They went together into the library, where the few remaining servants were now collecting for family prayers.
The stand, with the open Bible on it and two wax candles in silver candlesticks, was in its usual place, and in a moment the door opened and Colonel and Mrs. Tremaine entered and took their accustomed seats. Colonel Tremaine, in an unshaken voice, read from the Gospels, and Mrs. Tremaine made the usual prayer for all under the roof of Harrowby, and then uttered another prayer which had not passed her lips since the April night, eighteen months before, when Neville Tremaine had been ordered from his father’s roof, an outcast:
“We ask Thy mercy and guidance for the sons of this house, Neville and Archibald.”
CHAPTER XXII
LOVE AND LIFE
AT the same hour of the night Angela and Isabey were riding steadily along the moonlit open road toward the Federal lines. The flat and peaceful country was bare with the bareness of autumn and the wind rustled over the broad fields of stubble and through the melancholy woods. There was little evidence of the warfare which was raging only a short distance away. The homesteads were silent and dark; there were not many lights kept burning in those troublous times.
As Isabey and Angela rode along the highway through a world all white moonlight and black shadows, they spoke little. Whenever Isabey looked at her he noticed that there were tears on her cheeks, which she brushed away with her little gloved hand. When they were an hour from Harrowby they entered a great stretch of sandy road through which they walked their horses. Isabey, knowing it would relieve Angela’s overflowing heart to speak of Richard Tremaine, encouraged her to do so, and they talked of the dead man. Isabey told of their student life together, both in Virginia and in Paris.
“I have no other friend like Tremaine,” he said. “It seems to me that among all who loved him there is no one who can quite fill Richard’s place. Mr. Lyddon told me to-day that Richard was an unforgettable man. I replied that he was an unforgettable friend.”
“But he is gone,” cried Angela, who had never seen death before, and who knew for the first time the strangeness which comes with the absence of the beloved. “He will never come into the study any more and sit in the great chair opposite Mr. Lyddon and talk with him on deep and profound things. His father will never again have Richard’s arm to lean upon when he walks up and down the hall in the twilight. They often did that together. And his mother will never again have him at her side when she makes the prayer at night. Richard always sat on her left and Neville on her right. Archie sat by Uncle Tremaine, because he was such a restless little boy. Everybody—Mr. Lyddon, Uncle Tremaine, and Aunt Sophia—thought Richard more brilliant than Neville, although his mother certainly loved Neville best. But now all love and pride is turned into anguish. I have been asking myself ever since I knew that Richard was gone, ‘Where is he now? How far has he fared? Does he know how broken-hearted we are?’”
“Ah,” replied Isabey, putting his hand upon the pommel of Angela’s saddle, “you have got hold of that great question, ‘Whence goes the soul?’ Every thinking human being traverses this problem; you will not be able to escape from it. You will turn it over and over and read the thoughts of many minds concerning it. After all, soldiers and saints take the same view of this great matter. We do our duty, expecting to render an account to the Great Commander. We know no more and it is certain we can do no more.”
Isabey smiled a little at his brief preachment to Angela, but she was so young and had read so few pages in the book of life that in many ways she was a child in her questioning.