“George,” she said, kneeling down beside him, and laying her hand upon his ragged coat, “tell me how came you here, and where is your company?”
He would not deceive her, though tempted to do so, and he answered her truthfully, “Lily, I am a deserter. I am trying to join the enemy!”
He did not see the indignant flash of her eyes, or the look of scorn upon her face, but he felt the reproach her silence implied, and dared not look up.
“George,” she began at last, sternly, very sternly, “but for Him who bade us forgive seventy times seven, I should feel inclined to leave you here to die; but when I remember how much He is tried with me, I feel that I am to be no one’s judge. Tell me, why you have deserted; and tell me, too—oh, George, in mercy—tell me if you know aught of Willie?”
The mother had forgotten all the wrongs heaped upon the wife, and Adah drew nearer to him now, so near indeed, that his arm encircled her at last, and held her close; but the ragged, dirty, fallen creature did not dare to kiss her, and could only press her convulsively to his breast, as he attempted an answer to her question.
“You must be quick,” she said, suddenly remembering herself; “it is growing late, Mrs. Ellsworth will be waiting for her breakfast; and since the stampede of her servants, two old negroes and myself are all there are left to care for the house. Stay,” she added, as a new thought seemed to strike her; “I must go, or they will look for me; but after breakfast I will return, and do for you what I can. Lie down again upon the hay.”
She spoke kindly to him, but he felt it was as she would have spoken to any one in distress, and not as once she had addressed him. But he knew that he deserved it; and he suffered her to leave him, watching her with streaming eyes as she hurried along the path, and counting the minutes, which seemed to him like hours, ere he saw her returning. She was very white when she came back and he noticed that she frequently glanced toward the house, as if haunted by some terror. Constantly expecting detection, he grasped her arm, as she bent to bathe his swollen foot, and whispered huskily, “Adah, there’s something on your mind—some evil you fear. Tell me, is any one after me!”
Adah nodded; while, like a frightened child, the tall man clung to her neck, saying, piteously, “Don’t give me up! Don’t tell; they would hang me, perhaps!”
“They ought to do so,” trembled on Adah’s lips, but she suppressed the words, and went on bandaging up the ankle, and handling it as carefully as if it had not belonged to a deserter.
He did not feel pain now in his anxiety, as he asked, “Who is it, Adah? who’s after me?” but he started when she replied, with downcast eyes and a flush upon her cheek, “Major Irving Stanley. You were in his regiment,—the N. Y. Volunteers.”