Part 8 (1/2)
”She was very different from the other,” the boy's mother sighed, as she took up an unread letter--there were but two more. There was no harm in reading such letters as these, she thought with relief, and noticed as she drew the paper from the envelope that the postmark was two months later.
”You want me to write once that I love you”--that is the way it began.
The woman who read dropped it suddenly as if it had burned her. Was it possible? Her light-hearted boy, whose short life she had been so sure had held nothing but a boy's, almost a child's, joys and sorrows! The other affair was surprise enough, and a sad surprise, yet after all it had not touched him deeply, she felt certain of that; but this was another question. She knew instinctively that if love had grown from such a solid foundation as this sweet and happy and reasonable friends.h.i.+p with this girl, whose warm heart and deep soul shone through her clear and simple words, it would be a different love from anything that other poor, flimsy child could inspire. ”L'amitie, c'est l'amour sans ailes.” But sometimes when men and women have let the quiet, safe G.o.d Friends.h.i.+p fold his arms gently around them, he spreads suddenly a pair of sinning wings and carries them off--to heaven--wherever he wills it, and only then they see that he is not Friends.h.i.+p, but Love.
She picked up the letter again and read on:
”You want me to write once that I love you, so that you may read it with your eyes, if you may not hear it with your ears. Is that it--is that what you want, dear? Which question is a foolish sort of way for me to waste several drops of ink, considering that your letter is open before me. And your picture just back of it, your brown eyes looking over the edge so eagerly, so actually alive that it seems very foolish to be making signs to you on paper at all. How much simpler just to say half a word and then--then! Only we two can fill up that dash, but we can fill it full, can't we? However, I'm not doing what you want, and--will you not tell yourself, if I tell you something? To do what you want is just the one thing on earth I like most to do. I think you have magnetized me into a jelly-fish, for at times I seem to have no will at all. I believe if you asked me to do the Chinese kotow, and bend to the earth before you, I'd secretly be dying to do it. But I wouldn't, you know, I promise you that. I give you credit for liking a live woman, with a will of her own, better than a jelly-fish. And anyway I wouldn't--if you liked me for it or not--so you see it's no use urging me. And still I haven't done what you want--what was it now? Oh, to tell you that--but the words frighten me, they are so big. That I--I--I--love you. Is it that? I haven't said it yet, remember. I'm only asking a question. Do you know I have an objection to sitting here in cold blood and writing that down in cold ink? If it were only a little dark now, and your shoulder--and I could hide my head--you can't get off for a minute? Ah, I am scribbling along light-heartedly, when all the time the sword of Damocles is hanging over us both, when my next letter may have to be good-by for always. If that fate comes you will find me steady to stand by you, to help you. I will say those three little words, so little and so big, to you once again, and then I will live them by giving up what is dearest to me--that's you, dear--that your 'conduct' may not be 'unbecoming an officer and a gentleman.' You must keep your word. If the worst comes, will you always remember that as an American woman's patriotism. There could be none truer. I could send you marching off to Cuba--and how about that, is it war surely?--with a light heart, knowing that you were giving yourself for a holy cause and going to honor and fame, though perhaps, dear, to a soldier's death. And I would pray for you and remember your splendid strength, and think always of seeing you march home again, and then only your mother could be more proud than I.
That would be easy, in comparison. Write me about the war--but, of course, you would not be sent.
”Now here is the very end of my letter, and I haven't yet said it--what you wanted. But here it Is, bend your head, from away up there, and listen. Now--do you hear--I love you. Good-by, good-by, I love you.”
The papers rustled softly in the silent room, and the boy's mother, as she put the letter back, kissed it, and it was as if ghostly lips touched hers, for the boy had kissed those words, she knew.
The next was only a note, written just before his sailing to Cuba.
”A fair voyage and a short one, a good fight and a quick one,” the note said. ”It is my country as well as yours you are going to fight for, and I give you with all my heart. All of it will be with you and all my thoughts, too, every minute of every day, so you need never wonder if I'm thinking of you. And soon the Spaniards will be beaten and you'll be coming home again 'crowned with glory and honor,' and the bands will play fighting music, and the flag will be flying over you, for you, and in all proud America there will be no prouder soul than I--unless it is your mother. Good-by, good-by--G.o.d be with you, my very dearest.”
He had come home ”crowned with glory and honor.” And the bands had played martial music for him. But his horse stood riderless by his grave, and the empty cavalry boots hung, top down, from the saddle.
Loose in the bottom of the box lay a folded sheet of paper, and, hidden under it, an envelope, the face side down. When the boy's mother opened the paper, it was his own crabbed, uneven writing that met her eye.
”They say there will be a fight to-morrow,” he wrote, ”and we're likely to be in it. If I come out right, you will not see this, and I hope I shall, for the world is sweet with you in it. But if I'm hit, then this will go to you. I'm leaving a line for my mother and will enclose this and ask her to send it to you. You must find her and be good to her, if that happens. I want you to know that if I die, my last thought will have been of you, and if I have the chance to do anything worth while, it will be for your sake. I could die happy if I might do even a small thing that would make you proud of me.”
The sorrowful woman drew a long, s.h.i.+vering breath as she thought of the magnificent courage of that painful pa.s.sing up San Juan Hill, wounded, crawling on, with a pluck that the shades of death could not dim. Would she be proud of him?
The line for herself he had never written. There was only the empty envelope lying alone in the box. She turned it in her hand and saw it was addressed to the girl to whom he had been engaged. Slowly it dawned on her that to every appearance this envelope belonged to the letter she had just read, his letter of the night before the battle. She recoiled at the thought--those last sacred words of his, to go to that empty-souled girl! All that she would find in them would be a little fuel for her vanity, while the other--she put her fingers on the irregular, back writing, and felt as if a strong young hand held hers again. She would understand, that other; she had thought of his mother in the stress of her own strongest feeling; she had loved him for himself, not for vanity. This letter was hers, the mother knew it. And yet the envelope, with the other address, had lain just under it, and she had been his promised wife. She could not face her boy in heaven if this last earthly wish of his should go wrong through her. How could she read the boy's mind now? What was right to do?
The twilight fell over Crow Nest, and over the river and the heaped-up mountains that lie about West Point, and in the quiet room the boy's mother sat perplexed, uncertain, his letter in her hands; yet with a vague sense of coming comfort in her heart as she thought of the girl who would surely ”find her and be good to her,” But across the water, on the hillside, the boy lay quiet.
A MESSENGER
How oft do they their silver bowers leave, To come to succour us that succour want!
How oft do they with golden pineons cleave The flitting skyes, like flying Pursuivant, Against fowle feendes to ayd us militant!
They for us fight, they watch and dewly ward, And their bright Squadrons round about us plant; And all for love, and nothing for reward.
O! Why should heavenly G.o.d to men have such regard?
--_Spenser's ”Faerie Queene.”_
That the other world of our hope rests on no distant, s.h.i.+ning star, but lies about us as an atmosphere, unseen yet near, is the belief of many.
The veil of material life shades earthly eyes, they say, from the glories in which we ever are. But sometimes when the veil wears thin in mortal stress, or is caught away by a rus.h.i.+ng, mighty wind of inspiration, the trembling human soul, so bared, so purified, may look down unimagined heavenly vistas, and messengers may steal across the s.h.i.+fting boundary, breathing hope and the air of a brighter world. And of him who speaks his vision, men say ”He is mad,” or ”He has dreamed.”
The group of officers in the tent was silent for a long half minute after Colonel Wilson's voice had stopped. Then the General spoke.
”There is but one thing to do,” he said. ”We must get word to Captain Thornton at once.”