What Answer?
Page 17
CHAPTER XVII
"_Spirits are not finely touched But to fine issues._"
SHAKESPEARE
Surrey was to depart for his command on Monday night, and as there werevarious matters which demanded his attention in town ere leaving, hedrove Francesca to the city on the preceding Sunday,--a soft clearsummer evening, full of pleasant sights and sounds. They scarcely spokeas, hand in hand, they sat drinking in the scene whilst the old gray,for they wished no high-stepping prancers for this ride, jogged on theeven tenor of his way. Above them, the blue of the sky never beforeseemed so deep and tender, while in it floated fleecy clouds of delicateamber, rose, and gold, like gossamer robes of happy spirits invisible tohuman eyes. The leaves and grass just stirred in the breeze, making aslight, musical murmur, and across them fell long shadows cast by thewestering sun. A sentiment so sweet and pleasurable as to be tinged withpain, took possession of these young, susceptible souls, as theinfluences of the time closed about them. In our happiest moments, ourmoments of utmost exaltation, it is always thus:--when earth most nearlyapproaches the beatitudes of heaven, and the spirit stretches forwardwith a vain longing for the far off, which seems but a little waybeyond; the unattained and dim, which for a space come near.
"Darling!" said Surrey softly, "does it not seem easy now to die?"
"Yes, Willie," she whispered, "I feel as though it would be steppingover a very little stream to some new and beautiful shore."
Doubtless, when a pure and great soul is close to eternity, ministeringangels draw nigh to one soon to be of their number, and cast somethingof the peace and glory of their presence on the spirit yet held by itscerements of clay.
At last the ride and the evening had an end. The country and its deardelights were mere memories,--fresh, it is true, but memories still, andno longer realities,--in the luxurious rooms of their hotel.
Evidently Surrey had something to say, which he hesitated and feared toutter. Again and again, when Francesca was talking of his plans andpurposes, trusting and hoping that he might see no hard service, nor becalled upon for any exposing duty, "not yet awhile," she prayed, atleast,--again and again he made as if to speak, and then, ere she couldnotice the movement, shook his head with a gesture of silence, or--sheseeing it, and asking what it was he had to say--found ready utterancefor some other thought, and whispered to himself, "not yet; not quiteyet. Let her rest in peace a little space longer."
They sat talking far into the night, this last night that they couldspend together in so long a time,--how long, God, with whom are hid thesecrets of the future, could alone tell. They talked of what had passed,which was ended,--and of what was to come, which was not sure but fullof hope,--but of both with a feeling that quickened their heart-throbs,and brought happy tears to their eyes.
Twice or thrice a sound from some far distance, undecided, yet full of asolemn melody, came through the open window, borne to their ears on thestill air of night,--something so undefined as not consciously to arresttheir attention, yet still penetrating their nerves and affecting somefine, inner sense of feeling, for both shivered as though a chill windhad blown across them, and Surrey--half ashamed of the confession--said,"I don't know what possesses me, but I hear dead marches as plainly asthough I were following a soldier's funeral."
Francesca at that grew white, crept closer to his breast, and spread outher arms as if to defend him by that slight shield from some impendingdanger; then both laughed at these foolish and superstitious fancies,and went on with their cheerful and tender talk.
Whatever the sound was, it grew plainer and came nearer; and, pausing tolisten, they discovered it was a mighty swell of human voices and themarching of many feet.
"A regiment going through," said they, and ran to the window to see ifit passed their way, looking for it up the long street, which lay solemnand still in the moonlight. On either side the palace-like houses stoodstately and dark, like giant sentinels guarding the magnificent avenue,from whence was banished every sight and sound of the busy life of day;not a noise, not a footfall, not a solitary soul abroad, not a wave nora vestige of the great restless sea of humanity which a little spacebefore surged through it, and which, in a little while to come, wouldrise and swell to its full, and then ebb, and fall, and drop away oncemore into silence and nothingness.
Through this white stillness there came marching a regiment of men,without fife or drum, moving to the music of a refrain which lifted andfell on the quiet air. It was the Battle Hymn of the Republic,--and thetwo listeners presently distinguished the words,--
"In the beauty of the lilies Christ was born across the sea, With a glory in his bosom that transfigures you and me; As he died to make men holy, let us die to make men free, While God is marching on."
The effect of this; the thousand voices which sang; the marching oftwice one thousand feet; the majesty of the words; the deserted street;the clear moonlight streaming over the men, reflected from theirgleaming bayonets, brightening the faded blue of their uniforms,illumining their faces which, one and all, seemed to wear--and probably_did_ wear--a look more solemn and earnest than that of common life andfeeling,--the combined effect of it all was something indescribablyimpressive:--inspiring, yet solemn.
They stood watching and listening till the pageant had vanished, andthen turned back into their room, Francesca taking up the refrain andsinging the line,
"As he died to make men holy, let us die to make men free, While God is marching on."
Surrey's face brightened at the rapt expression of hers. "Sing it again,dearie!" he said. She sang it again. "Do you mean it?" he asked then."Can you sing it, and mean it with all your heart, for me?"
She looked at him with an expression of anxiety and pain. "What are youasking, Willie?"
He sat down; taking her upon his knee, and with the old fond gesture,holding her head to his heart,--"I should have told you before, dearie,but I did not wish to throw any shadow on the happy days we have beenspending together; they were few and brief enough without marring them;and I was certain of the effect it would have upon you, by yourincessant anxiety for Robert."
She drew a long, gasping sigh, and started away from his hold: "OWillie, you are not going to--"
His arm drew her back to her resting-place. "I do not return to mycommand, darling. I am to raise a black brigade."
"Freedmen?"
"Yes, dearie."
"O Willie,--and that act just passed!"
"It is true; yet, after all, it is but one risk more."
"One? O Willie, it is a thousand. You had that many chances of escapewhere you were; you might be wounded and captured a score of times, andcome home safe at last; but this!"
"I know."
"To go into every battle with the sentence of death hanging over you; toknow that if you are anywhere captured, anyhow made prisoner, you arecondemned to die,--O Willie, I can't bear it; I can't bear it! I shalldie, or go mad, to carry such a thought all the time."
For answer he only held her close, with his face resting upon her hair,and in the stillness they could hear each other's heart beat.
"It is God's service," he said, at last.
"I know."
"It will end slavery and the war more effectually than aught else."
"I know."
"It will make these freedmen, wherever they fight, free men. It willgive them and their people a sense of dignity and power that mightotherwise take generations to secure."
"I know."
"And I. Both feeling and knowing this, who so fit to yield and to do forsuch a cause? If those who see do not advance, the blind will neverwalk."
Silence for a space again fell between them. Francesca moved in his arm.
"Dearie." She looked up. "I want to do no half service. I go into thisheart and soul, but I do not wish to go alone. It will be so much to meto know that you are quite willing, and bade me go. Think what it is."
She did. For an instant all sacrifices appeared easy, all burdens light.Sh
e could send him out to death unfaltering. One of those sublime moodsin which martyrdom seems glorious filled and possessed her. She tookaway her clinging arms from his neck, and said, "Go,--whether it be forlife or for death; whether you come back to me or go up to God; I amwilling--glad--to yield you to such a cause."
It was finished. There was nothing more to be said. Both had climbed themount of sacrifice, and sat still with God.
After a while the cool gray dawn stole into their room. The night hadpassed in this communion, and another day come.
There were many "last things" which claimed Surrey's attention; and he,wishing to get through them early so as to have the afternoon andevening undisturbed with Francesca, plunged into a stinging bath torefresh him for the day, breakfasted, and was gone.
He attended to his business, came across many an old acquaintance andfriend, some of whom greeted him coldly; a few cut him dead; whilstothers put out their hands with cordial frankness, and one or twocongratulated him heartily upon his new condition and happiness. Theselast gave him fresh courage for the task which he had set himself. Iffriends regarded the matter thus, surely they--his father andmother--would relent, when he came to say what might be a final adieu.
He ran up the steps, rang the bell, and, speaking a pleasant word to theold servant, went directly to his mother's room. His father had not yetgone down town; thus he found them together. They started at seeing him,and his mother, forgetting for the instant all her pride, chagrin, andanger, had her arms about his neck, with the cry, "O Willie, Willie,"which came from the depths of her heart; then seeing her husband's face,and recovering herself, sat down cold and still.
It was a painful interview. He could not leave without seeing them oncemore; he longed for a loving good by; but after that first outburst healmost wished he had not forced the meeting. He did not speak of hiswife, nor did they; but a barrier as of adamant was raised between them,and he felt as though congealing in the breath of an iceberg. At lengthhe rose to go.
"Father!" he said then, "perhaps you will care to know that I do notreturn to my old command, but have been commissioned to raise a brigadefrom the freedmen."
Both father and mother knew the awful peril of this service, and bothcried, half in suffering, half in anger, "This is your wife's work!"while his father added, with a passionate exclamation, "It is right,quite right, that you should identify yourself with her people. Well, goyour way. You have made your bed; lie in it."
The blood flushed into Surrey's face. He opened his lips, and shut themagain. At last he said, "Father, will you never forego this cruelprejudice?"
"Never!" answered his mother, quickly. "Never!" repeated his father,with bitter emphasis. "It is a feeling that will never die out, andought never to die out, so long as any of the race remain in America.She belongs to it, that is enough."
Surrey urged no further; but with few words, constrained on theirpart,--though under its covering of pride the mother's heart wasbleeding for him,--sad and earnest on his, the farewell was spoken, andthey watched him out of the room. How and when would they see him again?
There was one other call upon his time. The day was wearing into theafternoon, but he would not neglect it. This was to see his old_protege_, Abram Franklin, in whom he had never lost interest, and forwhose welfare he had cared, though he had not seen him in more than twoyears. He knew that Abram was ill, had been so for a long time, andwished to see him and speak to him a few friendly and cheeringwords,--sure, from what the boy's own hand had written, that this wouldbe his last opportunity upon earth to so do.
Thus he went on from his father's stately palace up Fifth Avenue, turnedinto the quiet side street, and knocked at the little green door. Mrs.Franklin came to open it, her handsome face thinner and sadder than ofold. She caught Surrey's hand between both of hers with a delighted cry:"Is it you, Mr. Willie? How glad I am to see you! How glad Abram willbe! How good of you to come!" And, holding his hand as she used when hewas a boy, she led him up stairs to the sick-room. This room was evencosier than the two below; its curtains and paper cheerfuller; itsfurniture of quainter and more hospitable aspect; its windows letting inmore light and air; everything clean and homely, and pleasant for weary,suffering eyes to look upon.
Abram was propped up in bed, his dark, intelligent face worn to ashadow, fiery spots breaking through the tawny hue upon cheeks and lips,his eyes bright with fever. Surrey saw, as he came and sat beside him,that for him earthly sorrow and toil were almost ended.
He had brought some fruit and flowers, and a little book. This lastAbram, having thanked him eagerly for all, stretched out his hand toexamine.
"You see, Mr. Willie, I have not gotten over my old love," he said, ashis fingers closed upon it. "Whittier? 'In War-Time'? That is fine. Ican read about it, if I can't do anything in it," and he lay for a whilequietly turning over the pages. Mrs. Franklin had gone out to do anerrand, and the two were alone.
"Do you know, Mr. Willie," said Abram, putting his finger upon thetitles of two successive poems, "The Waiting," and "The Summons," "I hadhard work to submit to this sickness a few months ago? I fought againstit strong; do you know why?"
"Not your special reason. What was it?"
"I had waited so long, you see,--I, and my people,--for a chance. Itmade me quite wild to watch this big fight go on, and know that it wasall about us, and not be allowed to participate; and at last when thechance came, and the summons, and the way was opened, I couldn't answer,nor go. It's not the dying I care for; I'd be willing to die the firstbattle I was in; but I want to do something for the cause before deathcomes."
The book was lying open where it had fallen from his hand, and Surrey,glancing down at the very poem of which he spoke, said gently, "Here isyour answer, Franklin, better than any I can make; it ought to comfortyou; listen, it is God's truth!
'O power to do! O baffled will! O prayer and action! ye are one; Who may not strive may yet fulfil The harder task of standing still, And good but wished with God is done!'"
"It is so," said Abram. "You act and I pray, and you act for me andmine. I'd like to be under you when you get the troops you were tellingme about; but--God knows best."
Surrey sat gazing earnestly into space, crowded by emotions called up bythese last words, whilst Abram lay watching him with admiring and lovingeyes. "For me and mine," he repeated softly, his look fastening on theblue sleeve, which hung, limp and empty, near his hand. This he put outcautiously, but drew it back at some slight movement from his companion;then, seeing that he was still absorbed, advanced it, once more, andslowly, timidly, gently, lifted it to his mouth, pressing his lips uponit as upon a shrine. "For me and mine!" he whispered,--"for me andmine!" tears dimming the pathetic, dying eyes.
The peaceful quiet was broken by a tempest of awful sound,--groans andshrieks and yells mingled in horrible discord, blended with thetrampling of many feet,--noises which seemed to their startled andexcited fancies like those of hell itself. The next moment a door wasflung open; and Mrs. Franklin, bruised, lame, her garments torn, bloodflowing from a cut on her head, staggered into the room. "O Lord! O LordJesus!" she cried, "the day of wrath has come!" and fell, shuddering andcrying, on the floor.