It was a scene of desolation that he passed through, for the country was the seat of war; fences were gone, woods burnt, and fields cut up and bare;and it rained all the time.A little before morning, on the night of the third day, he reached the edge of the district and plunged into its well-known pines, and just as day broke he entered the old path which led up the little hill to his mother's cabin.All during his journey he had been picturing the meeting with some one else besides his mother, and if Vashti had stood before him as he crossed the old log he would hardly have been surprised.Now, however, he had other thoughts;as he reached the old clearing he was surprised to find it grown up in small pines already almost as high as his head, and tall weeds filled the rows among the old peach-trees and grew up to the very door.
He had been struck by the desolation all the way as he came along;but it had not occurred to him that there must be a change at his own home;he had always pictured it as he left it, as he had always thought of Vashti in her pink calico, with her hat in her hand and her heavy hair almost falling down over her neck.Now a great horror seized him.
The door was wet and black.His mother must be dead.
He stopped and peered through the darkness at the dim little structure.
There was a little smoke coming out of the chimney, and the next instant he strode up to the door.It was shut, but the string was hanging out and he pulled it and pushed the door open.A thin figure seated in the small split-bottomed chair on the hearth, hovering as close as possible over the fire, straightened up and turned slowly as he stepped into the room, and he recognized his mother -- but how changed! She was quite white and little more than a skeleton.At sight of the figure behind her she pulled herself to her feet, and peered at him through the gloom.
"Mother!" he said.
"Darby!" She reached her arms toward him, but tottered so that she would have fallen, had he not caught her and eased her down into her chair.
As she became a little stronger she made him tell her about the battles he was in.Mr.Mills had come to tell her that he had killed the man who killed Ad.Darby was not a good narrator, however, and what he had to tell was told in a few words.The old woman revived under it, however, and her eyes had a brighter light in them.
Darby was too much engrossed in taking care of his mother that day to have any thought of any one else.He was used to a soldier's scant fare, but had never quite taken in the fact that his mother and the women at home had less even than they in the field.He had never seen, even in their poorest days after his father's death, not only the house absolutely empty, but without any means of getting anything outside.It gave him a thrill to think what she must have endured without letting him know.
As soon as he could leave her, he went into the woods with his old gun, and shortly returned with a few squirrels which he cooked for her;the first meat, she told him, that she had tasted for weeks.On hearing it his heart grew hot.Why had not Vashti come and seen about her?
She explained it partly, however, when she told him that every one had been sick at Cove Mills's, and old Cove himself had come near dying.
No doctor could be got to see them, as there was none left in the neighborhood, and but for Mrs.Douwill she did not know what they would have done.But Mrs.Douwill was down herself now.
The young man wanted to know about Vashti, but all he could manage to make his tongue ask was,"Vashti?"She could not tell him, she did not know anything about Vashti.
Mrs.Mills used to bring her things sometimes, till she was taken down, but Vashti had never come to see her; all she knew was that she had been sick with the others.
That she had been sick awoke in the young man a new tenderness, the deeper because he had done her an injustice; and he was seized with a great longing to see her.All his old love seemed suddenly accumulated in his heart, and he determined to go and see her at once, as he had not long to stay.He set about his little preparations forthwith, putting on his old clothes which his mother had kept ever since he went away, as being more presentable than the old worn and muddy, threadbare uniform, and brushing his long yellow hair and beard into something like order.
He changed from one coat to the other the little package which he always carried, thinking that he would show it to her with the hole in it, which the sharp-shooter's bullet had made that day, and he put her letter into the same pocket; his heart beating at the sight of her hand and the memory of the words she had written, and then he set out.
It was already late in the evening, and after the rain the air was soft and balmy, though the western sky was becoming overcast again by a cloud, which low down on the horizon was piling up mountain on mountain of vapor, as if it might rain again by night.Darby, however, having dressed, crossed the flat without much trouble, only getting a little wet in some places where the logs were gone.As he turned into the path up the hill, he stood face to face with Vashti.She was standing by a little spring which came from under an old oak, the only one on the hill-side of pines, and was in a faded black calico.
He scarcely took in at first that it was Vashti, she was so changed.
He had always thought of her as he last saw her that evening in pink, with her white throat and her scornful eyes.She was older now than she was then; looked more a woman and taller; and her throat if anything was whiter than ever against her black dress; her face was whiter too, and her eyes darker and larger.At least, they opened wide when Darby appeared in the path.Her hands went up to her throat as if she suddenly wanted breath.All of the young man's heart went out to her, and the next moment he was within arm's length of her.
Her one word was in his ears:
"Darby!" He was about to catch her in his arms when a gesture restrained him, and her look turned him to stone.
