THE WORDS OF LOVE
It was in my dreams I felt it first,--a light, moist touch upon my
burning forehead,--and I imagined I was a child once more, back at the
old home, caressed by the soft hand of my mother. But as consciousness
slowly returned I began to realize dimly where I was, and that I was
no longer alone. A gentle hand was stroking back the hair from off my
temples, while the barest uplift of my eyelids revealed the folds of a
dark blue skirt pressed close to my side. Instantly I realized who must
be the wearer, and remained motionless until I could better control my
first unwise impulse.
She spoke no word, and I cautiously opened my eyes and glanced up into
her face. For a time she remained unaware of my awakening, and sat there
silently stroking my forehead, her gaze fixed musingly upon the window
at the farther end of the hall. Doubtless she had been sitting thus for
some time, and had become absorbed in her own reflections, for I lay
there drinking in her beauty for several moments before she chanced
to glance downward and observe that I was awake. The evidences of past
exposure and strain were not absent from her features, yet had not
robbed her of that delicate charm which to my mind separated her so
widely from all others,--her rounded cheek yet retained the fresh hue of
perfect health, her clear, thoughtful eyes were soft and earnest, while
the luxuriant hair, swept back from off the broad, low forehead, had
been tastefully arranged and exhibited no signs of neglect. It was not
a perfect face, for there was unmistakable pride in it, nor would I
venture to term it faultless in contour or regularity of outline, but it
was distinctly lovable, and the dearest face for ever in all this world
to me. How regally was the proud head poised upon the round, swelling
throat, and with what regularity her bosom rose and fell to her soft
breathing. I think the very intensity of my gaze awakened her from
reverie, for she turned almost with a start and looked down upon me. As
our eyes met, a warm wave of color dyed her throat and cheeks crimson.
“Why,” she exclaimed in momentary confusion, “I supposed I should know
before you awoke, and have ample time to escape unobserved.”
“Possibly if you had been noting the symptoms of your patient with
greater care, you would.”
“True, I was dreaming,” she admitted, “and had almost forgotten where I
was.”
“Could I purchase your dream? I was intently studying your face as you
sat there, yet was unable to determine whether your reflections were
pleasant or unpleasant.”
“They were merely foolish,” was the frank response, “but such as they
were they are certainly not for sale. You are better, Captain Wayne?”
“How could I fail to be better with so delightful a nurse? I confess I
am tempted to say no, so as to regain the soft touch of your palm upon
my temple; but it was really nothing more serious than fatigue that had
overcome me. I scarcely know how I chanced to fall asleep. I merely
sat down here for a rest; it was very quiet, and that was the last I
remember. Have I been lying here long?”
“There is a rule of evidence, I believe, which protects a suspected
person from incriminating himself, but I will acknowledge that I have
been here all of half an hour,” she answered, too proud to deny her
part. “The people below were wondering where you could have gone, and I
undertook a search upon my own account. Yes, sir,” somewhat archly, “I
was afraid lest your injuries were more serious than you believed them
to be. I discovered you lying here. You were resting very uncomfortably
when I first came, and I felt it my duty to render your position as easy
as possible. I did not forget that your fatigue came in our defence.”
“Could you not say in yours?” I corrected. “But I have already been more
than repaid. Your hand upon my brow was far more restful than I can
tell you--its soft stroking mingled in my dreams even before I awoke. It
brought back to me the thought of my mother. I do not think I have had a
woman's hand press back my hair since I was a child.”
Her eyes fell slightly, and she moved uneasily.
“There was a look of pain upon your face as you lay sleeping, and I
thought it might ease you somewhat. I have had some experience as a
nurse, you know,” she explained quietly. “You mentioned your mother; is
she yet living?”
“She is in Richmond, stopping with friends, but since my capture we have
lost all trace of each other. I was reported as having been killed in
action, and I doubt if she even yet knows the truth. Everything is
so confused in the capital that it is impossible to trace any one not
directly connected with the army, once you lose exact knowledge of their
whereabouts.”
“Your father, then, is dead?”
“He yielded his life the first year of the war; and our plantation near
Charlottesville has been constantly in the track of the armies. One
rather important battle, indeed, was fought upon it, so you may realize
that it is now desolate, and utterly unfit for habitation.”
“The house yet stands?”
“The chimney and one wall alone remained when I was last there,” I
replied, glad of the interest she exhibited. “Fortunately two of the
negro cabins were yet standing. Doubtless these will form the nucleus of
our home when the war ceases; they will prove a trifle better than the
mere sky.”
“The South is certainly paying a terrible price for rebellion,” she said
soberly, her fine eyes filled with tears. “Only those of us who have
beheld some portion of the sacrifice can ever realize how complete it
is.”
“The uselessness of it is what makes it seem now so unutterably sad.”
“Yes,” she assented, “and this the South is beginning to understand. But
I cannot help thinking of the joy awaiting your mother when she learns
that you are well, after she has mourned you as dead. It will almost
repay her for all the rest. How I should love to be the bearer of such
news.”
As she spoke she quietly rose to her feet and smiled pleasantly as I
took advantage of the opportunity to sit up.
“I thought you must be tired, lying in that position so long; besides, I
am sure I have tarried here quite as long as I should, now that I can be
of no further service.”
As she gathered her skirts in her hand preparatory to descending the
stairs, I yielded to temptation and stopped her. Right or wrong I must
yet have one word more.
“I beg of you do not desert me so soon. This may prove our final
meeting,--indeed, I fear it must be; surely, then, it need not be so
brief a one?”
She paused irresolute, one white hand resting upon the dark stair-rail,
her face turned partially aside so I could only guess at its expression.
“Our final meeting?”
She echoed my words as though scarcely comprehending their meaning.
“Yes,” I said, rising and standing before her. “How can we well hope it
shall be otherwise? I am not free to remain here, even were it best for
other reasons, for I am a soldier under orders. You undoubtedly will
proceed North at the earliest possible moment. There is scarcely a
probability that in the great wide world we shall meet again.”
“The war will soon be over; perhaps then you may come North also.”
“I scarcely expect to do so. My work then will be to join with my
comrades in an effort to rebuild the shattered fortunes of Virginia.
When the lines of lives diverge so widely as ours must, the chances are
indeed few that they ever meet again.”
“Yes; yet we are free agents.”
“Not always, nor under all circumstances--there are outside influences
which cannot be ignored.”
Her head was bowed slightly, but she lifted it now, and I dreamed I saw
unshed tears in her eyes.
“But surely you can remain here until we leave?” she questioned,
evidently striving not to reveal the depth of interest she felt in the
decision. “It will not be until to-morrow that all details are arranged
so as to permit of our departure. I had supposed you would certainly be
with us until then.”
“Mrs. Brennan!” I exclaimed almost passionately, “do not tempt me! Your
wish is a temptation most difficult to resist.”
“Why resist, then?”
She did not look at me, but stood twisting a handkerchief nervously
through her fingers. The abrupt question startled me almost into
full confession, but fortunately my eyes chanced to fall upon her
wedding-ring, and instantly I crushed the mad words back into my throat.
“Because it is right,” I replied slowly, feeling each sentence as a
death-blow. “For me to remain can mean only one thing. For that I am
ready enough, if I thought you desired it, but I dare not choose such a
course myself.”
“You speak in riddles. What is the one thing?”
“A personal meeting with Major Brennan.”
The high color deserted her cheeks, and her eyes met mine in sudden
inquiry. “Oh, no, no!” she exclaimed with energy. “You and Frank must
never meet in that way. You mean a duel?”
I bowed gravely. “I can assure you I earnestly desire to avoid it for
your sake, but am aware of no possibility of escape except through my
immediate departure.”
“There has been no challenge then?”
“Not formally, yet almost an equivalent--I was permitted to aid
in defence of this house only by pledging myself to Major Brennan
afterwards.”
“But why need it be--at least now that you have stood together as
comrades?”
“I fear,” I said quietly, “that fact will not count for much. We both
fought inspired by your presence.”
“Mine!” I hardly knew how to interpret her tone.
“Certainly; you cannot be ignorant that Major Brennan's dislike is based
upon your friendship for me.”
“But there is no reason,” she stammered. “He has no cause--”
“His reason I must leave him to explain,” I interrupted, to relieve her
evident embarrassment. “His words, however, were extremely explicit;
and to ignore them by departure is to imperil my own reputation in both
armies. I would do so for no one else in the world but you.”
Her reception of this almost open avowal surprised me. For an instant
she remained motionless, her eyes lowered upon the carpet, a flush on
either cheek; then they were frankly lifted to mine, and she extended
both hands.
“How can I ever thank you?” she asked gravely. “Captain Wayne, you make
me trust you utterly, and place me constantly in your debt.”
Her words and manner combined to make me realize the depth of her
feeling. But what did they really betoken? Was it merely thankfulness at
her husband's escape from peril, or a personal devotion toward myself?
I could not determine, but might only venture to believe the first more
probable.
“Then you realize that I am right?”
“Yes,” slowly, but making no effort to release her hands. “Yet is no
other escape possible?”
“None within my knowledge.”
“And you must go?”
“I must go--unless you bid me stay.”
“Oh, I cannot; I cannot at such a cost!” she cried, and I could feel her
body tremble with the intensity of her emotion. “But, Captain Wayne,
our friendship surely need not be severed now for ever? I cannot bear
to think that it should be. I am no cold, heartless ingrate, and shall
never forget what you have done to serve me. I value every sacrifice you
have made on my behalf. Let us indeed part now if, as you say, it must
be so; yet surely there are happier days in store for both of us--days
when the men of this nation will not wear different uniforms and deem it
manly to fight and kill each other.”
“The great struggle will certainly cease, possibly within a very few
weeks,” I answered, greatly moved by her earnestness, “but I fear the
men engaged in it will remain much the same in their natures however
they may dress. I can only say this: Were the path clear I would surely
find you, no matter where you were hidden.”
She bowed her head against the post of the stair-rail and sobbed
silently. I stood without speaking, knowing nothing I could hope to say
which would in the least comfort her, for in my own heart abode the same
dull despair. At last she looked up, making not the slightest attempt to
disguise her emotion.
“How terrible it is that a woman must ever choose between such evils,”
she said almost bitterly. “The heart says one thing and duty another all
through life, it seems to me. I have seen so much of suffering in these
last few months, so much of heartless cruelty, that I cannot bear to be
the cause of any more. You and Major Brennan must not meet; but, Captain
Wayne, I will not believe that we are to part thus for ever.”
“Do you mean that I am to seek you when the war closes?”
“There will be no time when I shall not most gladly welcome you.”
“Your home?” I asked, wondering still if she could mean all that her
words implied. “I have never known where you resided in the North.”
“Stonington, Connecticut.” She smiled at me through the tears yet
clinging to her long lashes. “You may never come, of course, yet I shall
always feel now that perhaps you will; and that is not like a final
good-bye, is it?”
I bowed above the hands I held, and pressed my lips upon them. For the
moment I durst not speak, and then--a voice suddenly sounded in the hall
below:
“I am greatly obliged to you, Miss Minor; she is probably lying down. I
will run up and call her.”
We started as if rudely awakened from a dream, while a sudden expression
of fright swept across her face.
“Oh, do not meet him,” she begged piteously. “For my sake do not remain
here.”
“I will go down the back stairway,” I returned hastily, “but do you
indeed mean it? may I come to you?”
“Yes, yes; but pray go now!”
Unable longer to restrain myself, I clasped her to me, held her for one
brief instant strained to my breast, kissed her twice upon lips which
had no opportunity for refusal.
“This world is not so wide but that somewhere in it I shall again find
the one woman of my heart,” I whispered passionately, and was gone.