CHAPTER XXXVII
A WOMAN
Allan Gold, lying in a corner of the Stonewall Hospital, turned hishead toward the high window. It showed him little, merely a long stripof blue sky above housetops. The window was open, and the noises of thestreet came in. He knew them, checked them off in his mind. He was doingwell. A body, superbly healthful, might stand out boldly against aminie ball or two, just as calm nerves, courage and serene judgementwere of service in a war hospital such as this. If he was restless now,it was because he was wondering about Christianna. It was an hour pasther time for coming.
The ward was fearfully crowded. This, however, was the end by the stair,and he had a little cut-off place to himself. Many in the ward yet layon the floor, on a blanket as he had done that first morning. In theafternoon of that day a wide bench had been brought into his corner, athin flock mattress laid upon it, and he himself lifted from the floor.He had protested that others needed a bed much more, that he was used tolying on the earth--but Christianna had been firm. He wondered why shedid not come.
Chickahominy, Gaines's Mill, Garnett's and Golding's farms, PeachOrchard, Savage Station, White Oak Swamp, Frayser's Farm, MalvernHill--dire echoes of the Seven Days' fighting had thronged into thishospital as into all others, as into the houses of citizens and thepublic buildings and the streets! All manner of wounded soldiers toldthe story--ever so many soldiers and ever so many variants of the story.The dead bore witness, and the wailing of women which was now and thenheard in the streets; not often, for the women were mostly silent, withpressed lips. And the ambulances jolting by--and the sound offunerals--and the church bells tolling, tolling--all these bore witness.And day and night there was the thunder of the cannon. FromMechanicsville and Gaines's Mill it had rolled near and loud, fromSavage Station somewhat less so; White Oak Swamp and Frayser's Farm hadcarried the sound yet further off, and from Malvern Hill it came butdistantly. But loud or low, near or far, day by day and into each night,Richmond heard the cannon. At first the vibration played on the town'sheart, like a giant hand on giant strings. But at last the tune grew oldand the town went about its business. There was so much to do! One couldnot stop to listen to cannon. Richmond was a vast hospital; pain andfever in all places, and, around, the shadow of death. Hardly a housebut mourned a kinsman or kinsmen; early and late the dirges wailedthrough the streets. So breathlessly filled were the days, that oftenthe dead were buried at night. The weather was hot--days and nights hot,close and still. Men and women went swiftly through them, swift anddirect as weavers' shuttles. Privation, early comrade of the South, washere; scant room, scant supplies, not too much of wholesome food for thecrowded town, few medicines or alleviatives, much to be done and doneat once with the inadequatest means. There was little time in which tothink in general terms; all effort must go toward getting done theimmediate thing. The lift and tension of the time sloughed off theimmaterial weak act or thought. There were present a heroic simplicity,a naked verity, a full cup of service, a high and noble altruism. Theplane was epic, and the people did well.
The sky within Allan's range of vision was deep blue; the old brickgable-ends of houses, mellow and old, against it. A soldier with abroken leg and a great sabre cut over the head, just brought into theward, brought with him the latest news. He talked loudly, and all downthe long room, crowded to suffocation, the less desperately woundedraised themselves on their elbows to hear. Others, shot through stomachor bowels, or fearfully torn by shells, or with the stumps of amputatedlimbs not doing well, raved on in delirium or kept up their pitifulmoaning. The soldier raised his voice higher, and those leaning onelbows listened with avidity. "Evelington Heights? Where's EvelingtonHeights?"--"Between Westover and Rawling's millpond, near MalvernHill!"--"Malvern Hill! That was ghastly!"--"Go on, sergeant-major! We'rebeen pining for a newspaper."
"Were any of you boys at Malvern Hill?"
"Yes,--only those who were there ain't in a fix to tell about it! Thatman over there--and that one--and that one--oh, a middling lot! They'repretty badly off--poor boys!"
From a pallet came a hollow voice. "I was at Malvern Hill, and I ain'tnever going there again--I ain't never going there again--I ain'tnever.... Who's that singing? I kin sing, too--
'The years creep slowly by, Lorena; The snow is on the grass again; The sun's low down the sky, Lorena; The frost gleams where the flowers have been--'"
"Don't mind him," said the soldiers on elbows. "Poor fellow! he ain'tgot any voice anyhow. We know about Malvern Hill. Malvern Hill waspretty bad. And we heard there'd been a cavalry rumpus--Jeb Stuart andSweeney playing their tricks! We didn't know the name of the place.Evelington Heights! Pretty name."
The sergeant-major would not be cheated of Malvern Hill. "'Pretty bad!'I should say 'twas pretty bad! Malvern Hill was _awful_. If anythingcould induce me to be a damn Yankee 'twould be them guns of their'n!Yes, sirree, bob! we fought and fought, and ten o'clock came and therewasn't any moon, and we stopped. And in the night-time the damn Yankeescontinued to retreat away. There was an awful noise of gun-wheels allthe night long--so the sentries said, and the surgeons and the woundedand, I reckon, the generals. The rest of us, we were asleep. I don'treckon there ever was men any more tired. Malvern Hill was--I can'tswear because there are ladies nursing us, but Malvern Hill was--Well,dawn blew at reveille--No, doctor, I ain't getting light-headed. I justget my words a little twisted. Reveille blew at dawn, and there weresheets of cold pouring rain, and everywhere there were dead men, deadmen, dead men lying there in the wet, and the ambulances were wanderinground like ghosts of wagons, and the wood was too dripping to make afire, and three men out of my mess were killed, and one was a boy thatwe'd all adopted, and it was awful discouraging. Yes, we were righttired, damn Yankees and all of us.... Doctor, if I was you I wouldn'tbother about that leg. It's all right as it is, and you might hurtme.... Oh, all right! Kin I smoke?... Yuugh! Well, boys, the damnYankees continued their retreat to Harrison's Landing, where theirhell-fire gunboats could stand picket for them.... Say, ma'am, would youkindly tell me why that four-post bed over there is all hung withwreaths of roses?--'Isn't any bed there?' But there is! I see it....Evelington Heights--and Stuart dropping shells into the damn Yankees'camp.... They _are_ roses, the old Giants of Battle by the beehive....Evelington Heights. Eveling--Well, the damn Yankees dragged their gunsup there, too.... If the beehive's there, then the apple tree'shere--Grandma, if you'll ask him not to whip me I'll never take themagain, and I'll hold your yarn every time you want me to--"
The ward heard no more about Evelington Heights. It knew, however, thatit had been no great affair; it knew that McClellan with his exhaustedarmy, less many thousand dead, wounded, and prisoners, less fifty-twoguns and thirty-five thousand small arms, less enormous stores capturedor destroyed, less some confidence at Washington, rested down the Jamesby Westover, in the shadow of gunboats. The ward guessed that, for atime at least, Richmond was freed from the Northern embrace. It knewthat Lee and his exhausted army, less even more of dead and wounded thanhad fallen on the other side, rested between that enemy and Richmond.Lee was watching; the enemy would come no nearer for this while. For allits pain, for all the heat, the blood, the fever, thirst and woe, theward, the hospital, all the hospitals, experienced to-day a sense oftriumph. It was so with the whole city. Allan knew this, lying, lookingwith sea-blue eyes at the blue summer sky and the old and mellow roofs.The city mourned, but also it rejoiced. There stretched the blackthread, but twisted with it was the gold. A paean sounded as well as adirge. Seven days and nights of smoke and glare upon the horizon, of theheart-shaking cannon roar, of the pouring in of the wounded, ofprocessions to Hollywood, of anguish, ceaseless labour, sick waiting,dizzy hope, descending despair.... Now, at last, above it all the bellsrang for victory. A young girl, coming through the ward, had an armfulof flowers,--white lilies, citron aloes, mignonette, and phlox--She gaveher posies to all who stretched out a hand, and went out with hersmiling face.
Allan held a great stalk of garden phlox, white and sweet.It carried him back to the tollgate and to the log schoolhouse byThunder Run.... Twelve o'clock. Was not Christianna coming at all?
This was not Judith Cary's ward, but now she entered it. Allan, watchingthe narrow path between the wounded, saw her coming from the far door.He did not know who she was; he only looked from the flower in his handand had a sense of strength and sweetness, of something nobleapproaching nearer. She paused to ask a question of one of the women;answered, she came straight on. He saw that she was coming to thecut-off corner by the stair, and instinctively he straightened a littlethe covering over him. In a moment she was standing beside him, in hercool hospital dress, with her dark hair knotted low, with a flower ather breast. "You are Allan Gold?" she said.
"Yes."
"My name is Judith Cary. Perhaps you have heard of me. I have been toLauderdale and to Three Oaks."
"Yes," said Allan. "I have heard of you. I--"
There was an empty box beside the wall. Judith drew it nearer to his bedand sat down. "You have been looking for Christianna? I came to tell youabout poor little Christianna--and--and other things. Christianna'sfather has been killed."
Allan uttered an exclamation. "Isham Maydew! I never thought of hisgoing!... Poor child!"
"So she thought she ought not to come to-day. Had there been strongreason, many people dependent upon her, she would have come."
"Poor Christianna--poor wild rose!... It's ghastly, this war! There isnothing too small and harmless for its grist."
"I agree with you. Nothing too great; nothing too small. Nothing toobase, as there is nothing too noble."
"Isham Maydew! He was lean and tough and still, like Death in a picture.Where was he killed?"
"It was at White Oak Swamp. At White Oak Swamp, the day before MalvernHill."
Allan looked at her. There was more in her voice than the non-coming ofChristianna, than the death of Isham Maydew. She had spoken in a clear,low, bell-like tone that held somehow the ache of the world. He wassimple and direct, and he spoke at once out of his thought. He knew thatall the men of her house were at the front. "You have had a loss of yourown?--"
She shook her head. "I? No. I have had no loss."
"Now," thought Allan, "there's something proud in it." He looked at herwith his kindly, sea-blue eyes. In some chamber of the brain thereflashed out a picture--the day of the Botetourt Resolutions, winter duskafter winter sunset and Cleave and himself going homeward over the longhilltop--with talk, among other things, of visitors at Lauderdale. Thiswas "the beautiful one." He remembered the lift of Cleave's head and hisvoice. Judith's large dark eyes had been raised; transparent, showingalways the soul within as did his own, they now met Allan's. "The 65th,"she said, "was cut to pieces."
The words, dragged out as they were, left a shocked silence. Here, inthe corner by the stair, the arch of wood partially obscuring the ward,with the still blue sky and the still brick gables, they seemed for themoment cut away from the world, met on desert sands to tell and hear adreadful thing. "Cut to pieces," breathed Allan. "The 65th cut topieces!"
The movement which he made displaced the bandage about his shoulder. Sheleft the box, kneeled by him and straightened matters, then went back toher seat. "It was this way," she said,--and told him the story as shehad heard it from her father and from Fauquier Cary. She spoke withsimplicity, in the low, bell-like tone that held the ache of the world.Allan listened, with his hand over his eyes. His regiment that heloved!... all the old, familiar faces.
"Yes, he was killed--Hairston Breckinridge was killed, fightinggallantly. He died, they say, before he knew the trap they were caughtin. And Christianna's father was killed, and others of the Thunder Runmen, and very many from the county and from other counties. I do notknow how many. Fauquier called it slaughter, said no worse thing hashappened to any single command. Richard got what was left back acrossthe swamp."
Allan groaned. "The 65th! General Jackson himself called it 'thefighting 65th!' Just a remnant of it left--left of the 65th!"
"Yes. The roll was called, and so many did not answer. They say otherStonewall regiments wept."
Allan raised himself upon the bench. She started forward. "Don't dothat!" and with her hand pressed him gently down again. "I knew," shesaid, "that you were here, and I have heard Richard speak of you and sayhow good and likable you were. And I have worked hard all the morning,and just now I thought, 'I must speak to some one who knows and loveshim or I will die.' And so I came. I knew that the ward might hear ofthe 65th any moment now and begin to talk of it, so I was not afraid ofhurting you. But you must lie quiet."
"Very well, I will. I want to know about Richard Cleave--about mycolonel."
Her dark eyes met the sea-blue ones fully. "He is under arrest," shesaid. "General Jackson has preferred charges against him."
"Charges of what?"
"Of disobedience to orders--of sacrificing the regiment--of--ofretreating at last when he should not have done so and leaving his mento perish--of--of--. I have seen a copy of the charge. _Whereas the saidcolonel of the 65th did shamefully_--"
Her voice broke. "Oh, if I were God--"
There was a moment's silence--silence here in the corner by the stair,though none beyond in the painful, moaning ward. A bird sailed acrossthe strip of blue sky; the stalk of phlox on the soldier's narrow bedlay withering in the light. Allan spoke. "General Jackson is very sternwith failure. He may believe that charge. I don't see how he can; but ifhe made it he believes it. But you--you don't believe it?--"
"Believe it?" she said. "No more than God believes it! The question isnow, how to help Richard."
"Have you heard from him?"
She took from her dress a folded leaf torn from a pocket-book. "You arehis friend. You may read it. Wait, I will hold it." She laid it beforehim, holding it in her slight, fine, strong fingers.
He read. _Judith: You will hear of the fate of the 65th. How it happenedI do not yet understand. It is like death on my heart. You will hear,too, of my own trouble. As to me, believe only that I could sit besideyou and talk to-day as we talked awhile ago, in the sunset. Richard._
She refolded the paper and put it back. "The evidence will clear him,"said Allan. "It must. The very doubt is absurd."
Her face lightened. "General Jackson will see that he was hasty--unjust.I can understand such anger at first, but later, when hereflects--Richard will be declared innocent--"
"Yes. An honourable acquittal. It will surely be so."
"I am glad I came. You have always known him and been his friend."
"Let me tell you the kind of things I know of Richard Cleave. No, itdoesn't hurt me to talk."
"I can stay a little longer. Yes, tell me."
Allan spoke at some length, in his frank, quiet voice. She sat besidehim, with her cheek on her hand, the blue sky and old house roofs aboveher. When he ceased her eyes were full of tears. She would not let themfall. "If I began to cry I should never stop," she said, and smiled themaway. Presently she rose. "I must go now. Christianna will be backto-morrow."
She went away, passing up the narrow path between the wounded and out atthe further door. Allan watched her going, then turned a little on theflock bed, and lifting his unbandaged arm laid it across his eyes. _The65th cut to pieces--The 65th cut to pieces--_
At sunset Judith went home. The small room up in the branches of thetulip tree--she hardly knew how many months or years she had inhabitedit. There had passed, of course, only weeks--but Time had widened itsmeasure. To all intents and purposes she had been a long while inRichmond. This high, quiet niche was familiar, familiar! familiar theold, slender, inlaid dressing-table and the long, thin curtains and theengraving of Charlotte Corday; familiar the cool, green tree without thewindow and the nest upon a bough; familiar the far view and widehorizon, by day smoke-veiled, by night red-lit. The smoke was liftednow; the eye saw further than it had seen for days. The room seemed asquiet as a tomb. For a moment the silence oppress
ed her, and then sheremembered that it was because the cannon had stopped.
She sat beside the window, through the dusk, until the stars came out;then went downstairs and took her part at the table, about which thesoldier sons of the house were gathering. They brought comrades withthem. The wounded eldest son was doing well, the army was victorious,the siege was lifted, the house must be made gay for "the boys." Nohouse was ever less bright for Judith. Now she smiled and listened, andthe young men thought she did not realize the seriousness of the armytalk about the 65th. They themselves were careful not to mention thematter. They talked of a thousand heroisms, a thousand incidents of theSeven Days; but they turned the talk--if any one, unwary, drew it thatway--from White Oak Swamp. They mistook her feeling; she would ratherthey had spoken out. Her comfort was when, afterwards, she went for amoment into the "chamber" to see the wounded eldest. He was awarm-hearted, rough diamond, fond of his cousin.
"What's this damned stuff I hear about Richard Cleave and acourt-martial? What--nonsense! I beg your pardon, Judith." Judith kissedhim, and finding "Le Vicomte de Bragelonne" face down on the counterpaneoffered to read to him.
"You would rather talk about Richard," he said. "I know you would. Soshould I. It's all the damnedest nonsense! Such a charge as that!--Tellyou what, Judith. D'ye remember 'Woodstock' and Cromwell in it? Well,Stonewall Jackson's like Cromwell--of course, a better man, and agreater general, and a nobler cause, but still he's like him! Don't youfret! Cromwell had to listen to the truth. He did it, and so willStonewall Jackson. Such damned stuff and nonsense! It hurts me worsethan that old bayonet jab ever could! I'd like to hear what Edwardsays."
"He says, 'Duck your head and let it go by. The grass'll grow as greento-morrow.'"
"You aren't crying, are you, Judith?--I thought not. You aren't thecrying kind. Don't do it. War's the stupidest beast."
"Yes, it is."
"Cousin Margaret's with Richard, isn't she?"
"Not with him--that couldn't be, they said. But she and Miriam have goneto Merry Mount. It's in the lines. I have had a note from her."
"What did she say?--You don't mind, Judith?"
"No, Rob, I don't mind. It was just a verse from a psalm. She said, _Ihad fainted unless I had believed to see the goodness of the Lord in theland of the living.... Be of good courage and He shall strengthen thyheart._"
Later, in her room again, she sat by the window through the greater partof the night. The stars were large and soft, the airs faint, the jasminein the garden below smelled sweet. The hospital day stretched beforeher; she must sleep so that she could work. She never thought--in thatcity and time no woman thought--of ceasing from service because ofprivate grief. Moreover, work was her salvation. She would be betimes atthe hospital to-morrow, and she would leave it late. She bent once morea long look upon the east, where were the camp-fires of Lee andStonewall Jackson. In imagination she passed the sentries; she movedamong the sleeping brigades. She found one tent, or perhaps it would beinstead a rude cabin.... She stretched her arms upon the window-sill,and they and her thick fallen hair were wet at last with her tears.
Three days passed. On the third afternoon she left the hospital earlyand went to St. Paul's. She chose again the dusk beneath the gallery,and she prayed dumbly, fiercely, "O God.... O God--"
The church was fairly filled. The grey army was now but a little waywithout the city; it had come back to the seven hills after the sevendays. It had come back the hero, the darling. Richmond took the cypressfrom her doors; put off the purple pall and tragic mask. Last JulyRichmond was to fall, and this July Richmond was to fall, and lo! shesat secure on her seven hills and her sons did her honour, and for themshe would have made herself a waste place. She yet toiled and watched,yet mourned for the dead and hung over the beds of the wounded, and moreand more she wondered whence were to appear the next day's yard of clothand measure of flour. But in these days she overlaid her life withgladness and made her house pleasant for her sons. The service at St.Paul's this afternoon was one of thankfulness; the hymns rangtriumphantly. There were many soldiers. Two officers came in together.Judith knew General Lee, but the other?... in a moment she saw that itwas General Jackson. Her heart beat to suffocation. She sank down in thegold dusk of her corner. "O God, let him see the truth. O God, let himsee the truth--"
Outside, as she went homeward in the red sunset, she paused for a momentto speak to an old free negro who was begging for alms. She gave himsomething, and when he had shambled on she stood still a moment here atthe corner of the street, with her eyes upon the beautiful rosy west.There was a garden wall behind her and a tall crape myrtle. As shestood, with the light upon her face, Maury Stafford rode by. He saw heras she saw him. His brooding face flushed; he made as if to check hishorse, but did not so. He lifted his hat high and rode on, out of thetown, back to the encamped army. Judith had made no answering motion;she stood with lifted face and unchanged look, the rosy light floodingher, the rosy tree behind her. When he was gone she shivered a little."It is not Happiness that hates; it is Misery," she thought. "When I washappy I never felt like this. I hate him. He is _glad_ of Richard'speril."
That night she did not sleep at all but sat bowed together in thewindow, her arms about her knees, her forehead upon them, and her darkhair loose about her. She sat like a sibyl till the dawn, then rose andbathed and dressed, and was at the hospital earliest of all the workersof that day. In the evening again, just at dusk, she reentered the room,and presently again took her seat by the window. The red light of thecamp-fires was beginning to show.
There was a knock at the door. Judith rose and opened to a turbanedcoloured girl. "Yes, Dilsey?"
"Miss Judith, de gin'ral air downstairs. He say, ax you kin he come upto yo' room?"
"Yes, yes, Dilsey! Tell him to come."
When her father came he found her standing against the wall, her hands,outstretched behind her, resting on it. The last soft bloom of day wasupon her; indefinably, with her hands so, the wall behind her and herlifted head, she looked a soldier facing a firing party. "Tell mequickly," she said, "the exact truth."
Warwick Gary closed the door behind him and came toward her. "The courtfound him guilty, Judith."
As she still stood, the light from without upon her face, he took her inhis arms, drew her from the wall and made her sit in the chair by thewindow, then placed himself beside her, and leaning over took her handsin his strong clasp. "Many a court has found many a man guilty, Judith,whom his own soul cleared."
"That is true," she answered. "Your own judgment has not changed?"
"No, Judith, no."
She lifted his hand and kissed it. "Just a moment, and then you'll tellme--"
They sat still in the soft summer air. The stars were coming out. Off tothe east showed the long red light where was the army. Judith's eyesrested here. He saw it, and saw, presently, courage lift into her face.It came steady, with a deathless look. "Now," she said, and loosed herhands.
"It is very bad," he answered slowly. "The evidence was more adversethan I could have dreamed. Only on the last count was there acquittal."
"The last count?--"
"The charge of personal cowardice."
Her eyelids trembled a little. "I am glad," she said, "that they had agleam of reason."
The other uttered a short laugh, proud and troubled. "Yes. It would nothave occurred to me--just that accusation.... Well, he stood cleared ofthat. But the other charges, Judith, the others--" He rested his handson his sword hilt and gazed broodingly into the deepening night. "Thecourt could only find as it did. I myself, sitting there, listening tothat testimony.... It is inexplicable!"
"Tell me all."
"General Jackson's order was plain. A staff officer carried it toGeneral Winder with perfect correctness. Winder repeated it to thecourt, and word for word Jackson corroborated it. The same officer,carrying it on from Winder to the 65th came up with a courier belongingto the regiment. To this man, an educated, reliable, trusted soldier, hegave t
he order."
"He should not have done so?"
"It is easy to say that--to blame because this time there's a snarl tounravel! The thing is done often enough. It should not be done, but itis. Staff service with us is far too irregular. The officer stands toreceive a severe reprimand--but there is no reason to believe that hedid not give the order to the courier with all the accuracy with whichhe had already delivered it to Winder. He testified that he did so giveit, repeated it word for word to the court. He entrusted it to thecourier, taking the precaution to make the latter say it over to him,and then he returned to General Jackson, down the stream, before thebridge they were building. That closed his testimony. He received thecensure of the court, but what he did has been done before."
"The courier testified--"
"No. That is the link that drops out. The courier was killed. A ThunderRun man--Steven Dagg--testified that he had been separated from theregiment. Returning to it along the wooded bank of the creek, he arrivedjust behind the courier. He heard him give the order to the colonel.'Could he repeat it?' 'Yes.' He did so, and it was, accurately,Jackson's order."
"Richard--what did Richard say?"
"He said the man lied."
"Ah!"
"The courier fell before the first volley from the troops in the woods.He died almost at once, but two men testified as to the only thing hehad said. It was, 'We ought never all of us to have crossed. Tell OldJack I carried the order straight.'"
He rose and with a restless sigh began to pace the little room. "I see atangle--something not understood--some stumbling-block laid by lawsbeyond our vision. We cannot even define it, cannot even find its edges.We do not know its nature. Things happen so sometimes in this strangeworld. I do not think that Richard himself understands how the thingchanced. He testified--"
"Yes, oh, yes--"
"He repeated to the court the order he had received. It was not theorder that Jackson had given and that Winder had sent on to him, thoughit differed in only two points. And neither--and there, Judith, there isa trouble!--neither was it with entire explicitness an order to do thatwhich he did do. He acknowledged that, quite simply. He had found at thetime an ambiguity--he had thought of sending again for confirmation toWinder. And then--unfortunate man! something happened to strengthen theinterpretation which, when all is said, he preferred to receive, andupon which he acted. Time pressed. He took the risk, if there was arisk, and crossed the stream."
"Father, do you blame him?"
"He blames himself, Judith, somewhat cruelly. But I think it is because,just now, of the agony of memory. He loved his regiment.--No. What sensein blaming where, had there followed success, you would have praised?Then it would have been proper daring; now--I could say that he had beenwiser to wait, but I do not know that in his place I should have waited.He was rash, perhaps, but who is there to tell? Had he chosen anotherinterpretation and delayed, and been mistaken, then, too, comminationwould have fallen. No. I blame him less than he blames himself, Judith.But the fact remains. Even by his own showing there was a doubt. Evenaccepting his statement of the order he received, he took it uponhimself to decide."
"They did not accept his statement--"
"No, Judith. They judged that he had received General Jackson's orderand had disobeyed it.--I know--I know! To us it is monstrous. But thecourt must judge by the evidence--and the verdict was to be expected. Itwas his sole word, and where his own safety was at stake. 'Had not thedead courier a reputation for reliability, for accuracy?' 'He had, andhe would not lay the blame there, besmirching a brave man's name.''Where then?' 'He did not know. It was so that he had received theorder'--Judith, Judith! I have rarely seen truth so helpless as in thiscase."
She drew a difficult breath. "No help. And they said--"
"He was pronounced guilty of the first charge. That carried with it theverdict as to the second--the sacrifice of the regiment. There,too--guilty. Only the third there was no sustaining. The loss wasfearful, but there were men enough left to clear him from that charge.He struggled with desperation to retrieve his error, if error it were;he escaped death himself as by a miracle, and he brought off a remnantof the command which, in weaker hands, might have been utterly swallowedup. On that count he is clear. But on the others--guilty, and withoutmitigation."
He came back to the woman by the window. "Judith, I would rather put thesword in my own heart than put it thus in yours. War is a key, child,that unlocks to all dreadful things, to all mistakes, to every sorrow!"
"I want every worst drop of it," she said. "Afterward I'll look forcomfort. Do not be afraid for me; I feel as strong as the hills, theair, the sea--anything. What is the sentence?"
"Dismissal from the army."
Judith rose and, with her hands on the window-sill, leaned out into thenight. Her gaze went straight to the red light in the eastern sky. Therewas an effect as though the force, impalpable, real, which was herself,had gone too, flown from the window straight toward that horizon,leaving here but a fair ivory shell. It was but momentary; the chainsheld and she turned back to the shadowed room. "You have seen him?"
"Yes."
"How--"
"He has much of his mother in him, Judith. Eventually he will, I think,take it that way. But now it is his father that shows. He is verysilent--grey and hard and silent."
"Where is he?"
"At present yet under guard. To-morrow it will all be over."
"He will be free, you mean?"
"Yes, he will be free."
She came and put her arm around her father's neck. "Father, you knowwhat I want to do then? To do just as soon as I shall have seen him andmade him realize that it is for my happiness. I want to marry him....Ah, don't look at me so, saying nothing!" She withdrew herself a little,standing with her clasped hands against his breast. "You expected that,did you not? Why, what else.... Father, I am not afraid of you. You willlet me do it."
He regarded her with a grave, compassionate face. "No. You need not fearme, Judith. It is hardly father and child with you and me. It is souland soul, and I trust your soul with its own concerns. Moreover, if itis pain to consider what you would do, the pang would be greater to findyou not capable.... Yes, I would let you do it. But I do not think thatRichard will."