Works of Robert W Chambers

by Robert W. Chambers

  “Did it?”

  “I don’t know. There are so many, many boats at the landing, and there’s been so much firing, and nobody seems to know what is happening or where anybody is. . . . And I don’t know where Ailsa is, and I’ve been ve’y mise’ble because they say some volunteer nurses have been killed — —”

  “What!”

  “I didn’t want to tell you, Phil — until you were better — —”

  “Tell me what?” he managed to say, though a terrible fear was stiffening his lips and throat.

  She said dully: “They get shot sometimes. You remember yo’se’f what that Sister of Charity said last night. I heard Ailsa cautioning Letty — the little nurse, Miss Lynden — —”

  “Yes, I know. What else?”

  Celia’s underlip quivered: “Nothing, only Ailsa told me that she was ordered to the field hospital fo’ duty befo’ she went aboard the commission boat — and she never came back — and there was a battle all that day — —”

  “Is that all?” he demanded, rising on one elbow. “Is there anything else you are concealing?”

  “No, Phil. I’d tell you if there was. Perhaps I’m foolish to be so nervous — but I don’t know — that Sister of Charity struck by a bullet — and to think of Ailsa out there under fire—” She closed her eyes and sat shivering in the gray chill of the dawn, the tears silently stealing over her pale cheeks. Berkley stared out of the window at a confused and indistinct mass of waggons and tents and moving men, but the light was still too dim to distinguish uniforms; and presently Celia leaned forward and drew the curtains.

  Then she turned and took Berkley’s hands in hers.

  “Phil, dear,” she said softly, “I suspect how it is with you and

  Ailsa. Am I indiscreet to speak befo’ you give me any warrant?”

  He said nothing.

  “The child certainly is in love with you. A blind woman could divine that,” continued Celia wistfully. “I am glad, Phil, because I believe you are as truly devoted to her as she is to you. And when the time comes — if God spares you both — —”

  “You are mistaken,” he said quietly, “there is no future before us.”

  She coloured in consternation. “Wh — why I certainly supposed — believed — —”

  “Celia!”

  “W-what, dear?”

  “Don’t you know I cannot marry?”

  “Why not, Philip?”

  “Could I marry Ailsa Craig unless I first told her that my father and my mother were never married?” he said steadily.

  “Oh, Philip!” she cried, tears starting to her eyes again, “do you think that would weigh with a girl who is so truly and unselfishly in love with you?”

  “You don’t understand,” he said wearily. “I’d take that chance now. But do you think me disloyal enough to confess to any woman on earth what my mother, if she were living, would sacrifice her very life to conceal?”

  He bent his head, supporting it in his hands, speaking as though to himself:

  “I believe that the brain is the vehicle, not the origin of thought. I believe a brain becomes a mind only when an immortality exterior to ourselves animates it. And this is what is called the soul. . . . Whatever it is, it is what I saw — or what that something, exterior to my body, recognised.

  “Perhaps these human eyes of mine did not see her. Something that belongs to me saw the immortal visitor; something, that is the vital part of me, saw, recognised, and was recognised.”

  For a long while they sat there, silent; the booming guns shook the window; the clatter and uproar of the passing waggon train filled their ears.

  Suddenly the house rocked under the stunning crash of a huge gun. Celia sprang to her feet, caught at the curtain as another terrific blast shivered the window-panes and filled the room with acrid dust.

  Through the stinging clouds of powdered plaster Colonel Craig entered the room, hastily pulling on his slashed coat as he came.

  “There’s a fort in the rear of us — don’t be frightened, Celia. I think they must be firing at — —”

  His voice was drowned in the thunder of another gun; Celia made her way to him, hid her face on his breast as the room shook again and the plaster fell from the ceiling, filling the room with blinding dust.

  “Oh, Curt,” she gasped, “this is dreadful. Philip cannot stay here — —”

  “Better pull the sheets over his head,” said her husband, meeting Berkley’s eyes with a ghost of a smile. “It won’t last long; and there are no rebel batteries that can reach Paigecourt.” He kissed her. “How are you feeling, dear? I’m trying to arrange for you to go North on the first decent transport — —”

  “I want to stay with you, Curt,” she pleaded, tightening her arms around his neck. “Can’t I stay as long as my husband and son are here? I don’t wish to go — —”

  “You can’t stay,” he said gently. “There is no immediate danger here at Paigecourt, but the army is turning this landing into a vast pest hole. It’s deadly unhealthy. I wish you to go home just as soon as I can secure transportation — —”

  “And let them burn Paigecourt? Who is there to look after — —”

  “We’ll have to take such chances, Celia. The main thing is for you to pack up and go home as soon as you possibly can. . . . I’ve got to go out now. I’ll try to come back to-night. The General understands that it’s your house, and that you are my wife; and there’s a guard placed and a Union flag hung out from the gallery — —”

  She looked up quickly; a pink flush stained her neck and forehead.

  “I would not use that wicked flag to protect myse’f,” she said quietly— “nor to save this house, either, Curt. It’s only fo’ you and Phil that I care what happens to anything now — —”

  “Then go North, you bad little rebel!” whispered her husband, drawing her into his arms. “Paige and Marye have been deserted long enough; and you’ve seen sufficient of this war — plenty to last your lifetime — —”

  “I saw Ailsa’s house burn,” she said slowly.

  “Marye-mead. When?”

  “This mo’ning, Curt. Phil thinks it was the shells from the gun-boats. It can’t be he’ped now; it’s gone. So is Edmund Ruffin’s. And I wish I knew where that child, Ailsa, is. I’m that frightened and mise’ble, Curt — —”

  An orderly suddenly appeared at the door; her husband kissed her and hurried away. The outer door swung wide, letting in a brassy clangour of bugles and a roll of drums, which softened when the door closed with a snap.

  It opened again abruptly, and a thin, gray-garbed figure came in, hesitated, and Celia turned, staring through her tears:

  “Miss Lynden!” she exclaimed. “Is Ailsa here?”

  Berkley sat up and leaned forward, looking at her intently from the mass of bandages.

  “Letty!” he said, “where is Mrs. Paige?”

  Celia had caught the girl’s hands in hers, and was searching her thin white face with anxious eyes; and Letty shook her head and looked wonderingly at Berkley.

  “Nothing has happened to her,” she said. “A Sister of Mercy was wounded in the field hospital near Azalea, and they sent for Mrs. Paige to fill her place temporarily. And,” looking from Celia to Berkley, “she is well and unhurt. The fighting is farther west now. Mrs. Paige heard yesterday that the 8th Lancers were encamped near Paigecourt and asked me to find Mr. Berkley — and deliver a letter — —”

  She smiled, drew from her satchel a letter, and, disengaging her other hand from Celia’s, went over to the bed and placed it in Berkley’s hands.

  “She is quite well,” repeated Letty reassuringly; and, to Celia: “She sends her love to you and to your husband and son, and wishes to know how they are and where their regiment is stationed.”

  “You sweet little thing!” said Celia, impulsively taking her into her arms and kissing her pale face. “My husband and my son are safe and well, thank God, and my cousin, Phil Berkley, is convalescent, and you may tell
my sister-in-law that we all were worried most to death at not hearing from her. And now I’m going to get you a cup of broth — you poor little white-faced child! How did you ever get here?”

  “Our ambulance brought me. We had sick men to send North. Ailsa couldn’t leave, so she asked me to come.”

  She accepted a chair near the bed. Celia went away to prepare some breakfast with the aid of old Peter and Sadie, her maid. And as soon as she left the room Letty sprang to her feet and went straight to Berkley.

  “I did not tell the entire truth,” she said in a low, excited voice. “I heard your regiment was here; Ailsa learned it from me. I was coming anyway to see you.”

  “To see me, Letty?” he repeated, surprised and smiling.

  “Yes,” she said, losing what little colour remained in her cheeks.

  “I am in — in much — anxiety — to know — what to do.”

  “Can I help you?”

  She looked wistfully at him; the tears rushed into her eyes; she dropped on her knees at his bedside and hid her face on his hands.

  [Illustration: “She dropped on her knees at his bedside and hid her face on his hands.”]

  “Letty — Letty!” he said in astonishment, “what on earth has happened?”

  She looked up, lips quivering, striving to meet his gaze through her tears.

  “Dr. Benton is here. . . . He — he has asked me to — marry him.”

  Berkley lay silent, watching her intently.

  “Oh, I know — I know,” she sobbed. “I can’t, can I? I should have to tell him — and he would never speak to me again — never write to me — never be what he has been all these months! — I know I cannot marry him. I came to tell you — to ask — but it’s no use — no use. I knew what you would say — —”

  “Letty! Wait a moment — —”

  She rose, controlling herself with a desperate effort.

  “Forgive me, Mr. Berkley; I didn’t mean to break down; but I’m so tired — and — I wanted you — I needed to hear you tell me what was right. . . . But I knew already. Even if I were — were treacherous enough to marry him — I know he would find me out. . . . I can’t get away from it — I can’t seem to get away. Yesterday, in camp, the 20th Cavalry halted — and there was John Casson! — And I nearly dropped dead beside Dr. Benton — oh the punishment for what I did! — the awful punishment! — and Casson stared at me and said: ‘My Lord, Letty! is that you?’”

  She buried her burning cheeks in her hands.

  “I did not lie to him. I offered him my hand; and perhaps he saw the agony in my face, for he didn’t say anything about the Canterbury, but he took off his forage cap and was pleasant and kind. And he and Dr. Benton spoke to each other until the bugles sounded for the regiment to mount.”

  She flung her slender arm out in a tragic gesture toward the horizon. “The world is not wide enough to hide in,” she said in a heart-breaking voice. “I thought it was — but there is no shelter — no place — no place in all the earth!”

  “Letty,” he said slowly, “if your Dr. Benton is the man I think he is — and I once knew him well enough to judge — he is the only man on earth fit to hear the confession you have made this day to me.”

  She looked at him, bewildered.

  “I advise you to love him and marry him. Tell him about yourself if you choose; or don’t tell him. There is a vast amount of nonsense talked about the moral necessity of turning one’s self inside out the moment one comes to marry. Let me tell you, few men can do it; and their fiancees survive the shock. So, few men are asses enough to try it. As for women, few have any confessions to make. A few have. You are one.”

  “Yes,” she whispered.

  “But I wouldn’t if I were you. If ever any man or woman took the

  chance of salvation and made the most of it, that person is you!

  And I’m going to tell you that I wouldn’t hesitate to marry you if

  I loved you.”

  “W-what!”

  He laughed. “Not one second! It’s a good partnership for any plan. Don’t be afraid that you can’t meet men on their own level. You’re above most of us now; and you’re mounting steadily. There, that’s my opinion of you — that you’re a good woman, and a charming one; and Benton is devilish lucky to get you. . . . Come here, Letty.”

  She went to him as though dazed; and he took both her hands in his.

  “Don’t you know,” he said, “that I have seen you, day after day, intimately associated with the woman I love? Can you understand now that I am telling the truth when I say, let the past bury its ghosts; and go on living as you have lived from the moment that your chance came to live nobly. I know what you have made of yourself. I know what the chances were against you. You are a better woman to-day than many who will die untempted. And you shall not doubt it, Letty. What a soul is born into is often fine and noble; what a soul makes of itself is beyond all praise.

  “Choose your own way; tell him or not; but if you love him, give yourself to him. Whether or not you tell him, he will want you — as I would — as any man would. . . . Now you must smile at me, Letty.”

  She turned toward him a face, pallid, enraptured, transfigured with an inward radiance that left him silent — graver after that swift glimpse of a soul exalted.

  She said slowly: “You and Ailsa have been God’s own messengers to me. . . . I shall tell Dr. Benton. . . . If he still wishes it, I will marry him. It will be for him to ask — after he knows all.”

  Celia entered, carrying the breakfast on a tray.

  “Curt’s Zouaves have stolen ev’y pig, but I found bacon and po’k in the cellar,” she said, smilingly. “Oh, dear! the flo’ is in such a mess of plaster! Will you sit on the aidge of the bed, Miss Lynden, and he’p my cousin eat this hot co’n pone?”

  So the napkin was spread over the sheets, and pillows tucked behind Berkley; and Celia and Letty fed him, and Letty drank her coffee and thankfully ate her bacon and corn pone, telling them both, between bites, how it had been with her and with Ailsa since the great retreat set in, swamping all hospitals with the sick and wounded of an unbeaten but disheartened army, now doomed to decimation by disease.

  “It was dreadful,” she said. “We could hear the firing for miles and miles, and nobody knew what was happening. But all the northern papers said it was one great victory after another, and we believed them. All the regimental bands at the Landing played; and everybody was so excited. We all expected to hear that our army was in Richmond.”

  Celia reddened to the ears, and her lips tightened, but she said nothing; and Letty went on, unconscious of the fiery emotions awaking in Celia’s breast:

  “Everybody was so cheerful and happy in the hospital — all those poor sick soldiers,” she said, “and everybody was beginning to plan to go home, thinking the war had nearly ended. I thought so, too, and I was so glad. And then, somehow, people began to get uneasy; and the first stragglers appeared. . . . Oh, it did seem incredible at first; we wouldn’t believe that the siege of Richmond had been abandoned.”

  She smiled drearily. “I’ve found out that it is very easy to believe what you want to believe in this world. . . . Will you have some more broth, Mr. Berkley?”

  Before he could answer the door opened and a red zouave came in, carrying his rifle and knapsack.

  “Mother,” he said in an awed voice, “Jimmy Lent is dead!”

  “What!”

  He looked stupidly around the room, resting his eyes on Letty and

  Berkley, then dropped heavily onto a chair.

  “Jim’s dead,” he repeated vacantly. “He only arrived here yesterday — transferred from his militia to McDunn’s battery. And now he’s dead. Some one had better write to Camilla. I’m afraid to. . . . A shell hit him last night — oh — he’s all torn to pieces — and Major Lent doesn’t know it, either. . . . Father let me come; we’re ordered across the river; good-bye, mother—” He rose and put his arms around her.

  “
You’ll write to Camilla, won’t you?” he said. “Tell her I love her. I didn’t know it until just a few minutes ago. But I do, mother. I’d like to marry her. Tell her not to cry too much. Jimmy was playing cards, they say, and a big shell fell inside the redoubt. Philip — I think you knew Harry Sayre? Transferred from the 7th to the Zouaves as lieutenant in the 5th company?”

  “Yes. Was he killed?”

  “Oh, Lord, yes; everybody in the shebang except Arthur Wye was all torn to pieces. Tommy Atherton, too; you knew him, of course — 5th Zouaves. He happened in — just visiting Arthur Wye. They were all playing cards in a half finished bomb-proof. . . . Mother, you will write to Camilla, won’t you, dear? Good-bye — good-bye, Phil — and Miss Lynden!” He caught his mother in his arms for a last hug, wrenched himself free, and ran back across the hall, bayonet and canteen clanking.

  “Oh, why are they sending Curt’s regiment across the river?” wailed Celia, following to the window. “Look at them, Phil! Can you see? The road is full of Zouaves — there’s a whole regiment of them in blue, too. The batteries are all harnessed up; do you think there’s going to be another battle? I don’t know why they want to fight any mo’!” she exclaimed in sudden wrath and anguish. “I don’t understand why they are not willing to leave the South alone. My husband will be killed, and my only son — like Jimmy Lent — if they don’t ever stop this wicked fighting — —”

  The roar of a heavy gun buried the room in plaster dust. Letty calmly lifted the tray from the bed and set it on a table. Then very sweetly and with absolute composure she took leave of Celia and of Berkley. They saw her climb into an ambulance which was drawn up on the grass.

  Then Berkley opened the letter that Letty had brought him:

  “This is just a hurried line to ask you a few questions. Do you know a soldier named Arthur Wye? He is serving now as artilleryman in the 10th N. Y. Flying Battery, Captain McDunn. Are you acquainted with a lieutenant in the 5th Zouaves, named Cortlandt? I believe he is known to his intimates as Billy or ‘Pop’ Cortlandt. Are they trustworthy and reliable men? Where did you meet Miss Lynden and how long have you known her? Please answer immediately.