It was true that John Charter was coming home from the Philippine
Islands.
Out there in the Island of Luzon there was consequently much mourning
in the regiment, for John Charter had borne the heat and burden of the
day, and it remained to be seen whether he would receive his reward.
That Charter greatly differed, at first sight, from other men of his
class and his profession cannot be said; that he did differ greatly in
soul is true. He was a tall, muscular, well-built, young American, a
soldier by instinct, a West Pointer by training, and a first lieutenant
in a regiment of regulars by promotion, but John wore his khaki with
distinction. He had a clean hand and a clean soul, he was superbly
honest, and he was so simple that it seemed that the eternal boy would
never die in him. A certain habit of reserve had kept him unknown and
not greatly liked until the cholera came. In seasons of stress and
cases of cholera, men learn things. The regiment learned John. It was
hot and men fell sick like flies; a steam rose from the rice paddies;
the water was poison; and the soldiers cursed God and died,--that is,
a good many of them.
It was a time when the officers were on leave, but John came back at
the first call. He had been trying to write to Rachel Leven a long
delayed letter,--a letter that he found hard to write, there was so
much to be said in it, and it would have changed the course of so many
lives. On a little thing hangs, sometimes, the fate of a lifetime, but
John never wrote that letter, for the cholera broke out in Company B
and he took off his coat and went to work. He could do anything better
than write a letter.
The men were very sick and the regiment surgeon had chills and fever;
he worked between shakes and swore fearfully, but John and the chaplain
helped him without profanity. The first week three died and ten more
sickened; the second week the chaplain died and John helped the surgeon
alone, for the colonel was in bed with cholera. John seldom slept,
and when he did, he slept in his clothes. The camp was a pest-house.
It is true that we come into this world alone and that we must go out
of it alone, but at the last a man likes to hear a kind word, to see
a friend's face. The dying saw John; he wrote their last letters for
them, took charge of their little bequests, made their wills, sat with
the sick and the delirious; and one poor boy from Maryland raved and
clung to him for twenty-four hours. Then he fell asleep and began to
mend. He thought John had saved his life, and he was probably right,
for the surgeon had had a chill the day of the crisis and was not able
to lift a finger.
Charter worked on; he grew thin and his eyes sank back in his head,
but he worked on. Then he found that the natives were sick, too, and
in distress, and he rode out of camp at all hours to carry medicines
and administer comfort under the _nipa_ roofs, where the skull of the
carabao on the gate-post had failed of its charm to keep away cholera.
He did the work of five men and superintended the burying of the dead,
but after six weeks of it he fell in his tracks. They carried him
into the hospital-tent and laid him on a cot, then they tiptoed out,
bareheaded, white with fear; and the boy from Maryland stood outside in
his socks and wept. The colonel got out of bed and came down to consult
with the surgeon, and together they went and looked at John, who lay
unconscious, with a blue ring around his mouth. The surgeon swore, a
sign of fear and emotion with him, while the colonel's eyes were wet;
they were both fighting mad and they had been boys together.
"Going to die?" the colonel asked hoarsely.
"How do I know?" snapped the surgeon; "I'm not omniscient; it would be
a damned sight better if I had been!"
"We can't afford to lose him," said the colonel, blowing his nose. "If
you're not a damned fool, you'll pull him through."
"I am a damned fool. If I hadn't been, I'd have stopped his racket;
he's worked like a mule."
"He ought to be promoted," growled the colonel, "and here he is on his
back, sick as a dog. Simon, I'll hang you if you let him slip; he's got
to be promoted."
"Think likely he'll be promoted to heaven," snapped the surgeon; "this
damned cholera--"
"Simon," said the colonel, "profanity and chills and fever won't save
this boy, and I--I love him like a son!"
The surgeon went to the door and looked out. In the distance he saw the
peaks of the Caraballo Sur, blue and vivid; a mist floated over the
valley, the rice fields were green, the _nipa_ palms and the cocoanuts
looked gray. In his heart he cursed the Philippine Islands collectively
and the cholera individually, but the flag must not come down. He wiped
his forehead and turned back, and he and the colonel eyed each other
grimly.
"How d'ye think I feel?" he asked fiercely. "You love John like a son?
By the Lord Harry, Colonel, I'd give my right hand for him now--and my
right eye! So would the boy from Maryland, so would Private Davitt,
so would Private McPhee, so would Michael Larry, whom he carried up
the long hill when the Moros stabbed Mike in the back; so would the
Filipino woman whose baby he saved when the hill village burned, so
would every man jack in this regiment, but it's only God Almighty that
can save him now. I'm fighting, but so is the cholera."
The colonel took off his hat and buried his face in it. Let no man say
that in that hour the rough old soldier and the profane doctor did not
pray.
John lay a long while between life and death. Then one beautiful
morning he opened his eyes on a new world, where a fresh breeze was
blowing and the sun shone. He lay still and weak on his bed and watched
a little lizard crawl in the sun at the tent door. His head felt quite
light but his heart was filled with peace, for he had been dreaming a
great deal and Rachel had spoken to him, not once but many times; he
remembered her voice quite well.
He was amazed when the surgeon came in and sat down beside him. The old
man looked ill and worn as he felt John's pulse. Then John remembered.
"I meant to have gone down to-day to see the boy from Maryland," he
said. "I'll go--"
"The boy's well," said the doctor, "he's been well a month."
John tried to sit up in bed and failed. "What do you mean?" he gasped.
"Have I been ill?"
"Six weeks; you're promoted to be a captain of the Tenth, and you're
ordered home two weeks from to-day."
It was then that John fainted. In his own mind he had done only his
plain duty. He had such a simple conception of life that he perplexed
other people; they imagined him to be always trying to compass great
ends, while in reality he only saw his work and did it. Simplicity is
sometimes more perplexing than diplomacy and John had achieved perfect
simplicity; he had done a hard duty well because he had no idea how
to leave it undone, and he did not know that it was uncommon to do it
in his way, or that he had done it uncommonly well. He was surprised
that the men had so suddenly adopted him and he was a little shy under
their enthusiasm. The boy from Maryland followed him around like a
dog and wept when John took ship on the government transport with his
tall, thin person fairly bulging with farewell letters and remembrances
that he was carrying to the kindred of the dead soldiers. It was this
multiplicity of commissions, this new and deadly popularity, that had
kept John from writing that one important letter, Rachel's letter. But,
if he did not write it, he thought it out a dozen times, for she was
never long absent from his mind. All the way across the Pacific it may
be said that Rachel traveled with him; she fairly walked the waves, and
when he stood, as he often stood, on the deck and looked seaward with
steadfast eyes, he was thinking of Rachel.
He had known her nearly all his life and he had loved her long before
Rachel had even dimly perceived it. But John was deliberate; not
even a great love could reverse the fixed habits of a lifetime, and
he waited for the full time to come before he opened his heart, not
knowing that opportunity had come like a thief in the night and stolen
away again, thwarted and lost forever. He continued to look ahead with
steadfast, blue eyes and that habit--as strong as his deliberation--the
habit of determination. All that he had ever won in his life he had
won by a quiet, determined perseverance. It was said of him in the
regiment that Charter's perseverance was more deadly than a brickbat,
and John's perseverance had the effect of a moral brickbat; it was a
projectile that hit opposition fairly in the bull's-eye and crushed
its way through it. He had worked his way steadily upward without
favoritism,--no one had rolled logs for him; he had the qualities that
win recognition in the teeth of circumstance, and he had outgrown his
comrades, as he had outgrown himself; at thirty-three he was still
growing, still pursuing his moral development. It was this quality
that had lifted him above his fellows, and that had stretched him on a
sick-bed for weeks in the islands. Sometimes our victories seem defeats
because they are robbed of the fruits, and John's greatest victory had
been won in the cholera camp; he had grown steadily during those weeks
of service; the regiment adored him, but he had lost touch with the
world, and it is not always safe to put aside an important letter.
By this it will be seen that, having been ill six weeks, and coming
home on a transport, beset by many duties, John had heard nothing, and
had missed many home papers and even one newsy letter from his cousin
Pamela Van Citters. He was coming home to Rachel Leven; he had decided,
after much deliberation, that it was better to speak than to write, for
he was by no means sure of Rachel's love, though he was overwhelmingly
sure of her kindness. It would be sweet to see Rachel; there was
something in her strength, her tranquility, her sanity, that appealed
to John's heart. He felt their community of spirit; she was clever and
charming and all that, and yet he understood her and she understood
him. He landed in San Francisco with a feeling of joy that he stood
once more on the same continent, that the sea was no longer between
them. But it was characteristic of Charter that he proceeded to attend
to the various commissions that he had received from the dead soldiers
out in Luzon. He traveled miles out of his way to carry a letter and
a lock of hair to a bereaved old mother, and he took back a ring and
a sword to a young widow. He did a dozen painful and tedious things
before he set his face toward Washington, where he had to report to the
War Department and where he hoped to find Rachel.
It was now nearly the first of August and the hot sun on the paved
streets made him recall the cool-looking rice paddies and the river
that had flowed so near the camp. Sickening memories came back, and
some sorrow; he remembered dying faces and the clinging of chilly
hands. He hurried through the city without even a visit to his club
and therefore he heard nothing. The calm of midsummer had settled on
the place and he saw no one he knew, except at the War Department,
and there he received his promotion. Afterwards, he went over to the
White House and the President himself spoke a few words to him, so
full of appreciation and kindness that John blushed like a girl. When
he was finally through with this ordeal, for it was an ordeal to him,
he walked down Pennsylvania Avenue, where even the gay chatter of
people about him sounded cheerful and homelike. He walked on, unaware
that many glanced curiously at the tall, soldierly figure, the bronzed
face, the straight-looking, blue eyes. He was not handsome, but he was
distinguished looking, with that crisp blond hair that seldom shows a
streak of white until the approach of extreme old age. People thought
him absorbed and happy, but, in reality, his spirit was traveling
ahead of him, and it continued to journey ahead of the trolley which
carried him the rest of the way.
He knew that Rachel was usually with the Astrys in July and August and
he had started without hesitation for the Astry place. He had sent no
word ahead of him; he longed to see the glad surprise in Rachel's eyes,
for he knew that, in any case, she would be glad to see him, and her
eyes were wonderful when she was pleased. Charter was quite unaware
that they had a look for him that they had for no other in the world;
but he was at peace with himself, no premonition stirred in his own
heart, no shadow fell before him upon the perfect sunshine of the day.
At last he would see Rachel! He believed in her; his large, simple
nature centered itself on that one thing, his belief in her.
It was late afternoon when he got off at the end of the avenue and set
off across country; purposely he walked, for it was no great distance
now, and he could think. Besides, he loved the hedgerows where the wild
carrot was riotously abloom and the wild grapevine was heavy with green
fruit. He broke off a spray of wild flowers and pressed them against
his face. It was good to be home again; down in that lane there used to
be swamp magnolias; he looked across a golden field of rye and saw the
deep blue of the Virginia hills; another bend of the road would bring
him to a little wood below the Astry meadows. He climbed the stile and
struck through the wood path. Ferns grew about his feet, the afternoon
sunshine made glorious vistas between the tall trunks of pines and
hemlocks. A solitary silver birch caught the light on its slender stem
far ahead.
Below the wood, another path crossed the Astry estate; it led to the
old tavern that belonged to Van Citters' aunt. John knew all about it;
Pamela was his first cousin and she had written him a humorous account
of Paul's architectural madness and his aunt's wrath. A grove of trees
shielded its old gables from sight, but John felt its presence; he even
thought he saw the highest chimney. He had come past the silver birch
now; below him lay the meadow, and the path, diverging from his own,
was fringed with a tall, plume-like growth of sumach. He descended the
slope, crossed the stream on the old stepping-stones, and looked up. On
the further bank stood Rachel.
She had seen him coming and had had that brief interval to recover her
self-control. Of course he knew, Pamela must have told him, and it
would be soon over; he would say something conventional, she had only
to play her part. It was almost a relief to her to feel that Pamela
must have given him all the details, but she was startled at the look
on his face, the joy that flashed into his eyes when he saw her. It
was disconcerting, but she held out her hand mechanically and made her
trite little speech.
"I'm so glad to see you home again."
His speech was not quite so ready, but his hand closed warmly over
hers and his eyes were eloquent. There was nothing wanting now in his
world, with Rachel in it. The joy of seeing her again blinded him to
the change in her, the shyness and constraint of her manner; he was
occupied, instead, with the delicate oval of her face, the dusky hair,
the clear, gray tint of her eyes. She had on a clinging, creamy gown
and a wide-brimmed hat that shaded her forehead, and he took in every
detail of the slender, graceful figure, holding her hand a good deal
longer than even such an occasion warranted.
"I can't tell you how glad I am to see you!" he said finally, his eyes
deeply kindled with happiness. "It seems a thousand years since I saw
you last, but you're unchanged!"
Was it possible that Pamela had not told him? She withdrew her hand
gently.
"Am I?" her lips trembled; "it's a long time, everything has happened."
"Yes, we've had war, pestilence, and almost famine out in the
Philippines. It's been a jolly hard row to hoe, and I had to see so
many poor fellows die, but it's done; they've let me come home to stay
a while, you know?"
"We've heard a great deal more than that, and we've honored the hero;
they've made you a captain, so I'm told." She was doing very well now;
after all, he might know and take it casually!
He blushed like a girl. "I didn't expect it to come so soon; I believe
the dear old colonel had something to do with it. I was glad chiefly
because I thought it would please--you."
"It does please me so much."
They had turned and were walking together across the meadow; neither of
them knew where they were going; the warm sunshine bathed them with its
caresses, a flock of purple martins descended before them and whirled
over the long grass in ever narrowing circles, their wings flashing in
the sunlight.
"Tell me about yourself," he said; "it is a long time really, and we
heard nothing out there, or next to nothing. I used to hope for a
letter from you, and kept on hoping until I realized that I was too
poor a correspondent to expect remembrance; but all the same I was
starving for news."
She had the feeling of a condemned criminal who has a brief,
unlooked-for reprieve with no hope of pardon later on.
"Haven't you heard anything? I thought Pamela wrote."
"When she feels like it. You know Pamela does things
spasmodically,--and there's the baby; nearly everything gives way to
his highness. The rest of us merely cumber the earth. Let me see, I
think my last letter from Pamela was at New Year's."
Then of course he did not know! She must tell him, but her tongue
refused to utter it.
"I thought Pamela would have written you," she chose her words slowly.
The opportunity to tell him was plain, but she could not do it, not
yet! "Quite a number of things have happened."
"But you've been well, I see that,--and Mrs. Astry?"
She snatched at the digression.
"Very well indeed; they're going to stay here all summer and go to
Lenox in October, I believe. I suppose Johnstone is staying on because
Congress does this year; you know he takes an interest in politics. I
hope it won't be too hot for Eva."
"You ought to feel the Philippines; one has to, to appreciate them! I
was very ill out there. I believe old Dr. Lewis thought I was going
to die, but I didn't; I only lay there in a sort of a trance and had
visions of you. You were very kind to me in my dreams. I think I was
content to lie there in the blistering heat and fever just to dream of
you."
"Poor fellow!" she said softly. She was walking beside him, trailing
her furled parasol in the grass, and she had a vague feeling of
amazement that she could still go on, for there is no torture so great
as the necessity to hurt one who is greatly loved, and Rachel was
tasting the dregs of her cup.
"When that old chap told me that I was promoted and ordered home, I
fainted. You see what a jolly fool I was, Miss Leven, but the joy was
too great; I was going to see you again. I thought of that all the way;
I was thinking of it when I came through the wood just now,--that I'd
soon see you, that I could speak to you at last, tell you all that's
been in my heart through these three years of exile. You know I never
could write a decent letter; I'm a perfect lumpkin with a pen! Rachel,
when I came across the brook and saw you, I--"