Far, far away in the Silver Creek Valley the sun was setting, and the
purple shadow of the mystic Attacoa lay like a mighty altar upon the
land. The Spring had come, and in her bosom she bore myriads of beautiful
flowers wrapped in mantles of living green, as though she would make
less bare the way for the shattered soldier in gray as he wearily wended
homeward; as though she would make less bitter the sight of blackened
chimneys or rotting doorsteps. Scarlet flowers sprang from the red earth
of a thousand battlefields, and the deep periwinkle grew rich on the
bodies of sunken heroes. Slowly and wearily the tattered men turned again
homeward.
And of an evening, when all was so still in the valley that the wood
thrush took heart to flutter to the azaleas by the piazza of Sunahlee, a
young woman walked up the long, red hill that led to the house. Dreamily
she gazed toward the west, where the mighty Attacoa reared its dark bulk.
Something she knew of the legends attached to it. For Ervin, in the
fullness of their sympathy, had told her lovingly of his highland home,
and it gave her a thrill of sweetest pain to fit his descriptions to the
landmarks around. She had been in such close attendance upon her aunt,
who, since Bessie’s death, had been prostrated, that her observations
had been made for the most part from the balcony of the old hotel; but
to-day, for the first time, she walked along the road she knew Ervin had
trod many times and looked out over aspects once familiar to his eye. She
paused before a large gate. Inside she saw a weed-grown driveway leading
up to a dilapidated house, plainly handsome in its prime. As she looked
she heard the sound of something coming up the long, red hill. There was
no sound of hoofs, but as she peered into the gathering twilight she made
out the forms of a number of shaggy dogs drawing a rattling old buggy.
It was Uncle Ben. He did not see her until he had alighted stiffly to
open the rusty gate.
“Howdy, Mistis, howdy!” His old voice, though feeble, had a hearty ring
to it that encouraged Helen to ask him who lived there.
“Dis is S’nahlee, Mistis, Cunnel Tom Preston’s place. I would ax you to
come in, Mistis, ’cause de Prestons dey sholy always wuz hospitable—but
dey ain’t none of ’em lef’ now, ’ceptin’ of de ole Cunnel, an’ he don’
know nothin’ that’s goin’ on—hasn’t even reelized Miss Helen’s death.
This war’s bin awful hard on we-all.”
He sighed, and Helen, who recognized the name, asked:
“Is there no hope for Colonel Preston’s recovery?”
“No’m, I don’t reckon so. Me’n Miz McArthur—she useter live ’cross de
road dar in dat little ole log cabin—we nusses him careful all day an’
all night. But he thinks I’m Marse Tait—he died jes’ ’fore Miss Helen
did—an’ he thinks she’s Miss Helen, an’ he keeps tellin’ us whut a big
hero Marse Ervin wuz wid his battlementary injines, an’ now he’s willin’
fer him to marry Miss Helen an’ take charge of the _Dimocrat_—but, Lawd,
Lawd, whut does people do dese days to put in de paper?”
His dogs had walked through the gate and he now drew it carefully to,
taking off his shabby old hat in response to Helen’s “good-night.”
She turned to the cabin across the road. Standing at the small gate, now
off its hinges, she took in all the surroundings and tried to imagine
Ervin at home amid them. She could fancy the whole story of his youthful
love for the patrician girl at the big white mansion. Perhaps it was
a burning ambition to make a name worthy of her which had led him to
Charleston. Perhaps—but no! Deep in her heart Helen Brooks knew that,
whatever fancies he had known, Ervin McArthur had given all his heart to
but one woman, and that woman herself.
She stood long in regretful self-questioning, yet somehow a spirit of
deep peace pervaded all her being. Twilight had fled before the coming of
the moon, and she drank in eagerly its gentle glory on the scene about
her. In the distance she heard the swift rattle of wheels, this time with
quick hoof-beat accompaniment. At the parting of the roads the vehicle
stopped and she heard the tones of men.
“Good-night, old fellow!” called a cheery voice.
“Good luck to you. We must all do the best we can to build up our country
again.”
Helen turned to leave the gate. A figure came toward her in the dim
light. She drew back again, but as he seemed about to turn in at the
gate, she stepped forward.
“Do you seek Mrs. McArthur, sir?” she asked, thinking it must be a
comrade coming to tell Ervin’s mother some news of her boy’s last hours.
“Yes, madam, I do. Do you know her? Is she well?” He leaned against the
gatepost and Helen could see, despite the deep shadow cast by his broad
hat, the pallor of his face.
“Oh, yes,” she hastened to reassure him, “she is quite well. I do not
know her. I am refugeeing here, but I have just heard that Mrs. McArthur
had been nursing Colonel Preston across the way for some months. You will
find her there.” She hesitated a moment, then asked: “You bring news of
her son’s death?”
“Death? Is he dead? I did not know he was dead.” He had stepped back into
the shadow as though to conceal his emotions, and she could not see the
joy in his eyes, and mistook the heaving of his breast for sorrow, and,
because she could not longer conceal her tears, she bowed her head upon
the gatepost.
“Pardon me, madam,” he said, at length, “but would it be rude in me to
ask you—”
“It is my oversight—Brooks is the name, Helen Brooks. I and my two aunts
and an old negro servant are refugees.”
“Ervin—poor boy—do you know—do you mind telling me how—he died?”
“In the defense of Charleston—have you heard of his wonderful inventions?
He went out one night to sink a ship with his new submarine and his boat
sank, and all were lost.”
“All?”
“Yes, all.”
He was bowed like one in grief, and neither spoke for a while.
“And, Miss Brooks—he—I used to hear regularly from Ervin, he had some
friends—a Mrs. Corbin, I believe.”
“She is my aunt, and is here now.”
“And a Colonel somebody—I—”
“Colonel Masters. He was the editor of the paper where Mr. McArthur
worked.”
“Ah, he loved the old man well. You knew him, too, did you not? Why would
he go in that torpedo boat—why did not some one stop him?”
She was silent while the tears sprang to her eyes again.
“You must pardon my speaking of this,” he continued. “There was a girl
who lived in Charleston—he did not write her name—I only know he loved
her—do you—could you tell me?” He leaned forward, watching her face. “Do
you know who she was?”
There was no concealing it any longer.
“Oh, sir,” she said, “I—he—loved—”
“He loved you! Ah, tell me no more! Then we are brother and sister in
sorrow.”
And Attacoa, the mount where the light had conquered the darkness, looked
down on them as fateful, as inscrutable, as mercilessly silent as the
enigmatic Croatan.
He bowed his head and covered his eyes with his hands, all the while
looking at her intently through his fingers.
“Only one thing may I ask,” he said at length, “did Ervin—did he know you
loved him—when he died?”
“Yes—he—knew—it—only—”
“Only he—”
“Thought there was another—”
“Another?”
“There were reasons why I could not tell him.”
“And those reasons?”
“I cannot tell you.”
“I beg a thousand pardons—from what I know, I judge he must have thought
you loved a man in the Northern army—”
“Yes.”
“And you did not?”
“No, I did. I loved him with all my heart—but—”
“But he didn’t love you?”
“But he was my brother!”
The man quivered as though a thousand arrows had suddenly been drawn
from his bosom, and then quickly came out of the shadow and took her
hands. “Helen!”
With a scream of joyous surprise, because in a moment all the world had
been changed, she threw her arms around his neck.
“Oh, dear God!” she cried. “It is he!”