CHAPTER LXXIX.
On the piazza of a house in Harrisonburg sat two young surgeons. One of them was on duty there; the other had driven in from Taylor’s Springs to procure supplies, and his ambulance-wagon stood in front of the door.
“Well,” said the visitor, rising, “I must hurry back.”
“Any serious cases?”
“Yes; one more than serious. Captain Smith—gallant fellow—pity!”
“Ah, indeed. Poor fellow,—I feared so. He stopped here for an hour or so, then persisted, against my remonstrances, in going out to Taylor’s. Well, good-by. Drop in whenever you are in town.”
“Thank you, I will. Good-day.”
“Doctor! doctor!”
The voice was quick and nervous, and the young surgeon hurried to the open window. “What can I do for you, Miss Rolfe?”
“Ask your friend to wait one moment,” said she, as she hastily tied her bonnet-strings; “I want to go to Taylor’s.” And running to a little closet, she drew forth a shawl.
The doctor had hardly had time to deliver the message before Mary was on the piazza. “Can you give me a seat in your wagon?”
“Certainly,” said the surgeon, lifting his cap.
He was proud to have so pretty a woman grace his equipage, and he looked forward to a pleasant chat along the road; but he soon discovered that, though she made an effort to appear interested, she did not hear what he said. And so he gave over his effort to entertain her, and they drove forward in a silence that was hardly broken till the driver turned out of the Port Republic Road.
“Are we almost there?”
“It is less than a mile from here. We shall be there in a few minutes.”
She gave a slight shiver.
“Have you any friends there, among the wounded?”
“Yes—no—that is, he is not exactly a friend of mine. He is a friend of some very dear friends of mine, who would like to know how he is.”
“Oh, I see. I am surgeon in charge; may I ask the name?”
“Captain Smith.”
“Captain Smith?”
“Yes, of the Stonewall skirmishers.”
“Oh, yes. I was speaking of him, to-day, in Harrisonburg.”
“Is his wound dangerous?”
“He was shot through the right lung.”
“Are such wounds very dangerous? I mean, are they necessarily fatal?”
“No, not always.”
Then there was silence for a hundred yards. Suddenly she asked, in a low voice, “Do you think there is any hope?”
The surgeon was silent for a little while. “I cannot give you much encouragement,” he said, at last.
She did not speak again till the wagon stopped in front of the farm-house, which at that time constituted, with the usual out-buildings, Taylor’s Springs. It has since been added to, and the name changed to Massanetta. Then, as now, the waters of the beautiful, bubbling spring below the house, at the foot of the hill, enjoyed a high repute as a potent specific in cases of malarial trouble; and a military sanitarium had been established there, the tents of which dotted the little valley.
“The house, as you see,” said the surgeon, as they descended the slope from the road to the front door, “is too small for a hospital; so the men are under canvas. Your friend, however,—I mean your friends’ friend,—is in the house. It is right to warn you that you will find him much changed. Or did I understand you to say that you had never met him?”
“I knew him once,—years ago.”
“Walk in,” said he, opening the door; but she had already dropped into a chair that stood upon the porch. “Ah, you are tired,” said he. “Let me bring you a glass of water. No? Is there anything that I can do for you?”
She shook her head, lifting her eyes, for a moment, to his. That moment was enough,—he read them; “I will leave you here for a little while,—till you get rested.”
She bowed her head in silent acquiescence.
Three or four convalescent solders who sat on the porch looked at her pale face, and then at each other; and they stole away, one by one, making as little noise as they could with their heavy brogans.
If a man be a man, he is not far from being a gentleman.
And Mary was alone with her anguish.
Two or three times the surgeon stole to the door, glanced at the bowed, motionless figure, and as often retired within the house. At last she beckoned him to her side.
“I am rested now,” she said. “How is he?”
“About the same.”
“Can I see him?”
“Yes; walk in. One moment.” And stepping to the second door on the right-hand side of the hall, he opened it and beckoned. A soldier came out into the hall.
“Shelton,” said he, “you can stroll around for a while; when I want you I will call you. This way.” And he bowed Mary into the room and closed the door softly behind her.
“Poor girl! poor girl!” said he, shaking his head; and he left the hall.