CHAPTER XI.
THE WOUNDED SOLDIER.
How those polished, cruel-looking instruments sparkled, and glittered, and flashed; and how the sick man shuddered as he glanced toward the table where they lay, asking, with quivering lip, if there were no other alternative save the one their presence suggested.
“None but speedy death!” was the response of the attending surgeon, who was too much accustomed to just such scenes as this, to appreciate the feelings of that poor soldier, shrinking so painfully from what they told him must be if he would live.
“None but speedy death,”—George repeated the words slowly to himself, dwelling longest upon the last, as if to accustom himself to thoughts of it.
“Wait a little, wait till I think the matter over,” he said, in reply to the question, “are you ready?” and turning his face to the wall, so that those about him should not see the fearful conflict going on, he thought long and earnestly. Wasn’t it better to die than go back to Annie maimed and disfigured for life? Better die than lose a portion of the manly beauty of which he had been so proud. Would Annie love him just the same, even though the strong right arm, which had toiled for her so cheerfully, could never work for her again, never encircle her in its embrace? Would the scarred stump be as dear to her as the well-moulded limb had been? He did not know, and the tears, which all through the weary days of his sickness had been kept back, now fell like rain upon the pillow, as he fancied the meeting between his sweet young wife, and her poor, crippled husband. The cottage on the hill so earnestly coveted, would never be theirs now. He could not earn it. He could not earn much any way, with his left arm, and he groaned aloud, as he thought of the poor unfortunate seen so often in the Rochester depot, peddling daily papers. Would he ever come to that? He, who, but a few months ago had so bright hopes for the future? Would the delicate Annie he had meant to shield so carefully from every ill of life, yet be compelled to earn the bread she ate? It was a sad, sad picture the excited soldier drew of what the future might bring, and the fainting spirit had almost cried out, “I would rather die!” when there came stealing across his mind the memory of Annie’s parting words,
“If the body you bring back has in it my George’s heart, I shall love you all the same.”
Yes, she would love him just the same, for, as it was not her fair, sweet face alone which made her so dear to him, so it was not his splendid form which made him dear to her. Annie’s love would not abate, even though he went back to her the veriest cripple that ever crawled the earth. But how different his going home would be from what he had fondly hoped. No papers heralding his arrival; no dense crowd out to meet him; no fife trilling a jubilee; no drum beating a welcome; no bell ringing its merry peal; no carriage, no procession; nothing but the curious gaze of the few who might come out to see how George Graham looked without an arm, and whisper softly to each other, “Poor fellow, how I pity him!” He didn’t want to be pitied; he would almost rather die; and he did not want to die either, when he thought calmly of it. He was not prepared; and forcing back the bitter tears, he turned his white, worn face to William Mather, bending so sadly over him, and whispered:
“Tell them they may cut it off, but not till you’ve written to Annie, and I have signed my name. You know how she has begged for a word from me. Tell them to keep away; they shall not intrude on my interview with Annie.”
George was growing excited, but he became calm again when he found himself alone with Mr. Mather, who wrote the letter which gave Annie so much joy. There was nothing in it of the expected amputation; nothing but encouragement that he should ere long come home to stay with her always.