JUST IN TIME
Graham returned to camp early in the afternoon, and was again greeted
with acclamations, for the events that had occurred had become better
known. The men soon saw, however, from his sad, stern visage that he
was in no mood for ovations, and that noisy approval of his course was
very distasteful. After reporting, he went directly to his tent; its
flaps were closed, and Iss was instructed to permit no one to approach
unless bearing orders. The faithful negro, overjoyed at his master's
safe return, marched to and fro like a belligerent watch-dog.
Graham wrote the whole story to his aunt, and besought her to make
known to Grace with all the gentleness and tact that she possessed the
awful certainty of her husband's death. A telegram announcing him among
the missing had already been sent. "Say to her," he said, in
conclusion, "that during every waking moment I am grieving for her and
with her. Oh, I tremble at the effect of her grief: I dread its
consequences beyond all words. You know that every power I possess is
wholly at her service. Write me daily and direct me what to do--if,
alas! it is within my power to do anything in regard to a grief that is
without remedy."
He then explained that the command was under orders to move the
following day, and that he would write again when he could.
During the next two weeks he saw some active service, taking part in
several skirmishes and one severe engagement. In the last it was his
fortune to receive on the shoulder a sabre-cut which promised to be a
painful though not a dangerous wound, his epaulet having broken the
force of the blow.
On the evening of the battle a telegram was forwarded to him containing
the words:
"Have written fully. Come home if you can for a short time. All need
you. CHARLOTTE MAYBURN."
In the rapid movements of his brigade his aunt's letters had failed
to reach him, and now he esteemed his wound most fortunate since it
secured him a leave of absence.
His journey home was painful in every sense of the word. He was
oppressed by the saddest of memories. He both longed and dreaded
unspeakably to see Grace, and the lack of definite tidings from her
left his mind a prey to the dreariest forebodings, which were enhanced
by his aunt's telegram. The physical pain from which he was never free
was almost welcomed as a diversion from his distress of mind. He
stopped in Washington only long enough to have his wound re-dressed,
and pushed northward. A fatality of delays irritated him beyond
measure; and it was late at night when he left the cars and was driven
to his aunt's residence.
A yearning and uncontrollable interest impelled him to approach first
the cottage which contained the woman, dearer to him than all the
world, who had been so strangely committed to his care. To his surprise
there was a faint light in the library; and Hilland's ill-omened dream
flashed across his mind. With a prophetic dread at heart, he stepped
lightly up the piazza to a window. As he turned the blinds he witnessed
a scene that so smote his heart that he had to lean against the house
for support. Before him was the reality of poor Hilland's vision.
On the rug before the flickering fire the stricken wife crouched,
wringing her hands, which looked ghostly in their whiteness. A candle
burning dimly on a table increased the light of the fire; and by their
united rays he saw, with a thrill of horror, that her loosened hair,
which covered her bowed face and shoulders, was, in truth, silver
white; and its contrast with her black wrapper made the whole scene,
linked as it was with a dead man's dream, so ghostly that he shuddered,
and was inclined to believe it to be the creation of his overwrought
senses. In self-distrust he looked around. Other objects were clear in
the faint moonlight. He was perfectly conscious of the dull ache of his
wound. Had the phantom crouched before the fire vanished? No; but now
the silver hair was thrown back, and Grace Hilland's white, agonized
face was lifted heavenward. Oh, how white it was!
She slowly took a dark-colored vial from her bosom.
Thrilled with unspeakable horror, "Grace!" he shouted, and by a
desperate effort threw the blind upward and off from its hinges, and it
fell with a crash on the veranda. Springing into the apartment, he had
not reached her side before the door opened, and his aunt's frightened
face appeared.
"Great God! what does this mean, Alford?"
"What _does_ it mean, indeed!" he echoed in agonized tones, as he knelt
beside Grace, who had fallen on the floor utterly unconscious. "Bring
the candle here," he added hoarsely.
She mechanically obeyed and seemed almost paralyzed. After a moment's
search he snatched up something and cried: "She's safe, she's safe! The
cork is not removed." Then he thrust the vial into his pocket, and
lifted Grace gently on the lounge, saying meanwhile: "She has only
fainted; surely 'tis no more. Oh, as you value my life and hers, act.
You should know what to do. I will send the coachman for a physician
instantly, and will come when you need me."
Rushing to the man's room, he dragged him from his bed, shook him
awake, and gave him instructions and offers of reward that stirred the
fellow's blood as it had never been stirred before; and yet when he
reached the stable he found that Graham had broken the lock and had a
horse saddled and ready.
"Now ride," he was commanded, "as if the devil you believe in was after
you."
Then Graham rushed back into the house, for he was almost beside
himself. But when he heard the poor old major calling piteously, and
asking what was the matter, he was taught his need of self-control.
Going up to the veteran's room, he soothed him by saying that he had
returned late in the night in response to his aunt's telegram, and that
he had found Grace fainting on the floor, that Mrs. Mayburn and the
servants were with her, and that a physician had been sent for.
"Oh, Graham, Graham," moaned the old man, "I fear my peerless girl is
losing her mind, she has acted so strangely of late. It's time you
came. It's time something was done, or the worst may happen."
With an almost overwhelming sense of horror, Graham remembered how
nearly the worst had happened, but he only said: "Let us hope the worst
has passed. I will bring you word from Mrs. Mayburn from time to time."
His terrible anxiety was only partially relieved, for his aunt said
that Grace's swoon was obstinate, and would not yield to the remedies
she was using. "Come in," she cried. "This is no time for ceremony.
Take brandy and chafe her wrists."
What a mortal chill her cold hands gave him! It was worse than when
Hilland's hands were cold in his.
"Oh, aunt, she will live?"
"Certainly," was the brusque reply. "A fainting turn is nothing. Come,
you are cool in a battle: be cool now. It won't do for us all to lose
our wits, although Heaven knows there's cause enough."
"How white her face and neck are!"--for Mrs. Mayburn had opened her
wrapper at the throat, that she might breathe more easily--"just as
Hilland saw her in his dream."
"Have done with your dreams, and omens, and all your weird nonsense.
It's time for a little more _common_-sense. Rub her wrists gently but
strongly; and if she shows signs of consciousness, disappear."
At last she said hastily, "Go"
Listening at the door, he heard Grace ask, a few moments later, in a
faint voice, "What has happened?'"
"You only fainted, deary."
"Why--why--I'm in the library."
"Yes, you got up in your sleep, and I followed you; and the doctor will
soon be here, although little need we have of him."
"Oh, I've had a fearful dream. I thought I saw Warren or Alford. I
surely heard Alford's voice."
"Yes, dear, I've no doubt you had a bad dream; and it may be that
Alford's voice caused it, for he arrived late last night and has been
talking with your father."
"That must be it," she sighed; "but my head is so confused. Oh, I am so
glad he's come! When can I see him?"
"Not till after the doctor comes and you are much stronger."
"I wish to thank him; I can't wait to thank him."
"He doesn't want thanks, deary; he wants you to get well. You owe it to
him and your father to get well--as well as your great and lifelong
sorrow permits. Now, deary, take a little more stimulant, and then
don't talk. I've explained everything, and shown you your duty; and I
know that my brave Grace will do it."
"I'll try," she said, with a pathetic weariness in her voice that
brought a rush of tears to Graham's eyes.
Returning to Major St. John, he assured him that Grace had revived, and
that he believed she would be herself hereafter.
"Oh, this cursed war!" groaned the old man; "and how I have exulted in
it and Warren's career! I had a blind confidence that he would come out
of it a veteran general while yet little more than a boy. My ambition
has been punished, punished; and I may lose both the children of whom I
was so proud. Oh, Graham, the whole world is turning as black as
Grace's mourning robes."
"I have felt that way myself. But, Major, as soldiers we must face this
thing like men. The doctor has come; and I will bring him here before
he goes, to give his report."
"Well, Graham, a father's blessing on you for going back for Warren. If
Grace had been left in suspense as to his fate she would have gone mad
in very truth. God only knows how it will be now; but she has a better
chance in meeting and overcoming the sharp agony of certainty."
Under the physician's remedies Grace rallied more rapidly; and he said
that if carried to her room she would soon sleep quietly.
"I wish to see Mr. Graham first," she said, decisively.
To Mrs. Mayburn's questioning glance, he added, "Gratify her. I have
quieting remedies at hand."
"He will prove more quieting than all remedies. He saved my husband's
life once, and tried to do so again; and I wish to tell him I never
forget it night or day. He is brave, and strong, and tranquil; and I
feel that to take his hand will allay the fever in my brain."
"Grace, I am here," he said, pushing open the door and bending his knee
at her side while taking her hand. "Waste no strength in thanks. School
your broken heart into patience; and remember how dear, beyond all
words, your life is to others. Your father's life depends on yours."
"I'll try," she again said; "I think I feel better, differently. An
oppression that seemed stifling, crushing me, is passing away. Alford,
was there no chance--no chance at all of saving him?"
"Alas! no; and yet it is all so much better than it might have been!
His grave is in a quiet, beautiful spot, which you can visit; and fresh
flowers are placed upon it every day. Dear Grace, compare your lot with
that of so many others whose loved ones are left on the field."
"As he would have been were it not for you, my true, true friend," and
she carried his hand to her lips in passionate gratitude. Then tears
gushed from her eyes, and she sobbed like a child.
"Thank the good God!" ejaculated Mrs. Mayburn. "These are the first
tears she has shed. She will be better now. Come, deary, you have seen
Alford. He is to stop with us a long time, and will tell you everything
over and over. You must sleep now."
Graham kissed her hand and left the room, and the servants carried her
to her apartment. Mrs. Mayburn and the physician soon joined him in the
library, which was haunted by a memory that would shake his soul to his
dying day.
The physician in a cheerful mood said, "I now predict a decided change
for the better. It would almost seem that she had had some shock which
has broken the evil spell; and this natural flow of tears is better
than all the medicine in the world;" and then he and Mrs. Mayburn
explained how Grace's manner had been growing so strange and unnatural
that they feared her mind was giving way.
"I fear you were right," Graham replied sadly; and he told them of the
scene he had witnessed, and produced the vial of laudanum.
The physician was much shocked, but Mrs. Mayburn had already guessed
the truth from her nephew's words and manner when she first discovered
him.
"Neither Grace nor her father must ever know of this," she said, with a
shudder.
"Certainly not; but Dr. Markham should know. As her physician, he
should know the whole truth."
"I think that phase of her trouble has passed," said the doctor,
thoughtfully; "but, as you say, I must be on my guard. Pardon me, you
do not look well yourself. Indeed, you look faint;" for Graham had sunk
into a chair.
"I fear I have been losing considerable blood," said Graham,
carelessly; "and now that this strong excitement is passing, it begins
to tell. I owe my leave of absence to a wound."
"A wound!" cried his aunt, coming to his side. "Why did you not speak
of it?"
"Indeed, there has been enough to speak of beyond this trifle. Take a
look at my shoulder, doctor, and do what you think best."
"And here is enough to do," was his reply as soon as Graham's shoulder
was bared: "an ugly cut, and all broken loose by your exertions this
evening. You must keep very quiet and have good care, or this reopened
wound will make you serious trouble."
"Well, doctor, we have so much serious trouble on hand that a little
more won't matter much."
His aunt inspected the wound with grim satisfaction, and then said,
sententiously: "I'm glad you have got it, Alford, for it will keep you
home and divert Grace's thoughts. In these times a wound that leaves
the heart untouched may be useful; and nothing cures a woman's trouble
better than having to take up the troubles of others. I predict a deal
of healing for Grace in your wound."
"All which goes to prove," added the busy physician, "that woman's
nature is different from man's."
When he was gone, having first assured the major over and over again
that all danger was past, Graham said, "Aunt, Grace's hair is as white
as yours."
"Yes; it turned white within a week after she learned the certainty of
her husband's death."
"Would that I could have died in Hilland's place!"
"Yes," said the old lady, bitterly; "you were always too ready to die."
He drew her down to him as he lay on the lounge, and kissed her
tenderly, as he said, "But I have kept my promise 'to live and do my
best.'"
"You have kept your promise _to live_ after a fashion. My words have
also proved true, 'Good has come of it, and more good will come of it.'"