CHAPTER IX. THE CHASM OPENS.
The storm clouds were gathering dark about the Tompkins mansion. The heads of the household were silent on the question, each knowing the different feelings and sympathies of the other. Their sons were also silent, but there was a sullenness in their silence that foretold the coming strife. There was one member of the once happy household who could not comprehend the trouble, whose very gentleness kept her in ignorance of the threatened danger.
Yet neither love nor loving care could keep her from knowing that trouble was brewing. She could not but notice the coldness gradually growing between the two brothers. Brothers whose affection she once thought no earthly power could lessen, were growing daily colder and more and more estranged. Every morning each mounted his horse, and rode away alone, and it was always late in the night when they came home, never together. Gloomy and silent, the morning meal was hurried through, the pleasant conversation that had always accompanied it, was heard no more, if we except the efforts of Irene, who strove with all her power to infuse some of the old-time harmony and brightness into the altered family.
It was the evening of Mr. Diggs' visit to the Tompkins mansion, one of those clear bright evenings when the curtains of night seem reluctant to fall, and the fluttering folds seem held apart to reveal the beauty of the dying day. Irene sat by the window, gazing up at the dark blue vault, and listening to the far-off song of a whip-poor-will upon the lonely hillside. Nature to her had never seemed more calm or lovely. The moon, serenely bright, shed mellow light over the landscape, and the dark old forest on whose trees the early buds had swelled into green leaves, lay in a quiet repose. Only man, of all created things seemed unresting. Far down the road she heard the clatter of horses' hoofs. At all times now, day and night, she heard them.
Clatter, clatter, clatter—sleeping or waking, it was always the same, always this beat of hoofs. To her it seemed as if ten thousand dragoons were constantly galloping, galloping, galloping down the great road: somewhere their marshalled thousands must be gathering. Horsemen singly, horsemen in pairs, horsemen in groups, were galloping, galloping, until her ears ached with the awful din.
As she looked, a horseman came dashing down the hill; he passed through the gate and down the avenue.
"That must be either Abner or Oleah," thought Irene. "Six months ago, they would have gone and returned together."
When he stepped on the piazza, the moon fell on his face and revealed the features of Abner Tompkins. He came rapidly up the steps and into the house. Staying only a few moments in the room below, where his parents were, then came directly to Irene's door and knocked.
She bade him come in.
"Irene," he said in tremulous tones, "I have strange news for you. I must leave to-night for months perhaps, perhaps forever, my home, my parents—and you."
Irene sprang to his side eager and excited.
"Why, Abner, what do you mean?"
"Is it such a surprise to you? I will try to speak calmly, but I have only a few moments to stay. I have a load on my heart that I must unburden to you."
"What is it?" she said, drawing a low stool to his feet and seating herself she took both his hands in her own. "Tell me what troubles you, let me share it with you. Who should share your troubles if not your sister?"
"Irene, what I have to say will shock you."
"No, no, it will not. If you have done anything wrong, I shall be sure it was not your fault—"
"No, you misunderstand me; it is nothing I have done," he interrupted.
"Then what is this secret, brother?"
"I am not your brother."
Irene had promised that his secret should not shock her, yet had a bombshell burst at her feet, she could not have been more astonished.
She sprang from the low stool, and stood with clasped hands, the color fading from her face, her slight form swaying as though she had received a blow.
Abner, alarmed, sprang from his chair, and caught her in his arms.
"Irene, Irene, don't take it so," he said, bending tenderly over the white face.
"Not my brother? Why you must be mad!" she gasped.
"Irene, I am not your brother, but I love you a thousand times more fondly than a brother could love. It was this I wanted to tell you before I leave you. What, Irene, weeping—weeping because I am not your brother! My darling, let me be nearer and dearer than a brother!"
"Abner, I can not realize it, I can not think!" she said, pressing her hands to her throbbing temples.
"Think of it when I am gone, Irene, for I must go. To-morrow's sun must find me miles from here. But through all the coming strife I shall cherish your image. I shall hope for your love if I return. Now, good-by, my love, my Irene!"
He caught her in his arms, but it was only a sisterly embrace that Irene returned. She could not yet believe that Abner was not her brother.
He went down stairs, she heard his mother's sobs, his father's broken voice; the door opened and closed, and from her window she saw him pass down the avenue, out of sight. Soon she heard a horse galloping down the road, and knew that Abner was riding swiftly away in the gathering darkness.
Completely overcome, and not daring to meet Mr. or Mrs. Tompkins till she had controlled herself, Irene, throwing a light shawl about her shoulders, went down stairs, stepped through an open window out on the broad piazza. The cool night air fanned her cheeks and revived her spirits. She walked through the grounds to a summer house covered with trailing vines whose fragrant flowers filled the air with sweetest odors.
"It can not be, it can not be," she murmured. "He was surely jesting. I an outcast or foundling or a oh! merciful Heaven! I can not endure the thought!" and her beautiful eyes filled with tears. The whip-poor-will's call still sounded from the distant hillside, and soon another sound broke the evening stillness—the tread of a man's feet on the graveled walk. Irene turned her head quickly, and saw Oleah standing in the doorway.
"I thought I should find you here, Irene," he said. "You always choose this arbor on moonlight evenings."
"You have been absent all day, Oleah. What fearful business is it that keeps both my brothers from my side!"
"Ah! Heaven be praised, Irene, darling Irene, that you know nothing of it!"
"Abner left to-night, perhaps never to return he said," she went on, wiping the tears from her face.
"I see you have been weeping, dear Irene. I have more news for you. I too have to bid you what may prove a long farewell. I leave to-night for our camp, and shall soon march to join the main army. But I can not leave you, Irene, without telling you of something I have long kept a secret."
Irene could not speak; sobs choked her voice. Then from Oleah's lips fell those same startling words:
"I am not your brother."
She sat motionless. Then it must be true. They could not both be mistaken, could not both possess the same hallucination. If anyone was mad, it was herself. But Oleah went on in his quick passionate way:
"You are not my sister, dearest Irene, and that you are not gives me only joy. When you were left at our house a tiny baby, I claimed you for my sister, and when I learned you could not be my sister, I said you should one day be my wife. I loved from the first time those bright eyes laughed into mine, and that love has grown with my growth and strengthened with my strength, until it has taken possession of my entire being. O, Irene, Irene, you can never know how deep is the love I have born you from early childhood. I could not leave this old home without telling you that I loved you with more than a brother's love."
He paused, and Irene remained silent.
"Speak, Irene! Will you not speak?"
She was still silent, her large dark eyes fixed and staring, her white lips motionless, her whole form rigid as a statue. She thought of Abner's parting words, and pain and terror filled her soul. Had she entered this happy home only to bring discord, to widen the breach between the two brothers?
"O Irene, Irene," he pleaded, "by the memory of our happy childhood I implore you, speak once more before I go. Say that you will love me, that you will pray for me—pray for my safe return, pray for my soul if I fall in battle!"
The marble statue found voice.
"I will pray for you, Oleah, to heaven day and night, for your safe return."
"But will you give me your love? O Irene, if you only knew how dear you are to me, you will surely learn to love me!"
"I have always given you a sister's warmest love, Oleah," she replied, "and this is all too new, too strange, for me to change so suddenly."
"But you promise you will change?" he asked eagerly.
"I can not promise yet," she said. "I do not know myself, and neither do you comprehend your own feelings."
"Irene, dearest, I have known myself for years. Try to love me, and pray for me," he said, and taking both her hands as she came to his side, "for now I must go." He stooped and pressed a kiss on those white lips, and Irene was alone. Soon she heard again the hoof beats of a flying horse, and knew that Oleah had left his home.
When he had returned to bid farewell to his home, Abner Tompkins, before entering the house, walked down the long gravel walk, through the avenue of grand old elms, until the outer gate was reached. Here he paused a moment, and gazed up at the moon riding through the dark blue, fathomless vault of heaven; then he turned his gaze upon the spacious pillared mansion, his pleasant home, that he was to leave that night, perhaps forever. It was the home of his childhood; beneath its roof dwelt those he loved; and feelings of sadness filled his heart as he realized the fact that he must leave it. On his right lay the great road, the road that, in his boyhood, he had imagined, led to far-off lands and fairy kingdoms; the road he had thought must be endless, and had desired to follow to its end. Across the road was the forest where he and his brother had so often wandered. Every spot seemed hallowed with sacred remembrances of childhood, and associated with every object and every thought was that brother from whom he was gradually drifting away. He stood beneath the old hickory tree, whose nuts they had gathered, and whose topmost branches they had climbed in their adventurous boyhood. To-night all were fading away. He was going to different scenes, to see strange faces, to meet hardships, danger, perhaps death; worse than all to draw his sword against that very brother whose life had so long been one with his.
"Oh, what a curse is civil war," said Abner, with a sigh, "dividing nations, people and kindred." And, leaning against the trunk of the giant old hickory, he stood for a moment lost in painful reverie.
The beat of a horse's hoofs aroused him, and he saw his brother approaching. To reach the house he was compelled to pass within a few feet of the hickory tree, and must inevitably discover Abner, who, however, made no effort to conceal himself. Standing in the shade of the tree as he was, Oleah did not see his brother until he was within a few feet of him, and then could not distinguish his features.
"Halloo, whom have we here?" he said, reining in his horse abruptly.
"Who is there? Speak quick, or it may be the worse for you," cried impetuous Oleah, not receiving an immediate answer.
"It is I, Oleah," said Abner, stepping from under the branches of the old tree.
The two brothers had grown more and more estranged, but as yet there had been no open rupture between them.
"Well, I might inquire what you are doing there?" said Oleah.
"And I might ask what you are doing here, and where you are going, and a hundred other questions. If I were to tell you I was star-gazing you would not believe me."
"I don't know; I might," said Oleah. "You were sentimental at times when a boy, and the habit of looking at the moon and stars may have followed you into maturer years."
"I was just thinking," said Abner, "that this tree is very old, yet very hale."
"It is," answered Oleah; "it was a full grown tree when I first remember seeing it."
"Yes, and we have often climbed its branches or swung beneath them."
"That is all true," said Oleah, restlessly, "but why talk of that, above all other times, to-night?"
"It brings pleasant memories of our happy childhood. And why not to-night as well as any other time?" said Abner.
"I have reasons for not wishing to talk or to think of the past to-night," said Oleah. "I have enough to trouble me without bringing up recollections that are now anything but pleasant."
"Recollections of childhood are always pleasant to me," said Abner, "and when storms of passion sway me, such thoughts calm the storm and soothe my turbulent mind once more to peace."
"Have you been in a rage to-night?" asked Oleah, with a smile.
"No."
"Then why are you conjuring recollections of the past?"
"I have not conjured them up; they come unbidden. This night, above all others, I would not drive the thoughts of our past away."
"And why?" asked Oleah, uneasily.
"Because this night we part, Oleah, perhaps forever."
Oleah, rash, hot-headed, fiery Oleah, had a tender heart in his bosom, and now he was trembling with emotion, although he made an effort to appear calm.
"How do you know that we are to part to-night?" he asked.
"We are both going from our home, and going in different directions. We are standing on opposite sides of a gulf momentarily growing wider."
A fearful suspicion crossed Oleah's mind. "Do you leave home to-night?"
"Yes."
"Where are you going?"
"To join the army of my country and the Union."
Oleah started back as if he had received a stunning blow in the face. Abner was aware that Oleah had enlisted in the Confederate army, but Oleah did not dream that his brother would enter the army of the North.
"Abner, Abner," he cried, hurriedly dismounting from his horse and coming to his brother's side, "for heaven's sake say that it is not true!"
"But it is true," said Abner sadly. "To-night we separate, you to fight for the cause of the South, I for the preservation of the Union."
"O Abner, O my brother, how can you be so blinded? It is a war between the North and South, the only object of the North being to give freedom to our slaves. You will see if the North should be successful, that every negro in the land will be freed."
"And you will see that the North has no such intentions. Mr. Lincoln, although a Republican, was born in a slave State, and he will not free the slaves. But, Oleah, it is useless for us to discuss these matters; we part to-night, and let us—"
"But should we meet," said Oleah, his hot blood mounting to his face, "it will be as enemies. You are my brother now, but when you don the hated uniform of an Abolition soldier you will be my enemy; for I have sworn by the eternal heavens to cut asunder every tie of friendship or kindred when I find them arrayed against our cause."
"Oleah," said Abner, "be not too rash in your vows. Do not make them just yet."
"I have already made them; and whoever confronts me with a blue coat and a Yankee musket is an enemy, whatever blood runs in his veins."
"I pray that we may never meet thus," said Abner. "Rather would I have you find among the slain the body of one you no longer own as a brother."
One of the stable men now appeared, leading Abner's horse. Oleah's hot passion was gone; his eyes were misty, his voice was choked. The brothers clasped hands in silence, and five minutes later Abner was galloping down the great road.