“Lilian, dear, you forget,” said her aunt in her gentle tone.
“No, aunt, I forget nothing,” Lilian replied, while her eyes shone through tears like stars. “I know we are separated by my own rash act, and I shall honor him only the more if he refuse again to see me; but I am glad and proud to know that he is worthy of my love, or that of any other woman.”
The days fled rapidly, and still Mr. Lester did not call on his former friends the Fentons, and as Lilian went out much less than usual, they seldom met. He was unwilling to try to exonerate himself from a suspicion which he felt to be unreasonable and degrading, or to sue for a return of the love he had never forfeited; and Lilian, though she would gladly have humbled herself at his feet for having doubted his honor and loyalty, would not take the first step, lest her motives should be misconstrued.
Things were in this state when, on the evening before the departure of the regiment, a note from Elinor Fenton was received by the young soldier, which brought him quickly to her side. A few words of explanation passed between them, and then he was ushered into the library, where Lilian was busy in preparing packages of stationery for the knapsacks that were scattered about.
That interview was one never to be forgotten by either of the parties. There were confessions to be made on both sides, and mutual forgiveness to be exchanged; for while Lester felt that he should have intrusted to the woman he loved the true reasons for his conduct, Lilian insisted that, knowing him as she did, she ought never to have doubted his loyalty under any circumstances. They parted, pledged to each other, and Lilian accepted as a sacred legacy the charge of Fanny Lester, in case of a contingency which her heart refused to contemplate.
The dreaded morning came at last, when our brave boys were to exchange the comforts and endearments of home, for the hardships of the camp and the horrors of the battle-field. But a solemn ceremony remained to be performed before they went, and with one accord the steps of all were turned towards the parsonage. There, in the pleasant front yard, under the shadow of the tall elms that had sheltered her childhood, Mabel Ryder gave her hand to one whom she had loved ever since she could remember any thing. Thomas Wiley, first lieutenant of company A, was a young merchant, and had been a pupil of Mr. Ryder, who saw with pleasure the attachment existing between the young man and his darling child, for he knew him to be one calculated in every way to make her happy. When he joined the regiment, Mabel gave a tearful but willing consent, but with his urgent solicitation that she should become his wife before they went, she would not at first comply, the time was so short and the proposition so unexpected; but when he brought forward the plea, that as his wife she could with more propriety come to him if wounded or sick, she yielded. The privilege of attending him in sickness or suffering was so precious, that she could not lightly relinquish it; so it was fixed that the marriage should take place on the morning of their departure.
It was a beautiful picture, that wedding party under the trees, and one not soon to be forgotten by those who witnessed it. The fair young bride, dressed in simple white, with smiles and tears contending for the mastery on her cheek, with her bridesmaids, Elinor and Lilian; the happy groom in his becoming uniform, supported by Robert Lester and the second lieutenant of his company; the groups of friends scattered about, and outside of all the boys of the Twenty-sixth looking on with the deepest interest, as the pastor and father pronounced with trembling voice the words that gave his child to the keeping of another—all this is engraven on my memory, and can never be erased.
The ceremony was over, and as the regiment wheeled into line, the bridegroom with one long, silent embrace consigned Mabel to the care of her friends and took his place in the ranks. All the stores were closed and business suspended, as the Twenty-sixth marched for the last time, with unbroken columns, through our streets. The regiment was raised in the immediate vicinity, and many of its members were personally known to us; but at such a moment all seemed like sons and brothers. We were proud of their soldierly bearing, of their firm and measured tread, of the precision with which their evolutions were performed, and the intelligence that lighted up every face. What eager eyes looked out from the ranks, to catch the last glimpse of mother, sister, wife, or sweetheart, as, amid the waving of handkerchiefs, half-uttered blessings, and stifled sobs, we bade them perhaps a final good-by. They left us full of hope and energy, with all the courage and strength of young manhood nerving each arm and animating each heart. How would they come back?
CHAPTER IV.
THE DRUMMER-BOY OF THE TWENTY-SIXTH.
After the departure of the regiment there came to us a season of languor and depression. We had been in a state of unnatural excitement for weeks, and the reaction was inevitable. But for the letters received regularly from our absent boys, and which were read and talked over by all, and the Society meetings, where we came together to pray and work for the soldiers, I think we should have experienced a social stagnation.