CHAPTER XVIII
It was still dark when he awoke with a violent start, dreaming ofloud trumpets, and found himself sitting upright on his cot,staring into obscurity.
Outside on the veranda a multitude of heavy steps echoed andre-echoed over the creaking boards; spurs clinked, sabres draggedand clanked; a man's harsh, nasal voice sounded irritably atintervals:
"We're not an army--we're not yet an army; that's what's thematter. You can't erect an army by uniforming and drilling a fewhundred thousand clerks and farmers. You can't manufacture an armyby brigading regiments--by creating divisions and forming armycorps. There is only one thing on God's long-enduring earth thatcan transform this mob of State troops into a Nationalarmy--discipline!--and that takes time; and we've got to take itand let experience kick us out of one battle into another. Andsome day we'll wake up to find ourselves a real army, with realdepartments, really controlled and in actual and practical workingorder. Now it's every department for itself and God help GeneralMcClellan! He has my sympathy! He has a dirty job on his handshalf done, and they won't let him finish it!"
And again the same impatient voice broke out contemptuously:
"War? These two years haven't been two years of war! They've beentwo years of a noisy, gaudy, rough and tumble! Bull Run was _operabouffe_! The rest of it has been one fantastic and bloodycarnival! Did anybody ever before see such a grandmother's rag bagof uniforms in an American army! What in hell do we want ofzouaves in French uniforms, cavalry, armed with Austrian lances,ridiculous rocket-batteries, Polish riders, Hungarian hussars,grenadiers, mounted rifles, militia and volunteers in every garb,carrying every arm ever created by foreign armourers and militarytailors! . . . But I rather guess that the fancy-dress-ball era isjust about over. I've a notion that we're coming down to theold-fashioned army blue again. And the sooner the better. I wantno more red fezzes and breeches in my commands for the enemy toblaze at a mile away! I want no more picturesque lances. I wantplain blue pants and Springfield rifles, by God! And I guess I'llget them, if I make noise enough in North America!"
Who this impassioned military critic was, shouting opinions to thesky, Berkley never learned; for presently there was a greatjingling and clatter and trample of horses brought around, and theofficers, whoever they were, mounted and departed as they hadarrived, in darkness, leaving Berkley on his cot in the storehouseto stretch his limbs, and yawn and stretch again, and draw the warmfolds of the blanket closer, and lie blinking at the dark, throughwhich, now, a bird had begun to twitter a sweet, fitful salute tothe coming dawn.
Across the foot of his couch lay folded an invalid's red hospitalwrapper; beside his bed stood the slippers. After a few moments herose, stepped into the slippers, and, drawing on the woolen robe,belted it in about his thin waist. Then he limped out to theveranda.
In the dusk the bird sang timidly. Berkley could just make out theoutlines of the nearer buildings, and of tall trees around. Hereand there lights burned behind closed windows; but, except forthese, the world was black and still; stiller for the deadenedstamping of horses in distant unseen stalls.
An unmistakable taint of the hospital hung in the fresh morningair--a vague hint of anaesthetics, of cooking--the flat odour ofsickness and open wounds.
Lanterns passed in the darkness toward the stables; unseen shapesmoved hither and thither, their footsteps sharply audible. Helistened and peered about him for a while, then went back to thestore-room, picked his way among the medical supplies, and sat downon the edge of his bed.
A few moments later he became aware of somebody moving on theveranda, and of a light outside; heard his door open, lifted hisdazzled eyes in the candle rays.
"Are you here, Philip?" came a quiet, tired voice. "You must wake,now, and dress. Colonel Arran is conscious and wishes to see you."
"Ailsa! Good God!"
She stood looking at him placidly, the burning candle steady in herhand, her; face very white and thin.
He had risen, standing there motionless in his belted invalid'srobe with the stencilled S. C. on the shoulder. And now he wouldhave gone to her, hands outstretched, haggard face joyouslyillumined; but she stepped back with a swift gesture that haltedhim; and in her calm, unfriendly gaze he hesitated, bewildered,doubting his senses.
"Ailsa, dear, is anything wrong?"
"I think," she said quietly, "that we had better not let ColonelArran see how wrong matters have gone between us. He is very badlyhurt. I have talked a little with him. I came here because heasked for you and for no other reason."
"Did you know I was here?"
"I saw you arrive last night--from the infirmary window. . . . Ihope your wound is healed," she added in a strained voice.
"Ailsa! What has happened?"
She shuddered slightly, looked at, him without a shadow ofexpression.
"Let us understand one another now. I haven't the slightest atomof--regard--left for you. I have no desire to see you, to hear ofyou again while I am alive. That is final."
"Will you tell me why?"
She had turned to go; now she hesitated, silent, irresolute.
"Will you tell me, Ailsa?"
She said, wearily: "If you insist, I can make it plainer, sometime. But this is not the time. . . And you had better not ask meat all, Philip."
"I do ask you."
"I warn you to accept your dismissal without seeking anexplanation. It would spare--us both."
"I will spare neither of us. What has changed you?"
"I shall choose my own convenience to answer you," she repliedhaughtily.
"Choose it, then, and tell me when to expect your explanation."
"When I send for you; not before."
"Are you going to let me go away with that for my answer?"
"Perhaps."
He hooked his thumbs in his girdle and looked down, considering;then, quietly raising his head:
"I don't know what you have found out--what has been told you. Ihave done plenty of things in my life unworthy of you, but Ithought you knew that."
"I know it now."
"You knew it before. I never attempted to conceal anything."
A sudden blue glimmer made her eyes brilliant. "That is afalsehood!" she said deliberately. The colour faded from hischeeks, then he said with ashy composure:
"I lie much less than the average man, Ailsa. It is nothing toboast of, but it happens to be true. I don't lie."
"You keep silent and act a lie!"
He reflected for a moment; then:
"Hadn't you better tell me?"
"No."
Then his colour returned, surging, making the scar on his facehideous; he turned, walked to the window, and stood looking intothe darkness while the departing glimmer of her candle faded on thewall behind him.
Presently, scraping, ducking, chuckling, the old darky appearedwith his boots and uniform, everything dry and fairly clean; and hedressed by lantern light, buckled his belt, drew on his gloves,settled his forage cap, and followed the old man out into thegraying dawn.
They gave him some fresh light bread and a basin of coffee; hefinished and waited, teeth biting the stem of his empty pipe forwhich he had no tobacco.
Surgeons, assistant surgeons, contract physicians, ward-masters,nurses, passed and re-passed; stretchers filed into the dead house;coffins were being unloaded and piled under a shed; a constantstream of people entered and left the apothecary's office; theDivision Medical Director's premises were besieged. Ambulancescontinually drove up or departed; files of sick and wounded, ableto move without assistance, stood in line, patient, uncomplainingmen, bloody, ragged, coughing, burning with fever, weakened forlack of nourishment; many crusted with filth and sometimes withvermin, humbly awaiting the disposition of their battered,half-dead bodies. . . .
The incipient stages of many diseases were plainly apparent amongthem. Man after man was placed on a stretcher, and hurried off tothe contagious wards; some were turned away and d
irected to otherhospitals, and they went without protest, dragging their gauntlegs, even attempting some feeble jest as they passed theirwretched comrades whose turns had not yet come.
Presently a hospital servant came and took Berkley away to anotherbuilding. The wards were where the schoolrooms had been.Blackboards still decorated the wall; a half-erased exercise inLatin remained plainly visible over the rows of cots.
Ailsa and the apothecary stood together in low-voiced conversationby a window. She merely raised her eyes when Berkley entered;then, without giving him a second glance, continued herconversation.
In the heavy, ether-laden atmosphere flies swarmed horribly, andmen detailed as nurses from regimental companies were fanning themfrom helpless patients. A civilian physician, coming down theaisle, exchanged a few words with the ward-master and then turnedto Berkley.
"You are trooper Ormond, orderly to Colonel Arran?"
"Yes."
"Colonel Arran desires you to remain here at his orders for thepresent."
"Is Colonel Arran likely to recover, doctor?"
"He is in no immediate danger."
"May I see him?"
"Certainly. He sent for you. Step this way."
They entered another and much smaller ward in which there were veryfew cots, and from which many of the flies had been driven.
Colonel Arran lay very white and still on his cot; only his eyesturned as Berkley came up and stood at salute.
"Sit down," he said feebly. And, after a long silence:
"Berkley, the world seems to be coming right. I am grateful thatI--lie here--with you beside me."
Berkley's throat closed; he could not speak; nor did he know whathe might have said could he have spoken, for within him all hadseemed to crash softly into chaos, and he had no mind, no will, novigour, only a confused understanding of emotion and pain, and afierce longing.
Colonel Arran's sunken eyes never left his, watching, wistful,patient. And at last the boy bent forward and rested his elbows onhis knees and dropped his face in both hands. Time ebbed away insilence; there was no sound in the ward save the blue flies' buzzor the slight movement of some wounded man easing his tortured body.
"Philip!"
The boy lifted his face from his hands.
"Can you forgive me?"
"Yes, I have. . . . There was only one thing to forgive. I don'tcount--myself."
"I count it--bitterly."
"You need not. . . . It was only--my mother----"
"I know, my boy. The blade of justice is double-edged. No mortalcan wield it safely; only He who forged it. . . . I have neverceased to love--your mother."
Berkley's face became ashen.
Colonel Arran said: "Is there punishment more terrible than thatfor any man?"
Presently Berkley drew his chair closer.
"I wish you to know how mother died," he said simply. "It is yourright to know. . . . Because, there will come a time when sheand--you will be together again . . . if you believe such things."
"I believe."
For a while the murmur of Berkley's voice alone broke the silence.Colonel Arran lay with eyes closed, a slight flush on his sunkencheeks; and, before long, Berkley's hand lay over his and remainedthere.
The brilliant, ominous flies whirled overhead or drove headlongagainst the window-panes, falling on their backs to kick and buzzand scramble over the sill; slippered attendants moved softly alongthe aisle with medicines; once the ward-master came and looked downat Colonel Arran, touched the skin of his face, his pulse, andwalked noiselessly away. Berkley's story had already ended.
After a while he said: "If you will get well--whatever I am--we twomen have in common a memory that can never die. If there werenothing else--God knows whether there is--that memory is enough, tomake us live at peace with one another. . . . I do not entirelyunderstand how it is with me, but I know that some things have beenwashed out of my heart--leaving little of the bitterness--nothingnow of anger. It has all been too sad for such things--a tragedytoo deep for the lesser passions to meddle with. . . . Let usforgive each other. . . . She will know it, somehow."
Their hands slowly closed together and remained.
"Philip!"
"Sir?"
"Ailsa is here."
"Yes, sir."
"Will you say to her that I would like to see her?"
For a moment Berkley hesitated, then rose quietly and walked intothe adjoining ward.
Ailsa was bending over a sick man, fanning away the flies thatclustered around the edge of the bowl from which he was drinking.And Berkley waited until the patient had finished the broth.
"Ailsa, may I speak to you a moment?"
She had been aware of his entrance, and was not startled. Shehanded the bowl and fan to an attendant, turned leisurely, and cameout into the aisle.
"What is it?"
"Colonel Arran wishes to see you. Can you come?"
"Certainly."
She led the way; and as she walked he noticed that all the lithegrace, all the youth and spring to her step had vanished. Shemoved wearily; her body under the gray garb was thin; blue veinsshowed faintly in temple and wrist; only her superb hair and eyeshad suffered no change.
Colonel Arran's eyes opened as she stooped at his bedside and laidher lips lightly on his forehead.
"Is there another chair?" he asked wearily.
Ailsa's glance just rested on Berkley, measuring him inexpressionless disdain. Then, as he brought another chair, sheseated herself.
"You, too, Philip," murmured the wounded man.
Ailsa's violet eyes opened in surprise at the implied intimacybetween these men whom she had vaguely understood were anything butfriends. But she remained coldly aloof, controlling even a shiverof astonishment when Colonel Arran's hand, which held hers, gropedalso for Berkley's, and found it.
Then with an effort he turned his head and looked at them.
"I have long known that you loved each other," he whispered. "Itis a happiness that God sends me as well as you. If it be His willthat I--do not recover, this makes it easy for me. If He wills itthat I live, then, in His infinite mercy, He also gives me thereason for living."
Icy cold, Ailsa's hand lay there, limply touching Berkley's; thesick man's eyes were upon them.
"Philip!"
"Sir?"
"My watch is hanging from a nail on the wall. There is a chamoisbag hanging with it. Give--it--to me."
And when it lay in his hand he picked at the string, forced itopen, drew out a key, and laid it in Berkley's hand with a faintsmile.
"You remember, Philip?"
"Yes, sir."
The wounded man looked at Ailsa wistfully.
"It is the key to my house, dear. One day, please God, you andPhilip will live there." . . . He closed his eyes, groping forboth their hands, and retaining them, lay silent as though asleep.
Berkley's palm burned against hers; she never stirred, never moveda muscle, sitting there as though turned to stone. But when thewounded man's frail grasp relaxed, cautiously, silently, she freedher fingers, rose, looked down, listening to his breathing, then,without a glance at Berkley, moved quietly toward the door.
He was behind her a second later, and she turned to confront him inthe corridor lighted by a single window.
"Will you tell me what has changed you?" he said.
"Something which that ghastly farce cannot influence!" she said,hot faced, eyes brilliant with anger. "I loved Colonel Arranenough to endure it--endure your touch--whichshames--defiles--which--which outrages every instinct in me!"
Breathless, scornful, she drew back, still facing him.
"The part you have played in my life!" she said bitterly--"think itover. Remember what you have been toward me from the first--aliving insult! And when you remember--all--remember that in spiteof _all_ I--I loved you--stood before you in the rags of mypride--all that you had left me to clothe myself!--stood upright,unashamed, and acknowledged that
I loved you!"
She made a hopeless gesture.
"Oh, you had all there was of my heart! I gave it; I laid itbeside my pride, under your feet. God knows what madness was uponme--and you had flung my innocence into my face! And you had heldme in your embrace, and looked me in the eyes, and said you wouldnot marry me. And I still loved you!"
Her hands flew to her breast, higher, clasped against the full,white throat.
"Now, have I not dragged my very soul naked under your eyes? HaveI not confessed enough. What more do you want of me before youconsent to keep your distance and trouble me no more?"
"I want to know what has angered you against me," he said quietly.
She set her teeth and stared at him, with beautiful resolute eyes.
"Before I answer that," she said, "I demand to know why you refusedto marry me."
"I cannot tell you, Ailsa."
In a white rage she whispered:
"No, you dare not tell me!--you coward! I had to learn thedegrading reason from others!"
He grew deathly white, caught her arms in a grasp of steel, heldher twisting wrists imprisoned.
"Do you know what you are saying?" he stammered.
"Yes, I know! Your cruelty--your shame----"
"Be silent!" he said between his teeth. "My shame is my pride! Doyou understand!"
Outraged, quivering all over, she twisted out of his grasp.
"Then go to her!" she whispered. "Why don't you go to her?"
And, as his angry eyes became blank:
"Don't you understand? She is there--just across the road!" Sheflung open the window and pointed with shaking anger.
"Didn't anybody tell you she is there? Then I'll tell you. Now goto her! You are--worthy--of one another!"
"Of whom are you speaking--in God's name!" he breathed.
Panting, flushed, flat against the wall, she looked back out ofeyes that had become dark and wide, fumbling in the bosom of hergray garb. And, just where the scarlet heart was stitched acrossher breast, she drew out a letter, and, her fascinated gaze stillfixed on him, extended her arm.
He took the crumpled sheets from her in a dazed sort of way, butdid not look at them.
"_Who_ is there--across the road?" he repeated stupidly.
"Ask--Miss--Lynden."
"Letty!"
But she suddenly turned and slipped swiftly past him, leaving himthere in the corridor by the open window, holding the letter in hishand.
For a while he remained there, leaning against the wall. Soundsfrom the other ward came indistinctly--a stifled cry, a deep groan,the hurried tread of feet, the opening or closing of windows. Oncea dreadful scream rang out from a neighbouring ward, where a manhad suddenly gone insane; and he could hear the sounds of thestruggle, the startled orders, the shrieks, the crash of a cot;then the dreadful uproar grew fainter, receding. He rousedhimself, passed an unsteady hand across his eyes, looked blindly atthe letter, saw only a white blurr, and, crushing it in hisclenched fist, he went down the kitchen stairs and out across theroad.
A hospital guard stopped him, but on learning who he was and thathe had business with Miss Lynden, directed him toward a low,one-storied, stone structure, where, under the trees, a figurewrapped in a shawl lay asleep in a chair.
"She's been on duty all night," observed the guard. "If you've gotto speak to her, go ahead."
"Yes," said Berkley in a dull voice, "I've got to speak to her."And he walked toward her across the dead brown grass.
Letty's head lay on a rough pine table; her slim body, supported bya broken chair, was covered by a faded shawl; and, as he lookeddown at her, somehow into his memory came the recollection of thefirst time he ever saw her so--asleep in Casson's rooms, herchildish face on the table, the room reeking with tobacco smoke andthe stale odour of wine and dying flowers.
He stood for a long while beside her, looking down at the thin,pale face. Then, in pity, he turned away; and at the same momentshe stirred, sat up, confused, and saw him.
"Letty, dear," he said, coming back, both hands held out to her, "Idid not mean to rob you of your sleep."
"Oh--it doesn't matter! I am so glad--" She sat up suddenly,staring at him. The next moment the tears rushed to her eyes.
"O--h," she whispered, "I wished so to see you. I am so thankfulyou are here. There is--there has been such--a terriblechange--something has happened----"
She rose unsteadily; laid her trembling hand on his arm.
"I don't know what it is," she said piteously, "butAilsa--something dreadful has angered her against me----"
"Against _you_!"
"Oh, yes. I _don't_ know all of it; I know--partly."
Sleep and fatigue still confused her mind; she pressed both frailhands to her eyes, her forehead:
"It was the day I returned from seeing you at Paigecourt. . . . Iwas deadly tired when the ambulance drove into Azalea; and when itarrived here I had fallen asleep. . . . I woke up when it stopped.Ailsa was sitting here--in this same chair, I think--and I rememberas I sat up in the ambulance that an officer was just leavingher--Captain Hallam."
She looked piteously at Berkley.
"He was one of the men I have avoided. Do you understand?"
"No. . . . Was he----"
"Yes, he often came to the--Canterbury. He had never spoken to methere, but Ione Carew knew him; and I was certain he wouldrecognise me. . . . I thought I had succeeded in avoiding him, buthe must have seen me when I was not conscious of his presence--hemust have recognised me."
She looked down at her worn shoes; the tears fell silently; shesmoothed her gray gown for lack of employment for her restlesshands.
"Dear," he said, "do you believe he went to Ailsa with his storyabout you?"
"Oh, yes, yes, I am sure. What else could it be that has angeredher--that drives me away from her--that burns me with the dreadfulgaze she turns on me--chills me with her more dreadfulsilence? . . . Why did he do it? I don't know--oh, I don'tknow. . . . Because I had never even spoken to him--in those daysthat I have tried so hard--so hard to forget----"
He said slowly: "He is a coward. I have known that for a longtime. But most men are. The disgrace lies in acting like one. . .And I--that is why I didn't run in battle. . . . Because, thatfirst day, when they fired on our waggons, _I saw him riding in theroad behind us_. Nobody else suspected him to be within miles. Isaw him. And--_he galloped the wrong way_. And that is whyI--did what I did! He shocked me into doing it. . . . But I neverbefore have told a soul. I would not tell even you--but the man,yesterday, put himself beyond the pale. And it can make nodifference now, for he carries the mark into his grave."
He shuddered slightly. "God forbid I hold him up to scorn. Imight, this very moment, be what he is now. No man may know--noman can foretell how he will bear himself in time of stress. Ihave a sorry record of my own. Battle is not the only conflictthat makes men or cowards."
He stood silent, gazing into space. Letty's tears dried as shewatched him.
"Have you seen--her?" she asked tremulously.
"Yes."
The girl sighed and looked down.
"I am so sorry about Colonel Arran . . . . I believe, somehow, hewill get well."
"Do you really believe it, Letty?"
"Yes. The wound is clean. I have seen many recover who were farmore dangerously hurt. . . . His age is against him, but I dotruly believe he will get well."
He thought a moment. "Have you heard about Stephen Craig?"
"They have telegraphed to his affianced--a Miss Lent. You probablyknow her. Her brother was killed a day or two ago. Poor littlething! I believe that Miss Lent is coming. Mrs. Craig wishes totake her boy North as soon as he can be moved. And, unless thewound becomes infected, I don't believe he is going to die."
"Where is he?"
"At Paigecourt. Many transports are waiting at the landing. . . .They say that there was another severe engagement near thereyesterday, and that our army
is victorious. I have heard, also,that we were driven in, and that your regiment lost a great manymen and horses . . . I don't know which is true," she added,listlessly picking at her frayed gown; "only, as we haven't heardthe guns to-day, it seems to me that if we had lost the battle we'dhave Confederate cannon thundering all around us."
"That seems reasonable," he admitted absently. . . . "Is Dr.Benton here still?"
"No," she said softly.
"Where is he?"
"At Paigecourt. I asked him to go because he is the best doctor Iever knew. He came down here to see me; he is not detailed forduty under contract. I asked him to go and see Stephen Craig. Hegrumbled--and went."
She looked up shyly at Berkley, smiled for the first time, then herpale young face grew beautiful and solemn.
"You dear girl," he said impulsively, taking both her hands andkissing them. "I am so glad for you--and for him. I knew it wouldcome true."
"Yes. But I had to tell him--I started to tell him--and--oh, wouldyou believe how splendid he is! He _knew_ already! He stopped meshort--and I never can forget the look in his face. And he said:'Child--child! You can tell me nothing I am not already aware of.And I am aware of nothing except your goodness.'"
"I _thought_ I knew Phineas Benton," said Berkley, warmly. "He wastoo upright a character for me to enjoy with any comfort--a fewyears back. . . . I'm trying harder than you ever had to, Letty.You always desired to be decent; I didn't." He shook both herhands heartily.
"You deserve every atom of your happiness, you dear, sweet girl! Ionly wish you were safely out of here and back in the North!"
Letty began to cry softly:
"Forgive me, please; I'm not naturally as tearful as this. I amjust tired. I've done too much--seen too much--and it hasn'thardened me; it has made me like a silly child, ready to sniffle atanything."
Berkley laughed gently.
"Why are you crying now, Letty?"
"B-because they have offered me a furlough. I didn't apply. ButDr. Benton has made me take it. And it almost kills me to go Northand leave Ailsa--alone--and so strangely changed toward me----"
She straightened her shoulders resolutely; brushed the tears fromher lashes; strove to smile at him.
"Shall we walk a little? I am not on duty, you know; and I've hadenough sleep. There's such a pretty lane along the creek behindthe chapel. . . . What are you doing here, anyway? I suppose youare acting orderly to poor Colonel Arran? How splendidly theLancers have behaved! . . . And those darling Zouaves!--oh, we arejust bursting with pride over our Zou-zous----"
They had turned away together, walking slowly through the grovetoward a little cart road deep in golden seeded grass which wounddown a hollow all moist with ferns and brambles and young trees inheavy leaf.
Her hand, unconsciously, had sought his nestling into it with aconfidence that touched him; her pale, happy face turnedcontinually to meet his as she chatted innocently of the thingswhich went to make up the days of life for her, never conscious ofherself, or that the artless chatter disclosed anything admirablein her own character. She prattled on at random, sometimes naive,sometimes wistful, sometimes faintly humourous--a brave, cleanspirit that was content to take the consequence of duty done--atender, gentle soul, undeformed amid the sordid horrors thathardened or crippled souls less innocent.
Calm, resourceful, patient, undismayed amid conditions thatsickened mature experience to the verge of despair, she went abouther business day after day, meeting all requisitions upon herslender endurance without faltering, without even supposing therewas anything unusual or praiseworthy in what she did.
She was only one of many women who did full duty through thedarkest days the nation ever knew--saints in homespun, martyrsuncanonised save in the hearts of the stricken.
There was a small wooden foot-bridge spanning the brook, with arough seat nailed against the rail.
"One of my convalescents made it for me," she said proudly. "Hecould use only one arm, and he had such a hard time sawing andhammering! and the foolish boy wouldn't let anybody help him."
She seated herself in the cool shade of a water oak, retaining hishand in hers and making room for him beside her.
"I wonder," she said, "if you know how good you have been to me.You changed all my life. Do you realise it?"
"You changed it yourself, Letty."
She sighed, leaned back, dreamy eyed, watching the sun spots glowand wane on the weather-beaten footbridge.
"In war time--here in the wards--men seem gentler towomen--kinder--than in times of peace. I have stood beside manythousands; not one has been unkind--lacking in deference. . . ." Aslight smile grew on her lips; she coloured a little, looked up atBerkley, humorously.
"It would surprise you to know how many have asked me to marrythem. . . . Such funny boys. . . . I scolded some of them andmade them write immediately to their sweethearts. . . . The oldermen were more difficult to manage--men from the West--such fine,simple-natured fellows--just sick and lonely enough to fall in lovewith any woman who fanned them and brought them lemonade. . . . Iloved them all dearly. They have been very sweet to me. . . . Men_are_ good. . . . If a woman desires it. . . . The world is sofull of people who don't mean to do wrong."
She bent her head, considering, lost in the retrospection of hernaive philosophy.
Berkley, secretly amused, was aware of several cadaverousconvalescents haunting the bushes above, dodging the eyes of thispretty nurse whom one and all adored, and whom they now beheld,with jealous misgivings, in intimate and unwarrantable tete-a-tetewith a common and disgustingly healthy cavalryman.
Then his weather-tanned features grew serious.
The sunny moments slipped away as the sunlit waters slipped underthe bridge; a bird or two, shy and songless in their moultingfever, came to the stream to drink, looking up, bright eyed, at thetwo who sat there in the mid-day silence. One, a cardinal, ruffledhis crimson crest, startled, as Berkley moved slightly.
"The Red Birds," he said, half aloud. "To me they are the sweetestsingers of all. I remember them as a child, Letty."
After a while Letty rose; her thin hand lingered, on his shoulderas she stood beside him, and he got to his feet and adjusted beltand sabre.
"I love to be with you," she said wistfully. "It's only because Ido need a little more sleep that I am going back."
"Of course," he nodded. And they retraced their steps together.
He left her at the door of the quaint, one-storied stone buildingwhere, she explained, she had a cot.
"You _will_ come to see me again before you go back to yourregiment, won't you?" she pleaded, keeping one hand in both of hers.
"Of course I will. Try to get some sleep, Letty. You'retremendously pretty when you've had plenty of sleep."
They both laughed; then she went indoors and he turned away acrossthe road, under the windows of the ward where Ailsa was on duty,and so around to his store-room dwelling-place, where he sat downon the cot amid the piles of boxes and drew from his pocket thecrumpled sheets of the letter that Ailsa had given him.
The handwriting seemed vaguely familiar to him; he glancedcuriously down the page; his eyes became riveted; he reddened tothe roots of his hair; then he deliberately began at the beginning,reading very carefully.
The letter had been written several weeks ago; it was dated, andsigned with Hallam's name:
"MY DEAR MRS. PAIGE:
"Only my solemn sense of duty to all pure womanhood enables me toindite these lines to you; and, by so doing, to invite, nay, toencourage a cruel misunderstanding of my sincerest motives.
"But my letter is not dictated by malice or inspired by the naturalchagrin which animates a man of spirit when he reflects upon theundeserved humiliation which he has endured from her who was oncedearer to him than life itself. Mine is a nature susceptible andsensitive, yet, I natter myself, incapable of harbouring sentimentsunworthy of a gentleman and a soldier.
"To forgive, to condone
, is always commendable in man; but, madam,there is a higher duty men owe to womanhood--to chaste and trustingwomanhood, incapable of defending itself from the wiles and schemeswhich ever are waiting to ensnare it.
"It is for this reason, and for this reason alone, that, mysuspicions fully aroused, I have been at some pains to verify them.A heart conscious of its moral rectitude does not flinch from theduty before it or from the pain which, unfortunately, the executionof that duty so often inflicts upon the innocent.
"Believe me, dear Mrs. Paige, it is a sad task that lies before me.Woman is frail and weak by nature. Man's noblest aspiration canattain no loftier consummation than in the protection of a purewoman against contamination.
"Mine becomes the unhappy mission of unmasking two unworthy peoplewhom you, in your innocence and trust, have cherished close to yourheart. I speak of the trooper Ormond--whose name I believe youknow is Philip Berkley--and, if you now hear it for the first time,it is proof additional of his deceit and perfidy.
"The other is Miss Lynden, known, in a certain immoral resortcalled the Canterbury, as Letty Lynden, or 'Daisy' Lynden.
"She was a dancer in the Canterbury Music Hall. I enclosephotographs of her in costume, also receipts from her landlady,washing lists, her contract with the Canterbury, all in her ownhandwriting, and all gathered for me at my request by a New Yorkdetective, and forwarded to me here. Among these papers you willfind several notes written to her in the spring and summer of 1861by the trooper Berkley and discovered in her room by her landladyafter her departure. A perusal of them is sufficient to leave nodoubt concerning the character of this young woman--who,apparently, neglected by the fellow, Berkley, pleaded piteouslywith him for an interview, and was, as you see, cynically rebuffed.
"I enclose, also, an affidavit made by Miss Lynden's landlady thatshe, Letty, or 'Daisy' Lynden, was commonly understood to be themistress of Berkley; that he took her from the Canterbury and fromher lodgings, paid her board bills, and installed her in rooms atthe enclosed address, where she remained until she found employmentwith a Doctor Benton.
"What her relations were with him I do not pretend to know. It isevident, however, that they continue, as he writes to her. It willalso be apparent to you that she has not scrupled to continue herrelations with the man Berkley.
"I will now further prove to you the truth of my assertionconcerning this degrading and demoralising condition of affairs.
"It came to my knowledge that a certain Arthur Wye, serving in thevolunteer artillery, and a certain subaltern in a zouave regiment,were not only intimates of the trooper Berkley, but had also beenon dubious terms with the Lynden girl.
"Therefore, in company with an agent of the United States SecretService detailed for the duty by Surgeon-General Hammond at myrequest, I held a private examination of these two men, and, withsome adroitness, succeeded in making them identify the photographsof the Lynden girl, and later, unobserved by her, attempted to makethem identify her as she was sitting outside the field hospital.But this they refused to do.
"However, that evidence was not necessary. Among her effects,scraps of letters in the waste-basket, etc., which she hadimprudently left at her lodgings, were discovered fragments which,when pasted together, showed conclusively that she was on speakingterms at least with the artilleryman, Wye.
"This evidence I deem it my duty to lay before you. As a sensitiveand chaste woman, gently born, the condition of affairs willhorrify you. But the knowledge of them will also enable you totake measures for self-protection, and to clearly understand themeasure which I shall now take to rid the Sanitary Service of thisabandoned woman, who, as your friend and intimate associate,conceals her true character under the garb of Sainte Ursula, andwho continues her intrigues with the trooper Berkley under the veryroof that shelters you.
"I am, madam, with sincere pain and deepest sympathy and respect,
"Obediently your humble servant, "EUGENE HALLAM, "Capt. 8th N. Y. Cav."
He laid the letter and the enclosed papers on the bunk beside him,and sat there thinking.
He knew that the evidence before him had been sufficient to driveLetty from the Sanitary Service. Why had she not been driven? Theevidence and the letter were weeks old now. What had preventedtheir use? And now Hallam was a fugitive--a deserter in the faceof the enemy. It was too late for him to work more mischief if hewould. But why had he held his hand against Letty?
Sunset found him still sitting there, thinking. The old negro cameshuffling in, bringing hot hoe-cake and bacon for his dinner. Heate obediently; later he submitted to the razor and clothes brush,absently pondering the problem that obsessed him: "Why had Hallamspared Letty; how could he convey the truth to Ailsa Paige?"
At dusk he reported to the ward-master; but Colonel Arran wasasleep, and there were no orders for him.
Then, slowly, he went into the adjoining ward. Ailsa was off duty,lying down in her room. His message asking a moment's interviewwas refused.
So he turned away again, head bent, and wandered over to hisstore-room quarters, pondering the problem before him.