University of Virginia Library

34. CHAPTER XXXIV.

Captain Windsor and Tom Darley were both placed
in the hospital, although in different divisions, and Dora
paid assiduous attention to both.

The captain's wounds were, in themselves, slight; but
his constitution, more nervous than enduring, had become
seriously impaired from the effects of his former wounds,
and from the exposure and fatigue which he delighted to
share with the hardiest of his men. He was, therefore,
earnestly recommended by the surgeon, and by Colonel
Blank, to accept a furlough, and go home to be nursed
back to health and strength.

This advice the captain received with unalloyed disgust,
and only consented to think seriously of it on finding
that he gained no strength under hospital treatment,
but, in fact, declined from day to day.

“You must be gone from here before winter fairly sets
in, or they'll leave your bones on this mountain, my
lad,” was the surgeon's parting counsel at the end of a
long conversation with his patient.

Captain Karl lay silent for some time, and then called
to Dora, —

“Come here, darling, and tell me what I'm to do.
I've got to be such a worthless fellow, they won't keep
me here any longer, even with you to back me up. The
doctor says I must go home, and the colonel threatens to
send me as a prisoner if I won't go on my own accord.
They say I'll die here.”

“O, then, go, do go, as soon as you can, dear Captain
Karl.”

“I'll go fast enough. You needn't be in such a hurry
to be rid of me; and please don't frighten me out of my
senses with that indignant look, because I've something
to say. I'm not fit to travel alone any more than a baby
— now, am I? Suppose the horses were to run away, or
the cars smash up, or some one leave a window open on
my back; and how under the sun could I tell how much
sugar I like in my tea?”

Dora smiled faintly.

“Your servant is a smart fellow — isn't he?”

“Well enough. But I want some one who knows
more than any servant — more than I do myself. Dora
Darling, if I can't have you to go with me, I'll stay here
and die, and then I'll haunt you every night.”

Dora stared at him speechlessly.

“Me!” exclaimed she.

“Certainly; why not? I've always meant to take
you home with me, when I went, for a present to my
mother and sister. The only trouble I foresee is, that,

if it is a possible thing to do it, they will spoil you out
and out; or, failing in that, will kill you with kindness.
However, we must risk it.”

“Please tell me seriously what you mean, Captain
Karl.”

“Well, then, seriously, Dora, I mean to ask you to
go home to my dear good mother, to be another daughter
to her, and a sister to Marnie and me for the rest of your
natural life. It is the warmest wish of my heart, Dora
Darling, and I think, possibly enough, may make the
difference of life and death to me upon my journey.”

“But your mother don't know —”

“Don't she, though? Haven't I told her all about
you, and about your going foraging with me the other
day, and about your ways with the men, and all? and
didn't she say in her very last letter that I was to do as
seemed best to myself about bringing you home, and that
if I adopted you as my sister, you should be a daughter
to her? Now, then, Miss Sceptic!”

“Did she really and truly say that?” asked Dora,
flushing all over, as a sudden vision of a home, a mother,
a sister, and her dear Captain Karl for a brother, rose
before her mental vision.

“Really and truly, dear little Do,” said the young
soldier, tenderly. “And now promise to be ready to go
with me, and then I'll be off to sleep — I'm so tired
talking.”

“I oughtn't to have let you,” said Dora, with much
concern. “Don't say one word more, but shut your
eyes, and I will smooth your hair till you sleep. We
will talk about the rest after you wake up. I must think
about it, and talk with Mr. Brown before I can make up
my mind. Only I will tell you now how very, very
kind I think it of you and your dear mother to want to
have me come; and I shall never forget it as long as I
live. There, I shan't speak again, nor you mustn't.”

“Sing, then,” murmured the young man; and the sweet
girl voice softly crooned a lullaby until the fevered lips
of the invalid parted in the smile of a happy dream, and
his little nurse, screening his eyes from the light, crept
softly away, to think of what he had said.

In the outer tent she met the chaplain.

“Mr. Brown, I should like so much to talk with you a
little.”

“Come, then. I was just looking for you, to propose
a walk. It is cold, but it will do you good.”

“Thank you, sir. Wait a moment, please, till I get
my cloak and cap.”

A few moments later found teacher and pupil briskly
walking along the outer line of fortification, in their
progress around the camp.

“Captain Karl is going home,” began Dora, abruptly,
as she found her companion waiting for her to begin the
conversation.

“I am glad to hear it,” said Mr. Brown, heartily.

Dora paused a little.

“Why, sir?” asked she, at length.

“Because it is the best thing he can do for himself,
and I shall feel easier as to your safety. He is always
leading you into danger.”

“I don't think you like Captain Karl as well as he
deserves, Mr. Brown,” said Dora, impetuously.

“Don't you, indeed? And are you so much better
judge than I of what he deserves?” asked the chaplain,
coldly.

“Yes, sir, I think I am.”

“Dora, you are in danger of becoming self-conceited,
and a little too free in criticising the conduct and judgment
of those older than yourself,” said Mr. Brown,
severely.

“I am sorry you think so, sir; but you asked me if I
knew better about Captain Karl than you, and I thought
I did. Shouldn't I answer truly?”

“Why, yes. But you shouldn't think so.”

“I heard you say once, sir, that free thought was more
precious than free speech,” said Dora, demurely.

The chaplain bit his lip.

“Well, tell me how it is you have formed so much
juster an estimate of Captain Windsor's character than
I have been able to.”

“I think, sir, it is because I like him. And besides I

think he feels as if you expected people to — to look up
to you, and speak differently from what young men generally
do to each other, and so he feels more like talking
in his wild way than ever. Then I think you don't like
it that he isn't more careful, and treats you just as he
does Captain Hunt, or any of the rest of them; and so
you both keep feeling wrong when you are together, and
so don't like each other.”

“You're making me out rather a prig, Dora,” said the
chaplain, smiling, and coloring a little.

“I don't know what that is, sir. But I wish you liked
Captain Karl better, because I like you both so much,
and want to have you friends.”

“Well, we won't say any more about it now. What
were you going to tell me?”

“Why, it was about him, sir. He is going home, and
he wants me to go with him, and be his sister. His
mother has written to give him leave to bring me, and he
says perhaps he won't live unless he has me to take care
of him.”

“Go home with him, to remain always?” exclaimed
the chaplain, stopping short, and looking at Dora in a
terrified sort of way.

“Yes, sir. His mother to be my mother, and his sister
my sister.”

“And he —?”

“Why, he would be my brother.”

“And you, Dora, what is your own inclination in the
matter?”

“I should like so much to go, sir — to have a home
and family again; and I know I should love them all!
But how can I leave the soldiers? I am the daughter
of the regiment, and if I can do it any good, I have no
more right to leave it than the colonel has. Isn't it so,
Mr. Brown?”

“Yes, dear child, it is so. And you can do — you are
doing — inconceivable good among these men. My influence,
indeed, is secondary to your own. It would be
a cruel loss, a wicked deprivation to them, for you to go
away.”

He paused, too much agitated to say more. Dora
walked by his side a few moments in silence, and then
said, quietly, —

“If it is so, I will stay.”

“And not the men alone, Dora. I — what should I do
without my dear little friend, my scholar, my right hand
in all good works that I have done here? You will not
leave me, Dora?”

“O, Mr. Brown, am I all that?”

“All that, and more, Dora Darling; far more than I
can tell you now. I never thought of your leaving us, or
I would have spoken sooner; but I, too, have my plan for
you — a plan that has been maturing in my mind for
many weeks. I have no mother to take you to, no sister

to offer you as a companion; but I myself, Dora, will be
to you brother, father, guardian, all that a man may be
to the most precious charge God could give him, if only
you will let me. My home, as I have told you, is in a
little village of Ohio. My parishioners allowed me to
leave them for this service at my earnest request, but
they expect me back to live among them for life. There
is an excellent woman, a woman who has been to me
like a mother, among them. In her charge I will place
you for a while, and I myself will watch over and educate
you. I will develop the strong, pure nature that
God has given you. I will train you to such womanhood
as the world has seldom witnessed. Dora, I startle you
with my vehemence, but you cannot yet understand how
this plan has become a part of my whole future. I have
been thinking of it day and night for weeks, and only
waited for a quiet hour to tell you of it. Dora, you will
not disappoint me so bitterly?”

The chaplain uttered the last words imploringly, and
seizing Dora's hands, stood looking eagerly into her face.
But Dora did not raise her eyes to his. Her lips were
compressed, and her face was very pale. It was a crisis
in her life, and she felt it painfully. At last she drew
away her hands, and said sorrowfully, —

“You are both so very good to me! and how can I
bear to say no to either?”

“Surely, Dora, you cannot esteem this thoughtless lad

as safe or true a guardian for you, as I?” asked the
chaplain, bitterly.

“No, sir. You would do me a great deal more good
than he could. But I think I could do him more good
than I could you.”

“That, Dora, is not for you to know. Some day you
will understand better what I cannot now explain.”

“Please, sir, let us not talk any more about it now.
I will think of it to-night, and to-morrow I can tell better,
perhaps.”

“Very well, dear child. Pray for guidance, and it will
be given you.”

“I shall, sir,” said Dora, softly.

“Good night, then.”

“Good night, sir. O, Mr. Brown, you know Picter
must go with me wherever I go. I have the care of
him.”

The chaplain smiled.

“Yes, indeed,” said he. “That is understood.”