Love stories; United States -- History -- Civil War, 1861-1865 -- Fiction
"You know what I mean, Willard. I ask you never to assume this
hated Northern uniform, or put your foot on Southern soil with a
hostile purpose."
"Yes, I can promise that."
"Swear it to me then, by your mother's honor and your father's
memory."
"Is not my word sufficient?"
"These things are sacred to me, and I wish them treated in a sacred
manner. If you will do this my mind will be at rest and I may be
able to do more for you in the future."
"To satisfy you, I swear never to put on the Northern uniform or
to enter the South with a hostile purpose."
She stepped forward and touched his forehead with her lips, as she
said: "The compact is sealed. Your oath is registered on earth and
in heaven. Your simple word as a man of honor will satisfy me as
to one other request. I wish you never to speak to any one of this
solemn covenant between us."
"I'm not in the habit of gossiping over family affairs," he replied,
haughtily.
"I know that, and also that your delicacy of feeling would keep
you from speaking of a matter so sacred to me. But I am older and
more experienced than you, and I shall feel safer if you promise.
You would not gossip about it, of course. You might refer to it
to some friend or to the woman who became your wife. I can foresee
complications which might make it better that it should be utterly
unknown. You little know how I dream and plan for you, and I only
ask you never to speak of this interview and its character to a
living soul."
"Certainly, mother, I can promise this. I should feel it small
business to babble about anything which you take so to heart. These
visions of empire occupy your mind and do no harm. I only hope you
will meet your disappointment philosophically. Good-by now till
lunch."
"Poor mamma!" thought the young man, as he started out for a walk;
"she rails against Northern fanatics, forgetting that it is just
possible to be a little fanatical on the Southern side of the line."
As he strode along in the sunshine his oath weighed upon him no
more than if he had promised not to go out in his sail-boat that
day.
At last, after surmounting a rather steep hill, he threw himself
on the grass under the shade of a tree. "It's going to be awfully
slow and stupid here," he muttered, "and it will be a month or
two before we can return. I hoped to be back in time to join the
Montagues in climbing Mont Blanc, and here I am tied up between
these mole-hill mountains and city law-offices. How shall I ever
get through with the time?"
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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