THE GREATER LOVE
I never recall those really worth while times without being reminded of
a certain Lieutenant whose name I do not feel at present free to reveal.
The attending circumstances were so deeply pathetic, and his confidence
in me of a nature so sacred, I will but narrate the details without
divulging his identity.
Handsome, generous, brave, highly competent in military art, he was as
skillful in getting action from his giant gun as he was masterful in
evoking music from his violin! If there was anything his platoon boys
admired more, even than himself, it was the music of his ever generous,
ever delighting violin. Deep in some dugout we would gather around him.
Tenderly and fondly he would take the instrument from the battered box,
patting it like a young mother her baby's cheek.
Beginning with some light popular air in which all would vocally join,
he would soon glide like a spirit of melody to the unprofaned height of
the music masters. Bach was his favorite. And when, with the mute, to
soften the waves from unfriendly ears, he would interpret some symphony
of the soul, we would forget our grim surroundings and dream we "dwelt
in marble halls."
He knew my passionate fondness for music and took delight in pleasing
me. What pictures he could paint on the canvas of my fancy! Under the
spell of his music I would drop anchor in the harbor of the fairest
dream. Now, it would be a landscape the brush of his bow would paint--a
midsummer day with sheep gently grazing on some hillside: again, it
would be a forest, with treetops cowering before an on-rushing storm.
One evening he was playing with the mute on "Humoresque." His big brown
eyes, that were not the least attractive feature of his handsome face,
looked steadily into mine across the bridge of his violin.
"What is the picture tonight, Chaplain?"
[Illustration: DOCTOR LUGAR AND AIDS WORKING IN A GAS ATTACK NEAR JOLNEY.]
"I see a coast," I replied; "it is a fair summer day, with waves of all
blue and silver, dancing in the breeze. A yacht is just off shore; the
sail, a creamy bit of color; at the tiller a chap, handsome as
yourself, and at his side a girl"--here he stopped playing and looking
intently at me exclaimed:
"Why, that's the very thing I was thinking of myself!"
Laying aside the violin he drew from his kit a bundle of letters tied
with ribbon. Delightedly, radiantly, he showed me _her_ picture--yes,
her pictures, for surely he had twenty of them. Then he narrated "the
sweetest story ever told"; how wonderful she was, how tenderly he loved
her, how they had sacredly promised to marry on his return, and planned
to seek their young fortunes in South America.
The days following were filled with big thrilling events. The ebb and
flow of battle called into action all that was best and noblest in the
boys, and my Lieutenant served his Battery and wrought deeds of valor to
a degree all excelling and inspiring. I knew the secret of it all, it
was the thought of her, his promised wife, and of the bliss awaiting a
gallant soldier's return.
It was just one week later the letter came. Few received mail that day;
he was one who did. My attention was first called to him by the sound
of a moan that seemed to come from a heart utterly broken. He stood
leaning against a caisson staring at the letter, his face deathly white.
Instinctively I realized it all. It was from her, and its message was as
some stroke of lightning from a cloudless sky. Mutely he came to me,
pressed the letter in my hand, and turned away.
A glance through its lines told me the worst; that while she admired his
courage and unselfishness more than any man in the world, and always
would, still, as she did not, could never, love him as she felt a wife
should love her husband, would he now release her and give up their
engagement!
Knowing him as I did, noble, unselfish, and devotedly, tenderly loving
her with all his soul, most deeply did I pity him. It was the supreme
hour and crisis of his life. If there were ever a time when he needed
her love to sustain him, when day and night he grappled with death and
fought with all his soul, as only the patriot _can_ fight, it was now.
It was the beginning of the end. Sub-consciously I sensed impending
tragedy, and was depressed beyond expression. Not indeed that he became
morose, ugly or unsoldierly. On the contrary, never was he more
attentive to Battery duties or considerate toward his men. Bravely would
he laugh and jest and try to appear happy; but I knew it was all merely
heroic endeavor, and that his heart was utterly broken. If he gave
expression to his loss at all it was through his violin. It was all in a
minor strain, and its notes were of the soul of one
"Who treads alone,
Some banquet hall deserted:
Whose lights are fled, and garlands dead,
All, all save he departed."
It was the afternoon of ten days later. In an orchard on a hillside his
Battery had just come into position. By some alert enemy-observing plane
the movement had evidently been noted, for it was not seven minutes
later that a high explosive shell came screaming over the hill, directly
hitting his gun, instantly killing gunner No. 1, and mortally wounding
himself.
Ten minutes later I reached his side. He was still conscious, had
received First Aid, but was sinking rapidly. "I am not afraid to die,
Chaplain. It's my turn I guess. There is a letter here in my blouse
pocket. I wrote it to her the other night. Read it, will you please, and
if it is all right, post it for me when I am gone."
Blinded with my tears I carefully took the letter from his pocket. It
was wet with his heart's blood. I do not now recall its every word, but
in substance, it released her. "My Duchess" was the endearing title at
the top of the page. It declared his deep, abiding love for her: a love
so unselfish and complete as not wanting to ever, either directly or
indirectly, mar her happiness. In life and death her memory would
continue to be the one supreme inspiration of his life. As she
requested, he had burned the letters, retaining but one, stained with a
rose she had once given him.
"Oh my boy! I am proud of you," I cried, when I finished reading. "If it
is all right, Chaplain, please post it when I am gone."
The deathly pallor of his face warned me the end was near. Though not
directly of my faith, he had often remarked his preference for my
ministrations; and with all my soul I helped him make Acts of Faith,
Hope, Charity, and perfect Contrition. Gently his eyes closed, his head
fell forward on my breast, and his brave sweet spirit passed to its
Maker.
Kneeling around, with tears seaming their ashen battle-stained faces,
were his boys. Tenderly they helped me carry his poor torn body to the
shelter of a neighboring ravine. On the hillside we buried him, marking
his grave with the Sign of Him who shall remember the Brave, the Pure,
the Good.
I posted the letter, as he requested, enclosing it all, as it was
blood-stained, in another envelope. I have forgiven, as he would have me
do, the inconsiderate action of the girl who brought such sorrow to the
supreme hour of his sacrifice. Some day, when the wounds of cruel war
are healed, I may forget. And yet, reviewing it all in the light of the
supernatural and the greater reward awaiting him beyond the stars, may
we not believe that an all-wise, ever-merciful Father permitted this
crowning sorrow of his young life that it might be but opportunity,
humbly and prayerfully endured, of a soul-cleansing nature, and add
luster to his reward of the Greater Love through eternal years!