The Red Acorn | Page 6

a meaning that he feared to interpret, upon the
eloquent lines about the mobile, sensitive mouth, all now lifted into
almost supernatural beauty by the moonlight's spiritualizing magic.
What he said he could never afterward recall. His first memory was that
of a pause in his speech, when he saw the ripe, red lips turned toward
him with a gesture of the proud head that was both an assent and
invitation. The kiss that he pressed there thrilled him with the
intoxication of unexpectedly rewarded love, and Rachel with the
gladness of triumph.
What they afterward said was as incoherent as the conversations of
those rapturous moments ever are.
"You know we leave in the morning?" he said, when at last it became

necessary for him to go.
"Yes," she answered calmly. "And perhaps it is better that it should be
so--that we be apart for a little while to consider this new-found
happiness and understand it. I shall be sustained with the thought that
in giving you to the country I have given more than any one else. I
know that you will do something that will make me still prouder of you,
and my presentiments, which never fail me, assure me that you will
return to me safely."
His face showed a little disappointment with the answer.
She reached above her head, and breaking off a bud handed it to him,
saying in the words of Juliet:
"Sweet, good-night: This bud of love, by Summer's ripening breath,
May prove a beauteous flower, when next we meet."
He kissed the bud, and put it in his bosom; kissed her again
passionately, and descended the hill to prepare for his departure in the
morning.
She was with the rest of the village at the depot to bid the company
good-bye, and was amazed to find how far the process of developing
the bud into the flower had gone in her heart since parting with her
lover. Her previous partiality and admiration for him appeared now
very tame and colorless, beside the emotions that stirred her at the sight
of him marching with erect grace at the head of his company. But while
all about her were tears and sobs, and modest girls revealing
unsuspecting attachments in the agitation of parting, her eyes were
undimmed. She was proud and serene, a heightening of the color in her
cheeks being the only sign of unusual feeling. Harry came to her for a
moment, held her hand tightly in his, took the bud from his bosom,
touched it significantly with his lips, and sprang upon the train which
was beginning to move away.
The days that followed were halcyon for her. While the other women of
Sardis, whose loved ones were gone, were bewailing the dangers they
would encounter, her proud spirit only contemplated the chances that
Harry would have for winning fame. Battles meant bright laurels for
him in which she would have a rightful share.
Her mental food became the poetry of love, chivalry and glorious war.
The lyric had a vivid personal interest. Tales of romantic daring and
achievement were suggestions of possibilities in Harry's career. Her

waking hours were mainly spent, book in hand, under the old apple-tree
that daily grew dearer to her.
The exalted mood in which we found her was broken in upon by the
sound of some one shutting the gate below very emphatically. Looking
down she saw her father approaching with such visible signs in face
and demeanor of strong excitement that she arose and went to him.
"Why, father, what can be the matter?" she said, stopping in front of
him, with the open book pressed to her breast.
"Matter enough, I'm afraid, Rachel. There's been a battle near a place
called Rich Mountain, in Western Virginia, and Harry Glen's---"
"O, father," she said, growing very white, "Harry's killed."
"No; not killed." The old man's lip curled with scorn. "It's worse. He
seems to've suddenly discovered he wasn't prepared to die; he didn't
want to rush all at once into the presence of his Maker. Mebbe he didn't
think it'd be good manners. You know he was always stronger on
etikwet than anything else. In short, he's showed the white feather. A
dozen or more letters have come from the boys telling all about it, and
the town's talking of nothing else. There's one of the letters. It's from
Jake Alspaugh, who quite working for me to enlist. Read it yourself."
The old gentleman threw the letter upon the grass, and strode on
angrily into the house. Rachel smoothed out the crumpled sheet, and
read with a growing sickness at heart:
Mr. Bond--Deer Sur:
i taik my pen in hand to lett you no that with the exception of an
occashunal tuch of roomaticks, an