Chapter V: The Lovers’ Parting

She weeps the weary day.
The war upon her native soil,
Her lover’s risk in battle broil.—SCOTT.

Britomarte boarded with a widow of the name of Burton, who had three grown daughters. They lived in a small white cottage, in a large, shady garden, in the northeastern suburbs of the city, and not very far from the parsonage. The mother and daughters supported themselves by taking in plain sewing from the quartermaster’s department. As Britomarte was their only boarder, and was contented to share their own simple and frugal meals, her living was inexpensive, and she paid for it by needle work.

Every hour of the day that she did not devote to visiting the hospitals with Erminie, was employed in this work, and the stroke of midnight often found her still at her needle. And yet, with all this industry, Britomarte could scarcely make enough to pay her small expenses.

Justin and Erminie guessed all this, and felt great but vain regret; for so long as Miss Conyers remained so obstinately proud and independent, they could do nothing on earth to assist her.

“It seems to me,” complained Erminie, “that if I were in Britomarte’s place, I would allow those who love me to improve my condition.”

“You cannot understand her, and I do not blame her,” answered Justin.

Once, while the two girls were on their way to the Douglass Hospital, Erminie said:

“Britomarte, dearest, if you _will_ be so independent, why can you not be so in a more agreeable way—agreeable to yourself, I mean? Instead of delving over those coarse garments for the quartermaster’s department, why do you not give music lessons?”

“Because, my dear, I only want transient work, something that I can give up at any moment without wronging any one.”

“But what do you mean by that, Britomarte?”

“My stay in Washington is short and uncertain.”

“Oh, pray don’t say that. Where will you go?”

“I do not know, dear,” answered Miss Conyers, in that grave tone that forbade farther cross-questioning.

So Erminie sighed and fell into silence.

Britomarte was now so closely engaged that she seldom got time to spend an evening at the parsonage. Something like a fortnight had elapsed since that evening when she had taken tea with Erminie, and laughed at Justin for his mere camp promotions; and since then she had not visited their house.

One afternoon she sat diligently sewing on a coarse blue jacket, when Mrs. Burton came up to her room and told her that there was an old colored man below asking to speak to her.

She went down stairs and found Uncle Bob, who handed her a note from Erminie.

It was very short, and ran thus:

“_Dear Britomarte, please come to me at once, for I am in great distress._

ERMINIE.”

“What is the matter, Uncle Bob?” she inquired.

“Ma’am?”

“Is there anything amiss at your house?”

“No, ma’am, not as I knows of. Miss Erminie is crying, but I aint heern no bad news.”

Britomarte ran up to her room, and put on her bonnet and shawl, and came down and joined the old servant, and started for the parsonage. But her fleet steps soon distanced his feeble ones, and she arrived at the house first, and hurried immediately to the library, where she found Erminie in tears.

“What is it all, my dearest?” inquired Miss Conyers, throwing off her bonnet and shawl, and taking Erminie in her arms.

“Oh, Britomarte, I have no courage at all when the test comes,” sobbed Erminie, dropping her head upon the bosom of her friend.

“But what is it, dearest?” again inquired Miss Conyers, with a misgiving heart.

“Oh, can’t you imagine? Oh, Britomarte, the brigade has marching orders at last. It is to leave in the boats this evening.”

Even Britomarte for an instant reeled under the blow, but in another she rallied and replied:

“That is well. We don’t want any more camp heroes, Erminie.”

“But it is so sudden. True, we were expecting this, or rather hearing of it, every day. But it had got to be an old story. I began to think that the brigade would remain in the forts, when about an hour ago came an orderly sergeant with this note from Justin—listen to it,” said Erminie, unfolding a little note and reading:

Head Quarters of the ——
Fort ——

“MY DEAREST SISTER:—We have received our marching orders. We go by the
six o’clock boats this afternoon. I will try to see you before we
leave. If I cannot get to the house, will you be at the wharf? And as
you love me, send for Britomarte, and prevail on her to remain with
you at the house, or accompany you to the wharf, as the case may
require. Heaven bless you both.

JUSTIN.”

“It is now two o’clock. Shall you stay here or go to the wharf?” inquired Britomarte, in a tremulous tone.

“I shall remain here until five o’clock. If he does not come before that hour, I shall know that he will not come at all, and that the only chance we shall have of taking leave of him, will be at the wharf,” replied Erminie.

“My darling, if he is not here within a very few moments, he will not be here at all; for you know he must leave himself time enough after visiting you to get back to camp to march his company.”

“That is true. Still, it is not worth while for us to leave the house before five o’clock, as they will not be at the boats before half-past five,” said Erminie.

“You are right,” agreed Britomarte.

“And oh! I still hope that he may come here. It will be dreadful to have to bid him good-bye at the wharf, in the multitude of men. But if I do have to go to the wharf, you will go with me, Britomarte?” pleaded Erminie.

“Certainly,” replied Miss Conyers.

“And oh! Britty, Britty, if you would only give him a little hope—a little hope to cheer him on his way.”

“Don’t speak of it, Erminie. I would die for your brother rather than sacrifice my principles so far.”

Erminie sighed and forbore to reply.

“Where is Elfie?” inquired Miss Conyers, to change the conversation.

“She is packing her father’s portmanteau. He, too, leaves us to join his regiment to-morrow; and Ethel goes the day after. We shall have a lonely house here, Britomarte.”

“You will fill it with refugees from the South, never fear,” said Miss Conyers, cheerfully.

Even while she spoke, the door bell rang sharply.

“That is Justin!” she exclaimed, springing to her feet and running out to meet him.

Britomarte remained pale and breathless where Erminie had left her.

There was a sound of meeting, and of sobbing, and of cheering words, and then the brother and sister entered the library.

Britomarte arose and gave her hand to Justin. He pressed it in silence. They could not trust themselves to speak just then.

“How long—can you stay with us, my brother?” said Erminie, striving hard to control her emotion and to speak with composure.

“I may remain with you until five o’clock, dear. My first lieutenant will march my company to the boat, and I have leave to join it there.”

“Thank Heaven for so much grace!” replied Erminie, as she turned and left the room.

She went out from a two-fold motive—to order a dainty dinner prepared, so that they all might partake of one more meal together, and also to give her brother the opportunity of making one more last appeal to his obdurate love.

When they were left alone together, Justin and Britomarte remained for a few moments silent and motionless. Both were too full of suppressed emotion to trust themselves to move or speak.

Justin was the first to master himself. When he had done so, he approached Britomarte, stood before her a moment, and then taking her hand, said, in a tone thrilled with passion:

“I promised you never again to speak of the subject nearest my heart.”

“Then keep your promise, Justin,” she said, in a gentle, solemn voice.

“You will not free me from it?”

“I cannot.”

“Britomarte!”

“Well?”

“Do you know why, after so long a delay, we have at length received such sudden marching orders?”

“I do not.”

“Nor yet where we are going?”

“No.”

“I will tell you. We are ordered to C——, to reinforce General M——, who is hourly expecting a battle.”

Britomarte started as if she had suddenly received a stab; but quickly recovered herself, and firmly replied:

“Then I congratulate you, Justin. I would to Heaven I could stand at your side—your brother-in-arms—on the day of battle!”

“So would not I,” said Justin, gravely—“so would not I. But, Britomarte, you have it in your power to give my arm great strength, if you please to do so.”

“Love of your country should be all sufficient to nerve your arm, Justin,” she answered, earnestly.

He took her hand, and sought to read her face; but she turned away her head to conceal the emotion she could not quite control.

They were interrupted:

“‘Malbrook is bound to the wars!
Malbrook is bound to the wars!
Malbrook is bound to the wars!
And I hope he’ll never return!’”

sang Elfie, dancing into the room.

“So you are really off, are you, Justin?” she inquired, giving him her hand.

“Yes, Elfie—really, off at last,” replied Justin, smiling.

“Well, so is my governor, and so is my substitute! And I wish with all my heart and soul that I was going too! But, you see, I have given my pap my sacred word not to enlist, unless my substitute jumps the bounty, or gets himself killed or taken prisoner!” said Elfie.

Erminie hearing the voices in the library, thought it would be of no use for her to remain out any longer, depriving herself of her brother’s society. So she came in. And after that the conversation, under the auspices of Elfie, became general and cheerful.

A very nice dinner was served at four o’clock. And Justin and the three young ladies sat down to it together.

Major Fielding and Lieutenant Ethel were not at home, and not expected before six o’clock.

After dinner Erminie sent out for a carriage.

“You must let us ride down to the wharf with you, Justin, and see you off,” said his sister.

“Yes, yes—it is just what I wish,” he answered.

“Britomarte, dear Britomarte, you, too, will go with us,” pleaded Erminie.

“Of course I shall, love,” murmured Miss Conyers, in reply.

“Elfie dear, I know that you must stay here to receive your father when he comes in to dinner, else I would ask you also to go with us,” said Erminie.

“Thanks for nothing!” laughed Elfie. “I can’t go, and I don’t want to go; and as Captain Rosenthal is neither my brother nor my lover, there is no necessity for me to go.”

The carriage was at the door at five o’clock.

Justin took leave of Elfie, left his regards for Major Fielding and Lieutenant Ethel, and then entered the carriage where Britomarte and Erminie were already seated.

A half hour’s rapid driving brought them to the steamboat wharf, which was now a scene of great excitement.

The troops were embarking; and a great number of people—relatives, friends and even mere acquaintances were assembled to see them off.

The regiments were embarked by companies. And while one company would be passing on to the boat in files, those remaining on the wharf were “at rest.”

Some were devouring fruit and cakes at the stands on the grounds; some buying papers of the newsboys, who were crying the last victory; some were shaking hands with friends; and others, many others, were bidding good-bye to mothers, wives, sisters, or sweethearts, assembled there, “to see the last of them.”

In the crowd one boy attracted Britomarte’s attention. Though he wore the uniform of a soldier, he did not seem to be more than fifteen years of age. A bright, spirited-looking lad he was, but he seemed quite alone in that crowd. No one accosted him, and he spoke to none. Britomarte watched him with some interest.

“He belongs to my company,” said Justin.

Britomarte and Erminie now got out of their carriage and stood with Justin, until the company immediately before his own fell into order to embark. Then it was the turn of Justin’s company to form.

“I must leave you now, Erminie! be a woman, my little girl!” said Justin, hastily but fervently pressing his sister to his bosom.

“God bless you! Oh! God bless you, my brother!” she cried, trying hard to swallow and keep down her sobs and tears.

“Good-bye, Britomarte!” said Justin, solemnly, giving her his hand.

“Good-bye! May God strengthen your arm, and preserve your life in the battle, and send you back with victory! Good-bye!” she answered, wringing his hand and dropping it, and turning away her head to hide the strong emotion all but too manifest in her countenance.

A sigh reached her ear, and then the piteous words:

“Well, there is no one in the world to bid _me_ good-bye, or ask God to bless me. Oh, well, so much the better may be, for if I’m killed there’ll be nobody’s feelings hurt.”

Britomarte looked up.

It was the lonely boy who had spoken, and now he stood there with a smile that was more touching than tears could have been.

Britomarte’s pity moved for the friendless lad.

“Yes, my boy, _I_ will bid you good-bye, and pray God to bless you, and to bring you back to us safe!” she said, taking the lad’s hand, stooping and pressing a kiss upon his brow.

Justin saw it all; but not a shade of jealousy clouded his own mind. He understood Britomarte too well.

“God bless you for that, noble woman!” he whispered. “I will look after the lad as though he were my younger brother, or _yours_.”

And these were Justin’s parting words to Britomarte.

While he was leading his men on to the boat, Britomarte and Erminie returned to the carriage, where they sat watching until the few remaining companies embarked, and the boat got up her steam, and steamed away from the wharf.

Even then they continued to watch the boat as long as she remained in sight.

And finally they gave the order to drive back to the parsonage. When they arrived, Erminie tried to persuade Britomarte to alight and go in; but in vain. Miss Conyers felt that she needed the solitude of her own chamber.

“Go in, dear Erminie. Elfie and her father will cheer you up this evening. To-morrow I will come to you,” she said, embracing her friend, and then drawing her veil over her face and turning her steps homeward. Britomarte reached her boarding-house and opened the front door, which admitted her immediately into the neat little parlor where the landlady and her daughters were seated at tea.

Mrs. Burton arose in a little bustle to get another cup and saucer, and saying, apologetically:

“We waited an hour for you, Miss Conyers, and then we concluded that you were spending the evening with your friends, and so we thought we would have our tea. But I will make some fresh for you in a moment.”

“No—pray do not disturb yourself. I can not take anything just now. By and by, may be, I may come down and make a cup for myself,” said Britomarte, passing hastily through the parlor to the back room, from which the stairs ascended to her own chamber.

Arrived there, she bolted herself in, threw off her bonnet and shawl, and dropped down upon her bed, in a collapse of all her enthusiasm, and wept bitterly.

For nearly three years she had been the constant companion of Justin, under circumstances that threw them entirely upon each other for mutual comfort and support; and the love that had first been inspired by his high personal excellence was now confirmed by habit.

Since they had returned to their native country, and mingled freely with their fellow-creatures, each little event that had come between herself and her lover, to part them even for a day, had been felt like the stroke of a cleaving sword dividing her bosom.

Even the first little parting in the city, when she went temporarily to a hotel, and he went to his home, a few streets off, was a sharp pain, although she knew that she would see him every day.

The second parting, when he enlisted, and went over to his fort on the south side of the river, was a much sharper pain, for she knew that she should see him only every week at oftenest.

But now this parting was insupportable agony, for she felt that she might not see him for years, if indeed she should ever see him again.

Moaning and weeping in her anguish and despair, she now realized how utterly her soul had passed into the soul of her lover, so that she lived only in his life.

Yes, only in his life. Lifeless, except in its painful half-consciousness of death, seemed her own being; lifeless the great, populous city; lifeless the long lines of occupied forts; lifeless all, because he was no longer in the midst. While away down the broad river, somewhere, in one man’s bosom, beat the heart of all life for her.

An unsupportable sense of suffocation, like the being stifled with grave clods, overwhelmed her. She struggled up and threw open the windows of her room for air. But it was a subtler air than any in her reach that she needed for her relief. And an intolerable longing to be near him, to be with him at all costs, seized her. She felt that she could not breathe apart from him; that there could be no evil in this world come to her so great as this evil of separation from him; that there was nothing could be compared with it; nothing could be weighed against it; no cause on earth could or need justify such a mortal severance.

Without him, the fairest, brightest scenes of earth would be to her as lifeless and as gloomy as the charnel house, while with him _any_ scene—a hut, a cave, a bomb-proof, the rifle-pits, the battle-field, aye, the Libby Prison itself, would be endurable.

In the great bitterness of her anguish, she repented that she had not married him, and gone with him to the field. That would have been happiness, and the only happiness possible for her. But then she was pledged to abjure his whole sex in the way of love and marriage.

But if it were possible that she could have followed him to battle, followed him through life, as his sister, that would have been the next best thing to being his wife; or better still, as his brother, for as his brother she might be beside him on the battle-field, in the midst of an engagement, when shot and shell were flying fastest, in the thickest carnage, where, as his wife, she would never be allowed to appear.

A vehement, passionate desire to be all this to her beloved; to be to him more than wife, sister or brother had ever been to man before—more than all these combined could ever become—to be his brother-in-arms, his inseparable companion, his shadow, his shield, his guardian angel, in the tented field, in the pitched battle, in the rebel prison, or in the grave.

And why should she not be all this to him? she asked herself. There was no law of God or man that forbade it. There was no human creature whom she could hurt by it.

In the midst of her impassioned aspirations she stopped short, sat down, and put her hands to her temples and took herself to task.

“Am I mad or morbid?” she inquired. “All this must be wrong and extravagant. There are thousands and thousands of wives who are parted from their husbands, and girls who are parted from their lovers, by this war. I meet such every day, and they are very cheerful over it. ‘My husband is on General Sherman’s staff,’ says one lady, with more pride than regret. ‘John is with Admiral Dahlgren before Charleston,’ chirps another, whose betrothed is daily exposed to death. Is my love greater than theirs, or is my patience only less?” She paused, and then answered herself—

“I know not how it may be with others—I only know that I cannot live or breathe except I go to my lover’s side and share his toils and dangers.”

And she arose and put back the dark tresses of her hair, while a wonderful calmness and resolution settled her stormy features into stillness.