Part 24 (1/2)

CHAPTER XXIX.

With the earliest opportunity, Harold proceeded to Was.h.i.+ngton, and sought an interview with the President, in relation to Arthur's case.

Mr. Lincoln received him kindly, but could give no information respecting the arrest or alleged criminality of his friend. ”There were so many and pressing affairs of state that he could find no room for individual cases in his memory.” However, he referred him to the Secretary of War, with a request that the latter would look into the matter. By dint of persistent inquiries at various sources, Harold finally ascertained that the prisoner had a few days previously been released, upon the a.s.surance of the surgeon at the fort, that his failing health required his immediate removal. Inquiry had been made into the circ.u.mstances leading to his arrest; made too late, however, to benefit the victim of a State mistake, whose delicate health had already been too severely tried by the discomforts attendant upon his situation. However, enough had been ascertained to leave but little doubt as to his innocence; and Arthur, with the ghastly signs of a rapid consumption upon his wan cheek, was dismissed from the portals of a prison, which had already prepared him for the tomb.

Harold hastened to Vermont, whither he knew the invalid had been conveyed. It was toward the close of the first autumn day that he entered the little village, upon whose outskirts was situated the farm of his dying friend. The air was mild and balmy, but the voices of nature seemed to him more hushed than usual, as if in mournful unison with his own sad reveries. He had pa.s.sed on foot from the village to the farm-house, and when he opened the little white wicket, and walked along the gravelled avenue that led to the flower-clad porch, the willows on either side seemed to droop lower than willows are used to droop, and the soft September air sighed through the swinging boughs, like the prelude of a dirge.

Arthur was reclining upon an easy-chair upon the little porch, and beside him sat a venerable lady, reading from the worn silver-clasped Bible, which rested on her lap. The lady rose when he approached; and Arthur, whose gaze had been wandering among the autumn clouds, that wreathed the points of the far-off mountains, turned his head languidly, when the footsteps broke his dream.

He did not rise. Alas! he was too weak to do so without the support of his aged mother's arm, which had so often cradled him in infancy and had now become the staff of his broken manhood. But a beautiful and happy smile illumined his pale lips, and spread all over the thin and wasted features, like sunlight gleaming on the grey surface of a church-yard stone. He lifted his attenuated hand, and when Harold clasped it, the fingers were so cold and deathlike that their pressure seemed to close about his heart, compressing it, and chilling the life current in his veins.

”I knew that you would come, Harold. Although I read that you were missing at the close of that dreadful battle, something told me that we should meet again. Whether it was a sick man's fancy, or the foresight of a parting soul, it is realized, for you are here. And you come not too soon, Harold,” he added, with a pressure of the feeble hand, ”for I am going fast--fast from the discords of earth--fast to the calm and harmony beyond.”

”Oh, Arthur, how changed you are!” said Harold, who could not keep from fastening his gaze on the white, sunken cheek and hollow eyes of his dying comrade. ”But you will get better now, will you not--now that you are home again, and we can nurse you?”

Arthur shook his head with a mournful smile, and the fit of painful coughing which overtook him answered his friend's vain hope.

”No, Harold, no. All of earth is past to me, even hope. And I am ready, cheerful even, to go, except for the sake of some loved ones that will sorrow for me.”

He took his mother's hand as he spoke, and looked at her with touching tenderness, while the poor dame brushed away her tears.

”I have but a brief while to stay behind,” she said, ”and my sorrow will be less, to know that you have ever been a good son to me. Oh, Mr. Hare, he might have lived to comfort me, and close my old eyes in death, if they had not been so cruel with him, and locked him within prison walls. He, who never dreamed of wrong, and never injured willingly a worm in his path.”

”Nay, mother, they were not unkind to me in the fort, and did what they could to make me comfortable. But, Harold, it is wrong. I have thought of it in the long, weary nights in prison, and I have thought of it when I knew that death was beckoning me to come and rest from the thoughts of earth. It is wrong to tamper with the sacred law that s.h.i.+elds the citizen. I believe that many a man within those fortress walls is as innocent in the eyes of G.o.d as those who sent him there. Yet I accuse none of willful wrong, but only of unconscious error. If the sacrifice of my poor life could shed one ray upon the darkness, I would rejoice to be the victim that I am, of a violated right. But all, statesmen, and chieftains, and humble citizens, are being swept along upon the whirlwinds of pa.s.sion; all hearts are ablaze with the fiery magnificence of war, and none will take warning till the land shall be desolate, and thousands, stricken in their prime, shall be sleeping--where I shall soon be--beneath the cold sod. I am weary, mother, and chill. Let us go in.”

They bore him in and helped him to his bed, where he lay pale and silent, seeming much worse from the fatigue of conversation and the excitement of his meeting with his old college friend. Mrs. Wayne left him in charge of Harold, while she went below to prepare what little nourishment he could take, and to provide refreshment for her guest.

Arthur lay, for a s.p.a.ce, with his eyes closed, and apparently in sleep.

But he looked up, at last, and stretched out his hand to Harold, who pressed the thin fingers, whiter than the coverlet on which they rested.

”Is mother there?”

”No, Arthur,” replied Harold. ”Shall I call her?”

”No. I thought to have spoken to you, to-morrow, of something that has been often my theme of thought; but I know not what strange feeling has crept upon me; and perhaps, Harold--for we know not what the morrow may bring--perhaps I had better speak now.”

”It hurts you, Arthur; you are too weak. Indeed, you must sleep now, and to-morrow we shall talk.”

”No; now, Harold. It will not hurt me, or if it does, it matters little now. Harold, I would fain that no shadow of unkindness should linger between us twain when I am gone.”

”Why should there, Arthur? You have been my true friend always, and as such shall I remember you.”

”Yet have I wronged you; yet have I caused you much grief and bitterness, and only your own generous nature preserved us from estrangement. Harold, have you heard from _her_?”

”I have seen her, Arthur. During my captivity, she was my jailer; in my sickness, for I was slightly wounded, she was my nurse. I will tell you all about it to-morrow.”

”Yes, to-morrow,” replied Arthur, breathing heavily. ”To-morrow! the word sounds meaningless to me, like something whose significance has left me. Is she well, Harold?”