Part 47 (2/2)
It was a group of perhaps a dozen,--three or four Federal officers, the remainder ladies, whose bright dresses and smiling faces made a most winsome sight. They glanced curiously aside at me as they galloped past. But none paused, and I merely glanced at them with vague interest, my thoughts elsewhere. Suddenly a horse seemed to draw back from out the centre of the fast disappearing party.
”Ah, but really, you know, we cannot spare you,” a man's voice protested.
”But you must. No, Colonel, this chances to be a case where I prefer being alone,” was the quiet reply. ”Do not wait, please; I will either rejoin you shortly or ride directly to the camp.”
I had led my limping horse out into the road once more to resume my journey, paying scarcely the slightest attention to what was taking place, for my head was again throbbing to the hot pulse of the sun. The party of strangers rode slowly away into the enveloping dust cloud, and I had forgotten them, when a low, sweet voice spoke close beside me: ”Captain Wayne, I know you cannot have forgotten me.”
She was leaning down from the saddle, and as I glanced eagerly up into her dear eyes they were swimming with tears.
”Forgotten! Never for one moment,” I exclaimed; ”yet I failed to perceive your presence until you spoke.”
”You appeared deeply buried in thought as we rode by, but I could not leave you without a word when I knew you must feel so bad. I have thought of you so often, and am more glad than I can tell to know you have survived the terrible fighting of these last few weeks. But you look so worn and haggard.”
”I am wearied--yes,” I admitted. ”But that will pa.s.s away. My meeting again with you will be a memory of good cheer; and I found no little encouragement from a conversation just held with Lieutenant Caton.”
She looked at me frankly, her eyes cleared of the mist. ”Were you indeed thinking hopefully just now? You appeared so grave I feared it was despair.”
”It was a mixture of both, Mrs. Brennan. My own known condition furnishes sufficient despair, while Caton's excessive happiness yields a goodly measure of joy, which I have not yet entirely lost. Nothing glorifies life, even in its darkest hour, as the success of love.”
She glanced at my face shyly. ”Undoubtedly the Lieutenant is in the seventh heaven at present,” she admitted slowly. ”His Celia has led him a merry chase these many months, before she made full surrender; but that merely makes final victory the sweeter.”
”She retains the disposition of a child,”
”But the heart of a woman is back of all her playfulness. You are upon your way home?”
”I have just been paroled, Mrs. Brennan, After four years of war I am at last free, and have turned my face toward all that is left of my childhood's home,--a few weed-grown acres. I scarcely know whether I am luckier than the men who died.”
I saw the tears glistening again in her earnest eyes. ”Oh, but you are, Captain Wayne,” she exclaimed quickly. ”You have youth and love to inspire you--for your mother yet lives. Truly it makes my heart throb to think of the upbuilding which awaits you men of the South. It is through such as you--soldiers trained by stern duty--that these desolated States are destined to rise above the ashes of war into a greatness never before equalled. I feel that now, in this supreme hour of sacrifice, the men and women of the South are to exhibit before the world a courage greater than that of the battlefield. It is to be the marvel of the nation, and the thought and pride of it should make you strong.”
”It may indeed be so; I can but believe it, as the prophecy comes from your lips. I might even find courage to do my part in this redemption were you ever at hand to inspire.”
She laughed gently. ”I am not a Virginian, Captain Wayne, but a most loyal daughter of the North; yet if I so inspire you by my mere words, surely it is not so far to my home but you might journey there to listen to my further words of wisdom.”
”I have not forgotten the permission already granted me, and it is a temptation not easily cast aside. You return North soon?”
”Within a week.”
I hardly know what prompted me to voice my next question,--Fate, perhaps, weary of being so long mocked,--for I felt small interest in her probable answer.
”Do you expect your husband's release from duty by that time?”
She gave a quick start of surprise, drawing in her breath as though suddenly choked. Then the rich color overspread her face. ”My husband?”
she e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed in voice barely audible, ”my husband? Surely you cannot mean Major Brennan?”
”But I certainly do,” I said, wondering what might be wrong. ”Whom else could I mean?”
”And you thought that?” she asked incredulously. ”Why, how could you?”
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