THE "PHANTOM" REMOVED.
"Hands to work and hearts to God," once said Emerson, while Tennyson
adds: "In this windy world what's up is faith, what's down is heresy!"
Anna was nervous and restless as she thought over these things, and all
of the next night lay tossing upon her bed, vainly endeavoring to woo
the gentle slumbers that would not come to her. It seemed so sad now
that it was all over, and it _was_ strange that George St. Clair should
have dismissed her so coldly! It was not her fault that she could not
dispel this "phantom" as he called it; yet he _pitied_ her! Was this the
panacea he strove so hard to apply to her wounded soul? True, she asked
him for it, yet pride rebelled at its application! Pity! The long, weary
hours were filled with exciting whispers, and ever and anon the chilling
words, "I will trouble you no longer," fell like hard, cold pebbles into
her sensitive soul. At last summoning all her fortitude she
congratulated herself that on the morrow Mrs. St. Clair and Ellen would
arrive. Then she could return home, where silently and alone she would
dig a grave in some lonely recess of her stricken heart and bury her two
great sorrows side by side! To-morrow! The clock struck five and the
sound of feet were heard below. The night had passed! She arose from
her bed and opened the window. One star yet faintly glimmered just above
the eastern horizon, up which the first morning beams were slowly
creeping. Calmly and peacefully it looked into the troubled upturned
face so full of sorrow and flushed with weeping, until Anna thought that
in its pensive gaze there was such pity as the angels might bestow upon
their weary earth-born sisters. Then her thoughts wandered away to those
who would be weary no more; whose foot-prints would never more be seen
along the dusty highway of life, for they were resting now, their
journeys over, their spirits freed from their crumbling prison-houses!
At rest! The pale tranquil light of the lonely star grew paler and more
feeble as she continued to gaze upon it, for a new day was approaching,
and in the glory of its brightness the tiny light was to be swallowed
up. Fading, changing, everywhere! How sad a lesson is life! How rugged
and thorny the way through it! "To look up is faith," repeated Anna
again; "Thou wilt show me the path of life; in Thy presence is fullness
of joy; at Thy right hand there are pleasures forevermore! Hush!" It was
not her own voice to which she was listening, but the echoing of her
poor pleading heart which had suddenly remembered that to look down
where all the dreary shadows were clustered was "heresy." The day was
before her heavily laden with duties. Why should she grope under the
clouds where were doubts and unbeliefs? By and by it may be she too
would rest! A step along the hall startled her. It was that of the black
servant leaving his master's room. "How faithful he has been," she
thought, "while I have only brought discomforts where I had so desired
to bring relief." It was over now; her dream of hope, of love, of life!
All was over; yet her hand still clasped the "golden bowl," and the
"silver cord" was not broken! There was sweet water still in the
fountain, although at times it might seem bitter to the taste.
She was standing by the mirror arranging the braids of her dark hair as
these reflections were passing through her mind. "How changed I am," she
continued, "not only in mind but in face! Perplexities and
disappointments are making sad havoc with my good looks! I must away
from this," and after preparing herself for a walk she hastened to the
hospital. She filled the moments of the laggard morning full of untiring
work by the side of the young nurse who flitted among the cots where
anxious, loving eyes watched for her coming and grew dim as she
disappeared from their sight. Still her thoughts were roving and regrets
came to disturb her as she remembered that no more could she place the
cup of cold water to fevered lips, or with her words soothe troubled
minds. She was going home to bury her dead, while so many were to remain
to be buried by stranger hands! The voice of the nurse recalled her.
"There was a big skirmish down the river last night and some of our
officers were disabled and are to be brought here to-day, we are
informed by telegram!" and she walked on where an upraised hand was
beckoning.
"Who knows but my poor brother is one of the fallen?" Anna mused as she
proceeded towards her temporary home.
It was nearly dinner-time and she must not let the whole day pass
without visiting the lonely one under her own roof. True, he had not
invited her to come again at the close of their last interview, but he
had hinted a wish that she should read the morning papers to him on her
return, Mrs. Howard had said. She had hoped to escape this, but she was
calmer now. Herbert was gone; men might be falling on the battle field
any day! It was the hand of war, not of individuals, that was slaying
the mothers' and sisters' loved ones all over the land! Poor heart! The
tidal wave was receding, but the waters underneath were black and
unfathomable!
"He is better, I think," Mrs. Howard went on to say, "and in a few days,
no doubt, will be able to sit up in an easy chair part of the time. He
asked a while ago if you had returned from the hospital, and looked, as
he always does, a little out of patience that you should devote so much
of your time to others."
Anna was not listening as her hostess bustled about the table prattling
in an unusual manner, as it was evident that she was probing with her
feminine curiosity deeper than had been her wont, and it seemed the duty
of her victim to push the intruding hand away.
"But you will go to him?" was the abrupt query at last.
"It is my intention," and Anna passed into the hall. The door of the
sick man's chamber was open, and before she had reached the upper
landing she heard her name called.
"I want to see you Anna. Please bring the morning papers, will you?"
She could not resist the pleading of the voice, and, besides, she had
expected to see him again; but how could she read to him.
"I was intending to brush away a little of the dust of morning labor
before coming to you," she remarked with a smile as she entered and took
a seat beside the bed.
"Do a better thing, Anna, and brush away the dust from my hopes and out
of my life! Would not that be a more merciful act?"
"Can I do all that, George?" and she laid her hand soothingly upon his
white forehead.
"You ought to be able to do so, since it was your hands scattered it."
There was a long silence.
"Is it your purpose to go home and leave me here with your bloody
spectre to haunt and distract me? Do I deserve such punishment? Should
loyalty to my native land be crowned with such terrible thorns? You have
confessed, Anna, that a few months ago you loved me, is that most holy
attribute so easily uprooted? If so, then I have been mistaken in
woman's heart?" He was looking in her face, that was thinner and, it may
be, paler than he had ever seen it, and his manly nature came to the
rescue. "Forgive me, Anna, I will not be so cruel! There is somewhere a
God who will make all right in His own good time, as Old Auntie would
say; and last night as Toby lay snoring on the lounge yonder, I thought
it all over. Yes, there is a God; and it may be He is at work in this
great war problem, and when the final result is summed up, we shall be
glad that the storm passed this way, because of the happy issues. Who
knows? But, dear girl, assure me of my guiltlessness in creating the
blast, or the terrible lightning that is desolating so many hearts and
homes! Will you?"
She raised her eyes to his face, and a smile broke over her own. "How
low are the mighty fallen!" and a low, rippling laugh mingled itself
with her words. "Did you ever imagine that I thought you such a great
man, so strong and powerful?"
"My own Anna!" he exclaimed, taking her hand passionately in his. "You
are not going to leave me comfortless, but will wipe away the mold from
hopes, and thus brighten up the future by letting the sunshine in upon
them again." He drew the beaming face down to his own and their lips
sealed the contract of mutual love and forgiveness.
"I did not mean to grieve you," she said at last, "but the blow was a
heavy one, and all things seemed to combine their powers to keep my
'phantom' in active existence, but they are gone now."
"Tell me that no more shall this murderous spectre stand between us.
This terrible war may have crippled me for life; my home and fortune be
taken from me through its ravages; but if you love and trust me, I
shall, notwithstanding all, be the happiest of men."
"Is the wound then, so very bad."
"The surgeon has more than hinted that my days of soldiering are over,
but was that all you heard of my long speech, made especially for your
ear?" he laughed. "You would not care to unite your destinies with a
cripple, and how would it be if the fortune was also gone? O, Anna!"
"Do not, George. I had not thought of all that, my mind is not capable
of taking such fanciful leaps; I was only thinking how sad all this
would be for one like you. But I could not be sorry if assured that you
would fight no more."
"Even though a broken back was my preventive?"
"The glimpses that come to us at this moment from the overshadowed
future are too bright to be flecked with such dark presentiments; I
cannot believe them. But there is Mrs. Howard's steps, on the stairs.
How kind she has been, and what a miserable nurse I have proven myself."
"Oh pshaw! I have improved more during the last half hour, under your
fostering care, than I should have done in three weeks of her nursing.
But you must not go yet or there will be great danger of a serious
relapse! I will send the good soul to Jericho as soon as I have
swallowed her potion, for I have much I want to say while the
opportunity is ours."
"I think it will be necessary for you to begin again on these fever
drops, as I see your cheeks are quite red this afternoon," carelessly
remarked the good lady, as she placed the spoon to his lips. There was a
roguish twinkle in her eye, however, which Anna did not fail to
perceive.
"Hang the fever drops!" exclaimed the patient; "I am ever so much
better, and am pondering the propriety of going home with Miss Pierson
to-morrow."
The kind lady shook with suppressed mirth as she went from the room, for
her keen eyes had looked deeper than ever before.
In the evening Ellen and her father arrived. It had been a weary morning
to Anna, for she had waited their coming with an anxious heart, but the
sky was clear now and she returned their greetings with fervor, wearing
her great grief, it was true, but the joys of the previous hours had so
covered it that the dear ones were astonished to find her bright beneath
the shadow of sorrow.
"My poor son," exclaimed Mr. St. Clair, as the first greetings were
over. "Yes, Anna; show us the way to him." She obeyed, and as they were
ascending the stairs, the father remarked, "I have no doubt we shall
receive a favorable report of your nursing, for I am convinced by the
pallor of your cheeks that there have been sad hours of watching and
anxiety."
"How I shrink from taking your place," interrupted the sister. "Poor
George! He will readily perceive the difference, I fear."
Anna's heart sank within her as she listened to the words of her
companions, who were all unconscious of the wounds they were probing.
Ellen must not know it; and then she was so soon to leave him! This
would be harder now, but he was to fight no more and they might yet be
happy! It was a grief to her that she had ever neglected him and brought
sorrow instead of joy into his hours of suffering. She opened the door
of the sick man's chamber, and as the father and sister passed in
reclosed it and retired to her own room. More than one reason prompted
her to do this, yet they must know in time that a great joy had been
amid her throes of bereavement. She would not have them grieved by her
seeming idiosyncrasies. They might blame her for apparent neglect; and O
if it had not been! Still he had not suffered as had she; her heart
assured her of this, and it pressed the thought as a consolation over
the bleeding fissure as the wounded bird attempts to hide its ebbing
life's blood beneath its fluttering wing! But it was over, and now the
phantom had been driven, ah whither? Would it ever haunt her again? He
had said: "There is a God somewhere who will make it all right in His
own good time," and she would wait.
Tea was ready and the three sat down together, Mr. St. Clair and Ellen
to satisfy a sharpened appetite after a long and tiresome journey, and
Anna to do the honors of the table after their home style in the north.
"George is looking so much better than I had hoped to find him," said
the father. "I think I shall be obliged to bless you Miss Anna for his
rapid improvement. It has been so kind in you to think of others,
although you were so heavily burdened with your own bitter sorrow! What
a debt of gratitude you and yours are heaping upon us!" he continued,
musingly. "But war must always bear its 'apples of ashes' and God only
knows where the ax should be laid!"
There were tears in Anna's eyes, for the fountain of grief had been for
so many days open that the liquid drops flowed now almost unconsciously
when the angel of pity stirred the bitter waters. Ellen saw them and the
dew-drops of sympathy moistened her own dark ones. "It would be so hard
to lose a brother," she thought. "How glad she was that George was
better!"
"You must go with us," said Ellen as they arose from the table and went
out into the hall. "You must begin to initiate me in your skill of
hygiene; beside, George inquired for you. I see how it will be, you are
to be sadly missed when only my poor inexperienced hands are brought
into service!" She noticed the agitation of her companion, and placing
an arm affectionately around her said, soothingly: "You know my heart,
dear girl, and that it is full of sympathy, but my tongue is a miserable
medium with which to communicate it to another! Let it be sufficient
that I can feel that you are sure of this and will never doubt me!"
"Doubt you, Ellen? Never for a moment! But my mother; how is she?"
"Sorrow-stricken, of course, but strangely resigned. There is something
noble in such a grief as hers, Anna! No, you need not shrink from
meeting her; she will comfort you! I see by your face, poor sufferer,
that you need it! She will do you good, never fear!"
"Just step in my room for a moment, Ellen; I would not have him see me
tear-stained again. I have wept so much for the last few days. You speak
truly, I do need my mother, for I am very weak. Ellen, there has been
more gall in the cup I have been draining than you can ever know! A
darker wave has rolled over my soul than can ever lift your bark, my
precious friend; but what matters it after all, when we find ourselves
sinking we are led to cry out 'save or I perish?' We shall be chided
some day for our faithlessness and doubtings, and it is better that we
should receive it while yet on the sea, for the calm, Ellen, is peaceful
after the storm." She had been bathing her face and arranging her hair
while speaking, and now turned toward her companion with the old smile
wreathing her lips.
"You are like your mother," and again the arm of affection drew them
closer together as they proceeded to the room where the father and
brother were awaiting them.
That night, contrary to the doctor's instructions, there was a long
conversation in the sick man's chamber, in which he earnestly joined.
"Let it be settled, Father, that you return with Anna," he said at
length. "I shall get along all right with Ellen and Mrs. Howard, with
what Toby can help, I have not the least doubt; and, besides, we rebels
must not be too exacting or expect too much." His eyes were upon Anna,
and she knew it. Her cheeks flushed, but the great hope in her heart
kept back the haunting spectre his words might otherwise have summoned.
"He is a rebel no more," she thought. His voice recalled her.
"Besides, you will be needed in the widow's home to assist and cheer. It
will not be a great while before I shall be able to join you all there,
for immediately on being well enough to sit up for a few hours I shall
leave for the North--through my convalescence at least."
There were quick glances into each other's faces, but he was silent.
"I will do as you say, my son," was the father's conclusion, "but I fear
we are tiring you. Yes, you will feel better after a rest, and to-morrow
we will talk farther on the subject."
Four days afterward a solemn cortege wended its way through the little
village of Glendale, bearing its dead from the station to the home of
bereavement and sorrow. There were warm hand claspings, and words of
sympathy and condolence, and tears, such as mothers alone can shed, when
maternal love is stricken; when heart answers to heart with the sad echo
of loneliness and desolation.
And so they laid Edward Pierson away upon the hillside; the first martyr
in all the region on the altar of freedom!
[Illustration: A SCENE IN THE DISMAL SWAMP, VIRGINIA.]