WAR CLOUDS.
When Liddy reached her desk at the academy the next day she found a note
in a well-known hand that said:
"My father was very ill. I could not call last eve. I hope to next
Sunday."
It was a bitter-sweet message. At times during the week she felt her
face burn at the recollection of how disappointed she had felt the
previous Sunday eve. "I am a fool to care," she would say to herself,
and then when she caught sight of his face and saw the cloud resting
upon it she felt puzzled. She had asked regarding his father's illness
and learned he was better, so the ominous shadow was not from that
source. She felt sure it was not from an impending declaration of love
brewing in his heart, for she knew him well enough to feel that when it
came to that, he would have the manly courage to express his feelings in
his usual outspoken way.
When Sunday evening came again she awaited his coming with a new
anxiety, and when he arrived her heart felt heavy. He greeted her as
though nothing was amiss, and began chatting in an offhand manner, as if
to prevent any question from her. He even joked and told stories, but
with a seeming effort and not in accord with his feelings. Liddy watched
him quietly, feeling sure he was acting a part and for a purpose. The
more he tried to dissemble, the deeper became her dread. At last, when
the chance came, she said in her direct way:
"Charlie, you are not yourself to-night, and I believe you have some
serious trouble on your mind. I wish you would tell me what it is."
He looked at her a moment before replying, and then said:
"Oh, well, perhaps I have; but please don't notice it. I do not like to
talk of my troubles here. You will dislike me if I do."
"I shall feel hurt if you do not," she answered.
"Don't say that!" he replied; and then, after looking into her earnest
face a moment he continued in a lower tone: "You are the last person in
the world I would knowingly hurt."
He remained silent for a long time, looking at the fire in a vacant way,
and then rising suddenly he said:
"There is no use; I can't talk to-night. I am out of sorts. I think I
will go home."
"No, no, Charlie," she replied, trying hard to keep the pain out of her
voice: "don't go yet! It's too early, and we have not had a visit for
two weeks. Please sit down and tell me all about it. Can't you trust
me?"
He remained standing and looking earnestly into her upturned face and
pleading eyes for a few moments in silence; then he said:
"Yes, I can trust you, Liddy, and I am not afraid to, either! I am not
afraid to trust you with every thought and impulse that ever came to me,
but I can't bring myself to hurt you," and then he turned away.
His words almost brought the tears to her eyes, but she kept them back.
When he had his coat on and was at the door, she made one more effort.
She clasped his arm with both hands, as if to hold him, and said:
"You have made me very wretched, Charlie! Don't leave me in suspense! I
do not deserve it. No matter what it is, please tell me!"
He remained silent, but with one hand he softly caressed the two little
ones that clasped his arm. Then as her face sank slowly upon them he
stooped suddenly and kissed her hair. "When I come again you shall know
all," he whispered; "good-night!" and he tore himself away.
The meadows were growing green and the first spring violets were in
bloom ere he called again.
To explain his strange mood a little history must be inserted here.
The summer and fall of '61 and the winter and spring of '62 were
momentous in the annals of Southton. Fort Sumter had been fired upon,
and the war for the preservation of the Union had begun. The President's
first call for volunteers had been issued; the Bull Run retreat had
occurred, and the seven days' horror of the Chickahominy swamp, followed
by the battle of Fair Oaks and the siege of Fredericksburg, had startled
the country. Secession was rampant, and Washington was threatened. The
second call for volunteers had come and the entire North was alarmed.
In the spring of '62 came the third call, and by that time the spirit of
patriotism was spreading over Southton. Captain Samuel Woodruff, a born
soldier and a brave man, began to raise a company in that town. It did
not require a great effort, for the best and bravest of her sons rallied
to his call. This spirit even reached the oldest of the academy boys,
and was the cause of Manson's strange reticence with Liddy. Among his
mates were many who openly asserted their intention to enlist. Before
and after school and at noon it was talked about. Some were, like
Manson, the sons of peaceful tillers of the soil, and others the sons of
tradesmen, but all were animated by the same patriotic spirit and that
was to defend their country in her hour of danger. The example of a few
became contagious, and seemed likely to affect all the young men of the
academy of suitable age. In fact it did, for out of about thirty that
were old enough, eighteen finally enlisted and went to war. Were it not
that a list of their names is not pertinent to the thread of this
narrative, that roll of honor should be inserted here, for it deserves
to be; but it is not necessary. It is well known in Southton, and there
the names of those young heroes will never be forgotten.
For weeks while the fever of enlistment was spreading, Manson had passed
through serious mental torture. To sign the possibly fatal roll or not
to sign was the question! He dared not tell Liddy; he dared not tell his
parents. An only son, and one whom he knew his father loved, he felt
torn by conflicting duty. Never in his simple life had he passed through
such a struggle. Perhaps pride and the example of his mates were strong
factors in bringing him to a decision, but he reached one at last, and
upon a Saturday during the latter part of April he quietly wrote his
name upon the enlistment paper in Captain Woodruff's office, and the
deed was done.
In the meantime, and for the few weeks in which he did not call, Liddy
lived in an agony of suspense. She knew what was going on, for it was
current gossip in school, and there was something in his face that
seemed to her ominous. In school she tried hard to act unconcerned, even
when, as often was the case, other girls whose young and loving hearts
were sore, gave way to tears. Each day she smiled and nodded to him as
usual; but the smile had grown pathetic, and into her eyes had crept a
look of dread. He saw it all, and hardly dared speak to her. Each Sunday
eve she dressed herself for his coming and watched the fire while the
tall clock ticked in solemn silence. She dreaded to hear her father
speak of the war news, and when at school the gossip as to who had or
who was going to enlist was referred to she walked away. She grew silent
and morose, and clouds were on her face at all times. There were plenty
of sad and worried looks on other girls' faces at school during those
weeks, so she was not alone in her gloom.
Manson had felt that deep down in her heart she cared a good deal more
for him than her conduct showed, and to tell her of his intentions
before he carried them out would be to subject her to needless days of
suspense and possibly affect his own sense of duty. Now that it was all
over, she must be the first to be told, and how much he dreaded it only
those who have passed through the same experiences can tell. He scarcely
slept at all that night, and when he presented himself at her house the
next day, just before church time, he looked pale and haggard. It was an
unusual thing for him to call at that hour, and when Liddy met him her
heart sank. Without any formality he asked her to put on her wraps and
take a ride.
"I have come to tell you all," he said, "and I can talk better away from
the house, and where we are alone."
When they were well on their way and driving along the wooded road
toward the top of one of the Blue Hills--a lookout point whence all
Southton's area could be seen--he turned his face and looked at hers for
the first time since starting. What he saw there smote his heart.
"It's a nice day for a ride, isn't it, Liddy?" he said pleasantly,
trying hard to act natural.
Her answer was peculiar.
"I can't talk of the day or anything else, Charlie, till I know the
worst. Remember, you have kept me in suspense four long, weary weeks.
Tell me now as soon as you can."
He made no reply, and spoke not another word until they reached the
lookout place. In silence he assisted her to alight, and taking the
carriage robe, he spread it upon a rock where they had often sat viewing
the landscape below. Then he said, in a low voice:
"Please sit down, Liddy. I've fixed a nice seat for you, and now I can
talk to you."
Then their eyes met for the second time since starting. Her face and
lips were pale, and her eyes full of fear. She clasped her hands before
her face as if to ward off the coming blow.
"Tell me now," she said hurriedly, "tell me the worst, only tell me
quickly! I've suffered long enough!"
He looked at her a moment pityingly, dreading to deal the blow, and
trying to frame it into suitable words--and then it came.
"Liddy," he said in a husky whisper, "I love you, and I've enlisted!"
A brief sentence, but what a message!
A woman's heaven and a woman's hell in six words!
For one instant she looked at him, until its full force came to her and
then she burst into tears, and the next moment she was in a heap on the
robe-covered rock and sobbing like a child. Instantly he was beside her,
gathering her in his arms and kissing her hair, her tear-wet face and
lips. Not a word was spoken; not one was needed! He knew now that her
heart was his, and for weal or woe; for joy or sorrow, their lives must
be as one.
"Don't cry any more, my darling," he whispered at last. "I shall come
back all safe, and then you will be my wife, won't you, Liddy?"
She made no answer, but a small, soft hand crept into one of his, and he
knew his prize was won.
When they were ready to leave the hallowed spot she gathered a bunch of
the spring violets growing there, and kissing them, handed the cluster
to him in silence.
Late that evening when they parted she put one arm caressingly about his
neck and whispered: "Give me all the hours you can, Charlie, before you
must go; they may be all we shall ever have together."