Chapter IX.

Noblesse Oblige

On his way home that day, the minister met Mr. Granger, and the two stopped to look at a Vermont regiment that was marching through the city from the Maine depot to the New York depot. As they stopped, the regiment also was stopped by some obstruction in the street.

The attention of the gentlemen was presently attracted to a boy in the rank nearest them, a bright, resolute-looking lad, with a ruddy face and smiling lips. {447} But it needed not a very keen observer to see in that smile the pathetic bravado of a boy who had just torn himself away from home, and was struggling to hide the grief with which his heart was swelling.

"What is a boy like you in the army for?" Mr. Granger asked.

The young soldier looked up, his bright eyes bold with excitement. "When men won't go, the boys have got to go," he answered. "Do you want to take my place?"

Mr. Granger said no more.

Beside this boy stood a middle aged man who had an uncommonly good face. He was tall, somewhat awkward, and had that look of unsophisticated manliness, honest candor, and plain common sense, which is found only in the country. One could not fancy him a dweller among masked city faces, breathing air pent in narrow streets, walking daily on pavements, and knowing no shades but those of brick and stone. His place was tramping through wild forests, not with any romantic intent, but measuring with practised eyes the trunk of some tree in which he saw what woodsmen call a "good stick," and chopping steadily at it while the chips flew about him, and above him the spreading branches shivered at every stroke; or plodding slowly through still country roads beside his slow oxen; or, in the sultry summer days, swinging the scythe through thick grass and clover, mowing them down ankle deep at his feet. He had the flavor of all that about him. Now he had to wade through other than that fragrant summer sacrifice, to break through other ranks than serried clover and Mayweed, and those strong arms of his were to lay low something greater than pine or cedar. You could see that this thought was in his mind, that he never lost sight of it, but, also, that he would not shrink. Such men have not much to say; but in time of need they put into action the heroism which others exhale in glowing language.

This man had been looking straight before him; but at the sound of a childish voice he turned his head quickly. A little girl leaning from the curbstone was admiring the bunch of flowers on the soldier's bayonet, and stretching longing hands toward them.

The fixed look in the man's face broke up instantly. "Do you want them, little dear?" he asked.

"Oh! yes."

He lowered his rifle, removed the flowers, and gave them to the child, looking at her with a yearning, homesick smile that was more pitiful than tears. At that moment the drums began to beat. The soldier laid his bronzed hand on the happy little head, then, with trembling lips and downcast eyes, marched on, and out of sight for ever.

Mr. Granger turned abruptly away. "I feel as if I were a great lazy coward!" he exclaimed. "I can't stand this any longer!"

The minister looked at him with a startled expression; but any reply was prevented; for just then they met Mrs. Lewis coming out of a flower-store, with her hands full of Mayflowers done up in solid pink bunches, without a sign of green.

"Poor things!" she said. "The sight of them always reminds me of the massacre of the Innocents. See! they look like so many pretty little pink and white heads cut off. Massed so, without any green, they are not at all like flowers. Are we going home to dinner? My husband will be late, and we are not to wait for him. He has gone to see who is drafted in our ward."

{448}

The family had nearly finished dinner when Mr. Lewis came in. "Our house is favored," he said immediately. "Granger, both you and I are drawn."

Mr. Granger looked up, but said nothing. "I got my substitute on the spot," Mr. Lewis continued. "He is a decent fellow whom I can depend on. I asked him if he knew of any one for you, and he thought he could get somebody."

Mr. Granger made no reply, seemed to be occupied in waiting on his little girl who sat beside him.

"How sober he is!" thought Miss Hamilton; but did not feel troubled, his gravity was so gentle.

Dora looked up in her father's face, and laughed, half with love, half with delight. "You nice papa!" she cried, and gave his arm an enthusiastic hug. He laid his hand on those sunny curls, as he had seen the soldier do in the street, but did not smile.

Glancing at Mr. Southard, Margaret met a look at once anxious and searching. His eyes were instantly averted, but his expression did not change. What could it mean? After dinner, he went directly to his room.

Mr. Granger sat apart in the parlor with Dora, petting her, and telling her stories. When her bed-time came, he went out with her, and was gone longer than usual. The evening was cool, and they had a fire in the grate. Mr. Lewis sat before it reading the evening paper, and the three ladies gathered in one corner, and talked in whispers.

"How sober and strange everything seems this evening!" Margaret said, shivering. "I feel cold. It isn't like spring, but like fall. Hold my hand, Aura dear. What does chill me so?"

"It is because Mr. Southard looked at you in such an odd way," Aurelia said gravely, holding Margaret's cold hand between her warm ones.

"I know what ails me," Mrs. Lewis said, in a tone of vexation. "It is that substitute. My husband will preach poverty for six months to come. Charles," raising her voice, "does your substitute look as if he had swallowed a new black silk dress with little ruffles all over it?"

"He has very much that expression of countenance," growled Mr. Lewis from behind his newspaper.

"O dear! And does he look as if Niagara Falls had disappeared down his throat, and as if he were just chewing up a little trip to the mountains?"

"You describe him perfectly," her husband replied with grim courtesy.

Mr. Granger came in presently, and stood awhile by one of the windows, looking out into the twilight. Then he took a seat by the fire.

It was getting too dark to read without a light, and Mr. Lewis laid his paper aside. "I will see about your substitute to-morrow," he said, "and send him up to the bank, if you wish."

"Thank you," Mr. Granger replied. "And as soon as I get a substitute, I shall immediately volunteer."

There was an exclamation from the ladies, and a sound as if one caught her breath.

Mr. Lewis stared at the speaker, turned very red, then started up, and went out of the room, banging the door behind him. A minute later, he flung open the door of Mr. Southard's study, and marched in without the least ceremony. "What is the meaning of this nonsense of Mr. Granger's volunteering?" he demanded, stammering with anger.

Mr. Southard had been sitting with a Bible open before him, and his face bowed forward and resting on it. He rose with cold stateliness at this abrupt invasion. "Will you sit, sir?" he said, pointing to a chair.

{449}

"No, sir, I will not!" was the answer. "I want you to go down and put a stop to his making a fool of himself. I won't say a word to him; I haven't patience to."

"If Mr. Granger thinks it his duty to go, I shall not attempt to dissuade him," said the minister calmly, reseating himself. "He is his own master, and I am in no way responsible for his action in the matter."

"When a man plants an acorn, we hold him responsible for the oak," was the retort. "You have indirectly done all you could to make him ashamed of staying at home, and to make him believe that the more pieces a man gets cut into the more of a man he is. If you don't prevent his going, I shall hold you responsible for whatever may happen."

For a moment the minister's self-control deserted him, and a just perceptible curl touched his lip with scorn. "Can you see no nobler destiny for a man," he asked, "than to eat three meals a day, make money, and keep a whole skin?"

Mr. Lewis's face had been red: now his very hands blushed with anger. He opened the door to leave the room, and turned on the threshold. "Yes, sir, I can!" he replied with emphasis. "But it is not in staying at home and sending another man out to die, especially when that man may be in your way!"

Banging the door behind him, Mr. Lewis ran against his niece who was just coming up-stairs. She looked terrified. She had overheard her uncle's parting speech.

"Oh! how could you!" she exclaimed. "Aunt was afraid that you were going to say something to Mr. Southard, and she sent me to beg you to come down. How could you, uncle?"

"I could a good deal easier than I couldn't," he replied. "Come into the chamber here and talk to me. I don't want to be left alone a minute. I shan't go down-stairs again to-night; and I would advise you and your aunt to get out of the way, and give Miss Hamilton a chance to talk or cry a little common sense into Mr. Granger."

Meantime Mr. Granger had been explaining somewhat to the two ladies left with him, and exonerating Mr. Southard from all responsibility.

"I know that Mr. Lewis will blame him," he said; "but that is unjust to both of us. It is paying me a very poor compliment to say that in such a matter I would allow another person to think for me."

"You must remember that my husband's excitement will be in proportion to his regard for you," Mrs Lewis said, with tears in her eyes. "He has a rough way of showing affection; but he is fonder of you than of any other man in the world; and I'm sure we all--" Here her voice failed.

Mr. Granger turned hastily toward her as she got up to go out. "I don't forget that," he said. "I know he thinks a good deal of me, and so do I of him. We shan't quarrel. Don't be afraid. I found out long ago that he has a kind and true heart under that rough manner."

"I'm going to bring him back," Mrs. Lewis said, and went out, wiping her eyes.

Mr. Granger had not dared to look at Miss Hamilton, or address her directly. After having spoken, the thought had first occurred to him that he should have been less abrupt in announcing his intention to her. She might be expected to feel his departure more keenly than the others would. He waited a moment to see if she would speak. She sat perfectly quiet in the dim light, her cheek supported by her hand, her elbow on the arm of her chair, and her eyes fixed on the fire. {450} There is an involuntary calmness with which we sometime receive the most terrible news, and which even an acute observer would take for perfect indifference, but which, though not assumed, is utterly deceptive. Perhaps it is incredulity; perhaps the sudden blow stuns. Whatever it may be, no human self-control can equal it. Fortunately, this phenomenon worked now for Miss Hamilton. She would scarcely have forgiven herself or Mr. Granger if she had lost her self-possession.

"Nothing will be changed here," he said presently, slightly embarrassed by the continued silence. "All will go on just as it has. In case of any uncertainty, when it would take too long to hear from me, you can consult Mr. Barton, who is my lawyer. He knows all my wishes and intentions. Of course you have full authority regarding Dora. I feel quite at ease in leaving her to you."

So Mr. Barton had known all about it, and so had Mr. Southard, and others, perhaps. Miss Hamilton recollected herself with an effort. She was in Mr. Granger's employment; he was, in some sort, her patron. She had made the mistake of thinking that they were friends. But that is not friendship where the confidence is all on one side.

"I shall try to do my duty by Dora," she said rather coldly. "But what does 'full authority' mean?"

"She is too young to learn theology," he replied; "but everything else is free. I spoke lest some one might interfere during my absence, though that isn't likely."

Margaret waited a moment, then said, "Dora tells me that you hear her say the Our Father every night and morning. Of course, I shall hear it when you are gone. If you are willing, I would like to teach her to bless herself before praying, and to say a little prayer to the Mother of Christ for your safety. I won't make her say 'Mother of God.'"

Mr. Granger was touched. "That cannot hurt her nor me," he said. "Do as you please."

Presently he spoke again, "I received yesterday a letter which my cousin Sinclair wrote me the day before he was killed. It was given to a soldier who was taken prisoner, and is only just exchanged. That letter surprised and affected me; and if I had a lingering doubt as to my own course, it was dispelled then. He was driving to the steamer, it seems, when he met the Seventh Regiment marching through Broadway to take the cars south. As they marched, they sang 'Glory Hallelujah' with a sound like a torrent. He was electrified. There he was on the point of going abroad for distraction when here at home was the centre toward which the eyes of the whole civilized world were turned. He blushed for the slothful ease and aimlessness of his life. Here was manly employment. He took no thought for the causes of the war, since he was not responsible for them; and circumstances had decided which side he was to take. To him it was a great gymnasium in which men enervated by wealth, or cramped by petty aims, were to wake up their nobler powers, string anew their courage, 'ventilate their souls,' as he expressed it, and, finding what they were themselves capable of achieving, take back thus their faith in others. When he saw those gallant fellows march singing off to battle, the dusty, stale old life broke open for him, and a new golden age bloomed out. He did not feel that they were rejoicing over the shedding of blood, or the winning of victories; but they sang their emancipation from littleness, they sang because they caught breath of a higher air, they sang because they had found out that their souls were greater than their bodies. {451} Then first it seemed credible to him that the Son of God took flesh and died for man; for then he first perceived that man at his best is a glorious creature. 'I am happy,' he added. 'It is like getting out of a close room into the fresh air. I am going through a picture-gallery more magnificent than any in the old world, and listening to strains of an epic grander than Homer's. I feel as if I were just made new.'"

This recital was to Margaret like some reviving essence to a fainting person. Her heart, drooping inward on itself, expanded again.

"If I knew him now!" she said. "If he would-come to me now!"

"Here is something that will interest you," Mr. Granger added; "I will read it from the letter."

He lighted the gas and read: "The last time I was in Washington, I went to see Lieut. A----, who is laid up in one of the hospitals in charge of the Sisters of Charity. Everything was quiet and orderly. A. was enthusiastic about the sisters, calls them doves of peace and charity, says their bonnets look like wings of great white birds. I talked with one of them when I went out.

"'How can you, who are the children of peace, bear to come among us who are the sons of strife?' I asked.

"'Where can the children of peace more fitly go than among the sons of strife?' she returned.

"'But we must seem to you cruel, and unworthy of gentle ministrations,' I said. 'You must think that we deserve our pains.'"

"A swift, almost childlike smile just touched her lips, 'We cannot be everything,' she replied. 'Each has his place; and the judgment-seat belongs to God. I am only the nurse.'

"'You must look upon war as the carnival of Satan,' I said.

"'God permits it,' she replied tranquilly. 'And the thought has occurred to me that it may be some times a preparation for religion. In the army men learn to suffer, and to sacrifice, and to be patient and obedient--lessons which perhaps they would not learn in any humbler school. And having acquired these virtues, they may use them in nobler ways, perhaps in preventing war. But,' she added hastily, 'it is not for me to explain the designs of the Almighty. Here is my mission!'

"She bowed, and glided away. A minute later I saw her raising the head of a dying soldier, and as his eyes grew dim, repeating for him, 'Jesus, Mary, and Joseph!'

"As I went away, I said to myself, 'I have seen one wiser than Solomon!'"

As Mr. Granger finished reading, the door opened, and Mr. Southard came in, but stopped on seeing the two alone.

"I am glad you have, come," Miss Hamilton said quickly, "I want you to assure Mr. Granger that, though we shall miss him, and be anxious about him, we will not let our weakness stand in the way of his strength."

No matter if she had been slighted! No matter if the confidence had been all on one side!

"Will you not bid me also Godspeed?" Mr. Southard asked.

"You?"

"I have asked, and am likely to receive, a year's leave of absence from my congregation," he said. "I do not know how it will be; but I hope to go in the same regiment with Mr. Granger."

{452}

"Well," Margaret sighed as she climbed wearily up-stairs, "I have had one happy year. But could I have dreamed that Maurice Sinclair would be the one to reprove my weakness at such a time?".