CHAPTER XXIV.

THE DARK, DARK WAVE.

"Anna." It was a faint, tremulous voice that called through the half-open door of the wounded man's chamber, as the young girl was passing; but it was sufficiently clear to arrest her progress, and she stood still for a moment, listening and wondering that she should be called at such a time. The surgeon was in attendance, as was his custom, although the hour was an early one, he being, as St. Clair had told her, an old friend and traveling companion in Europe a few years before, which accounted without doubt for his unusual attention at such a busy time. Anna had not met him during the few days she had been in the house as her services had not been required during his visits, wherefore her surprise at now hearing her name. While thinking the matter over the call was repeated, and without farther hesitation she hastened to him. The wounded man was lying on his side, partly supported by his servant, whose tears of sympathy were rapidly flowing. The surgeon was bending over the prostrate form with face unmoved, probing and dressing the fearful wound. In a moment Anna was kneeling by the drooping head which hung faintly down on the side of the bed, and, with a sudden impulse of feeling, raised it tenderly to her shoulder and pressed her lips on his cold, damp forehead.

"Poor George," she whispered, as she smoothed back his dark hair, "it is very hard. How sorry I am for you."

"I can bear it all now, and more if need be," and the strained eyes which looked up into the pale anxious face bore testimony to his words.

"It is hard to suffer with no loving hand to wipe the drops of agony from the brow, but endurable when fond lips kiss them away. Dear girl!" he added, in a whisper, just as the surgeon finished his work, bidding the servant to lay him down gently upon the pillow. When this was done he turned, and apparently for the first time discovered that another had joined their number.

"There, my good fellow," he remarked, cheerfully, "I hope you will not be obliged to go through that operation again. It is healing nicely; and if we can keep the inflammation down and the wound open under the shoulder-blade for a few days, the best results may be hoped for. The trouble is, St. Clair, you have too many chicken-hearted ones to care for you. Your servant must be more thorough." While making this remark his eyes were fixed intently on the face of Anna.

"Miss Pierson, doctor," said St. Clair, with an attempt to a formal introduction, "and let me tell you, she would never be worthy of the slur you have just cast. Should you tell her to perform your most disagreeable commands, I feel positive they would be carried out to the very letter."

"You are welcome to try me," said Anna.

"Can I trust you?"

"I came for that very purpose."

"Then listen." Whereupon followed a long list of commands and injunctions.

"You will perceive he has also a fever, which must be kept in subjection, not only by strictly administering the medicines but by shielding him from every excitement. I may not be here again for two or three days, but shall feel comparatively easy now that I can leave him in your hands."

"I shall endeavor to do my duty, as far as I am able, sir."

"I believe you; good morning."

And, taking the hand of each, the busy doctor left the room.

Mrs. Howard met him in the hall below to inquire about the patient.

"Did I understand that young lady's name was Pierson?" he asked, as he was about to depart.

"Yes."

"Has she any friends in the army?"

"She has two brothers, she told me."

"Then one of them was buried yesterday. I was sure of it as soon as I looked into her face. They were very much alike. Poor fellow! I found him near the rebel colonel up stairs, and the long exposure hastened his death."

Again the surgeon bowed and hurried away.

The kind-hearted old lady stood for a moment stupefied with pity and perplexity.

"It was too bad he did not tell her," she thought as she looked after him. Her mind wandered off to the widow on the banks of the Hudson of whom Anna had spoken. She, too, was a widow, and had a son in the Confederate army. It was hard for her that he was there, but how heart-rending if he should die far away and be buried in an unknown grave! Could she break the sad intelligence to the bereaved girl? The colonel needed her. Should she advise her to do what her sympathizing heart prompted? She pondered it over for a few minutes, and then her decision was taken. She hastened up the stairway and rapped gently at the door. It was opened immediately by Anna.

"I would like to see you for a short time," she said, as the happy face beamed upon her.

"I will come soon," and turning to the bed she remarked: "You must sleep now after such an expenditure of nerve power"; and arranging the pillows that the head might more readily rest she placed her hand on the smooth white forehead as she pressed her lips to his.

"I can sleep sweetly now, good angel, since the old scorn has been taken out of my memory!" and he settled quietly down.

"Scorn! One like poor me bestowing such a commodity on one like you?" and laughing she turned to leave.

"It may be that attribute is not in your nature, but--"

"Yes--the uniform," suggested Anna. "Well; you are never to play the 'wolf' again, you know?"

"Never, no _never_!" With a joyous step she tripped from the room to join Mrs. Howard below stairs.

"I have some sad news for you--perhaps I ought not at such a time as this trouble you, but my conscience would upbraid me should I keep it to myself; besides, you must know it sometime."

"O, _do_ tell me!" interrupted Anna impatiently.

"I will! You have told me of your brothers and that you had found on inquiry that both were uninjured. Nothing is easier than such mistakes in these times."

"Mistake? Was I mistaken? Are they not safe?"

"I have heard only about one. He was found on the battle field not far from the colonel upstairs. Both had been exposed so long to the rains that your brother could not rally and he died and was buried yesterday!"

"_Died?_ Are you _sure_ he died? It _cannot_ be! Where was he?" Anna did not weep; such a flood of thought and feeling rushed in upon her brain that it forced back the tears. More than a week had she been in Washington and Alexandria while he had been suffering and dying! O, _why_ could she not have found him--listened to his last words and received his last blessing? Ah--this was a cold wave that was dashing over her soul; but there was one to come more chilling, more furious and overwhelming even than this! "They were together!" Could it be that those hands that had so lately clasped hers as she listened to words of love were stained with her brother's blood? They were opponents and found near to each other when the conflict was over! _Enemies!_ O how these thoughts maddened her! They seemed to tear her very _soul_! She remained motionless and silent so long that Mrs. Howard ventured to say:

"It may be you would like to find out where he died and where they have buried him? You can, perhaps, procure his body and take it home for interment. This would be a great consolation to his poor mother I am sure; I know it would be to me!"

Those words, "home" and "mother," opened the secret avenue to her soul, and tears came plentifully to her relief. "O, yes!" she sobbed, after a moment's pause; "I will go immediately! I have much to do and must not waste my time in weeping; but it is so horrible! How will my mother endure it?" Again the tears came, but with repeated efforts she drove them back and arose to leave the room. "I will leave my patient with you," she stopped to say. "I have no doubt you can do all that is required; at any rate I must go! Do everything for him in your power and be sure you will be amply rewarded. When he inquires for me tell him the sad story; will you? I go to bury my brother by the side of his father, and where loving hands can care for and protect his grave! He _can not_ rest here!"

Her companion looked at her in surprise. Her form was erect and firm; her eyes sparkled with the fire of heroism! In half an hour Anna came from her chamber prepared for a walk. She told her friend that she was going first to the telegraph office and then to the hospital to learn what she could for her mother's sake! "Ellen must come to take my place by her brother's side," she concluded. "But must I see him no more? It is hard! But the _stained hand_! My brother's blood!" How much agony can be crowded into a phantom thought! Poor Anna! Then whispered her heart: "He may die! To agitate him might bring very serious consequences"; she had drawn this from the words of the surgeon. "Ellen must soothe and comfort him"; and she hastened on her errand of love. In a few hours she had done all she could, and was seated in her room, weary and heart-sore, to think over the incidents of the morning.

How full the moments had been crowded! In her hand she was holding the locket that was his, in which was her own and her mother's pictures the kind nurse had promised to send to them. How precious it would always be to her! His last look of earth was on their faces; his last words were blessings implored for them. She had learned it all from the kind one who had bent over him at that moment when his noble spirit winged its way from the poor mangled body towards the land of peace and rest. "How kind in her to be so explicit! How soothing were the tears of sympathy that fell from a stranger's eyes!" Then her thoughts returned to the living. How was he? Had he wished for her? Was he very unhappy without her? Could she ever meet him again? What should she do? What was her duty? O the buffetings of a tempest-tossed soul!

Poor Anna; there was an undefined longing in her heart she did not then understand, and so was left to grieve as one who had no hope! It was a fearful struggle between heart and judgment as she supposed, and _who_ should settle it at last? An answer to the morning's telegram was brought in; "Ellen will be here in three days," she concluded after reading it, "and then I shall be at liberty to return home with my dead!" Home! There was a sacredness in that word now--a sad solemnity that oppressed the heart as she remembered the sombre emblems of bereavement that were darkening it! There had been only the shadows of separations in the loving circle for many years, and even these had been lighted up with the bright gildings of hopeful reunion! How would that mother bear the first great blow dealt by the crimson hand of war? Where was Elmore? They had told her that he was probably safe and had been hurried away with his regiment, but might be wounded or a prisoner.

"How he will miss the absent one!" she thought. The mother, it was true, had laid her two sons upon the altar of sacrifice, but never had failed morning or evening to plead that the fire might not fall and consume them. One had been taken; and the shadow from the dark-winged angel would settle heavily down upon the widow's peaceful, quiet home! Tears fell fast. She was so happy a few hours ago, now how dark life seemed to her. How fickle are our joys and what a little breath will sometimes blow them out! Strange that clouds should follow so closely in the wake of the summer's sun! Lights and shadows; calms and storms; hopes and despairs make up the individual lives.

Troubled child! Why did she not in her perplexity turn her face towards the source of all wisdom and grace? Why do not you, gentle reader? Her eyes were steadfastly fixed on the ground where the shadows always lie the thickest, rather than with the penetrating vision of faith endeavoring to pierce the sombre clouds above her head. The sound of footsteps along the hall aroused her. "Some one is going to _his_ room. His room!" And the shadows clustered more closely about her heart! It was so sad that the great phantom which had appeared the first time when George St. Clair stood before her in the uniform of the confederate army should come to her now with such an air of certainty!

"They were found together!" She had dreamed of this; she had started from her sleep at seeing that hand which pressed her cheek while he read the secrets of her fluttering heart, stained with the blood of his victim, and that victim her idolized brother! It had come at last, and O, how terrible the realization! Rising hastily she replaced her bonnet and hurried from the room. On the stairs she met Mrs. Howard.

"Colonel St. Clair is very anxious you should come to him," she said; "and seems distressed that you do not. He told me to bear to you his deepest sympathy, and I saw a tear in his eye as he told me. Will you not go to him to-day, Miss Pierson? I think his fever is a little higher this afternoon. Do not refuse, for I fear it will do him harm."

A sudden faintness came over her as she listened to these pleadings, and she trembled so violently that she was obliged to seat herself for a moment. At last with great effort she said: "Take to him my thanks for the sympathy he sent me, and if I can by any means bind up the main artery of my heart that I feel has been severed I will see him again"; and without another word she arose and hastened from the house.

"Is the child crazy?" muttered Mrs. Howard as she proceeded up the stairway. "She has changed fearfully during the last few hours, that is certain!" And this she told the wounded man when he anxiously inquired for her a few minutes after.

A groan escaped him, but he only added, "Poor Anna! The scourge! O the terrible scourge of war!"

All the afternoon the sad mourner flitted restlessly about among the suffering and dying, speaking a gentle word to one, or administering a soothing draught to another--ever active, carrying consolation and comfort wherever she went. At last she missed the one in whom she had previously taken such a great interest--the young soldier with dark-brown hair and deep blue eyes. "Where is he?" she asked.

"He died last night," answered the kind old nurse.

"Died?" interrogated Anna, "I thought he was getting well."

"We thought he was, but God knew best!" and the kindly lips quivered that were so used to words of consolation.

"More sad hearts!" mused Anna as she became attracted by another scene not far away from where they were standing. A mother had just arrived and now sat by the bed of her dying son, who for the first time, it may be, failed to recognize the soft touch of that gentle hand, or respond to the familiar tones of a mother's loving voice. Too late! He would never look upon her again! The tempest-tossed soul forgot its own tribulations as she watched the anguish of the stricken parent who sat beside her boy with tearless eyes, but with cheek and brow as white as those she was so hopefully gazing upon, pleading for "one word, only one word!" But it came not. Anna turned away. "These scenes are too painful for me to-day," she said to the sympathizing nurse, who softly touched her arm to recall her. "Tell me where I can go and find peace!"

"I will, poor child, follow me." In the next ward a young man was lying, his face livid from the loss of blood, one limb entirely gone, the other partially, yet a smile shone ever upon those wan features, and his kindly greeting and words of cheerfulness were like rays of sunshine to all who came under their influences. "Mr. Page," said the nurse as she took his proffered hand, "here is a young lady who needs a few words of resignation and comfort dropped into her wounded heart, and you have always such a rich store on hand that I felt you would be willing to administer a few to one who needs them so much."

"I shall be obliged to give them second hand you know." How his pale face lighted as he said this, and extending his hand to Anna invited her to sit beside him. "It is hard to be afflicted," he said, "but you know they sometimes provide a very white robe for such as we." Then he spoke so calmly and soothingly as he inquired into her griefs, while he poured oil of peace into her lacerated heart until the pain ceased and she was soothed and comforted. "What was your brother's name?" he asked.

"Herbert Pierson."

"Herbert Pierson? You should not grieve for him! He had a noble soul. I knew him well, and when the surgeon told me yesterday that he was dead I thanked God for his release from suffering. Could he speak to you to-day he would say as I have, 'do not grieve for me!' How often I have heard him speak of his sister and mother, and pray for them too. Ah--there is comfort for you beyond my poor powers of giving! The blessed sufferer who atoned for you and me will bestow it! Your brother was mine in heart; how I loved him!"

"O thank you; thank you!" sobbed Anna as she clasped his thin hand in hers! "His mother will bless and pray for you," she continued.

"And will not you?"

"I? I do not pray for myself! I wish to die."

"Then you will! God be praised!"

"I will see you again," she said rising, and catching one more glance of his calm, blue eyes she hurried away. After tea she retired to her room, much against the wishes of Mrs. Howard, who was urgent in her requests that Anna should visit her patient that night, but all to no avail. "Tell him," she said, "I will see him in the morning; I _can not_ go to-night; O no, I can not!" and entering her seclusion she closed the door, much to the chagrin of the good lady, and seated herself to collect her thoughts.