“When we see the dishonor of a thing, then it is time to renounce it.”

PLUTARCH

A letter which Sallie wrote to Jim a few weeks after his departure tells its own story, and hence shall be repeated here.

Philadelphia, October 29, 1863.

Dear Jim:

I take my pen in hand this morning to write you a letter, and to tell you the news, though I don’t know much of the last except about Frankie and myself. However, I suppose you will care more to hear that than any other, so I will begin.

Maybe you will be surprised to hear that Frankie and I are at Mr. Ercildoune’s. Well, we are, and I will tell you how it came about. Not long after you went away, Frank began to pine, and look droopy. There wasn’t any use in giving him medicine, for it didn’t do him a bit of good. He couldn’t eat, and he didn’t sleep, and I was at my wits’ ends to know what to do for him.

One day Mrs. Lee, that Mr. Ercildoune’s housekeeper, an old English lady she is, and she’s lived with him ever since he was married, and before he came here, a real lady, too, came in with some sewing, some fine shirts for Mr. Robert Ercildoune. I asked after him, and you’ll be glad to know that he’s recovering. He didn’t have to lose his leg, as they feared; and his arm is healing; and the wound in his breast getting well. Mrs. Lee says she’s very sorry the stump isn’t longer, so that he could wear a Palmer arm, but she’s got no complaints to make; they’re only too glad and thankful to have him living at all, after such a dreadful time.

While I was talking with her, Frankie called me from the next room, and began to cry. You wouldn’t have known him, he cried at everything, and was so fretful and cross I could scarcely get along at all. When I got him quiet, and came back, Mrs. Lee says, “What’s the matter with Frank?” so I told her I didn’t know, but would she see him? Well, she saw him, and shook her head in a bad sort of way that scared me awfully, and I suppose she saw I was frightened, for she said, “All he wants is plenty of fresh air, and good, wholesome country food and exercise.” I can tell you, spite of that, she went away, leaving me with heavy enough a heart.

The next day Mr. Ercildoune came in. How he is changed! I haven’t seen him before since Mrs. Surrey died, and that of itself was enough to kill him, without this dreadful time about Mr. Robert.

“Good morning, Miss Sallie,” says he, “how are you? and I’m glad to see you looking so well.” So I told him I was well, and then he asked for Frankie. “Mrs. Lee tells me,” he said, “that your little brother is quite ill, and that he needs country air and exercise. He can have them both at The Oaks; so if you’ll get him ready, the carriage will come for you at whatever time you appoint. Mrs. Lee can find you plenty of work as long as you care to stay.” He looked as if he wanted to say something more, but didn’t; and I was just as sure as sure could be that it was something about Miss Francesca, probably about her having me out there so much; for his face looked so sad, and his lips trembled so, I knew that must be in his mind. And when I thought of it, and of such an awful fate as it was for her, so young, and handsome, and happy, like the great baby I am, I just threw my apron over my head, and burst out crying.

“Don’t!” he said, “don’t!” in O, such a voice! It was like a knife going through me; and he went quick out of the room, and downstairs, without even saying good by.

Well, we came out the next day, and I have plenty to do, and Frankie is getting real bright and strong. I can see Mr. Ercildoune likes to have us here, because of the connection with Miss Francesca. She was so interested in us, and so kind to us, and he knows I loved her so very dearly, and if it’s any comfort to him I’m sure I’m glad to be here, without taking Frankie into the account, for the poor gentleman looks so bowed and heart-broken that it makes one’s heart ache just to see him. Mr. Robert isn’t well enough to be about yet, but he sits up for a while every day, and is getting on the doctor says nicely. They both talk about you often; and Mr. Ercildoune, I can see, thinks everything of you for that good, kind deed of yours, when you and Mr. Robert were on the transport together. Dear Jim, he don’t know you as well as I do, or he’d know that you couldn’t help doing such things, not if you tried.

I hope you’ll like the box that comes with this. Mr. Robert had it packed for you in his own room, to see that everything went in that you’d like. Of course, as he’s been a soldier himself, he knows better what they want than anybody else can.

Dear Jim, do take care of yourself; don’t go and get wounded; and don’t get sick; and, whatever you do, don’t let the rebels take you prisoner, unless you want to drive me frantic. I think about you pretty much all the time, and pray for you, as well as I know how, every night when I go to bed, and am always

Your own loving

Sallie.

“Wow!” said Jim, as he read, “she’s in a good berth there.” So she was, and so she stayed. Frankie got quite well once more, and Sallie began to think of going, but Mr. Ercildoune evidently clung to her and to the sunshine which the bright little fellow cast through the house. Sallie was quite right in her supposition. Francesca had cared for this girl, had been kind to her and helped her, and his heart went out to everything that reminded him of his dear, dead child. So it happened that autumn passed, and winter, and spring, and still they stayed. In fact, she was domesticated in the house, and, for the first time in years, enjoyed the delightful sense of a home. Here, then, she set up her rest, and remained; here, when the “cruel war was over,” the armies disbanded, the last regiments discharged, and Jimmy “came marching home,” brown, handsome, and a captain, here he found her, and from here he married and carried her away.

It was a happy little wedding, though nobody was there beside the essentials, save the family and a dear friend of Robert’s, who was with him at the time, as he had been before and would be often again, none other than William Surrey’s favorite cousin and friend, Tom Russell.

The letter which Surrey had written never reached his hand till he lay almost dying from the effects of wounds and exposure, after he had been brought in safety to our lines by his faithful black friends, at Morris Island. Surrey had not mistaken his temper; gay, reckless fellow, as he was, he was a thorough gentleman, in whom could harbor no small spite, nor petty prejudice, and without a mean fibre in his being. At a glance he took in the whole situation, and insisting upon being propped up in bed, with his own hand though slowly, and as a work of magnitude succeeded in writing a cordial letter of congratulation and affection, that would have been to Surrey like the grasp of a brother’s hand in a strange and foreign country, had it ever reached his touch and eyes.

But even while Tom lay writing his letter, occasionally muttering, “They’ll have a devilish hard time of it!” or “Poor young un!” or “She’s one in a million!” or some such sentence which marked his feeling and care, these two of whom he thought, to whose future he looked with such loving anxiety, were beyond the reach of human help or hindrance, done alike with the sorrows and joys of time.

From a distance, with the help of a glass, and absorbing interest, he had followed the movements of the flag and its bearer, and had cheered, till he fainted from weakness and exhaustion, as he saw them safe at last. It was with delight that he found himself on the same transport with Ercildoune, and discovered in him the brother of the young girl for whom, in the past, he had had so pleasing and deep a regard, and whose present and future were so full of interest for him, in their new and nearer relations.

These two young men, unlike as they were in most particulars, were drawn together by an irresistible attraction. They had that common bond, always felt and recognized by those who possess it, of the gentle blood, tastes and instincts in common, and a fine, chivalrous sentiment which each felt and thoroughly appreciated in the other. The friendship thus begun grew with the passing years, and was intensified a hundred fold by a portion of the past to which they rarely referred, but which lay always at the bottom of their hearts. They had each for those two who had lain dead together in the streets of New York the strongest and tenderest love, and though it was not a tie about which they could talk, it bound them together as with chains of steel.

Russell was with Ercildoune at the time of the wedding, and entered into it heartily, as they all did. The result was, as has been written, the gayest and merriest of times. Sallies dress, which Robert had given her, was a sight to behold; and the pretty jewels, which were a part of his gift, and the long veil, made her look, as Jim declared, “so handsome he didn’t know her,” though that must have been one of Jim’s stories, or else he was in the habit of making love to strange ladies with extraordinary ease and effrontery.

The breakfast was another sight to behold. As Mary the cook said to Jane the housemaid, “If they’d been born kings and queens, Mrs. Lee couldn’t have laid herself out more; it’s grand, so it is, just you go and see;” which Jane proceeded to do, and forthwith thereafter corroborated Mary’s enthusiastic statement.

There were plenty of presents, too: and when it was all over, and they were in the carriage, to be sent to the station, Mr. Ercildoune, holding Sallie’s hand in farewell, left there a bit of paper, “which is for you,” he said. “God protect, and keep you happy, my child!” Then they were gone, with many kind adieus and good wishes called and sent after them. When they were seated in the cars, Sallie looked at her bit of paper, and read on its outer covering, “A wedding-gift to Sallie Howard from my dear daughter Francesca,” and found within the deed of a beautiful little home. God bless her! say we, with Mr. Ercildoune. God bless them both, and may they live long to enjoy it!

That afternoon, as Tom and Robert were driving, Russell, noting the unwonted look of life and activity, and the gay flags flung to the breeze, demanded what it all meant. “Why,” said he, “it is like a field day.”

“It is so,” answered Robert, “or what is the same; it is election day.”

“Bless my soul! so it is; and a soldier to be elected. Have you voted?”

“No!”

“No? Here’s a nice state of affairs! a fellow that’ll get his arm blown off for a flag, but won’t take the trouble to drop a scrap of paper for it. Come, I’ll drive you over.”

“You forget, Russell!”

“Forget? Nonsense! This isn’t 1860, but 1865. I don’t forget; I remember. It is after the war now, come.”

“As you please,” said Robert. He knew the disappointment that awaited his friend, but he would not thwart him now.

There was a great crowd about the polling-office, and they all looked on with curious interest as the two young men came up. No demonstration was made, though a half-dozen brutal fellows uttered some coarse remarks.

“Hear the damned Rebs talk!” said a man in the army blue, who, with keen eyes, was observing the scene. “They’re the same sort of stuff we licked in Carolina.”

“Ay,” said another, “but with a difference; blue led there; but gray’ll come off winner here, or I’m mistaken.”

Robert stood leaning upon his cane; a support which he would need for life, one empty sleeve pinned across his breast, over the scar from a deep and yet unhealed wound. The clear October sun shone down upon his form and face, upon the broad folds of the flag that waved in triumph above him, upon a country where wars and rumors of wars had ceased.

“Courage, man! what ails you?” whispered Russell, as he felt his comrade tremble; “it’s a ballot in place of a bayonet, and all for the same cause; lay it down.”

Robert put out his hand.

“Challenge the vote!” “Challenge the vote!” “No niggers here!” sounded from all sides.

The bit of paper which Ercildoune had placed on the window-ledge fluttered to the ground on the outer side, and, looking at Tom, Robert said quietly, “1860 or 1865? is the war ended?”

“No!” answered Tom, taking his arm, and walking away. “No, my friend! so you and I will continue in the service.”

“Not ended; it is true! how and when will it be closed?”

“That is for the loyal people of America to decide,” said Russell, as they turned their faces towards home.

How and when will it be closed? a question asked by the living and the dead, to which America must respond.

Among the living is a vast army: black and white, shattered and maimed, and blind: and these say, “Here we stand, shattered and maimed, that the body politic might be perfect! blind forever, that the glorious sun of liberty might shine abroad throughout the land, for all people, through all coming time.”

And the dead speak too. From their crowded graves come voices of thrilling and persistent pathos, whispering, “Finish the work that has fallen from our nerveless hands. Let no weight of tyranny, nor taint of oppression, nor stain of wrong, cumber the soil nor darken the land we died to save.”