The days that followed were very dreary ones. Little by little the
resources gave out, and actual, positive hunger began to be felt on
every side. “White Point” reflected the life of the county; and while
much of the real condition of things was kept from Mrs. Tayloe, lest her
sorrowing heart could not bear the strain upon it, yet even she knew how
necessary it was to count every mouthful eaten. Anne and Dorothy kept
up the spirits of the people until in August, when the terrible sorrow
came, and Dorothy sat like one stunned and crushed by its force. They
brought his body home; and not until she knelt over it and saw the almost
rapturous smile upon his face did she realize that to grieve would be
selfish indeed; that he was at last “at home”—at last “with her!” The
shock of her father’s death for a while broke almost her brave spirit.
It was a glorious death, Bobbie wrote her. It grieved him beyond words of
telling that he could not be with her in her sorrow, but more than ever
was he needed, and not for even one single day could he get leave.
After they buried him, right next to her mother, the old routine of
life became almost unendurable. She could not leave “White Point,” her
duty kept her there, and yet how she longed for work—hard, continuous,
ceaseless work—that she might not think. Anne’s cheerful, buoyant nature
was a helpful tonic, and Dorothy struggled hard to be brave. Always Anne
had something funny to tell of that “good-looking Lieutenant,” with whose
movements, in some mysterious way, she seemed to keep well posted; and
she made Dorothy take hold of life again, and in doing for others, her
own pain became a little dulled.
The weeks dragged into months, and still Bobbie had never gotten back.
Way off in a distant part of the country he had been in active service,
and his name had become a familiar one in the army, and they loved him
there as they had loved him in his home as a boy, and over the camp-fires
at night many a tale was told of his daring and skill as a soldier, and
his gentle touch as a nurse when the day was done.
Ten days had gone by and no sign or word had Dorothy received, and
Christmas-eve had come again. To no one had she ever spoken of the vow
made down in Sallie Tom’s cabin a year ago, but all through the dreary
days she had cherished it in her heart. Anne Carter was to spend the
holidays at “White Point,” and in obedience to her, and with the secret
hope that he would yet come, she had helped with the old-time decorations
of Christmas green. Her sorrow must not make the others sad, she thought,
and with brave unselfishness she tried hard to forget herself in them.
For the first time since the Christmas a year ago, when they had all been
home, she made Uncle Lias make a big fire in the library. The dining-room
was also bright with a cherry glow, and she walked from first one window
to the other watching the scene outside. The snow lay cold and deep and
white, but the night was beautifully clear. The moon was shining almost
magically upon the frozen earth, touching the trees with mystic splendor
in their crystal decorations, and all the air was still, so still that
the faintest echo could be heard.
[Illustration: “‘I never scorn an honest man,’ she answered.”]
The time dragged on and still no sign came, or was given by Dorothy
of what was so intensely filling her heart. Mrs. Tayloe sat in her
accustomed place by the fire, but the weary hands failed to knit so
rapidly as of old, and the sad, strained look upon her face told better
than words of that of which she could not speak.
Anne worked hard to keep up the spirit of the season, and when to their
intense surprise they heard the sound of bells outside and saw the Rev.
Dr. Miles and family drive up, all felt a great relief. “I’ve come to
bring good luck to you,” he said, shaking hands with Dorothy in his
understanding, sympathetic way. “There’s no telling when these boys will
turn up,” he added, trying to speak cheerfully, “so I thought I would
come over and be on hand in case I was needed,” and the dear old parson
patted her hands tenderly and softly. Everybody tried to be pleasant and
look natural and easy, but it was a dismal failure, and when the clock
struck ten Dorothy could stand it no longer. She slipped out on the long
veranda at the back of the house, and leaned wearily upon one of its
tall, straight columns. Down-stairs in the servants’ room Uncle Lias was
playing softly on his old violin. The last notes of the “Suwannee River”
died away upon the air, and then he began, low and soft and sad, the old,
sweet song that almost broke her heart, “Home, Home, Home, Sweet Home,”
quivered out upon the still frosty air, and such a longing for the old
life that was gone, such a craving for the one she loved so well, came
over her that she slipped down in the snow, and leaning against the
railing buried her face in her hands, and prayed Him who alone could
understand, to give back her home to her—for Bobbie was her home, her
life, her all. She felt something fall and touch her dress, and looked
up hastily; no sound broke the air—only that longing cry, “Home, Home,
Home, Sweet Home,” yet she strained her eyes in the darkness; surely that
was a shadow moving under the trees—a little bullet fell at her feet—she
jumped up hurriedly and in a flash she knew. Down through the snow she
fled, and out upon the air sounded softer and fainter: “Be it ever so
humble, there’s no place like home.” She reached the tree and staggered,
and Bobbie caught her—caught her and held her close. “I swore I’d come
if alive,” he said, brokenly, “and I’m here, though at the last minute I
came near missing it. Is it all right at the house?” He leaned against
the tree through utter weakness, and Dorothy could only nod affirmatively
to his question—the sudden joy had checked the power of speech. “I’ve
brought some one with me I didn’t intend,” Bobbie went on. “We came near
putting an end to each other, but stopped in time.” He nodded at a man
standing back in the shadow, and the latter came forward and held his cap
in his hand.
“I know it is very presumptuous,” he said, looking straight in Dorothy’s
face, “but I was bound to see that ghost again, and I risked it.”
In sheer excess of happiness she held out her hands. “It’s the
Lieutenant,” she cried; “don’t you know it’s the one who wanted you last
year—Oh, Bobbie! Bobbie!”
* * * * *
There was a wedding after all—the queerest, strangest, happiest wedding
old Rockland county ever had recorded in its books. Bobbie was faint
and weak from lack of food and rest, and like some strange wonder that
had come into their midst, they hovered over and waited on him while he
told of how for forty-eight hours he had ridden night and day to reach
there in time. “Father is on the way,” he went on, while Sallie Tom held
out “jis a little drap of suppin warm for him.” “I left him down by
the old mill. He and Peter Black stopped for a few minutes to attend to
something. It was after I left father that I met this gentleman,” and
he nodded toward the Lieutenant, “and it’s lucky we’re both not out on
the road. Both fired and missed, and something made me ask where he was
going and who he was (Bobbie’s voice got a little husky), and I thought
I’d better not fire again. And now when father comes you will marry me,
Dorothy?” He asked the question before them all, looking steadfastly in
her face, while he took the license out of his pocket and laid it on the
table. “It came near being burnt up once,” he said, laughing. “It was a
close call, but I told you this would save me,” and he held up the little
Testament which was deeply dented in the middle. “The ball glanced off,
and I wasn’t hurt. Now, mother, what are you crying for?”
When the big master came Sallie Tom got to work. The Rev. Dr. Miles
couldn’t stay all night, but not until Christmas-Day would they be
married. When the clock struck twelve the ceremony would take place, and
poor Uncle Lias couldn’t make the fires quick enough in the big parlors,
and Peter Black was called here and there, just as he had been a year ago.
“Bobbie must wear his uniform,” Dorothy said. She could marry him in
nothing whose decorations would make her half so proud as would the
torn and battered, the faded and worn old suit which told of honorable
service. She whispered something to Bobbie, and the latter sprang to his
feet. Anne and the Lieutenant were freezing away off in one of the big
window seats, unconscious that they were cold, and evidently in a hot
discussion. Bobbie walked over and saluted. “I believe you are to be
Dorothy’s bridesmaid, Anne,” he said, looking at her provokingly and in a
way she didn’t understand.
“Of course I am,” she answered, slipping off the seat, “and I’ve got to
wear just what I have on. To my dying day it will be a mortification.
It’s the only decent gown I’ve got, and all on account of _this_ man and
his friends,” and she turned with a merry laugh to the Lieutenant, now
standing and slightly leaning against the window.
“I have come to ask him a favor,” answered Bobbie, turning toward him
also. “Will you do me the honor to be my best man, Lieutenant Hardwicke?”
and he held out his hand to the man in blue.
The other grasped it warmly. “Tell them who I am, for God’s sake, Bobbie.
I am proud to be a ‘Yankee soldier,’ as she calls me, but tell them who
else I am.” Anne had dropped into a chair, and Bobbie laughed at her look
of blank astonishment.
“This is Dick Hardwicke, of Boston, Anne. He graduated two terms before
I, and though he was older and we were not in the same classes, we were
always good friends while at college.”
“And did you come to search for your college friend as you would for a
thief?” she cried, her voice ringing with unutterable scorn, as she rose
to her feet.
“Not a bit of it,” he answered, fearlessly. “In open fight we would have
had to take the chances of this beastly war, but that the Robert F.
Taylor, as our order read, was our Bobbie Tayloe, I no more suspected
than you did my identity. Do you believe me?” She look at him a moment
searchingly.
“Yes,” she answered, after a long pause. “I hate to do it—but I’m bound
to.”
* * * * *
It was just after the clock struck the birth of another Christmas-Day
that Bobbie led his bride into the beautiful parlors, and while they
plighted their troth with only those around who knew and loved them most,
Uncle Lias outside the door played softly on his old violin the sweet
old Christmas carol of “Peace on Earth—Good Will to Men,” and after it
was over the Blue and the Grey shook hands together, to the intense and
unqualified disgust of loyal old Sallie Tom.
[Illustration]