'Bobbie', a Story of the Confederacy by Kate Langley Bosher - HTML preview

CHAPTER XI.

The days that followed were very dreary ones. Little by little the resources gave out, and actual, positive hunger began to be felt on every side. “White Point” reflected the life of the county; and while much of the real condition of things was kept from Mrs. Tayloe, lest her sorrowing heart could not bear the strain upon it, yet even she knew how necessary it was to count every mouthful eaten. Anne and Dorothy kept up the spirits of the people until in August, when the terrible sorrow came, and Dorothy sat like one stunned and crushed by its force. They brought his body home; and not until she knelt over it and saw the almost rapturous smile upon his face did she realize that to grieve would be selfish indeed; that he was at last “at home”—at last “with her!” The shock of her father’s death for a while broke almost her brave spirit. It was a glorious death, Bobbie wrote her. It grieved him beyond words of telling that he could not be with her in her sorrow, but more than ever was he needed, and not for even one single day could he get leave.

After they buried him, right next to her mother, the old routine of life became almost unendurable. She could not leave “White Point,” her duty kept her there, and yet how she longed for work—hard, continuous, ceaseless work—that she might not think. Anne’s cheerful, buoyant nature was a helpful tonic, and Dorothy struggled hard to be brave. Always Anne had something funny to tell of that “good-looking Lieutenant,” with whose movements, in some mysterious way, she seemed to keep well posted; and she made Dorothy take hold of life again, and in doing for others, her own pain became a little dulled.

The weeks dragged into months, and still Bobbie had never gotten back. Way off in a distant part of the country he had been in active service, and his name had become a familiar one in the army, and they loved him there as they had loved him in his home as a boy, and over the camp-fires at night many a tale was told of his daring and skill as a soldier, and his gentle touch as a nurse when the day was done.

Ten days had gone by and no sign or word had Dorothy received, and Christmas-eve had come again. To no one had she ever spoken of the vow made down in Sallie Tom’s cabin a year ago, but all through the dreary days she had cherished it in her heart. Anne Carter was to spend the holidays at “White Point,” and in obedience to her, and with the secret hope that he would yet come, she had helped with the old-time decorations of Christmas green. Her sorrow must not make the others sad, she thought, and with brave unselfishness she tried hard to forget herself in them. For the first time since the Christmas a year ago, when they had all been home, she made Uncle Lias make a big fire in the library. The dining-room was also bright with a cherry glow, and she walked from first one window to the other watching the scene outside. The snow lay cold and deep and white, but the night was beautifully clear. The moon was shining almost magically upon the frozen earth, touching the trees with mystic splendor in their crystal decorations, and all the air was still, so still that the faintest echo could be heard.

“‘I never scorn an honest man,’ she answered.”

The time dragged on and still no sign came, or was given by Dorothy of what was so intensely filling her heart. Mrs. Tayloe sat in her accustomed place by the fire, but the weary hands failed to knit so rapidly as of old, and the sad, strained look upon her face told better than words of that of which she could not speak.

Anne worked hard to keep up the spirit of the season, and when to their intense surprise they heard the sound of bells outside and saw the Rev. Dr. Miles and family drive up, all felt a great relief. “I’ve come to bring good luck to you,” he said, shaking hands with Dorothy in his understanding, sympathetic way. “There’s no telling when these boys will turn up,” he added, trying to speak cheerfully, “so I thought I would come over and be on hand in case I was needed,” and the dear old parson patted her hands tenderly and softly. Everybody tried to be pleasant and look natural and easy, but it was a dismal failure, and when the clock struck ten Dorothy could stand it no longer. She slipped out on the long veranda at the back of the house, and leaned wearily upon one of its tall, straight columns. Down-stairs in the servants’ room Uncle Lias was playing softly on his old violin. The last notes of the “Suwannee River” died away upon the air, and then he began, low and soft and sad, the old, sweet song that almost broke her heart, “Home, Home, Home, Sweet Home,” quivered out upon the still frosty air, and such a longing for the old life that was gone, such a craving for the one she loved so well, came over her that she slipped down in the snow, and leaning against the railing buried her face in her hands, and prayed Him who alone could understand, to give back her home to her—for Bobbie was her home, her life, her all. She felt something fall and touch her dress, and looked up hastily; no sound broke the air—only that longing cry, “Home, Home, Home, Sweet Home,” yet she strained her eyes in the darkness; surely that was a shadow moving under the trees—a little bullet fell at her feet—she jumped up hurriedly and in a flash she knew. Down through the snow she fled, and out upon the air sounded softer and fainter: “Be it ever so humble, there’s no place like home.” She reached the tree and staggered, and Bobbie caught her—caught her and held her close. “I swore I’d come if alive,” he said, brokenly, “and I’m here, though at the last minute I came near missing it. Is it all right at the house?” He leaned against the tree through utter weakness, and Dorothy could only nod affirmatively to his question—the sudden joy had checked the power of speech. “I’ve brought some one with me I didn’t intend,” Bobbie went on. “We came near putting an end to each other, but stopped in time.” He nodded at a man standing back in the shadow, and the latter came forward and held his cap in his hand.

“I know it is very presumptuous,” he said, looking straight in Dorothy’s face, “but I was bound to see that ghost again, and I risked it.”

In sheer excess of happiness she held out her hands. “It’s the Lieutenant,” she cried; “don’t you know it’s the one who wanted you last year—Oh, Bobbie! Bobbie!”

There was a wedding after all—the queerest, strangest, happiest wedding old Rockland county ever had recorded in its books. Bobbie was faint and weak from lack of food and rest, and like some strange wonder that had come into their midst, they hovered over and waited on him while he told of how for forty-eight hours he had ridden night and day to reach there in time. “Father is on the way,” he went on, while Sallie Tom held out “jis a little drap of suppin warm for him.” “I left him down by the old mill. He and Peter Black stopped for a few minutes to attend to something. It was after I left father that I met this gentleman,” and he nodded toward the Lieutenant, “and it’s lucky we’re both not out on the road. Both fired and missed, and something made me ask where he was going and who he was (Bobbie’s voice got a little husky), and I thought I’d better not fire again. And now when father comes you will marry me, Dorothy?” He asked the question before them all, looking steadfastly in her face, while he took the license out of his pocket and laid it on the table. “It came near being burnt up once,” he said, laughing. “It was a close call, but I told you this would save me,” and he held up the little Testament which was deeply dented in the middle. “The ball glanced off, and I wasn’t hurt. Now, mother, what are you crying for?”

When the big master came Sallie Tom got to work. The Rev. Dr. Miles couldn’t stay all night, but not until Christmas-Day would they be married. When the clock struck twelve the ceremony would take place, and poor Uncle Lias couldn’t make the fires quick enough in the big parlors, and Peter Black was called here and there, just as he had been a year ago.

“Bobbie must wear his uniform,” Dorothy said. She could marry him in nothing whose decorations would make her half so proud as would the torn and battered, the faded and worn old suit which told of honorable service. She whispered something to Bobbie, and the latter sprang to his feet. Anne and the Lieutenant were freezing away off in one of the big window seats, unconscious that they were cold, and evidently in a hot discussion. Bobbie walked over and saluted. “I believe you are to be Dorothy’s bridesmaid, Anne,” he said, looking at her provokingly and in a way she didn’t understand.

“Of course I am,” she answered, slipping off the seat, “and I’ve got to wear just what I have on. To my dying day it will be a mortification. It’s the only decent gown I’ve got, and all on account of this man and his friends,” and she turned with a merry laugh to the Lieutenant, now standing and slightly leaning against the window.

“I have come to ask him a favor,” answered Bobbie, turning toward him also. “Will you do me the honor to be my best man, Lieutenant Hardwicke?” and he held out his hand to the man in blue.

The other grasped it warmly. “Tell them who I am, for God’s sake, Bobbie. I am proud to be a ‘Yankee soldier,’ as she calls me, but tell them who else I am.” Anne had dropped into a chair, and Bobbie laughed at her look of blank astonishment.

“This is Dick Hardwicke, of Boston, Anne. He graduated two terms before I, and though he was older and we were not in the same classes, we were always good friends while at college.”

“And did you come to search for your college friend as you would for a thief?” she cried, her voice ringing with unutterable scorn, as she rose to her feet.

“Not a bit of it,” he answered, fearlessly. “In open fight we would have had to take the chances of this beastly war, but that the Robert F. Taylor, as our order read, was our Bobbie Tayloe, I no more suspected than you did my identity. Do you believe me?” She look at him a moment searchingly.

“Yes,” she answered, after a long pause. “I hate to do it—but I’m bound to.”

It was just after the clock struck the birth of another Christmas-Day that Bobbie led his bride into the beautiful parlors, and while they plighted their troth with only those around who knew and loved them most, Uncle Lias outside the door played softly on his old violin the sweet old Christmas carol of “Peace on Earth—Good Will to Men,” and after it was over the Blue and the Grey shook hands together, to the intense and unqualified disgust of loyal old Sallie Tom.