“Not on my wife, bless her silly heart! Why, she’ll be going round bragging that she has a wounded Major in her house. She’s proud of you, my hero of ten battles! Didn’t I hear her just now boasting to the water-rate collector, that she had a son in the house who had lost an arm at Fair Oaks? A son, Major! Ha, ha, ha! Wasn’t it laughable? She’s trying to make people think you’re her son! I tell you, Cecil, while Albert Pompilard has a crust to eat or a kennel to creep into, the brave volunteer, wounded in his country’s cause, shall not want for food or shelter.”
The Major looked wistfully at Mrs. Pompilard, and said: “He doesn’t make allowance for a housekeeper’s troubles,—does he, mother? So long as the burden doesn’t fall on him, he doesn’t realize what a bore it is to have an extra family on one’s hands when one barely has accommodations for one’s own.”
“What he says, I say, Cecil!” replied Madame, kissing the invalid’s pale forehead. “You’re a thousand times welcome, my dear boy,—you and Melissa and the children; and where will you find two better children, or who give less trouble? No fear but we can accommodate you all. And if you’ve any wounded companion who wants to be taken care of, just send him on. For your sake, Cecil, and for the sake of the old flag, we’ll take him in, and do our best by him.”
“Hear her! Hear the darling little woman!” exclaimed Pompilard, lifting her in his arms, and kissing her with a genuine admiration. “Bravo, wife! Give me the woman whose house is like a Bowery omnibus, always ready for one more. While this war lasts, every true lady in the land ought to be willing to give up her best room, if wanted, for a hospital.”
The hero of Fair Oaks was suddenly found to be snivelling. He made a movement with his right shoulder as if to get a handkerchief, but remembering that his arm was gone, he used his left hand to wipe away his tears. “You’re responsible, between you, for this break-down,” said the lachrymose Major. “I’m sure I thank you. You’ve given me two good starts in life already, father, and both times I’ve gone under. With such advantages as I’ve had, I ought to be a rich man, and here I am a pauper. Poor Melissa and the children are bound to be dependent on their friends. I’m afraid I’m an incompetent, a ne’er-do-well.”
Pompilard flourished a large white silk handkerchief, and, blowing his nose sonorously, replied: “Bah! ’T was no fault of yours, Cecil, that your operations out West proved a failure. ’T was the fortune of war. I despise the man who never made a blunder. How the deuce could you know that a great financial revulsion was coming on, just after you had bought? Let the spilt milk sink into the sand. Don’t fret about it. We’ll have you hearty as a buck in a week or two. You shall rejoin your regiment in time for the next great fight.”
The Major smiled faintly, and, shaking his head incredulously, replied: “The fact is, what makes me so low is, that, at the time I went into that last fight, I was just recovering from a fever got in the swamps of the Chickahominy.”
“I know all about it, my brave boy! I’ve just got a letter, Mrs. Pompilard, from his surgeon. He writes me, he forbade Cecil’s moving from his bed; told him ’ would be at the risk of his life. Like a gallant soldier, Cecil rose up, pale and wasted as he was, and went into the thick of the frolic. A Minie bullet in the right arm at last checked his activity. Faint from exhaustion and loss of blood, he sank insensible on the damp field, and there lay twenty-four hours without succor, without food, the cold night-dews aggravating his disease.”
“Well, father,” said the Major, “between you and me, superadded to the fever I got a rheumatic affection, which I’m afraid will prevent my doing service very soon again in the field.”
“So much the better!” returned Pompilard. “Then, my boy, we can keep you at home,—have you with us all the time. You can sit in your library and write books, while Molasses sits by and works slippers for old blow-hard, as the boys here in Lavinia Street have begun to call me.”