They waited for Hallam until Dr. West decided to wait no longer, saying that he was either stuck in the mud somewhere or had been detailed for duty unexpectedly.
So Ailsa lighted the Christmas candles, and the two young women in their fresh gray garbs, and the two civilian doctors in clean clothes, sat down before a rather thin roasted turkey. But the bird proved tender and juicy, and it was beautifully cooked; and a glass of wine sent the colour into Letty’s pale cheeks, and straightened Ailsa’s drooping neck.
Candles, laurel branches, evergreens, bits of red ribbon, and flags made the office very gay and attractive. Dr. West rose and delivered an unexpected speech, complimenting the ladies and praising their skill and devotion; then dinner began, and Dr. Hammond told about an intensely interesting operation, which made the negro waiter turn almost white.
“Christmas comes but once a year!” cried jolly Dr. Hammond, warming up. “Let’s be merry!” And he told about another operation even more wonderful than the first; and Letty, catching a glimpse of the negro’s wildly rolling eyes, threw back her head and laughed. It was the first genuine laughter of the evening, and rested everybody.
A few moments later there came a jingle of metal from outside, and Hallam walked in, his wonderfully handsome face aglow, and plenty of red mud frozen on his boots.
“I’ve a green orderly outside. Where can I stow him?” he asked, shaking hands and exchanging preliminary Christmas greetings all around.
“I’ll attend to him,” said Ailsa, flushed and a little shy as she felt the significant pressure of Hallam’s hand and saw him glance at her ring.
“No,” he insisted, “I’ll see to him myself, if you’ll tell me where he can put the horses and find some supper.”
“Poor fellow,” said Ailsa. “Tell him to stable the horses in the new barn, and go to the kitchen. Wait a moment, Captain Hallam, I’d rather do it myself!” And she turned lightly and ran out to the dark porch.
The trooper holding Hallam’s horse: sat his own saddle, wrapped to the eyes in his heavy overcoat, long lance with its drooping pennon slanting stiffly athwart the wintry wilderness of stars.
“Soldier!” she called gently from the porch. “Stable, blanket, and feed; then come back to the kitchen, and there will be a good hot dinner waiting.”
The cavalryman slowly turned his head at the sound of her voice.
And, as he made no movement to obey:
“There is the stable over there,” she said, pointing across the frozen field. “Follow that gate path. There’s a lantern in the barn.”
An orderly, passing, added:
“Come on, lancer. I’m going to the barn myself;” and very slowly the trooper turned both tired horses and walked them away into the darkness.
When she returned to the table there was considerable laughter over a story chat Hallam had been telling. He jumped up, seated Ailsa, hovered over her for a second with just a suspicion of proprietary air which made her blush uncomfortably. Talking had become general, but everybody noted it, and Letty’s eyes grew wide and velvety, and the blood was making her cheeks and lips very pink.
Dr. West said: “The new regiment on Pine Knob was recruited from the Bowery. I happened to be with Kemp, their surgeon, when sick call sounded, and I never saw such a line of impudent, ruffianly malingerers as filed before Kemp. One, I am convinced, had deliberately shot off his trigger finger; but it couldn’t be proven, and he’ll get his discharge. Another, a big, hulking brute, all jaw and no forehead, came up and looked insolently at Kemp.
“Kemp said: ‘Well, what’s the matter with you?’ “‘Aw,’ said the soldier, with a leer, ‘I’ve got de lapsy-palls, and I wanter go to de horspittle, I do.’
“I never saw such a mad man as Kemp was.
“‘So you’ve got the lapsy-palls, have you?’
“‘Bet yer boots, I have.’
“‘And you want to go to the hospital?’
“Aw — w’ats der matter wit youse, Doc.?’
“And Kemp gave him a bang on the eye with his fist, and another on the nose, and then began to hit him so quickly that the fellow reeled, about, yelling for mercy.
“‘Sure cure for the lapsy-palls,’ said Kemp; and, turning his glare on the rest of the shivering line: ‘Anybody else got ‘em?’ he asked briskly.
“At that a dozen big brutes sneaked out of the line and hurriedly decamped; and I don’t think that disease is going to be popular in that regiment.”
A shout of laughter greeted the story. All present had seen too many instances of malingering not to appreciate Surgeon Kemp’s cure for a disease which never existed.
A plum pudding was brought on and set afire. Ailsa poured the burning sauce over and over it. Dr. Hammond got up and threw some more pine logs on the fire. Huge shadows rose up and danced in the ruddy light, as the candles burned lower. Then Dr. West began another story, but was checked by the appearance of a hospital steward:
“Davis, Ward A, No. 3, is very bad, sir.”
“Going?”
“Yes, sir.”
The doctor bent above the table, took a hasty spoonful of pudding, nodded to the company, and went out.
“Speaking of malingerers,” began Hammond, “I saw the Colonel of the forty Thieves put down in a most amusing manner the day before Bull Run. Shall I tell it? It involves some swearing.”
Ailsa laughed. “Proceed, Dr. Hammond. Do you think Miss Lynden and I have been deaf since we arrived at the front?”
“Does anybody in this hospital use bad language?” demanded the doctor sharply.
“Not to us,” said Ailsa, smiling. “But there’s an army just outside the windows. Go on with your story, please.”
“Well, then,” said the jolly surgeon, “I was talking with Colonel Riley, when up walks the most honest-looking soldier I think I ever saw; and he gazed straight into the Colonel’s eyes as he saluted. He wanted a furlough, it appeared, to go to New York and see his dying wife.
“Riley said: ‘Is she very sick?’
“‘Yes, Colonel.’
“‘You have a letter: saying she is very sick?’
“‘Yes, Colonel.’
“‘Well, I also have a letter from your wife. I wanted to make certain about all the applications for furlough you have been making, so I wrote her.’
“‘Yes, Colonel.’
“‘And she says that she is perfectly well, and does not want you to come home!’
“The soldier smiled.
“‘Did you write a letter to my wife, Colonel?’
“‘I did.”
“‘Did my wife write to you?’
“‘She did. And what do you mean by coming here to me with a lie about your sick wife! Have you anything to say to that?’
“‘Yes, Colonel.’
“‘Then say it!’
“‘Well, Colonel, all I have to say is that there are two of the damnedest, biggest liars that ever lived, right here in this regiment!’
“‘What!’
“The soldier grinned.
“‘I’m not married at all,’ he said, ‘and I’m the biggest liar — and you can ask the boys who the damnedest liar is.’”
When the merriment and laughter had subsided, Hallam told another story rather successfully; then Hammond told another. Then Dr. West returned; the tiny Christmas tree, cut in the forest, and loaded with beribboned cakes and sticks of chocolate and a few presents tied in tissue-paper, was merrily despoiled.
Ailsa and Letty had worked slippers for the two doctors, greatly appreciated by them, apparently; Hallam had some embroidered handkerchiefs from Ailsa, and she received a chain and locket from him — and refrained from opening the locket, although everybody already had surmised that their engagement was a fact.
Letty sent an orderly for her guitar, and sang very sweetly an old-fashioned song:
”When the moonlight
Shines bright
Silvery bright on the sea.”
Ailsa sang “Ail
een Aroon,” and “Oft in the Stilly Night,” and everybody, later, sang “The Poor Old Soldier.”
The fire glowed red in the chimney; gigantic shadows wavered on wall and ceiling; and, through the Christmas candles dimly burning, the branches of the little evergreen spread, laden with cake and candy.
“They’re to have a tree in every ward to-morrow,” said Ailsa, turning toward Hallam. Her eyes smiled, but her voice was spiritless. A tinge of sadness had somehow settled over the festivity; Hammond was staring at the fire, chin in hand; West sipped his wine reflectively; Letty’s idle fingers touched her guitar at intervals, as her dark eyes rested on Ailsa and Hallam.
Hallam had found in camp a copy of a Southern newspaper; and,
thinking it might amuse the company to read it, produced it.
Ailsa, looking over his shoulder, noticed a poem called
“Christmas,” printed on the first page.
“Read it aloud,” he said, laughing. “Let’s hear what sort of
Christmas poetry the Johnnies produce.”
So, after smilingly scanning the first lines, she began, aloud; but her face had grown very grave, and her low voice thrilled them as she became conscious of the deeper sadness of the verse.
”How grace this Hallowed Day?
Shall happy bells from yonder ancient spire
Send their glad greetings to each Christmas fire
Round which our children play?
”How shall we grace the Day?
With feast and song and dance and homely sport,
And shout of happy children in the court,
And tales of ghost and fay?
”Is there indeed a door
Where the old pastimes with their joyful noise
And all the merry round of Christmas joys
Can enter as of yore?
”Would not some pallid face
Look in upon the banquet, calling up
Dread shapes of battle in the Christmas cup,
And trouble all the place?
”How can we hear the mirth
While some loved reveller of a year ago
Keeps his mute Christmas now beneath the snow,
In cold Virginia earth—”
Her voice suddenly broke; she laughed, slightly hysterical, the tears glittering in her eyes.
“I — c-can’t — read it, somehow. . . . Forgive me, everybody, I think I’m — tired — —”
“Nerves,” said West cheerily. “It’ll all come right in a moment,
Mrs. Paige. Go up and sit by Davis for a while. He’s going fast.”
Curious advice, yet good for her. And Ailsa rose and fled; but a moment later, seated at the side of the dying man, all thought of self vanished in the silent tragedy taking place before her.
“Davis?” she whispered.
The man opened his sunken eyes as the sleepy steward rose, gave his bedside chair to Ailsa, and replaced the ominous screen.
“I am here, Private Davis,” she said cheerily, winking away the last tear drop.
Then the man sighed deeply, rested his thin cheek against her hand, and lay very, very still.
At midnight he died as he lay. She scarcely realised it at first. And when at length she did, she disengaged her chilled hand, closed his eyes, drew the covering over his face, and, stepping from behind the screen, motioned to the steward on duty.
Descending the stairs, her pale, pensive glance rested on the locket flashing on its chain over the scarlet heart sewn on her breast. Somehow, at thought of Hallam waiting for her below, she halted on the stairway, one finger twisted in the gold chain. And presently the thought of Hallam reminded her of the trooper and the hot dinner she had promised the poor fellow. Had the cook been kind to him?
She hastened downstairs, passed the closed door of the improvised dining-room, traversed the hall to the porch, and, lifting the skirts of her gray garb, sped across the frozen yards to the kitchen.
The cook had gone; fire smouldered in the range; and a single candle guttered in its tin cup on the table.
Beside it, seated on a stool, elbows planted on both knees, face buried in his spread fingers, sat the lancer, apparently asleep.
She cast a rapid glance at the table. The remains of the food satisfied her that he had had his hot dinner. Once more she glanced at him, and then started to withdraw on tiptoe.
And he raised his head; and she gazed into the face of Berkley.
Neither stirred, although in the shock of discovery she felt that she would drop where she stood. Then, instinctively, she reached for the table’s edge, rested against it, hand clutching it, fascinated eyes never leaving his face.
He got up leisurely, walked toward her, made an abrupt turn and faced her again from the window recess, leaning back against the closed wooden shutters.
Her heart was beating too rapidly for her to speak; she tried to straighten her shoulders, lift her head. Both sank, and she looked down blindly through the throbbing silence.
Berkley spoke first; but she could not answer him. Then he said, again, lightly:
“A woman’s contempt is a bitter thing; but they say we thrive best on bitter medicine. Do you wish me to go, Ailsa? If so, where? I’ll obey with alacrity.”
She raised her dazed eyes.
“W-was that you, with Captain Hallam’s horse — there in the starlight — when I spoke?”
“Yes. Didn’t you know me?”
“No. Did you know me?”
“Of course. I nearly fell out of my saddle.”
She strove hard to collect herself.
“How did you know it was I?”
“How?” He laughed a short, mirthless laugh. “I knew your voice.
Why shouldn’t I know it?”
“Did — had anybody told you I was here?”
“No. Who is there to tell me anything?”
“Nobody wrote you? — or telegraphed?”
He laughed again. “Nobody has my address.”
“And you never — received — receive — letters?”
“Who would write to me? No, I never receive letters. Why do you ask?”
She was silent.
He waited a moment, then said coolly: “If you actually have any interest in what I’m doing—” and broke off with a shrug. At which she raised her eyes, waiting for him to go on.
“I went into an unattached company — The Westchester Horse — and some fool promised us incorporation with the 1st Cavalry and quick service. But the 1st filled up without us and went off. And a week ago we were sent off from White Plains Camp as K Company to” — he bit his lip and stared at her— “to — your friend Colonel Arran’s regiment of lancers. We took the oath. Our captain, Hallam, selected me for his escort to-night. That is the simple solution of my being here. I didn’t sneak down here to annoy you. I didn’t know you were here.”
After a moment she raised her pallid face.
“Have you seen Colonel Arran?”
“No,” he said shortly.
“I — it would give me — pleasure — to recommend you to his — attention.
May I write — —”
“Thank you, no.”
There was another painful interval of silence. Then:
“May I speak to Captain Hallam about you?”
“No, thank you!” he said contemptuously, “I am currying no favours.”
Hurt, she shrank away, and the blood mounted to her temples.
“You see,” he said, “I’m just a plain brute, and there’s no use being kind to me.” He added in a lower voice, but deliberately: “You once found out that.”
She quivered and straightened up.
“Yes,” she said, “I found that out. I have paid very dearly for my — my—” But she could not continue.
Watching her, cap hanging in his gauntleted hand, he saw the colour deepen and deepen in neck and cheek, saw her eyes falter, and turn from him.
“Is there any forgiveness for me?” he said. “I didn’t ask it
before — because I’ve still some sense of the ludicrous left in me — or did have. It’s probably gone now, since I’ve asked if it is in you to pardon—” He shrugged again, deeming it useless; and she made no sign of comprehension.
For a while he stood, looking down at his cap, turning it over and over, thoughtfully.
“Well, then, Ailsa, you are very kind to offer what you did offer. But — I don’t like Colonel Arran,” he added with a sneer, “and I haven’t any overwhelming admiration for Captain Hallam. And there you are, with your kindness and gentleness and — everything — utterly wasted on a dull, sordid brute who had already insulted you once. . . . Shall I leave your kitchen?”
“No,” she said faintly. “I am going.”
He offered to open the door for her, but she opened it herself, stood motionless, turned, considered him, head high and eyes steady;
“You have killed in me, this night — this Christmas night — something that can never again l-live in me. Remember that in the years to come.”
“I’m sorry,” he said. “That’s the second murder I’ve attempted.
The other was your soul.”
Her eyes flashed.
“Even murderers show some remorse — some regret — —”
“I do regret,” he said deliberately, “that I didn’t kill it. . . .
You would have loved me then.”
She turned white as death, then, walking slowly up in front of him:
“You lie!” she said in even tones.
Confronted, never stirring, their eyes met; and in the cold, concentrated fury which possessed her she set her small teeth and stared at him, rigid, menacing, terrible in her outraged pride.
After a while he stirred; a quiver twitched his set features.
“Nevertheless—” he said, partly to himself. Then, drawing a long breath, he turned, unhooked his sabre from a nail where it hung, buckled his belt, picked up the lance which stood slanting across a chair, shook out the scarlet, swallow-tailed pennon, and walked slowly toward the door — and met Letty coming in.
“Mrs. Paige,” she said, “we couldn’t imagine what had become of you—” and glancing inquiringly at Berkley, started, and uttered a curious little cry:
“You!”
“Yes,” he said, smiling through his own astonishment.
Works of Robert W Chambers Page 496