The Dixie Widow

by Gilbert, Morris

  Eubanks lifted his head and swept the faces of the men who were turned to him. “That’s what you want, for the Father to forgive you, isn’t it? But listen to verse twenty-six—which, in my own mind, contains the hardest word in the Bible: ‘But if ye do not forgive, neither will your Father which is in heaven forgive your trespasses.’ ”

  He closed his Bible and stood there—tall, solemn, compassionate. “Those are terrible words—If ye do not forgive, neither will your Father forgive. Think of that! There are millions in hell this morning, I fear, who could have known the mercy of God—but they would not forgive. There are, God help us, millions in both the North and the South who have grown bitter in their hearts and are now rotting with hate against a human adversary. They fall under these words: ‘neither will your Father which is in heaven forgive. . . . ’ ”

  Davis gave an involuntary glance at Belle, and a strange emotion shot through him as he thought of his adamant hatred for her. He tried to wash the minister’s words from his mind, but could not.

  “You say that your son has been killed by the Yankees, or your brother or father? ‘Must I forgive even that?’ The scripture rings out, ‘If you have ought against any . . . ‘ You will not be forgiven by God if you do not forgive! ‘But that’s more than a human being can do!’ you say. No, it is not, for Jesus Christ proved that it can be done. Do you remember His cry as they crucified Him? I know that you do! ‘Father, forgive them!’ And do not say that He could do it because He was God, for that is what the Incarnation meant—God became man, and it was as a man that Jesus forgave His enemies!”

  Davis’s hands began to tremble, and he clasped them together like a vise so no one would notice. The words of the Bible rang in his mind: If you have ought against any. Never had he been so shaken—not in battle or in any crisis. Fear flushed through him, and he gritted his teeth and looked down at the floor, trying to thrust the fear from his mind.

  Thad was watching Davis, and knew instantly that God was moving on the man. He bowed his head and began to pray, asking God to bring a sense of need so great that Winslow would cry for salvation.

  Belle, too, was watching, and a strange sensation went through her as she saw the tormented face of the man she knew as Owen Morgan. It was the first time she had seen him show any emotion, other than that strange oblique light which sometimes came into his eyes when he looked at her. Now she pondered the brokenness she could not understand.

  Finally, the minister ended his sermon with a plea for every person to turn his heart to God. “No matter what is keeping you from God, it’s not worth what you’re paying for it. Jesus Christ is your only hope for time and eternity. I beg you to forgive those who have offended you, and let God forgive you the way He longs to!”

  Davis sat as though transfixed, lost in his silent struggle, and responded only when Lonnie reached out to touch him.

  “Lieutenant? Are you all right?”

  “Why—yes, Lonnie,” Davis replied quickly. He saw Thad coming toward them, and pulled his shoulders together in an attempt to cover the weakness that had assaulted him. “This is Lonnie Tate, Lieutenant Novak.”

  Thad took the chair offered him and began to talk with Lonnie, and Davis got up, found his cane and moved out of the ward. The hall was crowded with visitors, and he edged his way through until he reached the porch, where he was taken aback to find Belle, standing with her back to one of the pillars, staring out across the lawn.

  She heard the tap of his stick and turned to face him. “Hello, Owen,” she said quietly, then turned back.

  Davis stood there, in a quandary. He wanted to leave, but that seemed graceless. Yet she showed no desire to talk to him, so he hobbled off the porch and moved along the walk again. Nearing the corner, he looked over his shoulder and saw her in the same position, motionless as a statue. He circled the hospital, and when he came back, she was gone. He sighed with relief. He didn’t want to talk with her or anyone else, so he avoided everybody by finding a bench under one of the trees where he could sit locked in his own thoughts.

  ****

  That night he awoke with a start, confused as to where he was or what had aroused him from a sound sleep. Then his eyes adjusted to the dim lamplight at the end of the ward, and he turned his head, peering to his right. “Lonnie—are you all right?”

  Hearing only a faint sound, Davis carefully swung his feet out of bed and leaned over to see better. Lonnie was staring up at the ceiling, his body racked by great tremors. Davis made a lunge at his cane, and hobbled out of the ward and down the hall. Usually one of the orderlies was nearby. No one in sight! He moved quickly along, calling, “Orderly!”

  A door burst open, and Belle cried, “What’s the matter? Are you sick?”

  “It’s Lonnie! He’s very bad.”

  She ran lightly down the hall, and by the time he got to where she bent over Lonnie, Davis’s leg was throbbing with pain. He ignored it and went to his bed, standing there as Belle bent over the boy. She had moved a lamp on the shelf over his head; and by the flickering light, Davis saw that Lonnie’s eyes were set, fixed on the ceiling. “Is he dead?” he whispered.

  “No—but he’s going, I’m afraid.”

  She held her hand on Lonnie’s forehead, staring into his face. Davis’s legs suddenly gave way, and he dropped on the bed, fear knotting his stomach. “Isn’t there something to do?” he asked.

  Her eyes were filled with an enormous sadness as she looked at the dying lad. “No. There’s nothing anyone can do.”

  The words hit Davis like a blow. He clamped his lips shut, wishing there were some way he could run away from it. But there was no escape, and as the two waited, they could hear the raspy breathing growing fainter.

  From time to time tremors would shake Lonnie, but they became less and less frequent, and each less potent. Davis feared that each one would be the last, and shut his eyes every time the fragile body arched upward in a spasm.

  A long time passed, and then Lonnie opened his eyes. “Hello—Miss Belle,” he whispered.

  “Lonnie . . . !” she said, choking with emotion. She bit her lips to stop the tremble, all the while stroking his forehead.

  He turned his head, and his eyes were calm as he said, “Lieutenant, is that you?”

  “Yes, it’s me, Lonnie.”

  The boy’s lips curved in a smile, and he closed his eyes as he moved his head back. He seemed to be resting. In a moment he opened them and studied Belle’s face. He reached out a thin hand and carefully touched her cheek, then whispered, “It’s time, ain’t it, Miss Belle?”

  She blinked. “Time for what, Lonnie?”

  “Why—time for me to go,” he replied, and seemed surprised that she would ask.

  “Oh, Lonnie! Lonnie!” she cried, and he felt the hot tears falling on his face.

  He touched his cheeks, and shook his head. “Why, Miss Belle—it ain’t no call for you to cry—not for me!” His voice got stronger, and he nodded at her. “I been wishin’ to go for a long time now. I hurt so bad . . . !” Then he raised his hand to her cheek again. “But you been so good to me, Miss Belle—so very good!”

  She caught his hand and pressed her lips against it, but could not utter a word. Davis watched as the tears flowed from her tightly closed eyes over the boy’s hand, and felt his own hot tears rise to his eyes.

  “You know what, Miss Belle?” Lonnie said in a voice filled with wonder. “It don’t hurt no more!” He turned his head to smile at Davis. “Ain’t that wonderful, sir?”

  Davis managed to nod, but could not speak. He reached out his hand and Lonnie placed his in it. “You’re such a good man, Lieutenant!” Lonnie whispered, resting his hand in Davis’s. It felt like a bird’s claw to Winslow. “All this time you’ve been so good to me! I reckon—the good Lord—will have to reward you—now that I’m—leaving.”

  He arched, gave a great cough and cried out. Both Davis and Belle thought he was gone, but the tremor passed and he said, “You two—you been my best
friends—outside of family. I sure do—thank you . . .” He paused, his head pushing back into the pillow. His eyes opened wide and he whispered faintly, “Tell my ma—I’ll see her—in heaven!” Then his eyes began to close, and a smile crested his lips, as if he had thought of something very wonderful.

  “ . . . and I’ll—see you, Miss Belle—and Lieutenant . . .”—he whispered so faintly they could barely make it out—“ . . . I’ll see—you too . . .”

  The smile remained on his lips, and he gave one great sigh—and lay still.

  Belle put the lifeless hand on the boy’s chest, and Davis got his cane and pulled himself to his feet. They stood there looking down at Lonnie’s ravaged features, and suddenly Belle gave a great choking sob and turned blindly toward Davis. Without thought, he put out his free arm and she fell against him. As he held her, he felt the quick loosening of her body and the onset of her crying. She would have fallen, he knew, if he had not supported her, for her strength had drained from her. It was as though the iron control he had noted in her had slipped away with the spirit of the dying boy.

  He continued holding her, letting her weep. Finally she straightened up and her expression changed from softness to a self-willed pride.

  “I’Il have someone come for him,” she said, and left the room without a backward look.

  Davis returned to his bed and lay looking at the face of the dead boy. He had grown very fond of Lonnie and felt the vacuum left by someone whose life had made a difference—in Davis’s life and others.

  “Goodbye, Lonnie,” he whispered softly into the darkness.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  LOVE NEVER CHANGES

  Lonnie Tate’s death saddened the entire ward, for the gentle young man had become a favorite.

  But it was Belle Wickham whom Lonnie’s passing had influenced most. She had seen death in all forms since coming to Chimborazo, and had considered herself capable of meeting any situation. However, the constant pressure of the hospital had been building up in her unconsciously. She carried a facade that successfully disguised any damage the hurt, the pain, and the deaths did to her spirit. But by nature she was a gentle, loving person, who eventually broke under the barrage of grim blows accosting her.

  Immediately after Lonnie died, Belle went to her office and attempted, as she often did, to shake off the grief that always engulfed her. Never had she allowed anyone to see her as she wept over the patients, but many nights were spent struggling to keep from giving way. More than once she had come within a hairsbreadth of quitting her job, but the next morning, apparently calm and steady, she showed no sign of the struggle.

  When a tree falls in the forest, it immediately begins to decay—from the inside. Time passes with no apparent effect, but the destructive elements are at work. The winds and the rains batter the outside; the tiny borers attack the core. After some time a hunter sees it, and to his eye it is solid and healthy, but when he steps on the tree, it gives way, revealing the destructive damage to the life within. It took many months to break down the strength of that tree; it was not the pressure of the man’s boot—that only exposed the damage done by time and the enemy.

  In somewhat the same way, Lonnie’s death had been the final pressure that broke Belle. It was not his death alone, but all those that preceded his that caused the total breakdown of her defenses; and though she struggled all night to steady herself, by dawn she was still sitting in her chair, trembling with weakness and unable to face another day.

  Elmer Gibbs arrived early to get supplies, and when he entered Belle’s office, she was sitting motionless, her eyes underlined by dark circles, her face haggard and pale. He hesitated, then said, “Miss Belle, we’re out of lint. You want me to go downtown and see if I can get some?” He waited for her answer, but she stared at him vacantly. “Ma’am?” he asked, “is something wrong?”

  Still she sat there, saying nothing. Finally she got up and walked to the window. Gibbs was disturbed, for it was not like her. He waited for a few moments, and when he received no answer, he turned and walked down the hall to the kitchen where he found Dr. Stevens drinking a cup of coffee.

  “Doctor,” he said anxiously, “Miss Belle—something’s wrong with her.”

  “Is she sick, Gibbs?” Stevens asked, lowering his cup.

  “I don’t know. She won’t talk—and she looks bad.”

  “I’ll go see her.” He put his cup down and walked rapidly to Belle’s office, where he found her still staring out the window. When she didn’t respond to his presence, he said, “Belle . . . ?”

  After a long moment’s pause she turned. Her face was set in an abnormal grimace, her eyes wide, the whites prominent circles surrounding the irises. Emotionally paralyzed.

  “What’s wrong, Belle?” Dr. Stevens asked.

  “Lonnie died last night,” she said slowly, dragging the words out.

  “Yes. I heard about it when I arrived. Too bad! Such a good-hearted young man.”

  She didn’t speak, but her mouth twisted uncontrollably, and she covered it with her hand and wheeled.

  He caught her arm as she attempted to run out of the room, held her, and said firmly, “I’m sending you home for a few days’ rest, Belle.”

  “No! I can’t do that.”

  Dr. Stevens shook his head. His eyes were concerned, but there was a rough firmness in his deep voice as he said, “You don’t have any choice, I’m afraid. You’ve been working too many hours—which I’ve warned you about.” She began to shake her head, and he raised his voice, saying, “You’ve done good work here, and I don’t want to lose you. And that’s what’ll happen if you try to go on like you’ve done the past few months. You’re a casualty, Belle. You need rest or you’ll fall apart.”

  “What will happen to the men if I go?” she asked in a tight voice.

  “What will happen to them if you crack up for good?” Stevens demanded. “We’ll get along for a week or two. Go home and don’t even think about this place for a while. Then when you’ve had a good rest, you can return and resume your duties.”

  He had to argue for a time, but slowly she gave in, and he drove away with her in his buggy. He was a friend of the Winslows as well as their family doctor since he came to Richmond.

  “My house is over that way, Doctor,” she protested as he turned toward the west side of town.

  “You’re not going there,” he said firmly. “I don’t want you all alone. You’ll do nothing but brood. I’m taking you to your parents. They’ve been complaining for a long time how they never get to see you. Well, now they’re going to—and don’t argue with me!”

  The fact that she accepted his decision without flaring up was evidence to Stevens that she was not herself. He had fought many a battle with Belle over matters at the hospital, and was well aware of the vein of steel that ran through her. She would never have given in so easily to his decisions if she had not been weakened in some way he didn’t understand.

  Rebekah met them at the door, and saw the serious look on Dr. Steven’s face as he said, “Rebekah, this young woman is going to stay away from the hospital for two weeks. She’s been doing the work of two people, and it’s time she had a rest. You think you can hold her down and teach her how to be quiet for a time?”

  “Oh, this is ridiculous, Doctor!” Belle objected. “There’s nothing wrong with me!” But she could not control the trembling of her hands.

  Rebekah ignored Belle’s words and said, “I’m so glad you’ve come. We’ve wanted you to visit us, you know. Pet’s gone to Belle Maison for a while—and this place is so lonely.”

  “Good. You take care she gets out some, Rebekah,” Stevens nodded. “I’ll talk with you later in the week.”

  “Oh, Dr. Stevens,” Rebekah said as he turned to leave, “Thad was at church last night, and he mentioned that his friend Lieutenant Morgan will be leaving the hospital.”

  “That’s right. He’s made a good recovery and doesn’t really need to be in the hospital anymore. Did
Novak say where Owen would be going?”

  “He knew our boys were gone, so he asked if we might put the lieutenant up for a time. Sky said it would be fine, so if you approve, we’ll just let him stay here.”

  “He’s a lucky young fellow,” Stevens replied and grinned at Belle. “You see, Belle? You’ll still have at least one patient to practice on!” He turned to leave, adding, “I’ll have someone bring him out this afternoon.”

  Neither Rebekah nor Stevens saw the expression that swept Belle’s face at the mention of Lieutenant Morgan, and by the time Rebekah took her arm, saying, “Now, let’s go over to your house and get your things,” she had recovered.

  Part of Belle’s agony over Lonnie’s death was her mortification at her collapse, weeping helplessly in the arms of the tall lieutenant. Something about him had always made her uncomfortable. He had a way of looking at her out of his steady brown eyes that was disturbing, though she could never figure out why. She had prided herself on her control, and to have shown weakness before anyone was repugnant to her—but to dissolve completely before him in a fit of helpless dependency had shamed her deeply.

  The two women stopped by Belle’s little house, picked up the things necessary for the visit, then spent an hour shopping for a few items. As they moved in and out of the stores along the streets of Richmond, many people stared at Belle, whispering, “There she is—that’s her, the Dixie Widow.” Belle ignored them, but was relieved to get back to the house, where she helped her mother with a few simple household chores.

  “It’s nice out today, Belle,” Rebekah said later. “Why don’t you take a walk around the neighborhood?”

  “I think I will, Mother.”

  “I won’t be here when you get back,” Rebekah added. “I have a meeting at two. Perhaps you’d like to read that new novel by Dickens—David Copperfield.”

  Belle agreed, and left. Although dark clouds were beginning to roll over the mild April skies, she strolled for two hours along the side streets of Richmond. When distant thunder announced the coming of rain, she made her way back to her parents’ house. By the time she was within a few blocks of home, the heavens seemed to tilt, sending a solid stream on the town. The streets soon filled, washing away in a gurgling stream the trash and the winter’s leaves.