“Amen,” said Carolyn.
“Amen,” whispered Zaphorah.
Again it was silent for ten minutes.
“Bring this dreadful war to an end, Lord,” prayed Richmond. “Heal our nation. May the blood that has been shed not be spilled in vain. And protect our nation’s sons.”
“Amen,” said Carolyn and John Borton at once.
Another twenty minutes of silent communion and prayer went by. John Borton’s prayer now broke the silence.
“Oh, Lord,” he prayed in a soft voice, “we thank thee for the precious heritage of our faith, that of our Society of Friends and of all the diverse expressions of Christianity upon which this country was founded. In these days when so many are drifting away from thee, the true Light of truth, and are losing sight of our founding principles, renew and restore the roots that made our ancestors strong in thee. Bring all thy wandering children back to their anchor in thee.”
For another thirty minutes they sat communing silently with God. By then it was late.
At last Pemberton rose. With a smile he extended his hand to Richmond, who stood and shook it. He did the same to Carolyn. Still without speaking, he turned and took his leave. Next his brother also rose and with a nod and a smile and the hand of fellowship, also bade them good night.
At last Aaron, Zaphorah, Carolyn, and Richmond were left together.
“We are going to miss the two of you,” said Richmond.
At his words, Carolyn burst into tears and took Zaphorah in her arms. Richmond and Aaron shook hands, gazing long and earnestly each into the other’s face.
At last the four departed for the night.
Richmond was up at daybreak walking the following morning. His spirit was quiet and peaceful and he drank in the beauty and peacefulness of the morning.
As he completed a long final walk through the Borton and Woolman woods and was making his way back to the home of their hosts, he saw Carolyn and Zaphorah together walking toward him.
They approached and stopped.
“Well, my dear,” said Richmond, “are we about ready?”
“It is a sad farewell,” replied Carolyn, “but we have promised one another that this is but the beginning of a long friendship.”
“Aaron is hitching the buggy now,” said Zaphorah. “We will both ride into Burlington with you and see you off at the station.”
Forty-Two
As Cherity Waters stepped off the train onto the station platform in Boston, many thoughts and emotions from the past crowded in upon her, memories of her childhood, of her youthful dreams of the West… and of her dear father.
Her mood quieted all the more as she rode in the buggy of a single horse-drawn cab to the familiar house where she had spent the early years of her life. The cab driver drew up in front and reined in.
“Here you are, miss,” he said.
“Thank you,” said Cherity. “I will just be a few minutes. I want to have a look around, then I need to go into the city. Would you mind waiting?”
“Certainly, miss.”
The man helped Cherity to the ground. Slowly she opened the gate and walked up the short path to the two-story white house. Everything looked exactly as she remembered it. Yet somehow the house seemed smaller. Surely she had not grown that much. She doubted she had grown at all since she had last been here!
She drew in a deep breath, took from her handbag the key she still had, and walked up the steps to the front door. She inserted it into the lock, opened the door, then tentatively walked inside.
A thousand sensations rushed upon her at once… long forgotten smells… reminders of her father… even the sound of her own laughter as a child. Slowly she made her way about, looking at all the furniture and rugs and paintings and vases and chairs. The house was cold, yet everything was remarkably well preserved, just as she remembered it… though the life of the place was gone. She felt no sense of her father’s presence, only happy but now melancholy memories of her years with him—so fleeting they seemed now that they were gone.
Tears slowly filled her eyes and she did not discourage them. It felt good to cry, though the tears only increased the heartache of remembering the man she had loved as a girl and whose memory grew daily all the more dear to her as a young woman.
She wandered through each of the upstairs rooms one by one, reliving memories and crying afresh in each, pausing to linger over the bed where she had exchanged her final holy moments with her father before his passing into the life beyond.
With thoughts of her father came into her heart many reminders also of Seth, for it was here that she had first learned that he loved her. Such memories also brought pain. It had been a long time since she had heard from him. She had no way of knowing when she would see him again. She could not help worrying. Young men were dying every day, not all of them soldiers.
From her own former room she gazed down upon the garden at the back of the house. It was a little overgrown and unkempt, though, like the house, in tolerable condition. Such a place of wonder it had been when she was a girl. She always thought it so huge. She could hardly believe how small it really was now to her grown-up eyes.
She turned from the window and continued to wander slowly about the house. Gradually the reason for her coming here began to coalesce into the single specific question: Could she sell this house that was so deeply a part of who she was?
In its wake came the series of related questions she must answer first: Did she want to sell it? Was she supposed to sell it? And perhaps most important of all, would she ever live here again?
Being reminded of Seth could not help but turn her thoughts toward the future. She had her dreams. How could she not? But even if the war somehow changed Seth, and changed his feelings for her, she could not envision coming back to live in Boston. Now that she had had a taste of country life, she knew she would never again live in the city, any city. She needed space around her, space to walk and ride and explore… space to think.
But it had not been thoughts of living here again that had brought her north, but her dear friends’ need. Their need now was greater than whatever her future might hold.
Cherity drew in a deep breath, glanced about one more time, then walked toward the stairs and back down to the front door.
She was ready to do what she had come here to do.
Cherity sat in Mr. Glennie’s office in a chair opposite the lawyer’s desk. Her father’s attorney had been going over her share of her father’s bank accounts and investments, which amounted to some twenty-four hundred dollars.
“In your letter, Miss Waters,” said Glennie, “you asked about selling the house. I realize of course that I was the one who broached the subject in my letter of some months ago. However, I would be remiss in my responsibility were I not to point out the advantages to one such as yourself in maintaining high-quality real property as an integral component of any investment portfolio.”
“To tell you the truth, Mr. Glennie, I am not really interested in an investment portfolio,” said Cherity. “I need a sizeable amount of money as soon as possible. It seems that selling the house is the easiest and best way to get it.”
“But think of your future, Miss Waters. Your father left you enough assets to—”
“I realize that there is probably enough for me to live comfortably for many years, Mr. Glennie,” interrupted Cherity. “I am grateful to him, and also to you for your faithfulness in seeing to his wishes and looking out for mine. I know this may be difficult for you to understand, and I know I am young in your eyes, but I am reasonably sure I know what I am doing. Right now my own future is not so much on my mind as is that of the people I am living with. I owe them my life, Mr. Glennie. They took me in after Father died and I cannot stand by and watch them lose what they have worked for their whole lives. Now… what is your estimate of the worth of my father’s house?”
“I am not a real property broker in any official capacity, of course,” replied Glennie, “but I would es
timate it to be in the neighborhood of eight or nine, possibly nine and a half thousand dollars. It is in rather an exclusive Boston neighborhood. I would think it should command a very attractive price.”
“And how long would you anticipate it requiring to sell?”
“That is hard to say, Miss Waters. Anywhere from a month… up to, well… up to however long it takes to find the right buyer. The more quickly you want to sell, of course, the lower might be the price you will have to take. But are you absolutely certain that you—?”
“Yes, Mr. Glennie, I am certain.”
Cherity left the lawyer’s office an hour later. All the necessary papers had been signed to place the house on the market and to fully authorize Mr. Glennie to act as Cherity’s agent in all matters concerning a potential sale. The attorney remained somewhat reluctant, requesting that Cherity return prior to her departure to confirm that, indeed, after another day or two, she was still in earnest about parting with it. Cherity agreed. She intended to spend the rest of the day, and whatever additional time was necessary, going through everything to determine what to have sent either to Greenwood or to her sisters Anne and Mary, and what to let be sold along with the house.
It was with the relieved sense of having an important decision behind her, yet with a return of the inevitable sadness that could not help but accompany such a difficult decision, that she walked out to the street and began looking for a cab to take her back home.
She drew in a deep breath of resolve. She felt good about her decision. Yet she knew that the hardest part of the process lay ahead—going through the house and saying her final good-byes to all that represented her past. It wouldn’t be easy. But it had to be done and she would not shrink from it.
Cherity did not return to the house immediately. She needed to let her decision settle before undertaking the necessary but difficult job ahead.
She spent the next several hours reacquainting herself with Boston, having lunch near the harbor, and taking a ride out to see her mother’s former church which had been so deeply a part—even though it had turned her away from God for a time—of her own spiritual development.
She sent telegrams to Mary and Anne telling them of her arrangements with Mr. Glennie, asking what they might want from the house. She had discussed her plans at length with Mary on her way north and had at the time notified Anne concerning her intentions. Cherity then returned to Constitution Hill.
The rest of the afternoon and evening passed leisurely, full of nostalgic melancholy. Cherity slowly made her way through the house, designating for shipment whatever items of furniture or other of her father’s belongings she thought the Davidsons would be able to use, boxing up small personal items from drawers and cabinets, as well as what clothes she had left behind, in the empty trunks and cases from the storage room. Her father’s clothes, which she hadn’t had the heart to go through after his death, she also boxed up for shipment to Greenwood. Somebody would be able to use them, perhaps one of the blacks on their way north. A smile crossed her lips at the thought. Her father would surely approve of such a use of the garments that had once housed his earthly frame.
She went out again for a light supper, then returned and went to bed. The night passed more quickly than she had anticipated. She slept soundly and awoke at first light.
With the new day, rather than doubts, came a strengthening of Cherity’s resolve. She resumed her tasks with yet greater vigor. Telegrams arrived midway through the morning from each of her sisters, Mary again endorsing her decision and Anne offering similar encouragement though adding a few specific requests. Both her sisters were considerably older than she and had been married for years. Neither could think of much remaining in Boston they needed or would want.
Cherity went again to see Mr. Glennie, gave him final instructions regarding disposition of the contents of the house, then visited a shipping agent to arrange for the furniture and trunks that were to be sent to Greenwood, along with one box and a small chest of drawers for Anne. By late afternoon she began to breathe easily, feeling that most of what she had come to do was at last behind her.
She would leave for New York by train the following morning, and after a day or two with Mary return again to Greenwood.
One more errand remained. She wanted to visit Mr. McClarin at the Herald and give him her regards and thank him again for his kindness to her father and to her in the days following his death.
The afternoon sun was waning and most of the newspaper’s work of the day put to bed when Cherity stepped down from the cab that had brought her again into the middle of the city, and began walking toward the building where her father had worked for so many years.
Her thoughts were filled with the man who had given her life. Memories flooded her of the thousands of stories he had worked on and articles he had written. She had taken so much for granted when she was young. But now she realized what a wonderful profession it was to which her father had dedicated his life—a truly noble calling. She realized further how proud she was of the seriousness and integrity with which he had been faithful to that dedication.
It was not difficult for her thoughts to turn to Seth. He was never far from her in her heart and mind. And now, because of her father, he too was what her father had always so proudly called himself—a newspaperman. He actually worked for the same paper.
The reminder that her father had arranged for Seth’s first job here filled her with a happy feeling.
Forty-Three
Seth and Veronica arrived in Boston in late afternoon.
They immediately set out to see Seth’s editor, stopping briefly by the exhibit of Seth’s photographs on the way, then walking the final two blocks on foot.
As they made their way toward the offices of the Boston Herald, Veronica held the envelope Cecil had given her. Seth could tell she was nervous.
As Cherity approached the offices of the Boston Herald, her thoughts dwelt on Seth as much as they did her father. Where was Seth now? she wondered. Was he safe? Was he lonely, cold… did he have to sleep outside on the ground with the soldiers? How close to the actual fighting did he—?
Suddenly Cherity froze in her tracks.
Was she dreaming? This was too wonderful to imagine!
She could hardly believe her eyes, but… was that actually Seth across the street?
Yes!
Seth… how could it be?… What was he possibly doing here? But why not? He worked for the Herald. Of course!
He was coming toward her!
Her heart pounding and a great smile on her face, Cherity broke into a run and began to cross the street. She opened her mouth to call his name—
Suddenly her steps slowed and she stopped dead in her tracks.
Half a block from the building, Veronica paused.
“Oh, Seth,” said Veronica, “I’m sorry… I can’t help it—I’m afraid.”
“I know you’re nervous,” said Seth. “But I promise, there’s nothing to worry about—Mr. McClarin is completely trustworthy. He won’t do anything you are uncomfortable with.”
“I know… but I can’t help it. I feel so foolish for letting myself get duped like this. I should have known better.”
Seth paused, smiled tenderly, and put a hand on Veronica’s shoulder.
“We all do things we look back on and are ashamed of,” he said. “I was ashamed of myself several years ago for not being more honest with you.”
Cherity gasped and her face went ashen. Who was that young woman with Seth? She felt herself going faint. She could not believe her eyes! She would know that face anywhere.
Veronica!
Standing like a statue, her eyes wide, her mouth gaping open, Cherity watched in horror as Seth gazed into Veronica’s eyes. They stood a moment together on the walkway. His hand went to her shoulder. Veronica smiled, then put her arms around him and hugged him. Seth returned the embrace.
“What happened between us back then—that was my fault, Seth… not yours,” sai
d Veronica as she stepped back.
“Maybe we were both to blame,” rejoined Seth. “We were young and that probably explains most of it. But the point is that I am embarrassed when I think of it, but that is part of growing up. Now you’ve done something you feel foolish about. But we are going to turn it into something you can be proud of in the end.”
Veronica smiled and nodded appreciatively.
“I’ll try to believe that,” she said. “All I can do is trust that what you say is true. Thank you, Seth. You’ve been such a good friend—it’s more than I deserve.”
She gave him another quick hug, then drew in a deep breath.
“Then let’s go see your editor,” Veronica added, “before I change my mind.”
In stunned shock, her eyes stinging with hot tears of confusion and anguish, Cherity spun around and fled. She ran and ran, heedless of direction, having no idea where she was going, only knowing that she had to get as far away as possible.
Seth and Veronica walked into Mr. McClarin’s office. Seth introduced his editor to his childhood neighbor and friend, and the daughter of one of the Confederacy’s outspoken senators.
“Well, Mrs. Fitzpatrick,” said McClarin, “Seth has told me about your predicament. We’ll see what we can do both to get you out of it as well as put a stop to this flow of information. Is that envelope you’re holding what you’ve been given to take to your Confederate contact?”
Veronica nodded.
“Why don’t you let me take a look at it?”
With one last glance of hesitation in Seth’s direction, Veronica handed the editor the envelope.
“Don’t worry,” said McClarin. “When you take this to your contact, it will look exactly the same. He will never know we have substituted different documents for the real ones.”
McClarin hesitated a moment.
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