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Taken Alive

by Edward Payson Roe · English · Gutenberg #5320 · 642,381 chars · public domain (US)

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Title: Taken Alive

Author: Edward Payson Roe


        
Release date: March 1, 2004 [eBook #5320]
                Most recently updated: September 8, 2012

Language: English

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/5320

Credits: Produced by Charles Franks and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK TAKEN ALIVE ***




Produced by Charles Franks and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team









The Works of E. P. Roe

VOLUME ELEVEN

TAKEN ALIVE AND OTHER STORIES WITH AN AUTOBIOGRAPHY


ILLUSTRATED


CONTENTS

"A NATIVE AUTHOR CALLED ROE"

TAKEN ALIVE:
     I. SOMETHING BEFORE UNKNOWN
    II. A VISITOR AT THE MINE
   III. THWARTED
    IV. TAKEN ALIVE
     V. WHAT BRANDT SAW CHRISTMAS EVE

FOUND YET LOST:
     I. LOVE IN THE WILDERNESS
    II. LOVE AT HOME
   III. "DISABLED"
    IV. MARTINE SEEKS AN ANTIDOTE
     V. SECOND BLOOM
    VI. MORE THAN REWARD
   VII. YANKEE BLANK
  VIII. "HOW CAN I?"
    IX. SHADOWS OF COMING EVENTS
     X. "YOU CANNOT UNDERSTAND"
    XI. MR. KEMBLE'S APPEAL
   XII. "YOU MUST REMEMBER"
  XIII. "I'M HELEN"
   XIV. "FORWARD! COMPANY A"

QUEEN OF SPADES

AN UNEXPECTED RESULT

A CHRISTMAS-EVE SUIT

THREE THANKSGIVING KISSES

SUSIE ROLLIFFE'S CHRISTMAS

JEFF'S TREASURE:
     I. ITS DISCOVERY
    II. ITS INFLUENCE

CAUGHT ON THE EBB-TIDE

CHRISTMAS EVE IN WAR TIMES

A BRAVE LITTLE QUAKERESS






"A NATIVE AUTHOR CALLED ROE"

An Autobiography


Two or three years ago the editor of "Lippincott's Magazine" asked me,
with many others, to take part in the very interesting "experience
meeting" begun in the pages of that enterprising periodical. I gave my
consent without much thought of the effort involved, but as time
passed, felt slight inclination to comply with the request. There
seemed little to say of interest to the general public, and I was
distinctly conscious of a certain sense of awkwardness in writing about
myself at all. The question, Why should I? always confronted me.

When this request was again repeated early in the current year, I
resolved at least to keep my promise. This is done with less reluctance
now, for the reason that floating through the press I meet with
paragraphs concerning myself that are incorrect, and often absurdly
untrue. These literary and personal notes, together with many
questioning letters, indicate a certain amount of public interest, and
I have concluded that it may be well to give the facts to those who
care to know them.

It has been made more clear to me that there are many who honestly do
care. One of the most prized rewards of my literary work is the
ever-present consciousness that my writings have drawn around me a
circle of unknown yet stanch friends, who have stood by me
unfalteringly for a number of years. I should indeed be lacking if my
heart did not go out to them in responsive friendliness and goodwill.
If I looked upon them merely as an aggregation of customers, they would
find me out speedily. A popular mood is a very different thing from an
abiding popular interest. If one could address this circle of friends
only, the embarrassment attendant on a certain amount of egotism would
be banished by the assurance of sympathetic regard. Since, from the
nature of circumstances, this is impossible, it seems to me in better
taste to consider the "author called Roe" in an objective, rather than
in a friendly and subjective sense. In other words, I shall try to look
at him from the public point of view, and free myself from some
predisposition in his favor shared by his friends. I suppose I shall
not succeed in giving a colorless statement of fact, but I may avoid
much special pleading in his behalf.

Like so many other people, I came from a very old family, one from
which there is good proof of an unbroken line through the Dark Ages,
and all ages, to the first man. I have never given any time to tracing
ancestry, but have a sort of quiet satisfaction that mine is certainly
American as far as it well can be. My forefathers (not "rude," to my
knowledge) were among the first settlers on the Atlantic seaboard. My
paternal and maternal grandfathers were stanch Whigs during the
Revolution, and had the courage of their convictions. My grandmother
escaped with her children from the village of Kingston almost as the
British entered it, and her home was soon in ashes. Her husband, James
Roe, was away in the army. My mother died some years before I attained
my majority, and I cannot remember when she was not an invalid. Such
literary tendencies as I have are derived from her, but I do not
possess a tithe of her intellectual power. Her story-books in her youth
were the classics; and when she was but twelve years of age she knew
"Paradise Lost" by heart. In my recollections of her, the Bible and all
works tending to elucidate its prophecies were her favorite themes of
study. The retentiveness of her memory was very remarkable. If any one
repeated a verse of the New Testament, she could go on and finish the
chapter. Indeed, she could quote the greater part of the Bible with the
ease and accuracy of one reading from the printed page. The works of
Hugh Miller and the Arctic Explorations of Dr. Kane afforded her much
pleasure. Confined usually to her room, she took unfailing delight in
wandering about the world with the great travellers of that day, her
strong fancy reproducing the scenes they described. A stirring bit of
history moved her deeply. Well do I remember, when a boy, of reading to
her a chapter from Motley's "Dutch Republic," and of witnessing in her
flushed cheeks and sparkling black eyes proof of an excitement all too
great for one in her frail health. She had the unusual gift of relating
in an easy, simple way what she read; and many a book far too abstruse
and dull for my boyish taste became an absorbing story from her lips.
One of her chief characteristics was the love of flowers. I can
scarcely recall her when a flower of some kind, usually a rose, was not
within her reach; and only periods of great feebleness kept her from
their daily care, winter and summer. Many descendants of her floral
pets are now blooming in my garden.

My father, on the other hand, was a sturdy man of action. His love for
the country was so strong that he retired from business in New York as
soon as he had won a modest competence. For forty-odd years he never
wearied in the cultivation of his little valley farm, and the square,
flower-bordered garden, at one side of which ran an unfailing brook. In
this garden and under his tuition I acquired my love of
horticulture--acquired it with many a backache--heartache too, on days
good for fishing or hunting; but, taking the bitter with the sweet, the
sweet predominated. I find now that I think only of the old-fashioned
roses in the borders, and not of my hands bleeding from the thorns. If
I groaned over the culture of many vegetables, it was much compensation
to a boy that the dinner-table groaned also under the succulent dishes
thus provided. I observed that my father's interest in his garden and
farm never flagged, thus proving that in them is to be found a pleasure
which does not pall with age. During the last summer of his life, when
in his eighty-seventh year, he had the delight of a child in driving
over to my home in the early morning, long before I was up, and in
leaving a basket of sweet corn or some other vegetable which he knew
would prove his garden to be ahead of mine.

My father was very simple and positive in his beliefs, always openly
foremost in the reform movements of his day and in his neighborhood,
yet never, to my knowledge, seeking or taking any office. His house
often became a station of the "underground railroad" in slavery times,
and on one night in the depth of winter he took a hotly-pursued
fugitive in his sleigh and drove him five miles on the ice, diagonally
across the Hudson, to Fishkill, thence putting the brave aspirant for
freedom on the way to other friends. He incurred several risks in this
act. It is rarely safe to drive on the river off the beaten tracks at
night, for there are usually air-holes, and the strong tides are
continually making changes in the ice. When told that he might be sent
to jail for his defiance of the Fugitive Slave Law, he quietly
answered, "I can go to jail." The thing he could not do was to deny the
man's appeal to him for help. Before the war he was known as an
Abolitionist--after it, as a Conservative, his sympathy with and for
the South being very strong. During the draft riots in 1863 the spirit
of lawlessness was on the point of breaking out in the river towns. I
happened to be home from Virginia, and learned that my father's house
was among those marked for burning on a certain night. During this
night the horde gathered; but one of their leaders had received such
empathetic warning of what would happen the following day should
outrages be perpetrated, that he persuaded his associates to desist. I
sat up that night at my father's door with a double-barrelled gun, more
impressed with a sense of danger than at any other time in my
experience; he, on the contrary, slept as quietly as a child.

He often practiced close economy in order to give his sons a good
education. The one act of my life which I remember with unalloyed pride
and pleasure occurred while I was at boarding-school in Vermont,
preparing for college. I learned through my mother that my father had
denied himself his daily newspaper; and I knew well how much he would
miss it. We burned wood in the large stone seminary building. Every
autumn great ranks of hard maple were piled up, and students who wished
to earn a little money were paid a dollar a cord for sawing it into
three lengths. I applied for nine cords, and went at the unaccustomed
task after study hours. My back aches yet as I recall the experiences
of subsequent weeks, for the wood was heavy, thick, and hard as bone. I
eventually had the pleasure of sending to my father the subscription
price of his paper for a year. If a boy reads these lines, let me
assure him that he will never know a sweeter moment in his life than
when he receives the thanks of his parents for some such effort in
their behalf. No investment can ever pay him better.

In one of my books, "Nature's Serial Story," my father and mother
appear, slightly idealized.

Toward the close of my first year in Williams College a misfortune
occurred which threatened to be very serious. Studying by defective
light injured my eyes. They quickly became so sensitive that I could
scarcely endure lamplight or the heat of a stove, only the cold
out-door air relieving the pain; so I spent much time in wandering
about in the boisterous weather of early spring in Williamstown. At
last I became so discouraged that I went to President Hopkins and told
him that I feared I must give up the purpose of acquiring an education.
Never can I forget how that grand old man met the disheartened boy.
Speaking in the wise, friendly way which subdued the heart and
strengthened the will, he made the half-hour spent with him the
turning-point of my life. In conclusion, he advised me to enter the
Senior class the following fall, thus taking a partial course of study.
How many men are living to-day who owe much of the best in their lives
to that divinely inspired guide and teacher of youth!

I next went to another man great in his sphere of life--Dr. Agnew, the
oculist. He gave my eyes a thorough examination, told me that he could
do nothing for them; that rest and the vigor acquired from out-door
life would restore them. He was as kind and sympathetic in his way as
the college president, and charged but a trifle, to relieve me from the
sense of taking charity. Dr. Agnew's words proved correct; and the
following autumn I entered the class of '61, and spent a happy year.
Some of my classmates were very kind in reading aloud to me, while Dr.
Hopkins's instruction was invaluable. By the time I entered Auburn
Theological Seminary, my eyes were quite restored, and I was able to go
through the first year's course of study without difficulty. In the
summer of 1862 I could no longer resist the call for men in the army.
Learning that the Second New York (Harris's Light) Cavalry was without
a chaplain, I obtained the appointment to that position. General
Kilpatrick was then lieutenant-colonel, and in command of the regiment.
In December, 1862, I witnessed the bloody and disastrous battle of
Fredericksburg, and can never forget the experiences of that useless
tragedy. I was conscious of a sensation which struck me as too profound
to be merely awe. Early in the morning we crossed the Rappahannock on a
pontoon bridge and marched up the hill to an open plain. The roar of
the battle was simply terrific, shading off from the sharp continuous
thunder immediately about us to dull, heavy mutterings far to the right
and left. A few hundred yards before us, where the ground began to
slope up to the fatal heights crowned with Confederate works and
ordnance, were long lines of Union batteries. From their iron mouths
puffs of smoke issued incessantly, followed by tremendous
reverberations. Back of these batteries the ground was covered with men
lying on their arms, that they might present a less obvious target.
Then a little further to the rear, on the level ground above the bluff,
stood our cavalry. Heavy guns on both sides of the river were sending
their great shrieking shells back and forth over our heads, and we
often "ducked" instinctively when the missile was at least forty feet
above us. Even our horses shuddered at the sound.

I resolved to learn if the men were sharing in my emotions--in brief,
what effect the situation had upon them--and rode slowly down our
regimental line. So vivid was the impression of that long array of
awed, pallid faces that at this moment I can recall them distinctly.
There were strange little touches of mingled pathos and humor.
Meadow-larks were hemmed in on every side, too frightened to fly far
beyond the rude alarms. They would flutter up into the sulphurous air
with plaintive cries, then drop again into the open spaces between the
troops. At one time, while we were standing at our horses' heads, a
startled rabbit ran to us for cover. The poor little creature meant a
dinner to the fortunate captor on a day when a dinner was extremely
problematical. We engaged in a sharp scramble, the prize being won by
the regimental surgeon, who kindly shared his game with me.

General Bayard, commanding our brigade, was mortally wounded, and died
like a hero. He was carried to a fine mansion near which he had
received his injury. Many other desperately wounded men were brought to
the spacious rooms of this abode of Southern luxury, and the surgeons
were kept busy all through the day and night. It was here I gained my
first experience in hospital work. This extemporized hospital on the
field was so exposed as to be speedily abandoned. In the morning I
recrossed the Rappahannock with my regiment, which had been ordered
down the river on picket duty. Soon after we went into winter quarters
in a muddy cornfield. In February I resigned, with the purpose of
completing my studies, and spent the remainder of the term at the Union
Theological Seminary of New York. My regiment would not get another
chaplain, so I again returned to it. In November I received a month's
leave of absence, and was married to Miss Anna P. Sands, of New York
City. Our winter quarters in 1864 were at Stevensburg, between the town
of Culpeper and the Rapidan River. During the pleasant days of late
February several of the officers were enjoying the society of their
wives. Mrs. Roe having expressed a willingness to rough it with me for
a week, I sent for her, and one Saturday afternoon went to the nearest
railroad station to meet her. The train came, but not my wife; and,
much disappointed, I found the return ride of five miles a dreary one
in the winter twilight. I stopped at our colonel's tent to say to him
and his wife that Mrs. Roe had not come, then learned for the first
time very startling tidings.

"Chaplain," said the colonel, "we are going to Richmond to-morrow. We
are going to wade right through and past everything in a
neck-or-nothing ride, and who will come out is a question."

His wife was weeping in her private tent, and I saw that for the first
time in my acquaintance with him he was downcast. He was one of the
bravest of men, yet now a foreboding of evil oppressed him. The result
justified it, for he was captured during the raid, and never fully
rallied after the war from the physical depression caused by his
captivity. He told me that on the morrow General Kilpatrick would lead
four thousand picked cavalry men in a raid on Richmond, having as its
special object the release of our prisoners. I rode to the headquarters
of the general, who confirmed the tidings, adding, "You need not go.
Non-combatants are not expected to go."

It was most fortunate that my wife had not come. I had recently been
appointed chaplain of Hampton Hospital, Virginia, by President Lincoln,
and was daily expecting my confirmation by the Senate. I had fully
expected to give my wife a glimpse of army life in the field, and then
to enter on my new duties. To go or not to go was a question with me
that night. The raid certainly offered a sharp contrast with the
anticipated week's outing with my bride. I did not possess by nature
that kind of courage which is indifferent to danger; and life had never
offered more attractions than at that time. I have since enjoyed
Southern hospitality abundantly, and hope to again, but then its
prospect was not alluring. Before morning, however, I reached the
decision that I would go, and during the Sunday forenoon held my last
service in the regiment. I had disposed of my horse, and so had to take
a sorry beast at the last moment, the only one I could obtain.

In the dusk of Sunday evening four thousand men were masked in the
woods on the banks of the Rapidan. Our scouts opened the way by wading
the stream and pouncing upon the unsuspecting picket of twenty
Confederates opposite. Then away we went across a cold, rapid river,
marching all that night through the dim woods and openings in a country
that was emphatically the enemy's. Lee's entire army was on our right,
the main Confederate cavalry force on our left. The strength of our
column and its objective point could not remain long unknown.

In some unimportant ways I acted as aid for Kilpatrick. A few hundred
yards in advance of the main body rode a vanguard of two hundred men,
thrown forward to warn us should we strike any considerable number of
the enemy's cavalry. As is ever the case, the horses of a small force
will walk away from a much larger body, and it was necessary from time
to time to send word to the vanguard, ordering it to "slow up." This
order was occasionally intrusted to me. I was to gallop over the
interval between the two columns, then draw up by the roadside and sit
motionless on my horse till the general with his staff came up. The
slightest irregularity of action would bring a shot from our own men,
while the prospect of an interview with the Johnnies while thus
isolated was always good. I saw one of our officers shot that night. He
had ridden carelessly into the woods, and rode out again just before
the head of the column, without instantly accounting for himself. As it
was of vital importance to keep the movement secret as long as
possible, the poor fellow was silenced in sad error as to his identity.

On we rode, night and day, with the briefest possible halts. At one
point we nearly captured a railroad train, and might easily have
succeeded had not the station and warehouses been in flames. As it was,
the train approached us closely, then backed, the shrieking engine
itself giving the impression of being startled to the last degree.

On a dreary, drizzling, foggy day we passed a milestone on which was
lettered, "Four miles to Richmond." It was still "on to Richmond" with
us what seemed a long way further, and then came a considerable period
of hesitancy, in which the command was drawn up for the final dash. The
enemy shelled a field near us vigorously, but fortunately, or
unfortunately, the fog was so dense that neither party could make
accurate observations or do much execution.

For reasons that have passed into history, the attack was not made. We
withdrew six miles from the city and went into camp.

I had scarcely begun to enjoy much-needed rest before the Confederates
came up in the darkness and shelled us out of such quarters as we had
found. We had to leave our boiling coffee behind us--one of the
greatest hardships I have ever known. Then followed a long night-ride
down the Peninsula, in driving sleet and rain.

The next morning the sun broke out gloriously, warming and drying our
chilled, wet forms. Nearly all that day we maintained a line of battle
confronting the pursuing enemy. One brigade would take a defensive
position, while the other would march about five miles to a commanding
point, where it in turn would form a line. The first brigade would then
give way, pass through the second, and take position well to the rear.
Thus, although retreating, we were always ready to fight. At one point
the enemy pressed us closely, and I saw a magnificent cavalry charge
down a gentle descent in the road. Every sabre seemed tipped with fire
in the brilliant sunshine.

In the afternoon it became evident that there was a body of troops
before us. Who or what they were was at first unknown, and for a time
the impression prevailed that we should have to cut our way through by
a headlong charge. We soon learned, however, that the force was a
brigade of colored infantry, sent up to cover our retreat. It was the
first time we had seen negro troops, but as the long line of glistening
bayonets and light-blue uniforms came into view, prejudices, if any
there were, vanished at once, and a cheer from the begrimed troopers
rang down our line, waking the echoes. It was a pleasant thing to march
past that array of faces, friendly though black, and know we were safe.
They represented the F.F.V.'s of Old Virginia, we then wished to see.
On the last day of the march my horse gave out, compelling me to walk
and lead him.

On the day after our arrival at Yorktown, Kilpatrick gave me despatches
for the authorities at Washington. President Lincoln, learning that I
had just returned from the raid, sent for me, and I had a memorable
interview with him alone in his private room. He expressed profound
solicitude for Colonel Dahlgren and his party. They had been detached
from the main force, and I could give no information concerning them.
We eventually learned of the death of that heroic young officer,
Colonel Dahlgren. Although partially helpless from the loss of a leg,
he led a daring expedition at the cost of his life.

I expressed regret to the President that the object of the raid had not
been accomplished. "Pick the flint, and try it again," said Mr.
Lincoln, heartily. I went out from his presence awed by the courage and
sublime simplicity of the man. While he gave the impression that he was
bearing the nation on his heart, one was made to feel that it was also
large enough for sympathy with all striving with him in the humblest
way.

My wife joined me in Washington, and few days later accompanied me to
the scene of my new labors at Hampton Hospital, near Fortress Monroe.
There were not many patients at that time (March, 1864) in the large
barrack wards; but as soon as the Army of the Potomac broke through the
Wilderness and approached our vicinity, transports in increasing
numbers, laden with desperately wounded men, came to our wharf. During
the early summer the wooden barracks were speedily filled, and many
tent wards were added. Duty became constant and severe, while the
scenes witnessed were often painful in the last degree. More truly than
on the field, the real horrors of war are learned from the long agonies
in the hospital. While in the cavalry service, I gained in vigor daily;
in two months of hospital work I lost thirty pounds. On one day I
buried as many as twenty-nine men. Every evening, till the duty became
like a nightmare, I followed the dead-cart, filled up with coffins,
once, twice, and often thrice, to the cemetery. Eventually an associate
chaplain was appointed, who relieved me of this task.

Fortunately, my tastes led me to employ an antidote to my daily work as
useful to me as to the patients. Surrounding the hospital was much
waste land. This, with the approval of the surgeon in charge, Dr. Ely
McMillan, and the aid of the convalescents, I transformed into a
garden, and for two successive seasons sent to the general kitchen
fresh vegetables by the wagon-load. If reward were needed, the wistful
delight with which a patient from the front would regard a raw onion
was ample; while for me the care of the homely, growing vegetables and
fruit brought a diversion of mind which made life more endurable.

One of the great needs of the patients who had to fight the winning or
losing battle of life was good reading, and I speedily sought to obtain
a supply. Hearts and purses at the North responded promptly and
liberally; publishers threw off fifty per cent from their prices; and I
was eventually able to collect, by gift and purchase, about three
thousand volumes. In gathering this library, I provided what may be
distinctly termed religious reading in abundance; but I also recognized
the need of diversion. Long wards were filled with men who had lost a
leg or an arm, and who must lie in one position for weeks. To help them
get through the time was to help them to live. I therefore made the
library rich in popular fiction and genial books of travel and
biography. Full sets of Irving, Cooper, Dickens, Thackeray, Scott,
Marryat, and other standard works were bought; and many a time I have
seen a poor fellow absorbed in their pages while holding his stump lest
the jar of a footstep should send a dart of agony to the point of
mutilation. My wife gave much assistance in my hospital duties, often
reaching and influencing those beyond me. I recall one poor fellow who
was actually six months in dying from a very painful wound. Profanity
appeared to be his vernacular, and in bitter protest at his fate, he
would curse nearly every one and everything. Mrs. Roe's sympathy and
attentions changed him very much, and he would listen quietly as long
as she would read to him. Some of the hospital attendants, men and
women, had good voices, and we organized a choir. Every Sunday
afternoon we went from ward to ward singing familiar hymns. It was
touching to see rough fellows drawing their blankets over their heads
to hide the emotion caused by words and melodies associated, in many
instances, with home and mother.

Northern generosity, and, in the main, convalescent labor enabled me to
build a large commodious chapel and to make great improvements in the
hospital farm. The site of the hospital and garden is now occupied by
General Armstrong's Normal and Agricultural Institute for Freedmen, and
the chapel was occupied as a place of worship until very recently. Thus
a noble and most useful work is being accomplished on the ground
consecrated by the life-and-death struggles of so many Union soldiers.

In 1865 the blessed era of peace began, bringing its many changes. In
October the hospital became practically empty, and I resigned. The
books were sent to Fortress Monroe for the use of the garrison, and I
found many of them there long years after, almost worn out from use.

After a little rest and some candidating for a church, I took a small
parish at Highland Falls, about a mile from West Point, New York,
entering on my labors in January, 1866. In this village my wife and I
spent nine very happy years. They were full of trial and many cares,
but free from those events which bring the deep shadows into one's
life. We soon became engaged in building a new stone church, whose
granite walls are so thick, and hard-wood finish so substantial that
passing centuries should add only the mellowness of age. The effort to
raise funds for this enterprise led me into the lecture-field and here
I found my cavalry-raid and army life in general exceedingly useful. I
looked around for a patch of garden-ground as instinctively as a duck
seeks water. The small plot adjoining the parsonage speedily grew into
about three acres, from which eventually came a book entitled "Play and
Profit in my Garden."

Up to the year 1871 I had written little for publication beyond
occasional contributions to the New York "Evangelist," nor had I
seriously contemplated a literary life. I had always been extremely
fond of fiction, and from boyhood had formed a habit of beguiling the
solitary hours in weaving crude fancies around people who for any
reason interested me. I usually had a mental serial running, to which I
returned when it was my mood; but I had never written even a short
story. In October, 1871, I was asked to preach for a far uptown
congregation in New York, with the possibility of a settlement in view.
On Monday following the services of the Sabbath, the officers of the
church were kind enough to ask me to spend a week with them and visit
among the people. Meantime, the morning papers laid before us the
startling fact that the city of Chicago was burning and that its
population were becoming homeless. The tidings impressed me powerfully,
waking the deepest sympathy. I said to myself, "Here is a phase of life
as remarkable as any witnessed during the war." I obeyed the impulse to
be on the scene as soon as possible, stated my purpose to my friends,
and was soon among the smoking ruins, finding an abiding-place with
throngs of others in a partially finished hotel. For days and nights I
wandered where a city had been, and among the extemporized places of
refuge harboring all classes of people. Late one night I sat for a long
time on the steps of Robert Collyer's church and watched the full moon
through the roofless walls and shattered steeple. There was not an
evidence of life where had been populous streets. It was there and
then, as nearly as I can remember, that the vague outlines of my first
story, "Barriers Burned Away," began to take form in my mind. I soon
returned home, and began to dream and write, giving during the
following year such hours as could be withdrawn from many other duties
to the construction of the story. I wrote when and where I could--on
steamboats, in railway cars, and at all odd hours of leisure, often
with long breaks in the work of composition, caused by the pressure of
other affairs, again getting up a sort of white heat from incessantly
dwelling upon scenes and incidents that had become real to me. In
brief, the story took possession of my mind, and grew as naturally as a
plant or a weed in my garden.

It will thus be obvious that at nearly middle age, and in obedience to
an impulse, I was launched as an author; that I had very slight
literary training; and that my appearance as a novelist was quite as
great a surprise to myself as to any of my friends. The writing of
sermons certainly does not prepare one for the construction of a novel;
and to this day certain critics contemptuously dismiss my books as
"preaching." During nearly four years of army life, at a period when
most young men are forming style and making the acquaintance of
literature, I scarcely had a chance to read at all. The subsequent
years of the pastorate were too active, except for an occasional dip
into a favorite author.

While writing my first story, I rarely thought of the public, the
characters and their experiences absorbing me wholly. When my narrative
was actually in print, there was wakened a very deep interest as to its
reception. I had none of the confidence resulting from the gradual
testing of one's power or from association with literary people, and I
also was aware that, when published, a book was far away from the still
waters of which one's friends are the protecting headlands. That I knew
my work to be exceedingly faulty goes without saying; that it was
utterly bad, I was scarcely ready to believe. Dr. Field, noted for his
pure English diction and taste, would not publish an irredeemable
story, and the constituency of the New York "Evangelist" is well known
to be one of the most intelligent in the country. Friendly opinions
from serial readers were reassuring as far as they went, but of course
the great majority of those who followed the story were silent. A
writer cannot, like a speaker, look into the eyes of his audience and
observe its mental attitude toward his thought. If my memory serves me,
Mr. R. R. Bowker was the earliest critic to write some friendly words
in the "Evening Mail;" but at first my venture was very generally
ignored. Then some unknown friend marked an influential journal
published in the interior of the State and mailed it so timely that it
reached me on Christmas eve. I doubt if a book was ever more
unsparingly condemned than mine in that review, whose final words were,
"The story is absolutely nauseating." In this instance and in my salad
days I took pains to find out who the writer was, for if his view was
correct I certainly should not engage in further efforts to make the
public ill. I discovered the reviewer to be a gentleman for whom I have
ever had the highest respect as an editor, legislator, and honest
thinker. My story made upon him just the impression he expressed, and
it would be very stupid on my part to blink the fact. Meantime, the
book was rapidly making for itself friends and passing into frequent
new editions. Even the editor who condemned the work would not assert
that those who bought it were an aggregation of asses. People cannot be
found by thousands who will pay a dollar and seventy-five cents for a
dime novel or a religious tract. I wished to learn the actual truth
more sincerely than any critic to write it, and at last I ventured to
take a copy to Mr. George Ripley, of the New York "Tribune." "Here is a
man," I thought, "whose fame and position as a critic are recognized by
all. If he deigns to notice the book, he will not only say what he
thinks, but I shall have much reason to think as he does." Mr. Ripley
met the diffident author kindly, asked a few questions, and took the
volume. A few weeks later, to my great surprise, he gave over a column
to a review of the story. Although not blind to its many faults, he
wrote words far more friendly and inspiring than I ever hoped to see;
it would seem that the public had sanctioned his verdict. From that day
to this these two instances have been types of my experience with many
critics, one condemning, another commending. There is ever a third
class who prove their superiority by sneering at or ignoring what is
closely related to the people. Much thought over my experience led to a
conclusion which the passing years confirm: the only thing for a writer
is to be himself and take the consequences. Even those who regard me as
a literary offender of the blackest dye have never named imitation
among my sins.

As successive books appeared, I began to recognize more and more
clearly another phase of an author's experience. A writer gradually
forms a constituency, certain qualities in his book appealing to
certain classes of minds. In my own case, I do not mean classes of
people looked at from the social point of view. A writer who takes any
hold on popular attention inevitably learns the character of his
constituency. He appeals, and minds and temperaments in sympathy
respond. Those he cannot touch go on their way indifferently; those he
offends may often strike back. This is the natural result of any strong
assertion of individuality. Certainly, if I had my choice, I would
rather write a book interesting to the young and to the common people,
whom Lincoln said "God must love, since He made so many of them." The
former are open to influence; the latter can be quickened and prepared
for something better. As a matter of fact, I find that there are those
in all classes whom my books attract, others who are repelled, as I
have said. It is perhaps one of the pleasantest experiences of an
author's life to learn from letters and in other ways that he is
forming a circle of friends, none the less friendly because personally
unknown. Their loyalty is both a safeguard and an inspiration. On one
hand, the writer shrinks from abusing such regard by careless work; on
the other, he is stimulated and encouraged by the feeling that there is
a group in waiting who will appreciate his best endeavor. While I
clearly recognize my limitations, and have no wish to emulate the frog
in the fable, I can truthfully say that I take increasing pains with
each story, aiming to verify every point by experience--my own or that
of others. Not long since, a critic asserted that changes in one of my
characters, resulting from total loss of memory, were preposterously
impossible. If the critic had consulted Ribot's "Diseases of Memory,"
or some experienced physician, he might have written more justly. I do
not feel myself competent to form a valuable opinion as to good art in
writing, and I cannot help observing that the art doctors disagree
wofully among themselves. Truth to nature and the realities, and not
the following of any school or fashion, has ever seemed the safest
guide. I sometimes venture to think I know a little about human nature.
My active life brought me in close contact with all kinds of people;
there was no man in my regiment who hesitated to come to my tent or to
talk confidentially by the campfire, while scores of dying men laid
bare to me their hearts. I at least know the nature that exists in the
human breast. It may be inartistic, or my use of it all wrong. That is
a question which time will decide, and I shall accept the verdict. Over
twelve years ago, certain oracles, with the voice of fate, predicted my
speedy eclipse and disappearance. Are they right in their adverse
judgment? I can truthfully say that now, as at the first, I wish to
know the facts in the case. The moment an author is conceited about his
work, he becomes absurd and is passing into a hopeless condition. If
worthy to write at all, he knows that he falls far short of his ideals;
if honest, he wishes to be estimated at his true worth, and to cast
behind him the mean little Satan of vanity. If he walks under a
conscious sense of greatness, he is a ridiculous figure, for beholders
remember the literary giants of other days and of his own time, and
smile at the airs of the comparatively little man. On the other hand,
no self-respecting writer should ape the false deprecating "'umbleness"
of Uriah Heep. In short, he wishes to pass, like a coin, for just what
he is worth. Mr. Matthew Arnold was ludicrously unjust to the West when
he wrote, "The Western States are at this moment being nourished and
formed, we hear, on the novels of a native author called Roe." Why
could not Mr. Arnold have taken a few moments to look into the
bookstores of the great cities of the West, in order to observe for
himself how the demand of one of the largest and most intelligent
reading publics in the world is supplied? He would have found that the
works of Scott and Dickens were more liberally purchased and generally
read than in his own land of "distinction." He should have discovered
when in this country that American statesmen (?) are so solicitous
about the intelligence of their constituents that they give publishers
so disposed every opportunity to steal novels describing the nobility
and English persons of distinction; that tons of such novels have been
sold annually in the West, a thousand to one of the "author called
Roe." The simple truth in the case is that in spite of this immense and
cheap competition, my novels have made their way and are being read
among multitudes of others. No one buys or reads a book under
compulsion; and if any one thinks that the poorer the book the better
the chance of its being read by the American people, let him try the
experiment. When a critic condemns my books, I accept that as his
judgment; when another critic and scores of men and women, the peers of
the first in cultivation and intelligence, commend the books, I do not
charge them with gratuitous lying. My one aim has become to do my work
conscientiously and leave the final verdict to time and the public. I
wish no other estimate than a correct one; and when the public indicate
that they have had enough of Roe, I shall neither whine nor write.

As a rule, I certainly stumble on my stories, as well as stumble
through them perhaps. Some incident or unexpected impulse is the
beginning of their existence. One October day I was walking on a
country road, and a chestnut burr lay in my path. I said to myself,
"There is a book in that burr, if I could get it out." With little
volition on my part, the story "Opening a Chestnut Burr" took form and
was written.

One summer evening, when in New York, I went up to Thomas's Garden,
near Central Park, to hear the delicious music he was educating us to
appreciate. At a certain point in the programme I noticed that the next
piece would be Beethoven's Fifth Symphony, and I glanced around with a
sort of congratulatory impulse, as much as to say, "Now we shall have a
treat." My attention was immediately arrested and fixed by a young girl
who, with the gentleman escorting her, was sitting near by. My first
impression of her face was one of marvellous beauty, followed by a
sense of dissatisfaction. Such was my distance that I could not annoy
her by furtive observation; and I soon discovered that she would regard
a stare as a tribute. Why was it that her face was so beautiful, yet so
displeasing? Each feature analyzed seemed perfection, yet the general
effect was a mocking, ill-kept promise. The truth was soon apparent.
The expression was not evil, but frivolous, silly, unredeemed by any
genuine womanly grace. She giggled and flirted through the sublime
symphony, till in exasperation I went out into the promenade under the
open sky. In less than an hour I had my story "A Face Illumined." I
imagined an artist seeing what I had seen and feeling a stronger
vexation in the wounding of his beauty loving nature; that he learned
during the evening that the girl was a relative of a close friend, and
that a sojourn at a summer hotel on the Hudson was in prospect. On his
return home he conceives the idea of painting the girl's features and
giving them a harmonious expression. Then the fancy takes him that the
girl is a modern Undine and has not yet received her woman's soul. The
story relates his effort to beautify, illumine the face itself by
evoking a mind. I never learned who was the actual girl with the
features of an angel and the face of a fool.

In the case of "He Fell in Love with His Wife," I merely saw a
paragraph in a paper to the effect that a middle-age widower, having
found it next to impossible to carry on his farm with hired help, had
gone to the county poorhouse and said "If there's a decent woman here,
I'll marry her." For years the homely item remained an ungerminating
seed in my mind, then started to grow, and the story was written in two
months.

My war experience has naturally made the picturesque phase of the Great
Conflict attractive material. In the future I hope to avail myself
still further of interesting periods in American history.

I find that my love of horticulture and outdoor life has grown with the
years. I do not pretend to scientific accuracy or knowledge. On the
contrary, I have regarded plants and birds rather as neighbors, and
have associated with them. When giving to my parish, I bought a place
in the near vicinity of the house which I had spent my childhood. The
front windows of our house command a noble view of the Hudson, while on
the east and south the Highlands are within rifle-shot. For several
years I hesitated to trust solely to literary work for support. As I
have said, not a few critics insisted that my books should not be read,
and would soon cease to be read. But whether the prediction should
prove true or not, I knew in any case that the critics themselves would
eat my strawberries; so I made the culture of small fruits the second
string to my bow. This business speedily took the form of growing
plants for sale, and was developing rapidly, when financial misfortune
led to my failure and the devotion of my entire time to writing.
Perhaps it was just as well in the end, for my health was being
undermined by too great and conflicting demands on my energy. In 1878,
at Dr. Holland's request, I wrote a series of papers on small fruits
for "Scribner's Magazine"--papers that were expanded into a book
entitled "Success with Small Fruits." I now aim merely at an abundant
home supply of fruits and vegetables, but in securing this, find
pleasure and profit in testing the many varieties catalogued and
offered by nurserymen and seedsmen. About three years ago the editor of
"Harper's Magazine" asked me to write one or two papers entitled "One
Acre," telling its possessor how to make the most and best of it. When
entering on the task, I found there was more in it than I had at first
supposed. Changing the title to "The Home Acre," I decided to write a
book or manual which might be useful in many rural homes. There are
those who have neither time nor inclination to read the volumes and
journals devoted to horticulture, who yet have gardens and trees in
which they are interested. They wish to learn in the shortest, clearest
way just what to do in order to secure success, without going into
theories, whys, and wherefores, or concerning themselves with the
higher mysteries of garden-lore. This work is now in course of
preparation. In brief, my aim is to have the book grow out of actual
experience, and not merely my own, either. As far as possible,
well-known experts and authorities are consulted on every point. As a
natural consequence, the book is growing, like the plants to which it
relates. It cannot be written "offhand" or finished "on time" to suit
any one except Dame Nature, who, being feminine, is often inscrutable
and apparently capricious. The experience of one season is often
reversed in the next, and the guide in gardening of whom I am most
afraid is the man who is always sure he is right. It was my privilege
to have the late Mr. Charles Downing as one of my teachers, and well do
I remember how that honest, sagacious, yet docile student of nature
would "put on the brakes" when I was passing too rapidly to
conclusions. It has always been one of my most cherished purposes to
interest people in the cultivation of the soil and rural life. My
effort is to "boil down" information to the simplest and most practical
form. Last spring, hundreds of varieties of vegetables and small fruits
were planted. A carefully written record is being kept from the time of
planting until the crop is gathered.

My methods of work are briefly these: I go into my study immediately
after breakfast--usually about nine o'clock--and write or study until
three or four in the afternoon, stopping only for a light lunch. In the
early morning and late afternoon I go around my place, giving
directions to the men, and observing the condition of vegetables,
flowers, and trees, and the general aspect of nature at the time. After
dinner, the evening is devoted to the family, friends, newspapers, and
light reading. In former years I wrote at night, but after a severe
attack of insomnia this practice was almost wholly abandoned. As a
rule, the greater part of a year is absorbed in the production of a
novel, and I am often gathering material for several years in advance
of writing.

For manuscript purposes I use bound blankbooks of cheap paper. My
sheets are thus kept securely together and in place--important
considerations in view of the gales often blowing through my study and
the habits of a careless man. This method offers peculiar advantages
for interpolation, as there is always a blank page opposite the one on
which I am writing. After correcting the manuscript, it is put in
typewriting and again revised. There are also two revisions of the
proof. While I do not shirk the tasks which approach closely to
drudgery, especially since my eyesight is not so good as it was, I also
obtain expert assistance. I find that when a page has become very
familiar and I am rather tired of it, my mind wanders from the close,
fixed attention essential to the best use of words. Perhaps few are
endowed with both the inventive and the critical faculty. A certain
inner sense enables one to know, according to his lights, whether the
story itself is true or false; but elegance of style is due chiefly to
training, to a cultivation like that of the ear for music. Possibly we
are entering on an age in which the people care less for form, for
phraseology, than for what seems to them true, real--for what, as they
would express it, "takes hold of them." This is no plea or excuse for
careless work, but rather a suggestion that the day of prolix, fine,
flowery writing is passing. The immense number of well-written books in
circulation has made success with careless, slovenly manuscripts
impossible. Publishers and editors will not even read, much less
publish them. Simplicity, lucidity, strength, a plunge in medias res,
are now the qualities and conditions chiefly desired, rather than
finely turned sentences in which it is apparent more labor has been
expended on the vehicle than on what it contains. The questions of this
eager age are, What has he to say? Does it interest us? As an author, I
have felt that my only chance of gaining and keeping the attention of
men and women was to know, to understand them, to feel with and for
them in what constituted their life. Failing to do this, why should a
line of my books be read? Who reads a modern novel from sense of duty?
There are classics which all must read and pretend to enjoy whether
capable of doing so or not. No critic has ever been so daft as to call
any of my books a classic. Better books are unread because the writer
is not en rapport with the reader. The time has passed when either the
theologian, the politician, or the critic can take the American citizen
metaphorically by the shoulder and send him along the path in which
they think he should go. He has become the most independent being in
the world, good-humoredly tolerant of the beliefs and fancies of
others, while reserving, as a matter of course, the right to think for
himself.

In appealing to the intelligent American public, choosing for itself
among the multitude of books now offered, it is my creed that an author
should maintain completely and thoroughly his own individuality, and
take the consequences. He cannot conjure strongly by imitating any one,
or by representing any school or fashion. He must do his work
conscientiously, for his readers know by instinct whether or not they
are treated seriously and with respect. Above all, he must understand
men and women sufficiently to interest them; for all the "powers that
be" cannot compel them to read a book they do not like.

My early experience in respect to my books in the British Dominions has
been similar to that of many others. My first stories were taken by one
or more publishers without saying "by your leave," and no returns made
of any kind. As time passed, Messrs. Ward, Locke & Co., more than any
other house, showed a disposition to treat me fairly. Increasing sums
were given for successive books. Recently Mr. George Locke visited me,
and offered liberal compensation for each new novel. He also agreed to
give me five per cent copyright on all my old books published by him,
no matter how obtained, in some instances revoking agreements which
precluded the making of any such request on my part. In the case of
many of these books he has no protection, for they are published by
others; but he takes the simple ground that he will not sell any of my
books without giving me a share in the profit. Such honorable action
should tend to make piracy more odious than ever, on both sides of the
sea. Other English firms have offered me the usual royalty, and I now
believe that in spite of our House of Mis-Representatives at
Washington, the majority of the British publishers are disposed to deal
justly and honorably by American writers. In my opinion, the LOWER
House in Congress has libelled and slandered the American people by
acting as if their constituents, with thievish instincts, chuckled over
pennies saved when buying pirated books. This great, rich, prosperous
nation has been made a "fence," a receiver of stolen goods, and
shamelessly committed to the crime for which poor wretches are sent to
jail. Truly, when history is written, and it is learned that the whole
power and statesmanship of the government were enlisted in behalf of
the pork interest, while the literature of the country and the literary
class were contemptuously ignored, it may be that the present period
will become known as the Pork Era of the Republic. It is a strange fact
that English publishers are recognizing our rights in advance of our
own lawmakers.

In relating his experience in the pages of this magazine, Mr. Julian
Hawthorne said in effect that one of the best rewards of the literary
life was the friends it enabled the writer to make. When giving me his
friendship, he proved how true this is. In my experience the literary
class make good, genial, honest friends, while their keen, alert minds
and knowledge of life in many of its most interesting aspects give an
unfailing charm to their society. One can maintain the most cordial and
intimate relations with editors of magazines and journals if he will
recognize that such relations should have no influence whatever in the
acceptance or declination of manuscripts. I am constantly receiving
letters from literary aspirants who appear to think that if I will use
a little influence their stories or papers would be taken and paid for.
I have no such influence, nor do I wish any, in regard to my own work.
The conscientious editor's first duty is to his periodical and its
constituents, and he would and should be more scrupulous in accepting a
manuscript from a friend than from a stranger. To show resentment
because a manuscript is returned is absurd, however great may be our
disappointment.

Perhaps one of the most perplexing and often painful experiences of an
author comes from the appeals of those who hope through him to obtain
immediate recognition as writers. One is asked to read manuscripts and
commend them to publishers, or at least to give an opinion in regard to
them, often to revise or even to rewrite certain portions. I remember
that during one month I was asked to do work on the manuscripts of
strangers that would require about a year of my time. The maker of such
request does not realize that he or she is but one among many, and that
the poor author would have to abandon all hope of supporting his family
if he tried to comply. The majority who thus appeal to one know next to
nothing of the literary life or the conditions of success. They write
to the author in perfect good faith, often relating circumstances which
touch his sympathies; yet if you tell them the truth about their
manuscript, or say you have not time to read it, adding that you have
no influence with editors or publishers beyond securing a careful
examination of what is written, you feel that you are often set down as
a churl, and your inability to comply with their wishes is regarded as
the selfishness and arrogance of success. The worried author has also
his own compunctions, for while he has tried so often and vainly to
secure the recognition requested, till he is in despair of such effort,
he still is haunted by the fear that he may overlook some genius whom
it would be a delight to guide through what seems a thorny jungle to
the inexperienced.

In recalling the past, one remembers when he stood in such sore need of
friends that he dislikes even the appearance of passing by on the other
side. There are no riches in the world like stanch friends who prove
themselves to be such in your need, your adversity, or your weakness. I
have some treasured letters received after it had been telegraphed
throughout the land that I was a bankrupt and had found myself many
thousands of dollars worse off than nothing. The kindly words and
looks, the cordial grasp of the hand, and the temporary loan
occasionally, of those who stood by me when scarcely sane from
overwork, trouble, and, worse than all, from insomnia, can never be
forgotten while a trace of memory is left. Soon after my insolvency
there came a date when all my interests in my books then published must
be sold to the highest bidder. It seemed in a sense like putting my
children up at auction; and yet I was powerless, since my interests
under contracts were a part of my assets. These rights had been well
advertised in the New York and county papers, as the statute required,
and the popularity of the books was well known. Any one in the land
could have purchased these books from me forever. A friend made the
highest bid and secured the property. My rights in my first nine novels
became his, legally and absolutely. There was even no verbal agreement
between us--nothing but his kind, honest eyes to reassure me. He not
only paid the sum he had bidden, but then and there wrote a check for a
sum which, with my other assets, immediately liquidated my personal
debts, principal and interest. The children of my fancy are again my
children, for they speedily earned enough to repay my friend and to
enable him to compromise with the holders of indorsed notes in a way
satisfactory to them. It so happened that most of these creditors
resided in my immediate neighborhood. I determined to fight out the
battle in their midst and under their daily observation, and to treat
all alike, without regard to their legal claims. Only one creditor
tried to make life a burden; but he did his level best. The others
permitted me to meet my obligations in my own time and way, and I am
grateful for their consideration. When all had received the sum
mutually agreed upon, and I had shaken hands with them, I went to the
quaint and quiet little city of Santa Barbara, on the Pacific coast,
for a change and partial rest. While there, however, I wrote my
Charleston story, "The Earth Trembled." In September, 1887, I returned
to my home at Cornwall-on-the-Hudson, and resumed my work in a region
made dear by the memories of a lifetime. Just now I am completing a
Southern story entitled "Miss Lou."

It so happens in my experience that I have discovered one who appears
willing to stick closer to me than a brother, and even to pass as my
"double," or else he is so helplessly in the hands of his publishers as
to be an object of pity. A certain "Edward R. Roe" is also an author,
and is suffering cruelly in reputation because his publishers so manage
that he is identified with me. By strange coincidence, they hit upon a
cover for his book which is almost a facsimile of the cover of my
pamphlet novel, "An Original Belle," previously issued. The R in the
name of this unfortunate man has been furnished with such a diminutive
tail that it passes for a P, and even my friends supposed that the
book, offered everywhere for sale, was mine. In many instances I have
asked at news stands, "Whose book is that?" The prompt and invariable
answer has been, "E. P. Roe's." I have seen book notices in which the
volume was ascribed to me in anything but flattering terms. A
distinguished judge, in a carefully written opinion, is so uncharitable
as to characterize the coincidence in cover as a "fraud," and to say,
"No one can look at the covers of the two publications and fail to see
evidence of a design to deceive the public and to infringe upon the
rights of the publisher and author"--that is, the rights of Messrs.
Dodd, Mead would be well, as a rule, for other writers to begin with
reputable, honorable publishers and to remain with them. A publisher
can do more and better with a line of books than with isolated volumes.
When an author's books are scattered, there is not sufficient
inducement for any one to push them strongly, nor, as in the case above
related, to protect a writer against a "double," should one appear.
Authors often know little about business, and should deal with a
publisher who will look after their interests as truly as his own.
Unbusinesslike habits and methods are certainly not traits to be
cultivated, for we often suffer grievously from their existence; yet as
far as possible the author should be free from distracting cares. The
novelist does his best work when abstracted from the actual world and
living in its ideal counterpart which for the time he is imagining.
When his creative work is completed, he should live very close to the
real world, or else he will be imagining a state of things which
neither God nor man had any hand in bringing about.






TAKEN ALIVE AND OTHER STORIES




TAKEN ALIVE




CHAPTER I

SOMETHING BEFORE UNKNOWN


Clara Heyward was dressed in deep mourning, and it was evident that the
emblems of bereavement were not worn merely in compliance with a social
custom. Her face was pallid from grief, and her dark beautiful eyes
were dim from much weeping. She sat in the little parlor of a cottage
located in a large Californian city, and listened with apathetic
expression as a young man pleaded for the greatest and most sacred gift
that a woman can bestow. Ralph Brandt was a fine type of young vigorous
manhood; and we might easily fancy that his strong, resolute face, now
eloquent with deep feeling, was not one upon which a girl could look
with indifference. Clara's words, however, revealed the apparent
hopelessness of his suit.

"It's of no use, Ralph," she said; "I'm in no mood for such thoughts."

"You don't believe in me; you don't trust me," he resumed sadly. "You
think that because I was once wild, and even worse, that I'll not be
true to my promises and live an honest life. Have I not been honest
when I knew that being so might cost me dear? Have I not told you of my
past life and future purposes when I might have concealed almost
everything?"

"It's not that, Ralph. I do believe you are sincere; and if the
dreadful thing which has broken me down with sorrow had not happened,
all might have been as you wish. I should have quite as much confidence
in a young man who, like you, has seen evil and turned resolutely away
from it, as in one who didn't know much about the world or himself
either. What's more, father--"

At the word "father" her listless manner vanished, and she gave way to
passionate sobs. "His foul murder is always before me," she wailed.
"Oh, we were so happy! he was so kind, and made me his companion! I
don't see how I can live without him. I can't think of love and
marriage when I remember how he died, and that the villain who killed
him is at large and unpunished. What right have I to forget this great
wrong and to try to be happy? No, no! the knife that killed him pierced
my heart; and it's bleeding all the time. I'm not fit to be any man's
wife; and I will not bring my great sorrow into any man's home."

Brandt sprang up and paced the room for a few moments, his brow
contracted in deep thought. Then, apparently coming to a decision, he
sat down by his companion and took her cold, unresisting hand.

"My poor little girl," he said, kindly, "you don't half understand me
yet. I love you all the more because you are heart-broken and pale with
grief. That is the reason I have spoken so earnestly to-night. You will
grieve yourself to death if left alone; and what good would your death
do any one? It would spoil my life. Believe me, I would welcome you to
my home with all your sorrow--all the more because of your sorrow; and
I'd be so kind and patient that you'd begin to smile again some day.
That's what your father would wish if he could speak to you, and not
that you should grieve away your life for what can't be helped now. But
I have a plan. It's right in my line to capture such scoundrels as the
man who murdered your father; and what's more, I know the man, or
rather I used to in old times. I've played many a game of euchre with
him in which he cheated me out of money that I'd be glad to have now;
and I'm satisfied that he does not know of any change in me. I was away
on distant detective duty, you know, when your father was killed. I
won't ask you to go over the painful circumstances; I can learn them at
the prison. I shall try to get permission to search out Bute, desperate
and dangerous as he is--"

"Oh, Ralph, Ralph," cried the girl, springing up, her eyes flashing
through her tears, "if you will bring my father's murderer to justice,
if you will prevent him from destroying other lives, as he surely will,
you will find that I can refuse you nothing."

Then she paused, shook her head sadly, and withdrew the hand she had
given him. "No," she resumed, "I shouldn't ask this; I don't ask it. As
you say, he is desperate and dangerous; and he would take your life the
moment he dreamed of your purpose. I should only have another cause for
sorrow."

Brandt now smiled as if he were master of the situation. "Why, Clara,"
he exclaimed, "don't you know that running down and capturing
desperadoes is now part of my business?"

"Yes; but you can get plenty of work that isn't so dangerous."

"I should be a nice fellow to ask you to be my wife and yet show I was
afraid to arrest your father's murderer. You needn't ask me to do this;
you are not going to be responsible for my course in the least. I shall
begin operations this very night, and have no doubt that I can get a
chance to work on the case. Now don't burden your heart with any
thoughts about my danger. I myself owe Bute as big a grudge as I can
have against any human being. He cheated me and led me into deviltry
years ago, and then I lost sight of him until he was brought to the
prison of which your father was one of the keepers. I've been absent
for the last three months, you know; but I didn't forget you or your
father a day, and you remember I wrote you as soon as I heard of your
trouble. I think your father sort of believed in me; he never made me
feel I wasn't fit to see you or to be with you, and I'd do more for him
living or dead than for any other man."

"He did believe in you, Ralph, and he always spoke well of you. Oh, you
can't know how much I lost in him! After mother died he did not leave
me to the care of strangers, but gave me most of his time when off
duty. He sent me to the best schools, bought me books to read, and took
me out evenings instead of going off by himself, as so many men do. He
was so kind and so brave; oh, oh! you know he lost his life by trying
to do his duty when another man would have given up. Bute and two
others broke jail. Father saw one of his assistants stabbed, and he was
knocked down himself. He might have remained quiet and escaped with a
few bruises; but he caught Bute's foot, and then the wretch turned and
stabbed him. He told me all with his poor pale lips before he died. Oh,
oh! when shall I forget?"

"You can never forget, dear; I don't ask anything contrary to nature.
You were a good daughter, and so I believe you will be a good wife. But
if I bring the murderer to justice, you will feel that a great wrong
has been righted--that all has been done that can be done. Then you'll
begin to think that your father wouldn't wish you to grieve yourself to
death, and that as he tried to make you happy while he was living, so
he will wish you to be happy now he's gone."

"It isn't a question of happiness. I don't feel as if I could ever be
happy again; and so I don't see how I can make you or any one else
happy."

"That's my lookout, Clara. I'd be only too glad to take you as you are.
Come, now, this is December. If I bring Bute in by Christmas, what will
you give me?"

She silently and eloquently gave him her hand; but her lips quivered so
she could not speak. He kissed her hand as gallantly as any olden-time
knight, then added a little brusquely:

"See here, little girl, I'm not going to bind you by anything that
looks like a bargain. I shall attempt all I've said; and then on
Christmas, or whenever I get back, I'll speak my heart to you again
just as I have spoken now."

"When a man acts as you do, Ralph, any girl would find it hard to keep
free. I shall follow you night and day with my thoughts and prayers."

"Well, I'm superstitious enough to believe that I shall be safer and
more successful on account of them. Clara, look me in the eyes before I
go."

She looked up to his clear gray eyes as requested.

"I don't ask you to forget one who is dead; but don't you see how much
you are to one who is living? Don't you see that in spite of all your
sorrow you can still give happiness? Now, be as generous and kind as
you can. Don't grieve hopelessly while I'm gone. That's what is killing
you; and the thought of it fills me with dread. Try to think that you
still have something and some one to live for. Perhaps you can learn to
love me a little if you try, and then everything won't look so black.
If you find you can't love me, I won't blame you--, and if I lose you
as my wife, you won't lose a true, honest friend."

For the first time the girl became vaguely conscious of, the
possibility of an affection, a tie superseding all others; she began to
see how it was possible to give herself to this man, not from an
impulse of gratitude or because she liked him better than any one else,
but because of a feeling, new, mysterious, which gave him a sort of
divine right in her. Something in the expression of his eyes had been
more potent than his words; something subtle, swift as an electric
spark had passed from him to her, awakening a faint, strange tumult in
the heart she thought so utterly crushed. A few moments before, she
could have promised resolutely to be his wife; she could have permitted
his embrace with unresponsive apathy. Now she felt a sudden shyness. A
faint color stole into her pale face, and she longed to be alone.

"Ralph," she faltered, "you are so generous, I--I don't know what to
say."

"You needn't say anything till I come back. If possible, I will be here
by Christmas, for you shouldn't be alone that day with your grief.
Good-by."

The hand she gave him trembled, and her face was averted now.

"You will try to love me a little, won't you?"

"Yes," she whispered.




CHAPTER II

A VISITOR AT THE MINE


Ralph Brandt was admirably fitted for the task he had undertaken. With
fearlessness he united imperturbable coolness and unwearied patience in
pursuit of an object. Few knew him in his character of detective, and
no one would have singled him out as an expert in his calling. The more
difficult and dangerous the work, the more careless and indifferent his
manner, giving the impression to superficial observers of being the
very last person to be intrusted with responsible duty. But his chief
and others on the force well knew that beneath Brandt's careless
demeanor was concealed the relentless pertinacity of a bloodhound on
track of its victim. With the trait of dogged pursuit all resemblance
to the bloodthirsty animal ceased, and even the worst of criminals
found him kind-hearted and good-natured AFTER they were within his
power. Failure was an idea not to be entertained. If the man to be
caught existed, he could certainly be found, was the principle on which
our officer acted.

He readily obtained permission to attempt the capture of the escaped
prisoner, Bute; but the murderer had disappeared, leaving no clew.
Brandt learned that the slums of large cities and several mining camps
had been searched in vain, also that the trains running east had been
carefully watched. We need not try to follow his processes of thought,
nor seek to learn how he soon came to the conclusion that his man was
at some distant mining station working under an assumed name. By a kind
of instinct his mind kept reverting to one of these stations with
increasing frequency. It was not so remote in respect to mere distance;
but it was isolated, off the lines of travel, with a gap of seventy
miles between it and what might be termed civilization, and was
suspected of being a sort of refuge for hard characters and fugitives
from justice. Bute, when last seen, was making for the mountains in the
direction of this mine. Invested with ample authority to bring in the
outlaw dead or alive, Brandt followed this vague clew.

One afternoon, Mr. Alford, the superintendent of the mine, was informed
that a man wished to see him. There was ushered into his private office
an elderly gentleman who appeared as if he might be a prospecting
capitalist or one of the owners of the mine. The superintendent was
kept in doubt as to the character of the visitor for a few moments
while Brandt sought by general remarks and leading questions to learn
the disposition of the man who must, from the necessities of the case,
become to some extent his ally in securing the ends of justice.
Apparently the detective was satisfied, for he asked, suddenly:

"By the way, have you a man in your employ by the name of Bute?"

"No, sir," replied Mr. Alford, with a little surprise.

"Have you a man, then, who answers to the following description?" He
gave a brief word photograph of the criminal.

"You want this man?" Mr. Alford asked in a low voice.

"Yes."

"Well, really, sir, I would like to know your motive, indeed, I may
add, your authority, for--"

"There it is," Brand smilingly remarked, handing the superintendent a
paper.

"Oh, certainly, certainly," said Mr. Alford, after a moment. "This is
all right; and I am bound to do nothing to obstruct you in the
performance of your duty." He now carefully closed the door and added,
"What do you want this man for?"

"It's a case of murder."

"Phew! Apparently he is one of the best men on the force."

"Only apparently; I know him well."

Mr. Alford's brow clouded with anxiety, and after a moment he said,
"Mr.--how shall I address you?"

"You had better continue to call me by the name under which I was
introduced--Brown."

"Well, Mr. Brown, you have a very difficult and hazardous task, and you
must be careful how you involve me in your actions. I shall not lay a
straw in your way, but I cannot openly help you. It is difficult for me
to get labor here at best; and it is understood that I ask no questions
and deal with men on the basis simply of their relations to me. As long
as I act on this understanding, I can keep public sentiment with me and
enforce some degree of discipline. If it were known that I was aiding
or abetting you in the enterprise you have in hand, my life would not
be worth a rush. There are plenty in camp who would shoot me, just as
they would you, should they learn of your design. I fear you do not
realize what you are attempting. A man like yourself, elderly and
alone, has no better chance of taking such a fellow as you describe
Bute to be than of carrying a ton of ore on his back down the mountain.
In all sincerity, sir, I must advise you to depart quietly and
expeditiously, and give no one besides myself a hint of your errand."

"Will you please step into the outer office and make sure that no one
is within earshot?" said Brandt, quietly.

When Mr. Alford returned, the elderly man apparently had disappeared,
and a smiling smooth-faced young fellow with short brown hair sat in
his place. His host stared, the transformation was so great.

"Mr. Alford," said the detective, "I understand my business and the
risks it involves. All I ask of you is that I may not be interfered
with so far as you are concerned; and my chief object in calling is to
prevent you being surprised by anything you may see or hear. About
three miles or thereabouts from here, on the road running east, there
is a fellow who keeps a tavern. Do you know him?"

"I know no good of him. He's the worst nuisance I have to contend with,
for he keeps some of my men disabled much of the time."

"Well, I knew Bute years ago, and I can make him think I am now what I
was then, only worse; and I will induce him to go with me to raid that
tavern. If this plan fails, I shall try another, for I am either going
to take Bute alive or else get ample proof that he is dead. There may
be some queer goings-on before I leave, and all I ask is that you will
neither interfere nor investigate. You may be as ignorant and
non-committal as you please. I shall report progress to you, however,
and may need your testimony, but will see to it that it is given by you
as one who had nothing to do with the affair. Now please show me your
quarters, so that I can find you at night if need be; also Bute's
sleeping-place and the lay of the land to some extent. You'll find that
I can take everything in mighty quick. See, I'm the elderly gentleman
again," and he resumed his disguise with marvellous celerity.

Mr. Alford led the way through the outer office; and the two clerks
writing there saw nothing to awaken the slightest suspicion. The
superintendent's cottage stood on the road leading to the mine and
somewhat apart from the other buildings. On the opposite side of the
highway was a thicket of pines which promised cover until one plunged
into the unbroken forest that covered the mountain-side.

Brandt observed this, and remarked, "I've studied the approaches to
your place a little at I came along; but I suppose I shall have to give
a day or two more to the work before making my attempt."

"Well," rejoined Mr. Alford, who was of rather a social turn and felt
the isolation of his life, "why not be my guest for a time? I'll take
the risk if you will remain incog., and keep aloof from the men."

"That I should do in any event till ready to act. Thank you for your
kindness, for it may simplify my task very much. I will see to it that
I do not compromise you. When I'm ready to snare my bird, you can
dismiss me a little ostentatiously for New York."

Brandt's horse was now ordered to the stable. The two men entered the
cottage, and soon afterward visited the different points of interest,
Mr. Alford giving the natural impression that he was showing an
interested stranger the appliances for working the mine. At one point
he remarked in a low tone, "That's Bute's lodging-place. A half-breed,
named Apache Jack, who speaks little English lives with him."

Brandt's seemingly careless and transitory glance rested on a little
shanty and noted that it was separated from others of its class by a
considerable interval.

"Bute, you say, is on the day-shift."

"Yes, he won't be up till six o'clock."

"I'll manage to see him then without his knowing it."

"Be careful. I take my risk on the ground of your good faith and
prudence."

"Don't fear."




CHAPTER III

THWARTED


Brandt maintained his disguise admirably. His presence caused little
comment, and he was spoken of as a visiting stockholder of the mine.
During his walk with Mr. Alford he appeared interested only in
machinery, ores, etc., but his trained eyes made a topographical map of
surroundings, and everything centred about Bute's shanty. In the
evening, he amply returned his host's hospitality by comic and tragic
stories of criminal life. The next day he began to lay his plans
carefully, and disappeared soon after breakfast with the ostensible
purpose of climbing a height at some distance for the sake of the
prospect. He soon doubled round, noting every covert approach to Bute's
lodgings. His eye and ear were as quick as an Indian's; but he still
maintained, in case he was observed, the manner of an elderly stranger
strolling about to view the region.

By noon he felt that he had the immediate locality by heart. His
afternoon task was to explore the possibilities of a stream that
crossed the mine road something over a mile away, and for this purpose
he mounted his horse. He soon reached the shallow ford, and saw that
the water was backed up for a considerable distance, and that the
shallows certainly extended around a high, jutting rock which hid the
stream from that point and beyond from the road. The bed appeared
smooth, firm, and sandy, and he waded his horse up the gentle current
until he was concealed from the highway. A place, however, was soon
reached where the water came tumbling down over impassable rocks; and
he was compelled to ascend the wooded shore. This he did on the side
nearest to the mine house, and found that with care he could lead his
horse to a point that could not be, he thought, over half a mile from
the superintendent's cottage. Here there was a little dell around which
the pines grew so darkly and thickly that he determined to make it his
covert should he fail in his first attempt. His object now was to see
if his estimate of proximity to the mine was correct; and leaving his
horse, he pushed up the mountain-side. At last he reached a precipitous
ledge. Skirting this a short distance, he found a place of
comparatively easy ascent, and soon learned with much satisfaction that
he was not over two hundred yards from the thicket opposite Mr.
Alford's quarters. These discoveries all favored possible future
operations; and he retraced his steps, marking his returning path by
bits of white paper, held in place by stones against the high
prevailing winds. Near the spot where he had left his horse he found a
nook among the rocks in which a fire would be well hidden. Having
marked the place carefully with his eye and obtained his bearings, he
led his horse back to the stream and reached the unfrequented road
again without being observed.

His next task was to discover some kind of a passageway from the mine
road to a point on the main highway, leading to the west and out of the
mountains. He found no better resource than to strike directly into the
forest and travel by points of the compass. Fortunately, the trees were
lofty and comparatively open, and he encountered no worse difficulties
than some steep and rugged descents, and at last emerged on the post
road at least a mile to the west of the tavern, which stood near its
intersection with the mine road; Returning, he again marked out a path
with paper as he had before. The sun was now low in the sky; and as he
trotted toward the mine, he had but one more precaution to take, and
that was to find a place where the trees were sufficiently open to
permit him to ride into their shade at night in case he wished to avoid
parties upon the road. Having indicated two or three such spots by a
single bit of paper that would glimmer in the moonlight, he joined Mr.
Alford at supper, feeling that his preparations were nearly complete.
When they were alone, he told his host that it would be best not to
gratify his curiosity, for then he could honestly say that he knew
nothing of any detective's plans or whereabouts.

"I cannot help feeling," said Mr. Alford, "that you are playing with
fire over a powder magazine. Now that I know you better, I hate to
think of the risk that you are taking. It has troubled me terribly all
day. I feel as if we were on the eve of a tragedy. You had better leave
quietly in the morning and bring a force later that would make
resistance impossible, or else give it up altogether. Why should you
throw away your life? I tell you again that if the men get a hint of
your character or purpose they will hunt you to death."

"It's a part of my business to incur such risks," replied Brandt,
quietly. "Besides, I have a motive in this case which would lead me to
take a man out of the jaws of hell."

"That's what you may find you are attempting here. Well, we're in for
it now, I suppose, since you are so determined."

"I don't think you will appear involved in the affair at all. In the
morning you give me a sack of grain for my horse and some provisions
for myself, and then bid farewell to Mr. Brown in the most open and
natural manner possible. You may not see me again. It is possible I may
have to borrow a horse of you it my scheme to-night don't work. It will
be returned or paid for very soon."

"Bute has a pony. He brought it with him, and he and Apache Jack
between them manage to keep it. They stable it nights in a little shed
back of their shanty."

"I had discovered this, and hope to take the man away on his pony. I
understand why Bute keeps the animal. He knew that he might have to
travel suddenly and fast."

The next morning Mr. Alford parted with Brandt as had been arranged,
the latter starting ostensibly for the nearest railway station. All day
long the superintendent was nervous and anxious; but he saw no
evidences of suspicion or uneasiness among those in his employ.

Brandt rode at a sharp canter as long as he was in sight, and then
approached the stream slowly and warily. When satisfied that he was
unobserved, he again passed up its shallow bed around the concealing
rock, and sought his hiding-place on the mountain-side. Aware that the
coming nights might require ceaseless activity, his first measure was
to secure a few hours of sound sleep; and he had so trained himself
that he could, as it were, store up rest against long and trying
emergencies. The rocks sheltered him against the wind, and a fire gave
all the comfort his hardy frame required, as he reposed on his couch of
pine-needles. Early in the afternoon he fed his horse, took a hearty
meal himself, and concealed the remaining store so that no wild
creatures could get at it. At early twilight he returned by way of the
stream and hid his horse well back in the woods near the mine. To this
he now went boldly, and inquired for Tim Atkins, Bute's assumed name.
He was directed to the shanty with which he had already made himself so
familiar.

Bute was found alone, and was much surprised at sight of his old
gambling acquaintance of better days, for his better days were those of
robbery before he had added the deeper stain of murder. Brandt soon
allayed active fears and suspicions by giving the impression that in
his descensus he had reached the stage of robbery and had got on the
scent of some rich booty in the mountains. "But how did you know I was
here?" demanded Bute.

"I didn't know it," replied Brandt, adopting his old vernacular; "but I
guessed as much, for I knew there was more'n one shady feller in this
gang, and I took my chances on findin' you, for, says I to myself, if I
can find Bute, I've found the right man to help me crack a ranch when
there's some risk and big plunder."

He then disclosed the fact of hearing that the keeper of the tavern had
accumulated a good sum of hard money, and was looking out for a chance
to send it to a bank. "We can save him the trouble, yer know," he
concluded, facetiously.

"Well," said Bute, musingly, "I'm gittin' tired of this dog's life, and
I reckon I'll go snacks with yer and then put out fer parts unknown. I
was paid t'other day, and there ain't much owin' me here. I guess it'll
be safer fer me ter keep movin' on, too."

"You may well say that, Bute. I heard below that there was goin' to be
some investigations inter this gang, and that there was more'n one
feller here whose pictur was on exhibition."

"That so?" said Bute, hastily. "Well, I'll go with yer ter-night, fer
it's time I was movin'. I kin tell yer one thing, though--there'll be
no investigations here unless a fair-sized regiment makes it. Every man
keeps his shooter handy."

"Hanged if we care how the thing turns out. You and me'll be far enough
away from the shindy. Now make your arrangements prompt, for we must be
on the road by nine o'clock, so we can get through early in the night
and have a good start with the swag. My plan is to ambush the whiskey
shop, go and demand drinks soon after everybody is gone, and then
proceed to business."

"Can't we let my mate, Apache Jack, in with us? I'll stand for him."

"No, no, I don't know anything about Apache Jack; and I can trust you.
We can manage better alone, and I'd rather have one-half than
one-third."

"Trust me, kin you? you--fool," thought Bute. "So ye thinks I'll sit
down and divide the plunder socially with you when I kin give yer a
quiet dig in the ribs and take it all. One more man now won't matter.
I'm a-goin' ter try fer enough ter-night ter take me well out of these
parts."

Bute's face was sinister enough to suggest any phase of evil, and
Brandt well knew that he was capable of what he meditated. It was now
the policy of both parties, however, to be very friendly, and Bute was
still further mellowed by a draught of liquor from Brandt's flask.

They had several games of cards in which it was managed that Bute's
winnings should be the larger; and at nine in the evening they started
on what was to Bute another expedition of robbery and murder. Mr.
Alford, who was on the alert, saw them depart with a deep sigh of
relief. The night was cloudy, but the moon gave plenty of light for
travelling. Brandt soon secured his horse, and then appeared to give
full rein to his careless, reckless spirit.

As they approached the stream, he remarked, "I say, Bute, it's too bad
we can't use the pasteboards while on the jog; but I can win a five out
of you by an old game of ours. I bet you I can empty my revolver
quicker 'n you can."

"We'd better save our amernition and make no noise."

"Oh, pshaw! I always have better luck when I'm free and careless like.
It's your sneaking fellers that always get caught. Besides, who'll
notice? This little game is common enough all through the mountains,
and everybody knows that there's no mischief in such kind of firing. I
want to win back some of my money."

"Well, then, take you up; go ahead."

Instantly from Brandt's pistol there were six reports following one
another so quickly that they could scarcely be distinguished.

"Now beat that if you can!" cried Brandt, who had a second and
concealed revolver ready for an emergency.

"The fool!" thought Bute, "to put himself at the marcy of any man. I
can pluck him to-night like a winged pa'tridge;" but he too fired
almost as quickly as his companion.

"You only used five ca'tridges in that little game, my friend," said
Brandt.

"Nonsense! I fired so quick you couldn't count 'em."

"Now see here, Bute," resumed Brandt, in an aggrieved tone, "you've got
to play fair with me. I've cut my eye-teeth since you used to fleece
me, and I'll swear you fired only five shots. Let's load and try again."

"What the use of sich ---- nonsense? You'll swar that you fired the
quickest; and of course I'll swar the same, and there's nobody here ter
jedge. What's more, Ralph Brandt, I wants you and every man ter know
that I always keeps a shot in reserve, and that I never misses. So
let's load and jog on, and stop foolin'."

"That scheme has failed," thought Brandt, as he replaced the shells
with cartridges.

His purpose was to find a moment when his companion was completely in
his power, and it came sooner than he expected. When they drew near the
brook, it was evident that Bute's pony was thirsty, for it suddenly
darted forward and thrust its nose into the water. Therefore, for an
instant, Bute was in advance with his back toward the detective.
Covering the fellow with his revolver, Brandt shouted:

"Bute, throw up your hands; surrender, or you are a dead man!"

Instantly the truth flashed through the outlaw's mind. Instead of
complying, he threw himself forward over the pony's neck and urged the
animal forward. Brandt fired, and Bute fell with a splash into the
water. At that moment three miners, returning from the tavern, came
shouting to the opposite side of the stream. The frightened pony,
relieved of its burden, galloped homeward. Brandt also withdrew rapidly
toward the mine for some distance, and then rode into the woods. Having
tied his horse well back from the highway, he reconnoitred the party
that had so inopportunely interfered with his plans. He discovered that
they were carrying Bute, who, from his groans and oaths, was evidently
not dead, though he might be mortally wounded. His rescuers were
breathing out curses and threats of vengeance against Brandt, now known
to be an officer of the law.

"The job has become a little complicated now," muttered Brandt, after
they had passed; "and I must throw them off the scent. There will be a
dozen out after me soon."

He remounted his horse, stole silently down the road, crossed the
stream, and then galloped to the tavern, and calling out the keeper,
asked if there was any shorter road out of the mountains than the one
leading to the west. Being answered in the negative, he rode hastily
away. On reaching the place where he had struck this road the previous
day, he entered the woods, followed the rugged trail that he had marked
by bits of paper, and slowly approached the mine road again near the
point where the stream crossed it. He then reconnoitred and learned
that there was evidently a large party exploring the woods between the
stream and the mine.

At last they all gathered at the ford for consultation, and Brandt
heard one say:

"We're wastin' time beatin' round here. He'd naterly put fer the
lowlands as soon as he found he was balked in takin' his man. I move we
call on Whiskey Bob, and see if a man's rode that way ter-night."

A call on Whiskey Bob was apparently always acceptable; and the party
soon disappeared down the road--some on horses and more on foot. Brandt
then quietly crossed the road and gained his retreat on the
mountain-side.

"I must camp here now till the fellow dies, and I can prove it, or
until I can get another chance," was his conclusion as he rubbed down
and fed his horse.




CHAPTER IV

TAKEN ALIVE


After taking some refreshment himself, Brandt decided to go to the
thicket opposite the superintendent's house for a little observation.
He soon reached this outlook, and saw that something unusual was
occurring in the cottage. At last the door opened, and Bute was
assisted to his shanty by two men. They had scarcely disappeared before
Brandt darted across the road and knocked for admittance.

"Great Scott! you here?" exclaimed Mr. Alford.

"Yes, and here I'm going to stay till I take my man," replied the
detective, with a laugh. "Don't be alarmed. I shall not remain in your
house, but in the neighborhood."

"You are trifling with your life, and, I may add, with mine."

"Not at all. Come up to your bedroom. First draw the curtains close,
and we'll compare notes. I won't stay but a few moments."

Mr. Alford felt that it was best to comply, for some one might come and
find them talking in the hall. When Brandt entered the apartment, he
threw himself into a chair and laughed in his low careless style as he
said, "Well, I almost bagged my game to-night, and would have done so
had not three of your men, returning from the tavern, interfered."

"There's a party out looking for you now."

"I know it; but I've put them on the wrong trail. What I want to learn
is, will Bute live?"

"Yes; your shot made a long flesh-wound just above his shoulders. A
little closer, and it would have cut his vertebrae and finished him. He
has lost a good deal of blood, and could not be moved for some days
except at some risk."

"You are sure of that?"

"Yes."

"Well, he may have to incur the risk. I only wish to be certain that he
will not take it on his own act at once. You'll soon miss him in any
event."

"The sooner the better. I wish your aim had been surer."

"That wasn't my good luck. Next time I'll have to shoot closer or else
take him alive."

"But you can't stay in this region. They will all be on the alert now."

"Oh, no. The impression will be general to-morrow that I've made for
the lowlands as fast as my horse could carry me. Don't you worry. Till
I move again, I'm safe enough. All I ask of you now is to keep Bute in
his own shanty, and not to let him have more than one man to take care
of him if possible. Good-night. You may not see me again, and then
again you may."

"Well, now that you are here," said the superintendent, who was
naturally brave enough, "spend an hour or two, or else stay till just
before daylight. I confess I am becoming intensely interested in your
adventure, and would take a hand in it if I could; but you know well
enough that if I did, and it became known, I would have to find
business elsewhere very suddenly--that is, if given the chance."

"I only wish your passive co-operation. I should be glad, however, if
you would let me take a horse, if I must."

"Certainly, as long as you leave my black mare."

Brandt related what had occurred, giving a comical aspect to
everything, and then, after reconnoitring the road from a darkened
window, regained his cover in safety. He declined to speak of his
future plans or to give any clew to his hiding-place, to which he now
returned.

During the few remaining hours of darkness and most of the next day, he
slept and lounged about his fire. The next night was too bright and
clear for anything beyond a reconnoissance, and he saw evidences of an
alertness which made him very cautious. He did not seek another
interview with Mr. Alford, for now nothing was to be gained by it.

The next day proved cloudy, and with night began a violent storm of
wind and rain. Brandt cowered over his fire till nine o'clock, and then
taking a slight draught from his flask, chuckled, "This is glorious
weather for my work. Here's to Clara's luck this time!"

In little over an hour he started for the mine, near which he concealed
his horse. Stealing about in the deep shadows, he soon satisfied
himself that no one was on the watch, and then approaching the rear of
Bute's shanty, found to his joy that the pony was in the shed. A chink
in the board siding enabled him to look into the room which contained
his prey; he started as he saw Apache Jack, instantly recognizing in
him another criminal for whom a large reward was offered.

"Better luck than I dreamed of," he thought. "I shall take them both;
but I now shall have to borrow a horse of Alford;" and he glided away,
secured an animal from the stable, and tied it near his own. In a short
time he was back at his post of observation. It had now become evident
that no one even imagined that there was danger while such a storm was
raging. The howling wind would drown all ordinary noises; and Brandt
determined that the two men in the shanty should be on their way to
jail that night. When he again put his eye to the chink in the wall,
Bute was saying:

"Well, no one will start fer the mountings while this storm lasts, but,
wound or no wound, I must get out of this as soon as it's over. There's
no safety fer me here now."

"Ef they comes fer you, like enough they'll take me," replied Apache
Jack, who, now that he was alone with his confederate, could speak his
style of English fast enough. His character of half-breed was a
disguise which his dark complexion had suggested. "Ter-morrer night, ef
it's clar, we'll put out fer the easterd. I know of a shanty in the
woods not so very fur from here in which we kin put up till yer's able
ter travel furder. Come, now, take a swig of whiskey with me and then
we'll sleep; there's no need of our watchin' any longer on a night like
this. I'll jest step out an' see ef the pony's safe; sich a storm's
'nuff ter scare him off ter the woods."

"Well, jest lay my shooter on the cha'r here aside me 'fore you go. I
feel safer with the little bull-dog in reach."

This the man did, then putting his own revolver on the table, that it
might not get wet, began to unbar the door. Swift as a shadow Brandt
glided out of the shed and around on the opposite side of the shanty.

An instant later Bute was paralyzed by seeing his enemy enter the open
door. Before the outlaw could realize that Brandt was not a feverish
vision induced by his wound, the detective had captured both revolvers,
and was standing behind the door awaiting Apache Jack's return.

"Hist!" whispered Brandt, "not a sound, or you will both be dead in two
minutes."

Bute's nerves were so shattered that he could scarcely have spoken,
even if he had been reckless enough to do so. He felt himself doomed;
and when brutal natures like his succumb, they usually break utterly.
Therefore, he could do no more than shiver with unspeakable dread as if
he had an ague.

Soon Apache Jack came rushing in out of the storm, to be instantly
confronted by Brandt's revolver. The fellow glanced at the table, and
seeing his own weapon was gone, instinctively half drew a long knife.

"Put that knife on the table!" ordered Brandt, sternly. "Do you think
I'd allow any such foolishness?"

The man now realized his powerlessness, and obeyed; and Brandt secured
this weapon also.

"See here, Apache Jack, or whatever your name is, don't you run your
head into a noose. You know I'm empowered to arrest Bute, and you don't
know anything about the force I have at hand. All you've got to do is
to obey me, an officer of the law, like a good citizen. If you don't,
I'll shoot you; and that's all there is about it. Will you obey orders?"

"I no understan'."

"Stop lying! You understand English as well as I do, and I'll suspect
YOU if you try that on again. Come, now! I've no time to lose. It's
death or obedience!"

"You can't blame a feller fer standin' by his mate," was the sullen yet
deprecatory reply.

"I can blame any man, and arrest or shoot him too, who obstructs the
law. You must obey me for the next half-hour, to prove that you are not
Bute's accomplice."

"He's only my mate, and our rule is ter stand by each other; but, as
you say, I can't help myself, and there's no use of my goin' ter jail."

"I should think not," added Brandt, appealing to the fellow's selfish
hope of escaping further trouble if Bute was taken. "Now get my
prisoner out of bed and dress him as soon as possible."

"But he ain't able ter be moved. The superintendent said he wasn't."

"That's my business, not yours. Do as I bid you."

"Why don't yer yell fer help?" said Bute, in a hoarse whisper.

"Because he knows I'd shoot him if he did," remarked Brandt, coolly.

"Come, old man," said Jack, "luck's agin yer. Ef there's any hollerin'
ter be done, yer's as able ter do that as I be."

"Quick, quick! jerk him out of bed and get him into his clothes. I
won't permit one false move."

Jack now believed that his only means of safety was to be as
expeditious as possible, and that if Bute was taken safely he would be
left unmolested. People of their class rarely keep faith with one
another when it is wholly against their interests to do so. Therefore,
in spite of the wounded man's groans, he was quickly dressed and his
hands tied behind him. As he opened his mouth to give expression to his
protests, he found himself suddenly gagged by Brandt, who stood behind
him. Then a strap was buckled about his feet, and he lay on the floor
helpless and incapable of making a sound.

"Now, Jack," said Brandt, "go before me and bridle and saddle the pony;
then bring him to the door."

Jack obeyed.

"Now put Bute upon him. I'll hold his head; but remember I'm covering
you with a dead bead all the time."

"No need of that. I'm civil enough now."

"Well, you know we're sort of strangers, and it's no more than prudent
for me to be on the safe side till we part company. That's right, strap
his feet underneath. Now lead the pony in such directions as I say.
Don't try to make off till I'm through with you, or you'll be shot
instantly. I shall keep within a yard of you all the time."

They were not long in reaching the horse that Brandt had borrowed, and
Jack said, "I s'pose I kin go now."

"First untie Bute's hands so he can guide the pony."

As the fellow attempted to do this, and his two hands were close
together, Brandt slipped a pair of light steel handcuffs over his
wrists, and the man was in his power. Almost before the new prisoner
could recover from his surprise, he was lifted on the borrowed horse,
and his legs also tied underneath.

"This ain't fa'r. You promised ter let me go when you got Bute off."

"I haven't got him off yet. Of course I can't let you go right back and
bring a dozen men after us. You must be reasonable."

The fellow yelled for help; but the wind swept the sound away.

"If you do that again, I'll gag you too," said Brandt. "I tell you both
once more, and I won't repeat the caution, that your lives depend on
obedience." Then he mounted, and added, "Bute, I'm going to untie your
hands, and you must ride on ahead of me. I'll lead Jack's horse."

In a moment he had his prisoners in the road, and was leaving the mine
at a sharp pace. Bute was so cowed and dazed with terror that he obeyed
mechanically. The stream was no longer a shallow brook, but a raging
torrent which almost swept them away as Brandt urged them relentlessly
through it. The tavern was dark and silent as they passed quickly by
it. Then Brandt took the gag from Bute's mouth, and he groaned, cursed,
and pleaded by turns. Hour after hour he urged them forward, until at
last Bute gave out and fell forward on the pony's neck. Brandt
dismounted and gave the exhausted man a draught from his flask.

"Oh, shoot me and have done with it!" groaned Bute; "I'd rather be shot
than hanged anyhow."

"Couldn't think of it," replied the detective, cheerily. "My rule is to
take prisoners alive, so that they can have a fair trial and be sure
that they get justice. I'd take you the rest of the way in a bed if I
could, but if you can't sit up, I'll have to tie you on. We'll reach a
friend of mine by daylight, and then you can ride in a wagon, so brace
up."

This the outlaw did for a time, and then he gave out utterly and was
tied more securely to the pony. Out of compassion, Brandt thereafter
travelled more slowly; and when the sun was an hour high, he led his
forlorn captives to the house of a man whom he knew could be depended
upon for assistance. After a rest sufficient to give Bute time to
recover somewhat, the remainder of the journey was made without any
incident worth mentioning, and the prisoners were securely lodged in
jail on the evening of the 24th of December.




CHAPTER V

WHAT BRANDT SAW CHRISTMAS EVE


Brandt's words and effort had had their natural effect on the mind of
Clara Heyward. They proved an increasing diversion of her thoughts, and
slowly dispelled the morbid, leaden grief under which she had been
sinking. Her new anxiety in regard to her lover's fortune and possible
fate was a healthful counter-irritant. Half consciously she yielded to
the influence of his strong, hopeful spirit, and almost before she was
aware of it, she too began to hope. Chief of all, his manly tenderness
and unbargaining love stole into her heart like a subtle balm; and
responsive love, the most potent of remedies, was renewing her life.
She found herself counting the days and then the hours that must
intervene before the 25th. On Christmas eve her woman's nature
triumphed, and she instinctively added such little graces to her toilet
as her sombre costume permitted. She also arranged her beautiful hair
in the style which she knew he admired. He might come; and she
determined that his first glance should reveal that he was not serving
one who was coldly apathetic to his brave endeavor and loyalty.

Indeed, even she herself wondered at the changes that had taken place
during the brief time which had elapsed since their parting. There was
a new light in her eyes, and a delicate bloom tinged her cheeks.

"Oh," she murmured, "it's all so different now that I feel that I can
live for him and make him happy."

She was sure that she could welcome him in a way that would assure him
of the fulfilment of all his hopes; but when he did come with his
eager, questioning eyes, she suddenly found herself under a strange
restraint, tongue-tied and embarrassed. She longed to put her arms
about his neck and tell him all--the new life, the new hope which his
look of deep affection had kindled; and in effort for self-control, she
seemed to him almost cold. He therefore became perplexed and uncertain
of his ground, and took refuge in the details of his expedition,
meanwhile mentally assuring himself that he must keep his word and put
no constraint on the girl contrary to the dictates of her heart.

As his mind grew clearer, his keen observation began to reveal hopeful
indications. She was listening intently with approval, and something
more in her expression, he dared to fancy. Suddenly he exclaimed, "How
changed you are for the better, Clara! You are lovelier to-night than
ever you were. What is it in your face that is so sweet and
bewildering? You were a pretty girl before; now you are a beautiful
woman."

The color came swiftly at his words, and she faltered as she averted
her eyes, "Please go on with your story, Ralph. You have scarcely begun
yet. I fear you were in danger."

He came and stood beside her. "Clara," he pleaded, "look at me."

Hesitatingly she raised her eyes to his.

"Shall I tell you what I hope I see?"

The faintest suggestion of a smile hovered about her trembling lips.

"I hope I see what you surely see in mine. Come, Clara, you shall
choose before you hear my story. Am I to be your husband or friend? for
I've vowed that you shall not be without a loyal protector."

"Ralph, Ralph," she cried, springing up and hiding her face on his
shoulder, "I have no choice at all. You know how I loved papa; but I've
learned that there's another and different kind of love. I didn't half
understand you when you first spoke; now I do. You will always see in
my eyes what you've seen to-night."






FOUND YET LOST


CHAPTER I

LOVE IN THE WILDERNESS


Hopeless indeed must that region be which May cannot clothe with some
degree of beauty and embroider with flowers. On the 5th day of the
month the early dawn revealed much that would charm the eyes of all
true lovers of nature even in that section of Virginia whose
characteristics so grimly correspond with its name--The Wilderness. The
low pines and cedars, which abound everywhere, had taken a fresh green;
the deciduous trees, the tangled thickets, impenetrable in many places
by horse or man, were putting forth a new, tender foliage, tinted with
a delicate semblance of autumn hues. Flowers bloomed everywhere, humbly
in the grass close to the soil as well as on the flaunting sprays of
shrubbery and vines, filling the air with fragrance as the light
touched and expanded the petals. Wood-thrushes and other birds sang as
melodiously and contentedly as if they had selected some breezy upland
forest for their nesting-place instead of a region which has become a
synonym for gloom, horror, and death.

Lonely and uninhabited in its normal condition, this forbidding
wilderness had become peopled with thousands of men. The Army of the
Potomac was penetrating and seeking to pass through it. Vigilant
General Lee had observed the movement, and with characteristic boldness
and skill ordered his troops from their strong intrenchments on Mine
Run toward the Union flank. On this memorable morning the van of his
columns wakened from their brief repose but a short distance from the
Federal bivouac. Both parties were unconscious of their nearness, for
with the exception of a few clearings the dense growth restricted
vision to a narrow range. The Union forces were directed in their
movements by the compass, as if they were sailors on a fog-enshrouded
sea; but they well knew that they were seeking their old antagonist,
the Army of Northern Virginia, and that the stubborn tug-of-war might
begin at any moment.

When Captain Nichol shook off the lethargy of a brief troubled sleep,
he found that the light did not banish his gloomy impressions. Those
immediately around him were still slumbering, wrapped in their
blankets. Few sounds other than the voices of the awakening birds broke
the silence. After a little thought he drew his notebook from his
pocket and wrote as follows:

"MY DARLING HELEN--I obey an impulse to write to you this morning. It
is scarcely light enough to see as yet; but very soon we shall be on
the move again to meet--we known not what, certainly heavy, desperate
fighting. I do not know why I am so sad. I have faced the prospect of
battles many times before, and have passed through them unharmed, but
now I am depressed by an unusual foreboding. Naturally my thoughts turn
to you. There was no formal engagement between us when I said those
words (so hard to speak) of farewell, nor have I sought to bind you
since. Every month has made more clear the uncertainty of life in my
calling; and I felt that I had no right to lay upon you any restraint
other than that of your own feelings. If the worst happened you would
be free as far as I was concerned, and few would know that we had told
each other of our love. I wish to tell you of mine once more--not for
the last time, I hope, but I don't know. I do love you with my whole
heart and soul; and if I am to die in this horrible wilderness, where
so many of my comrades died a year ago, my last thoughts will be of you
and of the love of God, which your love has made more real to me. I
love you too well to wish my death, should it occur, to spoil your
young life. I do not ask you to forget me--that would be worse than
death, but I ask you to try to be happy and to make others happy as the
years pass on. This bloody war will come to an end, will become a
memory, and those who perish hope to be remembered; but I do not wish
my memory to hang like a cloud over the happy days of peace. I close,
my darling, in hope, not fear--hope for you, hope for me, whatever may
happen to-day or on coming days of strife. It only remains for me to do
my duty. I trust that you will also do yours, which may be even harder.
Do not give way to despairing grief if I cannot come back to you in
this world. Let your faith in God and hope of a future life inspire and
strengthen you in your battles, which may require more courage and
unselfishness than mine.

"Yours, either in life or death, ALBERT NICHOL."

He made another copy of this letter, put both in envelopes, and
addressed them, then sought two men of his company who came from his
native village. They were awake now and boiling their coffee. The
officer and the privates had grown up as boys together with little
difference of social standing in the democratic town. When off duty,
there still existed much of the old familiarity and friendly converse,
but when Captain Nichol gave an order, his townsmen immediately became
conscious that they were separated from him by the iron wall of
military discipline. This characteristic did not alienate his old
associates. One of the men hit the truth fairly in saying: "When Cap
speaks as Cap, he's as hard and sharp as a bayonet-point; but when a
feller is sick and worn out 'tween times you'd think your granny was
coddlin' yer."

It was as friend and old neighbor that Nichol approached Sam and Jim
Wetherby, two stalwart brothers who had enlisted in his company.
"Boys," he said, "I have a favor to ask of you. The Lord only knows how
the day will end for any of us. We will take our chances and do our
duty, as usual. I hope we may all boil coffee again to-night; but who
knows? Here are two letters. If I should fall, and either or both of
you come out all right, as I trust you will, please forward them. If I
am with you again to-night, return them to me."

"Come, Captain," said Jim, heartily, "the bullet isn't molded that can
harm you. You'll lead us into Richmond yet."

"It will not be from lack of goodwill if I don't. I like your spirit;
and I believe the army will get there this time whether I'm with it or
not. Do as I ask. There is no harm in providing against what may
happen. Make your breakfast quickly, for orders may come at any
moment;" and he strode away to look after the general readiness of his
men.

The two brothers compared the address on the letters and laughed a
little grimly. "Cap is a-providing, sure enough," Sam Wetherby
remarked. "They are both written to the pretty Helen Kemble that he
used to make eyes at in the singing-school. I guess he thinks that you
might stop a bullet as well as himself, Jim."

"It's clear he thinks your chances for taking in lead are just as
good," replied Jim. "But come, I'm one of them fellows that's never hit
till I am hit. One thing at a time, and now it's breakfast."

"Well, hanged if I want to charge under the lead of any other captain!"
remarked Sam, meditatively sipping his coffee. "If that girl up yonder
knows Cap's worth, she'll cry her eyes out if anything happens to him."

A few moments later the birds fled to the closest cover, startled by
the innumerable bugles sounding the note of preparation. Soon the
different corps, divisions, and brigades were upon their prescribed
lines of march. No movement could be made without revealing the close
proximity of the enemy. Rifle-reports from skirmish lines and
reconnoitring parties speedily followed. A Confederate force was
developed on the turnpike leading southwest from the old Wilderness
Tavern; and the fighting began. At about eight o'clock Grant and Meade
came up and made their headquarters beneath some pine-trees near the
tavern. General Grant could scarcely believe at first that Lee had left
his strong intrenchments to give battle in a region little better than
a jungle; but he soon had ample and awful proof of the fact.
Practically unseen by each other, the two armies grappled like giants
in the dark. So thick were the trees and undergrowth that a soldier on
a battle line could rarely see a thousand men on either side of him,
yet nearly two hundred thousand men matched their deadly strength that
day. Hundreds fell, died, and were hidden forever from human eyes.

Thinking to sweep away the rear-guard of Lee's retreating army, Grant
ordered a strong advance on the pike in the afternoon. At first it was
eminently successful, and if it had been followed up vigorously and
steadily, as it undoubtedly would have been if the commander had known
what was afterward revealed, it might have resulted in severe disaster
to the Confederates. The enemy was pressed back rapidly; and the
advancing Union forces were filled with enthusiasm. Before this early
success culminated, genuine sorrow saddened every one in Captain
Nichol's company. With his face toward the enemy, impetuously leading
his men, he suddenly dropped his sword and fell senseless. Sam and Jim
Wetherby heard a shell shrieking toward them, and saw it explode
directly over their beloved leader. They rushed to his side; blood was
pouring over his face, and it also seemed to them that a fragment of
the shell had fatally wounded him in the forehead.

"Poor Cap, poor, brave Cap!" ejaculated Sam. "He didn't give us those
letters for nothing."

"A bad job, an awfully bad job for us all! curse the eyes that aimed
that shell!" growled practical Jim. "Here, take hold. We'll put him in
that little dry ditch we just passed, and bury him after the fight, if
still on our pins. We can't leave him here to be tramped on."

This they did, then hastily rejoined their company, which had swept on
with the battle line. Alas! that battle line and others also were
driven back with terrible slaughter before the day closed. Captain
Nichol was left in the ditch where he had been placed, and poor Sam
Wetherby lay on his back, staring with eyes that saw not at a shattered
bird's nest in the bushes above his head. The letter in his pocket
mouldered with him.

Jim's begrimed and impassive face disguised an aching heart as he
boiled his coffee alone that night. Then, although wearied almost to
exhaustion, he gave himself no rest until he had found what promised to
be the safest means of forwarding the letter in his pocket.




CHAPTER II

LOVE AT HOME


Long years before the war, happy children were growing in the village
of Alton. They studied the history of wars much as they conned their
lessons in geography. Scenes of strife belonged to the past, or were
enacted among people wholly unlike any who dwelt in their peaceful
community. That Americans should ever fight each other was as undreamed
of as that the minister should have a pitched battle in the street with
his Sunday-school superintendent. They rejoiced mildly when in their
progress through the United States history they came to pages
descriptive of Indian wars and the Revolutionary struggle, since they
found their lessons then more easily remembered than the wordy disputes
and little understood decisions of statesmen. The first skating on the
pond was an event which far transcended in importance anything related
between the green covers of the old history book, while to Albert
Nichol the privilege of strapping skates on the feet of little Helen
Kemble, and gliding away with her over the smooth ice, was a triumph
unknown by any general. He was the son of a plain farmer, and she the
daughter of the village banker. Thus, even in childhood, there was
thrown around her the glamour of position and reputed
wealth--advantages which have their value among the most democratic
folk, although slight outward deference may be paid to their
possessors. It was the charming little face itself, with its piquant
smiles and still more piquant pouts, which won Albert's boyish
admiration. The fact that she was the banker's daughter only fired his
ambition to be and to do something to make her proud of him.

Hobart Martine, another boy of the village, shared all his schoolmate's
admiration for pretty Nellie, as she was usually called. He had been
lame from birth, and could not skate. He could only shiver on the bank
or stamp around to keep himself warm, while the athletic Al and the
graceful little girl passed and repassed, quite forgetting him. There
was one thing he could do; and this pleasure he waited for till often
numb with cold. He could draw the child on his sled to her home, which
adjoined his own.

When it came his turn to do this, and he limped patiently through the
snow, tugging at the rope, his heart grew warm as well as his chilled
body. She was a rather imperious little belle with the other boys, but
was usually gentle with him because he was lame and quiet. When she
thanked him kindly and pleasantly at her gate, he was so happy that he
could scarcely eat his supper. Then his mother would laugh and say,
"You've been with your little sweetheart." He would flush and make no
reply.

How little did those children dream of war, even when studying their
history lessons! Yet Albert Nichol now lay in the Wilderness jungle. He
had done much to make his little playmate proud of him. The sturdy boy
developed into a manly man. When he responded to his country's call and
raised a company among his old friends and neighbors, Helen Kemble
exulted over him tearfully. She gave him the highest tribute within her
power and dearest possession--her heart. She made every campaign with
him, following him with love's untiring solicitude through the scenes
he described, until at last the morning paper turned the morning
sunshine into mockery and the songs of the birds into dirges. Captain
Nichol's name was on the list of the killed.

With something of the same jealousy, developed and intensified, which
he had experienced while watching Albert glide away on the ice with the
child adored in a dumb, boyish way, Hobart had seen his old schoolmate
depart for the front. Then his rival took the girl from him; now he
took her heart. Martine's lameness kept him from being a soldier. He
again virtually stood chilled on the bank, with a cold, dreary,
hopeless feeling which he believed would benumb his life. He did not
know, he was not sure that he had lost Helen beyond hope, until those
lurid days when men on both sides were arming and drilling for mutual
slaughter. She was always so kind to him, and her tones so gentle when
she spoke, that in love's fond blindness he had dared to hope. He
eventually learned that she was only sorry for him. He did not, could
not, blame her, for he needed but to glance at Nichol's stalwart form,
and recall the young soldier's record, in order to know that it would
be strange indeed if the girl had chosen otherwise. He would have been
more than human if there had not been some bitterness in his heart; but
he fought it down honestly, and while pursuing his peaceful avocations
engaged in what he believed would be a lifelong battle. He smiled at
the girl across the garden fence and called out his cheery
"Good-morning." He was her frequent companion by the fireside or on the
piazza, according to the season; and he alone of the young men was
welcome, for she had little sympathy for those who remained at home
without his excuse. He was so bravely her friend, keeping his great
love so sternly repressed that she only felt it like a genial warmth in
his tones and manner, and believed that he was becoming in truth what
he seemed, merely a friend.

On that terrible May morning he was out in the garden and heard her
wild, despairing cry as she read the fatal words. He knew that a heavy
battle had been begun, and was going down to the gate for his paper,
which the newsboy had just left. There was no need of opening it, for
the bitter cry he had heard made known to him the one item of
intelligence compared with which all else for the time became
insignificant. Was it the Devil that inspired a great throb of hope in
his heart? At any rate he thought it was, and ground his heel into the
gravel as if the serpent's head was beneath it, then limped to Mr.
Kemble's door.

The old banker came out to meet him, shaking his gray head and holding
the paper in his trembling hand. "Ah!" he groaned, "I've feared it,
I've feared it all along, but hoped that it would not be. You've seen
Nichol's name--" but he could not finish the sentence.

"No, I have seen nothing; I only heard Helen's cry. That told the whole
story."

"Yes. Well, her mother's with her. Poor girl! poor girl! God grant it
isn't her death-blow too. She has suffered too much under this long
strain of anxiety."

A generous resolve was forming in Martine's mind, and he said
earnestly, "We must tide her through this terrible shock. There may be
some mistake; he may be only wounded. Do not let her give up hope
absolutely. I'll drop everything and go to the battlefield at once. If
the worst has in truth happened, I can bring home his remains, and that
would be a comfort to her. A newspaper report, made up hastily in the
field, is not final. Let this hope break the cruel force of the blow,
for it is hard to live without hope."

"Well, Hobart, you ARE a true friend. God bless and reward you! If
nothing comes of it for poor Nichol, as I fear nothing will, your
journey and effort will give a faint hope to Nellie, and, as you say,
break the force of the blow. I'll go and tell her."

Martine went into the parlor, which Helen had decorated with mementoes
of her soldier lover. He was alone but a few moments before he heard
hasty steps. Helen entered with hot, tearless eyes and an agonized,
imploring expression.

"What!" she cried, "is it true that you'll go?"

"Yes, Helen, immediately. I do not think there's reason for despair."

"Oh, God bless you! friend, friend! I never knew what the word meant
before. Oh, Hobart, no sister ever lavished love on a brother as I will
love you if you bring back my Albert;" and in the impulse of her
overwhelming gratitude she buried her face on his shoulder and sobbed
aloud. Hope already brought the relief of tears.

He stroked the bowed head gently, saying, "God is my witness, Helen,
that I will spare no pains and shrink from no danger in trying to find
Captain Nichol. I have known of many instances where the first reports
of battles proved incorrect;" and he led her to a chair.

"It is asking so much of you," she faltered.

"You have asked nothing, Helen. I have offered to go, and I AM going.
It is a little thing for me to do. You know that my lameness only kept
me from joining Captain Nichol's company. Now try to control your
natural feelings like a brave girl, while I explain my plans as far as
I have formed them."

"Yes, yes! Wait a few moments. Oh, this pain at my heart! I think it
would have broken if you hadn't come. I couldn't breathe; I just felt
as if sinking under a weight."

"Take courage, Helen. Remember Albert is a soldier."

"IS, IS! Oh, thanks for that little word! You do not believe that he is
gone and lost to me?"

"I cannot believe it yet. We will not believe it. Now listen patiently,
for you will have your part to do."

"Yes, yes; if I could only do something! That would help me so much.
Oh, if I could only go with you!"

"That would not be best or wise, and might defeat my efforts. I must be
free to go where you could not--to visit places unsafe for you. My
first step must be to get letters to our State Senator. Your father can
write one, and I'll get one or two others. The Senator will give me a
letter to the Governor, who in turn will accredit me to the authorities
at Washington and the officer in command on the battlefield. You know I
shall need passes. Those who go to the extreme front must be able to
account for themselves. I will keep in telegraphic communication with
you, and you may receive additional tidings which will aid me in my
search. Mr. Kemble!" he concluded, calling her father from his
perturbed pacing up and down the hall.

"Ah!" said the banker, entering, "this is a hundred-fold better than
despairing, useless grief. I've heard the gist of what Hobart has said,
and approve it. Now I'll call mother, so that we may all take courage
and get a good grip on hope."

They consulted together briefly, and in the prospect of action, Helen
was carried through the first dangerous crisis in her experience.




CHAPTER III

"DISABLED"


Mrs. Martine grieved over her son's unexpected resolve. In her
estimation he was engaging in a very dangerous and doubtful expedition.
Probably mothers will never outgrow a certain jealousy when they find
that another woman has become first in the hearts of their sons. The
sense of robbery was especially strong in this case, for Mrs. Martine
was a widow, and Hobart an only and idolized child.

The mother speedily saw that it would be useless to remonstrate, and
tearfully aided him in his preparations. Before he departed, he won her
over as an ally. "These times, mother, are bringing heavy burdens to
very many, and we should help each other bear them. You know what Helen
is to me, and must be always. That is something which cannot be
changed. My love has grown with my growth and become inseparable from
my life. I have my times of weakness, but think I can truly say that I
love her so well that I would rather make her happy at any cost to
myself. If it is within my power, I shall certainly bring Nichol back,
alive or dead. Prove your love to me, mother, by cheering, comforting,
and sustaining that poor girl. I haven't as much hope of success as I
tried to give her, but she needs hope now; she must have it, or there
is no assurance against disastrous effects on her health and mind. I
couldn't bear that."

"Well, Hobart, if he is dead, she certainly ought to reward you some
day."

"We must not think of that. The future is not in our hands. We can only
do what is duty now."

Noble, generous purposes give their impress to that index of character,
the human face. When Martine came to say good-by to Helen, she saw the
quiet, patient cripple in a new light. He no longer secured her strong
affection chiefly on the basis of gentle, womanly commiseration. He was
proving the possession of those qualities which appeal strongly to the
feminine nature; he was showing himself capable of prompt, courageous
action, and his plain face, revealing the spirit which animated him,
became that of a hero in her eyes. She divined the truth--the love so
strong and unselfish that it would sacrifice itself utterly for her. He
was seeking to bring back her lover when success in his mission would
blot out all hope for him. The effect of his action was most salutary,
rousing her from the inertia of grief and despair. "If a mere friend,"
she murmured, "can be so brave and self-forgetful, I have no excuse for
giving away utterly."

She revealed in some degree her new impressions in parting. "Hobart,"
she said, holding his hand in both of hers, "you have done much to help
me. You have not only brought hope, but you have also shown a spirit
which would shame me out of a selfish grief. I cannot now forget the
claims of others, of my dear father and mother here, and I promise you
that I will try to be brave like you, like Albert. I shall not become a
weak, helpless burden, I shall not sit still and wring idle hands when
others are heroically doing and suffering. Good-by, my friend, my
brother. God help us all!"

He felt that she understood him now as never before; and the knowledge
inspired a more resolute purpose, if this were possible. That afternoon
he was on his way. There came two or three days of terrible suspense
for Helen, relieved only by telegrams from Martine as he passed from
point to point. The poor girl struggled as a swimmer breasts pitiless
waves intervening between him and the shore. She scarcely allowed
herself an idle moment; but her effort was feverish and in a measure
the result of excitement. The papers were searched for any scrap of
intelligence, and the daily mail waited for until the hours and minutes
were counted before its arrival.

One morning her father placed Nichol's letter in her hands. They so
trembled in the immense hope, the overwhelming emotion which swept over
her at sight of the familiar handwriting, that at first she could not
open it. When at last she read the prophetic message, she almost
blotted out the writing with her tears, moaning, "He's dead, he's
dead!" In her morbid, overwrought condition, the foreboding that had
been in the mind of the writer was conveyed to hers; and she
practically gave up hope for anything better than the discovery and
return of his remains. Her father, mother, and intimate friends tried
in vain to rally her; but the conviction remained that she had read her
lover's farewell words. In spite of the most pathetic and strenuous
effort, she could not keep up any longer, and sobbed till she slept in
utter exhaustion.

On the following day, old Mr. Wetherby came into the bank. The lines
about his mouth were rigid with suppressed feeling. He handed Mr.
Kemble a letter, saying in a husky voice, "Jim sent this. He says at
the end I was to show it to you." The scrawl gave in brief the details
about Captain Nichol already known to the reader, and stated also that
Sam Wetherby was missing. "All I know is," wrote the soldier, "that we
were driven back, and bullets flew like hail. The brush was so thick I
couldn't see five yards either way when I lost sight of Sam."

The colonel of the regiment also wrote to Captain Nichol's father,
confirming Private Wetherby's letter. The village had been thrown into
a ferment by the tidings of the battle and its disastrous consequences.
There was bitter lamentation in many homes. Perhaps the names of
Captain Nichol and Helen were oftenest repeated in the little
community, for the fact of their mutual hopes was no longer a secret.
Even thus early some sagacious people nodded their heads and remarked,
"Hobart Martine may have his chance yet." Helen Kemble believed without
the shadow of a doubt that all the heart she had for love had perished
in the wilderness.

The facts contained in Jim Wetherby's letter were telegraphed to
Martine, and he was not long in discovering confirmation of them in the
temporary hospitals near the battlefield. He found a man of Captain
Nichol's company to whom Jim had related the circumstances. For days
the loyal friend searched laboriously the horrible region of strife,
often sickened nearly unto death by the scenes he witnessed, for his
nature had not been rendered callous by familiarity with the results of
war. Then instead of returning home, he employed the influence given by
his letters and passes, backed by his own earnest pleading, to obtain
permission for a visit to Nichol's regiment. He found it under fire;
and long afterward Jim Wetherby was fond of relating how quietly the
lame civilian listened to the shells shrieking over and exploding
around him. Thus Martine learned all that could be gathered of Nichol's
fate, and then, ill and exhausted, he turned his face northward. He
felt that it would be a hopeless task to renew his search on the
battlefield, much of which had been burned over. He also had the
conviction it would be fatal to him to look upon its unspeakable
horrors, and breathe again its pestilential air.

He was a sick man when he arrived at home, but was able to relate
modestly in outline the history of his efforts, softening and
concealing much that he had witnessed. In the delirium of fever which
followed, they learned more fully of what he had endured, of how he had
forced himself to look upon things which, reproduced in his ravings,
almost froze the blood of his watchers.

Helen Kemble felt that her cup of bitterness had been filled anew, yet
the distraction of a new grief, in which there was a certain remorseful
self-reproach, had the effect of blunting the sharp edge of her first
sorrow. In this new cause for dread she was compelled in some degree to
forget herself. She saw the intense solicitude of her father and
mother, who had been so readily accessory to Martine's expedition; she
also saw that his mother's heart was almost breaking under the strain
of anxiety. His incoherent words were not needed to reveal that his
effort had been prompted by his love. She was one of his watchers,
patiently enduring the expressions of regret which the mother in her
sharp agony could not repress. Nichol's last letter was now known by
heart, its every word felt to be prophetic. She had indeed been called
upon to exercise courage and fortitude greater than he could manifest
even in the Wilderness battle. Although she often faltered, she did not
fail in carrying out his instructions. When at last Martine, a pallid
convalescent, could sit in the shade on the piazza, she looked older by
years, having, besides, the expression seen in the eyes of some women
who have suffered much, and can still suffer much more. In the matter
relating to their deepest consciousness, no words had passed between
them. She felt as if she were a widow, and hoped he would understand.
His full recognition of her position, and acceptance of the fact that
she did and must mourn for her lover, his complete self-abnegation,
brought her a sense of peace.

The old clock on the landing of the stairway measured off the hours and
days with monotonous regularity. Some of the hours and days had been
immeasurably longer than the ancient timekeeper had indicated; but in
accordance with usual human experiences, they began to grow shorter.
Poignant sorrow cannot maintain its severity, or people could not live.
Vines, grasses, and flowers covered the graves in Virginia; the little
cares, duties, and amenities of life began to screen at times the
sorrows that were nevertheless ever present.

"Hobart," Helen said one day in the latter part of June, "do you think
you will be strong enough to attend the commemorative services next
week? You know they have been waiting for you."

"Yes," he replied quietly; "'and they should not have delayed them so
long. It is very sad that so many others have been added since--since--"

"Well, you have not been told, for we have tried to keep every
depressing and disquieting influence from you. Dr. Barnes said it was
very necessary, because you had seen so much that you should try to
forget. Ah, my friend, I can never forget what you suffered for me!
Captain Nichol's funeral sermon was preached while you were so ill. I
was not present--I could not be. I've been to see his mother often, and
she understands me. I could not have controlled my grief, and I have a
horror of displaying my most sacred feelings in public. Father and the
people also wish you to be present at the general commemorative
services, when our Senator will deliver a eulogy on those of our town
who have fallen; but I don't think you should go if you feel that it
will have a bad effect on you."

"I shall be present, Helen. I suppose my mind has been weak like my
body; but the time has come when I must take up life again and accept
its conditions as others are doing. You certainly are setting me a good
example. I admit that my illness has left a peculiar repugnance to
hearing and thinking about the war; it all seemed so very horrible. But
if our brave men can face the thing itself, I should be weak indeed if
I could not listen to a eulogy of their deeds."

"I am coming to think," resumed Helen, thoughtfully, "that the battle
line extends from Maine to the Gulf, and that quiet people like you and
me are upon it as truly as the soldiers in the field. I have thought
that perhaps the most merciful wounds are often those which kill
outright."

"I can easily believe that," he said.

His quiet tone and manner did not deceive her, and she looked at him
wistfully as she resumed, "But if they do not kill, the pain must be
borne patiently, even though we are in a measure disabled."

"Yes, Helen; and you are disabled in your power to give me what I can
never help giving you. I know that. I will not misjudge or presume upon
your kindness. We are too good friends to affect any concealments from
each other."

"You have expressed my very thought. When you spoke of accepting the
conditions of life, I hoped you had in mind what you have said--the
conditions of life as they ARE, as we cannot help or change them. We
both have got to take up life under new conditions."

"You have; not I, Helen."

Tears rushed to her eyes as she faltered, "I would be transparently
false should I affect not to know. What I wish you to feel through the
coming months and years is that I cannot--that I am disabled by my
wound."

"I understand, Helen. We can go on as we have begun. You have lost, as
I have not, for I have never possessed. You will be the greater
sufferer; and it will be my dear privilege to cheer and sustain you in
such ways as are possible to a simple friend."

She regarded him gratefully, and for the first time since that terrible
May morning the semblance of a smile briefly illumined her face.




CHAPTER IV

MARTINE SEEKS AN ANTIDOTE


It can readily be understood that Martine in his expedition to the
South had not limited his efforts solely to his search for Captain
Nichol. Wherever it had been within his power he had learned all that
he could of other officers and men who had come from his native region;
and his letters to their relatives had been in some instances sources
of unspeakable comfort. In his visit to the front he had also seen and
conversed with his fellow-townsmen, some of whom had since perished or
had been wounded. As he grew stronger, Helen wrote out at his dictation
all that he could remember concerning these interviews; and these
accounts became precious heirlooms in many families.

On the Fourth of July the commemorative oration was delivered by the
Senator, who proved himself to be more than senator by his deep, honest
feeling and good taste. The "spread eagle" element was conspicuously
absent in his solemn, dignified, yet hopeful words. He gave to each
their meed of praise. He grew eloquent over the enlisted men who had so
bravely done their duty without the incentive of ambition. When he
spoke of the honor reflected on the village by the heroism of Captain
Nichol, the hearts of the people glowed with gratitude and pride; but
thoughts of pity came to all as they remembered the girl, robed in
black, who sat with bowed head among them.

"I can best bring my words to a close," said the Senator, "by reading
part of a letter written by one of your townsmen, a private in the
ranks, yet expressive of feelings inseparable from our common human
nature:

"DEAR FATHER--You know I ain't much given to fine feelings or fine
words. Poor Sam beat me all holler in such things; but I want you and
all the folks in Alton to know that you've got a regular soldier at
home. Of course we were all glad to see Bart Martine; and we expected
to have a good-natured laugh at his expense when the shells began to
fly. Soldiers laugh, as they eat, every chance they get, 'cause they
remember it may be the last one. Well, we knew Bart didn't know any
more about war than a chicken, and we expected to see him get very
nervous and limp off to the rear on the double quick. He didn't scare
worth a cent. When a shell screeched over our heads, he just waited
till the dinged noise was out of our ears and then went on with his
questions about poor Cap and Sam and the others from our town. We were
supporting a battery, and most of us lying down. He sat there with us a
good hour, telling about the folks at home, and how you were all
following us with your thoughts and prayers, and how you all mourned
with those who lost friends, and were looking after the children of the
killed and wounded. Fact is, before we knew it we were all on our feet
cheering for Alton and the folks at home and the little lame man, who
was just as good a soldier as any of us. I tell you he heartened up the
boys, what's left of us. I'm sorry to hear he's so sick. If he should
die, bury him with a soldier's honors. JAMES WETHERBY."

"These plain, simple, unadorned words," concluded the Senator, "need no
comment. Their force and significance cannot be enhanced by anything I
can say. I do not know that I could listen quietly to shrieking and
exploding shells while I spoke words of courage and good cheer; but I
do know that I wish to be among the foremost to honor your modest,
unassuming townsman, who could do all this and more."

Martine was visibly distressed by this unexpected feature in the
oration and the plaudits which followed. He was too sad, too weak in
body and mind, and too fresh from the ghastly battlefield, not to
shrink in sensitive pain from personal and public commendation. He
evaded his neighbors as far as possible and limped hastily away.

He did not see Helen again till the following morning, for her wound
had been opened afresh, and she spent the remainder of the day and
evening in the solitude of her room. Martine was troubled at this, and
thought she felt as he did.

In the morning she joined him on the piazza. She was pale from her long
sad vigil, but renewed strength and a gentle patience were expressed in
her thin face.

"It's too bad, Helen," he broke out in unwonted irritation. "I wouldn't
have gone if I had known. It was a miserable letting down of all that
had gone before--that reference to me."

Now she smiled brightly as she said, "You are the only one present who
thought so. Has this been worrying you?"

"Yes, it has. If the speaker had seen what I saw, he would have known
better. His words only wounded me."

"He judged you by other men, Hobart. His words would not have wounded
very many. I'm glad I heard that letter--that I have learned what I
never could from you. I'm very proud of my friend. What silly creatures
women are, anyway! They want their friends to be brave, yet dread the
consequences of their being so beyond words."

"Well," said Martine, a little grimly, "I'm going to my office
to-morrow. I feel the need of a long course of reading in Blackstone."

"You must help keep me busy also," was her reply.

"I've thought about that; yes, a great deal. You need some wholesome,
natural interest that is capable of becoming somewhat absorbing. Is it
strange that I should recommend one phase of my hobby, flowers? You
know that every tree, shrub, and plant on our little place is a sort of
a pet with me. You are fond of flowers, but have never given much
thought to their care, leaving that to your gardener. Flowers are only
half enjoyed by those who do not cultivate them, nurse, or pet them.
Then there is such an infinite variety that before you know it your
thoughts are pleasantly occupied in experimenting with even one family
of plants. It is an interest which will keep you much in the open air
and bring you close to Mother Nature."

The result of this talk was that the sad-hearted girl first by resolute
effort and then by a growing fondness for the tasks, began to take a
personal interest in the daily welfare of her plants. Martine and her
father were always on the look-out for something new and rare; and as
winter approached, the former had a small conservatory built on the
sunny side of the house. They also gave her several caged song-birds,
which soon learned to recognize and welcome her. From one of his
clients Martine obtained a droll-looking dog that seemed to possess
almost human intelligence. In the daily care of living things and
dependent creatures that could bloom or be joyous without jarring upon
her feelings, as would human mirth or gayety, her mind became
wholesomely occupied part of each day; she could smile at objects which
did not know, which could not understand.

Still, there was no effort on her part to escape sad memories or the
acts and duties which revived them. A noble monument had been erected
to Captain Nichol, and one of her chief pleasures was to decorate it
with the flowers grown under her own care. Few days passed on which she
did not visit one of the families who were or had been represented at
the front, while Mrs. Nichol felt that if she had lost a son she had in
a measure gained a daughter. As the months passed and winter was
wellnigh spent, the wise gossips of the village again began to shake
their heads and remark, "Helen Kemble and Bart Martine are very good
friends; but I guess that's all it will amount to--all, at any rate,
for a long time."

All, for all time, Helen had honestly thought. It might easily have
been for all time had another lover sought her, or if Martine himself
had become a wooer and so put her on her guard. It was his patient
acceptance of what she had said could not be helped, his
self-forgetfulness, which caused her to remember his need--a need
greatly increased by a sad event. In the breaking up of winter his
mother took a heavy cold which ended in pneumonia and death.

The gossips made many plans for him and indulged in many surmises as to
what he would do; but he merely engaged the services of an old woman as
domestic, and lived on quietly as before. Perhaps he grew a little
morbid after this bereavement and clung more closely to his lonely
hearth.

This would not be strange. Those who dwell among shadows become ill at
ease away from them. Helen was the first to discover this tendency, and
to note that he was not rallying as she had hoped he would. He rarely
sought their house except by invitation, and then often lapsed into
silences which he broke with an evident effort. He never uttered a word
of complaint or consciously appealed for sympathy, but was slowly
yielding to the steady pressure of sadness which had almost been his
heritage. She would have been less than woman if, recalling the past
and knowing so well the unsatisfied love in his heart, she had not felt
for him daily a larger and deeper commiseration. When the early March
winds rattled the casements, or drove the sleety rain against the
windows, she saw him in fancy sitting alone brooding, always brooding.

One day she asked abruptly, "Hobart, what are you thinking about so
deeply when you are looking at the fire?"

A slow, deep flush came into his face, and he hesitated in his answer.
At last he said, "I fear I'm getting into a bad mood, and think I must
do something decided. Well, for one thing, the continuance of this war
weighs upon my spirit. Men are getting so scarce that I believe they
will take me in some capacity. Now that mother is not here, I think I
ought to go."

"Oh, Hobart, we would miss you so!" she faltered.

He looked up with a smile. "Yes, Helen, I think you would--not many
others, though. You have become so brave and strong that you do not
need me any more."

"I am not so brave and strong as I seem. If I were, how did I become
so? With the tact and delicacy of a woman, yet with the strength of a
man, you broke the crushing force of the first blow, and have helped me
ever since."

"You see everything through a very friendly medium. At any rate I could
not have been content a moment if I had not done all in my power. You
do not need me any longer; you have become a source of strength to
others. I cannot help seeing crowded hospital wards; and the thought
pursues me that in one of them I might do something to restore a
soldier to his place in the field or save him for those at home. I
could at least be a hospital nurse, and I believe it would be better
for me to be doing some such work."

"I believe it would be better for me also," she answered, her eyes full
of tears.

"No, Helen--no, indeed. You have the higher mission of healing the
heart-wounds which the war is making in your own vicinity. You should
not think of leaving your father and mother in their old age, or of
filling their days with anxiety which might shorten their lives."

"It will be very hard for us to let you go. Oh, I did not think I would
have to face this also!"

He glanced at her hastily, for there was a sharp distress in her tone,
of which she was scarcely conscious herself. Then, as if recollecting
himself, he reasoned gently and earnestly: "You were not long in
adopting the best antidote for trouble. In comforting others, you have
been comforted. The campaign is opening in Virginia; and I think it
would be a good and wholesome thing for me to be at work among the
wounded. If I can save one life, it will be such a comfort after the
war is over."

"Yes," she replied, softly; "the war will be over some day. Albert, in
his last letter, said the war would cease, and that happy days of peace
were coming. How they can ever be happy days to some I scarcely know;
but he seemed to foresee the future when he wrote."

"Helen, I'm going. Perhaps the days of peace will be a little happier
if I go."




CHAPTER V

SECOND BLOOM


Martine carried out his purpose almost immediately, seeking the
temporary and most exposed hospitals on the extreme left of Grant's
army before Petersburg. Indeed, while battles were still in progress he
would make his way to the front and become the surgeon's tireless
assistant. While thus engaged, even under the enemy's fire, he was able
to render services to Jim Wetherby which probably saved the soldier's
life. Jim lost his right arm, but found a nurse who did not let him
want for anything till the danger point following amputation had
passed. Before many weeks he was safe at home, and from him Helen
learned more of Martine's quiet heroism than she could ever gather from
his letters. In Jim Wetherby's estimation, Cap and Bart Martine were
the two heroes of the war.

The latter had found the right antidote. Not a moment was left for
morbid brooding. On every side were sharp physical distress, deadly
peril to life and limb, pathetic efforts to hold ground against
diseases or sloughing wounds. In aiding such endeavor, in giving moral
support and physical care, Martine forgot himself. Helen's letters also
were an increasing inspiration. He could scarcely take up one of them
and say, "Here her words begin to have a warmer tinge of feeling;" but
as spring advanced, imperceptibly yet surely, in spite of pauses and
apparent retrogressions, just so surely she revealed a certain warmth
of sympathy. He was engaged in a work which made it easy for her to
idealize him. His unselfish effort to help men live, to keep bitter
tears from the eyes of their relatives, appealed most powerfully to all
that was unselfish in her nature, and she was beginning to ask, "If I
can make this man happier, why should I not do so?" Nichol's letter
gained a new meaning in the light of events: "I do not ask you to
forget me--that would be worse than death--but I ask you to try to be
happy and to make others happy."

"A noble, generous nature prompted those words," she now often mused.
"How can I obey their spirit better than in rewarding the man who not
only has done so much for me, but also at every cost sought to rescue
him?"

In this growing disposition she had no innate repugnance to overcome,
nor the shrinking which can neither be defined nor reasoned against.
Accustomed to see him almost daily from childhood, conscious for years
that he was giving her a love that was virtually homage, she found her
heart growing very compassionate and ready to yield the strong, quiet
affection which she believed might satisfy him. This had come about
through no effort on her part, from no seeking on his, but was the
result of circumstances, the outgrowth of her best and most unselfish
feelings.

But the effect began to separate itself in character from its causes.
All that had gone before might explain why she was learning to love
him, and be sufficient reason for this affection, but a woman's love,
even that quiet phase developing in Helen's heart, is not like a man's
conviction, for which he can give his clear-cut reasons. It is a
tenderness for its object--a wish to serve and give all in return for
what it receives.

Martine vaguely felt this change in Helen long before he understood it.
He saw only a warmer glow of sisterly affection, too high a valuation
of his self-denying work, and a more generous attempt to give him all
the solace and support within her power.

One day in July, when the war was well over and the field hospitals
long since broken up, he wrote from Washington, where he was still
pursuing his labors:

"My work is drawing to a close. Although I have not accomplished a
tithe of what I wished to do, and have soon so much left undone, I am
glad to remember that I have alleviated much pain and, I think, saved
some lives. Such success as I have had, dear Helen, has largely been
due to you. Your letters have been like manna. You do not know--it
would be impossible for you to know--the strength they have given, the
inspiration they have afforded. I am naturally very weary and worn
physically, and the doctors say I must soon have rest; but your kind
words have been life-giving to my soul. I turn to them from day to day
as one would seek a cool, unfailing spring. I can now accept life
gratefully with the conditions which cannot be changed. How fine is the
influence of a woman like you! What deep springs of action it touches!
When waiting on the sick and wounded, I try to blend your womanly
nature with my coarser fibre. Truly, neither of us has suffered in vain
if we learn better to minister to others. I cannot tell you how I long
to see the home gardens again; and it now seems that just to watch you
in yours will be unalloyed happiness."

Helen smiled over this letter with sweet, deep meanings in her eyes.

One August evening, as the Kemble family sat at tea, he gave them a
joyous surprise by appearing at the door and asking in a matter-of-fact
voice, "Can you put an extra plate on the table?"

There was no mistaking the gladness of her welcome, for it was as
genuine as the bluff heartiness of her father and the gentle solicitude
of her mother, who exclaimed, "Oh, Hobart, how thin and pale you are!"

"A few weeks' rest at home will remedy all that," he said. "The heat in
Washington was more trying than my work."

"Well, thank the Lord! you ARE at home once more," cried the banker. "I
was thinking of drawing on the authorities at Washington for a neighbor
who had been loaned much too long."

"Helen," said Martine, with pleased eyes, "how well you look! It is a
perfect delight to see color in your cheeks once more. They are
gaining, too, their old lovely roundness. I'm going to say what I think
right out, for I've been with soldiers so long that I've acquired their
bluntness."

"It's that garden work you lured me into," she explained. "I hope you
won't think your plants and trees have been neglected."

"Have you been keeping my pets from missing me?"

"I guess they have missed you least of all. Helen has seen to it that
they were cared for first," said Mrs. Kemble, emphatically.

"You didn't write about that;" and he looked at the girl gratefully.

"Do you think I could see weeds and neglect just over the fence?" she
asked, with a piquant toss of her head.

"Do you think I could believe that you cared for my garden only that
your eyes might not be offended?"

"There, I only wished to give you a little surprise. You have treated
us to one by walking in with such delightful unexpectedness, and so
should understand. I'll show you when you are through supper."

"I'm through now;" and he rose with a promptness most pleasing to her.
His gladness in recognizing old and carefully nurtured friends, his
keen, appreciative interest in the new candidates for favor that she
had planted, rewarded her abundantly.

"Oh," he exclaimed, "what a heavenly exchange from the close, fetid air
of hospital wards! Could the first man have been more content in his
divinely planted garden?"

She looked at him shyly and thought, "Perhaps when you taste of the
fruit of knowledge the old story will have a new and better meaning."

She now regarded him with a new and wistful interest, no longer seeing
him through the medium of friendship only. His face, thin and
spiritualized, revealed his soul without disguise. It was the
countenance of one who had won peace through the divine path of
ministry--healing others, himself had been healed. She saw also his
unchanged, steadfast love shining like a gem over which flows a crystal
current. Its ray was as serene as it was undimmed. It had taken its
place as an imperishable quality in his character--a place which it
would retain without vicissitude unless some sign from her called it
into immediate and strong manifestation. She was in no haste to give
this. Time was touching her kindly; the sharp, cruel outlines of the
past were softening in the distance, and she was content to remember
that the treasure was hers when she was ready for it--a treasure more
valued daily.

With exultation she saw him honored by the entire community. Few days
passed without new proofs of the hold he had gained on the deepest and
best feelings of the people. She who once had pitied now looked up to
him as the possessor of that manhood which the most faultless outward
semblance can only suggest.

Love is a magician at whose touch the plainest features take on new
aspects. Helen's face had never been plain. Even in its anguish it had
produced in beholders the profound commiseration which is more readily
given when beauty is sorrowful. Now that a new life at heart was
expressing itself, Martine, as well as others, could not fail to note
the subtile changes. While the dewy freshness of her girlish bloom was
absent, the higher and more womanly qualities were now revealing
themselves. Her nature had been deepened by her experiences, and the
harmony of her life was all the sweeter for its minor chords.

To Martine she became a wonderful mystery, and he almost worshipped the
woman whose love he believed buried in an unknown grave, but whose eyes
were often so strangely kind. He resumed his old life, but no longer
brooded at home, when the autumn winds began to blow. He recognized the
old danger and shunned it resolutely. If he could not beguile his
thoughts from Helen, it was but a step to her home, and her eyes always
shone with a luminous welcome. Unless detained by study of the legal
points of some case in hand, he usually found his way over to the
Kemble fireside before the evening passed, and his friends encouraged
him to come when he felt like it. The old banker found the young man
exceedingly companionable, especially in his power to discuss
intelligently the new financial conditions into which the country was
passing. Helen would smile to herself as she watched the two men
absorbed in questions she little understood, and observed her mother
nodding drowsily over her knitting. The scene was so peaceful, so
cheery, so hopeful against the dark background of the past, that she
could not refrain from gratitude. Her heart no longer ached with
despairing sorrow, and the anxious, troubled expression had faded out
of her parents' faces.

"Yes," she would murmur softly to herself, "Albert was right; the
bloody war has ceased, and the happy days of peace are coming. Heaven
has blessed him and made his memory doubly blessed, in that he had the
heart to wish them to be happy, although he could not live to see them.
Unconsciously he took the thorns out of the path which led to his
friend and mine. How richly father enjoys Hobart's companionship! He
will be scarcely less happy--when he knows--than yonder friend, who is
such a very scrupulous friend. Indeed, how either is ever going to know
I scarcely see, unless I make a formal statement."

Suddenly Martine turned, and caught sight of her expression.

"All I have for your thoughts! What wouldn't I give to know them!"

Her face became rosier than the firelight warranted as she laughed
outright and shook her head.

"No matter," he said; "I am content to hear you laugh like that."

"Yes, yes," added the banker; "Helen's laugh is sweeter to me than any
music I ever heard. Thank God! we all can laugh again. I am getting
old, and in the course of nature must soon jog on to the better
country. When that time comes, the only music I want to hear from earth
is good, honest laughter."

"Now, papa, hush that talk right away," cried Helen, with glistening
eyes.

"What's the matter?" Mrs. Kemble asked, waking up.

"Nothing, my dear, only it's time for us old people to go to bed."

"Well, I own that it would be more becoming to sleep there than to
reflect so unfavorably on your conversation. Of late years talk about
money matters always puts me to sleep."

"That wasn't the case, was it, my dear, when we tried to stretch a
thousand so it would reach from one January to another?"

"I remember," she replied, smiling and rolling up her knitting, "that
we sometimes had to suspend specie payments. Ah, well, we were happy."

When left alone, it was Helen's turn to say, "Now your thoughts are
wool-gathering. You don't see the fire when you look at it that way."

"No, I suppose not," replied Martine. "I'll be more frank than you.
Your mother's words, 'We were happy,' left an echo in my mind. How
experience varies! It is pleasant to think that there are many
perfectly normal, happy lives like those of your father and mother."

"That's one thing I like in you, Hobart. You are so perfectly willing
that others should be happy."

"Helen, I agree with your father. Your laugh WAS music, the sweetest I
ever heard. I'm more than willing that you should be happy. Why should
you not be? I have always felt that what he said was true--what he said
about the right to laugh after sorrow--but it never seemed so true
before. Who could wish to leave blighting sorrow after him? Who could
sing in heaven if he knew that he had left tears which could not be
dried on earth?"

"You couldn't," she replied with bowed head.

"Nor you, either; nor the brave man who died, to whom I only do justice
in believing that he would only be happier could he hear your laugh.
Your father's wholesome, hearty nature should teach us to banish every
morbid tendency. Let your heart grow as light as it will, my friend.
Your natural impulses will not lead you astray. Good-night."

"You feel sure of that?" she asked, giving him a hand that fluttered in
his, and looking at him with a soft fire in her eyes.

"Oh, Helen, how distractingly beautiful you are! You are blooming again
like your Jack-roses when the second growth pushes them into flower.
There; I must go. If I had a stone in my breast instead of a
heart--Good-night. I won't be weak again."




CHAPTER VI

MORE THAN REWARD


Helen Kemble's character was simple and direct She was one who lived
vividly in the passing hour, and had a greater capacity for deep
emotions than for retaining them. The reputation for constancy is
sometimes won by those incapable of strong convictions. A scratch upon
a rock remains in all its sharpness, while the furrow that has gone
deep into the heart of a field is eventually almost hidden by a new
flowering growth. The truth was fully exemplified in Helen's case; and
a willingness to marry her lifelong lover, prompted at first by a
spirit of self-sacrifice, had become, under the influence of daily
companionship, more than mere assent. While gratitude and the wish to
see the light of a great, unexpected joy come into his eyes remained
her chief motives, she had learned that she could attain a happiness
herself, not hoped for once, in making him happy.

He was true to his word, after the interview described in the preceding
chapter. He did not consciously reveal the unappeased hunger of his
heart, but her intuition was never at fault a moment.

One Indian-summer-like morning, about the middle of October, he went
over to her home and said, "Helen, what do you say to a long day's
outing? The foliage is at its brightest, the air soft as that of June.
Why not store up a lot of this sunshine for winter use?"

"Yes, Helen, go," urged her mother. "I can attend to everything."

"A long day, did you stipulate?" said the girl in ready assent; "that
means we should take a lunch. I don't believe you ever thought of that."

"We could crack nuts, rob apple-orchards, or if driven to extremity,
raid a farmhouse."

"You have heard too much from the soldiers about living off the
country. I'd rather raid mamma's cupboard before we start. I'll be
ready as soon as you are."

He soon appeared in his low, easy phaeton; and she joined him with the
presentiment that there might be even greater gladness in his face by
evening than it now expressed. While on the way to the brow of a
distant hill which would be their lunching place, they either talked
with the freedom of old friends or lapsed into long silences.

At last he asked, "Isn't it a little odd that when with you the sense
of companionship is just as strong when you are not talking?"

"It's a comfort you are so easily entertained. Don't you think I'm a
rather moderate talker for a woman?"

"Those that talk the most are often least entertaining. I've thought a
good deal about it--the unconscious influence of people on one another.
I don't mean influence in any moral sense, but in the power to make one
comfortable or uncomfortable, and to produce a sense of restfulness and
content or to make one ill at ease and nervously desirous of escape."

"And you have actually no nervous desire to escape, no castings around
in your mind for an excuse to turn around and drive home?"

"No one could give a surer answer to your question than yourself. I've
been thinking of something pleasanter than my enjoyment."

"Well?"

"That your expression has been a very contented one during the last
hour. I am coming to believe that you can accept my friendship without
effort. You women are all such mysteries! One gets hold of a clew now
and then. I have fancied that if you had started out in the spirit of
self-sacrifice that I might have a pleasant time, you would be more
conscious of your purpose. Even your tact might not have kept me from
seeing that you were exerting yourself; but the very genius of the day
seems to possess you. Nature is not exerting herself in the least. No
breath of air is stirring; all storms are in the past or the future.
With a smile on her face, she is just resting in serene content, as you
were, I hope. She is softening and obscuring everything distant by an
orange haze, so that the sunny present may be all the more real. Days
like these will do you good, especially if your face and manner reveal
that you can be as truly at rest as Nature."

"Yet what changes may soon pass over the placid scene!"

"Yes, but don't think of them."

"Well, I won't--not now. Yes, you are becoming very penetrating. I am
not exerting myself in the least to give you a pleasant time. I am just
selfishly and lazily content."

"That fact gives me so much more than content that it makes me happy."

"Hobart, you are the most unselfish man I ever knew."

"Nonsense!"

They had reached their picnic-ground--the edge of a grove whose
bright-hued foliage still afforded a grateful shade. The horse was
unharnessed and picketed so that he might have a long range for
grazing. Then Martine brought the provision basket to the foot of a
great oak, and sat down to wait for Helen, who had wandered away in
search of wild flowers. At last she came with a handful of
late-blooming closed gentians.

"I thought these would make an agreeable feature in your lunch."

"Oh, you are beginning to exert yourself."

"Yes, I have concluded to, a little. So must you, to the extent of
making a fire. The rest will be woman's work. I propose to drink your
health in a cup of coffee."

"Ah, this is unalloyed," he cried, sipping it later on.

"The coffee?"

"Yes, and everything. We don't foresee the bright days any more than
the dark ones. I did not dream of this in Virginia."

"You are easily satisfied. The coffee is smoky, the lunch is cold,
winter is coming, and--"

"And I am very happy," he said.

"It would be a pity to disturb your serenity."

"Nothing shall disturb it to-day. Peace is one of the rarest
experiences in this world. I mean only to remember that our armies are
disbanded and that you are at rest, like Nature."

She had brought a little book of autumn poems, and after lunch read to
him for an hour, he listening with the same expression of quiet
satisfaction. As the day declined, she shivered slightly in the shade.
He immediately arose and put a shawl around her.

"You are always shielding me," she said gently.

"One can do so little of that kind of thing," he replied, "not much
more than show intent."

"Now you do yourself injustice." After a moment's hesitancy she added,
"I am not quite in your mood to-day, and even Nature, as your ally,
cannot make me forget or even wish to forget."

"I do not wish you to forget, but merely cease to remember for a little
while. You say Nature is my ally. Listen: already the wind is beginning
to sigh in the branches overhead. The sound is low and mournful, as if
full of regret for the past and forebodings for the future. There is a
change coming. All that I wished or could expect in you was that this
serene, quiet day would give you a respite--that complete repose in
which the wounded spirit is more rapidly healed and strengthened for
the future."

"Have you been strengthened? Have you no fears for the future?"

"No fears, Helen. My life is strong in its negation. The man who is
agitated by hopes and fears, who is doomed to disappointments, is the
one who has not recognized his limitations, who has not accepted
well-defined conditions."

"Hobart, I'm going to put you on your honor now. Remember, and do not
answer hastily," and her gaze into his face was searching. Although
quiet and perfectly self-controlled, the rich color mounted to her very
brow.

"Well, Helen," he asked wonderingly.

"Imagine it possible," she continued with the same earnest gaze, "that
you were a woman who has loved as I have loved, and lost as I have. The
circumstances are all known, and you have only to recall them. If a man
had loved you as you have loved me--"

"But, Helen, can you not believe in a love so strong that it does not
ask--"

By a gesture she checked him and repeated, "But if a man had loved you
as you have loved me--remember now, on your honor--would you permit him
to love with no better reward than the consciousness of being a solace,
a help, a sort of buffer between you and the ills of life?"

"But, Helen, I am more than that: I am your friend."

"Indeed you are, the best a woman ever had, or I could not speak as I
am doing. Yet what I say is true. From the first it has been your
sleepless aim to stand between me and trouble. What have I ever done
for you?"

"In giving me your friendship--"

Again she interrupted him, saying, "That virtually means giving you the
chance for continued self-sacrifice. Any man or woman in the land would
give you friendship on such terms, YOUR terms with me. But you do not
answer my question; yet you have answered it over and over again. Were
you in my place with your unselfish nature, you could not take so very
much without an inevitable longing to return all in your power."

He was deeply agitated. Burying his face in his hands, he said
hoarsely, "I must not look at you, or my duty may be too hard. Ah, you
are banishing peace and serenity now with a vengeance! I recognize your
motive--whither your thoughts are tending. Your conscience, your pity,
your exaggerated gratitude are driving you to contemplate a
self-sacrifice compared with which mine is as nothing. Yet the
possibility of what you suggest is so sweet, so--oh, it is like the
reward of heaven for a brief life!" Then he bowed his head lower and
added slowly, as if the words were forced from him, "No, Helen, you
shall not reward me. I cannot take as pay, or 'return,' as you express
it, the reward that you are meditating. I must not remember in after
years that my efforts in your behalf piled up such a burdensome sense
of obligation that there was but one escape from it."

She came to his side, and removing his hands from his face, retained
one of them as she said, gently, "Hobart, I am no longer a shy girl. I
have suffered too deeply, I have learned too thoroughly how life may be
robbed of happiness, and for a time, almost of hope, not to see the
folly of letting the years slip away, unproductive of half what they
might yield to you and me. I understand you; you do not understand me,
probably because your ideal is too high. You employed an illustration
in the narrowest meaning. Is heaven given only as a reward? Is not
every true gift an expression of something back of the gift, more than
the gift?"

"Helen!"

"Yes, Hobart, in my wish to make you happier I am not bent on
unredeemed self-sacrifice. You have been the most skilful of wooers."

"And you are the divinest of mysteries. How have I wooed you?"

"By not wooing at all, by taking a course which compelled my heart to
plead your cause, by giving unselfish devotion so unstintedly that like
the rain and dew of heaven, it has fostered a new life in my heart,
different from the old, yet sweet, real, and precious. I have learned
that I can be happier in making you happy. Oh, I shall be no martyr. Am
I inconstant because time and your ministry have healed the old
wound--because the steady warmth and glow of your love has kindled
mine?"

He regarded her with a gaze so rapt, so reverent, so expressive of
immeasurable gratitude that her eyes filled with tears. "I think you do
understand me," she whispered.

He kissed her hand in homage as he replied, "A joy like this is almost
as hard to comprehend at first as an equally great sorrow. My garden
teaches me to understand you. A perfect flower-stalk is suddenly and
rudely broken. Instead of dying, it eventually sends out a little
side-shoot which gives what bloom it can."

"And you will be content with what it can give?"

"I shall be glad with a happiness which almost terrifies me. Only God
knows how I have longed for this."

That evening the old banker scarcely ceased rubbing his hands in
general felicitation, while practical, housewifely Mrs. Kemble already
began to plan what she intended to do toward establishing Helen in the
adjoining cottage.

Now that Martine believed his great happiness possible, he was eager
for its consummation. At his request the 1st of December was named as
the wedding day. "The best that a fireside and evening lamp ever
suggested will then come true to me," ha urged. "Since this can be,
life is too short that it should not be soon."

Helen readily yielded. Indeed, they were all so absorbed in planning
for his happiness as to be oblivious of the rising storm. When at last
the girl went to her room, the wind sighed and wailed so mournfully
around the house as to produce a feeling of depression and foreboding.




CHAPTER VII

YANKEE BLANK


The wild night storm which followed the most memorable day of his life
had no power to depress Martine. In the wavy flames and glowing coals
of his open fire he saw heavenly pictures of the future. He drew his
mother's low chair to the hearth, and his kindled fancy placed Helen in
it. Memory could so reproduce her lovely and familiar features that her
presence became almost a reality. In a sense he watched her changing
expression and heard her low, mellow tones. The truth that both would
express an affection akin to his own grew upon his consciousness like
the incoming of a sun-lighted tide. The darkness and storm without
became only the background of his pictures, enhancing every prophetic
representation. The night passed in ecstatic waking dreams of all that
the word "home" suggests when a woman, loved as he loved Helen, was its
architect.

The days and weeks which followed were filled with divine enchantment;
the prosaic world was transfigured; the intricacies of the law were
luminous with the sheen of gold, becoming the quartz veins from which
he would mine wealth for Helen; the plants in his little rose-house
were cared for with caressing tenderness because they gave buds which
would be worn over the heart now throbbing for him. Never did mortal
know such unalloyed happiness as blessed Martine, as he became daily
more convinced that Helen was not giving herself to him merely from the
promptings of compassion.

At times, when she did not know he was listening, he heard her low,
sweet laugh; and it had a joyous ring and melody which repeated itself
like a haunting refrain of music. He would say smilingly, "It is
circumstantial evidence, equivalent to direct proof."

Helen and her mother almost took possession of his house while he was
absent at his office, refurnishing and transforming it, yet retaining
with reverent memory what was essentially associated with Mrs. Martine.
The changing aspects of the house did not banish the old sense of
familiarity, but were rather like the apple-tree in the corner of the
garden when budding into new foliage and flower. The banker's purse was
ever open for all this renovation, but Martine jealously persisted in
his resolve to meet every expense himself. Witnessing his gladness and
satisfaction, they let him have his way, he meanwhile exulting over
Helen's absorbed interest in the adornment of her future home.

The entire village had a friendly concern in the approaching wedding;
and the aged gossips never tired of saying, "I told you so," believing
that they understood precisely how it had all come about. Even Mrs.
Nichol aquiesced with a few deep sighs, assuring herself, "I suppose
it's natural. I'd rather it was Bart Martine than anybody else."

A few days before the 1st of December, Martine received a telegram from
an aged uncle residing in a distant State. It conveyed a request hard
to comply with, yet he did not see how it could be evaded. The despatch
was delivered in the evening while he was at the Kembles', and its
effect upon the little group was like a bolt out of a clear sky. It ran:

"Your cousin dangerously ill at----Hospital, Washington. Go to him at
once, if possible, and telegraph me to come, if necessary."

Hobart explained that this cousin had remained in the army from choice,
and that his father, old and feeble, naturally shrank from a journey to
which he was scarcely equal. "My hospital experience," he concluded,
"leads him to think that I am just the one to go, especially as I can
get there much sooner than he. I suppose he is right. Indeed, I do not
know of any one else whom he could call upon. It certainly is a very
painful duty at this time."

"I can't endure to think of it," Helen exclaimed.

"It's a clear question of conscience, Helen," he replied gently. "Many
years have passed since I saw this cousin, yet he, and still more
strongly his father, have the claims of kinship. If anything should
happen which my presence could avert, you know we should both feel bad.
It would be a cloud upon our happiness. If this request had come before
you had changed everything for me, you know I would have gone without a
moment's hesitation. Very gratitude should make me more ready for
duty;" yet he signed deeply.

"But it may delay the wedding, for which the invitations have gone
out," protested Mrs. Kemble.

"Possibly it may, if my cousin's life is in danger." Then, brightening
up, he added: "Perhaps I shall find that I can leave him in good care
for a short time, and then we can go to Washington on our wedding trip.
I would like to gain associations with that city different from those I
now have."

"Come now," said the banker, hopefully, "if we must face this thing, we
must. The probabilities are that it will turn out as Hobart says. At
worst it can only be a sad interruption and episode. Hobart will be
better satisfied in the end if he does what he now thinks his duty."

"Yours is the right view," assented the young man, firmly. "I shall
take the midnight train, and telegraph as soon as I have seen my cousin
and the hospital surgeon."

He went home and hastily made his preparations; then, with valise in
hand, returned to the Kembles'. The old people bade him Godspeed on his
journey, and considerately left him with his affianced.

"Hobart," Helen entreated, as they were parting, "be more than
ordinarily prudent. Do not take any risks, even the most trivial,
unless you feel you must. Perhaps I'm weak and foolish, but I'm
possessed with a strange, nervous dread. This sudden call of duty--for
so I suppose I must look upon it--seems so inopportune;" and she hid
her tears on his shoulder.

"You are taking it much too seriously, darling," he said, gently
drawing her closer to him.

"Yes, my reason tells me that I am. You are only going on a brief
journey, facing nothing that can be called danger. Yet I speak as I
feel--I cannot help feeling. Give me glad reassurance by returning
quickly and safely. Then hereafter I will laugh at forebodings."

"There, you need not wait till I reach Washington. You shall hear from
me in the morning, and I will also telegraph when I have opportunity on
my journey."

"Please do so, and remember that I could not endure to have my life
impoverished again."

Late the following evening, Martine inquired his way to the bedside of
his cousin, and was glad indeed to find him convalescent. His own
experienced eyes, together with the statement of the sick man and
wardmaster, convinced him that the danger point was well passed. In
immense relief of mind he said cheerily, "I will watch to-night"; and
so it was arranged.

His cousin, soothed and hushed in his desire to talk, soon dropped into
quiet slumber, while Martine's thronging thoughts banished the sense of
drowsiness. A shaded lamp burned near, making a circle of light and
leaving the rest of the ward dim and shadowy. The scene was very
familiar, and it was an easy effort for his imagination to place in the
adjoining cots the patients with whom, months before, he had fought the
winning or losing battle of life. While memory sometimes went back
compassionately to those sufferers, his thoughts dwelt chiefly upon the
near future, with its certainty of happiness--a happiness doubly
appreciated because his renewed experience in the old conditions of his
life made the home which awaited him all the sweeter from contrast. He
could scarcely believe that he was the same man who in places like this
had sought to forget the pain of bereavement and of denial of his
dearest wish--he who in the morning would telegraph Helen that the
wedding need not even be postponed, or any change made in their plans.

The hours were passing almost unnoted, when a patient beyond the circle
of light feebly called for water. Almost mechanically Hobart rose to
get it, when a man wearing carpet slippers and an old dressing-gown
shuffled noiselessly into view.

"Captain Nichol!" gasped Martine, sinking back, faint and trembling, in
his chair.

The man paid no attention, but passed through the circle of light to
the patient, gave him a drink, and turned. Martine stared with the
paralysis of one looking upon an apparition.

When the figure was opposite to him, he again ejaculated hoarsely,
"Captain Nichol!"

The form in slippers and gray ghostly dressing-gown turned sleepy eyes
upon him without the slightest sign of recognition, passed on, and
disappeared among the shadows near the wardmaster's room.

A blending of relief and fearful doubt agitated Martine. He knew he had
been wide awake and in the possession of every faculty--that his
imagination had been playing him no tricks. He was not even thinking of
Nichol at the time; yet the impression that he had looked upon and
spoken to his old schoolmate, to Helen's dead lover, had been as strong
as it was instantaneous. When the man had turned, there had been an
unnatural expression, which in a measure dispelled the illusion. After
a moment of thought which scorched his brain, he rose and followed the
man's steps, and was in time to see him rolling himself in his blanket
on the cot nearest the door. From violent agitation, Martine
unconsciously shook the figure outlined in the blanket roughly, as he
asked, "What's your name?"

"Yankee Blank, doggone yer! Kyant you wake a feller 'thout yankin' 'im
out o' baid? What yer want?"

"Great God!" muttered Hobart, tottering back to his seat beside his
sleeping cousin, "was there ever such a horrible, mocking suggestion of
one man in another? Yankee Blank--what a name! Southern accent and
vernacular, yet Nichol's voice! Such similarity combined with such
dissimilarity is like a nightmare. Of course it's not Nichol. He was
killed nearly two years ago. I'd be more than human if I could wish him
back now; but never in my life have I been so shocked and startled.
This apparition must account for itself in the morning."

But he could not wait till morning; he could not control himself five
minutes. He felt that he must banish that horrible semblance of Nichol
from his mind by convincing himself of its absurdity.

He waited a few moments in order to compose his nerves, and then
returned. The man had evidently gone to sleep.

"What a fool I am!" Martine again muttered. "Let the poor fellow sleep.
The fact that he doesn't know me is proof enough. The idea of wanting
any proof! I can investigate his case in the morning, and, no doubt, in
broad light that astonishing suggestion of Nichol will disappear."

He was about to turn away when the patient who had called for water
groaned slightly. As if his ears were as sensitive to such sounds as
those of a mother who hears her child even when it stirs, the man
arose. Seeing Martine standing by him, he asked in slight irritation,
"What yer want? Why kyant yer say what yer want en have done 'th it?
Lemme 'tend ter that feller yander firs'. We uns don't want no mo'
stiffs;" and he shuffled with a peculiar, noiseless tread to the
patient whose case seemed on his mind. Martine followed, his very hair
rising at the well-remembered tones, and the mysterious principle of
identity again revealed within the circle of light.

"This is simply horrible!" he groaned inwardly, "and I must have that
man account for himself instantly."

"Now I'll 'tend ter yer, but yer mout let a feller sleep when he kin."

"Don't you know me?" faltered Martine, overpowered.

"Naw."

"Please tell me your real name, not your nickname."

"Ain' got no name 'cept Yankee Blank. What's the matter with yer,
anyhow?"

"Didn't you ever hear of Captain Nichol?"

"Reckon not. Mout have. I've nussed mo' cap'ins than I kin reckerlect."

"Are you a hospital nurse?"

"Sorter 'spect I am. That's what I does, anyhow. Have you anything agin
it? Don't yer come 'ferin' round with me less yer a doctor, astin' no
end o' questions. Air you a new doctor?"

"My name is Hobart Martine," the speaker forced himself to say,
expecting fearfully a sign of recognition, for the impression that it
was Nichol grew upon him every moment, in spite of apparent proof to
the contrary.

"Hump! Hob't Ma'tine. Never yeared on yer. Ef yer want ter chin mo' in
the mawnin', I'll be yere."

"Wait a moment, Yan--"

"Yankee Blank, I tole yer."

"Well, here's a dollar for the trouble I'm making you," and Martine's
face flushed with shame at the act, so divided was his impression about
the man.

Yankee Blank took the money readily, grinned, and said, "Now I'll chin
till mawnin' ef yer wants hit."

"I won't keep you long. You remind me of--of--well, of Captain Nichol."

"He must 'a' been a cur'ous chap. Folks all say I'm a cur'ous chap."

"Won't you please tell me all that you can remember about yourself?"

"'Tain't much. Short hoss soon curried. Allus ben in hospitals. Had
high ole jinks with a wound on my haid. Piece o' shell, they sez, cut
me yere," and he pointed to a scar across his forehead. "That's what
they tole me. Lor'! I couldn't mek much out o' the gibberish I firs'
year, en they sez I talked gibberish too. But I soon got the hang o'
the talk in the hospital. Well, ez I wuz sayin', I've allus been in
hospitals firs' one, then anuther. I got well, en the sojers call me
Yankee Blank en set me waitin' on sick uns en the wounded. That's what
I'm a-doin' now."

"You were in Southern hospitals?"

"I reckon. They called the place Richman."

"Why did you come here?"

"Kaze I wuz bro't yere. They said I was 'changed."

"Exchanged, wasn't it?"

"Reckon it was. Anyhow I wuz bro't yere with a lot o' sick fellers. I
wuzn't sick. For a long time the doctors kep' a-pesterin' me with
questions, but they lemme 'lone now. I 'spected you wuz a new doctor,
en at it agin."

"Don't you remember the village of Alton?"

The man shook his head.

"Don't you--" and Martine's voice grew husky--"don't you remember Helen
Kemble?"

"A woman?"

"Yes."

"Never yeared on her. I only reckerlect people I've seen in hospitals.
Women come foolin' roun' some days, but Lor'! I kin beat any on 'em
teekin' keer o' the patients; en wen they dies, I kin lay 'em out. You
ast the wardmaster ef I kant lay out a stiff with the best o' 'em."

"That will do. You can go to sleep now."

"All right, Doc. I call everybody doc who asts sech a lot o'
questions." He shuffled to his cot and was soon asleep.




CHAPTER VIII

"HOW CAN I?"


Martine sank into his chair again. Although the conversation had been
carried on in low tones, it was the voice of Nichol that he had heard.
Closer inspection of the slightly disfigured face proved that, apart
from the scar on the forehead, it was the countenance of Nichol. A
possible solution of the mystery was beginning to force itself in
Hobart's reluctant mind. When Nichol had fallen in the Wilderness, the
shock of his injury had rendered him senseless and caused him to appear
dead to the hasty scrutiny of Sam and Jim Wetherby. They were terribly
excited and had no time for close examination. Nichol might have
revived, have been gathered up with the Confederate wounded, and sent
to Richmond. There was dire and tremendous confusion at that period,
when within the space of two or three days tens of thousands were
either killed or disabled. In a Southern hospital Nichol might have
recovered physical health while, from injury to the brain, suffering
complete eclipse of memory. In this case he would have to begin life
anew, like a child, and so would pick up the vernacular and bearing of
the enlisted men with whom he would chiefly associate.

Because he remembered nothing and know nothing, he may at first have
been tolerated as a "cur'ous chap," then employed as he had explained.
He could take the place of a better man where men were greatly needed.

This theory could solve the problem; and Martine's hospital experience
prepared his mind to understand what would be a hopeless mystery to
many. He was so fearfully excited that he could not remain in the ward.
The very proximity to this strange being, who had virtually risen from
the dead and appeared to him of all others, was a sort of torture in
itself.

What effect would this discovery have on his relations to Helen? He
dared not think yet he must think. Already the temptation of his life
was forming in his mind. His cousin was sleeping; and with a wild
impatience to escape, to get away from all his kind, he stole
noiselessly out into the midnight and deserted streets. On, on he went,
limping he knew not, cared not where, for his passion and mental agony
drove him hither and thither like a leaf before a fitful gale.

"No one knows of this," he groaned. "I can still return and marry
Helen. But oh, what a secret to carry!"

Then his heart pleaded. "This is not the lover she lost--only a
horrible, mocking semblance. He has lost his own identity; he does not
even know himself--would not know her. Ah! I'm not sure of that. I
would be dead indeed if her dear features did not kindle my eyes in
recognition. It may be that the sight of her face is the one thing
essential to restore him. I feel this would be true were it my case.
But how can I give her up now? How can?--how can I? Oh, this terrible
journey! No wonder Helen had forebodings. She loves me; she is mine. No
one else has so good a right. We were to be married only a few hours
hence. Then she whom I've loved from childhood would make my home a
heaves on earth. And yet--and yet--" Even in the darkness he buried his
face in his hands, shuddered, moaned, writhed, and grated his teeth in
the torment of the conflict.

Hour after hour he wavered, now on the point of yielding, then stung by
conscience into desperate uncertainty. The night was cold, the howling
wind would have chilled him at another time, but during his struggle
great drops of sweat often poured from his face. Only the eye of God
saw that battle, the hardest that was fought and won during the war.

At last, when well out of the city, he lifted his agonized eyes and saw
the beautiful hues of morning tingeing the east. Unconsciously, he
repeated the sublime, creative words, "Let there be light." It came to
him. With the vanishing darkness, he revolted finally against the
thought of any shadows existing between him and Helen. She should have
all the light that he had, and decide her own course. He had little
hope that she would wed him, even if she did not marry Nichol in his
present condition--a condition probably only temporary and amenable to
skilful treatment.

Wearily he dragged his lame foot back to a hotel in the populous party
of the city, and obtained food and wine, for he was terribly exhausted.
Next he telegraphed Mr. Kemble:

"Arrived last evening. The wedding will have to be postponed. Will
explain later."

"It's the best I can do now," he muttered. "Helen will think it is all
due to my cousin's illness." Then he returned to the hospital and found
his relative in a state of wonderment at his absence, but refreshed
from a good night's rest. Yankee Blank was nowhere to be seen.

"Hobart," exclaimed his cousin, "you look 

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