Chapter XXXIII: At Peace

Here lurks no treason here no envy swells,
Here grows no damned grudges; here are no storms.
No noise, but silence and eternal sleep.—SHAKSPEARE.

During Elfie’s absence from the ward all the sick and wounded had been made as comfortable as circumstances would permit for the night. The greater number of them had been quieted by opium. And even those who could not sleep lay in benign repose, under the influence of that blessed but much abused “gift of God.” Certainly the great good of opium never was so realized and appreciated as in the military hospitals during the war.

Here, for instance, in this one ward, were as many as fifty patients, in every stage of wounds, fever and suffering; so nervous, so restless, so excitable, as not to be able to bear a ray of light, or a sound of noise; yet exposed to the bright flaring of the gas-burners; to the irrepressible groans, tossings and complainings of their companions; and to the necessary movements of the doctors, nurses and assistants.

Think of that you who, when you have a nervous headache, cannot bear the light of a taper, or the fall of a footstep in your room at night.

Where silence, stillness and darkness seemed the very necessary conditions of life, these sufferers had only noise, hurry and glare. And this was quite inevitable in the crowded wards. And from these causes alone delirium and death must have often ensued but for the benign influence of opium.

The nurses administered it pure, or in combination with such other medicines as each case might require. And then the restless, irritable sufferers ceased to disturb themselves and others with their tossings and groanings; and with their wounds dressed, their heads cooled, and their nerves quieted, lay under their smoothly straightened white counterpanes in perfect repose. And now that the patients were quiet, the nurses also were still, and the gas was turned low. And peace descended like a blessing on the place.

As Elfie sat beside her patient, and looked down along the lines of white beds, with their calm occupants, she thought that there was something of Heaven in the aspect of the scene.

While she so looked, she observed in the farthest corner of the room, near the last bed on the opposite side, a group gathered.

She saw that this group consisted of a surgeon, a chaplain and a nurse. Presently the chaplain knelt by the bed, and began to pray in a low tone, audible only to the patient on the bed, and the people who stood around it.

In a few minutes the chaplain arose, stood silently by the patient for awhile, and then, with the surgeon, left the ward. And the nurse drew the sheet up over the face of the dead.

And though all passed so quietly, Elfie knew that a soldier’s soul had departed.

Some twenty minutes passed away, and then four men came in at the lower door, with a bier, upon which they placed the mattress with the dead man, and carried him out.

And all this was accomplished silently, without disturbing the other patients in the ward.

The nurse, when her duties to the dead were done, came softly stepping up to Elfie’s side.

“Some poor fellow has gone to his rest. Who was it?” inquired Elfie.

“Poor young Carnes, the boy in whom Miss Rosenthal was so much interested. We have been expecting his death for many days. And now he is gone. He passed away perfectly conscious and perfectly resigned. And he left his love, and his little pocket testament to Miss Rosenthal,” said the nurse. And then she went her way to her other duties.

Tears stood in Elfie’s eyes.

“And yet he is only one among thousands and thousands who have perished like him, in the flower of their youth. Oh, this war! this war!” she sighed.

Then she looked down upon her own patient. He was sleeping peacefully under the influence of the opiate.

The hours passed quietly on towards midnight. Elfie with her hand held prisoner the hand of her patient, and her head resting on the edge of his pillow, fell asleep.

The nurse passing softly on her rounds of inspection, paused to gaze on this scene, the poor mutilated man and his weary wife, both sleeping so peacefully, and so unconscious of the danger that was evident to the nurse’s experience.

“Poor things,” she murmured, “let them sleep while they may.”

Elfie slept several hours. When she awoke it was near day. She looked at her little watch and saw that it was four o’clock in the morning.

Her patient was still sleeping very calmly, although she had, on waking up, unconsciously drawn her hand from his.

“Oh, he is a great deal better! a great deal better! He will be sure to get well!” said Elfie, gazing with satisfaction and thankfulness upon the calmly sleeping face.

She bathed her own eyes and temples from a little pocket flacon of cologne water to wake herself up more effectually, and then she sat cheerfully watching for the dawn, and frequently looking down upon the face of her patient.

An hour more had passed when, looking upon Goldsborough’s face, she fancied that it had changed, and grown paler and more sunken. While gazing intently, to be sure she was right, she became sensible of a sound of dull, soft trickling and dropping. Thinking of nothing but that her jug might be leaking and her lemonade wasting, she hastily arose to examine; and her eyes fell upon a sight that made her senses reel: beside the bed was a crimson pool formed from a stream of blood that trickled and dropped from under the counterpane.

In an instant Elfie knew what had happened. The hemorrhage had broken out again, and the patient was fast bleeding to death in his opium sleep.

Suppressing the scream that arose to her lips, Elfie flew noiselessly down the ward to the spot where the nurses and night-watchers sat, and breathlessly told them of the fatality.

One of the nurses hastened out to fetch a surgeon, and the other accompanied Elfie back to her patient.

The woman immediately uncovered the stump of the mutilated limb, and placing her hand to the lips of the wound, pressed them together to stop the hemorrhage until the surgeon should arrive.

The action awoke the sleeper. He gasped for breath and stared around him in bewilderment.

Elfie was already by his side, with her hand in his. But his feeble hand had no longer the power to close on hers.

He was dying fast.

“What—has—happened?” he panted, turning his eyes, wild with the approaching struggle, up to the face of Elfie.

“My love, my love, it is only your wound bleeding a little. We will stop it soon,” she replied, in a low and soothing tone, repressing all exhibition of the despair that was nearly breaking her heart.

“I—I am dying, Elfie! Pray—pray—for me, darling,” he gasped.

Elfie sank on her knees, and spreading her arms over him, prayed fervently:

“Oh, Heavenly Father, forgive him, forgive, and receive him and bless him, for our Savior’s sake,” she cried over and over again, in the earnestness of her supplication.

“Amen, Amen,” he breathed, at every interval of her prayer.

“Oh, my love, my love! Christ will atone to God for all your sins. And I—I will do all I can to atone to man!” wept Elfie, as she arose from her knees.

The surgeon came hurrying to the scene. But a single glance at the dying man assured him that all his own medical skill, all the world’s medical skill would never succeed in saving him now.

Albert Goldsborough turned his fading eyes on his wife, and feebly tried to raise his hand. She understood him and bowed her head, and took his hand and passed it around her neck.

“Elfie—forgive—forgive—” he breathed and then failed.

“Oh, my dear love, I have nothing to forgive,” she wept, pressing her lips to his clammy brow.

“Bless you—Elfie—Bless——” he panted, and stopped.

His eyes glazed and his head dropped.

He was dead, in Elfie’s arms.

“He is gone, my dear. Come away,” said the gentle voice of Sister Agnes, who had come softly to the side of the bed.

Elfie laid her beloved burden back upon the pillow, gazed at the dead face in unutterable love and grief, pressed her lips upon the cold brow, and then turned and gave her hand to Sister Agnes, who led her from the room.

Well it was for Elfie that she was not of a temperament to suppress her emotions.

As soon as she had reached the little bed-room in the third story she threw herself into her friend’s arms and burst into a flood of tears.

The Sister of Mercy, young in years, but old in her experience of sorrow, let the mourner weep and sob, until she had exhausted the violence of her emotions.

Then she led her to one of the beds and made her lie down upon it, and soothed her with tender caresses and gentle words.

And then saying that she would go and send a messenger for Miss Rosenthal, she left Elfie to repose.

It was still very early in the morning, just about sunrise, when Erminie came in her carriage, in answer to the summons, and was shown immediately to the little room occupied by Elfie.

On seeing her friend, Elfie started up and fell upon Erminie’s bosom and gave way to another outburst of sorrow.

Erminie silently embraced and supported her until the paroxysm was over. Then she made Elfie lie down again on her bed until Sister Agnes had brought up a cup of tea and a piece of dry toast, which they persuaded her to take.

“And now, my dear,” said Erminie, when Elfie had drained the cup, “you must put on your bonnet and mantle and return home with me. The carriage is waiting at the door.”

“Oh, Erminie! I cannot—I cannot leave him here!” wept Elfie.

“And you shall not, dear. I have spoken to the surgeon in charge, and he will speak to those in authority and take the necessary measures to have the remains of Colonel Goldsborough removed to our house, where the funeral shall be solemnized,” said Miss Rosenthal.

“Oh, Erminie! how can I ever thank and bless you enough!” exclaimed Elfie.

The Lutheran minister’s orphan daughter stooped and kissed the sorrowing girl, and then with her own hands put on Elfie’s shawl and bonnet and made her ready for her ride.

Lastly, Miss Rosenthal, in a graceful and earnest manner, thanked Sister Agnes for her kindness to Elfie, and then took leave.

When they were in the carriage, Erminie said:

“Give yourself no uneasiness about the details of this sad duty, Elfie. I will send for the proper people and have everything done to your satisfaction.”

“Oh, thanks, thanks, with all my heart and soul!” wept Elfie.

When they reached the parsonage, Erminie made Elfie undress and go to bed, and soon had the comfort of seeing the weeping girl sob herself to sleep.

Erminie sent for her friend, Dr. Sales, and put all the arrangements for the funeral in his hands. And then she sat down and wrote a letter to Elfie’s father, telling him all that had happened, and begging him to get leave and come to his daughter as soon as possible.

This letter, as it afterwards appeared, never reached Major Fielding, who happened at the very time of its posting to be on his way to Washington.

The funeral of Albert Goldsborough took place on Sunday. He was interred in the same burial ground where the remains of the deceased members of the Rosenthal family reposed.

Elfie returned from the grave sorrowful but composed, and that night she was blessed with the first quiet sleep that had visited her weary-mind and body since her meeting with her wounded husband in the hospital.

On the next day, Monday, Elfie, dressed in her widow’s weeds, was seated in the library, seeking comfort and guidance from the pages of the Holy Scriptures, when she heard the street door bell ring.

And the moment after the library door was opened, and Major Fielding entered the room.

Seeing a quiet little woman sitting there in widow’s weeds, with her fine hair concealed under a widow’s cap, and knowing nothing at all of what had happened to his daughter within the last few weeks, the honest major supposed that he had made a mistake, and intruded upon one of Miss Rosenthal’s visitors. And with an—

“I beg your pardon, Madam; I was told that I should find my daughter here,” he was about to back out, when Elfie looked up, and exclaiming:

“Papa! papa! oh, don’t you know me?” started up and flung herself into his arms, and sobbing violently, clung to him.

“Elfie! you! You in this dress! And weeping so! What is the meaning of it?” demanded the old soldier, in unbounded astonishment.

“Oh, papa, papa dear, don’t blame me, and—don’t blame him, or my heart will break!” sobbed Elfie.

“But—what do you mean, girl? Blame who? Blame what?” cried the major in amazement.

“Oh, papa, I couldn’t help it, dear, indeed I couldn’t! Neither could he,” she wept.

“Help what? Compose yourself, and explain, if you can, girl. Why do you weep? why are you wearing this dress?” said the major, sinking into the nearest chair, and drawing Elfie down upon his lap.

“Papa, I was carried off by guerrillas and obliged to do it. And—indeed, I am not sorry I did it now. And he was mortally wounded, papa, and dying in the hospital, and after all we did love each other so much, and that was how it was. Oh, papa dear, don’t be angry with me, or you will kill me!” said Elfie, bursting into a fresh flood of tears.

“I am not angry, but I believe I am half crazed. Will you tell me, Elfie, why you grieve so bitterly, and why you, who never were a wife, should be wearing a widow’s dress?” said the patient veteran.

“I told you how it was, papa. I told—old you how it was. O, don’t blame us, papa, or if you must blame anybody, let it be me. It was all my fault. Don’t blame him; he can’t defend himself any longer. You may rail at him, but he cannot reply. His lips are mute now, and the dust lies on them,” cried Elfie, breaking into hysterical sobs.

In despair of gaining any clear information from his distracted daughter, Major Fielding arose and placed her gently in the chair, and then went and rang the bell.

Bob answered it.

“Is Miss Rosenthal in the house?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Will you ask her to come here, if she pleases?”

Bob disappeared.

In a moment after Erminie entered and greeted Major Fielding with grave and sweet courtesy.

“Erminie, my dear, tell me the meaning of this. I can’t get a coherent word out of this hysterical girl,” said Major Fielding.

“But—didn’t you get my letter of Friday last?” inquired Miss Rosenthal.

“No, my dear; for on Friday last I left for Washington.”

“Then I have a serious story to tell you, Major Fielding; but I will tell it as briefly as possible. Sit down,” said Miss Rosenthal.

Major Fielding took a chair. Miss Rosenthal seated herself; and while Elfie sobbed softly behind her pocket handkerchief, and the major listened attentively, Erminie told the story of Elfie’s abduction by the guerrillas, her forced marriage to Albert Goldsborough, the surprise of the guerrilla camp by the Federals, the defeat and death of the Free Sword, and the capture of Goldsborough, the deliverance of Elfie, and her subsequent meeting with her husband in the hospital, and all that followed thereupon.

“Oh, papa! papa! do not reproach me, dear! do not, or my heart will break!” sobbed Elfie, as she once again threw herself into his arms.

“I have no thought of reproaching you, my poor girl,” said the gentle father, caressing his child.

“And do not blame him, papa!—oh, do not blame him! He is dead now!” she wept.

“And the dead are sacred, my girl,” said the major, gathering his child closer to his bosom.