“The great struggle will certainly cease, possibly within a very few weeks,” I answered, greatly moved by her earnestness, “but I fear the men engaged in it will remain much the same in their natures however they may dress. I can only say this: Were the path clear I would surely find you, no matter where you were hidden.”
She bowed her head against the post of the stair-rail and sobbed silently. I stood without speaking, knowing nothing I could hope to say which would in the least comfort her, for in my own heart abode the same dull despair. At last she looked up, making not the slightest attempt to disguise her emotion.
“How terrible it is that a woman must ever choose between such evils,” she said almost bitterly. “The heart says one thing and duty another all through life, it seems to me. I have seen so much of suffering in these last few months, so much of heartless cruelty, that I cannot bear to be the cause of any more. You and Major Brennan must not meet; but, Captain Wayne, I will not believe that we are to part thus for ever.”
“Do you mean that I am to seek you when the war closes?”
“There will be no time when I shall not most gladly welcome you.”
“Your home?” I asked, wondering still if she could mean all that her words implied. “I have never known where you resided in the North.”
“Stonington, Connecticut.” She smiled at me through the tears yet clinging to her long lashes. “You may never come, of course, yet I shall always feel now that perhaps you will; and that is not like a final good-bye, is it?”
I bowed above the hands I held, and pressed my lips upon them. For the moment I durst not speak, and then—a voice suddenly sounded in the hall below:
“I am greatly obliged to you, Miss Minor; she is probably lying down. I will run up and call her.”
We started as if rudely awakened from a dream, while a sudden expression of fright swept across her face.