It
was my own; and though he called me a fool he let me
do as I liked, but I never thought it would come up again
like this, mum.”
“Of course you didn't, for it was left in one of the old
ledgers we had down for the dears to sit on. I found it,
I read it, and I understood it in a minute. It was you
who helped the mill-people, and then hid behind Podgers
because you didn't want to be thanked. When he died,
and the teapot came, you saw how proud I was of it, —
how I took comfort in thinking he did the kind things;
night, when a word would have done so much. Oh,
'Rusalem, how could you deceive me all these years?”
If Mr. 'Rusalem had desired to answer he would have
had no chance; for Mrs. Podgers was too much in earnest
to let any one speak but herself, and hurried on, fearing
that her emotion would get the better of her before
she had had her say.
“It was like you, but it wasn't right, for you've robbed
yourself of the love and honor that was your due; you've
let people praise Podgers when he didn't deserve it;
you've seen me take pride in this because I thought he'd
earned it; and you've only laughed at it all as if it was
a fine joke to do generous things and never take the
credit of 'em. Now I know what bank you've laid up
your hard earnings in, and what a blessed interest you'll
get by and by. Truly they who give to the poor lend to
the Lord, — and you don't need to have the good words
written on silver, for you keep 'em always in your
heart.”
Mrs. Podgers stopped a minute for breath, and felt
that she was going very fast; for 'Rusalem sat looking
at her with so much humility, love, and longing in his
honest face, that she knew it would be all up with her
directly.
“You saw how I grieved for Neddy, and gave me this
motherless boy to fill his place; you knew I wanted some
one to make the house seem like home again, and you
offered me the lovingest heart that ever was. You
found I wasn't satisfied to lead such a selfish life, and
you showed me how beautiful Charity could make it;
you taught me to find my duty waiting for me at my own
to make this day the happiest Christmas of my life.”
If it hadn't been for the teapot Mrs. Podgers would
have given out here; but her hand was still on it, and
something in the touch gave her steadiness for one more
burst.
“I loved the little teapot for Podgers' sake; now I
love it a hundred times more for yours, because you've
brought its lesson home to me in a way I never can forget,
and have been my benefactor as well as theirs, who
shall soon know you as well as I do. 'Rusalem, there's
only one way in which I can thank you for all this, and
I do it with my whole heart. Last night you asked me
for something, and I thought I couldn't give it to you.
Now I'm sure I can, and if you still want it why — ”
Mrs. Podgers never finished that sentence; for, with
an impetuosity surprising in one of his age and figure,
Mr. 'Rusalem sprang out of his chair and took her in his
arms, saying tenderly, in a voice almost inaudible,
between a conflicting choke and chuckle, —
“My dear! my dear! God bless you!”
3. MY CONTRABAND.
DOCTOR FRANCK came in as I sat sewing up the
rents in an old shirt, that Tom might go tidily to his
grave. New shirts were needed for the living, and there
was no wife or mother to “dress him handsome when
he went to meet the Lord,” as one woman said, describing
the fine funeral she had pinched herself to give
her son.
“Miss Dane, I'm in a quandary,” began the Doctor,
with that expression of countenance which says as plainly
as words, “I want to ask a favor, but I wish you'd save
me the trouble.”
“Can I help you out of it?”
“Faith! I don't like to propose it, but you certainly
can, if you please.”
“Then name it, I beg.”
“You see a Reb has just been brought in crazy with
typhoid; a bad case every way; a drunken, rascally
little captain somebody took the trouble to capture, but
whom nobody wants to take the trouble to cure. The
wards are full, the ladies worked to death, and willing to
be for our own boys, but rather slow to risk their lives
for a Reb. Now, you've had the fever, you like queer
patients, your mate will see to your ward for a while, and
long, I fancy; but he can't die without some sort of care,
you know. I've put him in the fourth story of the west
wing, away from the rest. It is airy, quiet, and comfortable
there. I'm on that ward, and will do my best
for you in every way. Now, then, will you go?”
“Of course I will, out of perversity, if not common
charity; for some of these people think that because I'm
an abolitionist I am also a heathen, and I should rather
like to show them that, though I cannot quite love my
enemies, I am willing to take care of them.”
“Very good; I thought you'd go; and speaking of
abolition reminds me that you can have a contraband for
servant, if you like. It is that fine mulatto fellow who
was found burying his rebel master after the fight, and,
being badly cut over the head, our boys brought him
along. Will you have him?”
“By all means, — for I'll stand to my guns on that
point, as on the other; these black boys are far more
faithful and handy than some of the white scamps given
me to serve, instead of being served by. But is this man
well enough?”
“Yes, for that sort of work, and I think you'll like
him. He must have been a handsome fellow before he
got his face slashed; not much darker than myself; his
master's son, I dare say, and the white blood makes him
rather high and haughty about some things. He was in
a bad way when he came in, but vowed he'd die in the
street rather than turn in with the black fellows below;
so I put him up in the west wing, to be out of the way,
and he's seen to the captain all the morning. When can
you go up?”
“As soon as Tom is laid out, Skinner moved, Haywood
washed, Marble dressed, Charley rubbed, Downs
taken up, Upham laid down, and the whole forty fed.”
We both laughed, though the Doctor was on his way
to the dead-house and I held a shroud on my lap. But
in a hospital one learns that cheerfulness is one's salvation;
for, in an atmosphere of suffering and death, heaviness
of heart would soon paralyze usefulness of hand, if
the blessed gift of smiles had been denied us.
In an hour I took possession of my new charge, finding
a dissipated-looking boy of nineteen or twenty raving
in the solitary little room, with no one near him but
the contraband in the room adjoining. Feeling decidedly
more interest in the black man than in the white, yet
remembering the Doctor's hint of his being “high and
haughty,” I glanced furtively at him as I scattered
chloride of lime about the room to purify the air, and
settled matters to suit myself. I had seen many contrabands,
but never one so attractive as this. All colored
men are called “boys,” even if their heads are white;
this boy was five-and-twenty at least, strong-limbed and
manly, and had the look of one who never had been
cowed by abuse or worn with oppressive labor. He sat
on his bed doing nothing; no book, no pipe, no pen or
paper anywhere appeared, yet anything less indolent or
listless than his attitude and expression I never saw. Erect
he sat, with a hand on either knee, and eyes fixed on the
bare wall opposite, so rapt in some absorbing thought as
to be unconscious of my presence, though the door stood
wide open and my movements were by no means noiseless.
His face was half averted, but I instantly approved
the Doctor's taste, for the profile which I saw possessed
race. He was more quadroon than mulatto, with Saxon
features, Spanish complexion darkened by exposure,
color in lips and cheek, waving hair, and an eye full of
the passionate melancholy which in such men always
seems to utter a mute protest against the broken law
that doomed them at their birth. What could he be
thinking of? The sick boy cursed and raved, I rustled
to and fro, steps passed the door, bells rang, and the
steady rumble of army-wagons came up from the street,
still he never stirred. I had seen colored people in what
they call “the black sulks,” when, for days, they neither
smiled nor spoke, and scarcely ate. But this was something
more than that; for the man was not dully brooding
over some small grievance; he seemed to see an
all-absorbing fact or fancy recorded on the wall, which
was a blank to me. I wondered if it were some deep
wrong or sorrow, kept alive by memory and impotent
regret; if he mourned for the dead master to whom he
had been faithful to the end; or if the liberty now his
were robbed of half its sweetness by the knowledge that
some one near and dear to him still languished in the
hell from which he had escaped. My heart quite warmed
to him at that idea; I wanted to know and comfort him;
and, following the impulse of the moment, I went in and
touched him on the shoulder.
In an instant the man vanished and the slave appeared.
Freedom was too new a boon to have wrought its
blessed changes yet; and as he started up, with his
hand at his temple, and an obsequious “Yes, Missis,”
any romance that had gathered round him fled away,
leaving the saddest of all sad facts in living guise
of him, but the comeliness that first attracted me; for,
as he turned, I saw the ghastly wound that had laid open
cheek and forehead. Being partly healed, it was no
longer bandaged, but held together with strips of that
transparent plaster which I never see without a shiver,
and swift recollections of the scenes with which it is
associated in my mind. Part of his black hair had been
shorn away, and one eye was nearly closed; pain so distorted,
and the cruel sabre-cut so marred that portion of
his face, that, when I saw it, I felt as if a fine medal
had been suddenly reversed, showing me a far more
striking type of human suffering and wrong than Michael
Angelo's bronze prisoner. By one of those inexplicable
processes that often teach us how little we understand
ourselves, my purpose was suddenly changed; and, though
I went in to offer comfort as a friend, I merely gave an
order as a mistress.
“Will you open these windows? this man needs more
air.”
He obeyed at once, and, as he slowly urged up the
unruly sash, the handsome profile was again turned
toward me, and again I was possessed by my first impression
so strongly that I involuntarily said, —
“Thank you.”
Perhaps it was fancy, but I thought that in the look
of mingled surprise and something like reproach which
he gave me, there was also a trace of grateful pleasure.
But he said, in that tone of spiritless humility these poor
souls learn so soon, —
“I isn't a white man, Missis, I'se a contraband.”
“Yes, I know it; but a contraband is a free man,
and I heartily congratulate you.”
He liked that; his face shone, he squared his shoulders,
lifted his head, and looked me full in the eye with a
brisk, —
“Thank ye, Missis; anything more to do fer yer?”
“Doctor Franck thought you would help me with this
man as there are many patients and few nurses or
attendants. Have you had the fever?”
“No, Missis.”
“They should have thought of that when they put
him here; wounds and fevers should not be together.
I'll try to get you moved.”
He laughed a sudden laugh: if he had been a white
man, I should have called it scornful; as he was a few
shades darker than myself, I suppose it must be considered
an insolent, or at least an unmannerly one.
“It don't matter, Missis. I'd rather be up here with
the fever than down with those niggers; and there isn't
no other place fer me.”
Poor fellow! that was true. No ward in all the hospital
would take him in to lie side by side with the most
miserable white wreck there. Like the bat in æsop's
fable, he belonged to neither race; and the pride of one
and the helplessness of the other, kept him hovering
alone in the twilight a great sin has brought to overshadow
the whole land.
“You shall stay, then; for I would far rather have
you than my lazy Jack. But are you well and strong
enough?”
“I guess I'll do, Missis.”
He spoke with a passive sort of acquiescence, — as if
would particularly rejoice if he were.
“Yes, I think you will. By what name shall I
call you?”
“Bob, Missis.”
Every woman has her pet whim; one of mine was
to teach the men self-respect by treating them respectfully.
Tom, Dick, and Harry would pass, when lads
rejoiced in those familiar abbreviations; but to address
men often old enough to be my father in that style did
not suit my old-fashioned ideas of propriety. This “Bob”
would never do; I should have found it as easy to call
the chaplain “Gus” as my tragical-looking contraband
by a title so strongly associated with the tail of a kite.
“What is your other name?” I asked. “I like to
call my attendants by their last names rather than by
their first.”
“I'se got no other, Missis; we has our masters' names,
or do without. Mine's dead, and I won't have anything
of his 'bout me.”
“Well, I'll call you Robert, then, and you may fill this
pitcher for me, if you will be so kind.”
He went; but, through all the tame obedience years of
servitude had taught him, I could see that the proud
spirit his father gave him was not yet subdued, for the
look and gesture with which he repudiated his master's
name were a more effective declaration of independence
than any Fourth-of-July orator could have prepared.
We spent a curious week together. Robert seldom
left his room, except upon my errands; and I was a
prisoner all day, often all night, by the bedside of the
rebel. The fever burned itself rapidly away, for there
old young man, whose life had been none of the most
righteous, judging from the revelations made by his
unconscious lips; since more than once Robert authoritatively
silenced him, when my gentler hushings were of
no avail, and blasphemous wanderings or ribald camp-songs
made my cheeks burn and Robert's face assume an
aspect of disgust. The captain was a gentleman in the
world's eye, but the contraband was the gentleman in
mine; — I was a fanatic, and that accounts for such
depravity of taste, I hope. I never asked Robert of
himself, feeling that somewhere there was a spot still too
sore to bear the lightest touch; but, from his language,
manner, and intelligence, I inferred that his color had
procured for him the few advantages within the reach of
a quick-witted, kindly-treated slave. Silent, grave, and
thoughtful, but most serviceable, was my contraband;
glad of the books I brought him, faithful in the performance
of the duties I assigned to him, grateful for the
friendliness I could not but feel and show toward him.
Often I longed to ask what purpose was so visibly altering
his aspect with such daily deepening gloom. But I
never dared, and no one else had either time or desire to
pry into the past of this specimen of one branch of the
chivalrous “F. F. Vs.”
On the seventh night, Dr. Franck suggested that it
would be well for some one, besides the general watchman
of the ward, to be with the captain, as it might be
his last. Although the greater part of the two preceding
nights had been spent there, of course I offered to remain,
— for there is a strange fascination in these scenes,
of fear until the crisis is past.
“Give him water as long as he can drink, and if he
drops into a natural sleep, it may save him. I'll look in
at midnight, when some change will probably take place.
Nothing but sleep or a miracle will keep him now.
Good-night.”
Away went the Doctor; and, devouring a whole
mouthful of gapes, I lowered the lamp, wet the captain's
head, and sat down on a hard stool to begin my
watch. The captain lay with his hot, haggard face
turned toward me, filling the air with his poisonous
breath, and feebly muttering, with lips and tongue so
parched that the sanest speech would have been difficult
to understand. Robert was stretched on his bed in the
inner room, the door of which stood ajar, that a fresh
draught from his open window might carry the fever-fumes
away through mine. I could just see a long, dark
figure, with the lighter outline of a face, and, having
little else to do just then, I fell to thinking of this curious
contraband, who evidently prized his freedom highly, yet
seemed in no haste to enjoy it. Dr. Franck had offered
to send him on to safer quarters, but he had said, “No,
thank yer, sir, not yet,” and then had gone away to fall
into one of those black moods of his, which began to
disturb me, because I had no power to lighten them. As
I sat listening to the clocks from the steeples all about
us, I amused myself with planning Robert's future, as I
often did my own, and had dealt out to him a generous
hand of trumps wherewith to play this game of life
which hitherto had gone so cruelly against him, when a
harsh choked voice called, —
“Lucy!”
It was the captain, and some new terror seemed to
have gifted him with momentary strength.
“Yes, here's Lucy,” I answered, hoping that by following
the fancy I might quiet him, — for his face was
damp with the clammy moisture, and his frame shaken
with the nervous tremor that so often precedes death.
His dull eye fixed upon me, dilating with a bewildered
look of incredulity and wrath, till he broke out fiercely, —
“That's a lie! she's dead, — and so's Bob, damn
him!”
Finding speech a failure, I began to sing the quiet
tune that had often soothed delirium like this; but hardly
had the line, —
“See gentle patience smile on pain,”
like one in mortal fear, —
“Hush! she used to sing that way to Bob, but she
never would to me. I swore I'd whip the devil out of
her, and I did; but you know before she cut her throat
she said she'd haunt me, and there she is!”
He pointed behind me with an aspect of such pale
dismay, that I involuntarily glanced over my shoulder
and started as if I had seen a veritable ghost; for, peering
from the gloom of that inner room, I saw a shadowy
face, with dark hair all about it, and a glimpse of scarlet
at the throat. An instant showed me that it was only
Robert leaning from his bed's foot, wrapped in a gray
army-blanket, with his red shirt just visible above it,
and his long hair disordered by sleep. But what a
strange expression was on his face! The unmarred side
observed it, — less absorbed now, but more intent. His
eye glittered, his lips were apart like one who listened
with every sense, and his whole aspect reminded me of a
hound to which some wind had brought the scent of
unsuspected prey.
“Do you know him, Robert? Does he mean you?”
“Laws, no, Missis; they all own half-a-dozen Bobs:
but hearin' my name woke me; that's all.”
He spoke quite naturally, and lay down again, while
I returned to my charge, thinking that this paroxysm
was probably his last. But by another hour I perceived
a hopeful change; for the tremor had subsided, the cold
dew was gone, his breathing was more regular, and
Sleep, the healer, had descended to save or take him
gently away. Doctor Franck looked in at midnight,
bade me keep all cool and quiet, and not fail to administer
a certain draught as soon as the captain woke. Very
much relieved, I laid my head on my arms, uncomfortably
folded on the little table, and fancied I was about
to perform one of the feats which practice renders possible,—“sleeping
with one eye open,” as we say: a half-and-half
doze, for all senses sleep but that of hearing;
the faintest murmur, sigh, or motion will break it, and
give one back one's wits much brightened by the brief
permission to “stand at ease.” On this night the experiment
was a failure, for previous vigils, confinement, and
much care had rendered naps a dangerous indulgence.
Having roused half-a-dozen times in an hour to find all
quiet, I dropped my heavy head on my arms, and, drowsily
resolving to look up again in fifteen minutes, fell fast
asleep.
The striking of a deep-voiced clock awoke me with a
start. “That is one,” thought I; but, to my dismay, two
more strokes followed, and in remorseful haste I sprang
up to see what harm my long oblivion had done. A
strong hand put me back into my seat, and held me there.
It was Robert. The instant my eye met his my heart
began to beat, and all along my nerves tingled that electric
flash which foretells a danger that we cannot see.
He was very pale, his mouth grim, and both eyes full
of sombre fire; for even the wounded one was open
now, all the more sinister for the deep scar above and
below. But his touch was steady, his voice quiet, as he
said, —
“Sit still, Missis; I won't hurt yer, nor scare yer, ef
I can help it, but yer waked too soon.”
“Let me go, Robert, — the captain is stirring, — I
must give him something.”
“No, Missis, yer can't stir an inch. Look here!”
Holding me with one hand, with the other he took up
the glass in which I had left the draught, and showed me
it was empty.
“Has he taken it?” I asked, more and more bewildered.
“I flung it out o' winder, Missis; he'll have to do
without.”
“But why, Robert? why did you do it?”
“'Kase I hate him!”
Impossible to doubt the truth of that; his whole face
showed it, as he spoke through his set teeth, and launched
a fiery glance at the unconscious captain. I could only
hold my breath and stare blankly at him, wondering
what mad act was coming next. I suppose I shook and
when sudden danger daunts them; for Robert released
my arm, sat down upon the bedside just in front of me,
and said, with the ominous quietude that made me cold
to see and hear, —
“Don't yer be frightened, Missis; don't try to run
away, fer the door's locked and the key in my pocket;
don't yer cry out, fer yer'd have to scream a long while,
with my hand on yer mouth, 'efore yer was heard. Be
still, an' I'll tell yer what I'm gwine to do.”
“Lord help us! he has taken the fever in some sudden,
violent way, and is out of his head. I must humor
him till some one comes”; in pursuance of which swift
determination, I tried to say, quite composedly, —
“I will be still and hear you; but open the window.
Why did you shut it?”
“I'm sorry I can't do it, Missis; but yer'd jump out,
or call, if I did, an' I'm not ready yet. I shut it to make
yer sleep, an' heat would do it quicker'n anything else I
could do.”
The captain moved, and feebly muttered “Water!”
Instinctively I rose to give it to him, but the heavy hand
came down upon my shoulder, and in the same decided
tone Robert said, —
“The water went with the physic; let him call.”
“Do let me go to him! he'll die without care!”
“I mean he shall; — don't yer meddle, if yer please,
Missis.”
In spite of his quiet tone and respectful manner, I saw
murder in his eyes, and turned faint with fear; yet the
fear excited me, and, hardly knowing what I did, I seized
the hands that had seized me, crying, —
“No, no; you shall not kill him! It is base to hurt a
helpless man. Why do you hate him? He is not your
master.”
“He's my brother.”
I felt that answer from head to foot, and seemed to
fathom what was coming, with a prescience vague, but
unmistakable. One appeal was left to me, and I
made it.
“Robert, tell me what it means? Do not commit a
crime and make me accessory to it. There is a better
way of righting wrong than by violence; — let me help
you find it.”
My voice trembled as I spoke, and I heard the frightened
flutter of my heart; so did he, and if any little act
of mine had ever won affection or respect from him, the
memory of it served me then. He looked down, and
seemed to put some question to himself; whatever it was,
the answer was in my favor, for when his eyes rose
again, they were gloomy, but not desperate.
“I will tell yer, Missis; but mind, this makes no
difference; the boy is mine. I'll give the Lord a chance
to take him fust: if He don't, I shall.”
“Oh, no! remember he is your brother.”
An unwise speech; I felt it as it passed my lips, for a
black frown gathered on Robert's face, and his strong
hands closed with an ugly sort of grip. But he did not
touch the poor soul gasping there behind him, and seemed
content to let the slow suffocation of that stifling room
end his frail life.
“I'm not like to forgit dat, Missis, when I've been
thinkin' of it all this week. I knew him when they fetched
him in, an' would 'a' done it long 'fore this, but I wanted
— an' now he's done for.”
“Who is Lucy?” I asked hurriedly, intent on keeping
his mind busy with any thought but murder.
With one of the swift transitions of a mixed temperament
like this, at my question Robert's deep eyes filled,
the clenched hands were spread before his face, and all I
heard were the broken words, —
“My wife, — he took her —”
In that instant every thought of fear was swallowed
up in burning indignation for the wrong, and a perfect
passion of pity for the desperate man so tempted to
avenge an injury for which there seemed no redress but
this. He was no longer slave or contraband, no drop of
black blood marred him in my sight, but an infinite compassion
yearned to save, to help, to comfort him. Words
seemed so powerless I offered none, only put my hand on
his poor head, wounded, homeless, bowed down with
grief for which I had no cure, and softly smoothed the
long, neglected hair, pitifully wondering the while where
was the wife who must have loved this tender-hearted
man so well.
The captain moaned again, and faintly whispered,
“Air!” but I never stirred. God forgive me! just then
I hated him as only a woman thinking of a sister
woman's wrong could hate. Robert looked up; his eyes
were dry again, his mouth grim. I saw that, said, “Tell
me more,” and he did; for sympathy is a gift the poorest
may give, the proudest stoop to receive.
“Yer see, Missis, his father, — I might say ours, ef
I warn't ashamed of both of 'em, — his father died two
years ago, an' left us all to Marster Ned, — that's him
like old Marster: he don't, — only the light skin an' hair.
Old Marster was kind to all of us, me 'specially, an'
bought Lucy off the next plantation down there in South
Car'lina, when he found I liked her. I married her, all
I could; it warn't much, but we was true to one another
till Marster Ned come home a year after an' made hell
fer both of us. He sent my old mother to be used up in
his rice-swamp in Georgy; he found me with my pretty
Lucy, an' though young Miss cried, an' I prayed to him
on my knees, an' Lucy run away, he wouldn't have no
mercy; he brought her back, an' — took her.”
“Oh, what did you do?” I cried, hot with helpless
pain and passion.
How the man's outraged heart sent the blood flaming
up into his face and deepened the tones of his impetuous
voice, as he stretched his arm across the bed, saying,
with a terribly expressive gesture, —
“I half murdered him, an' to-night I'll finish.”
“Yes, yes, — but go on now; what came next?”
He gave me a look that showed no white man could
have felt a deeper degradation in remembering and confessing
these last acts of brotherly oppression.
“They whipped me till I couldn't stand, an' then they
sold me further South. Yer thought I was a white man
once, — look here!”
With a sudden wrench he tore the shirt from neck to
waist, and on his strong, brown shoulders showed me furrows
deeply ploughed, wounds which, though healed,
were ghastlier to me than any in that house. I could
not speak to him, and, with the pathetic dignity a great
tragedy by simply saying, —
“That's all, Missis. I'se never seen her since, an'
now I never shall in this world, — maybe not in t'other.”
“But, Robert, why think her dead? The captain was
wandering when he said those sad things; perhaps he
will retract them when he is sane. Don't despair; don't
give up yet.”
“No, Missis, I 'spect he's right; she was too proud to
bear that long. It's like her to kill herself. I told her
to, if there was no other way; an' she always minded
me, Lucy did. My poor girl! Oh, it warn't right! No,
by God, it warn't!”
As the memory of this bitter wrong, this double
bereavement, burned in his sore heart, the devil that
lurks in every strong man's blood leaped up; he put his
hand upon his brother's throat, and, watching the white
face before him, muttered low between his teeth, —
“I'm lettin' him go too easy; there's no pain in this;
we a'n't even yet. I wish he knew me. Marster Ned!
it's Bob; where's Lucy?”
From the captain's lips there came a long faint sigh,
and nothing but a flutter of the eyelids showed that he
still lived. A strange stillness filled the room as the
elder brother held the younger's life suspended in his
hand, while wavering between a dim hope and a deadly
hate. In the whirl of thoughts that went on in my brain,
only one was clear enough to act upon. I must prevent
murder, if I could, — but how? What could I do up
there alone, locked in with a dying man and a lunatic?
— for any mind yielded utterly to any unrighteous impulse
is mad while the impulse rules it. Strength I had
and chance only could bring me help before it was
too late. But one weapon I possessed, — a tongue, —
often a woman's best defence; and sympathy, stronger
than fear, gave me power to use it. What I said Heaven
only knows, but surely Heaven helped me; words burned
on my lips, tears streamed from my eyes, and some good
angel prompted me to use the one name that had power
to arrest my hearer's hand and touch his heart. For at
that moment I heartily believed that Lucy lived, and this
earnest faith roused in him a like belief.
He listened with the lowering look of one in whom
brute instinct was sovereign for the time, — a look that
makes the noblest countenance base. He was but a
man, — a poor, untaught, outcast, outraged man. Life
had few joys for him; the world offered him no honors,
no success, no home, no love. What future would this
crime mar? and why should he deny himself that sweet,
yet bitter morsel called revenge? How many white
men, with all New England's freedom, culture, Christianity,
would not have felt as he felt then? Should I
have reproached him for a human anguish, a human
longing for redress, all now left him from the ruin of his
few poor hopes? Who had taught him that self-control,
self-sacrifice, are attributes that make men masters of
the earth, and lift them nearer heaven? Should I have
urged the beauty of forgiveness, the duty of devout submission?
He had no religion, for he was no saintly
“Uncle Tom,” and Slavery's black shadow seemed to
darken all the world to him, and shut out God. Should
I have warned him of penalties, of judgments, and the
potency of law? What did he know of justice, or the
law, human and divine, had been broken on his hearthstone?
Should I have tried to touch him by appeals to
filial duty, to brotherly love? How had his appeals been
answered? What memories had father and brother
stored up in his heart to plead for either now? No, —
all these influences, these associations, would have proved
worse than useless, had I been calm enough to try them.
I was not; but instinct, subtler than reason, showed me
the one safe clue by which to lead this troubled soul
from the labyrinth in which it groped and nearly fell.
When I paused, breathless, Robert turned to me, asking,
as if human assurances could strengthen his faith in
Divine Omnipotence, —
“Do you believe, if I let Marster Ned live, the Lord
will give me back my Lucy?”
“As surely as there is a Lord, you will find her here
or in the beautiful hereafter, where there is no black or
white, no master and no slave.”
He took his hand from his brother's throat, lifted his
eyes from my face to the wintry sky beyond, as if
searching for that blessed country, happier even than the
happy North. Alas, it was the darkest hour before the
dawn! — there was no star above, no light below but
the pale glimmer of the lamp that showed the brother
who had made him desolate. Like a blind man who
believes there is a sun, yet cannot see it, he shook his
head, let his arms drop nervelessly upon his knees, and
sat there dumbly asking that question which many a soul
whose faith is firmer fixed than his has asked in hours
less dark than this, — “Where is God?” I saw the
tide had turned, and strenuously tried to keep this rudderless
wherein it had been so nearly lost.
“I have listened to you, Robert; now hear me, and
heed what I say, because my heart is full of pity for
you, full of hope for your future, and a desire to help
you now. I want you to go away from here, from the
temptation of this place, and the sad thoughts that haunt
it. You have conquered yourself once, and I honor you
for it, because, the harder the battle, the more glorious
the victory; but it is safer to put a greater distance
between you and this man. I will write you letters,
give you money, and send you to good old Massachusetts
to begin your new life a freeman, — yes, and a happy
man; for when the captain is himself again, I will learn
where Lucy is, and move heaven and earth to find and
give her back to you. Will you do this, Robert?”
Slowly, very slowly, the answer came; for the purpose
of a week, perhaps a year, was hard to relinquish
in an hour.
“Yes, Missis, I will.”
“Good! Now you are the man I thought you, and
I'll work for you with all my heart. You need sleep,
my poor fellow; go, and try to forget. The captain is
alive, and as yet you are spared that sin. No, don't look
there; I'll care for him. Come, Robert, for Lucy's
sake.”
Thank Heaven for the immortality of love! for when
all other means of salvation failed, a spark of this vital
fire softened the man's iron will, until a woman's hand
could bend it. He let me take from him the key, let
me draw him gently away, and lead him to the solitude
which now was the most healing balm I could bestow.
there, as if spent with the sharpest conflict of his life.
I slipped the bolt across his door, and unlocked my own,
flung up the window, steadied myself with a breath of
air, then rushed to Doctor Franck. He came; and till
dawn we worked together, saving one brother's life, and
taking earnest thought how best to secure the other's
liberty. When the sun came up as blithely as if it shone
only upon happy homes, the Doctor went to Robert.
For an hour I heard the murmur of their voices; once
I caught the sound of heavy sobs, and for a time a
reverent hush, as if in the silence that good man were
ministering to soul as well as body. When he departed
he took Robert with him, pausing to tell me he should
get him off as soon as possible, but not before we met
again.
Nothing more was seen of them all day; another
surgeon came to see the captain, and another attendant
came to fill the empty place. I tried to rest, but could
not, with the thought of poor Lucy tugging at my heart,
and was soon back at my post again, anxiously hoping
that my contraband had not been too hastily spirited
away. Just as night fell there came a tap, and, opening,
I saw Robert literally “clothed, and in his right mind.”
The Doctor had replaced the ragged suit with tidy garments,
and no trace of that tempestuous night remained
but deeper lines upon the forehead, and the docile look
of a repentant child. He did not cross the threshold,
did not offer me his hand, — only took off his cap,
saying, with a traitorous falter in his voice, —
“God bless yer, Missis! I'm gwine.”
I put out both my hands, and held his fast.
“Good-by, Robert! Keep up good heart, and when
I come home to Massachusetts we'll meet in a happier
place than this. Are you quite ready, quite comfortable
for your journey?”
“Yes, Missis, yes; the Doctor's fixed everything; I'se
gwine with a friend of his; my papers are all right, an'
I'm as happy as I can be till I find” —
He stopped there; then went on, with a glance into
the room, —
“I'm glad I didn't do it, an' I thank yer, Missis, fer
hinderin' me, — thank yer hearty; but I'm afraid I hate
him jest the same.”
Of course he did; and so did I; for these faulty hearts
of ours cannot turn perfect in a night, but need frost and
fire, wind and rain, to ripen and make them ready for the
great harvest-home. Wishing to divert his mind, I put my
poor mite into his hand, and, remembering the magic of
a certain little book, I gave him mine, on whose dark
cover whitely shone the Virgin Mother and the Child,
the grand history of whose life the book contained. The
money went into Robert's pocket with a grateful murmur,
the book into his bosom, with a long look and a tremulous
—
“I never saw my baby, Missis.”
I broke down then; and though my eyes were too dim
to see, I felt the touch of lips upon my hands, heard the
sound of departing feet, and knew my contraband was
gone.
When one feels an intense dislike, the less one says
about the subject of it the better; therefore I shall
merely record that the captain lived, — in time was
exchanged; and that, whoever the other party was, I
But long before this occurred, I had fulfilled my
promise to Robert; for as soon as my patient recovered
strength of memory enough to make his answer trustworthy,
I asked, without any circumlocution, —
“Captain Fairfax, where is Lucy?”
And too feeble to be angry, surprised, or insincere, he
straightway answered, —
“Dead, Miss Dane.”
“And she killed herself when you sold Bob?”
“How the devil did you know that?” he muttered,
with an expression half-remorseful, half-amazed; but I
was satisfied, and said no more.
Of course this went to Robert, waiting far away there
in a lonely home, — waiting, working, hoping for his
Lucy. It almost broke my heart to do it; but delay
was weak, deceit was wicked; so I sent the heavy
tidings, and very soon the answer came, — only three
lines; but I felt that the sustaining power of the man's
life was gone.
“I tort I'd never see her any more; I 'm glad to know
she's out of trouble. I thank yer, Missis; an' if they let
us, I'll fight fer yer till I'm killed, which I hope will be
'fore long.”
Six months later he had his wish, and kept his word.
Every one knows the story of the attack on Fort
Wagner; but we should not tire yet of recalling how
our Fifty-Fourth, spent with three sleepless nights, a
day's fast, and a march under the July sun, stormed the
fort as night fell, facing death in many shapes, following
their brave leaders through a fiery rain of shot and shell,
fighting valiantly for “God and Governor Andrew,” —
strong, came out having had nearly half its number
captured, killed, or wounded, leaving their young commander
to be buried, like a chief of earlier times, with
his body-guard around him, faithful to the death. Surely,
the insult turns to honor, and the wide grave needs no
monument but the heroism that consecrates it in our
sight; surely, the hearts that held him nearest, see
through their tears a noble victory in the seeming sad
defeat; and surely, God's benediction was bestowed,
when this loyal soul answered, as Death called the roll,
“Lord, here am I, with the brothers Thou hast given
me!”
The future must show how well that fight was fought;
for though Fort Wagner once defied us, public prejudice
is down; and through the cannon-smoke of that black
night, the manhood of the colored race shines before
many eyes that would not see, rings in many ears that
would not hear, wins many hearts that would not hitherto
believe.
When the news came that we were needed, there was
none so glad as I to leave teaching contrabands, the new
work I had taken up, and go to nurse “our boys,” as
my dusky flock so proudly called the wounded of the
Fifty-Fourth. Feeling more satisfaction, as I assumed
my big apron and turned up my cuffs, than if dressing
for the President's levee, I fell to work in Hospital No. 10
at Beaufort. The scene was most familiar, and yet
strange; for only dark faces looked up at me from the
pallets so thickly laid along the floor, and I missed the
sharp accent of my Yankee boys in the slower, softer
voices calling cheerily to one another, or answering my
till the last Reb's dead,” or, “If our people's free, we
can afford to die.”
Passing from bed to bed, intent on making one pair of
hands do the work of three, at least, I gradually washed,
fed, and bandaged my way down the long line of sable
heroes, and coming to the very last, found that he was
my contraband. So old, so worn, so deathly weak and
wan, I never should have known him but for the deep
scar on his cheek. That side lay uppermost, and caught
my eye at once; but even then I doubted, such an awful
change had come upon him, when, turning to the ticket
just above his head, I saw the name, “Robert Dane.”
That both assured and touched me, for, remembering
that he had no name, I knew that he had taken mine.
I longed for him to speak to me, to tell how he had fared
since I lost sight of him, and let me perform some little
service for him in return for many he had done for me;
but he seemed asleep; and as I stood re-living that
strange night again, a bright lad, who lay next him
softly waving an old fan across both beds, looked up and
said, —
“I guess you know him, Missis?”
“You are right. Do you?”
“As much as any one was able to, Missis.”
“Why do you say `was,' as if the man were dead
and gone?”
“I s'pose because I know he'll have to go. He's got
a bad jab in the breast, an' is bleedin' inside, the Doctor
says. He don't suffer any, only gets weaker 'n' weaker
every minute. I've been fannin' him this long while,
he's most gone, I guess.”
There was so much sorrow and affection in the boy's
face, that I remembered something, and asked, with
redoubled interest, —
“Are you the one that brought him off? I was told
about a boy who nearly lost his life in saving that of his
mate.”
I dare say the young fellow blushed, as any modest
lad might have done; I could not see it, but I heard the
chuckle of satisfaction that escaped him, as he glanced
from his shattered arm and bandaged side to the pale
figure opposite.
“Lord, Missis, that's nothin'; we boys always stan'
by one another, an' I warn't goin' to leave him to be
tormented any more by them cussed Rebs. He's been a
slave once, though he don't look half so much like it as
me, an' I was born in Boston.”
He did not; for the speaker was as black as the ace
of spades, — being a sturdy specimen, the knave of clubs
would perhaps be a fitter representative, — but the dark
freeman looked at the white slave with the pitiful, yet
puzzled expression I have so often seen on the faces of
our wisest men, when this tangled question of Slavery
presented itself, asking to be cut or patiently undone.
“Tell me what you know of this man; for, even if
he were awake, he is too weak to talk.”
“I never saw him till I joined the regiment, an' no
one 'peared to have got much out of him. He was a
shut-up sort of feller, an' didn't seem to care for anything
but gettin' at the Rebs. Some say he was the fust man
of us that enlisted; I know he fretted till we were off,
devil.”
“Were you with him when he was wounded? How
was it?”
“Yes, Missis. There was somethin' queer about it;
for he 'peared to know the chap that killed him, an' the
chap knew him. I don't dare to ask, but I rather guess
one owned the other some time; for, when they clinched,
the chap sung out, `Bob!' an' Dane, `Marster Ned!'—
then they went at it.”
I sat down suddenly, for the old anger and compassion
struggled in my heart, and I both longed and feared to
hear what was to follow.
“You see, when the Colonel, — Lord keep an' send
him back to us! — it a'n't certain yet, you know, Missis,
though it's two days ago we lost him, — well, when the
Colonel shouted, `Rush on, boys, rush on!' Dane tore
away as if he was goin' to take the fort alone; I was
next him, an' kept close as we went through the ditch an'
up the wall. Hi! warn't that a rusher!” and the boy
flung up his well arm with a whoop, as if the mere memory
of that stirring moment came over him in a gust of
irrepressible excitement.
“Were you afraid?” I said, asking the question women
often put, and receiving the answer they seldom fail to
get.
“No, Missis!” — emphasis on the “Missis” — “I
never thought of anything but the damn' Rebs, that scalp,
slash, an' cut our ears off, when they git us. I was
bound to let daylight into one of 'em at least, an' I did.
Hope he liked it!”
“It is evident that you did. Now go on about Robert,
for I should be at work.”
“He was one of the fust up; I was just behind, an'
though the whole thing happened in a minute, I remember
how it was, for all I was yellin' an' knockin' round
like mad. Just where we were, some sort of an officer
was wavin' his sword an' cheerin' on his men; Dane
saw him by a big flash that come by; he flung away his
gun, give a leap, an' went at that feller as if he was Jeff,
Beauregard, an' Lee, all in one. I scrabbled after as
quick as I could, but was only up in time to see him git
the sword straight through him an' drop into the ditch.
You needn't ask what I did next, Missis, for I don't
quite know myself; all I'm clear about is, that I managed
somehow to pitch that Reb into the fort as dead as
Moses, git hold of Dane, an' bring him off. Poor old
feller! we said we went in to live or die; he said he
went in to die, an' he's done it.”
I had been intently watching the excited speaker; but
as he regretfully added those last words I turned again,
and Robert's eyes met mine, — those melancholy eyes,
so full of an intelligence that proved he had heard,
remembered, and reflected with that preternatural power
which often outlives all other faculties. He knew me,
yet gave no greeting; was glad to see a woman's face,
yet had no smile wherewith to welcome it; felt that he
was dying, yet uttered no farewell. He was too far
across the river to return or linger now; departing
thought, strength, breath, were spent in one grateful
look, one murmur of submission to the last pang he
could ever feel. His lips moved, and, bending to them,
words, —
“I'd 'a' done it, — but it's better so, — I'm satisfied.”
Ah! well he might be, — for, as he turned his face
from the shadow of the life that was, the sunshine of the
life to be touched it with a beautiful content, and in the
drawing of a breath my contraband found wife and
home, eternal liberty and God.
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.”
5. A MODERN CINDERELLA;
OR, THE LITTLE OLD SHOE.
HOW IT WAS LOST.
AMONG green New-England hills stood an ancient
house, many-gabled, mossy-roofed, and quaintly
built, but picturesque and pleasant to the eye; for a
brook ran babbling through the orchard that encompassed
it about, a garden-plot stretched upward to the whispering
birches on the slope, and patriarchal elms stood sentinel
upon the lawn, as they had stood almost a century
ago, when the Revolution rolled that way and found
them young.
One summer morning, when the air was full of country
sounds, — of mowers in the meadow, blackbirds by
the brook, and the low of cattle on the hill-side, the old
house wore its cheeriest aspect, and a certain humble
history began.
“Nan!”
“Yes, Di.”
And a head, brown-locked, blue-eyed, soft-featured,
looked in at the open door in answer to the call.
“Just bring me the third volume of `Wilhelm Meister,'
there's a dear. It's hardly worth while to rouse such
a restless ghost as I, when I'm once fairly laid.”
As she spoke, Di pushed up her black braids, thumped
the pillow of the couch where she was lying, and with
eager eyes went down the last page of her book.
“Nan!”
“Yes, Laura,” replied the girl, coming back with the
third volume for the literary cormorant, who took it with
a nod, still too intent upon the “Confessions of a Fair
Saint” to remember the failings of a certain plain sinner.
“Don't forget the Italian cream for dinner. I depend
upon it; for it's the only thing fit for me this hot weather.”
And Laura, the cool blonde, disposed the folds of her
white gown more gracefully about her, and touched up
the eyebrow of the Minerva she was drawing.
“Little daughter!”
“Yes, father.”
“Let me have plenty of clean collars in my bag, for I
must go at three; and some of you bring me a glass of
cider in about an hour, — I shall be in the lower garden.”
The old man went away into his imaginary paradise,
and Nan into that domestic purgatory on a summer day,
— the kitchen. There were vines about the windows,
sunshine on the floor, and order everywhere; but it was
haunted by a cooking-stove, that family altar whence such
varied incense rises to appease the appetite of household
gods, before which such dire incantations are pronounced
to ease the wrath and woe of the priestess of the fire,
and about which often linger saddest memories of wasted
temper, time, and toil.
Nan was tired, having risen with the birds, hurried,
having many cares those happy little housewives never
know, and disappointed in a hope that hourly “dwindled,
peaked, and pined.” She was too young to make the
patient to be burdened with the labor others should have
shared, too light of heart to be pent up when earth and
sky were keeping a blithe holiday. But she was one of
that meek sisterhood who, thinking humbly of themselves,
believe they are honored by being spent in the service of
less conscientious souls, whose careless thanks seem
quite reward enough.
To and fro she went, silent and diligent, giving the
grace of willingness to every humble or distasteful task
the day had brought her; but some malignant sprite
seemed to have taken possession of her kingdom, for
rebellion broke out everywhere. The kettles would boil
over most obstreperously, — the mutton refused to cook
with the meek alacrity to be expected from the nature of
a sheep, — the stove, with unnecessary warmth of temper,
would glow like a fiery furnace, — the irons would
scorch, — the linens would dry, — and spirits would fail,
though patience never.
Nan tugged on, growing hotter and wearier, more
hurried and more hopeless, till at last the crisis came; for
in one fell moment she tore her gown, burnt her hand,
and smutched the collar she was preparing to finish in
the most unexceptionable style. Then, if she had been
a nervous woman, she would have scolded; being a
gentle girl, she only “lifted up her voice and wept.”
“Behold, she watereth her linen with salt tears, and
bewaileth herself because of much tribulation. But, lo!
help cometh from afar: a strong man bringeth lettuce
wherewith to stay her, plucketh berries to comfort her
withal, and clasheth cymbals that she may dance for joy.”
The voice came from the porch, and, with her hope
who stood there with a basket on his arm; and as
she saw his honest eyes, kind lips, and helpful hands, the
girl thought this plain young man the comeliest, most
welcome sight she had beheld that day.
“How good of you, to come through all this heat, and
not to laugh at my despair!” she said, looking up like a
grateful child, as she led him in.
“I only obeyed orders, Nan; for a certain dear old
lady had a motherly presentiment that you had got into
a domestic whirlpool, and sent me as a sort of life preserver.
So I took the basket of consolation, and came
to fold my feet upon the carpet of contentment in the
tent of friendship.”
As he spoke, John gave his own gift in his mother's
name, and bestowed himself in the wide window-seat,
where morning-glories nodded at him, and the old butternut
sent pleasant shadows dancing to and fro.
His advent, like that of Orpheus in Hades, seemed to
soothe all unpropitious powers with a sudden spell. The
fire began to slacken, the kettles began to lull, the meat
began to cook, the irons began to cool, the clothes began
to behave, the spirits began to rise, and the collar was
finished off with most triumphant success. John watched
the change, and, though a lord of creation, abased himself
to take compassion on the weaker vessel, and was
seized with a great desire to lighten the homely tasks
that tried her strength of body and soul. He took a comprehensive
glance about the room; then, extracting a
dish from the closet, proceeded to imbrue his hands in
the strawberries' blood.
“Oh, John, you needn't do that; I shall have time
these things. See, I'm getting on finely now, — you're a
judge of such matters; isn't that nice?”
As she spoke, Nan offered the polished absurdity for
inspection with innocent pride.
“Oh that I were a collar, to sit upon that hand!”
sighed John; adding, argumentatively, “As to the
berry question, I will merely say, that, as a matter of
public safety, you'd better leave me alone; for such is
the destructiveness of my nature, that I shall certainly
eat something hurtful, break something valuable, or sit
upon something crushable, unless you let me concentrate
my energies by knocking off these young fellows' hats,
and preparing them for their doom.”
Looking at the matter in a charitable light, Nan consented,
and went cheerfully on with her work, wondering
how she could have thought ironing an infliction, and
been so ungrateful for the blessings of her lot.
“Where's Sally?” asked John, looking vainly for the
energetic functionary who usually pervaded that region like
a domestic police-woman, a terror to cats, dogs, and men.
“She has gone to her cousin's funeral, and won't be
back till Monday. There seems to be a great fatality
among her relations, for one dies, or comes to grief in
some way, about once a month. But I don't blame poor
Sally for wanting to get away from this place now and
then. I think I could find it in my heart to murder an
imaginary friend or two, if I had to stay here long.”
And Nan laughed so blithely, it was a pleasure to
hear her.
“Where's Di?” asked John, seized with a most unmasculine
curiosity all at once.
“She is in Germany, with `Wilhelm Meister,' but,
though `lost to sight, to memory dear'; for I was just
thinking, as I did her things, how clever she is to like all
kinds of books that I don't understand at all, and to write
things that make me cry with pride and delight. Yes,
she's a talented dear, though she hardly knows a needle
from a crow-bar, and will make herself one great blot
some of these days, when the `divine afflatus' descends
upon her, I'm afraid.”
And Nan rubbed away with sisterly zeal at Di's forlorn
hose and inky pocket-handkerchiefs.
“Where is Laura?” proceeded the inquisitor.
“Well, I might say that she was in Italy; for she is
copying some fine thing of Raphael's, or Michael Angelo's,
or some great creature's or other; and she looks so picturesque
in her pretty gown, sitting before her easel, that
it's really a sight to behold, and I've peeped two or three
times to see how she gets on.”
And Nan bestirred herself to prepare the dish wherewith
her picturesque sister desired to prolong her artistic
existence.
“Where is your father?” John asked again, checking
off each answer with a nod and a little frown.
“He is down in the garden, deep in some plan about
melons, the beginning of which seems to consist in stamping
the first proposition in Euclid all over the bed, and
then poking a few seeds into the middle of each. Why,
bless the dear man! I forgot it was time for the cider.
Wouldn't you like to take it to him, John? He'd love
to consult you; and the lane is so cool, it does one's
heart good to look at it.”
John glanced from the steamy kitchen to the shadowy
industry, —
“I couldn't possibly go, Nan, I've so much on my
hands. You'll have to do it yourself. `Mr. Robert of
Lincoln' has something for your private ear; and the
lane is so cool, it will do one's heart good to see you in
it. Give my regards to your father, and, in the words
of `Little Mabel's' mother, with slight variations, —
This day I cannot run,
For the pots are boiling over
And the mutton isn't done.”'
“I will; but please, John, go in to the girls and be
comfortable; for I don't like to leave you here,” said Nan.
“You insinuate that I should pick at the pudding or
skim the cream, do you? Ungrateful girl, leave me!”
And, with melodramatic sternness, John extinguished
her in his broad-brimmed hat, and offered the glass like
a poisoned goblet.
Nan took it, and went smiling away. But the lane
might have been the Desert of Sahara, for all she knew
of it; and she would have passed her father as unconcernedly
as if he had been an apple-tree, had he not
called out, —
“Stand and deliver, little woman!”
She obeyed the venerable highwayman, and followed
him to and fro, listening to his plans and directions with
a mute attention that quite won his heart.
“That hop-pole is really an ornament now, Nan; this
sage-bed needs weeding, — that's good work for you girls;
the cool of the evening, after I'm gone.”
To all of which remarks Nan gave her assent; though
the hop-pole took the likeness of a tall figure she had seen
in the porch, the sage-bed, curiously enough, suggested
a strawberry ditto, the lettuce vividly reminded her of
certain vegetable productions a basket had brought, and
the bobolink only sung in his cheeriest voice, “Go
home, go home! he is there!”
She found John, — having made a Freemason of himself,
by assuming her little apron, — meditating over the
partially spread table, lost in amaze at its desolate appearance;
one-half its proper paraphernalia having been forgotten,
and the other half put on awry. Nan laughed
till the tears ran over her cheeks, and John was gratified
at the efficacy of his treatment; for her face had brought
a whole harvest of sunshine from the garden, and all her
cares seemed to have been lost in the windings of the lane.
“Nan, are you in hysterics?” cried Di, appearing, book
in hand. “John, you absurd man, what are you doing?”
“I'm helpin' the maid-of-all-work, please marm.”
And John dropped a courtesy with his limited apron.
Di looked ruffled, for the merry words were a covert
reproach; and with her usual energy of manner and
freedom of speech she tossed “Wilhelm” out of the
window, exclaiming, irefully, —
“That's always the way; I'm never where I ought to
be, and never think of anything till it's too late; but it's
all Goethe's fault. What does he write books full of
smart `Phillinas' and interesting `Meisters' for? How
can I be expected to remember that Sally's away, and
people must eat, when I'm hearing the `Harper' and little
my work, instead of shaking me and telling me to do it
myself? Take that toasted child away, and fan her like
a Chinese mandarin, while I dish up this dreadful dinner.”
John and Nan fled like chaff before the wind, while
Di, full of remorseful zeal, charged at the kettles, and
wrenched off the potatoes' jackets, as if she were revengefully
pulling her own hair. Laura had a vague
intention of going to assist; but, getting lost among the
lights and shadows of Minerva's helmet, forgot to appear
till dinner had been evoked from chaos, and peace was
restored.
At three o'clock, Di performed the coronation ceremony
with her father's best hat; Laura retied his old-fashioned
neck-cloth, and arranged his white locks with an eye to
saintly effect; Nan appeared with a beautifully written
sermon, and suspicious ink-stains on the fingers that
slipped it into his pocket; John attached himself to the
bag; and the patriarch was escorted to the door of his
tent with the triumphal procession which usually attended
his outgoings and incomings. Having kissed the female
portion of his tribe, he ascended the venerable chariot,
which received him with audible lamentation, as its
rheumatic joints swayed to and fro.
“Good-by, my dears! I shall be back early on Monday
morning; so take care of yourselves, and be sure
you all go and hear Mr. Emerboy preach to-morrow. My
regards to your mother, John. Come, Solon!”
But Solon merely cocked one ear, and remained a fixed
fact; for long experience had induced the philosophic
beast to take for his motto the Yankee maxim, “Be sure
not right; therefore he did not go ahead.
“Oh, by the way, girls, don't forget to pay Tommy
Mullein for bringing up the cow; he expects it to-night.
And, Di, don't sit up till daylight, nor let Laura stay out
in the dew. Now, I believe, I'm off. Come, Solon!”
But Solon only cocked the other ear, gently agitated
his mortified tail, as premonitory symptoms of departure,
and never stirred a hoof, being well aware that it always
took three “comes” to make a “go.”
“Bless me! I've forgotten my spectacles. They are
probably shut up in that volume of Herbert on my table.
Very awkward to find myself without them ten miles
away. Thank you, John. Don't neglect to water the
lettuce, Nan, and don't overwork yourself, my little
`Martha.' Come —”
At this juncture Solon suddenly went off at a trot,
and the benign old pastor disappeared, humming “Hebron”
to the creaking accompaniment of the bulgy
chaise.
Laura retired to take her siesta; Nan made a small
carbonaro of herself by sharpening her sister's crayons,
and Di, as a sort of penance for past sins, tried her
patience over a piece of knitting, in which she soon
originated a somewhat remarkable pattern, by dropping
every third stitch, and seaming ad libitum. If John had
been a gentlemanly creature, with refined tastes, he
would have elevated his feet, and made a nuisance of
himself by indulging in a “weed”; but being only an
uncultivated youth, with a rustic regard for pure air and
womankind in general, he kept his head uppermost, and
talked like a man, instead of smoking like a chimney.
“It will probably be six months before I sit here
again, tangling your threads and maltreating your
needles, Nan. How glad you must feel to hear it!”
he said, looking up from a thoughtful examination of the
hard-working little citizens of the Industrial Community
settled in Nan's work-basket.
“No, I'm very sorry; for I like to see you coming
and going as you used to, years ago, and I miss you
very much when you are gone, John,” answered truthful
Nan, whittling away in a sadly wasteful manner, as her
thoughts flew back to the happy times when a little lad
rode a little lass in the big wheelbarrow, and never spilt
his load, — when two brown heads bobbed daily side by
side to school, and the favorite play was “Babes in the
Wood,” with Di for a somewhat peckish robin to cover
the small martyrs with any vegetable substance that lay
at hand. Nan sighed as she thought of these things,
and John regarded the battered thimble on his finger-tip
with increased benignity of aspect as he heard the sound.
“When are you going to make your fortune, John,
and get out of that disagreeable hardware concern?”
demanded Di, pausing after an exciting “round,” and
looking almost as much exhausted as if it had been a
veritable pugilistic encounter.
“I intend to make it by plunging still deeper into
`that disagreeable hardware concern'; for, next year,
if the world keeps rolling, and John Lord is alive, he
will become a partner, and then — and then —”
The color sprang up into the young man's cheek, his
eyes looked out with a sudden light, and his hand
seemed involuntarily to close, as if he saw and seized
some invisible delight.
“What will happen then, John?” asked Nan, with a
wondering glance.
“I'll tell you in a year, Nan, — wait till then.” And
John's strong hand unclosed, as if the desired good were
not to be his yet.
Di looked at him, with a knitting-needle stuck into her
hair, saying, like a sarcastic unicorn, —
“I really thought you had a soul above pots and
kettles, but I see you haven't; and I beg your pardon
for the injustice I have done you.”
Not a whit disturbed, John smiled, as if at some
mighty pleasant fancy of his own, as he replied, —
“Thank you, Di; and as a further proof of the utter
depravity of my nature, let me tell you that I have the
greatest possible respect for those articles of ironmongery.
Some of the happiest hours of my life have been
spent in their society; some of my pleasantest associations
are connected with them; some of my best lessons
have come to me from among them; and when my
fortune is made, I intend to show my gratitude by taking
three flat-irons rampant for my coat-of-arms.”
Nan laughed merrily, as she looked at the burns on
her hand; but Di elevated the most prominent feature
of her brown countenance, and sighed despondingly, —
“Dear, dear, what a disappointing world this is! I
no sooner build a nice castle in Spain, and settle a smart
young knight therein, than down it comes about my
ears; and the ungrateful youth, who might fight dragons
if he chose, insists on quenching his energies in a saucepan,
and wasting his life on a series of gridirons. Ah,
if I were a man, I would do something better than that,
and prove that heroes are not all dead yet. But, instead
temper with absurdities like this.” And Di wrestled
with her knitting as if it were Fate, and she were paying
off the grudge she owed it.
John leaned toward her, saying, with a look that made
his plain face handsome, —
“Di, my father began the world as I begin it, and
left it the richer for the useful years he spent here, —
as I hope I may leave it some half-century hence. His
memory makes that dingy shop a pleasant place to me;
for there he made an honest name, led an honest life,
and bequeathed to me his reverence for honest work.
That is a sort of hardware, Di, that no rust can corrupt,
and which will always prove a better fortune than any
your knights can win with sword and shield. I think
I am not quite a clod, or quite without some aspirations
above money-getting; for I have a great ambition to
become as good a man, and leave as green a memory
behind me, as old John Lord.”
Di winked violently, and seamed five times in perfect
silence; but quiet Nan had the gift of knowing when to
speak, and by a timely word saved her sister from a
thunder-shower and her stocking from destruction.
“John, have you seen Philip since you wrote about
your last meeting with him?”
The question was for John, but the soothing tone was
for Di, who gratefully accepted it, and perked up again
with speed.
“Yes; and I meant to have told you about it,” answered
John, plunging into the subject at once. “I saw
him a few days before I came home, and found him more
disconsolate than ever, — `just ready to go to the deuce,'
as well as I could, telling him his wisest plan was to defer
his proposed expedition, and go on as steadily as he had
begun, — thereby proving the injustice of your father's
prediction concerning his want of perseverance, and the
sincerity of his affection. I told him the change in
Laura's health and spirits was silently working in his
favor, and that a few more months of persistent endeavor
would conquer your father's prejudice against him, and
make him a stronger man for the trial and the pain. I
read him bits about Laura from your own and Di's letters,
and he went away, at last, as patient as Jacob, ready
to serve another `seven years' for his beloved Rachel.”
“God bless you for it, John!” cried a fervent voice;
and, looking up, they saw the cold, listless Laura transformed
into a tender girl, all aglow with love and longing,
as she dropped her mask, and showed a living
countenance eloquent with the first passion and softened
by the first grief of her life.
John rose involuntarily in the presence of an innocent
nature whose sorrow needed no interpreter to him. The
girl read sympathy in his brotherly regard, and found
comfort in the friendly voice that asked, half playfully,
half seriously, —
“Shall I tell him that he is not forgotten, even for an
Apollo? that Laura the artist has not conquered Laura
the woman? and predict that the good daughter will yet
prove the happy wife?”
With a gesture full of energy, Laura tore her Minerva
from top to bottom, while two great tears rolled down
the cheeks grown pale with hope deferred.
“Tell him I believe all things, hope all things, and that
I never can forget.”
Nan went to her and held her close, leaving the prints
of two loving, but grimy hands upon her shoulders; Di
looked on approvingly, for, though rather stony-hearted
regarding the cause, she fully appreciated the effect; and
John, turning to the window, received the commendations
of a robin swaying on an elm-bough, with sunshine
on its ruddy breast.
The clock struck five, and John declared that he must
go; for, being an old-fashioned soul, he fancied that his
mother had a better right to his last hour than any
younger woman in the land, — always remembering that
“she was a widow, and he her only son.”
Nan ran away to wash her hands, and came back with
the appearance of one who had washed her face also, —
and so she had, but there was a difference in the water.
“Play I'm your father, girls, and remember it will be
six months before `that John' will trouble you again.”
With which preface the young man kissed his former
playfellows as heartily as the boy had been wont to do,
when stern parents banished him to distant schools, and
three little maids bemoaned his fate. But times were
changed now, for Di grew alarmingly rigid during the
ceremony; Laura received the salute like a grateful
queen; and Nan returned it with heart and eyes and
tender lips, making such an improvement on the childish
fashion of the thing, that John was moved to support his
paternal character by softly echoing her father's words,
— “Take care of yourself, my little `Martha.”'
Then they all streamed after him along the garden-path,
with the endless messages and warnings girls are
at his heart, went away, as many another John has
gone, feeling better for the companionship of innocent
maidenhood, and stronger to wrestle with temptation, to
wait, and hope, and work.
“Let's throw a shoe after him for luck, as dear old
`Mrs. Gummidge' did after `David' and the `willin'
Barkis!' Quick, Nan! you always have old shoes on;
toss one, and shout `Good luck!”' cried Di, with one
of her eccentric inspirations.
Nan tore off her shoe, and threw it far along the dusty
road, with a sudden longing to become that auspicious
article of apparel, that the omen might not fail.
Looking backward from the hill-top, John answered
the meek shout cheerily, and took in the group with a
lingering glance: Laura in the shadow of the elms, Di
perched on the fence, and Nan leaning far over the gate,
with her hand above her eyes and the sunshine touching
her brown hair with gold. He waved his hat and turned
away; but the music seemed to die out of the blackbird's
song, and in all the summer landscape his eye saw nothing
but the little figure at the gate.
“Bless and save us! here's a flock of people coming!
My hair is in a toss, and Nan's without her shoe; run!
fly, girls! or the Philistines will be upon us!” cried Di,
tumbling off her perch in sudden alarm.
Three agitated young ladies, with flying draperies and
countenances of mingled mirth and dismay, might have
been seen precipitating themselves into a respectable
mansion with unbecoming haste; but the squirrels were
the only witnesses of this “vision of sudden flight,” and,
being used to ground-and-lofty tumbling, didn't mind it.
When the pedestrians passed, the door was decorously
closed, and no one visible but a young man, who snatched
something out of the road, and marched away again,
whistling with more vigor of tone than accuracy of tune,
— only that, and nothing more.
HOW IT WAS FOUND.
Summer ripened into autumn, and something fairer
than
In Annie's garden grew.”
where as a child she had read her fairy tales, and now
as a woman turned the first pages of a more wondrous
legend still. Lifted above the many-gabled roof, yet not
cut off from the echo of human speech, the little grove
seemed a green sanctuary, fringed about with violets,
and full of summer melody and bloom. Gentle creatures
haunted it, and there was none to make afraid; wood-pigeons
cooed and crickets chirped their shrill roundelays,
anemones and lady-ferns looked up from the moss that
kissed the wanderer's feet. Warm airs were all afloat,
full of vernal odors for the grateful sense, silvery birches
shimmered like spirits of the wood, larches gave their
green tassels to the wind, and pines made airy music
sweet and solemn, as they stood looking heavenward
through veils of summer sunshine or shrouds of wintry
snow. Nan never felt alone now in this charmed wood;
for, when she came into its precincts, once so full of solitude,
all things seemed to wear one shape; familiar eyes
looked at her from the violets in the grass, familiar words
that an unseen influence filled the air with new
delights, and touched earth and sky with a beauty never
seen before. Slowly these May-flowers budded in her
maiden heart, rosily they bloomed, and silently they
waited till some lover of such lowly herbs should catch
their fresh aroma, should brush away the fallen leaves,
and lift them to the sun.
Though the eldest of the three, she had long been
overtopped by the more aspiring girls. But, though she
meekly yielded the reins of government, whenever they
chose to drive, they were soon restored to her again; for
Di fell into literature, and Laura into love. Thus engrossed,
these two forgot many duties which even bluestockings
and innamoratas are expected to perform, and
slowly all the homely humdrum cares that housewives
know became Nan's daily life, and she accepted it without
a thought of discontent. Noiseless and cheerful as
the sunshine, she went to and fro, doing the tasks that
mothers do, but without a mother's sweet reward, holding
fast the numberless slight threads that bind a household
tenderly together, and making each day a beautiful
success.
Di, being tired of running, riding, climbing, and boating,
decided, at last, to let her body rest, and put her
equally active mind through what classical collegians
term “a course of sprouts.” Having undertaken to read
and know everything, she devoted herself to the task with
great energy, going from Sue to Swedenborg with perfect
impartiality, and having different authors as children
have sundry distempers, being fractious while they lasted,
but all the better for them when once over. Carlyle appeared
for, being anything but a “passive bucket,” Di became
prophetic with Mahomet, belligerent with Cromwell, and
made the French Revolution a veritable Reign of Terror
to her family. Goethe and Schiller alternated like fever
and ague; Mephistopheles became her hero, Joan of Arc
her model, and she turned her black eyes red over Egmont
and Wallenstein. A mild attack of Emerson followed,
during which she was lost in a fog; and her
sisters rejoiced inwardly when she emerged, informing
them that
Her wings were furled.”
Poor Di was floundering slowly to her proper place;
but she splashed up a good deal of foam by getting out
of her depth, and rather exhausted herself by trying to
drink the ocean dry.
Laura, after the “midsummer night's dream” that
often comes to girls of seventeen, woke up to find that
youth and love were no match for age and commonsense.
Philip had been flying about the world like a
thistle-down for five-and-twenty years, generous-hearted,
frank, and kind, but with never an idea of the serious
side of life in his handsome head. Great, therefore,
were the wrath and dismay of the enamored thistle-down,
when the father of his love mildly objected to seeing her
begin the world in a balloon, with a very tender but very
inexperienced aeronaut for a guide.
“Laura is too young to `play house' yet, and you are
too unstable to assume the part of lord and master,
Philip. Go and prove that you have prudence, patience,
but not before. I must seem cruel, that I may be truly
kind; believe this, and let a little pain lead you to great
happiness, or show you where you would have made a
blunder.”
The lovers listened, owned the truth of the old man's
words, bewailed their fate, and — yielded: Laura for
love of her father Philip for love of her. He went
away to build a firm foundation for his castle in the air,
and Laura retired into an invisible convent, where she
cast off the world, and regarded her sympathizing sisters
through a grate of superior knowledge and unsharable
grief. Like a devout nun, she worshipped “St. Philip,”
and firmly believed in his miraculous powers. She fancied
that her woes set her apart from common cares, and
slowly fell into a dreamy state, professing no interest in
any mundane matter, but the art that first attracted
Philip. Crayons, bread-crusts and gray paper became
glorified in Laura's eyes; and her one pleasure was to sit
before her easel, day after day, filling her portfolios with
the faces he had once admired. Her sisters observed
that every Bacchus, Piping Faun, or Dying Gladiator
bore some likeness to a comely countenance that heathen
god or hero never owned; and, seeing this, they privately
rejoiced that she had found such solace for her
grief.
Mrs. Lord's keen eye had read a certain newly-written
page in her son's heart, — his first chapter of that romance,
begun in Paradise, whose interest never flags,
whose beauty never fades, whose end can never come
till Love lies dead. With womanly skill she divined the
secret, with motherly discretion she counselled patience,
a healthful herb, its worth lay in its bitterness.
“Love like a man, John, not like a boy, and learn to
know yourself before you take a woman's happiness into
your keeping. You and Nan have known each other all
your lives; yet, till this last visit, you never thought you
loved her more than any other childish friend. It is too
soon to say the words so often spoken hastily — so hard
to be recalled. Go back to your work, dear, for another
year; think of Nan in the light of this new hope; compare
her with comelier, gayer girls; and by absence
prove the truth of your belief. Then, if distance only
makes her dearer, if time only strengthens your affection,
and no doubt of your own worthiness disturbs you, come
back and offer her what any woman should be glad to
take, — my boy's true heart.”
John smiled at the motherly pride of her words, but
answered, with a wistful look, —
“It seems very long to wait, mother. If I could just
ask her for a word of hope, I could be very patient
then.”
“Ah, my dear, better bear one year of impatience
now than a lifetime of regret hereafter. Nan is happy;
why disturb her by a word which will bring the tender
cares and troubles that come soon enough to such conscientious
creatures as herself? If she loves you, time
will prove it; therefore, let the new affection spring and
ripen as your early friendship has done, and it will be all
the stronger for a summer's growth. Philip was rash,
and has to bear his trial now, and Laura shares it with
him. Be more generous, John; make your trial, bear
your doubts alone, and give Nan the happiness without
and wait.”
The young man's eye kindled, and in his heart there
rose a better chivalry, a truer valor, than any Di's
knights had ever known.
“I'll try, mother,” was all he said; but she was satisfied,
for John seldom tried in vain.
“Oh, girls, how splendid you are! It does my heart
good to see my handsome sisters in their best array,”
cried Nan, one mild October night, as she put the last
touches to certain airy raiment fashioned by her own
skilful hands, and then fell back to survey the grand effect.
Di and Laura were preparing to assist at an “event
of the season,” and Nan, with her own locks fallen on
her shoulders for want of sundry combs promoted to her
sisters' heads, and her dress in unwonted disorder for lack
of the many pins extracted in exciting crises of the toilet,
hovered like an affectionate bee about two very full-blown
flowers.
“Laura looks like a cool Undine, with the ivy-wreaths
in her shining hair; and Di has illuminated herself to
such an extent with those scarlet leaves, that I don't
know what great creature she resembles most,” said Nan,
beaming with sisterly admiration.
“Juno, Zenobia and Cleopatra simmered into one,
with a touch of Xantippe, by way of spice. But, to my
eye, the finest woman of the three is the dishevelled
young person embracing the bed-post; for she stays at
home herself, and gives her time and taste to making
homely people fine, — which is a waste of good material,
and an imposition on the public.”
As Di spoke, both the fashion-plates looked affectionately
at the gray-gowned figure; but, being works of
art, they were obliged to nip their feelings in the bud,
and reserve their caresses till they returned to common
life.
“Put on your bonnet, and we'll leave you at Mrs.
Lord's on our way. It will do you good, Nan; and perhaps
there may be news from John,” added Di, as she
bore down upon the door like a man-of-war under full
sail.
“Or from Philip,” sighed Laura, with a wistful look.
Whereupon Nan persuaded herself that her strong
inclination to sit down was owing to want of exercise,
and the heaviness of her eyelids a freak of imagination;
so, speedily smoothing her ruffled plumage, she ran down
to tell her father of the new arrangement.
“Go, my dear, by all means. I shall be writing, and
you will be lonely if you stay. But I must see my girls;
for I caught glimpses of certain surprising phantoms flitting
by the door.”
Nan led the way, and the two pyramids revolved
before him with the rigidity of lay-figures, much to the
good man's edification; for with his fatherly pleasure
there was mingled much mild wonderment at the amplitude
of array.
“Yes, I see my geese are really swans, though there
is such a cloud between us that I feel a long way off, and
hardly know them. But this little daughter is always
available, always my `cricket on the hearth.”'
As he spoke, her father drew Nan closer, kissed her
tranquil face, and smiled content.
“Well, if ever I see picters, I see 'em now, and I declare
bit. Miss Di, with all them boughs in her head, looks
like the Queen of Sheby, when she went a-visitin' What's-his-name;
and if Miss Laura ain't as sweet as a lally-barster
figger, I should like to know what is.”
In her enthusiasm, Sally gambolled about the girls,
flourishing her milk-pan as if about to sound her timbrel
for excess of joy.
Laughing merrily, the two girls bestowed themselves
in the family ark, Nan got up beside Patrick, and Solon,
roused from his slumbers, morosely trundled them away.
But, looking backward with a last “Good-night!” Nan
saw her father still standing at the door with smiling
countenance, and the moonlight falling like a benediction
on his silver hair.
“Betsey shall go up the hill with you, my dear, and
here's a basket of eggs for your father. Give him my
love, and be sure you let me know the next time he is
poorly,” Mrs. Lord said, when her guest rose to depart,
after an hour of pleasant chat.
But Nan never got the gift; for, to her great dismay,
her hostess dropped the basket with a crash, and flew
across the room to meet a tall figure pausing in the
shadow of the door. There was no need to ask who the
new-comer was; for, even in his mother's arms, John
looked over her shoulder with an eager nod to Nan, who
stood among the ruins with never a sign of weariness in
her face, nor the memory of a care at her heart, — for
they all went out when John came in.
“Now tell us how, and why, and when you came.
Take off your coat, my dear! And here are the old
so soon? How have you been? and what makes you so
late to-night? Betsey, you needn't put on your bonnet.
And — oh, my dear boy, have you been to supper
yet?”
Mrs. Lord was a quiet soul, and her flood of questions
was purred softly in her son's ear; for, being a woman,
she must talk, and, being a mother, must pet the one
delight of her life, and make a little festival when the
lord of the manor came home. A whole drove of fatted
calves were metaphorically killed, and a banquet appeared
with speed. John was not one of those romantic
heroes who can go through three volumes of hair-breadth
escapes without the faintest hint of that blessed institution,
dinner; therefore, he partook copiously of everything,
while the two women beamed over each mouthful
with an interest that enhanced its flavor, and urged upon
him cold meat and cheese, pickles and pie, as if dyspepsia
and nightmare were among the lost arts.
Then he opened his budget of news and fed them.
“I was coming next month, according to custom; but
Philip fell upon and so tempted me, that I was driven to
sacrifice myself to the cause of friendship, and up we
came to-night. He would not let me come here till we
had seen your father, Nan; for the poor lad was pining
for Laura, and hoped his good behavior for the past year
would satisfy his judge and secure his recall. We had
a fine talk with your father; and, upon my life, Phil
seemed to have received the gift of tongues, for he made
a most eloquent plea, which I've stowed away for future
use, I assure you. The dear old gentleman was very
kind, told Phil he was satisfied with the success of his
if all went well, should receive his reward in the spring.
It must be a delightful sensation to know you have made
a fellow-creature as happy as those words made Phil
to-night.”
John paused, and looked musingly at the matronly
tea-pot, as if he saw a wondrous future in its shine.
Nan twinkled off the drops that rose at the thought of
Laura's joy, and said, with grateful warmth, —
“You say nothing of your own share in the making
of that happiness, John; but we know it, for Philip has
told Laura in his letters all that you have been to him,
and I am sure there was other eloquence beside his own
before father granted all you say he has. Oh, John, I
thank you very much for this!”
Mrs. Lord beamed a whole midsummer of delight
upon her son, as she saw the pleasure these words gave
him, though he answered simply, —
“I only tried to be a brother to him, Nan; for he has
been most kind to me. Yes, I said my little say to-night,
and gave my testimony in behalf of the prisoner at the
bar, a most merciful judge pronounced his sentence, and
he rushed straight to Mrs. Leigh's to tell Laura the blissful
news. Just imagine the scene when he appears, and
how Di will open her wicked eyes and enjoy the spectacle
of the ardent lover, the bride-elect's tears, the stir,
and the romance of the thing. She'll cry over it to-night,
and caricature it to-morrow.”
And John led the laugh at the picture he had conjured
up, to turn the thoughts of Di's dangerous sister from
himself.
At ten Nan retired into the depths of her old bonnet
it, and John, resuming his hat, mounted guard.
“Don't stay late, remember, John!” And in Mrs.
Lord's voice there was a warning tone that her son interpreted
aright.
“I'll not forget, mother.”
And he kept his word; for though Philip's happiness
floated temptingly before him, and the little figure at his
side had never seemed so dear, he ignored the bland
winds, the tender night, and set a seal upon his lips,
thinking manfully within himself, “I see many signs of
promise in her happy face; but I will wait and hope a
little longer for her sake.”
“Where is father, Sally?” asked Nan, as that functionary
appeared, blinking owlishly, but utterly repudiating
the idea of sleep.
“He went down the garding, miss, when the gentlemen
cleared, bein' a little flustered by the goin's on.
Shall I fetch him in?” asked Sally, as irreverently as if
her master were a bag of meal.
“No, we will go ourselves.” And slowly the two
paced down the leaf-strewn walk.
Fields of yellow grain were waving on the hill-side,
and sere corn-blades rustled in the wind; from the orchard
came the scent of ripening fruit, and all the garden-plots
lay ready to yield up their humble offerings to their master's
hand. But in the silence of the night a greater
Reaper had passed by, gathering in the harvest of a
righteous life, and leaving only tender memories for the
gleaners who had come so late.
The old man sat in the shadow of the tree his own
leaves still whispered the low lullaby that hushed him to
his rest.
“How fast he sleeps! Poor father! I should have
come before and made it pleasant for him.”
As she spoke, Nan lifted up the head bent down upon
his breast, and kissed his pallid cheek.
“Oh, John, this is not sleep!”
“Yes, dear, the happiest he will ever know.”
For a moment the shadows flickered over three white
faces, and the silence deepened solemnly. Then John
reverently bore the pale shape in, and Nan dropped down
beside it, saying, with a rain of grateful tears, —
“He kissed me when I went, and said a last `goodnight!”'
For an hour steps went to and fro about her, many
voices whispered near her, and skilful hands touched the
beloved clay she held so fast; but one by one the busy
feet passed out, one by one the voices died away, and
human skill proved vain. Then Mrs. Lord drew the
orphan to the shelter of her arms, soothing her with the
mute solace of that motherly embrace.
“Yes, we are poorer than we thought; but when
everything is settled, we shall get on very well. We
can let a part of this great house, and live quietly together
until spring; then Laura will be married, and Di can go
on their travels with them, as Philip wishes her to do.
We shall be cared for; so never fear for us, John.”
Nan said this, as her friend parted from her a week
later, after the saddest holiday he had ever known.
“And what becomes of you, Nan?” he asked, watching
the patient eyes that smiled when others would
have wept.
“I shall stay in the dear old house; for no other
place would seem like home to me. I shall find some little
child to love and care for, and be quite happy till the
girls come back and want me.”
John nodded wisely, as he listened, and went away
prophesying within himself, —
“She shall find something more than a child to love;
and, God willing, shall be very happy till the girls come
home and — cannot have her.”
Nan's plan was carried into effect. Slowly the divided
waters closed again, and the three fell back into their old
life. But the touch of sorrow drew them closer; and,
though invisible, a beloved presence still moved among
them, a familiar voice still spoke to them in the silence
of their softened hearts. Thus the soil was made ready,
and in the depth of winter the good seed was sown, was
watered with many tears, and soon sprang up green with
the promise of a harvest for their after years.
Di and Laura consoled themselves with their favorite
employments, unconscious that Nan was growing paler,
thinner, and more silent, as the weeks went by, till one
day she dropped quietly before them, and it suddenly
became manifest that she was utterly worn out with
many cares, and the secret suffering of a tender heart
bereft of the paternal love which had been its strength
and stay.
“I'm only tired, dear girls. Don't be troubled, for I
into the anxious faces bending over her.
But the weariness was of many months' growth, and
it was weeks before that “to-morrow” came.
Laura installed herself as nurse, and her devotion was
repaid fourfold; for, sitting at her sister's bedside, she
learned a finer art than that she had left. Her eye grew
clear to see the beauty of a self-denying life, and in the
depths of Nan's meek nature she found the strong,
sweet virtues that made her what she was.
Then remembering that these womanly attributes were
a bride's best dowry, Laura gave herself to their attainment,
that she might become to another household the
blessing Nan had been to her own; and turning from the
worship of the goddess Beauty, she gave her hand to
that humbler and more human teacher, Duty, — learning
her lessons with a willing heart, for Philip's sake.
Di corked her inkstand, locked her bookcase, and went
at housework as if it were a five-barred gate; of course
she missed the leap, but scrambled bravely through, and
appeared much sobered by the exercise. Sally had
departed to sit under a vine and fig-tree of her own, so
Di had undisputed sway; but if dish-pans and dusters
had tongues, direful would have been the history of that
crusade against frost and fire, indolence and inexperience.
But they were dumb, and Di scorned to complain, though
her struggles were pathetic to behold, and her sisters
went through a series of messes equal to a course of
“Prince Bedreddin's” peppery tarts. Reality turned
Romance out of doors; for, unlike her favorite heroines
in satin and tears, or helmet and shield, Di met her fate
in a big checked apron and dust-cap wonderful to see;
shouldered her gun, and marched to her daily martyrdom
in the kitchen with as heroic a heart as the “Maid of
Orleans” took to her stake.
Mind won the victory over matter in the end, and Di
was better all her days for the tribulations and the triumphs
of that time; for she drowned her idle fancies in
her wash-tub, made burnt-offerings of selfishness and
pride, and learned the worth of self-denial, as she sang
with happy voice among the pots and kettles of her conquered
realm.
Nan thought of John; and in the stillness of her
sleepless nights prayed Heaven to keep him safe, and
make her worthy to receive, and strong enough to bear,
the blessedness or pain of love.
Snow fell without, and keen winds howled among the
leafless elms, but “herbs of grace” were blooming beautifully
in the sunshine of sincere endeavor, and this
dreariest season proved the most fruitful of the year; for
love taught Laura, labor chastened Di, and patience
fitted Nan for the blessing of her life.
Nature, that stillest yet most diligent of housewives,
began at last that “spring-cleaning” which she makes
so pleasant that none find the heart to grumble as they
do when other matrons set their premises a-dust. Her
handmaids, wind and rain and sun, swept, washed, and
garnished busily, green carpets were unrolled, appleboughs
were hung with draperies of bloom, and dandelions,
pet nurslings of the year, came out to play upon
the sward.
From the South returned that opera troupe whose manager
is never in despair, whose tenor never sulks, whose
matinées were held, to which buttercups and clovers
crowded in their prettiest spring hats, and verdant young
blades twinkled their dewy lorgnettes, as they bowed
and made way for the floral belles.
May was bidding June good-morrow, and the roses
were just dreaming that it was almost time to wake,
when John came again into the quiet room which now
seemed the Eden that contained his Eve. Of course
there was a jubilee; but something seemed to have befallen
the whole group, for never had they all appeared
in such odd frames of mind.
John was restless, and wore an excited look, most
unlike his usual serenity of aspect. Nan the cheerful
had fallen into a well of silence, and was not to be extracted
by any hydraulic power, though she smiled like
the June sky over her head. Di's peculiarities were out
in full force, and she looked as if she would go off like a
torpedo at a touch; but through all her moods there was
a half-triumphant, half-remorseful expression in the
glance she fixed on John. And Laura, once so silent,
now sang like a blackbird, as she flitted to and fro; but
her fitful song was always, “Philip, my king.”
John felt that there had come a change upon the three,
and silently divined whose unconscious influence had
wrought the miracle. The embargo was off his tongue,
and he was in a fever to ask that question which brings
a flutter to the stoutest heart; but though the “man” had
come, the “hour” had not. So, by way of steadying his
nerves, he paced the room, pausing often to take notes of
his companions, and each pause seemed to increase his
wonder and content.
He looked at Nan. She was in her usual place, the
shabby little chair she loved, because it once was large
enough to hold a curly-headed playmate and herself. The
old work-basket was at her side, and the battered thimble
busily at work; but her lips wore a smile they had never
worn before, the color of the unblown roses touched her
cheek, and her downcast eyes were full of light.
He looked at Di. The inevitable book was on her
knee, but its leaves were uncut; the strong-minded knob
of hair still asserted its supremacy aloft upon her head,
and the triangular jacket still adorned her shoulders in
defiance of all fashions, past, present, or to come; but
the expression of her brown countenance had grown
softer, her tongue had found a curb, and in her hand lay
a card with “Potts, Kettel & Co.” inscribed thereon,
which she regarded with never a scornful word for
the “Co.”
He looked at Laura. She was before her easel, as of
old; but the pale nun had given place to a blooming girl,
who sang at her work, which was no prim Pallas, but a
Clytie turning her human face to meet the sun.
“John, what are you thinking of?”
He stirred as if Di's voice had disturbed his fancy at
some pleasant pastime, but answered with his usual sincerity,
—
“I was thinking of a certain dear old fairy tale, called
`Cinderella.' ”
“Oh!” said Di; and her “Oh” was a most impressive
monosyllable. “I see the meaning of your smile now;
and, though the application of the story is not very complimentary
to all parties concerned, it is very just and
very true.”
She paused a moment, then went on with softened
voice and earnest face, —
“You think I am a blind and selfish creature. So I
am, but not so blind and selfish as I have been; for
many tears have cleared my eyes, and sincere regret has
made me humbler than I was. I have found a better
book than any father's library can give me, and I have
read it with a love and admiration that grew stronger as
I turned the leaves. Henceforth I take it for my guide
and gospel, and, looking back upon the selfish and
neglectful past, can only say, Heaven bless your dear
heart, Nan!”
Laura echoed Di's last words; for, with eyes as full
of tenderness, she looked down upon the sister she had
lately learned to know, saying, warmly, —
“Yes, `Heaven bless your dear heart, Nan!' I never
can forget all you have been to me; and when I am far
away with Philip, there will always be one countenance
more beautiful to me than any pictured face I may discover,
there will be one place more dear to me than
Rome. The face will be yours, Nan, — always so patient,
always so serene; and the dearer place will be this
home of ours, which you have made so pleasant to me
all these years by kindnesses as numberless and noiseless
as the drops of dew.”
“Why, girls, what have I ever done, that you should
love me so?” cried Nan, with happy wonderment, as the
tall heads, black and golden, bent to meet the lowly
brown one; and her sisters' mute lips answered her.
Then Laura looked up, saying, playfully, —
“Here are the good and wicked sisters; where shall
we find the Prince?”
“There!” cried Di, pointing to John; and then her
secret went off like a rocket; for, with her old impetuosity,
she said, —
“I have found you out, John, and am ashamed to look
you in the face, remembering the past. Girls, you know,
when father died, John sent us money, which he said
Mr. Owen had long owed us, and had paid at last! It
was a kind lie, John, and a generous thing to do; for we
needed it, but never would have taken it as a gift. I
know you meant that we should never find this out; but
yesterday I met Mr. Owen returning from the West,
and when I thanked him for a piece of justice we had
not expected of him, he gruffly told me he had never
paid the debt, never meant to pay it, for it was outlawed,
and we could not claim a farthing. John, I have laughed
at you, thought you stupid, treated you unkindly; but I
know you now, and never shall forget the lesson you
have taught me. I am proud as Lucifer, but I ask you
to forgive me, and I seal my real repentance so — and
so!”
With tragic countenance, Di rushed across the room,
threw both arms about the astonished young man's neck,
and dropped an energetic kiss upon his cheek. There
was a momentary silence; for Di finely illustrated her
strong-minded theories by crying like the weakest of her
sex. Laura, with “the ruling passion strong in death,”
still tried to draw, but broke her pet crayon, and endowed
her Clytie with a supplementary orb, owing to the
dimness of her own. And Nan sat, with drooping eyes
that shone upon her work, thinking, with tender pride, —
“They know him now, and love him for his generous
heart.”
Di spoke first, rallying to her colors, though a little
daunted by her loss of self-control:
“Don't laugh, John — I couldn't help it; and don't
think I'm not sincere, for I am, — I am! and I will
prove it by growing good enough to be your friend.
That debt must all be paid, and I shall do it; for I'll
turn my books and pen to some account, and write stories
full of dear old souls like you and Nan; and some
one, I know, will like and buy them, though they are not
`works of Shakspeare.' I've thought of this before,
have felt I had the power in me; now I have the motive,
and now I'll do it.”
If Di had proposed to translate the Koran, or build a
new Saint Paul's, there would have been many chances
of success; for, once moved, her will, like a battering-ram,
would knock down the obstacles her wits could not
surmount. John believed in her most heartily, and
showed it, as he answered, looking into her resolute
face, —
“I know you will, and yet make us very proud of our
Di. Let the money lie, and when you have made a fortune,
I'll claim it with enormous interest; but, believe
me, I feel already doubly repaid by the esteem so generously
confessed, so cordially bestowed, and can only say,
as we used to years ago, — `Now let's forgive and forget.'
”
But proud Di would not let him add to her obligation,
even by returning her impetuous salute; she slipped
away, and, shaking off the last drops, answered, with a
curious mixture of old freedom and new respect, —
“No more sentiment, please, John. We know each
other now; and when I find a friend, I never let him go.
our wigwams and bury the hatchet. Where were we
when I lost my head? and what were we talking about?”
“Cinderella and the Prince.”
As he spoke, John's eye kindled, and, turning, he
looked down at Nan, who sat diligently ornamenting
with microscopic stitches a great patch going on, the
wrong side out.
“Yes, — so we were; and now, taking pussy for the
godmother, the characters of the story are well personated
— all but the slipper,” said Di, laughing, as she
thought of the many times they had played it together
years ago.
A sudden warmth stirred John's heart, a sudden
purpose shone in his countenance, and a sudden change
befell his voice, as he said, producing from some hiding-place
a little worn-out shoe, —
“I can supply the slipper; — who will try it first?”
Di's black eyes opened wide, as they fell on the
familiar object; then her romance-loving nature saw the
whole plot of that drama which needs but two to act it.
A great delight flushed up into her face, as she promptly
took her cue, saying, —
“No need for us to try it, Laura; for it wouldn't fit
us, if our feet were as small as Chinese dolls'; — our
parts are played out; therefore, `Exeunt wicked sisters to
the music of the wedding-bells.' ” And pouncing upon
the dismayed artist, she swept her out, and closed the
door with a triumphant bang.
John went to Nan, and, dropping on his knee as reverently
as the herald of the fairy tale, he asked, still
smiling, but with lips grown tremulous, —
“Will Cinderella try the little shoe, and, — if it fits, —
go with the Prince?”
But Nan only covered up her face, weeping happy
tears, while all the weary work strayed down upon the
floor, as if it knew her holiday had come.
John drew the hidden face still closer; and, while she
listened to his eager words, Nan heard the beating of the
strong man's heart, and knew it spoke the truth.
“Nan, I promised mother to be silent till I was sure
I loved you wholly, — sure that the knowledge would
give no pain when I should tell it, as I am trying to tell
it now. This little shoe has been my comforter through
this long year, and I have kept it as other lovers keep
their fairer favors. It has been a talisman more eloquent
to me than flower or ring; for, when I saw how worn it
was, I always thought of the willing feet that came and
went for others' comfort all day long; when I saw the
little bow you tied, I always thought of the hands so
diligent in serving any one who knew a want or felt a
pain; and when I recalled the gentle creature who had
worn it last, I always saw her patient, tender, and
devout, — and tried to grow more worthy of her, that I
might one day dare to ask if she would walk beside me
all my life, and be my `angel in the house.' Will you,
dear? Believe me, you shall never know a weariness or
grief I have the power to shield you from.”
Then Nan, as simple in her love as in her life, laid her
arms about his neck, her happy face against his own,
and answered softly, —
“Oh, John, I never can be sad or tired any more!”
6. THE BLUE AND THE GRAY.
DON'T bring him in here; every corner is full,” said
the nurse, eying with dismay the gaunt figure lying
on the stretcher in the doorway.
“Where shall we put him, then? They can't have
him in either of the other wards on this floor. He's
ordered up here, and here he must stay, if he's put in the
hall, poor devil!” said the foremost bearer, looking
around the crowded room in despair.
The nurse's eye followed his, and both saw a thin hand
beckoning from the end of the long ward.
“It's Murry; I'll see what he wants;” and Miss
Mercy went to him with her quick, noiseless step, and
the smile her grave face always wore for him.
“There's room here, if you turn my bed 'round, you
see. Don't let them leave him in the hall,” said Murry,
lifting his great eyes to hers, brilliant with the fever
burning his strength away, and pathetic with the silent
protest of life against death.
“It's like you to think of it; he's a rebel,” began
Miss Mercy.
“So much more reason to take him in. I don't mind
having him here; but it will distress me dreadfully to
know that any poor soul was turned away, from the comfort
of this ward especially.”
The look he gave her made the words an eloquent
compliment, and his pity for a fallen enemy reproached
her for her own lack of it. Her face softened as she
nodded, and glanced about the recess.
“You will have the light in your eyes, and only the
little table between you and a very disagreeable neighbor,”
she said.
“I can shut my eyes if the light troubles them; I've
nothing else to do now,” he answered, with a faint laugh.
“I was too comfortable before; I'd more than my share
of luxuries; so bring him along, and it will be all right.”
The order was given, and, after a brief bustle, the two
narrow beds stood side by side in the recess under the
organ-loft — for the hospital had been a church. Left
alone for a moment, the two men eyed each other silently.
Murry saw a tall, sallow man, with fierce black eyes,
wild hair and beard, and a thin-lipped, cruel mouth. A
ragged gray uniform was visible under the blanket
thrown over him; and in strange contrast to the squalor
of his dress, and the neglect of his person, was the
diamond ring that shone on his unwounded hand. The
right arm was bound up, the right leg amputated at the
knee; and, though the man's face was white and haggard
with suffering, not a sound escaped him as he lay with
his eyes fixed half defiantly upon his neighbor.
John Clay, the new-comer, saw opposite him a small,
wasted figure, and a plain face; yet both face and figure
were singularly attractive, for suffering seemed to have
refined away all the grosser elements, and left the spiritual
very visible through that frail tenement of flesh.
Pale-brown hair streaked the hollow temples and white
forehead. A deep color burned in the thin cheeks still
The mouth was grave and sweet, and in the gray eyes
lay an infinite patience touched with melancholy. He
wore a dressing-gown, but across his feet lay a faded
coat of army-blue. As the other watched him, he saw a
shadow pass across his tranquil face, and for a moment
he laid his wasted hand over the eyes that had been so
full of pity. Then he gently pushed a mug of fresh
water, and the last of a bunch of grapes, toward the
exhausted rebel, saying, in a cordial tone, —
“You look faint and thirsty; have 'em.”
Clay's lips were parched, and his hand went involuntarily
toward the cup; but he caught it back, and, leaning
forward, asked, in a shrill whisper, —
“Where are you hurt?”
“A shot in the side,” answered Murry, visibly surprised
at the man's manner.
“What battle?”
“The Wilderness.”
“Is it bad?”
“I'm dying of wound-fever; there's no hope, they say.”
That reply, so simple, so serenely given, would have
touched almost any hearer; but Clay smiled grimly, and
lay down as if satisfied, with his one hand clenched, and
an exulting glitter in his eyes, muttering to himself, —
“The loss of my leg comes easier after hearing that.”
Murry saw his lips move, but caught no sound, and
asked, with friendly solicitude, —
“Do you want anything, neighbor?”
“Yes — to be let alone,” was the curt reply, with a
savage frown.
“That's easily done. I sha'n't trouble you very long,
away, and lay silent till the surgeon came up on his
morning round.
“Oh! you're here, are you? It's like Mercy Carrol
to take you in,” said Dr. Fitz Hugh, as he surveyed the
rebel, with a slight frown; for, in spite of his benevolence
and skill, he was a stanch loyalist, and hated the
South just then.
“Don't praise me; he never would have been here but
for Murry,” answered Miss Mercy, as she approached,
with her dressing-tray in her hand.
“Bless the lad! he'll give up his bed next, and feel
offended if he's thanked for it. How are you, my good
fellow?” and the doctor turned to press the hot hand,
with a friendly face.
“Much easier and stronger, thank you, doctor,” was
the cheerful answer.
“Less fever, pulse better, breath freer — good symptoms.
Keep on so for twenty-four hours, and, by my
soul, I believe you'll have a chance for your life, Murry,”
cried the doctor, as his experienced eye took note of a
hopeful change.
“In spite of the opinion of three good surgeons to the
contrary?” asked Murry, with a wistful smile.
“Hang everybody's opinion! We are but mortal men,
and the best of us make mistakes in spite of science and
experience. There's Parker; we all gave him up, and
the rascal is larking 'round Washington as well as ever
to-day. While there's life there's hope; so cheer up
my lad, and do your best for the little girl at home.”
“Do you really think I may hope?” cried Murry,
white with the joy of this unexpected reprieve.
“Hope is a capital medicine, and I prescribe it for a
day at least. Don't build on this change too much, but
if you are as well to-morrow as this morning, I give you
my word I think you'll pull through.”
Murry laid his hands over his face with a broken
“Thank God for that!” and the doctor turned away
with a sonorous “Hem!” and an air of intense satisfaction.
During this conversation Miss Mercy had been watching
the rebel, who looked and listened to the others so
intently that he forgot her presence. She saw an expression
of rage and disappointment gather in his face as the
doctor spoke; and when Murry accepted the hope held
out to him, Clay set his teeth with an evil look, that would
have boded ill for his neighbor had he not been helpless.
“Ungrateful traitor! I'll watch him, for he'll do mischief
if he can,” she thought, and reluctantly began to
unbind his arm for the doctor's inspection.
“Only a flesh-wound, — no bones broken, — a good
syringing, rubber cushion, plenty of water, and it will
soon heal. You'll attend to that, Miss Mercy; this
stump is more in my line;” and Dr. Fitz Hugh turned
to the leg, leaving the arm to the nurse's skilful care.
“Evidently amputated in a hurry, and neglected since.
If you're not careful, young man, you'll change places
with your neighbor here.”
“Damn him!” muttered Clay in his beard, with an
emphasis which caused the doctor to glance at his vengeful
face.
“Don't be a brute, if you can help it. But for him
you'd have fared ill,” began the doctor.
“But for him I never should have been here,” muttered
room.
“You owe this to him?” asked the doctor, touching
the wound, and speaking in the same tongue.
“Yes; but he paid for it— at least, I thought he had.”
“By the Lord! if you are the sneaking rascal that
shot him as he lay wounded in the ambulance, I shall be
tempted to leave you to your fate!” cried the doctor,
with a wrathful flash in his keen eyes.
“Do it, then, for it was I,” answered the man defiantly;
adding, as if anxious to explain, “We had a tussle,
and each got hurt in the thick of the skirmish. He
was put in the ambulance afterward, and I was left to
live or die, as luck would have it. I was hurt the
worst; they should have taken me too; it made me mad
to see him chosen, and I fired my last shot as he drove
away. I didn't know whether I hit him or not; but
when they told me I must lose my leg I hoped I had,
and now I am satisfied.”
He spoke rapidly, with clenched hand and fiery eyes,
and the two listeners watched him with a sort of fascination
as he hissed out the last words, glancing at the occupant
of the next bed. Murry evidently did not understand
French; he lay with averted face, closed eyes, and a hopeful
smile still on his lips, quite unconscious of the meaning
of the fierce words uttered close beside him. Dr. Fitz Hugh
had laid down his instruments, and knit his black brows
irefully while he listened. But as the man paused, the
doctor looked at Miss Mercy, who was quietly going on
with her work, though there was an expression about her
handsome mouth that made her womanly face look almost
example, saying slowly, —
“If I didn't believe Murry was mending, I'd turn you
over to Roberts, whom the patients dread as they do the
devil. I must do my duty, and you may thank Murry
for it.”
“Does he know you are the man who shot him?”
asked Mercy, still in French.
“No; I shouldn't stay here long if he did,” answered
Clay, with a short laugh.
“Don't tell him, then — at least, till after you are
moved,” she said, in a tone of command.
“Where am I going?” demanded the man.
“Anywhere out of my ward,” was the brief answer,
with a look that made the black eyes waver and fall.
In silence nurse and doctor did their work, and passed
on. In silence Murry lay hour after hour, and silently
did Clay watch and wait, till, utterly exhausted by the
suffering he was too proud to confess, he sank into a
stupor, oblivious alike of hatred, defeat, and pain. Finding
him in this pitiable condition, Mercy relented, and,
womanlike, forgot her contempt in pity. He was not
moved, but tended carefully all that day and night; and
when he woke from a heavy sleep, the morning sun shone
again on two pale faces in the beds, and flashed on the
buttons of two army-coats hanging side by side on the
recess wall, on loyalist and rebel, on the blue and the
gray.
Dr. Fitz Hugh stood beside Murry's cot, saying cheerily,
“You are doing well, my lad — better than I hoped.
Keep calm and cool, and, if all goes right, we'll have little
Mary here to pet you in a week.”
“Who's Mary?” whispered the rebel to the attendant
who was washing his face.
“His sweetheart; he left her for the war, and she's
waitin' for him back — poor soul!” answered the man,
with a somewhat vicious scrub across the sallow cheek
he was wiping.
“So he'll get well, and go home and marry the girl
he left behind him, will he?” sneered Clay, fingering a
little case that hung about his neck, and was now visible
as his rough valet unbuttoned his collar.
“What's that, — your sweetheart's picter?” asked
Jim, the attendant, eying the gold chain anxiously.
“I've got none,” was the gruff answer.
“So much the wus for you, then. Small chance of
gettin' one here; our girls won't look at you, and you
ain't likely to see any of your own sort for a long spell,
I reckon,” added Jim, working away at the rebel's long-neglected
hair.
Clay lay looking at Mercy Carrol as she went to and
fro among the men, leaving a smile behind her, and carrying
comfort wherever she turned, — a right womanly
woman, lovely and lovable, strong yet tender, patient
yet decided, skilful, kind, and tireless in the discharge of
duties that would have daunted most women. It was in
vain she wore the plain gray gown and long apron, for
neither could hide the grace of her figure. It was
in vain she brushed her luxuriant hair back into a net,
for the wavy locks would fall on her forehead, and stray
curls would creep out or glisten like gold under the
meshes meant to conceal them. Busy days and watchful
nights had not faded the beautiful bloom on her cheeks,
or dimmed the brightness of her hazel eyes. Always
good angel of the hospital, and not a man in it, sick or
well, but was a loyal friend to her. None dared to be a
lover, for her little romance was known; and, though
still a maid, she was a widow in their eyes, for she had
sent her lover to his death, and over the brave man's
grave had said, “Well done.”
Jim watched Clay as his eye followed the one female
figure there, and, observing that he clutched the case still
tighter, asked again, —
“What is that — a charm?”
“Yes, — against pain, captivity and shame.”
“Strikes me it a'n't kep' you from any one of 'em,”
said Jim, with a laugh.
“I haven't tried it yet.”
“How does it work?” Jim asked more respectfully,
being impressed by something in the rebel's manner.
“You will see when I use it. Now let me alone;”
and Clay turned impatiently away.
“You've got p'ison, or some deviltry, in that thing.
If you don't let me look, I swear I'll have it took away
from you;” and Jim put his big hand on the slender
chain with a resolute air.
Clay smiled a scornful smile, and offered the trinket,
saying coolly,—
“I only fooled you. Look as much as you like;
you'll find nothing dangerous.”
Jim opened the pocket, saw a lock of gray hair, and
nothing more.
“Is that your mother's?”
“Yes; my dead mother's.”
It was strange to see the instantaneous change that
word in all tongues. Rough Jim gently reclosed and
returned the case, saying kindly, —
“Keep it; I wouldn't rob you on't for no money.”
Clay thrust it jealously into his breast, and the first
trace of emotion he had shown softened his dark face, as
he answered, with a grateful tremor in his voice, —
“Thank you. I wouldn't lose it for the world.”
“May I say good-morning, neighbor?” asked a feeble
voice, as Murry turned a very wan, but cheerful face
toward him, when Jim moved on with his basin and
towel.
“If you like,” returned Clay, looking at him with
those quick, suspicious eyes of his.
“Well, I do like; so I say it, and hope you are
better,” returned the cordial voice.
“Are you?”
“Yes, thank God!”
“Is it sure?”
“Nothing is sure, in a case like mine, till I'm on my
legs again; but I'm certainly better. I don't expect you
to be glad, but I hope you don't regret it very much.”
“I don't.” The smile that accompanied the words
surprised Murry as much as the reply, for both seemed
honest, and his kind heart warmed toward his suffering
enemy.
“I hope you'll be exchanged as soon as you are able.
Till then, you can go to one of the other hospitals, where
there are many reb — I would say, Southerners. If
you'd like, I'll speak to Dr. Fitz Hugh, and he'll see you
moved,” said Murry, in his friendly way.
“I'd rather stay here, thank you.” Clay smiled again
much as it pleased him.
“You like to be in my corner, then?” he said, with a
boyish laugh.
“Very much — for a while.”
“I'm very glad. Do you suffer much?”
“I shall suffer more by and by, if I go on; but I'll
risk it,” answered Clay, fixing his feverish eyes on
Murry's placid face.
“You expect to have a hard time with your leg?”
said Murry, compassionately.
“With my soul.”
It was an odd answer, and given with such an odd
expression, as Clay turned his face away, that Murry
said no more, fancying his brain a little touched by the
fever evidently coming on.
They spoke but seldom to each other that day, for
Clay lay apparently asleep, with a flushed cheek and
restless head, and Murry tranquilly dreamed waking
dreams of home and little Mary. That night, after all
was still, Miss Mercy went up into the organ-loft to get
fresh rollers for the morrow, — the boxes of old linen,
and such matters, being kept there. As she stood looking
down on the thirty pale sleepers, she remembered
that she had not played a hymn on the little organ for
Murry, as she had promised that day. Stealing softly to
the front, she peeped over the gallery, to see if he was
asleep; if not, she would keep her word, for he was her
favorite.
A screen had been drawn before the recess where the
two beds stood, shutting their occupants from the sight
of the other men. Murry lay sleeping, but Clay was
woman's nerves as she saw his face. Leaning on one
arm, he peered about the place with an eager, watchful
air, and glanced up at the dark gallery, but did not see
the startled face behind the central pillar. Pausing an
instant, he shook his one clenched hand at the unconscious
sleeper, and then threw out the locket cautiously.
Two white mugs, just alike, stood on the little table
between the beds, water in each. With another furtive
glance about him, Clay suddenly stretched out his long
arm, and dropped something from the locket into Murry's
cup. An instant he remained motionless, with a sinister
smile on his face; then, as Jim's step sounded beyond
the screen, he threw his arm over his face, and lay,
breathing heavily, as if asleep.
Mercy's first impulse was to cry out; her next, to fly
down and seize the cup. No time was to be lost, for
Murry might wake and drink at any moment. What
was in the cup? Poison, doubtless; that was the charm
Clay carried to free himself from “pain, captivity and
shame,” when all other hopes of escape vanished. This
hidden helper he gave up to destroy his enemy, who was
to outlive his shot, it seemed. Like a shadow, Mercy
glided down, forming her plan as she went. A dozen
mugs stood about the room, all alike in size and color;
catching up one, she partly filled it, and, concealing it
under the clean sheet hanging on her arm, went toward
the recess, saying audibly, —
“I want some fresh water, Jim.”
Thus warned of her approach, Clay lay with carefully-averted
face as she came in, and never stirred as she
bent over him, while she dexterously changed Murry's
she went away, saying aloud, —
“Never mind the water, now, Jim. Murry is asleep,
and so is Clay; they'll not need it yet.”
Straight to Dr. Fitz Hugh's room she went, and gave
the cup into his keeping, with the story of what she had
seen. A man was dying, and there was no time to test
the water then; but putting it carefully away, he promised
to set her fears at rest in the morning. To quiet
her impatience, Mercy went back to watch over Murry
till day dawned. As she sat down, she caught the glimmer
of a satisfied smile on Clay's lips, and looking into
the cup she had left, she saw that it was empty.
“He is satisfied, for he thinks his horrible revenge is
secure. Sleep in peace, my poor boy! you are safe
while I am here.”
As she thought this, she put her hand on the broad,
pale forehead of the sleeper with a motherly caress, but
started to feel how damp and cold it was. Looking
nearer, she saw that a change had passed over Murry,
for dark shadows showed about his sunken eyes, his once
quiet breath was faint and fitful now, his hand deathly
cold, and a chilly dampness had gathered on his face.
She looked at her watch; it was past twelve, and her
heart sunk within her, for she had so often seen that
solemn change come over men's faces then, that the hour
was doubly weird and woful to her. Sending a message
to Dr. Fitz Hugh, she waited anxiously, trying to believe
that she deceived herself.
The doctor came at once, and a single look convinced
him that he had left one death-bed for another.
“As I feared,” he said; “that sudden rally was but
him, and he has missed it. Poor lad! I can do nothing;
he'll sink rapidly, and go without pain.”
“Can I do nothing?” asked Mercy, with dim eyes,
as she held the cold hand close in both her own with
tender pressure.
“Give him stimulants as long as he can swallow, and,
if he's conscious, take any messages he may have. Poor
Hall is dying hard, and I can help him; I'll come again
in an hour, and say good-by.”
The kind doctor choked, touched the pale sleeper with
a gentle caress, and went away to help Hall die.
Murry slept on for an hour, then woke, and knew
without words that his brief hope was gone. He looked
up wistfully, and whispered, as Mercy tried to smile with
trembling lips that refused to tell the heavy truth, —
“I know — I feel it; don't grieve yourself by trying to
tell me, dear friend. It's best so; I can bear it, — but I
did want to live.”
“Have you any word for Mary, dear?” asked Mercy,
for he seemed but a boy to her since she had nursed
him.
One look of sharp anguish and dark despair passed
over his face, as he wrung his thin hands and shut his
eyes, finding death terrible. It passed in a moment, and
his pallid countenance grew beautiful with the pathetic
patience of one who submits without complaint to the
inevitable.
“Tell her I was ready, and the only bitterness was
leaving her. I shall remember, and wait until she
comes. My little Mary! O, be kind to her, for my
sake, when you tell her this.”
“I will, Murry, as God hears me. I will be a sister
to her while I live.”
As Mercy spoke, with fervent voice, he laid the hand
that had ministered to him so faithfully against his cheek,
and lay silent, as if content.
“What else? let me do something more. Is there no
other friend to be comforted?”
“No; she is all I have in the world. I hoped to
make her so happy, to be so much to her, for she's a
lonely little thing; but God says `No,' and I submit.”
A long pause, as he lay breathing heavily, with eyes
that were dimming fast fixed on the gentle face beside
him.
“Give Jim my clothes, send Mary a bit of my hair,
and — may I give you this? it's a poor thing, but all I
have to leave you, best and kindest of women.”
He tried to draw off a slender ring, but the strength
had gone out of his wasted fingers, and she helped him,
thanking him with the first tears he had seen her shed.
He seemed satisfied, but suddenly turned his eyes on
Clay, who lay as if asleep. A sigh broke from Murry,
and Mercy caught the words, —
“How could he do it, and I so helpless!”
“Do you know him?” she whispered, eagerly, as she
remembered Clay's own words.
“I knew he was the man who shot me, when he came.
I forgive him; but I wish he had spared me, for Mary's
sake,” he answered sorrowfully, not angrily.
“Do you really pardon him?” cried Mercy, wondering,
yet touched by the words.
“I do. He will be sorry one day, perhaps; at any
rate, he did what he thought his duty; and war makes
but he's asleep after a weary day, so don't wake
him. Tell him I'm glad he is to live, and that I forgive
him heartily.”
Although uttered between long pauses, these words
seemed to have exhausted Murry, and he spoke no more
till Dr. Fitz Hugh came. To him he feebly returned
thanks, and whispered his farewell, then sank into a stupor,
during which life ebbed fast. Both nurse and doctor
forgot Clay as they hung over Murry, and neither saw
the strange intentness of his face, the half awe-struck,
half remorseful look he bent upon the dying man.
As the sun rose, sending its ruddy beams across the
silent ward, Murry looked up and smiled, for the bright
ray fell athwart the two coats hanging on the wall beside
him. Some passer-by had brushed one sleeve of the blue
coat across the gray, as if the inanimate things were
shaking hands.
“It should be so — love our enemies; we should be
brothers,” he murmured faintly; and, with the last impulse
of a noble nature, stretched his hand toward the
man who had murdered him.
But Clay shrunk back, and covered his face without a
word. When he ventured to look up, Murry was no
longer there. A pale, peaceful figure lay on the narrow
bed, and Mercy was smoothing the brown locks as she
cut a curl for Mary and herself. Clay could not take his
eyes away; as if fascinated by its serenity, he watched
the dead face with gloomy eyes, till Mercy, having done
her part, stooped and kissed the cold lips tenderly as she
left him to his sleep. Then, as if afraid to be alone with
the dead, he bid Jim put the screen between the beds,
never turned his pages, and lay, with muffled head, trying
to shut out little Watts' sobs, as the wounded drummer
boy mourned for Murry.
Death in an hospital makes no stir, and in an hour no
trace of the departed remained but the coat upon the
wall, for Jim would not take it down, though it was his
now. The empty bed stood freshly made, the clean cup
and worn Bible lay ready for other hands, and the card
at the bed's head hung blank for a new-comer's name.
In the hurry of this event, Clay's attempted crime was
forgotten for a time. But that evening Dr. Fitz Hugh
told Mercy that her suspicions were correct, for the water
was poisoned.
“How horrible! what shall we do?” she cried, with
a gesture full of energetic indignation.
“Leave him to remorse!” replied the doctor, sternly.
“I've thought over the matter, and believe this to be the
only thing we can do. I fancy the man won't live a
week; his leg is in a bad way, and he is such a fiery
devil he gives himself no chance. Let him believe he
killed poor Murry, at least for a few days. He thinks
so now, and tries to rejoice; but if he has a human heart
he will repent.”
“But he may not. Should we not tell of this? Can
he not be punished?”
“Law won't hang a dying man, and I'll not denounce
him. Let remorse punish him while he lives, and God
judge him when he dies. Murry pardoned him, — can
we do less?”
Mercy's indignant face softened at the name, and for
Murry's sake she yielded. Neither spoke of what they
they could not refuse to pity him, for the doctor's prophecy
proved true.
Clay was a haunted man, and remorse gnawed like a
worm at his heart. Day and night he saw that tranquil
face on the pillow opposite; day and night he saw the
pale hand outstretched to him; day and night he heard
the faint voice murmuring kindly, regretfully, “I forgive
him; but I wish he had spared me, for Mary's sake.”
As the days passed, and his strength visibly declined,
he began to suspect that he must soon follow Murry.
No one told him; for, though both doctor and nurse did
their duty faithfully, neither lingered long at his bedside,
and not one of the men showed any interest in him. No
new patient occupied the other bed, and he lay alone in
the recess with his own gloomy thoughts.
“It will be all up with me in a few days, won't it?”
he asked, abruptly, as Jim made his toilet one morning
with unusual care, and such visible pity in his rough face
that Clay could not but observe it.
“I heard the doctor say you wouldn't suffer much
more. Is there any one you'd like to see, or leave a
message for?” answered Jim, smoothing the long locks
as gently as a woman.
“There isn't a soul in the world that cares whether I
live or die, except the man who wants my money,” said
Clay, bitterly, as his dark face grew a shade paler at this
confirmation of his fear.
“Can't you head him off some way, and leave your
money to some one that's been kind to you? Here's the
doctor — or, better still, Miss Carrol. Neither on 'em
is rich, and both on 'em has been good friends to you, or
without the hope that, in saying a good word for them,
he might say one for himself also.
Clay lay thinking for a moment as his face clouded
over, and then brightened again:
“Miss Mercy wouldn't take it, nor the doctor either;
but I know who will — and, by G—d, I'll do it!” he
exclaimed, with sudden energy.
His eye happened to rest on Jim as he spoke, and
feeling sure that he was to be the heir, Jim retired to
send Miss Mercy, that the matter might be settled before
Clay's mood changed. Miss Carrol came, and began to
cut the buttons off Murry's coat while she waited for
Clay to speak.
“What's that for?” he asked, restlessly.
“The men want them, and Jim is willing, for the coat
is very old and ragged, you see. Murry gave his good
one away to a sicker comrade, and took this instead. It
was like him, — my poor boy!”
“I'd like to speak to you, if you have a minute to
spare,” began Clay, after a pause, during which he
watched her with a wistful, almost tender expression,
unseen by her.
“I have time; what can I do for you?” Very gentle
was Mercy's voice, very pitiful her glance, as she sat
down by him, for the change in his manner, and the
thought of his approaching death, touched her heart.
Trying to resume his former gruffness, and cold expression,
Clay said, as he picked nervously at the blanket, —
“I've a little property that I put into the care of a
friend going North. He's kept it safe; and now, as I'll
never want it myself, I'd like to leave it to—”. He
seeing only womanly compassion there, added, with an
irrepressible tremble in his voice, — “To little Mary.”
If he had expected any reward for the act, any comfort
for his lonely death-bed, he received both in fullest measure
when he saw Mercy's beautiful face flush with surprise
and pleasure, her eyes fill with sudden tears, and
heard her cordial voice, as she pressed his hand warmly
in her own.
“I wish I could tell you how glad I am for this! I
thought you were better than you seemed; I was sure
you had both heart and conscience, and that you would
repent before you died.”
“Repent of what?” he asked, with a startled look.
“Need I tell you?” and her eye went from the empty
bed to his face.
“You mean that shot? But it was only fair, after
all; we killed each other, and war is nothing but wholesale
murder, any way.” He spoke easily, but his eyes
were full of trouble, and other words seemed to tremble
on his lips.
Leaning nearer, Mercy whispered in his ear, —
“I mean the other murder, which you would have
committed when you poisoned the cup of water he offered
you, his enemy.”
Every vestige of color faded out of Clay's thin face,
and his haggard eyes seemed fascinated by some spectre
opposite, as he muttered slowly, —
“How do you know?”
“I saw you;” and she told him all the truth.
A look of intense relief passed over Clay's countenance,
brokenly, —
“Thank God I didn't kill him! Now, dying isn't so
hard; now I can have a little peace.”
Neither spoke for several minutes; Mercy had no
words for such a time, and Clay forgot her presence as
the tears dropped from between the wasted fingers spread
before his face.
Presently he looked up, saying eagerly, as if his fluttering
breath and rapidly failing strength warned him of
approaching death, —
“Will you write down a few words for me, so Mary
can have the money? She needn't know anything about
me, only that I was one to whom Murry was kind, and
so I gave her all I had.”
“I'll get my pen and paper; rest, now, my poor fellow,”
said Mercy, wiping the unheeded tears away for
him.
“How good it seems to hear you speak so to me! How
can you do it?” he whispered, with such grateful wonder
in his dim eyes that Mercy's heart smote her for the
past.
“I do it for Murry's sake, and because I sincerely
pity you.”
Timidly turning his lips to that kind hand, he kissed
it, and then hid his face in his pillow. When Mercy
returned, she observed that there were but seven tarnished
buttons where she had left eight. She guessed who had
taken it, but said nothing, and endeavored to render poor
Clay's last hours as happy as sympathy and care could
make them. The letter and will were prepared as well
as they could be, and none too soon; for, as if that
shattered body, no sooner was it lifted off than the
diviner part seemed ready to be gone.
“You'll stay with me; you'll help me die; and — oh,
if I dared to ask it, I'd beg you to kiss me once when I
and dead, as you did Murry. I think I could rest then,
and be fitter to meet him, if the Lord lets me,” he cried
imploringly, as the last night gathered around him, and
the coming change seemed awful to a soul that possessed
no inward peace, and no firm hope to lean on through the
valley of the shadow.
“I will — I will! Hold fast to me, and believe in
the eternal mercy of God,” whispered Miss Carrol, with
her firm hand in his, her tender face bending over him
as the long struggle began.
“Mercy,” he murmured, catching that word, and smiling
feebly as he repeated it lingeringly. “Mercy! yes,
I believe in her; she'll save me, if any one can. Lord,
bless and keep her forever and forever.”
There was no morning sunshine to gladden his dim
eyes as they looked their last, but the pale glimmer of
the lamp shone full on the blue and the gray coats hanging
side by side. As if the sight recalled that other
death-bed, that last act of brotherly love and pardon,
Clay rose up in his bed, and while one hand clutched the
button hidden in his breast, the other was outstretched
toward the empty bed, as his last breath parted in a cry
of remorseful longing, —
“I will! I will! Forgive me, Murry, and let me say
good-by!”
7. A HOSPITAL CHRISTMAS.
MERRY Christmas!” “Merry Christmas!” “Merry
Christmas, and lots of 'em, ma'am!” echoed from
every side, as Miss Hale entered her ward in the gray
December dawn. No wonder the greetings were hearty,
that thin faces brightened, and eyes watched for the coming
of this small luminary more eagerly than for the
rising of the sun; for when they woke that morning,
each man found that in the silence of the night some
friendly hand had laid a little gift beside his bed. Very
humble little gifts they were, but well chosen and thoughtfully
bestowed by one who made the blithe anniversary
pleasant even in a hospital, and sweetly taught the lesson
of the hour — Peace on earth, good-will to man.
“I say, ma'am, these are just splendid. I've dreamt
about such for a week, but I never thought I'd get 'em,”
cried one poor fellow, surveying a fine bunch of grapes
with as much satisfaction as if he had found a fortune.
“Thank you kindly, Miss, for the paper and the fixings.
I hated to keep borrowing, but I hadn't any
money,” said another, eying his gift with happy anticipations
of the home letters with which the generous pages
should be filled.
“They are dreadful soft and pretty, but I don't believe
I'll ever wear 'em out; my legs are so wimbly there's no
at the swollen feet ornamented with a pair of carpet
slippers gay with roses, and evidently made for his
especial need.
“Please hang my posy basket on the gas-burner in the
middle of the room, where all the boys can see it. It's
too pretty for one alone.”
“But then you can't see it yourself, Joe, and you are
fonder of such things than the rest,” said Miss Hale,
taking both the little basket and the hand of her pet
patient, a lad of twenty, dying of rapid consumption.
“That's the reason I can spare it for a while, for I
shall feel 'em in the room just the same, and they'll do
the boys good. You pick out the one you like best, for
me to keep, and hang up the rest till by-and-by, please.”
She gave him a sprig of mignonette, and he smiled as
he took it, for it reminded him of her in her sad-colored
gown, as quiet and unobtrusive, but as grateful to the
hearts of those about her as was the fresh scent of the flower
to the lonely lad who never had known womanly tenderness
and care until he found them in a hospital. Joe's
prediction was verified; the flowers did do the boys good,
for all welcomed them with approving glances, and all
felt their refining influence more or less keenly, from
cheery Ben, who paused to fill the cup inside with fresher
water, to surly Sam, who stopped growling as his eye
rested on a geranium very like the one blooming in his
sweetheart's window when they parted a long year ago.
“Now, as this is to be a merry day, let us begin to
enjoy it at once. Fling up the windows, Ben, and Barney,
go for breakfast while I finish washing faces and
settling bed-clothes.”
With which directions the little woman fell to work
with such infectious energy that in fifteen minutes thirty
gentlemen with spandy clean faces and hands were partaking
of refreshment with as much appetite as their
various conditions would permit. Meantime the sun
came up, looking bigger, brighter, jollier than usual, as
he is apt to do on Christmas days. Not a snow-flake
chilled the air that blew in as blandly as if winter had
relented, and wished the “boys” the compliments of the
season in his mildest mood; while a festival smell pervaded
the whole house, and appetizing rumors of turkey,
mince-pie, and oysters for dinner, circulated through the
wards. When breakfast was done, the wounds dressed,
directions for the day delivered, and as many of the disagreeables
as possible well over, the fun began. In any
other place that would have been considered a very quiet
morning; but to the weary invalids prisoned in that
room, it was quite a whirl of excitement. None were
dangerously ill but Joe, and all were easily amused, for
weakness, homesickness and ennui made every trifle a
joke or an event.
In came Ben, looking like a “Jack in the Green,” with
his load of hemlock and holly. Such of the men as
could get about and had a hand to lend, lent it, and soon,
under Miss Hale's direction, a green bough hung at the
head of each bed, depended from the gas-burners, and
nodded over the fireplace, while the finishing effect was
given by a cross and crown at the top and bottom of the
room. Great was the interest, many were the mishaps,
and frequent was the laughter which attended this performance;
for wounded men, when convalescent, are particularly
jovial. When “Daddy Mills,” as one venerable
upon the difference between “sprewce, hemlock and
pine,” how they all listened, each thinking of some
familiar wood still pleasantly haunted by boyish recollections
of stolen gunnings, gum-pickings, and bird-nestings.
When quiet Hayward amazed the company by
coming out strong in a most unexpected direction, and
telling with much effect the story of a certain “fine old
gentleman” who supped on hemlock tea and died like a
hero, what commendations were bestowed upon the immortal
heathen in language more hearty than classical,
as a twig of the historical tree was passed round like a
new style of refreshment, that inquiring parties might
satisfy themselves regarding the flavor of the Socratic
draught. When Barney, the colored incapable, essayed
a grand ornament above the door, and relying upon one
insufficient nail, descended to survey his success with the
proud exclamation, “Look at de neatness of dat job,
gen'l'men,” — at which point the whole thing tumbled
down about his ears, — how they all shouted but Pneumonia
Ned, who, having lost his voice, could only make
ecstatic demonstrations with his legs. When Barney cast
himself and his hammer despairingly upon the floor, and
Miss Hale, stepping into a chair, pounded stoutly at the
traitorous nail and performed some miracle with a bit
of string which made all fast, what a burst of applause
arose from the beds. When gruff Dr. Bangs came in to
see what all the noise was about, and the same intrepid
lady not only boldly explained, but stuck a bit of holly in
his button-hole, and wished him a merry Christmas with
such a face full of smiles that the crabbed old doctor felt
himself giving in very fast, and bolted out again, calling
he would have to prescribe on the morrow, what indignant
denials followed him. And when all was done,
how everybody agreed with Joe when he said, “I think
we are coming Christmas in great style; things look so
green and pretty, I feel as I was settin' in a bower.”
Pausing to survey her work, Miss Hale saw Sam looking
as black as any thunder-cloud. He bounced over on
his bed the moment he caught her eye, but she followed
him up, and gently covering the cold shoulder he evidently
meant to show her, peeped over it, asking, with
unabated gentleness, —
“What can I do for you, Sam? I want to have all
the faces in my ward bright ones to-day.”
“My box ain't come; they said I should have it two,
three days ago; why don't they do it, then?” growled
Ursur Major.
“It is a busy time, you know, but it will come if they
promised, and patience won't delay it, I assure you.”
“My patience is used up, and they are a mean set of
slow coaches. I'd get it fast enough if I wore shoulder
straps; as I don't, I'll bet I sha'n't see it till the things
ain't fit to eat; the news is old, and I don't care a hang
about it.”
“I'll see what I can do; perhaps before the hurry of
dinner begins some one will have time to go for it.”
“Nobody ever does have time here but folks who
would give all they are worth to be stirring round. You
can't get it, I know; it's my luck, so don't you worry,
ma'am.”
Miss Hale did not “worry,” but worked, and in time
a messenger was found, provided with the necessary
the missing Christmas-box. Then she paused to see
what came next, not that it was necessary to look for a
task, but to decide which, out of many, was most important
to do first.
“Why, Turner, crying again so soon? What is it
now? the light head or the heavy feet?”
“It's my bones, ma'am. They ache so I can't lay
easy any way, and I'm so tired I just wish I could die
and be out of this misery,” sobbed the poor ghost of a
once strong and cheery fellow, as the kind hand wiped
his tears away, and gently rubbed the weary shoulders.
“Don't wish that Turner, for the worst is over now,
and all you need is to get your strength again. Make
an effort to sit up a little; it is quite time you tried; a
change of posture will help the ache wonderfully, and
make this `dreadful bed,' as you call it, seem very comfortable
when you come back to it.”
“I can't, ma'am, my legs ain't a bit of use, and I
ain't strong enough even to try.”
“You never will be if you don't try. Never mind
the poor legs, Ben will carry you. I've got the matron's
easy-chair all ready, and can make you very cosy by the
fire. It's Christmas-day, you know; why not celebrate it
by overcoming the despondency which retards your recovery,
and prove that illness has not taken all the manhood
out of you?”
“It has, though, I'll never be the man I was, and may
as well lay here till spring, for I shall be no use if I do
get up.”
If Sam was a growler this man was a whiner, and
few hospital wards are without both. But knowing that
the latter, their nurse had patience with them, and
still hoped to bring them round again. As Turner whimpered
out his last dismal speech she bethought herself of
something which, in the hurry of the morning, had
slipped her mind till now.
“By the way, I've got another present for you. The
doctor thought I'd better not give it yet, lest it should
excite you too much; but I think you need excitement to
make you forget yourself, and that when you find how
many blessings you have to be grateful for, you will
make an effort to enjoy them.”
“Blessings, ma'am? I don't see 'em.”
“Don't you see one now?” and drawing a letter from
her pocket she held it before his eyes. His listless face
brightened a little as he took it, but gloomed over again
as he said fretfully, —
“It's from wife, I guess. I like to get her letters, but
they are always full of grievings and groanings over me,
so they don't do me much good.”
“She does not grieve and groan in this one. She is too
happy to do that, and so will you be when you read it.”
“I don't see why, — hey? — why you don't mean —”
“Yes I do!” cried the little woman, clapping her
hands, and laughing so delightedly that the Knight of the
Rueful Countenance was betrayed into a broad smile for
the first time in many weeks. “Is not a splendid little
daughter a present to rejoice over and be grateful for?”
“Hooray! hold on a bit, — it's all right, — I'll be out
again in a minute.”
After which remarkably spirited burst, Turner vanished
under the bed-clothes, letter and all. Whether he read,
was unknown; but his nurse suspected that he did all
three, for when he reappeared he looked as if during
that pause he had dived into his “sea of troubles,” and
fished up his old self again.
“What will I name her?” was his first remark, delivered
with such vivacity that his neighbors began to think
he was getting delirious again.
“What is your wife's name?” asked Miss Hale, gladly
entering into the domesticities which were producing
such a salutary effect.
“Her name's Ann, but neither of us like it. I'd fixed
on George, for I wanted my boy called after me; and
now you see I ain't a bit prepared for this young woman.”
Very proud of the young woman he seemed, nevertheless,
and perfectly resigned to the loss of the expected
son and heir.
“Why not call her Georgiana then? That combines
both her parents' names, and is not a bad one in itself.”
“Now that's just the brightest thing I ever heard in
my life!” cried Turner, sitting bolt upright in his excitement,
though half an hour before he would have considered
it an utterly impossible feat. “Georgiana Butterfield
Turner, — it's a tip-top name, ma'am, and we can
call her Georgie just the same. Ann will like that, it's
so genteel. Bless 'em both! don't I wish I was at
home.” And down he lay again, despairing.
“You can be before long, if you choose. Get your
strength up, and off you go. Come, begin at once, —
drink your beef-tea, and sit up for a few minutes, just in
honor of the good news, you know.”
“I will, by George! — no, by Georgiana! That's a
by hearing a genuine giggle from the “Blueing-bag.”
Down went the detested beef-tea, and up scrambled
the determined drinker with many groans, and a curious
jumble of chuckles, staggers, and fragmentary repetitions
of his first, last, and only joke. But when fairly settled
in the great rocking-chair, with the gray flannel gown
comfortably on, and the new slippers getting their inaugural
scorch, Turner forgot his bones, and swung to and
fro before the fire, feeling amazingly well, and looking
very like a trussed fowl being roasted in the primitive
fashion. The languid importance of the man, and the
irrepressible satisfaction of the parent, were both laughable
and touching things to see, for the happy soul could
not keep the glad tidings to himself. A hospital ward is
often a small republic, beautifully governed by pity,
patience, and the mutual sympathy which lessens mutual
suffering. Turner was no favorite; but more than one
honest fellow felt his heart warm towards him as they
saw his dismal face kindle with fatherly pride, and heard
the querulous quaver of his voice soften with fatherly
affection, as he said, “My little Georgie, sir.”
“He'll do now, ma'am; this has given him the boost
he needed, and in a week or two he'll be off our hands.”
Big Ben made the remark with a beaming countenance,
and Big Ben deserves a word of praise, because he never
said one for himself. An ex-patient, promoted to an
attendant's place, which he filled so well that he was
regarded as a model for all the rest to copy. Patient,
strong, and tender, he seemed to combine many of the
best traits of both man and woman; for he appeared to
know by instinct where the soft spot was to be found
soul. No one would have guessed this to have seen him
lounging in the hall during one of the short rests he
allowed himself. A brawny, six-foot fellow, in red shirt,
blue trousers tucked into his boots, an old cap, visor
always up, and under it a roughly-bearded, coarsely-featured
face, whose prevailing expression was one of
great gravity and kindliness, though a humorous twinkle
of the eye at times betrayed the man, whose droll sayings
often set the boys in a roar. “A good-natured, clumsy
body” would have been the verdict passed upon him by
a casual observer; but watch him in his ward, and see
how great a wrong that hasty judgment would have
done him.
Unlike his predecessor, who helped himself generously
when the meals came up, and carelessly served out
rations for the rest, leaving even the most helpless to
bungle for themselves or wait till he was done, shut himself
into his pantry, and there, — to borrow a hospital
phrase, — gormed, Ben often left nothing for himself, or
took cheerfully such cold bits as remained when all the
rest were served; so patiently feeding the weak, being
hands and feet to the maimed, and a pleasant provider
for all that, as one of the boys said, — “It gives a relish
to the vittles to have Ben fetch 'em.” If one were restless,
Ben carried him in his strong arms; if one were
undergoing the sharp torture of the surgeon's knife, Ben
held him with a touch as firm as kind; if one were homesick,
Ben wrote letters for him with great hearty blots
and dashes under all the affectionate or important words.
More than one poor fellow read his fate in Ben's pitiful
eyes, and breathed his last breath away on Ben's broad
then it would heave with genuine grief, as his big hand
softly closed the tired eyes, and made another comrade
ready for the last review. The war shows us many Bens,
— for the same power of human pity which makes
women brave also makes men tender; and each is the
womanlier, the manlier, for these revelations of unsuspected
strength and sympathies.
At twelve o'clock dinner was the prevailing idea in
ward No. 3, and when the door opened every man sniffed,
for savory odors broke loose from the kitchens and went
roaming about the house. Now this Christmas dinner
had been much talked of; for certain charitable and
patriotic persons had endeavored to provide every hospital
in Washington with materials for this time-honored
feast. Some mistake in the list sent to head-quarters,
some unpardonable neglect of orders, or some premeditated
robbery, caused the long-expected dinner in the —
Hospital to prove a dead failure; but to which of these
causes it was attributable was never known, for the deepest
mystery enveloped that sad transaction. The full
weight of the dire disappointment was mercifully lightened
by premonitions of the impending blow. Barney
was often missing; for the attendants were to dine en
masse after the patients were done, therefore a speedy
banquet for the latter parties was ardently desired, and
he probably devoted his energies to goading on the cooks.
From time to time he appeared in the doorway, flushed
and breathless, made some thrilling announcement, and
vanished, leaving ever-increasing appetite, impatience
and expectation, behind him.
Dinner was to be served at one; at half-past twelve
and pitaters.” A universal groan arose; and several
indignant parties on a short allowance of meat consigned
the defaulting cook to a warmer climate than the tropical
one he was then enjoying. At twenty minutes to one,
Barney increased the excitement by whispering, ominously,
“I say, de puddins isn't plummy ones.”
“Fling a piller at him and shut the door, Ben,” roared
one irascible being, while several others not fond of puddings
received the fact with equanimity. At quarter to
one Barney piled up the agony by adding the bitter
information, “Dere isn't but two turkeys for dis ward,
and dey's little fellers.”
Anxiety instantly appeared in every countenance, and
intricate calculations were made as to how far the two
fowls would go when divided among thirty men; also
friendly warnings were administered to several of the
feebler gentlemen not to indulge too freely, if at all, for
fear of relapses. Once more did the bird of evil omen
return, for at ten minutes to one Barney croaked through
the key-hole, “Only jes half ob de pies has come, gen'l'men.”
That capped the climax, for the masculine palate
has a predilection for pastry, and mince-pie was the sheet-anchor
to which all had clung when other hopes went
down. Even Ben looked dismayed; not that he expected
anything but the perfume and pickings for his share, but
he had set his heart on having the dinner an honor to the
institution and a memorable feast for the men, so far
away from home, and all that usually makes the day a
festival among the poorest. He looked pathetically grave
as Turner began to fret, Sam began to swear under his
breath, Hayward to sigh, Joe to wish it was all over, and
was anything but inspiring. At that moment Miss Hale
came in with a great basket of apples and oranges in one
hand, and several convivial-looking bottles in the other.
“Here is our dessert, boys! A kind friend remembered
us, and we will drink her health in her own currant
wine.”
A feeble smile circulated round the room, and in some
sanguine bosoms hope revived again. Ben briskly emptied
the basket, while Miss Hale whispered to Joe, —
“I know you would be glad to get away from the
confusion of this next hour, to enjoy a breath of fresh
air, and dine quietly with Mrs. Burton round the corner,
wouldn't you?”
“Oh, ma'am, so much! the noise, the smells, the fret
and flurry, make me sick just to think of! But how can
I go? that dreadful ambulance 'most killed me last time,
and I'm weaker now.”
“My dear boy, I have no thought of trying that again
till our ambulances are made fit for the use of weak and
wounded men. Mrs. Burton's carriage is at the door,
with her motherly self inside, and all you have got to do
is to let me bundle you up, and Ben carry you out.”
With a long sigh of relief Joe submited to both these
processes, and when his nurse watched his happy face as
the carriage slowly rolled away, she felt well repaid for
the little sacrifice of rest and pleasure so quietly made;
for Mrs. Burton came to carry her, not Joe, away.
“Now, Ben, help me to make this unfortunate dinner
go off as well as we can,” she whispered. “On many
accounts it is a mercy that the men are spared the temptations
of a more generous meal; pray don't tell them
to do.”
“I'll try my best, Miss Hale, but I'm no less disappointed,
for some of 'em, being no better than children,
have been living on the thoughts of it for a week, and it
comes hard to give it up.”
If Ben had been an old-time patriarch, and the thirty
boys his sons, he could not have spoken with a more
paternal regret, or gone to work with a better will. Putting
several small tables together in the middle of the
room, he left Miss Hale to make a judicious display of
plates, knives and forks, while he departed for the banquet.
Presently he returned, bearing the youthful turkeys
and the vegetables in his tray, followed by Barney,
looking unutterable things at a plum-pudding baked in a
milk-pan, and six very small pies. Miss Hale played a
lively tattoo as the procession approached, and, when the
viands were arranged, with the red and yellow fruit prettily
heaped up in the middle, it really did look like a
dinner.
“Here's richness! here's the delicacies of the season
and the comforts of life!” said Ben, falling back to survey
the table with as much apparent satisfaction as if it
had been a lord mayor's feast.
“Come, hurry up, and give us our dinner, what there
is of it!” grumbled Sam.
“Boys,” continued Ben, beginning to cut up the turkeys,
“these noble birds have been sacrificed for the
defenders of their country; they will go as far as ever
they can, and, when they can't go any farther, we shall
endeavor to supply their deficiencies with soup or ham,
oysters having given out unexpectedly. Put it to vote;
word will fetch either.”
“Ham! ham!” resounded from all sides. Soup was
an every-day affair, and therefore repudiated with scorn;
but ham, being a rarity, was accepted as a proper reward
of merit and a tacit acknowledgment of their wrongs.
The “noble birds” did go as far as possible, and were
handsomely assited by their fellow martyr. The pudding
was not as plummy as could have been desired, but a
slight exertion of fancy made the crusty knobs do duty
for raisins. The pies were small, yet a laugh added
flavor to the mouthful apiece, for, when Miss Hale asked
Ben to cut them up, that individual regarded her with an
inquiring aspect as he said, in his drollest tone, —
“I wouldn't wish to appear stupid, ma'am, but, when
you mention `pies,' I presume you allude to these trifles.
`Tarts,' or `patties,' would meet my views better, in
speaking of the third course of this lavish dinner. As
such I will do my duty by 'em, hoping that the appetites
is to match.”
Carefully dividing the six pies into twenty-nine diminutive
wedges, he placed each in the middle of a large
clean plate, and handed them about with the gravity of
an undertaker. Dinner had restored good humor to
many; this hit at the pies put the finishing touch to it,
and from that moment an atmosphere of jollity prevailed.
Healths were drunk in currant wine, apples and oranges
flew about as an impromptu game of ball was got up, Miss
Hale sang a Christmas carol, and Ben gambolled like a
sportive giant as he cleared away. Pausing in one of
his prances to and fro, he beckoned the nurse out, and,
when she followed, handed her a plate heaped up with
now.
“From the matron, ma'am. Come right in here and
eat it while it's hot; they are most through in the dining-room,
and you'll get nothing half so nice,” said Ben,
leading the way into his pantry and pointing to a sunny
window-seat.
“Are you sure she meant it for me, and not for yourself,
Ben?”
“Of course she did! Why, what should I do with it,
when I've just been feastin' sumptuous in this very
room?”
“I don't exactly see what you have been feasting on,”
said Miss Hale, glancing round the tidy pantry as she sat
down.
“Havin' eat up the food and washed up the dishes, it
naturally follows that you don't see, ma'am. But if I go
off in a fit by-and-by you'll know what it's owin' to,”
answered Ben, vainly endeavoring to look like a man
suffering from repletion.
“Such kind fibs are not set down against one, Ben, so
I will eat your dinner, for if I don't I know you will
throw it out of the window to prove that you can't
eat it.”
“Thankee ma'am, I'm afraid I should; for, at the
rate he's going on, Barney wouldn't be equal to it,” said
Ben, looking very much relieved, as he polished his last
pewter fork and hung his towels up to dry.
A pretty general siesta followed the excitement of dinner,
but by three o'clock the public mind was ready for
amusement, and the arrival of Sam's box provided it.
He was asleep when it was brought in and quietly deposited
The advent of a box was a great event, for the fortunate
receiver seldom failed to “stand treat,” and next best to
getting things from one's own home was the getting them
from some other boy's home. This was an unusually
large box, and all felt impatient to have it opened, though
Sam's exceeding crustiness prevented the indulgence of
great expectations. Presently he roused, and the first
thing his eye fell upon was the box, with his own name
sprawling over it in big black letters. As if it were
merely the continuance of his dream, he stared stupidly
at it for a moment, then rubbed his eyes and sat up, exclaiming,
—
“Hullo! that's mine!”
“Ah! who said it wouldn't come? who hadn't the
faith of a grasshopper? and who don't half deserve it for
being a Barker by nater as by name?” cried Ben, emphasizing
each question with a bang on the box, as he
waited, hammer in hand, for the arrival of the ward-master,
whose duty it was to oversee the opening of such
matters, lest contraband articles should do mischief to
the owner or his neighbors.
“Ain't it a jolly big one? Knock it open, and don't
wait for anybody or anything!” cried Sam, tumbling off
his bed and beating impatiently on the lid with his one
hand.
In came the ward-master, off came the cover, and out
came a motley collection of apples, socks, dough-nuts,
paper, pickles, photographs, pocket-handkerchiefs, gingerbread,
letters, jelly, newspapers, tobacco, and cologne.
“All right, glad it's come, — don't kill yourself,” said the
ward-master, as he took a hasty survey and walked off
followed, and Sam was left to brood over his treasures in
peace.
At first all the others, following Ben's example, made
elaborate pretences of going to sleep, being absorbed in
books, or utterly uninterested in the outer world. But
very soon curiosity got the better of politeness, and one
by one they all turned round and stared. They might
have done so from the first, for Sam was perfectly unconscious
of everything but his own affairs, and, having read
the letters, looked at the pictures, unfolded the bundles,
turned everything inside out and upside down, tasted all
the eatables and made a spectacle of himself with jelly,
he paused to get his breath and find his way out of the
confusion he had created. Presently he called out, —
“Miss Hale, will you come and right up my duds for
me?” adding, as her woman's hands began to bring
matters straight, “I don't know what to do with 'em all,
for some won't keep long, and it will take pretty steady
eating to get through 'em in time, supposin' appetite
holds out.”
“How do the others manage with their things?”
“You know they give 'em away; but I'll be hanged
if I do, for they are always callin' names and pokin' fun
at me. Guess they won't get anything out of me now.”
The old morose look came back as he spoke, for it had
disappeared while reading the home letters, touching the
home gifts. Still busily folding and arranging, Miss
Hale asked, —
“You know the story of the Three Cakes; which are
you going to be — Harry, Peter, or Billy?”
Sam began to laugh at this sudden application of the
pursued it:
“We all know how much you have suffered, and all
respect you for the courage with which you have borne
your long confinement and your loss; but don't you think
you have given the boys some cause for making fun of
you, as you say? You used to be a favorite, and can be
again, if you will only put off these crusty ways, which
will grow upon you faster than you think. Better lose
both arms than cheerfulness and self-control, Sam.”
Pausing to see how her little lecture was received, she
saw that Sam's better self was waking up, and added yet
another word, hoping to help a mental ailment as she
had done so many physical ones. Looking up at him
with her kind eyes, she said, in a lowered voice, —
“This day, on which the most perfect life began, is a
good day for all of us to set about making ourselves
readier to follow that divine example. Troubles are
helpers if we take them kindly, and the bitterest may
sweeten us for all our lives. Believe and try this, Sam,
and when you go away from us let those who love you
find that two battles have been fought, two victories
won.”
Sam made no answer, but sat thoughtfully picking at
the half-eaten cookey in his hand. Presently he stole a
glance about the room, and, as if all helps were waiting
for him, his eye met Joe's. From his solitary corner by
the fire and the bed he would seldom leave again until he
went into his grave, the boy smiled back at him so
heartily, so happily, that something gushed warm across
Sam's heart as he looked down upon the faces of mother,
sister, sweetheart, scattered round him, and remembered
and yet how rich in that beautiful content, which, “having
nothing, yet hath all.” The man had no words in
which to express this feeling, but it came to him and did
him good, as he proved in his own way. “Miss Hale,”
he said, a little awkwardly, “I wish you'd pick out what
you think each would like, and give 'em to the boys.”
He got a smile in answer that drove him to his cookey
as a refuge, for his lips would tremble, and he felt half
proud, half ashamed to have earned such bright approval.
“Let Ben help you, — he knows better than I. But
you must give them all yourself, it will so surprise and
please the boys; and then to-morrow we will write a
capital letter home, telling what a jubilee we made over
their fine box.”
At this proposal Sam half repented; but, as Ben came
lumbering up at Miss Hale's summons, he laid hold of
his new resolution as if it was a sort of shower-bath and
he held the string, one pull of which would finish the
baptism. Dividing his most cherished possession, which
(alas for romance!) was the tobacco, he bundled the
larger half into a paper, whispering to Miss Hale, —
“Ben ain't exactly what you'd call a ministerin' angel
to look at, but he is amazin' near one in his ways, so I'm
goin' to begin with him.”
Up came the “ministering angel,” in red flannel and
cow-hide boots; and Sam tucked the little parcel into his
pocket, saying, as he began to rummage violently in
the box, —
“Now jest hold your tongue, and lend a hand here
about these things.”
Ben was so taken aback by this proceeding that he
him; and, taking his cue, he played his part as well as
could be expected on so short a notice. Clapping Sam
on the shoulder, — not the bad one, Ben was always
thoughtful of those things, — he exclaimed heartily, —
“I always said you'd come round when this poor arm
of yours got a good start, and here you are jollier'n ever.
Lend a hand! so I will, a pair of 'em. What's to do?
Pack these traps up again?”
“No; I want you to tell what you'd do with 'em if
they were yours. Free, you know, — as free as if they
really was.”
Ben held on to the box a minute as if this second surprise
rather took him off his legs; but another look from
the prime mover in this resolution steadied him, and he
fell to work as if Sam had been in the habit of being
“free.”
“Well, let's see. I think I'd put the clothes and sich
into this smaller box that the bottles come in, and stan'
it under the table, handy. Here's newspapers — pictures
in 'em, too! I should make a circulatin' lib'ry of them;
they'll be a real treat. Pickles — well, I guess I should
keep them on the winder here as a kind of a relish dinner-times,
or to pass along to them as longs for 'em. Cologne
— that's a dreadful handsome bottle, ain't it? That, now,
would be fust-rate to give away to somebody as was very
fond of it, — a kind of a delicate attention, you know, —
if you happen to meet such a person anywheres.”
Ben nodded towards Miss Hale, who was absorbed in
folding pocket-handkerchiefs. Sam winked expressively,
and patted the bottle as if congratulating himself that it
was handsome, and that he did know what to do with it.
and respect went into it as if he had made a set
speech, and presented the gift upon his knees.
“The letters and photographs I should probably keep
under my piller for a spell; the jelly I'd give to Miss
Hale, to use for the sick ones; the cake-stuff and that
pot of jam, that's gettin' ready to work, I'd stand treat
with for tea, as dinner wasn't all we could have wished.
The apples I'd keep to eat, and fling at Joe when he was
too bashful to ask for one, and the tobaccer I would not go
lavishin' on folks that have no business to be enjoyin'
luxuries when many a poor feller is dyin' of want down
to Charlestown. There, sir! that's what I'd do if any
one was so clever as to send me a jolly box like this.”
Sam was enjoying the full glow of his shower-bath by
this time. As Ben designated the various articles, he set
them apart; and when the inventory ended, he marched
away with the first instalment: two of the biggest, rosiest
apples for Joe, and all the pictorial papers. Pickles are
not usually regarded as tokens of regard, but as Sam
dealt them out one at a time, — for he would let nobody
help him, and his single hand being the left, was as
awkward as it was willing, — the boys' faces brightened;
for a friendly word accompanied each, which made the
sour gherkins as welcome as sweetmeats. With every
trip the donor's spirits rose; for Ben circulated freely
between whiles, and, thanks to him, not an allusion to
the past marred the satisfaction of the present. Jam,
soda-biscuits, and cake, were such welcome additions to
the usual bill of fare, that when supper was over a vote
of thanks was passed, and speeches were made; for,
being true Americans, the ruling passion found vent in
Banner.” After which Sam subsided, feeling
himself a public benefactor, and a man of mark.
A perfectly easy, pleasant day throughout would be
almost an impossibility in any hospital, and this one was
no exception to the general rule; for, at the usual time,
Dr. Bangs went his rounds, leaving the customary amount
of discomfort, discontent and dismay behind him. A
skilful surgeon and an excellent man was Dr. Bangs, but
not a sanguine or conciliatory individual; many cares
and crosses caused him to regard the world as one large
hospital, and his fellow-beings all more or less dangerously
wounded patients in it. He saw life through the
bluest of blue spectacles, and seemed to think that the
sooner people quitted it the happier for them. He did
his duty by the men, but if they recovered he looked
half disappointed, and congratulated them with cheerful
prophecies that there would come a time when they
would wish they hadn't. If one died he seemed relieved,
and surveyed him with pensive satisfaction, saying
heartily, —
“He's comfortable, now, poor soul, and well out of
this miserable world, thank God!”
But for Ben the sanitary influences of the doctor's
ward would have been small, and Dante's doleful line
might have been written on the threshold of the door, —
“Who enters here leaves hope behind.”
Ben and the doctor perfectly understood and liked each
other, but never agreed, and always skirmished over the
boys as if manful cheerfulness and medical despair were
fighting for the soul and body of each one.
“Well,” began the doctor, looking at Sam's arm, or,
rather, all that was left of that member after two amputations,
“we shall be ready for another turn at this in a
day or two if it don't mend faster. Tetanus sometimes
follows such cases, but that is soon over, and I should
not object to a case of it, by way of variety.” Sam's
hopeful face fell, and he set his teeth as if the fatal
symptoms were already felt.
“If one kind of lockjaw was more prevailing than
'tis, it wouldn't be a bad thing for some folks I could
mention,” observed Ben, covering the well-healed stump
as carefully as if it were a sleeping baby; adding, as the
doctor walked away, “There's a sanguinary old sawbones
for you! Why, bless your buttons, Sam, you are
doing splendid, and he goes on that way because there's
no chance of his having another cut at you! Now he's
squenchin' Turner, jest as we've blowed a spark of spirit
into him. If ever there was a born extinguisher its
Bangs!”
Ben rushed to the rescue, and not a minute too soon;
for Turner, who now labored under the delusion that his
recovery depended solely upon his getting out of bed
every fifteen minutes, was sitting by the fire, looking up
at the doctor, who pleasantly observed, while feeling his
pulse, —
“So you are getting ready for another fever, are you?
Well, we've grown rather fond of you, and will keep you
six weeks longer if you have set your heart on it.”
Turner looked nervous, for the doctor's jokes were
always grim ones; but Ben took the other hand in his,
and gently rocked the chair as he replied, with great
politeness, —
“This robust convalescent of ourn would be happy to
oblige you, sir, but he has a pressin' engagement up to
Jersey for next week, and couldn't stop on no account.
You see Miss Turner wants a careful nuss for little
Georgie, and he's a goin' to take the place.”
Feeling himself on the brink of a laugh as Turner simpered
with a ludicrous mixture of pride in his baby and
fear for himself, Dr. Bangs said, with unusual sternness
and a glance at Ben, —
“You take the responsibility of this step upon yourself,
do you? Very well; then I wash my hands of
Turner; only, if that bed is empty in a week, don't lay
the blame of it at my door.”
“Nothing shall induce me to do it, sir,” briskly responded
Ben. “Now then, turn in my boy, and sleep your
prettiest, for I wouldn't but disappoint that cheerfulest of
men for a month's wages; and that's liberal, as I ain't
likely to get it.”
“How is this young man after the rash dissipations of
the day?” asked the doctor, pausing at the bed in the
corner, after he had made a lively progress down the
room, hotly followed by Ben.
“I'm first-rate, sir,” panted Joe, who always said so,
though each day found him feebler than the last. Every
one was kind to Joe, even the gruff doctor, whose manner
softened, and who was forced to frown heavily to
hide the pity in his eyes
“How's the cough?”
“Better, sir; being weaker, I can't fight against it as
I used to do, so it comes rather easier.”
“Sleep any last night?”
“Not much; but it's very pleasant laying here when
bright; and, when I fret, he talks to me, and makes the
time go telling stories till he gets so sleepy he can hardly
speak. Dear old Ben! I hope he'll have some one as
kind to him, when he needs it as I do now.”
“He will get what he deserves by-and-by, you may
be sure of that,” said the doctor, as severely as if Ben
merited eternal condemnation.
A great drop splashed down upon the hearth as Joe
spoke; but Ben put his foot on it, and turned about as
if defying any one to say he shed it.
“Of all the perverse and reckless women whom I have
known in the course of a forty years' practice, this one
is the most perverse and reckless,” said the doctor,
abruptly addressing Miss Hale, who just then appeared,
bringing Joe's “posy-basket” back. “You will oblige
me, ma'am, by sitting in this chair with your hands folded
for twenty minutes; the clock will then strike nine, and
you will go straight up to your bed.”
Miss Hale demurely sat down, and the doctor ponderously
departed, sighing regretfully as he went through
the room, as if disappointed that the whole thirty were
not lying at death's door; but on the threshold he turned
about, exclaimed “Good-night, boys! God bless you!”
and vanished as precipitately as if a trap-door had swallowed
him up.
Miss Hale was a perverse woman in some things; for,
instead of folding her tired hands, she took a rusty-covered
volume from the mantle-piece, and, sitting by Joe's
bed, began to read aloud. One by one all other sounds
grew still; one by one the men composed themselves to
listen; and one by one the words of the sweet old Christmas
reading on. If any wounded spirit needed balm, if any
hungry heart asked food, if any upright purpose, newborn
aspiration, or sincere repentance wavered for want
of human strength, all found help, hope, and consolation
in the beautiful and blessed influences of the book, the
reader, and the hour.
The bells rung nine, the lights grew dim, the day's
work was done; but Miss Hale lingered beside Joe's bed,
for his face wore a wistful look, and he seemed loath to
have her go.
“What is it, dear?” she said; “what can I do for
you before I leave you to Ben's care?”
He drew her nearer, and whispered earnestly, —
“It's something that I know you'll do for me, because
I can't do it for myself, not as I want it done, and you
can. I'm going pretty fast now, ma'am; and when —
when some one else is laying here, I want you to tell the
boys, — every one, from Ben to Barney, — how much I
thanked 'em, how much I loved 'em, and how glad I
was that I had known 'em, even for such a little while.”
“Yes, Joe, I'll tell them all. What else can I do,
my boy?”
“Only let me say to you what no one else must say for
me, that all I want to live for is to try and do something
in my poor way to show you how I thank you, ma'am. It
isn't what you've said to me, it isn't what you've done
for me alone, that makes me grateful; it's because you've
learned me many things without knowing it, showed me
what I ought to have been before, if I'd had any one to
tell me how, and made this such a happy, home-like
place, I shall be sorry when I have to go.”
Poor Joe! it must have fared hardly with him all
those twenty years, if a hospital seemed home-like, and
a little sympathy, a little care, could fill him with such
earnest gratitude. He stopped a moment to lay his cheek
upon the hand he held in both of his, then hurried on as
if he felt his breath beginning to give out:
“I dare say many boys have said this to you, ma'am,
better than I can, for I don't say half I feel; but I know
that none of 'em ever thanked you as I thank you in my
heart, or ever loved you as I'll love you all my life.
To-day I hadn't anything to give you, I'm so poor; but
I wanted to tell you this, on the last Christmas I shall
ever see.”
It was a very humble kiss he gave that hand; but the
fervor of a first love warmed it, and the sincerity of a
great gratitude made it both a precious and pathetic gift
to one who, half unconsciously, had made this brief and
barren life so rich and happy at its close. Always
womanly and tender, Miss Hale's face was doubly so as
she leaned over him, whispering, —
“I have had my present, now. Good-night, Joe.”
8. AN HOUR.
THE clock struck eleven.
“Look again, Gabriel; is there no light coming?”
“Not a ray, mother, and the night seems to darken
every instant.”
“Surely, half an hour is time enough to reach the
main land and find Dr. Firth.”
“Ample time; but Alec probably found the doctor absent,
and is waiting for him.”
“But I bade the boy leave my message, and return at
once. Every moment is precious; what can we do?”
“Nothing but wait.”
An impatient sigh was the only answer vouchsafed to
the unpalatable advice, and silence fell again upon the
anxious watchers in the room. Still leaning in the deep
recess of the window, the young man looked out into the
murky night, listened to the flow of the great river rolling
to the sea, and let the unquiet current of his thoughts
drift him whithersoever it would. His imaginative temperament
found a sad similitude between the night and
his own mood, for neither his physical nor mental eye
could see what lay before him, and in his life there
seemed to have come an hour as full of suspense, as
prophetic of storm, as that which now oppressed the earth
and lowered in the sky.
Every instant that brought the peace of death nearer
to the father, also brought the cares of life nearer to the
son, and their grim aspect daunted him. The child of a
Northern mother, bred at the North by her dying desire,
he had been summoned home to take the old man's place,
and receive a slave-cursed inheritance into his keeping.
Had he stood alone, his task would have been an easy
one; for an upright nature, an enthusiastic spirit, would
have found more sweetness than bitterness in a sacrifice
made for conscience sake, more pride than pain in a just
deed generously performed. But a step-mother and her
daughters were dependent on him now, for the old man's
sudden seizure left him no time to make provision for
them; and the son found a double burden laid upon his
shoulders when he returned to what for years had been a
loveless home to him. To reduce three delicately nurtured
women to indigence seemed a cruel and Quixotic
act to others, a very hard, though righteous one to him;
for poverty looked less terrible than affluence founded
upon human blood and tears. He had resolved to set
aside all private ambitions and aspirations that he might
dedicate his life to his kindred; had manfully withstood
their ridicule and reproaches, and only faltered when, in
their hour of bereavement, they appealed to him with
tears and prayers. Then pity threatened to conquer
principle, for Gabriel's heart was as gentle as it was generous.
Three days of sorrowful suspense and inward strife
had passed; now death seemed about to set its seal upon
one life, and irresolution to mar another, for Gabriel still
wavered between duty and desire, crying within himself,
“Lord, help me! I see the right, but I am not strong
enough to do it; let it be decided for me.”
It was — suddenly, entirely, and forever!
The tinkle of a bell roused him from his moody reverie,
and, without quitting the shadow of the half-drawn curtain,
he watched the scene before him with the interest
of one in whom both soul and sense were alert to interpret
and accept the divine decree which he had asked, in
whatever guise it came.
The bell summoned a person whose entrance seemed
to bring warmth, vitality and light into that gloomy room,
although she was only a servant, with the blood of a
despised race in her veins. More beautiful than either
of her young mistresses, she looked like some brilliant
flower of the tropics beside two pale exotics, and the
unavoidable consciousness of this showed itself in the
skill with which she made her simple dress a foil to her
beauty, in the carriage of her graceful head and the sad
pride of her eyes, as if, being denied all the other rights
of womanhood, the slave clung to and cherished the one
possession which those happier women lacked. As she
entered, noiselessly, she gave one keen, comprehensive
glance about the room, — a glance that took in the gray
head and pallid face upon the pillow, the languid lady
sitting at the bedside, the young sisters spent with weeping
and watching, half asleep in either corner of a couch,
and the man's glove that lay beside a brace of pistols on
a distant table. Then her eyes fell, all expression faded
from her face, and she stood before her mistress with a
meek air, curiously at variance with the animated aspect
she had worn on entering.
“Milly, are you sure you gave Alec my message correctly?”
asked Mrs. Butler, imperiously, with a look of
unconcealed dislike.
“Yes, missis, I gave it word for word.”
The voice that answered would have gone straight to a
stranger's heart and made it ache, for a world of hopeless
patience rendered its music pathetic, and dignified the
little speech, as if the woman's spirit uttered a protest in
every word that passed her lips.
“He has been gone nearly an hour. I can wait no
longer. Tell Andy to go at once and see what keeps him.”
“Andy's down at the landing, seeing to the boats
before the storm, missis.”
“Let Tony do that, and send Andy off at once.”
“Tony's too cut up with his last whipping to stir.”
“How very tiresome! Where is overseer Neal?”
“Sick, missis.”
“Sick! I saw him two hours ago, and he was perfectly
well then.”
“He was taken very suddenly, but he'll be out of
pain by morning.”
As Milly spoke, with a slight motion of the lips that
would have been a scornful smile had she not checked it, a
faint, far-off cry came on the wind; a cry of mortal fear
or pain it seemed, and so full of ominous suggestion that,
though inured to sounds of suffering, Mrs. Butler involuntarily
exclaimed, —
“What is that?”
“It's only Rachel screaming for her baby; the last
thing old master did was to sell it, and she's been crazy
ever since,” answered Milly, with a peculiar quickening
of the breath and a sidelong glance.
“Foolish creature! but never mind her now: tell me
who is about that I can send for Dr. Firth.”
“There's no one in the house but blind Sandra and me.”
“What do you mean? Who gave the people leave
to go?”
“I did.”
Hitherto the girl had spoken in the subdued tone of a
well-trained servant, though there was no trace of her
race in her speech but a word or two here and there; for
Milly's beauty had secured for her all the advantages
which would increase her value as a chattel. But in the
utterance of the last two words her voice rose with a
sudden ring that arrested Mrs. Butler's attention, and
caused her to glance sharply at the girl. Milly stood
before her meek and motionless, and not an eyelash stirred
during that brief scrutiny. Her mistress could not see
the mingled triumph and abhorrence burning in those
averted eyes, did not observe the close clenching of the
hand that hung at her side, nor guess what a sea of black
and bitter memories was surging in her comely handmaid's
heart.
“How dared you send the servants away without my
orders?” demanded Mrs. Butler, in an irritated and irritating
voice.
“Master Gabriel said the house must be kept very
quiet on old master's account; I couldn't make the boys
mind, so I sent them to the quarters.”
“This is not the first time you have presumed upon
my son's favor, and exceeded my orders. You have
been spoiled by indulgence, but that shall be altered soon.”
“Yes, missis, — it shall;” and as the girl added the
latter words below her breath, there was a glitter as of
white teeth firmly set lest some impetuous speech should
break loose in spite of her. Her mistress did not mark
that little demonstration, for her mind was occupied
herself, —
“What shall I do? The night is passing, your master
needs help, and Alec has evidently forgotten, or never
received, my message.”
For the first time an expression of anxiety was visible
on Milly's face, and there was more eagerness than
deference in her suggestion:
“Master Gabriel might go; it would save time and
make the matter sure, as missis doubts my word.”
“It is impossible; his father might rouse and ask for
him, and I will not be left alone. It is not his place to
carry messages, nor yours to propose it. Quick! lift your
master's head, and chafe his hands. God help us all!”
A low sigh from the bed caused the sudden change
from displeasure to distress, as Mrs. Butler bent over her
husband, forgetful of all else. What a strange smile
flashed across Milly's face, and kindled the dark fire of
her eyes, as she looked down upon the master and mistress,
whose helplessness and grief touched no chord of
pity or sympathy in her heart! Only an instant did she
stand so, but in that instant the expression of her face
was fully revealed, not to the drowsy sisters, but to
Gabriel in his covert. He saw it, but before he could
fathom its significance it was hidden from him; and when
his mother looked up there was nothing to be seen but
the handsome head bending over the pale hand that Milly
was assiduously chafing. Something in the touch of
those warm palms seemed to rouse in the old man a
momentary flicker of memory and strength, for the last
thought that that had disturbed his failing consciousness
found utterance in broken words:
“I promised her her liberty, — she shall have it; wait
a little, Milly, — wait till I am better.”
“Yes, master, I can wait now;” and the girl's eye
turned toward the clock with an impatient glance.
The old man did not hear her, for, with an incoherent
murmur, he seemed to sink into a deeper lethargy than
before. His wife believed him dying; and cried, as she
wrung her hands in a paroxysm of despairing helplessness,
—
“Look out, Milly, look out! and if no one is coming,
run to the quarters and send off the first boy you meet.”
Milly moved deliberately toward the window, but
paused half-way to ask, with the same shade of anxiety
flitting over her face, —
“Where is Master Gabriel? shouldn't he be called?”
“He was here a moment ago, and has gone to the
landing, doubtless; you can call him as you go.”
With sudden eagerness the girl glided to the window,
now too intent upon some purpose of her own to see the
dark outline of a figure half concealed in the deep folds
of the curtain; and, leaning far out, she peered into
the gloom with an intentness that sharpened every
feature.
“There is no one coming, missis,” she said, raising
her voice unnecessarily, as one listener thought, unless
the momentary stillness made any sound seem unusually
loud. As the words left her lips, from below there came
a soft chirp as of some restless bird; it was twice repeated,
then came a pause, and in it, with a rapid, noiseless
gesture, Milly drew a handkerchief from her pocket
and dropped it from the window. It fluttered whitely
for a moment, and as it disappeared an acute ear might
away. Milly evidently heard them, for an expression of
relief began to dawn upon her face. Suddenly it changed
to one of terror, as, in the act of withdrawing her arm,
a strong hand grasped it, and Gabriel's voice demanded, —
“What does this mean, Milly?”
For a moment she struggled like some wild creature
caught in a net, then steadied herself by a desperate
effort, exclaiming, breathlessly, —
“Oh, Master Gabriel, how you frightened me!”
“I meant to. Now tell what all this means, at once
and truly,” he said, in a tone intended to be stern, but
which was only serious and troubled.
“All what means, sir?” she answered, feigning innocent
surprise, though her eye never met his, and she still
trembled in his hold.
“You know; the signals, the dropping of the handkerchief,
the steps below there, and the figure creeping
through the grass.”
“Master must have quick eyes and ears to see and
hear all that in such a minute. I only saw my handkerchief
drop by accident; I only heard a bird chirp, and
one of the dogs creep round the house;” but as she
spoke she cast an uneasy glance over her shoulder into
the night without.
“Why lie to me, Milly? I have watched you ever
since you came in, and you are not yourself to-night.
Something is wrong; I've felt it all day, but thought it
was anxiety for my poor father. Why are all the people
sent off to the quarters? Why is Andy meddling with
the boats without my orders? and why do you look,
speak, and act in this inexplicable manner?”
“If master gets worried and imagines mischief when
there is none, I can't help it,” she said, doggedly.
Both while speaking and listening Gabriel had scrutinized
her closely, and all he saw confirmed his suspicion
that something serious was amiss. In the slender wrist
he held the pulse thrilled quick and strong; he heard the
rapid beating of her heart, the flutter of the breath upon
her lips; saw that her face was colorless, her eyes both
restless and elusive. He was sure that no transient fear
agitated her, but felt that some unwonted excitement possessed
her, threatenening to break out in spite of the
self-control which years of servitude had taught her.
What he had just seen and heard alarmed him; for his
father had been a hard master, the island was governed
by fear alone, and he never trod the dykes that bounded
the long, low rice-fields without feeling as if he walked
upon a crater-crust which might crack and spew fire any
day. Many small omens of evil had occurred of
late, which now returned to his recollection with sinister
significance; and the vague disquiet that had haunted
him all day now seemed an instinctive premonition of
impending danger. Many fears flashed through his mind,
and one resolution was firmly fixed. His face grew stern,
his voice commanding, and his hand tightened its hold
as he said, —
“Speak, Milly, or I shall be tempted to use my authority
as a master, and that I never wish to do. If there
is any deviltry afloat I must know it; and if you will not
tell it me I shall search the island till I find it for myself.”
She looked at him for the first time, as he spoke, with
a curious blending of defiance for the master and admiration
for the man. His last words changed it to one of
way, while she said, below her breath, and with another
glance into the outer gloom, —
“You are safe here, but if you leave the house it will
cost you your life.”
“Then it must; for if you will not show me the peril,
I swear I'll go to meet it blindly.”
“No, no, wait a little; I dare not tell!”
“You shall tell. I am the mistress here, and have
borne enough. Speak, girl, at once, or this proud spirit
of yours shall be broken till you do.”
Mrs. Butler had heard all that passed, had approached
them, and being a woman who was by turns imperious,
peevish, and passionate, she yielded to the latter impulse
as she spoke, and gave the girl's shoulder an impatient
shake, as if to force the truth out of her. The touch,
the tone, were like sparks to powder; for the smouldering
fire blazed up as Milly flung her off, wrenched herself
free from Gabriel, and turned on his mother with a
look that sent her back to her husband trembling and
dismayed.
“Yes, I will speak, though it is too soon!” cried
Milly, with a short, sharp laugh. “They may kill me
for telling before the time; I can't help it; I must have
one hour of freedom, if I die the next. There is deviltry
afloat to-night, and it is yourselves you may blame
for it. We can't bear any more, and before a new master
comes to torment us like the old one, we've determined
to try for liberty, though there'll be bloody work before
we get it. The boys are not at the quarters, but fifty
are waiting at the rice-mill till midnight, and then they'll
come up here to do as they've been done by. While
burning, torturing him, for all I know, as other
men, and women too, have been whipped, burnt and
tortured there. That was his scream you heard. Alec
never went for the doctor; Andy's guarding the boats
till we want them; big Mose is watching round the
house; the alarm bell's down; I've cleared the house of
arms, and spoilt the pistols that I dared not take; Master
Gabriel's the only white man on the island, and there's
no help for you unless the Lord turns against us. Who
is the mistress now?”
The girl paused there, breathless but exultant, for the
words had poured from her lips as if the pent-up degradation,
wrath and wrong of nineteen years had broken
bounds at last and must overflow, even though they
wrecked her by their vehemence. Some spirit stronger
than herself seemed to possess and speak out of her,
making her look like an embodied passion, beautiful, yet
terrible, as she glanced from face to face, seeing how pale
and panic-stricken each became, as her rapid words made
visible the retribution that hung over them. Gabriel
stood aghast at the swift and awful answer given to his
prayer; the daughters fled to their mother's arms for
shelter; the wife clung to her husband for the protection
which he could no longer give, and, as if dragged back
to life by the weight of a woe, such as he had himself
inflicted upon others, the old man rose up in his bed,
speechless, helpless, yet conscious of the dangers of the
hour, and doubly daunted by death's terrors, because so
powerless to succor those for whom he had periled his
own soul. A bitter cry broke from him as his last look
showed him the impending doom which all his impotent
spirit passed, to find that, even for such as he, Infinite
justice was tempered by Infinite mercy.
During the few moments in which the wife and daughters
forgot fear in sorrow, and the son took hurried
counsel with himself how best to meet the coming
danger, Milly was learning that the bitter far exceeds
the sweet in human vengeance. The slave exulted in
the freedom so dearly purchased, but the woman felt that
in avenging them her wrongs had lost their dignity, and
though she had changed places with her mistress, she
found that power did not bring her peace. She had no
skill to analyze the feeling, no words in which to express
it, even to herself, but she was so strongly conscious of
it, that its mysterious power marred the joy she thought
to feel, and forced her to confess that in the hour of
expected triumph she was baffled and defeated by her
own conscience. With women doomed to a fate like
hers, the higher the order of intelligence the deeper the
sense of degradation, the more intense the yearning for
liberty at any price. Milly had always rebelled against
her lot, although, compared with that of her class, it had
not been a hard one till the elder Butler bought her, that
his son, seeing slavery in such a lovely form, might learn
to love it. But Gabriel, in his brief visits, soon convinced
his father that no temptation could undermine his sturdy
Northern sense of right and justice, and though he might
easily learn to love the beautiful woman, he could not
learn to oppress the slave whose utter helplessness appealed
to all that was manliest in him.
Milly felt this deeply, and knew that the few black
drops in her veins parted herself and Gabriel more hopelessly
lovers. This inexorable fact made all the world look
dark to her; life became a burden, and one purpose
alone sustained her, — the resolution to achieve her own
liberty, to enjoy a brief triumph over those who had
wronged her, then to die, and find compensation for a
hapless human love in the fatherly tenderness of a Divine
one. She had prayed, worked and waited for this hour,
with all the ardor, energy and patience of her nature.
Yet when it came she was not satisfied; a sense of guilt
oppressed her, and the loss seemed greater than the gain.
Gabriel had given her a look which wounded more deeply
than the sharpest reproach; and the knowledge that she
had forfeited the confidence he had always shown her,
now made her gloomy when she would have been glad,
humble when she thought to have been proudest. Gabriel
saw and understood her mood, felt that their only
hope of deliverance lay in her, and while his mother and
sisters lamented for the dead, he bestirred himself to
save the living.
“Milly,” he began, with sad seriousness, “we deserve
no mercy, and I ask none for myself; I only implore you
to spare the women and give me time to atone for the
weak, the wicked hesitation which has brought us to this
pass. I meant to free you all as soon as you were legally
mine, as it was too late for my father to endear his memory
by one just act. But it was hard to make my mother
and my sisters poor, and so I waited, hoping to be shown
some way by which I could be just and generous both to
you and them.”
“Three women were more precious than two hundred
helpless creatures in the eyes of a Christian gentleman
there was something like contempt in the look she gave
her master.
There was no answer to that, for it was true; and in
the remorseful shame that sent the blood to Gabriel's
forehead, he confessed the fact which he was too honest
to deny. Still looking at her, with eyes that pleaded for
him better than his words, he said, with a humility that
conquered her disdain, —
“I shall expiate that sin if I die to-night; and I will
give myself up to be dealt with as you please, if you will
save my mother and my sisters, and let them free you in
my name. Before God and my dead father I promise
this, upon my honor!”
“There are no witnesses to that but those whom I'll
not trust; honor means nothing to us who are not allowed
to keep our own,” said Milly, looking moodily upon the
ground, as if she feared to look up lest she should
relent, for excitement was ebbing fast, and a flood of
regretful recollections rising in her heart.
“I did not expect that reproach from you,” Gabriel
answered, taking courage from the signs he saw. “Do
you remember, when my father gave you to me, how
indignantly I rejected the gift, and promised that in my
eyes you should be as sacred as either of those poor
girls? Have I not kept my word, Milly?”
“Yes! O yes!” she said, with trembling lips, and
eyes she dared not lift, they were so full of grateful tears.
Carefully steadying her traitorous voice, she added, earnestly,
“Master Gabriel! I do remember, and I've tried
all day to save you, but you wouldn't go. I will trust
your word, and do my best to help the ladies, if they'll
island at once. Mose will let you pass; for that handkerchief
was dropped to tell him that you were abroad,
and were to be got off against your will, if you wouldn't
go quietly. Both he and Andy will save you for my
sake; the others won't, because they don't know you as
we do. Please go, Master Gabriel, before it is too late.”
“No, I shall stay. What would you think of me, if I
deserted these helpless women in such danger, to save
myself at their expense? I cannot quite trust you,
Milly, after treachery like this.”
“Who taught us to be treacherous, and left us nothing
but our own cunning to help ourselves with?”
The first part of Gabriel's speech made the last less
hard to bear; and Milly's question was put in a tone that
was more apologetic than accusatory, for Gabriel cared
what she thought of him, and that speech comforted her.
“Not I, Milly; but let the sins of the dead rest, and
tell me if you will not help my mother and Grace and
Clara off, instead of me? The promise will be all the
sooner and the better kept, or, if it comes too late, I
shall be the only and the fittest person to pay the
penalty.”
Milly's face darkened, and she turned away with an
expression of keen disappointment. Mrs. Butler and her
daughters had restrained their lamentations to listen; but
at the sound of Gabriel's proposal, the sisters ran to
Milly, and, clinging about her knees, implored her to
pity, forgive, and save them. Well for them that they
did so; for Milly felt as if many degradations were cancelled
by that act, and, as she saw her young mistresses
at her feet, the sense of power soothed her sore heart,
She did not speak, yet she did not deny their
prayer, and stood wavering between doubt and desire as
the fateful moments rapidly flew by; Gabriel remembered
that, and, taking her hand, said, in a voice whose earnestness
was perilously persuasive to the poor girl's ear, —
“Milly, you said there was no hope for us unless God
turned against you. I think He has, and, speaking
through that generous heart of yours, pleads for us better
than we can plead for ourselves. It is so beautiful to
pity, so magnanimous to forgive; and the greater the
wrong, the more pardon humbles the transgressor and
ennobles the bestower. Dear Milly, spare these poor
girls as you have been spared; prove yourself the truer
woman, the nobler mistress; teach them a lesson which
they never can forget, and sweeten your liberty with the
memory of this act.”
Milly listened still with downcast eyes and averted
face, but every word went straight to her heart, soothing,
strengthening, inspiring all that was best and bravest in
that poor heart, so passionate, and yet so warm and
womanly withal. No man had ever spoken to her before
of magnanimity, of proving herself superior to those
who had shown no mercy to her faults, accorded no
praise to her virtues, nor lightened a hard servitude
with any touch of friendliness. No man had ever looked
into her face before with eyes in which admiration for
her beauty was mingled with pity for her helpless womanhood;
and, better than all, no man, old or young, had
ever until now recognized in her a fellow-creature, born
to the same rights, gifted with the same powers, and
capable of the same sufferings and sacrifices as himself.
which lives through all oppression in the lowest of God's
children; and through all her frame there went a glow
of warmth and joy, as if some strong, kind hand had
lifted her from the gloom of a desolate despair into the
sunshine of a happier world. Her eye wandered toward
the faces of dead master, conquered mistress, and darkened
as it looked; passed to the pale girls still clinging
to her skirts, and softened visibly; was lifted to Gabriel,
and kindled with the new-born desire to prove herself
worthy of the confidence which would be her best reward.
A smile broke beautifully across her face, and
her lips were parted to reply, when Mrs. Butler, who
sat trembling behind her, cried, in a shrill, imploring
whisper, —
“Remember all I've done for you, Milly, all I still
have it in my power to do. I promise to free you, if you
will only save us now. Be merciful, for your old
master's sake, if not for mine.”
The sound of that querulous voice seemed to sting
Milly like a lash, threatening to undo all Gabriel's work.
Her eye grew fiery again, her mouth hard, her face bitterly
scornful, as she said, with a glance which her mistress
never forgot, —
“I'm not likely to forget all you've done for me; I
would not accept my liberty from you if you could give
it; and if a word of mine could save you, I'd not say
it for old master's sake, much less for yours.”
With a warning gesture to his mother, Gabriel turned
that defiant face toward himself, and holding it firmly
yet gently between his hands, bent on it a look that
allayed the rising storm by the magic of a power which
of possessing it, — for Milly's tell-tale countenance had
betrayed her secret long ago. As he looked deep into
her eyes, with a glance which was both commanding and
compassionate, they first fell with sudden shame, then,
as if controlled by the power of those other eyes, they
rose again and met them with a sad sincerity that made
their beauty tragical, as they filled slowly till two great
tears rolled down her cheeks, wetting the hands that
touched them; and when Gabriel said, softly, “For
my sake you will save us?” she straightway answered,
“Yes.”
“God bless you, Milly! Now tell me how I am to
help you, for time is going, and lives hang on the
minutes.”
He released her as he spoke; and, though she still
looked at him as if he were the one saving power of her
thwarted life, she answered, pleadingly, —
“Hush, Master Gabriel! please don't speak to me, for
then I only feel, — now I must think.”
How still the room grew as they waited! The presence
of death was less solemn than that of fear, for the
dead seemed forgotten, and the living all unconscious of
the awesome contrast between the pale expectancy of
their panic-stricken faces and the repose of that one untroubled
countenance. How suddenly the night grew
full of ominous sounds! How intently all eyes were
fixed upon the beautiful woman who stood among them
holding their lives in her hands, and how they started,
when, through the hush, came a soft chime as the half-hour
struck! Milly heard and answered that silvery
sound as the anxious watchers would have had her:
“It can be done,” she said, in a tone which carried
hope to every heart. “It can be done, but I must do it
alone, for I can pass Mose and get Andy across the river
without their suspecting that I'm going for help. You
must stay here and do your best to guard the ladies,
Master Gabriel; it won't be safe for any of you to go
now.”
“But, Milly, the boys may not wait till twelve, or you
may be delayed, and then we are lost.”
“I have thought of that; and as I go out I'll take old
Sandra with me; she'll understand in a minute. She'll
go down to the mill and talk to them and keep them, if
anything can do it, for they love and fear her more than
any one on the island. Be quiet, trust to me, and I'll
save you, Master Gabriel.”
He silently held out his hand, as if pledging his word
to obey and trust. With the warmth and grace of her
impulsive temperament, Milly bent her head, laid her
cheek against that friendly hand, wet it with grateful
tears, kissed it with loving lips, and went her way, feeling
as if all things were possible to her for Gabriel's
sake.
Listening breathlessly, they heard her foot-falls die
away, heard Sandra's voice below, a short parley with
Mose, then watched the old woman and the young depart
in opposite directions, leaving them to feel the bitterness
of dependence in a strange, stern fashion, which they had
never thought to know. Man-like, Gabriel could not long
stand idle while danger menaced and women faced it for
him. Anxious to take such precautions as might hold
the expected assailants at bay, even for a moment, he
bade his mother and sisters remain quiet, that no suspicion
of the house to withstand a short siege, if other
hopes failed. The slight, many-doored and windowed
mansion, built for a brief occupancy when the winter
months rendered the region habitable for whites, was but
ill-prepared to repel any attack; and a hasty survey
convinced Gabriel that it was both hazardous and vain
to attempt a barricade which a few strong arms could
instantly destroy. As he stood disheartened, unarmed,
and alone in the long hall, dimly lighted by the lamp he
carried, a sense of utter desolation came over him,
dampening his courage, and oppressing his mind with the
dreariest forebodings. Thinking of the many true hearts
and stout arms far away there at the North, which would
have come to his aid so readily could his need have been
known, he yearned for a single friend, a single weapon,
that he might conquer or die like a man. And both
were given him.
Pausing before a door that opened out upon the rear
of the house, his eye caught sight of a heavy whip, whose
loaded handle had felled men before now, and might
easily do so again, if wielded by a strong arm. He took
it down, saying to himself, “It is the first time I ever
touched the accursed thing; God grant that it may be
the last.” A low sound behind him caused the blood
to chill an instant in his veins, then to rush on with a
quicker flow, as, poising the weapon in one hand, he
lifted the lamp above his head, and searched the gloom.
Far at the other end of the long hall a dark figure crept
along, and a pair of glittering eyes were fixed upon his
own. “Come on; I'm ready,” he said, steadily, and
was answered by the patter of rapid steps, the sight of
upon him in a rapture of canine delight. Old Mort had
been the fiercest, most efficient blood-hound on the island;
and still, in spite of age, was a formidable beast, ready
to track or assault a negro, and pull him down or throttle
him, at word of command. He had been his possessor's
favorite till Gabriel came; then he deserted the
old master for the young, and was always left at large
when he was at home. Mort had been missing all day,
and now the rope trailing behind him was sufficient evidence
that he had been decoyed away, lest his vigilance
should warn his master, and that, having freed himself,
he had stolen home, to lie concealed till night and his
master's presence reassured him.
As the great creature reared himself before the young
man, with a paw on either shoulder, and looked into his
face with eyes that seemed almost human in their intelligent
affection, Gabriel dropped the whip, put down the
lamp, and caressed the hound with an almost boyish
gratitude and fondness; for, with the sense of security
this powerful ally brought, there came a remorseful
memory, that, though the possessor of two hundred
human beings, he had no friend but a dog. At this
point Mort suddenly pricked up his ears, slipped from
his master's hold, and snuffed suspiciously at the closed
door. Some one was evidently without, and the creature's
keen scent detected the unseen listener. With a
noiseless command to the dog to keep quiet, Gabriel
caught up his only weapon, and stood waiting for whatever
demonstration should follow. None came; and
presently Mort returned to him with a sagacious glance
and a sleepy yawn, sure evidences that Mose had paused
Mose was, with one exception, the strongest, most rebellious
slave on the place; and though Gabriel had longed
to rush out and attack him, he had not dared to try it,
for his strength was as a child's compared to the stalwart
slave's. Now, with Mort to help him, the thing was
possible; and as he stood there, with only a door between
him and the man who had sworn to take his life,
a strange consciousness of power came to him; his muscles
seemed to grow firm as iron, his blood flowed calm
and cool, and in his mind there rose a purpose, desperately
simple, yet wise, despite its seeming rashness. He
would master Mose, and, leaving Mort to guard him,
would go down to the mill, and, if both Sandra's and
his own appeals and promises proved unavailing, would
give himself up, hoping that his death or torture would
delay the doom of those defenceless women, and give
Milly time to bring them better help than any he could
give. Some atonement must be made, he thought, and
perhaps innocent blood would wash the black stain from
his father's memory better than the deed he had hoped
to do in that father's name on the morrow. He had held
a precious opportunity in his hands, had delayed through
a mistaken kindness; now it was lost, perhaps forever,
and he must pay the costly price which God exacts of
those who palter with their consciences. As the thought
came, and the purpose grew, it brought with it that high
courage, that entire self-abnegation which we call heroism;
and that fateful moment made Gabriel a man.
A word, a gesture, put the dog upon his mettle; then
cutting away the long rope, Gabriel threw it over his
arm, unbarred the door, set it ajar, and, standing behind
to make his round. Soon Mort's restless ears gave token
of his approach; and, as the stealthy steps came stealing
on, he was with difficulty restrained; for now instinct
showed him danger, and he was as eager as his master
to be up and doing. The streak of light attracted the
man's eye. He paused, drew nearer, listened; then
softly pushed the door open, and leaned in to reconnoitre.
That instant Mort was on him, a heavy blow half
stunned him, and, before his scattered wits could be collected,
he was down, his hands fast bound, and both
master and dog standing over him panting, but unhurt.
“Now, Mose, if you want to save your life, be still,
and answer my questions truly,” said Gabriel, with one
hand on the man's throat, the other holding back Mort,
whose tawny eye was savage now. “I know your plot,
and have found means to spoil it. How do you think
I'm going to punish you all?”
“Dun'no, massa,” muttered Mose, with a grim resignation
to any fate.
“I'm going to free every man, woman, and child on
the island, and fling that devilish thing into the river,”
he said, as he spurned the whip with his foot.
An incredulous look and derisive grin was the only
thanks and answer he received.
“You don't believe it? Well, who can blame you, poor
soul? Not I. Now tell me how many men are on the
watch between here and the rice-mill?” Gabriel spoke
with a flash of the eye and a sudden deepening of the
voice; for both indignation and excitement stirred him.
The look, the tone, did more to convince Mose than a
flood of words; for he had learned to try men by tests
faces than those of their tongues. More respectfully,
he said, —
“No one, 'sides me, massa. Andy's at de landin',
and de rest at de mill 'ceptin' dem as isn't in de secret.”
“Mind, no lies, Mose, or your free papers will be the
last I sign to-morrow. Get up, and come quietly with
me; for it you try to run, Mort will pin you. I'm going
to the mill, and want you safely under lock and key first.”
“Is massa gwine alone?” asked Mose, glancing about
him, for Gabriel spoke as if he had a score of men at
his command.
“Yes, I'm going alone; why not?”
“Massa knows dere's fifty of de boys dar sworn to
kill him, if Milly don't git him 'way 'fore dey comes up?”
“I know, and Milly's done her best to get me off, but
I'd rather stay; I'm not afraid.”
Gabriel's blood was up now: danger had no terrors
for him; and, beyond the excitement of the moment, his
purpose lent him a calm courage which impressed the
slave as something superhuman. Like one in a maze of
doubt and fear, he obediently followed his master to an
out-house, where, binding feet as well as hands, Gabriel
left him with the promise and the warning, —
“Sit here till I come to let you out a free man, if I
live to do it. Don't stir nor call, for Mort will be at the
door to silence you and howl for me, if you try any
tricks. I'll not keep you long, if I can help it.”
The slave only stared dumbly at him, incapable of
receiving the vast idea of liberty, pardon, and kindness
all at once; and bidding Mort guard both prisoner and
house, Gabriel stole along the path that wound away
fates were soon to be decided. As he went he glanced
from earth to sky, and found propitious omens everywhere.
No flowery thicket concealed a lurking foe to
clutch at him in the dark; but the fragrance of trodden
grass, the dewy touch of leaves against his cheek, the
peaceful night-sounds that surrounded him, gave him
strange comfort and encouragement; for when his fellow-creatures
had deserted, Nature took him to her motherly
heart. From above, fitful glimpses of the moon guided
him on his perilous way; for the wind had changed, the
black clouds were driving seaward, and the storm was
passing without either thunderbolt or hurricane. Coming,
at length, within sight of the half-ruined mill, he paused
to reconnoitre. Through chinks in the rude walls a dim
light shone, muffled voices rose and fell; and once there
was a hoarse sound, as of a half-uttered shout. Creeping
warily to a dark nook among the ruins, Gabriel made his
way to a crevice in an inner wall, and, looking through
it, saw a sight little fitted to reassure him, either as a
master or a man.
The long, low-raftered portion of the mill, which once
had been the threshing-floor, was now lighted by the red
glare of several torches, which filled the place with weird
shadows, and sudden glimpses of objects that seemed the
more mysterious or terrible for being but half seen. In
one corner, under a coarse covering, something lay stark
and still; a clenched hand was visible, and several locks
of light hair dabbled with blood, but nothing more. Fifty
men, old and young, of all shades of color, all types of
their unhappy race, stood or sat about three, who evidently
were the leaders of the league. One, a young
doubly barbarous there, was half-kneeling, and steadily
filing at a chain that held his feet together as his hands
had been held till some patient friend had freed them,
and left him to finish the slow task. He worked so
eagerly that the drops stood thick upon his haggard face,
and his scarred chest heaved with his painful breath; for
this was the Tony who was too much cut up with his
last whipping to run on Mrs. Butler's errand, but not too
feeble to strike a blow for liberty. The second man was
as near an animal as a human creature could become,
and yet be recognized as such. A burly, brutal-looking
negro, maimed and distorted by every cruelty that could
be invented or inflicted, he was a sight to daunt the
stoutest heart, as he sat sharpening the knife which had
often threatened him in the overseer's hand, and was
still red with the overseer's blood.
Standing erect between the two, and in striking contrast
to them, was a gigantic man, with a fine, dark face,
a noble head, and the limbs of an ebony Hercules. A
native African, from one of those tribes whose wills are
never broken, — who can be subdued by kindness, but
who often kill themselves rather than suffer the degradation
of the lash. No one had dared to subject him to
that chastisement, as was proved by the unmarred smoothness
of the muscular body, bare to the waist; but round
his neck was riveted an iron collar, with four curved
spikes. It was a shameful badge of serfdom; it prevented
him from lying down, it galled him with its ceaseless
chafing, yet he wore it with an air which would have
made the hideous necklace seem some barbaric ornament,
if that had been possible; and faced the excited crowd
which proved him their master in intelligence, as well as
strength and courage.
Before them all, yet lifted a little above them by her position
on a fallen fragment of the roof, stood old Cassandra.
A tall, gaunt woman, with a countenance which age,
in making venerable, had not robbed of its vigor; her
sightless eyes were wide open with a weird effect of seeing
without sight, and her high white turban, her long
staff, and the involuntary tremor of her shrivelled hands,
gave her the air of some ancient sorceress or priestess,
bearing her part in some heathen rite. The majestic-looking
slave with the collar had apparently been speaking,
for his face was turned toward her, and his dark
features were still alive with the emotions which had just
found vent in words. As Gabriel looked, old Sandra
struck the floor with her staff, as if commanding silence;
and, as the stir of some momentary outbreak subsided,
she said, in a strong voice, which rose and fell in a sort
of solemn chant as her earnestness increased and her
listeners grew obedient to its spell, —
“Chil'en, I'se heerd yer plans, — now I wants ter len'
a han' and help you in dis hour of tribbleation. You's
killed oberseer Neal, and d'rectly you's all gwine up ter
de house to kill massa, missis and de young folks. Now
what's you gwine to do dat fer? and what's dey eber
done bad nuf ter make you willin' ter fro 'way yer souls
dis night?”
“Kase we can't b'ar no more.” “Old massa hunted
my boy wid hounds and dey tore him ter def.” “He
sold my chil'en and drove Rachel crazy wid de partin'.”
“Old missis had my pore girl whipped kase she was too
harder dan de ole one, and we's tired ob hell.”
These, and many another short, stern answer, came
to Sandra's question; she expected them, was ready to
meet them, and knew how best to reach the outraged
hearts now hungering for vengeance. Her well-known
afflictions, her patience, her piety, gave a certain sanctity
to her presence, great weight to her words, and an
almost marvellous power to her influence over her own
people, who believed her to be half saint, half seer. She
felt her power, and, guided by an instinct that seldom
failed, she used it wisely in this perilous hour, remembering
that her listeners, though men in their passions,
were children in their feelings.
“You pore boys, I knows de troof ob all dat, and I'se
had my trubbles hard and heavy as you has, but I'se
learnt to fergib 'em, and dey don't hurt now. Ole massa
bought me thirty year' ago 'way from all I keered fer,
and I'se slaved fer him widout no t'anks, no wages, eber
since; but I'se fergived him dat. He sole my chil'en,
all ten; my boys up de riber, my perty little girls down
to Orleans, and bringed up his chil'en on de money; dat
come bery hard, but de Lord helped me, and I fergived
him dat. He shot my ole Ben kase he couldn't whip me
hisself, nor stan' by and see it done; dat mos' broke my
heart, but in de end I foun' I could fergib him one time
more. He made me nuss him when de fever come and
every one was 'fraid ob him; de long watchin', de hard
work and de cryin' fer my chil'en made me bline at last;
but I fergived him dat right hearty, fer though dey took
my eyes away dey couldn't bline my soul, and in de
darkness I hab seen de Lord.”
The truth, the pathos, the devout assurance of her
words, impressed and controlled the sympathetic creatures
to whom she spoke, as no reproach or denunciation
would have done. A murmur went through the crowd,
and more than one savage face lost something of its brutality,
gained something of its former sad patience, as
the old woman touched, with wondrous skill, the chords
that still made music in these tried and tempted hearts.
“Yes, chil'en, I hab seen de Lord, and He has made de
night into day fer me, has held me up in all my trubbles,
tole me to hole fas' by Him, and promised He would
bring me safe ter glory. I'se faith ter feel He will, and
while I wait, I'se savin' up my soul fer Him. Boys, He
says de same to you froo me; He says hole fas', b'ar all
dat's sent, beleebe in Him, and wait the coming ob de
Lord.”
“We's done tired a-waitin', de Lord's so bery long a
comin', Sandra.”
It was a weary, hopeless voice that answered, as an
old man shook his white head and lifted up the dim eyes
that for eighty years had watched in vain.
“It's you dat's long a-comin' ter Him, Uncle Dave,
but He ain't tired ob waitin' for yer. De places dar in
heaven is all ready, de shinin' gowns, de harps ob gole,
de eberlastin' glory, and de peace. No rice-swamps dar,
no sugar-mills, no cotton-fields, no houn's, no oberseer,
no massa but de blessed Lord. Dar's yer chil'en, Uncle
Dave, growed beautiful white angels, and a-waitin' till
yer comes. Dar's yer wife, Pete, wid no lashes on her
back, no sobbin' in her heart, a-waiting fer yer, anxious.
Dar's yer fader, Jake; he don't need no proppin' now,
and he'll run to meet yer when yer comes. Dar's yer
de Lord's got her in de holler ob His han', and she's
a-waitin' fer de little one and you to come. Dar's my
Ben, my chil'en all saved up for me, and when I comes
I'll see 'em waitin' fer me at de door. But, best ob all,
dar's de dear Lord waitin' fer us; He's holdin' out his
arms, He's beckonin' all de while, He's sayin', in dat lovin'
voice ob His, `I sees yer sorrows, my pore chil'en, I
hears yer sobbin' and yer prayers, I fergives yer sins, I
knows yer won't 'spoint me ob dese yere fifty precious
souls, and I'se a-waitin', waitin', waitin' fer yer all.”'
Strange fervor was in the woman's darkened face,
strange eloquence in her aged voice, strange power in
the persuasive gestures of her withered hands outstretched
above them, warning, pleading, beckoning,
as if, in truth, the Lord spoke through her, illuminating
that poor place with the light of His divine compassion,
the promises of His divine salvation. A dead
silence followed as the last yearning cadence of the one
voice rose, fell, and died away. Sandra let the strong
contrast between the here and the hereafter make its
due impression, then broke the silence, saying briefly,
solemnly, —
“Boys, de Lord has spared yer one great sin dis night;
ole massa 's dead.”
“Glory be to God, amen!” “Halleluyer! dat I'se
libed ter see dis happy day!” “De Debble's got him,
shore!” “Don't give up de chance, boys; young massa
and de missis is lef' for us.”
Such exclamations of gratitude, joy, and revenge, were
the only demonstration which the news produced, and,
mingling with them, a gust of wind came sweeping
that another tyrant had ceased to blight and burden her
fair domain. Sandra's quick ear caught the last words,
and a deep oath or two, as several men rose with the
fierce fire rekindling in their eyes.
“Yes!” she cried, in a tone that held them even
against their will, — “yes, young massa's lef'; but not
to die, for if yer gives up your chance of damnation
dis night, you'll all be free to-morrer. He's promised
it; he'll do it, and dere'll be no blood but dat bad man's
yonder, to cry from de groun', and b'ar witness 'ginst
yer at de Judgment-Day.”
“Free! to-morrer! Who's gwine to b'lieve dat,
Sandra? We's been tole such stories often; but de
morrer's never come, and now we's gwine to bring
one for ourselves.”
The gigantic man with the spiked collar on his neck
said that, with a smile of grim determination, as he took
up the iron bar, which in his desperate hands became a
terribly formidable weapon.
A low growl, as of muttering thunder, answered him,
and Sandra's heart sunk within her. But one hope
remained; and, desperately clinging to it, she found that
even in these betrayed, benighted creatures there still
lived a sense of honor, a loyalty to truth, born of the
manhood God had given them, the gratitude which one
man had inspired.
“Hear me, jes once more, 'fore yer goes, boys. Tell
me, what has young massa done ter make yer want his
blood? Has he ever lashed yer, kicked, and cussed yer?
Has he sole yer chil'ren, 'bused yer wives, or took yer
ole folks from yer? Has he done anything but try to
here; and when he can't do nor b'ar no more, don't he
go 'way to pray de Lord ter help us fer His sake?”
Not a voice answered; not one complaint, accusation,
or reproach was made, and Prince, the fierce leader of
the insurrection, paused, with his foot upon the threshold
of the door; for a grateful memory confronted and arrested
him. One little daughter, the last of many children,
had been taken from him to be sold, when Gabriel,
moved by his despair, had bought and freed and given
her back to him, with the promise that she never should
be torn from him again. For an instant the clasp of
little clinging arms seemed to make the sore chafing of
the iron ring unfelt; the touch of the hand that gave
the precions gift now made that rude weapon weigh
heavily in his own, and from the darkness which lay
between him and the doomed home there seemed to rise
the shadow of the face which once had looked compassionately
into his and recognized him as a man. He
turned, and, standing with his magnificent yet mournful
figure fully revealed by the red flicker of the torches,
put out one hand as if to withhold the desperate crowd
before him, and asked, with an air of authority which
well became a prince by birth as well as name, —
“Sandra, who tole you massa meant ter free us right
away? You has blessed dreams sometimes, and maybe
dis is one ob 'em. It's too good to be de troof.”
“It is de troof, de livin' troof, and no dream ob mine
was eber half so blessed as dis yere will be, if we has
faith. Milly tole me jes now dat Massa Gabriel swore
before de Lord and his dead father dat he'd free us all
ter-morrer; and I come here ter save yer from de sin dat
next. Dere's more good news 'sides dat. I heerd 'em
talkin' 'bout de Norf. It's risin', boys, it's risin'! — de
tings we's heerd is shore, and de day ob jubilee is comin'
fas'.”
It was well she added that last hope, for its effect was
wonderful. Men lifted up their heads, hope quenched
hatred in eyes that grew joyfully expectant, and for a
moment the black sky seemed to glimmer with the first
rays of the North star which should lead them up from
that Dismal Swamp to a goodly land. Sandra felt the
change, knew that only one more effective touch was
needed to secure the victory, and, like the pious soul
she was, turned in her hour of need to the only Friend
who never had deserted her. Painfully bending her stiff
knees, she knelt down before them, folded her hard
hands, lifted her sightless eyes, and cried, in an agony
of supplication, —
“Dear Lord, speak to dese yere pore chil'en, fer I'se
done my bes'! Help 'em, save 'em, don't let 'em spile
de freedom dat's comin' by a sin like dis to-night, but let
'em take it sweet and clean from Thy han' in de mornin'.
Stan' by young massa, hole him up, don't let him 'spoint
us, fer we'se ben bery patient, Lord; and help us to
wait one night more, shore dat he'll keep de promise fer
Thy blessed sake.”
“I will!”
The voice rang through the place like a voice from
heaven; and out from the darkness Gabriel came among
them. To their startled, superstitious eyes he seemed no
mortal man, but a beautiful, benignant angel, bringing
tidings of great joy, as he stood there, armed with no
but the truth, stirred to his heart's core by strong emotion,
and lifted above himself by the high mood born of that
memorable hour.
“My people! mine only while I speak; break up your
league, lay down your arms, dry your tears, and forgive
as you are forgiven, for this island no longer holds a
master or a slave; but all are free forever and forever.”
An awful silence fell upon the place, unbroken till old
Sandra cried, with a glad, triumphant voice, —
“Chil'en! de Lord had heerd, de Lord hab answered!
Bless de Lord! O bless de Lord!”
Then, as a strong wind bows a field of grain, the
breath of liberty swept over fifty souls, and down upon
their knees fell fifty free men, while a great cry went up
to heaven. Shouts, sobs, prayers and praises; the clash
of falling arms; the rattle of fetters wrenched away;
the rush of men gathered to each other's breasts, — all
added to the wild abandonment of a happiness too mighty
for adequate expression, as that wave of gratitude and
love rolled up and broke at Gabriel's feet. With face
hidden in his hands he stood; and while his heart sung
for joy, tears from the deepest fountains of a man's
repentant spirit fitly baptized the freedmen, who, clinging
to his garments, kissing his feet and pouring blessings on
his head, bestowed upon him a far nobler inheritance
than that which he had lost.
“Hark!”
The word, and Sandra's uplifted hand, hushed the
tumultuous thanksgiving, as if she were in truth the
magician they believed her. A far-off murmur of many
voices, the tramp of many feet was heard; all knew
mightier power than either force or fear had conquered,
and the victory was already won.
Through widening rifts in the stormy sky the moon
broke clear and calm, gliding, like a visible benediction,
from the young man's bent head to the dusky faces lifted
toward the promised light; and in that momentary hush,
solemn and sweet, across the river a distant clock struck
twelve.
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