Family Pride Or Purified by Suffering Part 53

"I had, until Helen reminded me." Katy replied. "But, Morris, the talking of this thing brings Wilford's death back so vividly, making it seem but yesterday since I held his dying head."

She was beginning to relent, Morris knew, and bending nearer to her, he said:

"It was not yesterday. It will be two years in February; and this, you know, is November. I need you, Katy. I want you so much. I have wanted you all your life. Before it was wrong to do so I used each day to pray that G.o.d would give you to me, and now I feel just as sure that he has opened the way for you to come to me as I am sure that Wilford is in heaven. He is happy there, and shall a morbid fancy keep you from being happy here? Tell me then, Katy, will you be my wife?"

He was kissing her cold hands, and as he did so he felt her tears dropping on his hair.

"If I say yes, Morris, you will not think that I never loved Wilford, for I did, oh yes, I did. Not exactly as I supposed I might, even then, have loved you, had you asked me first, but I loved him, and I was happy with him, or if there were little clouds, his dying swept them all away."

Katy was proving herself a true woman, who remembered only the good there was in Wilford, and Morris did not love her less for it. She was all the dearer to him, all the more desirable. Once he told her so, winding his arms about her, and resting her head upon his shoulder, where it lay just as it had never lain before, for with the first kiss Morris gave her, calling her "My own little Katy," she felt stealing over her the same indescribable peace she had always felt with him, intensified now, and sweeter from the knowing it would remain if she should will it so. And she did will it so, kissing Morris back when he asked her to, and thus sealing the compact of her second betrothal. It was not exactly like the first. There was no tumultuous emotions, or ecstatic joys, but Katy felt in her inmost heart that she was happier now than then, that between herself and Morris there was more affinity than there had been between herself and Wilford, and as she looked back over the road she had come, and remembered all Morris had been to her, she wondered at her blindness in not recognizing and responding to the love in which she had now found shelter.

It was very late that night when Katy crept up to bed, and Helen, who was not asleep, knew by the face on which the lamplight fell, as Katy sat for a moment in thoughtful mood, looking out into the darkness, that Morris had not sued in vain. Aunt Betsy knew it, too, next morning, by the same look on Katy's face, when she came downstairs, but this did not prevent her saying, abruptly, as Katy stood by the sink:

"Be you two engaged?"

"We are," was Katy's frank reply, which brought back all Aunt Betsy's visions of roasted fowls and frosted cake, and maybe a dance in the kitchen, to say nothing of the feather bed which she had not dared to offer Katy Cameron, but which she thought would come in play for "Miss Dr. Grant."

CHAPTER LIII.

THE PRISONERS.

Many of the captives were coming home. Prison after prison had given up its starving, vermin-eaten inmates, while all along the Northern lines loving hearts were waiting, and friendly hands outstretched to welcome them back to "G.o.d's land," as the poor, suffering creatures termed the soil over which waved the Stars and Stripes, for which they had fought so bravely. Wistfully, thousands of eyes ran over the long columns of names of those returned, each eye seeking for its own, and growing dim with tears as it failed to find it, or lighting up with untold joy when it was found.

"Lieutenant Robert Reynolds" and "Thomas Tubbs," Helen read among the list of those just arrived at Annapolis, but "Captain Mark Ray" was not there, and with a sickening feeling of disappointment she pa.s.sed the paper to her mother-in-law, and hastened away, to weep and pray that what she so greatly feared might not come upon her.

It was after Katy's betrothal, and she was in New York, happy to hear news from Mark, and perhaps to see him ere long, for, as nearly as she could trace him from reports of others, he was last at Andersonville.

But there was no mention made of him, no sign by which she could tell whether he still lived, or had long since been relieved from suffering.

Early the next day she heard that Mattie Tubbs had received a telegram from Tom, who would soon be at home, while later in the day Bell Cameron came around to say that Bob was living, but had lost his right arm, and was otherwise badly crippled. It never occurred to Helen to ask if this would make a difference. She only kissed Bell fondly, rejoicing at her good fortune, and then sent her back to the home where there were hot discussions regarding the propriety of receiving into the family a maimed and crippled member.

"It was preposterous to suppose Bob would expect it," Juno said, while the mother admitted that it was a most unfortunate affair, as indeed the whole war had proved. For her part, she sometimes wished the North had let the South go quietly when they wanted to, and so saved thousands of lives, and prevented the country from being flooded with cripples, and negroes, and calls for more men and money. On the whole, she rather doubted the propriety of re-electing Lincoln, and prolonging the war; and she certainly doubted the propriety of giving her daughter to a cripple. There was Arthur Grey, who had lately been so attentive; he was a wealthier man than Lieutenant Bob, and if Bell had any discretion she would take him in preference to a disfigured soldier.

Such was the purport of Mrs. Cameron's remarks, to which her husband listened, his eyes blazing with pa.s.sion, which, the moment she finished, burst forth in a storm of oaths and invectives against what, with his pet adjective, he called her "Copperhead principles," denouncing her as a traitor, reproaching her for the cruelty which would separate her daughter from Robert Reynolds because he had lost an arm in the service of his country, and then turning fiercely to Bell with the words:

"But it isn't for you to say whether he shall or shall not have Bell.

She is of age. Let her speak for herself."

And she did speak, the n.o.ble, heroic girl, who had listened, with bitter scorn, to what her mother and sister said, and who now, with elevated nostrils and voice hoa.r.s.e with emotion, answered slowly and impressively:

"I would marry Lieutenant Reynolds if he had only his ears left to hear me tell him how much I love and honor him! Arthur Grey! Don't talk to me of him! the craven coward, who will neither volunteer nor give a cent for our poor, suffering soldiers, but turns people off with: 'Government provides,' or 'the stores do not reach them,' and all those subterfuges to which mean men resort to keep from giving, and to avoid the draft swore he was forty-five, when we all know better. Don't insult Robert with such a comparison, or think I will break my faith with him."

After this no more was said to Bell, who waited anxiously for further news from Bob, and who, the moment she heard he was at home, went to his father's house, and asked to see him.

He was sleeping when she entered his room, and pushing back the heavy curtain, so that the light would fall more directly upon him, Mrs.

Reynolds went out and left her there alone.

With a beating heart, she stood looking at his hollow eyes, his sunken cheek, his short, dry hair, and thick, gray skin--all marks of the brutal treatment he had received. She did not think of his arm until she glanced at the wall where hung a large-sized photograph, taken in full uniform the last time he was at home, and in which his full, well-developed figure showed to good advantage. Could it be that the wreck before her had ever been as full of life and vigor as the picture would indicate, and was that arm which held the sword severed from the body, and left a token of the murderous war?

"Poor Bob! how much he must have suffered," she whispered, and kneeling down beside him, she hid her face in her hands, weeping bitter tears for her armless hero.

The motion awakened Robert, who gazed for a moment in surprise at the kneeling, sobbing maiden; then, when sure it was she, he raised himself in bed, and ere Bell could look up, two arms, one quite as strong as the other, were wound around her neck, and her head was pillowed upon the breast, which heaved with strong emotions as the soldier said:

"My darling Bell, my promised wife, you don't know how much good this meeting does me!"

He kissed her many times, and Bell did not prevent it, but gave him kiss after kiss, then, still doubting the evidence of her eyes, she unclasped his clinging arms, and holding both his poor hands in hers, gave vent to a second gush of tears as she said:

"I am so glad--oh, so glad!"

Then, as it occurred to her that he might perhaps misjudge her, and put a wrong construction upon her joy, she added:

"I did not care for myself, Robert. Don't think I cared for myself, or was ever sorry a bit on my own account."

Bob looked a little bewildered as he replied: "Never were sorry and never cared! I can scarcely credit that, for surely your tears and present emotions belie your words."

Bell knew he had not understood her, and she said:

"Your arm, Robert, your arm. We heard it was cut off, and that you were otherwise mutilated."

"Oh, that's it, then!" and something like his old, mischievous smile glimmered about Bob's mouth as he added: "They spared my arms, but, Bell"--and he tried to look very solemn--"suppose I tell you that they hacked off both my legs, and if you marry me, as you seem to think you will, you must walk all your life by the side of wooden pins and crutches?"

Bell knew by the curl of his lip that he was teasing her, and she answered, laughingly:

"Wooden pins and crutches will be all the fashion when the war is over; badges of honor of which any woman might be proud."

"Well, Bell," he replied, "I am afraid there is no such honor in store for my wife, for if I ever get back my strength and the flesh upon my bones, she must take me with legs and arms included. Not even a scratch or wound of any kind with which to awaken sympathy."

He appeared very bright and cheerful, but when, after a moment, Bell asked for Mark Ray, there came a shadow over his face, and with quivering lips he told a tale which blanched Bell's cheek, and made her shiver with pain and dread as she thought of Helen, the wife who had never known the sweets of matrimony, and who would never taste them now, for Mark was dead--shot down as he attempted to escape from the train which took them from one place of torment to another. He was always devising means of escape, succeeding several times, but was immediately captured and brought back, or sent to some closer quarters, Robert said; but his courage never deserted him, and in the muddy, filthy place where they were herded like so many cattle, without shelter of any kind, he was the life of them all, and by his presence kept many a poor fellow from dying of homesickness and despair. But he was dead; there could be no mistake, for Robert saw him when he jumped, heard the ball which went whizzing after him, saw him as he fell on the open field, saw a man from a rude dwelling nearby go hurriedly toward him, firing his own revolver, as if to make the death deed doubly sure. Then, as the train slacked its speed, with the view, perhaps, to take the body on board, he heard the man who had reached Mark and was bending over him, call out: "Go on; I'll tend to him. He is dead as a stone; bullet went right through here," and he turned the dead man's face toward the train, so all could see the blood pouring from the temple which the finger of the rebel ruffian touched.

"Oh, Helen! poor Helen! How can I tell her, when she loved him so much!"

Bell sobbed, while Bob repeated many things to prove how strong was the love the unfortunate Mark Ray had borne for his young wife.

"He used to make pictures of her," he said, "with a pencil which he had, and once he whittled out her face with a lily in the hair. It was a good likeness, too, and I saw Mark kiss it more than once when he thought he was not seen. He had her photograph, it seems, but a brutal keeper took it away, for no earthly purpose except to distress him. I never saw Mark cast down till then, when for two whole days he scarcely spoke, but would stand for hours with his face turned toward the North, and a quivering motion around his lips, as if his heart were broken."

Bell could hear no more, but motioned him to stop.

"It's too terrible even to think about," she said. "Oh, how can I tell Helen!"

"You will do it better than any one else," Bob said. "You will be very tender with her; and, Bell, tell her, as some consolation, that he did not break with the treatment, as most of us wretches did; he kept up wonderfully--said he was perfectly well--and, indeed, he looked so. Tom Tubbs, who was his shadow, clinging to him with wonderful fidelity, will corroborate what I have said. He was with us, he saw him, and only animal force prevented him from leaping from the car and going to him where he fell. I shall never forget his shriek of agony at the sight of that blood-stained face turned an instant toward us."

"Don't, don't!" Bell cried again; "I can't endure it!" and as Mrs.

Reynolds then came in, she left her lover, and with a foreboding heart, started for Mrs. Banker's, meeting on the steps Tom Tubbs himself, who had come on an errand similar to her own.

"Sit here in the hall a moment," she said to him, as the servant admitted them both. "I must see Mrs. Ray first."

Helen was reading to her mother-in-law, but she laid down her book and came to welcome Bell, detecting at once the agitation in her manner and asking if she had had bad news from Robert.