LOVE'S PLEDGE
Again Betty Winter found in her work relief from despair. She had hoped
for peace in the beauty and tenderness of Ned's chivalrous devotion. Yet
his one letter reporting the meeting had revealed her mistake. The
moment she had read his confession the impulse to scream her protest to
John was all but resistless. She had tried in vain to find a way of
writing to Ned to tell him that she had deceived him and herself, and
ask his forgiveness.
It was impossible to write to John under such conditions and she had
suffered in silence. And then the wounded began to pour into Washington
from Grant's front. The like of that procession of ambulances from the
landing on Sixth Street to the hospitals on the hills back of the city
had never been seen. The wounded men were brought on swift steamers from
Aquia Creek. Floors and decks were covered with mattresses on which they
lay as thickly as they could be placed. As the wounded died on the way
they were moved to the bow and their faces covered.
At the landing tender hands were lifting them into the ambulances which
slowly moved out in one line to the hospitals and back in a circle by
another. These ambulances stretched in tragic, unbroken procession for
three miles and never ceased to move on and on in an endless circle for
three days and nights.
In an agony of anxiety Betty asked to be transferred to the landing that
she might watch them fill the wagons. Her soul was oppressed with the
certainty that John Vaughan would be found in one of them.
On the morning of the third day they were still coming in never-ending
streams from the steamer decks. She wrung her hands in a moment of
despair:
"Merciful God! Are they bringing back Grant's whole army?"
The patience of these suffering men was sublime. Only a sigh from one
who would rise no more. Only a groan here and there from parched lips
that asked for water.
At last came the ominous news for which she had watched and waited with
sickening forebodings. The _Republican_ printed the name of Captain John
Vaughan among the wounded in the fight of Warren and Hancock's corps
over the Weldon Railroad. There were only two thousand wounded men sent
in on the steamers from the front after this battle, and they arrived at
night.
Betty hurried to the landing and found that the ambulances had begun to
move. She searched every face in vain, and when the last stretcher had
passed out walked with trembling steps and scanned each silent covered
face in the bow.
"Thank God," she murmured, "he's not there!"
She must begin now the patient search among the eighty thousand sick and
wounded men in the city of sorrows on the hills.
She secured a hack and tried to reach the head of the procession and
find the destination of the first wagons that had left before her
arrival.
It was after midnight. A thunder storm suddenly rolled its dense clouds
over the city and smothered the street lamps in a pall of darkness. The
rain burst with a flash of lightning and poured in torrents. The
electric display was awe-inspiring. The horses in one of the ambulances
in the long line stampeded and smashed the vehicle in front. The
procession was stopped in the height of the storm. The vivid flame was
now continuous and Betty could see the wagons standing in a mud-splashed
row for a mile, the lightning play bringing out in startling outline
each horse and vehicle.
From every ambulance was hanging a fringe of curious objects shining
white against the shadows when suddenly illumined. Betty looked in pity
and awe. They were the burning fevered arms and legs and heads of the
suffering wounded men eager to feel the splash of the cooling rain.
A full week passed before her search ended and she located him in one of
the big new buildings hastily constructed of boards.
With trembling step she started to go straight to his cot. The memory of
his brutal stare that day stopped her and she scribbled a line and sent
it to him:
"John, dear, may I see you a moment?
"BETTY."
The doctor assured her that he was rapidly recovering, though restless
and depressed. She caught her breath in a little gasp of surprise at the
sight of his white face, pale and spiritual looking now from the loss of
blood.
Her eyes were shining with intense excitement as she swiftly crossed the
room, dropped on her knees beside his cot and seized his hands:
"O John, John, can you ever forgive me!"
He slipped his arm around her neck and held her a long time in silence.
The men in the room paid no attention to the little drama. It was
happening every day around them.
"Oh, dearest," she went on eagerly, "I tried to put you out of my heart,
but I couldn't. I am yours, all yours, body and soul. Love asks but one
question--do you love me?"
"Forever!" he whispered.
"In my loneliness and despair I tried to give myself to Ned, but I
couldn't, dear. I would have told him so had I been able to reach
him--though I dreaded to hurt him."
John drew her hands down and looked at her with a strange expression.
"He's beyond the reach of pain and disappointment now, dear----"
"Dead?" she gasped.
The man only nodded, and clung desperately to her hands while her head
sank in a flood of tears.
"We'll cherish his memory," he said in a curiously quiet voice, "as one
of the sweetest bonds between us, my love----"
"Yes--always!" was the low answer.
For the life of him John Vaughan couldn't tell the terrible fact that
his hand had struck him down. God alone should know that.
When she had recovered from the shock of the announcement Betty caressed
his hand gently:
"We just love whom we love, dearest, and we can't help it. I am yours
and you are mine. It's not a question of good or bad, right or wrong. We
love--that's all."
"Yes, we love--that's all and it's everything. There's no more doubt,
dear?"
"Not one," she cried. "I'm going to bring back the red blood to your
cheeks now and take that fevered look out of your eyes----"
The weeks of convalescence were swift and beautiful to Betty--her
ministry to his slightest whim a continuous joy. The only cloud in her
sky was the strange, feverish, unquiet look in his eyes. On the day of
his discharge he received a letter from his mother which deepened this
expression to the verge of mania.
"What is it, dear?" Betty asked in alarm.
"One of those unfortunate things that have been happening somewhere
every day for the past year--an arrest and imprisonment for treasonable
utterances----"
"Who has been arrested?"
"This time my father in Missouri."
"Your father?" she gasped.
"Yes. He has been a bitter critic of the war. He seems to have gone too
far. There was a riot of some sort in the village and he took the wrong
side."
There was an ominous quiet in the way he talked.
"I'll take you to see the President, dearest," she said soothingly.
"We'll ask for his release. It's sure to be granted."
John's eyes suddenly flashed.
"You think so?"
"Absolutely sure of it."
"We'll try it then," he said, with a cold ring in his voice that chilled
Betty's heart, and sent her home wondering at its meaning.