“THE REBEL RIDES ON HIS RAIDS NO MORE.”
Do not cheat her heart and tell her,
“Grief will pass away,
Hope for fairer times in future,
And forget to-day”—
Tell her, if you will, that sorrow
Need not come in vain;
Tell her that the lesson taught her
Far outweighs the pain.—A. A. PROCTOR.
So Elfie was permitted to remain in the ward and nurse her husband.
There was no provision in the hospital for extra nurses, and every woman
who came to attend the sick bed of husband, son or brother, had to take
the chance of catching a wink of sleep or a mite of food or drop of
drink as best she could.
As Erminie was about to take leave of her friend, she stooped and
whispered:
“You do well to remain, dear Elfie, but there are no accommodations for
you here, so I will send Bob back with such comforts as I think you will
be most likely to need, and I will also speak to Sister Agnes to let you
have the use of her dormitory sometimes, and I hope your health will not
suffer.”
“Thanks! a thousand heartfelt thanks, dear Erminie, for all your
kindness, and above all, for the greatest kindness of not blaming me for
this,” said Elfie.
“My poor girl, I never shall dream of blaming you now,” murmured Miss
Rosenthal, turning away to conceal her emotion.
While they had been speaking, Albert Goldsborough, with his hand clasped
in Elfie’s, had dropped into one of those light and fitful slumbers that
attend the dying.
When Erminie had left her, Elfie remained holding the hand of the
sinking man until he awoke with a start, and looking up at her with a
smile, murmured faintly:
“Yes, you are there. It is no dream. You are there.”
“Yes, I am here, never to leave you again, Albert.”
“But let me keep hold of your hand, so that if I drop asleep again, I
may know, even in my dreams, that I have you.”
She gave him both her hands, caressing his, and looking on him with
unspeakable tenderness.
“Elfie, my darling,” he murmured,—“when I look at you so, and think how
I wronged you, it almost breaks my heart! I am sorry! I am sorry!”
“Albert, dear, don’t look so! don’t speak so! You have done _me_ no
wrong at all—none, none, I say. But if—if——”
“If what, Elfie?”
“Oh! if I could only hear you say—say——”
“Say what, my darling girl?”
“Say that—that you are sorry—sorry for taking up arms against your
native land!” sobbed Elfie.
With a spasm of pain Goldsborough turned his face to the wall.
“Oh, Albert! I would give my life this day to hear you say that, and say
it truly! Heaven knows I would! I would! my own love!” cried Elfie,
sobbing as if her heart would burst; yet knowing that such indulgence of
emotion was wrong in herself and injurious to the wounded man, and
trying hard to compose herself.
With difficulty Goldsborough turned his head and shoulders, the half of
his body that he could move, around towards her and faced her again.
“Elfie,” he said, sadly and frankly, “if I were conscious of having done
wrong, I should be sorry for it now, or never. ‘A death-bed’s a detector
of the heart,’ ’tis said. If the course you blame so bitterly had been a
career of crime, I should know it now, if ever, and I should atone for
it by a death-bed repentance. And you, and all who think with you, would
unite in approving and consoling the penitent. But when I speak my next
words, Elfie, you and yours may harden your hearts against me. I cannot
help that. For, Elfie, not to secure the good will of the people around
me—not even to secure your sweet presence, which is the only earthly
consolation I have now left in life—will I deceive myself, or you, or
them. Listen, Elfie, and then leave me if you must. Here lying in the
hospital, wounded and dying, and surrounded by the enemies of my
country, and in danger of losing your love, I tell you I am _not_ sorry
for what I have done. I do _not_ repent the course I have pursued. I
know now, as I knew then, that I was and am right. There, Elfie! That is
the faith in which I shall live and die. You, Elfie, think differently.
And I do not blame you. The freedom of opinion that I claim for myself I
give to all others. Now then, my dearest, if your conscience commands
you to leave me, leave me. And if you go, I shall not reproach you, even
in my thoughts. I shall thank you from the bottom of my heart for all
past kindness; I shall love you as long as I live, and I shall bless you
with my dying breath. Now go, my beloved, if indeed you must.”
“Oh, Albert!” exclaimed Elfie, struggling to suppress her tears, “you
know I will never leave you while you live! never, Albert, never! I
cannot convert you, but I cannot help loving you!” she added, stooping
and pressing her lips to his.
“My poor, dear girl, I wish we could think alike!” he murmured, feebly
caressing her head, that lay so near his bosom.
“And now let us talk no more of this horrible war. Let us forget for a
while the madness of the rebellion,” said Elfie.
“Not just yet, my Elfie. I must justify myself in your eyes, for your
sake, if possible,” he murmured.
“Oh! do not—do not! Oh! say no more. You are already too much excited. I
was very wrong to have started the subject. I have raised your fever;
and the doctor would serve me right to turn me out of the hospital,”
said Elfie.
“My dear girl, you have not excited me. Don’t you see that I am past all
that, Elfie? Besides, I _must_ say more in self-justification. Only to
_you_, Elfie. I would not stoop to justify myself to another,” he
proudly added.
“Go on, then, but don’t—don’t fatigue yourself.”
“Listen, then, my darling girl: You and I are diametrically opposed to
each other on the subject of this civil war, are we not?”
“Yes, yes; more’s the pity.”
“So say I, ‘More’s the pity.’ And yet, diametrically opposed as we are,
we are each of us true to our firmest convictions of duty, are we not?”
“I truly believe so,” admitted Elfie.
“And so far each of us is right. We are both right in adhering to what
we conscientiously believe to be our duty.”
Elfie was puzzled and silenced. Goldsborough went on.
“We should either of us be very wrong to give up our honest convictions
of duty merely to please the other.”
Elfie was still perplexed and dumb-foundered.
“Listen, my darling. In the old days of intolerance, _religious_
persecution was the great madness. The one Christian sect that happened
to be dominant persecuted all other Christian sects, and for the glory
of God, roasted them alive; and the other Christian sects, still for the
glory of God submitted to be roasted, and hoped for the crown of
martyrdom. But by and by the tables would be turned, and the dominant
sect would be down and some other sect would be up and the persecutors
would become the persecuted, and the roasters the roasted. And again,
whatever was done or suffered on either hand was for the sake of
conscience and for the glory of God. Now, Elfie, in the face of such
facts as history gives, when men so honestly differed in such mighty
issues that they were ready to sacrifice each other and to yield up
their own lives, each in defence of his own peculiar convictions, what
have you to say?”
“Why, that there are many wrong ways and but one right one, if we could
only find it,” said Elfie.
“Yes, if we could only find it,” smiled Goldsborough; “but in the
difficulty each must take the way he thinks to be the right way; and to
him it _will_ be the right way. Elfie, my darling, the days of
intolerance are passing away. Religious intolerance is a thing of the
past. Political intolerance and social intolerance will follow it into
oblivion. Meanwhile—”
“Meanwhile, dear Albert, you are talking too much. Do not think it
necessary to justify yourself to me. Let me stop all with this—” she
said, stooping and pressing her lips to his. “I love you, Albert, I love
you—I love you; that is the one thing I am surest of now. There, close
your eyes and try to sleep, with my hand in yours, and my face near
yours,” she murmured, dropping her head on the edge of his pillow.
He smiled, and with one hand clasped in hers, and the other laid lightly
among the black tresses of her bended head, he closed his eyes, and
tried to rest.
He was in that state of physical decline when conversation is not
exciting but exhausting. He was very much exhausted, and he slept.
Even in that crowded ward they were, from their position, nearly
isolated. The cot was in the corner, with a window at each angle; and
their nearest neighbor was the young Union soldier who had lost his leg.
The boy, from a sense of politeness, had turned his back upon them, and
was occupying his attention with a newspaper.
Elfie’s patient slept, and Elfie never moved and scarcely breathed, lest
she should disturb him.
How long the days in the hospital seemed. People came and went. A low
hum of conversation prevailed.
Once Elfie was conscious that a consultation was going on by the bedside
of a patient half way down the row of beds on the opposite side of the
ward. And soon after she heard a little bustle of preparation, and she
saw a procession like a funeral train bearing that patient on his
mattress on a bier from the ward to the operating room.
The procession had to pass her to go out by the door at her end of the
ward. And as it went by, she knew that another victim was about to lose
a limb and, perhaps, his life also.
This victim never came back.
In an hour afterwards Elfie learned from the nurses that he had died
under the knife, and had been taken to the dead house.
The dinner hour for the patients came. And the beef tea, wine whey,
chicken broth, milk punch, boiled rice, calf’s foot jelly, and whatever
else had been ordered, or provided, was served around.
It was sometime before Albert Goldsborough awoke; but when he did a
choice was given him among all the delicacies furnished to the sick. He
had no appetite, but was consumed by a great thirst. So he asked only
for iced lemonade, and got it.
Elfie raised his head while he drank it.
“That will do, my dearest,” he said, drawing a deep breath of relief
when he had drained the glass. “Only keep me in a plenty of this, and I
shall do well. Cooling drink is the only material want I have left me,”
he added, smiling.
“You shall have a water cooler full of it set by the bed, so that I can
draw it ice cold from the spigot whenever you like,” said Elfie, as she
laid his head back on the pillow.
“But you, my darling! What provision is there here for your comfort? How
will you eat and drink? Where will you sleep?” he anxiously inquired.
“All right. Don’t distress yourself, Albert, Erminie will send me my
meals. And Sister Agnes will give me the use of her room, when I require
it,” answered Elfie.
Albert Goldsborough seemed very much refreshed by his long sleep and his
cool drink, and now he was inclined to talk a little more.
“Elfie,” he said, “if I die, my widow will be one of the wealthiest
women in Virginia.”
“Dear Albert, you are a great deal better. You are not going to die. And
if you were, I know very well that wealth would never console your widow
for your loss. But you will live, Albert. You will get over this and
live!”
“If I do live, Elfie, I will atone to you for all I have made you
suffer. If I die, I have the comfort of knowing that you will be very
rich in this world’s goods.”
“Pray—_pray_ don’t talk so, dear.”
“I must, Elfie! I must explain, while I can, my worldly position, that
you may understand it and know how to proceed in the event of my death.
Elfie, my uncle and aunt Goldsborough, and their unhappy daughter, being
all dead, and there being no other heirs, all the vast estates
appertaining to the elder branch of the Goldsborough family fall to me,
as heir-at-law. The mansion in Richmond, the villa on the sea-side, and
the plantation in the valley are all mine. The plantation house is in
ruins, I believe; but the land is there, of course. And the rest of the
property everywhere is intact; and, united to my own hereditary acres,
makes a vast estate.”
“As if I cared for that! Oh, Albert, I only care to see you get well,”
she murmured.
“And I will get well, to please you, if I can, Elfie. And as I said
before, if I live, I will devote my life to your happiness. If I die, I
will leave you the wealthiest widow in Virginia. For, Elfie, listen, my
dear—whichever party conquers, _you_ will be all right. If the
Confederacy triumphs, as the widow of a Confederate officer, you will
succeed to the half of my estate. If the Union triumphs, as the daughter
of a Union officer, and as an unquestionably loyal woman, you will still
be allowed your widow’s rights to the one-half of my estates, although
the other half may be confiscated by the conquerors.”
“Albert! Albert! if you _will_ talk so, I cannot help it, of course! but
you distress me very much,” wept Elfie.
“I have done, my dear girl. I will say no more. And although you could
not bear to hear my words just now, you will think of them in calmer
moments, and act on them in after days—or your father or friends will
for you. Give me your hand once more, beloved, and I will try to sleep
again.”
Elfie gave him her hand and dropped her head on the pillow beside him,
and again his exhausted frame sunk to rest.
On this occasion he slept longer than on the former one. And Elfie never
moved and scarcely breathed, until she felt a hand laid lightly on her
shoulder, and looking up saw Sister Agnes standing by her.
“Miss Rosenthal has sent your dinner, and also a box of necessaries,
which I have placed in my room. Will you come now?” whispered the
sister.
Elfie shook her head and pointed to the sleeping man, whose hand still
firmly clasped her own.
And just at that moment, as if the sleeper dreamed or divined that she
was asked to leave him, he started and closed his fingers upon hers with
a convulsive grip.
“You see?” whispered Elfie.
“I see. I will keep your dinner warm and come again after a while,” said
the sister, stealing softly away.
The hours crept slowly by and the afternoon waned towards evening.
At four o’clock the patients had their tea, but Albert did not awake.
At six o’clock the assistant surgeons in charge of the wards made their
rounds. These rounds were always attended with some little bustle, and
the bustle always awoke nervous sleepers. It awoke Goldsborough.
“Here still, my guardian angel,” he said, smiling gratefully on his
watcher.
“Here always, Albert. What will you have now? The others had their tea
two hours ago. You can have yours now, if you like.”
“No, nothing so warm as tea. A draught of that delicious lemonade. I am
so thirsty.”
Elfie filled a glass from a pitcher of iced lemonade that she kept at
hand, and then she lifted his head while he drank it.
“Ah, that is so refreshing,” he said, with a sigh of pleasure, as she
laid him gently back on his pillow.
At that moment the surgeon in charge and Sister Agnes came up together.
“Well, you are looking much better this afternoon. I think the presence
of this lady is a great restorative,” said the doctor, cheerfully
addressing Goldsborough.
“So great a restorative that it will save me if anything can,” smiled
Albert.
“Well now, we must look at your leg. And we must ask the lady to retire
while we do so.”
Elfie hesitated, until Albert turned to her and said:
“Yes, darling, go. You need to be relieved from duty here for a little
while, and now is your best opportunity. You shall return when they have
done.”
“Come with me,” said Sister Agnes.
And Elfie stooped and kissed her husband, and then arose and followed
the nurse.
“Oh, Sister Agnes,” said Elfie, when they had left the ward, “you have
experience; you can tell me; _don’t_ you think he is much better?”
“Yes, I certainly do,” replied the Sister of Mercy, glad to be able to
give the anxious young questioner some real encouragement.
“And—_don’t_ you think he will get well?” eagerly inquired Elfie.
“I think there are good grounds to hope so,” answered the sister: “there
is certainly a great change for the better in him since this morning.”
“Sister Agnes, is there any particular danger that may threaten him, and
can I guard against it in any way?”
“My dear, I will be frank with you. There is a possibility of another
hemorrhage from his wound. You can guard against that by keeping him
quiet and following the doctor’s directions in all matters.”
“Oh, I will be so careful,” said Elfie.
And by this time they had reached the little refectory used by Sister
Agnes and her companions, and where Elfie’s dinner awaited her. A simple
dinner of boiled chicken and mashed potatoes, rice pudding and green
tea.
“I added the green tea, my dear, to keep you awake. I suppose you will
want to watch to-night?”
“Oh, yes, yes! Many thanks for your kind thoughtfulness,” said Elfie,
earnestly.
When Elfie had finished her light repast, Sister Agnes took her to a
small sleeping room in the third story, containing two little white
beds, two little wash-stands and two chairs—and having no other
furniture.
“Sister Mary-Joseph and myself sleep here. That is my bed by the window.
I advise you to lie down on it and rest for an hour or two before you
return to your patient. He will be well taken care of during your
absence, never fear,” said Sister Agnes.
“You are very good, but I would rather go back, when I have bathed my
face and arranged my dress. Where is the box Miss Rosenthal sent me,
please?”
“Here it is,” said the sister, drawing a medium sized trunk from under
the bed.
The key was tied to one of the handles, and Elfie untied it and opened
the trunk. Erminie had sent her a soft gray merino wrapper, suitable for
nursing, a soft pair of cloth slippers, a change of clothing and a great
plenty of fresh pocket-handkerchiefs and towels.
Elfie dressed herself in these comfortable habiliments, and then
requested her guide to show her back to her ward.
“For I never could find the right way by myself, I am sure,” she said.
The sister complied with her request and attended her to the door of the
ward, where she left her.
A few steps within the room Elfie met the assistant surgeon, and stopped
him to put the same questions she had already put to the sister.
“He is much better, doctor, isn’t he? He will recover, won’t he?”
“We have good reason to hope so, Madam,” answered the surgeon.
“But I cannot get him to take any nourishment. He has no appetite; only
a great thirst, and he will take nothing except lemonade,” complained
Elfie.
“Then do not force nourishment upon him. Give him the drink he craves,”
said the surgeon hurrying past her to attend to his other business.
Elfie went down between the two rows of little white beds until she came
to the corner where Albert Goldsborough lay.
He was wide awake, and waiting for her. He seemed refreshed, and
cheerful.
“I have been looking for you, my darling. The doctor has given me an
opiate, and ordered me to go to sleep, as if one could go to sleep to
order! I could not do so without your hand in mine. Sit by my bed, dear
Elfie, and let me feel that you are there while I sink to rest,” he
said.
And Elfie took up her old position, with her hand clasped in his, and
her cheek on the edge of his pillow.