CHAPTER XVI.THE GRASP OF DEATH.
When the fierce heat of E Company's second summer in an almost tropical climate was fast depleting their ranks, Manson wrote to Liddy:
"Disease among us is more dangerous than rebel bullets. When I was a boy I used to feel that the long, hot hours in hay fields, or the bitter cold ones in the snow-buried woods, were severe hardships, but now I thank God for them! If I survive the exposure here it will be because of the splendid health and strength that came to me from those days on the farm. Sometimes when the miserable food I have to eat, or the vile water I must drink, is at its worst, I think of what mother used to cook, and how sweet the water in dear old Ragged Brook used to taste on a hot summer day, and you cannot imagine what I would give for a chance to thrust my face into that cool stream, where it was leaping over a mossy ledge, and drink my fill.
"I have passed through some ghastly and sickening experiences, too horrible to relate to you, and at times I am so depressed that I lose all hope, and then again I feel that I shall pull through all right. One thing I want you to do, and that is, forget the foolish promise I exacted from you that day on Blue Hill. Some things have occurred that have convinced me it was doing you a cruel injustice to ask such a promise."
It was the last letter Liddy ever received from her soldier boy, and when she read it it filled her with a new and uncanny dread.
During those first two years of service, E Company made heroic history. They took part in eleven hard-fought battles, besides many skirmishes, and not a man flinched or shirked a duty! They were all hardy sons of old New England, who, like their forefathers of '76, fought for home and liberty; for freedom and love of country. Such, and such only, are true heroes!
Of the battles in which they took part, now famous in history, Chancellorsville, Gettysburg, Tracy City, Resaca, Peach Creek and Atlanta were the most severe, though many others were as sanguinary. Their losses in all these engagements were sixteen officers, killed or wounded in battle, and twenty-three privates, or total of thirty-nine.In addition, eight were taken prisoners, most of whom died in rebel prison pens; and thirty-six others died of disease or were disabled by it. Out of the one hundred hardy men who left Southton, only nineteen returned unharmed at the close of the war!—a record for brave service that was not surpassed, and one that should weave a laurel wreath around every name!
Manson had passed through eight battles unharmed and dread disease had failed to touch his splendid strength; but at the battle of Peach Creek, and under a blazing July sun he fell. His regiment had been ordered to charge a hill, from the top of which a perfect storm of rebel bullets were pouring upon them, and with hands gripping his gun and teeth fiercely set, he with the rest faced the almost certain death as they charged up the hill! When half way up, and just as he had leaped a low stone wall, two red-hot irons seemed to pierce him, and with a bullet through one leg, and a shattered arm he went down, and leaving him there, the storm of battle swept on!
Conscious still, and believing his end had come, he yet remembered that wall, and faint and bleeding he crawled back to it. He could hear the roar of guns, and the groans of dying men about him, and in that awful moment, with deathnear, one thought alone came, and that was to shelter himself between the rocks, so that mad horses and frenzied men might not trample upon his face. He could see near by a rock close to the wall, and like some wild animal that had received its death wound, yet crawls into a thicket to die, so he crept into this shelter and lay there moaning.
Hour after hour passed in agony, while his life blood ebbed away. He could not stop it; he did not try. Since death was near and he felt that it must come, the sooner it was over the better. Men and horses swept by and heeded him not! The fierce sun beat upon him, but no one came to succor! His tongue grew parched and a terrible thirst tortured him; but there was no water. Only the hard stones upon which his head was pillowed, the dry earth that drank his blood, and the merciless sun blazing above. He could hear the dying men about him groaning and cursing God in their agony, and the roar of cannon that made the earth tremble beneath him.
Then the sounds of conflict and carnage passed away, and left only the moans of the wounded near him to echo his own. At last night came and threw her dark mantle over that scene of death and despair, and later the moon rose andshed her pale light upon it. Those soft beams of silvery white were angels of mercy, for they carried that dying boy's heart away to the hills of old New England, and to where a rippling brook danced like silver coin beneath them, and a fair girl's face and tender blue eyes smiled upon him. Then the picture faded and he knew no more.
CHAPTER XVII.THOSE WHO WAIT.
There is nothing in life much harder to bear than suspense. To know the worst, whatever that may be, is far preferable to the long agony of doubt; hoping for the best, yet fearing the worst. Even a hardened criminal has been known to admit that the two or three hours of waiting for the verdict was far worse than the march to the gallows. If this be so, what must it be to the tender, loving hearts of good and true women whose husbands, sweethearts, brothers and sons are facing the dangers of war, and who (God pity them) have to endure this dread suspense for weeks and months when no tidings reach them?
When the train bearing Liddy's soldier boy from sight had rolled away she clung to her father's arm in mute despair. Pride sustained her until they had left the town behind, and were driving across the wide plains toward her home,and then the tears came. The memory of many pleasant moonlit drives along the same road when her lover was with her came back, and with it the realization that it was all ended, perhaps forever, and that the best she could look forward to was three years of weary waiting. Before her, miles away, rose the Blue Hills, distinct in the clear air, and as she looked at them, back came the memory of one day a month before—a day replete with joy and sorrow, when he had paid her the greatest and sweetest compliment a man can pay a woman. She could recall the very tones of his voice and she could almost feel the touch of his arms when he had held her close for one brief moment. In silence she rode along for a time, trying to control herself, and then turning to her father she said:
"Father, there is something I must tell you, and I ask your forgiveness for not doing so before." And then, in her odd, winsome way, resting her cheek against his shoulder and holding her left hand before his face for a moment, she continued: "Can you guess?"
"No, my child," he answered, quickly, wishing to cheer her, "I could not possibly guess. The ways of my little girl are so deep and dark, how could I?" and then continuing in a more cheerfultone: "Don't cry any more, Liddy. Some one is coming back from the war by and by, and some one else will want a lot of new dresses for a wedding, and expects to be happy, and I hope she will be."
Then a little hand began stroking his arm and a still damp face was being rubbed against his shoulder, and presently a soft voice whispered: "Father, you have always been too good to me. You never said a word and you knew it all along, I guess!" which rather incoherent speech may be excused under the circumstances.
The few weeks that followed were not as gloomy to Liddy as later ones. Her home duties outside of school hours had always been numerous, and now she found them a relief. Letters also came frequently from the absent one, and she felt that he was not yet in danger—that was a grain of consolation. But when he wrote that they were to start for the front the next day, her heart grew heavy again and from that time on the dread suspense was never lifted. She wrote him frequently and tried to make her letters brave and cheerful. All the simple details of her home life were faithfully portrayed, and it became a habit to write him a page every night. She called it a little chat, but it might better havebeen called an evening prayer, for into those tender words were woven every sweet wish and hopeful petition of a loving woman's heart. After the battle of Chancellorsville a cloud seemed resting upon Southton, and Liddy felt that the weary waiting was becoming more oppressive than ever. It had been her father's custom to drive "over town," as it was called, once a day to obtain the news, and she had always met him on his return, even before he entered the house, to more quickly learn the worst. She began to dread even this, lest he should bring the tidings she feared most.
Then came the call for needed supplies to be used in the care of the wounded, and gladly Liddy joined with other good ladies in picking lint, preparing bandages, and the like, and contributing many articles for the use and comfort of the soldiers. In this noble work she came to realize how many other hearts besides her own carried a burden, and to feel a kinship of sorrow with them. Her engagement to Manson seemed to be generally known and the common burden soon obliterated her first girlish reticence concerning it.
"I feel that I am growing old very fast," she wrote him, "and that I am a girl no longer. Just think, it is only ten months since I felt angrywhen some of the girls told me they heard I was engaged to you, and now I don't care who knows it."
For the next three months there were no battles that he was engaged in, and yet the suspense was the same. Then when the new year came another burden was added, for her mother grew worse, and it seemed to Liddy as if the shadows were thick about her. An event that occurred in the early spring, and two months after the battle of Tracy City, made a deep impression on her. Captain Upson, promoted from first lieutenant of Company E, was wounded at that battle, and dying later, was brought to Southton for burial. He was universally respected and almost the entire townsfolk gathered at the church to pay their tribute. Hundreds failed to gain admission, and it was said to have been the largest funeral ever known in the town. Liddy had never seen a military funeral and the ceremonies were sadly impressive. The long service at the church; the touching words of the minister uttered over the flag-draped coffin, upon which rested a sword; the sad procession to the cemetery, headed by muffled drum and melancholy fife mingling their sounds with the tolling bell, and then the arched arms of soldiers, beneath which the body wasborne; the short prayer; the three volleys; and last of all, lively music on the return. This feature impressed her as the saddest of all, for it seemed to say: "Now, we will forget the dead as soon as possible," which in truth was what it meant in military custom.
It is needless to say as she returned with her father to their now saddened home, a possible event of similar import in which she must be a broken-hearted mourner entered her mind. During the next month came another and far worse blow. Her mother, long an invalid, contracted a severe cold and, in spite of all possible effort to save her, in three short days passed away. To even faintly express the anguish of that now bereaved husband and motherless girl is impossible and shall not be attempted.
When the funeral was over and they once more sat by the fire in the sitting-room, as was customary each evening, their pleasant home seemed utterly desolate, and the tall clock in the hall ticked with far deeper solemnity. Liddy in fact was, as she felt herself to be, walking "through the valley and shadow of death." To add to her utter wretchedness, if that were possible, she had received no letter from Manson for three weeks, and there were no rifts of sunshine in her horizon.She wrote him a long account of her loss and all the misery of mind she was experiencing and then, as she had no address to mail it to, held the letter in waiting, and finally tore it up. "It will only give him pain to know it," she thought, "and he has enough to bear." When she next heard from him she realized more than ever how many lonely and homesick hours he had to endure, and was glad she had kept her sorrow to herself.
A few weeks later her father, thinking to make the house more cheerful, proposed that her Aunt Mary—a widowed sister of his—should come and live with them.
"No, father," said Liddy, after the matter had been discussed, "I would rather be alone and take care of you myself." Then she added, with a little quiver in her voice: "You are the only one I've got to love now and perhaps the only one I shall ever have."
Liddy was essentially a home-loving girl and cared but little for company. A few friends, and good ones, might be considered as the text of her life, and even at school it had been the same. Her home duties and her father's needs were a sufficient kingdom, and over it she was a gracious queen. For the first three months after her mother'sdeath she and her father lived a life of nearly silent sadness. Almost daily he visited the town, dreading far worse than Liddy ever knew lest he must return with sad tidings. He knew what was ever in her heart, and as her life-happiness was dear to him, he wasted no time in discussing war news with his friends in the village. When June came Liddy felt that a change in the morose current of their lives must be made, and in her peculiar way set about to carry out her idea. She knew his fiftieth birthday came during that month, and when the day arrived she said to him:
"Come home early to-night, father, I have a great, big favor to ask of you." All that afternoon she worked at her little plot, and when tea time came and he entered the house a surprise awaited him. The dining-table had been moved into the sitting-room, set with the best china, and in the center was a vase of flowers. Draped from the hanging lamp above it, and extending to each corner were ropes of ground pine, and around his plate was a double row of full-blown roses. It was a pretty sight, and when he looked at it he smiled and said: "Expecting company, Liddy?"
"Yes, you," was her answer; "and I've madea shortcake, and I picked the strawberries myself."
When he was seated in his accustomed chair he looked at the array of roses, and in a surprised voice remarked: "Why didn't you put some around your own plate, Liddy?"
"Because it's not my birthday," came the answer; "count them, father."
The thoughtful tribute touched him, and a look of sadness crept in his face. "I had forgotten how old I was," he said.
Liddy made no reply until she had poured his tea, and then she said, in her earnest way: "Now, father, I don't want you to think of that any more, or anything else that is past and gone. Please think how hard I worked all the afternoon to fix the table and how much I want to make you happy."
When it came time to retire, he said: "You haven't told me yet what that big favor is, Liddy!"
For answer she went to him and taking his face in her hands, she kissed him on either cheek and whispered: "Wait till to-morrow!"
CHAPTER XVIII.A FEW BRIGHT DAYS.
The next evening after supper Liddy showed unusual cheerfulness. She had that day received three letters from the absent one, though of different dates, and all contained assuring words. Then she had a little plan of loving intent mapped out in her mind and was eager to carry it out. Her father noticed her unusual mood and said: "It seems good to see you smile once more, Liddy."
"I am trying hard to feel happy," she answered, "and harder still to make you feel so as well." And then, drawing her chair close to him, she sat down and rested her face against his shoulder. It was one of her odd ways, and it must be now stated that when this winsome girl most earnestly desired to reach her father's heart, she always stroked his shoulder with her face.
"Well," he said, recognizing her method, "I know you have something on your mind; so tell me what it is right away!"
She made no immediate reply, but softly stroked him for a moment and then replied: "Yes, I do want something; I want a clock!" and then, straightening herself up, she continued earnestly: "I want a lot of things; I want a pretty clock to put on the mantel, and I want you to put the tall one up into the attic, for it gives me the blues; and say, father"—— and here again her face went to his shoulder, "I want a piano!"
"Is that all?" he answered, a droll smile creeping into his face.
"No," she said, "that isn't all; but it's all I dare ask for now."
"Better tell me the rest," he replied, stroking the head that still rested against his arm. "You haven't surprised me yet."
And then there was a very pretty scene, for the next instant that blue-eyed heart-breaker was sitting in her father's lap, with both arms around his neck.
"Do you mean it, father?" she whispered. "Can I have a piano?"
"Why, of course," he answered softly, "if you want one."
In a week the old cottage organ that had felt the touch of Liddy's childish fingers learning thescale, was keeping company with the tall clock in the attic, and in its place stood a piano. In the sitting-room a new clock that chimed the hours and halves ticked on the mantel. These were not all the changes, for when so much was won our heart-breaker renewed her assault by her usual method, and pretty portières took the place of doors between parlor, hall and sitting-room, and delicate lace curtains draped the windows. Then Liddy surveyed her home with satisfaction and asked her father how he liked it.
"It makes a great change in the rooms," he replied, "and they seem more cheerful."
"Do you notice that it also makes the carpets look worn and shabby?" said Liddy; "and the parlor furniture a little old-fashioned?"
Mr. Camp sat down in one of the parlor chairs and looked around. For a few moments he surveyed the room in silence and then said: "Liddy, did you ever hear the story of the brass fire-dogs? I don't think you have, so I will tell it. There was once a good woman who persuaded her husband to buy a pair of brass fire-dogs for the parlor, to take the place of the old iron ones. When the new ones were in place she polished them very brightly and asked him to look into the room. 'Don't you think,' she said, 'they make the carpetlook old and worn?' They certainly did, so he bought a new carpet. That in turn made the furniture seem shabby, so he was persuaded to renew that. By this time the curtains were not in harmony, and had to be changed. When it was all done he remarked: 'Wife, you said the fire-dogs would only cost me four dollars, but they have really cost me two hundred.'"
"But we had the brass fire-dogs already," said Liddy laughing, "so the story doesn't hit me." Then, going to him and putting one arm around his neck and stroking his face with the other hand, she continued: "The trouble is, father, you have got me instead of new fire-dogs; are you sorry?"
"You must judge for yourself," was his answer. "Is there anything else you wish?"
"Yes, there are two other things I want," was her reply, still stroking him; "I want to see you look happier, and feel happier, and I want some one to come back safe from the war."
Life is at best but a succession of moods that, like a pendulum, ever vibrate between mirth and sadness. Circumstances will almost invariably force the vibrations to greater extremes, but just as surely will its opposite mood return. Though clouds darken to-day, the sun will shine to-morrow;and if sorrow comes, joy will follow; while ever above the rippled shores of laughter floats the mist of tears.
In some respects Liddy was a peculiar girl. While loving those near her with almost pathetic tenderness and constantly striving to show it, she shrank like a scared child from any public exhibition of that feeling. She had another peculiarity that might be called a whim—she loved to try experiments upon her own feelings to see what effect they would have. It was this that had been the real cause of her desire to attend the military funeral that had taken place in Southton a few months previous. Since her mother's death Liddy had remained at home nearly all the time. She seldom went to the village, because to do so awakened unpleasant memories. To drive past the now vacant academy or near the depot was to awaken unhappy thought and force her into a sad mood. The seclusion of her home seemed more in harmony with her feelings. She had but few intimate friends, and even those jarred upon her now, and her father was the best, and the only one she cared to be with. One day in mid-summer, she surprised him with a strange request.
"Father," she said, "I want to go fishing. Idon't mean to tramp through the brush along a brook, but I want you to take me to some pretty pond where there are trees all around, and where I can sit in a boat on the shady side and fish. We will take a basket of lunch and have a nice time. If we cannot catch fish we can pick pond lilies. Will you go?"
As there was nothing that loving father would not do for his only child, it is needless to say that the trip was made.
When Liddy began to catch fish, and he noticed how excited she became, he said, with quiet humor: "Which would you rather do, Liddy, put your fish in the boat or hang them up in the trees? Tut, tut!" he continued, as he saw a deep shadow creep over her face, "you will have Charlie to bait your hook next summer, never fear!"
That night she wrote to her soldier boy: "I coaxed father to take me fishing to-day. I wanted to see if it wouldn't bring me nearer to you or you to me. I came home in a sad mood, however, though I learned one thing, and that is wherein lies the fascination of fishing. It's the constant expectation of getting a bite that takes your mind away from all else."
With the autumn evenings came the time for open fires, and Liddy had hard work to keep herspirits up. There were so many tender associations lurking in the firelight, and so much that brought back the past and gone hours of happiness that it was painful instead of cheerful. Thanksgiving time and the holidays were days of sadness instead of joy. The long eighteen months of constant dread and suspense had worn upon her nerves and was slowly changing her from a light-hearted, happy girl to a saddened, waiting woman. The winter slowly dragged its weary length, and one evening, about a year from the time she had attended the military funeral, she broke down entirely. She had tried piano practice for a time and then reading, but neither availed to occupy her thoughts or drive away the gloom. Finally she sat down beside her father, who was reading, and said piteously:
"Father, please talk to me; tell me stories, scold me—anything! I am so utterly wretched I am ready to cry!"
"My child," he answered tenderly, stroking the fair head that was resting against his arm, "don't let your mind brood so much upon your own troubles; try and think how many there are who have more to bear than you have."
The delicate reproach, though not intended as such by him, was the last straw, for the next instanther head was down in his lap and she was sobbing like a child. When the little shower was over she raised her face and whispered:
"Don't think it's all Charlie, father, or that I forget mother, or how much you have to bear; for I do not. It's all combined, and the silent room upstairs added to the dread, that is breaking my heart."
When the day that marked the anniversary of her parting from Manson arrived she tried another experiment upon herself. The promise she had made him that day seemed a sacred bond, and she resolved to go alone to Blue Hill and see how it would affect her. The day was almost identical to the one two years previous, and when, late in the afternoon, she arrived at the top, the spot seemed unchanged. The trees were thick with the same fresh foliage, the birds were there, and around the rock where they had sat grew the same blue violets. Under a tree was the little lattice table, just as they had left it. She sat down on the rock and tried to live over the thoughts and feelings of that day. They all came back, like so many spectres of a past and gone happiness, and as, one by one, they filed by in thought, the utter silence and solitude of the place seemed to increase. The only sound wasthe faint whisper of the breeze in the hemlocks, and as she listened and looked into the shadow beyond where the trees grew thicker, a strange feeling of fear began to assail her heart and a new and horrible dread crept into her thoughts. She had not heard from the absent one for two weeks—what if the dreaded fate had already come and he was at this very moment near her in spirit? And as all the horror of this thought forced itself upon her, she suddenly rose to her feet, and almost running, left the spot.
When she arrived home and looked into her mirror she saw a strange expression on her face and her lips were pale. "I could not go there again," she said to herself; "I should go mad if I did."
During the next few weeks the dread seemed to grow upon her day by day. She did not dare tell her father of her trip to Blue Hill, but he noticed that she was getting thin and that her eyes were growing hollow. Then came the news of the battle of Peach Creek and that Company E were engaged in it; but no names of the killed or wounded, if any, reached her, and no letter from Manson.
Each day her father drove to the village and he was always met at the gate upon his return bya sad-faced girl whose blue eyes wore a look of piteous appeal. He tried to comfort her all he could; but it did no good. She could not talk; she could scarcely eat or sleep, but went about her daily work as if in a trance. Occasionally in the evening she would give way to tears, and for three weeks she existed in a state of wretchedness no pen can describe. Then one evening her father handed her a letter in a strange handwriting and turned his face away, for he knew its contents.
"Tell me the worst, father," she almost screamed, "tell me quick; is he alive?"
"Yes, my child," he answered sadly, "but we must go to him to-morrow. He is in the hospital at Washington and very low."
CHAPTER XIX.AMONG THE WOUNDED.
At nearly noon the day after the battle of Peach Creek the searchers for wounded came upon Manson, still alive, but delirious. Of that ghastly battlefield, or the long agony of that wounded boy, I hesitate to speak. No pen can describe, either, and to even faintly portray them is but to add gloom to a narrative already replete with it. The twenty-four hours of his indescribable pain and torturing thirst were only broken by a few hours of merciful delirium, when he was once more a boy and living his simple, care-free life on the farm, or happy with Liddy. When found he knew it not. When examined by a surgeon that stern man shook his head and remarked: "Slim chance for you, poor devil—too much blood gone already!"
For two weeks he was delirious most of the time, but his rugged constitution saved him, and when he showed signs of gaining and could bemoved, he was taken to the hospital at Washington. Once there, he began to fail again, for the long journey had been too much for him.
"He won't last long," said the doctor in charge to the nurse. "Better ask him if there is any one he wishes to see."
When he made his rounds the next morning Manson was worse and again out of his head. "He has been wandering in his mind all night," was the nurse's report, "and he talks about fishing and catching things in traps, and there is a girl mixed in it all. Case of sweetheart, I guess."
That day the wounded boy rallied a little and began to think, and bit by bit the sane hours of the past few weeks came back to him. How near to the shores of eternal silence his bark had drifted, he little knew! The long hours of agony on the battlefield since the moment he had instinctively crawled behind a rock had been a delirium of despair broken only by visions of vague and shadowy import that he could not grasp. All that he thought was that death must soon end his misery, and he hoped it might come soon. At times he had bitten and torn the sleeves of his coat, soaked with blood from his shattered arm, or beaten his head against the dry earth in his agony.
How long it had lasted he could not tell, and the last that he remembered was looking at the moon, and then he seemed to be drifting away and all pain ceased. Then all around him he could hear voices and over his head a roof, and he felt as if awakened from some horrible dream. With his well arm he felt of the other and found it was bound with splints. The faces he could see were all strange, but the men wore the familiar blue uniform and he knew they were not enemies. He was carried to a freight-car and laid in it, where he took a long, jolting ride that was all a torture, at the end of which he was taken in an open wagon to a long, low building, and laid on one of many narrow cots which were ranged in double rows. He could not raise his head or turn his body. He could only rest utterly helpless and inert, and indifferent to either life or death.
Of Liddy he thought many times, and of his mother and father as well, and he wondered what they would say and how they would feel when the tidings reached them. Then a kind-faced woman came and lifted his head and held it while he took medicine or sipped broth, and then he was wandering beside a brook again, or in green meadows. Later he could see the whitecots all about and the unceiled roof over his head and the same motherly face, and he was asked who his friends were and whom he would like to send for, and from that time on he began to hope.
Would the one human being on earth he cared most to see come so far, and could she if she would? And would life still be left in him when she reached his side; or would he have been carried out of the long, low room, dead, as he had seen others carried? He wondered what she would say or do when she came, and oh! if he could only know whether she was coming! He could see the door at one corner of the room where she must enter, and it was a little comfort to look at that. Then a resolution and a feeling that he must live and be there when she came began to grow upon him. He knew four days had passed since she had been sent for and he could now count the hours, and from that time on his eyes were seldom turned away from that door while he was awake. Did ever hours pass more slowly than those? Could it be possible? I think not. He had no means of knowing the time except to ask the nurse, and when night came he knew that sleep might bridge a few hours more speedily.
Six days passed, and then in the gray light of the next morning he opened his weary waiting eyes and saw bending over him the fair face that for two long years, and all through his hopeless agony he had longed for, and as he reached his hand to her in mute gratitude, unable to speak, he felt it clasped, and the next instant she was on her knees beside him and pressing a tear-wet face upon it, and he was listening to the first prayer she ever uttered!
Gone now like a flash of light were all those weary months of heart-hunger! Gone all the agony and despair of that day and night on the battlefield! Gone all the hours of pain through which he counted the moments one by one as he watched the door! No more was he lying upon a narrow cot listening to the moans of the wounded as he saw the dead carried out! Instead was he resting on a bed of violets and listening to the heart throbs of thankfulness and supplication murmured by an angel! And if ever a prayer reached the heavenly throne it was that one! When it was finished, and her loving blue eyes were looking into his, he whispered:
"Liddy, God bless you! Now I shall live."
Such is the power of love!
I feel that here and now I must beg the kindreader's pardon for introducing so much that is painful and sad in the lives of these two, fitted by birth and education for peace and simple home happiness. War and all its horrors is not akin to them and was never meant to be. Rather should their footsteps lead them where the bobolink sings as he circles over a green meadow, and the blue water lilies stoop to kiss the brook that ripples through it; or where the fields of grain bend and billow in the summer breeze; or the old mill-wheel splashes, while the white flowers in the pond above smile in the sunlight. If the patient reader will but follow their lives a little further, only peace and happiness and all the gentle voices of nature shall be their companions.
For a month, while cheered by the presence of her devoted father, Liddy nursed that feeble spark of life back to health and strength as only a tender and heroic woman could. All the dread aftermath of war that daily assailed her every sense, did not make her falter, but through all those scenes of misery and death she bravely stood by her post and her love-imposed duty. How hard a task it was, no one unaccustomed to such surroundings can even faintly realize, and it need not be dwelt upon. When she had fulfilled the most God-like mission ever confided towoman's hands—that of caring for the sick and dying—and when returning strength made it possible to remove her charge, those three devoted ones returned to the hills of old New England.
How fair the peaceful valley of Southton seemed once more, and how clear and distinct the Blue Hills were outlined in the pure September air! The trees were just gaining the annual glory of autumn color; but to Liddy they brought no tinge of melancholy, for her heart was full of sweetest joy. She had saved the one life dearest on earth to her, and now the voices of nature were but sounds of heavenly music. And how dear to her was her home once more, and all about it! The brook that rippled near sounded like the low tinkle of sweet bells, and the maple by the gate whispered once again the tender thoughts of the love that had first come to her beneath them. She was like a child in her happiness, and every thought and every impulse was touched by the mystic, magic wand of love. Few ever know the supreme joy that came to her and none can except they walk with bleeding hearts and weary feet through the valley of despair, bearing the burden of a loved one's life.
The first evening she was alone with her father,she came as a child would, to sit upon his knee, and putting her arms around his neck whispered:
"Father, I never knew until now what it means to be happy, and how good and kind you could be to me, and how little it is in my power to pay it all back. I can only love and care for you as long as I live, or as long as God spares your life."
And be it said, she kept her promise.
CHAPTER XX.PLANS FOR HAPPINESS.
Appomattox and a glorious ending of the most sanguinary war in the history of the nineteenth century had come, and with it a few changes in Southton.
Only a part of that brave E Company that three years before marched so proudly away to fight for the Union ever returned, and of those the greater number bore the scars of war and disease. Very many sorrowing women and children were scattered through the town, whose hearts were sore with wounds that only time could heal, and the empty sleeve and the vacant chair were sad reminders on all sides.
The Rev. Jotham still extended his time-worn orthodox arguments to a wearisome length, usually concluding them with more or less varied and vivid pictures of the doom in store for those who failed at once to repent and believe; but strange to say the sinners who were moved by his eloquence were few and far between. It was known that he was not in sympathy with thegreat majority of the North, or the principles upon which the war had been fought, but believed in the right of secession, and that the North was wrong in its political position. Had he kept these opinions to himself it would have been far wiser; but he made the mistake of giving utterance to them at a Memorial Day service held in his church, which expression was so obnoxious to the most of his audience and such a direct reflection upon the brave men from the town who had shed their blood for their country that one of the leading men of Southton arose at the close of Rev. Jotham's remarks and there and then rebuked him. The affair created quite a disturbance in public feeling and was perhaps one of the indirect causes that eventually led to a division of his church and to the formation of a separate society in another part of the town.
A new principal had assumed charge of the academy, the trustees having decided for several reasons that a change would be beneficial. Mr. Webber, who had ruled there for several years, industriously circulated a report that by reason of several very flattering offers to engage in mercantile pursuits, as well as failing health, he had decided to resign. As his voice, and the apparent desire to use it upon any and all possible occasions,showed no cessation of energy, a few skeptical ones were inclined to doubt that his health was seriously affected, and as it was over a year before he accepted any of the flattering offers, they believed he must have had hard work to find them. For the rest the town resumed the old-time even tenor of its way, though there had been added to its annals heroic history, and to its calendar one day of annual mourning.
Aunt Sally Hart said that "Liddy Camp had showed mighty good grit and that young Manson ought to feel purty proud of her," which expression seemed to reflect the general sentiment.
When the autumn days and returning health came to Manson, sunshine seemed to once more smile upon the lives of our two young friends, and how happy they were during the all too short evenings spent together in Liddy's newly furnished parlor, need not be described. It was no longer a courtship, but rather a loving discussion of future plans in life, for each felt bound by an obligation stronger even than love, and how many charming air castles they built out of the firelight flashes shall not be told. In a way, Liddy was a heroine among the little circle of her schoolmates and friends, and deserved to be, for few there were among them who could havefound the strength to have faced the ghastly scenes she had, from a sense of duty.
"I do not care to talk about it," she said once to one of those who had been near her in the old days at the academy; "it all came so suddenly I did not stop to think, and if I had it would have made no difference. I did not think of myself at all, or what I was to meet. How horrible it was to be thrust among hundreds of wounded and dying men; to hear what I had to, and see what I did, I cannot describe and do not wish to. Under the same circumstances," she added quietly, "I should face that awful experience over again if necessary."
Life and all its plans practically resolve themselves into a question of income finally, and no matter how well aimed Cupid's darts may be, the almighty dollar and the ability to obtain possession of it, is of greater weight in the scale than all the arrows the boy-god ever carried. Even as an academy boy Manson had realized this; faintly at first, and yet with growing force, as his attachment for Liddy increased. With a certain pride in character he had resolved to withhold any declaration of love until he had at least a settled occupation in life; but when it came to going to war and parting, perhaps forever, fromthe girl he loved, to longer remain silent was to control himself beyond his strength. Now that she had shown how much his life meant to her by an act of devotion and self-sacrifice so unusual, his ambition to obtain a home that he could invite her to share, returned with redoubled force. What to do, or where to turn, he did not know. He was not even recuperated from the terrible ordeal that had so nearly cost him his life; but for all that his ambition was spurring him onward far in advance of his strength. One evening late that autumn, when he found himself unexpectedly alone with Mr. Camp, he said:
"I have for some time wished to express to you my hopes and ask your advice regarding my future plans. First, I want to ask you for Liddy, and beyond that, what I had best turn to to obtain a livelihood. I want Liddy, and I want a home to keep her in."
Mr. Camp looked at him a moment, while a droll smile crept into his face, and then replied:
"I am willing you should have Liddy, of course. I wouldn't have taken her to that hospital to try to save your life if I hadn't believed you worthy of her; but beyond that I don't think I have much to say in the matter anyway. I couldn't keep you apart if I would, and Iwouldn't if I could." And then he added a little more seriously: "She is all I have left in my life, and whatever plans you two make, I hope you will consider that."
Manson was silent. The perfect confidence and simple pathos of Mr. Camp's statement came to him forcibly, and made him realize how much he was asking. He meditated a few moments, and then said:
"I feel that I am asking for more than I deserve, and that I owe you far more than I can ever repay, but believe me, I shall do all in my power."
"We won't worry about that now," replied Mr. Camp, smiling again; "wait till your arm is well, and then we will talk it all over. In the meantime"—and a twinkle came into his eyes—"you have one well arm, and I guess that's all Liddy needs just at present."
The autumn and winter evenings sped by on wings of wind to Liddy and her lover, for all the sweet illusions of life were theirs. Occasionally they called on some of their old schoolmates, or were invited to social gatherings, and how proud she was of her manly escort, and he of the fair girl he felt was all his own, need not be told.
One day in the spring Mr. Camp said to Manson: "How would you like to be a farmer?"
"I have no objections," he replied; "my father is one, and there is no reason why I should be ashamed of it. It means hard work, but I am used to that. I am ready and willing to do anything to earn an honest living."
Mr. Camp looked at him for a moment reflectively, and then said:
"That has the right ring in it, my boy," and after thinking a little longer added: "I'll tell you what I'll do. Charles, if you can get Liddy to set the day I will give her a deed of the house and you a deed of the farm, provided you two will take care of me. That's fair, isn't it?" Then he added, with a smile, "I guess you can coax her consent if you try hard."
The proposition was so unexpected and surprising that for a moment Manson could not speak, and then, when it all came to him, and he saw the door of his dream of happiness opened wide by such an offer, the tears almost started. For one instant he was in danger of yielding, but he recovered himself.
"No mere words can possibly express my gratitude, sir," he replied, "but I could not accept so much. All I ask for, and all I will accept isLiddy, and that is enough. To let you give me your farm would make me feel that I was robbing you. I could not do it, sir."
And then, as he saw a look of pain come into his would-be benefactor's face, he continued: "Now, I will tell you what I am willing, and should be more than glad to do. Let Liddy and me keep house for you, and I will manage the farm, under your direction. That is enough, and all I can accept."
"I respect your feeling of independence," replied Mr. Camp, a little sadly, "but it won't work. A young man, to be content, must feel that he has a home that is, or soon will be, all his own. I do not want to put a burden on your feelings, but I want to make both you and my child happy, and"—with a little tremor in his voice—"I've only got Liddy to care for me in my old age, and it's hard to give her up. Can't you believe what I offer is wisest and best? Would it make you feel any better to give me a note and pay it when you chose? I would never ask you for it."
That evening when the lovers sat under the freshly leaved maples, he told her what her father had offered.
"I've known it for some time," she said, "and I feared you would feel hurt and refuse it, andhurt father, and I hope you did not. Put yourself in father's place," she continued seriously, "and tell me how you would feel. Remember that I am all he has to love and care for him, and he is very dear to me. He would not hurt you for the world, and what he thinks is the best way I believeisthe best."
"I will think it over," was Manson's comment. "It's so sudden and overwhelming I do not know what to say or do. I can't see a way out of it, either," he went on reflectively. "I want you and I want a home to keep you in, all our own, but how, or where it's coming from, I can't see. Then it's too much to ask him to give you up."
He paused, and leaning over and resting his face on his hands, continued rather sadly:
"I guess it would have been just as well if you had left me to die in the hospital."
It was a cruel remark and he saw it in an instant, for he said quickly: "Forgive me, I didn't mean that. I've got you and two hands to work with, and that's hope enough. Give me time and I'll solve the problem, never fear!"
When they parted she put one arm around his neck and whispered:
"It's the old vocation enigma over again, Charlie, isn't it? But don't let it make you miserable,and don't ever say such a thing as that you just said again. Do you know, when I came to you in the hospital that morning, I had not slept one moment for two long days and nights! Now try and be happy to pay me for it, and remember:
"'The happiest life that ever was ledIs always to court and never to wed.'"
Then she kissed him, in her tender way, and if he did not think she was right, it was because he was like most young men who don't know when they are well off and happy.