Miss Grief and Other Stories (14 page)

If Blank Rodman did not say this, at least the keeper imagined that he did. “That is what he would have said,” he thought. “I am glad you do not object,” he added, pretending to himself that he had not noticed the rest of the remark.

“We do not object to the brave soldier who honestly fought for his cause, even though he fought on the other side,” answered Blank Rodman for the whole fourteen thousand. “But never let a coward, a double-face, or a flippant-
tongued idler walk over our heads. It would make us rise in our graves!”

And the keeper seemed to see a shadowy pageant sweep by—gaunt soldiers with white faces, arming anew against the subtle product of peace: men who said, “It was nothing! Behold, we saw it with our eyes!”—stay-at-home eyes.

The third day the fever abated, and Ward De Rosset noticed his surroundings. Old Pomp acknowledged that he had been moved, but veiled the locality: “To a frien's house, Mars' Ward.”

“But I have no friends now, Pomp,” said the weak voice.

Pomp was very much amused at the absurdity of this. “No frien's! Mars' Ward, no frien's!” He was obliged to go out of the room to hide his laughter. The sick man lay feebly thinking that the bed was cool and fresh, and the closed green blinds pleasant; his thin fingers stroked the linen sheet, and his eyes wandered from object to object. The only thing that broke the rule of bare utility in the simple room was a square of white drawing-paper on the wall, upon which was inscribed in ornamental text the following verse:

“Toujours femme varie,

Bien fou qui s'y fie;

Une femme souvent

N'est qu'une plume au vent.”

With the persistency of illness the eyes and mind of Ward De Rosset went over and over this distich; he knew something of French, but was unequal to the effort of translating; the rhymes alone caught his vagrant fancy. “Toujours femme varie,” he said to himself over and over again; and when the keeper entered, he said it to him.

“Certainly,” answered the keeper; “bien fou qui s'y fie. How do you find yourself this morning?”

“I have not found myself at all, so far. Is this your house?”

“Yes.”

“Pomp told me I was in a friend's house,” observed the sick man, vaguely.

“Well, it isn't an enemy's. Had any breakfast? No? Better not talk, then.”

He went to the detached shed which served for a kitchen, upset all Pomp's clumsy arrangements, and ordered him outside; then he set to work and prepared a delicate breakfast with his best skill. The sick man eagerly eyed the tray as he entered. “Better have your hands and face sponged off, I think,” said Rodman; and then he propped him up skillfully, and left him to his repast. The grass needed mowing on the parade-ground; he shouldered his scythe and started down the path, viciously kicking the gravel aside as he walked. “Wasn't solitude your principal idea, John Rodman, when you applied for this place?” he demanded of himself. “How much of it are
you likely to have with sick men, and sick men's servants, and so forth?”

The “and so forth,” thrown in as a rhetorical climax, turned into reality and arrived bodily upon the scene—a climax indeed. One afternoon, returning late to the cottage, he found a girl sitting by the pallet—a girl young and dimpled and dewy; one of the creamy roses of the South that, even in the bud, are richer in color and luxuriance than any Northern flower. He saw her through the door, and paused; distressed old Pomp met him and beckoned him cautiously outside. “Miss Bettina,” he whispered gutturally; “she's come back from somewhuz, an' she's awful mad 'cause Mars' Ward's here. I tole her all 'bout 'em—de leaks an' de rheumatiz an' de hard corn-cake, but she done gone scole me; and Mars' Ward, he know now whar he is, an' he mad too.”

“Is the girl a fool?” said Rodman. He was just beginning to rally a little. He stalked into the room and confronted her. “I have the honor of addressing—”

“Miss Ward.”

“And I am John Rodman, keeper of the national cemetery.”

This she ignored entirely; it was as though he had said, “I am John Jones, the coachman.” Coachmen were useful in their way; but their names were unimportant.

The keeper sat down and looked at his new visitor. The little creature fairly radiated scorn; her pretty head was thrown back, her eyes, dark brown fringed with long dark lashes, hardly deigned a glance; she spoke to him as though he was something to be paid and dismissed like any other mechanic.

“We are indebted to you for some days' board, I believe, keeper—medicines, I presume, and general attendance. My
cousin will be removed to-day to our own residence; I wish to pay now what he owes.”

The keeper saw that her dress was old and faded; the small black shawl had evidently been washed and many times mended; the old-fashioned knitted purse she held in her hand was lank with long famine.

“Very well,” he said; “if you choose to treat a kindness in that way, I consider five dollars a day none too much for the annoyance, expense, and trouble I have suffered. Let me see: five days—or is it six? Yes. Thirty dollars, Miss Ward.”

He looked at her steadily; she flushed. “The money will be sent to you,” she began haughtily; then, hesitatingly, “I must ask a little time—”

“O Betty, Betty, you know you can not pay it. Why try to disguise—But that does not excuse
you
for bringing me here,” said the sick man, turning toward his host with an attempt to speak fiercely, which ended in a faltering quaver.

All this time the old slave stood anxiously outside of the door; in the pauses they could hear his feet shuffling as he waited for the decision of his superiors. The keeper rose and threw open the blinds of the window that looked out on the distant parade-ground. “Bringing you here,” he repeated—“
here;
that is my offense, is it? There they lie, fourteen thousand brave men and true. Could they come back to earth they would be the first to pity and aid you, now that you are down. So would it be with you if the case were reversed; for a soldier is generous to a soldier. It was not your own heart that spoke then; it was the small venom of a woman, that here, as everywhere through the South, is playing its rancorous part.”

The sick man gazed out through the window, seeing for
the first time the far-spreading ranks of the dead. He was very weak, and the keeper's words had touched him; his eyes were suffused with tears. But Miss Ward rose with a flashing glance. She turned her back full upon the keeper and ignored his very existence. “I will take you home immediately, Ward—this very evening,” she said.

“A nice, comfortable place for a sick man,” commented the keeper, scornfully. “I am going out now, De Rosset, to prepare your supper; you had better have one good meal before you go.”

He disappeared, but as he went he heard the sick man say, deprecatingly: “It isn't very comfortable over at the old house now, indeed it isn't, Betty; I suffered”—and the girl's passionate outburst in reply. Then he closed his door and set to work.

When he returned, half an hour later, Ward was lying back exhausted on the pillows, and his cousin sat leaning her head upon her hand; she had been weeping, and she looked very desolate, he noticed, sitting there in what was to her an enemy's country. Hunger is a strong master, however, especially when allied to weakness; and the sick man ate with eagerness.

“I must go back,” said the girl, rising. “A wagon will be sent out for you, Ward; Pomp will help you.”

But Ward had gained a little strength as well as obstinacy with the nourishing food. “Not to-night,” he said.

“Yes, to-night.”

“But I can not go to-night; you are unreasonable, Bettina. To-morrow will do as well, if go I must.”

“If go you must! You do not want to go, then—to go to our own home—and with me”—Her voice broke; she turned toward the door.

The keeper stepped forward. “This is all nonsense, Miss Ward,” he said, “and you know it. Your cousin is in no state to be moved. Wait a week or two, and he can go in safety. But do not dare to offer me your money again; my kindness was to the soldier, not to the man, and as such he can accept it. Come out and see him as often as you please. I shall not intrude upon you. Pomp, take the lady home.”

And the lady went.

Then began a remarkable existence for the four: a Confederate soldier lying ill in the keeper's cottage of a national cemetery; a rampant little rebel coming out daily to a place which was to her anathema-maranatha; a cynical, misanthropic keeper sleeping on the floor and enduring every variety of discomfort for a man he never saw before—a man belonging to an idle, arrogant class he detested; and an old black freedman allowing himself to be taught the alphabet in order to gain permission to wait on his master—master no longer in law—with all the devotion of his loving old heart. For the keeper had announced to Pomp that he must learn his alphabet or go; after all these years of theory, he, as a New-Englander, could not stand by and see precious knowledge shut from the black man. So he opened it, and mighty dull work he found it.

Ward De Rosset did not rally as rapidly as they expected. The white-haired doctor from the town rode out on horseback, pacing slowly up the graveled roadway with a scowl on his brow, casting, as he dismounted, a furtive glance down toward the parade-ground. His horse and his coat were alike old and worn, and his broad shoulders were bent with long service in the miserably provided Confederate hospitals, where he had
striven to do his duty through every day and every night of those shadowed years. Cursing the incompetency in high places, cursing the mismanagement of the entire medical department of the Confederate army, cursing the recklessness and indifference which left the men suffering for want of proper hospitals and hospital stores, he yet went on resolutely doing his best with the poor means in his control until the last. Then he came home, he and his old horse, and went the rounds again, he prescribing for whooping-cough or measles, and Dobbin waiting outside; the only difference was that fees were small and good meals scarce for both, not only for the man but for the beast. The doctor sat down and chatted awhile kindly with De Rosset, whose father and uncle had been dear friends of his in the bright, prosperous days; then he left a few harmless medicines and rose to go, his gaze resting a moment on Miss Ward, then on Pomp, as if he were hesitating. But he said nothing until on the walk outside he met the keeper, and recognized a person to whom he could tell the truth. “There is nothing to be done; he may recover, he may not; it is a question of strength merely. He needs no medicines, only nourishing food, rest, and careful tendance.”

“He shall have them,” answered the keeper briefly. And then the old gentleman mounted his horse and rode away, his first and last visit to a national cemetery.

“National!” he said to himself—“national!”

All talk of moving De Rosset ceased, but Miss Ward moved into the old house. There was not much to move: herself, her one trunk, and Marí, a black attendant, whose name probably
began life as Maria, since the accent still dwelt on the curtailed last syllable. The keeper went there once, and once only, and then it was an errand for the sick man, whose fancies came sometimes at inconvenient hours—when Pomp had gone to town, for instance. On this occasion the keeper entered the mockery of a gate and knocked at the front door, from which the bars had been removed; the piazza still showed its decaying planks, but quick-growing summer vines had been planted, and were now encircling the old pillars and veiling all defects with their greenery. It was a woman's pathetic effort to cover up what can not be covered—poverty. The blinds on one side were open, and white curtains waved to and fro in the breeze; into this room he was ushered by Marí. Matting lay on the floor, streaked here and there ominously by the dampness from the near ground. The furniture was of dark mahogany, handsome in its day: chairs, a heavy pier-table with low-down glass, into which no one by any possibility could look unless he had eyes in his ankles, a sofa with a stiff round pillow of hair-cloth under each curved end, and a mirror with a compartment framed off at the top, containing a picture of shepherds and shepherdesses, and lambs with blue ribbons around their necks, all enjoying themselves in the most natural and life-like manner. Flowers stood on the high mantel-piece, but their fragrance could not overcome the faint odor of the damp straw-matting. On a table were books—a life of General Lee, and three or four shabby little volumes printed at the South during the war, waifs of prose and poetry of that highly wrought, richly colored style which seems indigenous to Southern soil.

“Some way, the whole thing reminds me of a funeral,” thought the keeper.

Miss Ward entered, and the room bloomed at once; at least that is what a lover would have said. Rodman, however, merely noticed that she bloomed, and not the room, and he said to himself that she would not bloom long if she continued to live in such a moldy place. Their conversation in these days was excessively polite, shortened to the extreme minimum possible, and conducted without the aid of the eyes, at least on one side. Rodman had discovered that Miss Ward never looked at him, and so he did not look at her—that is, not often; he was human, however, and she was delightfully pretty. On this occasion they exchanged exactly five sentences, and then he departed, but not before his quick eyes had discovered that the rest of the house was in even worse condition than this parlor, which, by the way, Miss Ward considered quite a grand apartment; she had been down near the coast, trying to teach school, and there the desolation was far greater than here, both armies having passed back and forward over the ground, foragers out, and the torch at work more than once.

“Will there ever come a change for the better?” thought the keeper, as he walked homeward. “What an enormous stone has got to be rolled up hill! But at least, John Rodman,
you
need not go to work at it;
you
are not called upon to lend your shoulder.”