With the earliest opportunity, Harold proceeded to Washington, and
sought an interview with the President, in relation to Arthur's case.
Mr. Lincoln received him kindly, but could give no information
respecting the arrest or alleged criminality of his friend. "There were
so many and pressing affairs of state that he could find no room for
individual cases in his memory." However, he referred him to the
Secretary of War, with a request that the latter would look into the
matter. By dint of persistent inquiries at various sources, Harold
finally ascertained that the prisoner had a few days previously been
released, upon the assurance of the surgeon at the fort, that his
failing health required his immediate removal. Inquiry had been made
into the circumstances leading to his arrest; made too late, however, to
benefit the victim of a State mistake, whose delicate health had already
been too severely tried by the discomforts attendant upon his
situation. However, enough had been ascertained to leave but little
doubt as to his innocence; and Arthur, with the ghastly signs of a rapid
consumption upon his wan cheek, was dismissed from the portals of a
prison, which had already prepared him for the tomb.
Harold hastened to Vermont, whither he knew the invalid had been
conveyed. It was toward the close of the first autumn day that he
entered the little village, upon whose outskirts was situated the farm
of his dying friend. The air was mild and balmy, but the voices of
nature seemed to him more hushed than usual, as if in mournful unison
with his own sad reveries. He had passed on foot from the village to the
farm-house, and when he opened the little white wicket, and walked along
the gravelled avenue that led to the flower-clad porch, the willows on
either side seemed to droop lower than willows are used to droop, and
the soft September air sighed through the swinging boughs, like the
prelude of a dirge.
Arthur was reclining upon an easy-chair upon the little porch, and
beside him sat a venerable lady, reading from the worn silver-clasped
Bible, which rested on her lap. The lady rose when he approached; and
Arthur, whose gaze had been wandering among the autumn clouds, that
wreathed the points of the far-off mountains, turned his head languidly,
when the footsteps broke his dream.
He did not rise. Alas! he was too weak to do so without the support of
his aged mother's arm, which had so often cradled him in infancy and had
now become the staff of his broken manhood. But a beautiful and happy
smile illumined his pale lips, and spread all over the thin and wasted
features, like sunlight gleaming on the grey surface of a church-yard
stone. He lifted his attenuated hand, and when Harold clasped it, the
fingers were so cold and deathlike that their pressure seemed to close
about his heart, compressing it, and chilling the life current in his
veins.
"I knew that you would come, Harold. Although I read that you were
missing at the close of that dreadful battle, something told me that we
should meet again. Whether it was a sick man's fancy, or the foresight
of a parting soul, it is realized, for you are here. And you come not
too soon, Harold," he added, with a pressure of the feeble hand, "for I
am going fast--fast from the discords of earth--fast to the calm and
harmony beyond."
"Oh, Arthur, how changed you are!" said Harold, who could not keep from
fastening his gaze on the white, sunken cheek and hollow eyes of his
dying comrade. "But you will get better now, will you not--now that you
are home again, and we can nurse you?"
Arthur shook his head with a mournful smile, and the fit of painful
coughing which overtook him answered his friend's vain hope.
"No, Harold, no. All of earth is past to me, even hope. And I am ready,
cheerful even, to go, except for the sake of some loved ones that will
sorrow for me."
He took his mother's hand as he spoke, and looked at her with touching
tenderness, while the poor dame brushed away her tears.
"I have but a brief while to stay behind," she said, "and my sorrow will
be less, to know that you have ever been a good son to me. Oh, Mr. Hare,
he might have lived to comfort me, and close my old eyes in death, if
they had not been so cruel with him, and locked him within prison
walls. He, who never dreamed of wrong, and never injured willingly a
worm in his path."
"Nay, mother, they were not unkind to me in the fort, and did what they
could to make me comfortable. But, Harold, it is wrong. I have thought
of it in the long, weary nights in prison, and I have thought of it when
I knew that death was beckoning me to come and rest from the thoughts of
earth. It is wrong to tamper with the sacred law that shields the
citizen. I believe that many a man within those fortress walls is as
innocent in the eyes of God as those who sent him there. Yet I accuse
none of willful wrong, but only of unconscious error. If the sacrifice
of my poor life could shed one ray upon the darkness, I would rejoice to
be the victim that I am, of a violated right. But all, statesmen, and
chieftains, and humble citizens, are being swept along upon the
whirlwinds of passion; all hearts are ablaze with the fiery magnificence
of war, and none will take warning till the land shall be desolate, and
thousands, stricken in their prime, shall be sleeping--where I shall
soon be--beneath the cold sod. I am weary, mother, and chill. Let us go
in."
They bore him in and helped him to his bed, where he lay pale and
silent, seeming much worse from the fatigue of conversation and the
excitement of his meeting with his old college friend. Mrs. Wayne left
him in charge of Harold, while she went below to prepare what little
nourishment he could take, and to provide refreshment for her guest.
Arthur lay, for a space, with his eyes closed, and apparently in sleep.
But he looked up, at last, and stretched out his hand to Harold, who
pressed the thin fingers, whiter than the coverlet on which they rested.
"Is mother there?"
"No, Arthur," replied Harold. "Shall I call her?"
"No. I thought to have spoken to you, to-morrow, of something that has
been often my theme of thought; but I know not what strange feeling has
crept upon me; and perhaps, Harold--for we know not what the morrow may
bring--perhaps I had better speak now."
"It hurts you, Arthur; you are too weak. Indeed, you must sleep now, and
to-morrow we shall talk."
"No; now, Harold. It will not hurt me, or if it does, it matters little
now. Harold, I would fain that no shadow of unkindness should linger
between us twain when I am gone."
"Why should there, Arthur? You have been my true friend always, and as
such shall I remember you."
"Yet have I wronged you; yet have I caused you much grief and
bitterness, and only your own generous nature preserved us from
estrangement. Harold, have you heard from _her_?"
"I have seen her, Arthur. During my captivity, she was my jailer; in my
sickness, for I was slightly wounded, she was my nurse. I will tell you
all about it to-morrow."
"Yes, to-morrow," replied Arthur, breathing heavily. "To-morrow! the
word sounds meaningless to me, like something whose significance has
left me. Is she well, Harold?"
"Yes."
"And happy?"
"I think so, Arthur. As happy as any of us can be, amid severed ties and
dread uncertainties."
"I am glad that she is well. Harold, you will tell her, for I am sure
you will meet again, you will tell her it was my dying wish that you two
should be united. Will you promise, Harold?"
"I will tell her all that you wish, Arthur."
"I seem to feel that I shall be happy in my grave, to know that, she
will be your wife; to know that my guilty love--for I loved her, Harold,
and it _was_ guilt to love--to know that it left no poison behind, that
its shadow has passed away from the path that you must tread."
"Speak not of guilt, my friend. There could live no crime between two
such noble hearts. And had I thought you would have accepted the
sacrifice, I could almost have been happy to have given her to you, so
much was her happiness the aim of my own love."
"Yes, for you have a glorious heart, Harold; and I thank Heaven that she
cannot fail to love you. And you do not think, do you, Harold, that it
would be wrong for you two to speak of me when I am gone? I cannot bear
to think that you should deem it necessary to drive me from your
memories, as one who had stepped in between your hearts. I am sure she
will love you none the less for her remembrance of me, and therefore
sometimes you will talk together of me, will you not?"
"Yes, we will often talk of you, for what dearer theme to both could we
choose; what purer recollections could our memories cherish than of the
friend we both loved so much, and who so well deserved our love?"
"And I am forgiven, Harold?"
"Were there aught to be forgiven, I would forgive; but I have never
harbored in my most secret heart one trace of anger or resentment toward
you. Do not talk more, dear Arthur. To-morrow, perhaps, you will be
stronger, and then we will speak again. Here comes your mother, and she
will scold me for letting you fatigue yourself so much."
"Raise me a little on the pillow, please. I seem to breathe more heavily
to-night. Thank you, I will sleep now. Good night, mother; I will eat
the gruel when I wake. I had rather sleep now. Good night, Harold!"
He fell into a slumber almost immediately, and they would not disturb
him, although his mother had prepared the food he had been used to
take.
"I think he is better to-night. He seems to sleep more tranquilly," said
Mrs. Wayne. "If you will step below, I have got a dish of tea for you,
and some little supper."
Harold went down and refreshed himself at the widow's neat and
hospitable board, and then walked out into the evening, to dissipate, if
possible, the cloud that was lowering about his heart. He paced up and
down the avenue of willows, and though the fresh night air soothed the
fever of his brain, he could not chase away the gloom that weighed upon
his spirit. His mind wandered among mournful memories--the field of
battle, strewn with the dying and the dead; the hospital where brave
suffering men were groaning under the surgeon's knife; the sick chamber,
where his friend was dying.
"And I, too," he thought, "have become the craftsman of Death, training
my arm and intellect to be cunning in the butchery of my fellows!
Wearing the instrument of torture at my side, and using the faculties
God gave me to mutilate His image. Yet, from the pulpit and the
statesman's chair, and far back through ages from the pages of history,
precept and example have sought to record its justification, under the
giant plea of necessity. But is it justified? Has man, in his
enlightenment, sufficiently studied to throw aside the hereditary errors
that come from the past, clothed in barbarous splendors to mislead
thought and dazzle conscience? Oh, for one glimpse of the Eternal Truth!
to teach us how far is delegated to mortal man the right to take away
the life he cannot give. When shall the sword be held accursed? When
shall man cease to meddle with the most awful prerogative of his God?
When shall our right hands be cleansed forever from the stain of blood,
and homicide be no longer a purpose and a glory upon earth? I shudder
when I look up at the beautiful serenity of this autumn sky, and
remember that my deed has loosened an immortal soul from its clay, and
hurled it, unprepared, into its Maker's presence. My conscience would
rebuke my hand, should it willfully shatter the sculptor's marble
wrought into human shape, or deface the artist's ideal pictured upon
canvas, or destroy aught that is beautiful and costly of man's ingenuity
and labor. And yet these I might replace with emptying a purse into the
craftsman's hand. But will my gold recall the vital spark into those
cold forms that, stricken by my steel or bullet, are rotting in their
graves? The masterpiece of God I have destroyed. His image have I
defaced; the wonderful mechanism that He alone can mold, and molded for
His own holy purpose, have I shattered and dismembered; the soul, an
essence of His own eternity, have I chased from its alotted earthly
home, and I rely for my justification upon--what?--the fact that my
victim differed from me in political belief. Must the hand of man be
raised against the workmanship of God because an earthly bond has been
sundered? Our statesmen teach us so, the ministers of our faith
pronounce it just; but, oh God! should it be wrong! When the blood is
hot, when the heart throbs with exaltation, when martial music swells,
and the war-steed prances, and the bayonets gleam in the bright
sunlight--then I think not of the doubt, nor of the long train of
horrors, the tears, the bereavements, the agonies, of which this martial
magnificence is but the vanguard. But now, in the still calmness of the
night, when all around me and above me breathes of the loveliness and
holiness of peace, I fear. I question nature, hushed as she is and
smiling in repose, and her calm beauty tells me that Peace is sacred;
that her Master sanctions no discords among His children. I question my
own conscience, and it tells me that the sword wins not the everlasting
triumph--that the voice of war finds no echo within the gates of
heaven."
Ill-comforted by his reflections, he returned to the quiet dwelling, and
entered the chamber of his friend.