The Rector of St. Mark's Part 15

His face flushed, and he replied:

"No, I cannot. Why should you want to know----"

Then he stopped, hesitated and said:

"I beg your pardon. You have been so kind to me; it is due I should comply; but not now; to-morrow; I must have time to consider and compose my mind. To-morrow, please G.o.d, if I am living, I will tell you; and you will see that I have a severer wound than good Dr. B.

knows of--one he cannot use his skillful hand upon."

"Well, thank you--I would rather wait until to-morrow. I am anxious to get home early this afternoon."

On reaching his cot the next day, I saw Ashton was calm, but very pale. I said:

"Do not exert yourself this morning. I can wait."

"No; sit nearer and I will tell you all."

I give it to you, dear reader, as he gave it to me:

"I told you I was by birth a Mississippian. My mother was from Boston, the daughter of a wealthy merchant, who, failing in his business, soon fell in ill health and died, leaving his wife and two daughters almost entirely dest.i.tute. Mother, the youngest, was always very fragile, and, having been reared in luxury, was poorly calculated for a life of trial and poverty. However, she was urged by a wealthy Southern planter to return with him to his home, and take the position of governess to his little daughters, her friends all approving of this offer, knowing that a Southern climate would improve her health; so she became the inmate of Colonel Ashton's family, and soon was beloved by the father and mother, as well as her pupils. I have heard that neither the colonel nor his wife could bear her out of their sight. She had been with them nearly a year, when the young son and heir, Edgar Ashton, returned from his college. He soon followed the rest, and was deeply in love with the governess. My mother was very beautiful, possessing so much gentleness, with such a merry disposition, that I have heard them say that grandfather used to call her his Suns.h.i.+ne. The negroes said that she had a charm to make all she looked upon love her. But when the son, their pride, declared his intention of making May Everett his wife, it was met with a decided objection by both parents. Impossible! marry a Northern teacher; he, the son of Colonel Ashton--the heir of Ashton manor! preposterous! My mother then prepared to bid adieu to them and return to her home, never for a moment listening to the repeated pet.i.tions of her lover to marry him. She would not go into a family where she was not welcome.

Her high-toned principles won for her additional love and respect. And when the hour of parting came, the old colonel opened his arms, and drew her to his heart, and exclaimed:

"'Wife, we cannot give her up. Welcome your daughter.'

"My mother, however, went home; but with the understanding that she would return in a few weeks--as the wife of their son.

"In two months she was again with them; and never a happier household! In the second year of their marriage I was sent to them. My grandparents made almost an idol of me, and from grandfather I used to hear of his father's adventures in the Revolution. He inspired me with a devotion to his country which was fostered by my mother. When I was sixteen, my father was thrown from his horse and brought home to us insensible, and lived with us but a few hours. My mother's health, naturally very delicate, sank under this great affliction. She lived only a year afterward, and I was left to comfort my grandparents, now quite advanced in years. They would not hear of my going away again to school, and engaged a private tutor--a young gentleman, a graduate of Yale. I had been under Mr. Huntington's instructions four years when the country began to be convulsed with the whispers of secession--one State after another pa.s.sing that miserable ordinance--my grandfather said:

"'Paul, my boy, if Mississippi goes out, I shall go, too--not only out of the Union, but out of this world of sorrow and trouble. I cannot live. I have felt my tie to earth loosening very fast since your grandmother left me, and I feel I cannot live any longer if my State shall be cla.s.sed with traitors.'

"I have failed to tell you grandmother died in my eighteenth year. Mr.

Huntington, feeling sure of what was coming, left us for his home in Medford, never for one moment expressing to us any views on the subject now engrossing all minds; and, when parting with him, I whispered, 'If it comes, I am for my country! Look for me North within a few weeks.' It did come, as you know; and when one of my aunts--now both married--ran laughingly in, with a blue c.o.c.kade pinned on her shoulders, exclaiming:

"'Father, we are out!'

"She stopped in horror, and looked upon the calm, cold face. But the spirit had fled. We know not if he had heard or not, but I trust he had pa.s.sed to perfect peace before his heart had been so sorely tried.

Next to our plantation was the estate of one of the oldest, wealthiest, and proudest families of the State. The daughter and I had grown up together, and I loved her more than all and everything else on earth. Her brother and I were very intimate--both having no brother, we were everything to each other. He had mounted the Palmetto badge, and was all for war. My mind was no longer wavering, since my grandfather's death. I was going up North, and, after a short visit to my mother's sister--the wife of a very influential and patriotic man in Boston--I would offer myself to my government. Now, you will know my sorrow.

"I had expected to meet opposition, entreaties, reproaches, and everything of that sort. So, preparing myself as well as I could, I rode over to bid my idol good-by.

"I met Harry first, and telling him I was going North, to leave fortune, friends and everything for my country.

"'What, Paul, desert your State in her hour of need? Never! You, a Southern man? Your interests, your honor, are with us.'

"Much pa.s.sed between us; when he, laughingly, said:

"'Go in and see sister; she will talk you out of this whim.'

"I cannot tell you how she first coaxed, then argued, then chided me with not loving her, and then came--oh, such contempt! You have no idea of the trial to me. She talked as only a Southern girl talks--so proud, so unyielding. And when I said:

"'Let us part at least friends. Say G.o.d bless me, for the sake of the past!'

"'No,' she said, 'no friend. With a traitor to his State, or a coward--no, I will never say G.o.d bless you! and never do you take my name on your lips from this day. I would die of shame to have it known that I was ever loved by an Arnold! Go! leave me; and if you raise your arm against the South, I hope you may not live to feel the shame which will follow you.'

"I met Harry again on the lawn, and he exclaimed:

"'Good-by, Paul. Give us your hand. You are honest, and will sacrifice everything, I see; but you are all wrong. G.o.d bless you!

"And he threw his arms round me, and so I left them.

"I cannot tell you how I suffered. It seems as if I have lived a century since then. Did I not know the unbounded pride of a Southern girl, I should doubt her ever loving me. I have never mentioned her name since that day, and never shall. Now, my friend, you see I have little to live for. Soon after my arrival in Boston the Sixteenth was forming. I enlisted, to the horror of my aunt, as a private. My friend would have procured me a commission, but I preferred to go in the ranks and work my way up if I lived, and here is my commission, received after you left yesterday. I brought my colonel off the field, and was wounded when I went to get him. It is a first lieutenant's; but I fear I shall never wear my straps."

"Yes, you will. You are getting better slowly, but surely; and, my friend, you must cheer up--believe 'He doeth all things well'--have faith--live for your country. I feel that all will be well with you yet. 'Hope on, hope ever.'"

I went and saw Dr. B.; told him it was as I had thought.

I gave him an idea of the trouble and left.

I had become so much interested in Ashton that I had almost ceased my visits to the other hospitals, except an occasional one to the "Armory Square," where I had a few friends. I thought I would go over and make a visit there this afternoon.

I went into ward C, and, after seeing how well my boys were getting on, I inquired after the lady nurse, Mrs. A., a widow lady, to whom I had become much attached for her devotion to the soldiers.

"She has gone home to recruit her health; has been away ten days; she left the day after you were here last," replied one of the boys. "But we have, just think, in her place a lady from the South--Miss or Mrs., indeed I do not know which, for I have never heard her spoken of other than Emma Mason. But here she comes."

I had time to look at her for several moments before she came to the patient I was sitting by. She might be seventeen or twenty-seven, I could not tell. She was dressed in the deepest black--her hair drawn tightly back from her face, and almost entirely covered by a black net. Her complexion was a clear olive, but so very pale. Every feature was very beautiful, but her greatest attraction was her large, dark blue eyes, shaded by long black lashes. She came up smiling sweetly on the wounded boy, and said:

"You are looking quite bright, Willie; you have a friend, I see, with you."

I was then introduced to Emma Mason. When she smiled she looked very young. I thought her as beautiful a girl as I had ever seen; but in a few seconds the smile pa.s.sed off, and there came a look of sorrow--a yearning, eager gaze--which made her look very much older. I went round with her to visit the different patients, telling her of my great interest in the soldiers, and trying to win her confidence. I was very anxious to know something of her history, but I could gain nothing; and, giving it up in despair, I bade her good-evening, and was leaving the ward when she called me and said:

"Will you be kind enough to notice among the soldiers you may meet from Boston, and if you find this name let me know immediately?"

I took the card and read, "Paul Ashton, 16th Ma.s.s. Vol." I started, and was about telling her where he was, when I was stopped by seeing the deathly pallor of her face.

She said, scarcely above a whisper:

"Is he living?"

I said I was only about to tell her I felt sure I could hear of him, as I knew many of that regiment. I felt that I must not tell her then.

I must find out more of her first.

She looked disappointed, and said:

"I heard that regiment was in the last battle. Have you seen any since that time? I am deeply interested in that soldier; he was my only brother's most intimate friend."

I told her I should go the next day, probably, to the "Douglas," and if I had any tidings I would let her know. And so I left her, anxious to be alone, to think over and plan about this new development in Ashton's history. Who was she? Could she be his lost love? Impossible!

This nurse in a Union hospital! No, never! She must be down in her Southern home. What should I do? Go tell Ashton? No, that would not do yet. So I worried about it, and at last I decided I would sleep on it, and my mind would be clearer for action in the morning.

I could not divert my mind from the idea that it must be the girl whose name I had never heard.