I had hardly ever spoken of her to a soul; but the old chap had a way of making you feel that he would be certain to understand you, and could help you.He told me about his own case, and it wasn't so different from mine.He lived in Virginia before the war;came from up near Lynchburg somewhere; belonged to an old family there, and had been in love with his sweetheart for years, but could never make any impression on her.She was a beautiful girl, he said, and the greatest belle in the country round.Her father was one of the big lawyers there, and had a fine old place, and the stable was always full of horses of the young fellows who used to be coming to see her, and `she used to make me sick, I tell you,' he said, `I used to hate 'em all;I wasn't afraid of 'em; but I used to hate a man to look at her; it seemed so impudent in him; and I'd have been jealous if she had looked at the sun.
Well, I didn't know what to do.I'd have been ready to fight 'em all for her, if that would have done any good, but it wouldn't; I didn't have any right to get mad with 'em for loving her, and if I had got into a row she'd have sent me off in a jiffy.But just then the war came on, and it was a Godsend to me.I went in first thing.I made up my mind to go in and fight like five thousand furies, and I thought maybe that would win her, and it did; it worked first-rate.I went in as a private, and I got a bullet through me in about six months, through my right lung, that laid me off for a year or so; then I went back and the boys made me a lieutenant, and when the captain was made a major, I was made captain.
I was offered something higher once or twice, but I thought I'd rather stay with my company; I knew the boys, and they knew me, and we had got sort of used to each other -- to depending on each other, as it were.
The war fixed me all right, though.When I went home that first time my wife had come right around, and as soon as I was well enough we were married.I always said if I could find that Yankee that shot me I'd like to make him a present.I found out that the great trouble with me had been that I had not been bold enough; I used to let her go her own way too much, and seemed to be afraid of her.I WAS afraid of her, too.
I bet that's your trouble, sir: are you afraid of her?'
I told him I thought I was.`Well, sir,' he said, `it will never do;you mustn't let her think that -- never.You cannot help being afraid of her, for every man is that; but it is fatal to let her know it.Stand up, sir, stand up for your rights.If you are bound to get down on your knees --and every man feels that he is -- don't do it; get up and run out and roll in the dust outside somewhere where she can't see you.Why, sir,'
he said, `it doesn't do to even let her think she's having her own way;half the time she's only testing you, and she doesn't really want what she pretends to want.Of course, I'm speaking of before marriage;after marriage she always wants it, and she's going to have it, anyway, and the sooner you find that out and give in, the better.
You must consider this, however, that her way after marriage is always laid down to her with reference to your good.
She thinks about you a great deal more than you do about her, and she's always working out something that is for your advantage;she'll let you do some things as you wish, just to make you believe you are having your own way, but she's just been pretending to think otherwise, to make you feel good.'
"This sounded so much like sense that I asked him how much a man ought to stand from a woman.`Stand, sir?' he said;`why, everything, everything that does not take away his self-respect.'
I said I believed if he'd let a woman do it she'd wipe her shoes on him.
`Why, of course she will,' he said, `and why shouldn't she?
A man is not good enough for a good woman to wipe her shoes on.
But if she's the right sort of a woman she won't do it in company, and she won't let others do it at all; she'll keep you for her own wiping.'""There's a lot of sense in that, Lesponts," said one of his auditors, at which there was a universal smile of assent.Lesponts said he had found it out, and proceeded.
"Well, we got to a little town in Virginia, I forget the name of it, where we had to stop a short time.The Captain had told me that his home was not far from there, and his old company was raised around there.
Quite a number of the old fellows lived about there yet, he said, and he saw some of them nearly every time he passed through, as they `kept the run of him.' He did not know that he'd `find any of them out to-day, as it was Christmas, and they would all be at home,' he said.
As the train drew up I went out on the platform, however, and there was quite a crowd assembled.I was surprised to find it so quiet, for at other places through which we had passed they had been having high jinks: firing off crackers and making things lively.
Here the crowd seemed to be quiet and solemn, and I heard the Captain's name.
Just then he came out on the platform, and someone called out:
`There he is, now!' and in a second such a cheer went up as you never heard.
They crowded around the old fellow and shook hands with him and hugged him as if he had been a girl.""I suppose you have reference to the time before you were married,"interrupted someone, but Lesponts did not heed him.He went on:
"It seemed the rumor had got out that morning that it was the Captain's train that had gone off the track and that the Captain had been killed in the wreck, and this crowd had assembled to meet the body.`We were going to give you a big funeral, Captain,' said one old fellow; `they've got you while you are living, but we claim you when you are dead.
We ain't going to let 'em have you then.We're going to put you to sleep in old Virginia.'
"The old fellow was much affected, and made them a little speech.
He introduced us to them all.He said: `Gentlemen, these are my boys, my neighbors and family;' and then, `Boys, these are my friends;I don't know all their names yet, but they are my friends.'
