Woven with the Ship: A Novel of 1865: Together with certain other veracious tales of various sortsBrady, Cyrus Townsend
History
Woven with the Ship: A Novel of 1865: Together with certain other veracious tales of various sorts
Brady, Cyrus Townsend
Short stories, American; United States -- History -- Civil War, 1861-1865 -- Fiction; War stories
But on the next page the entries began again. She had taken up her
wonted life-long task once more when she found that he was living.
Curiously enough, while there was joy in the pages now, I seemed to
read in them more of regret--in spite of herself. The doom written
against her could not be revoked. Yet the conditions were changed. She
had to look forward to a long parting instead of an eternal meeting,
and it hurt her. Yet she must live until he came back. I saw it was
her will power alone that kept her up. She must see him again before
she went out into the dark, or the light rather, to wait for him.
So, in a hand that grew more feeble from day to day, she jotted down
her hopes and longings for her son. How much the trembling letters
told of her growing weakness! how different were the characters from
the bold, flowing, graceful writing of the beginning!
Finally I came to the entry--the last--on the day she had received the
news of his approaching marriage. Oh, the anguish that ran through the
written words! They seemed to gasp out her grief from the page;
sometimes I could scarcely decipher them. I turned back to the entry
following the report of his death, and I declare it was no more
heart-broken. Another woman had come between them. With unconscious
cruelty, in that fatal letter George had told her over and over again
how much he loved the woman he was about to marry. She could not get
away from it. Innocently enough, he had given her to understand that
he loved the girl more than all the world. Thoughtlessly he plunged
this dagger into his gentle mother's heart.
I didn't blame him for his feelings. He could not help them; and, as I
said, it was human nature anyway. The experience is common to every
mother in greater or less degree. She had to expect it, or she ought
to have done so. Still, I did wish he had not been quite so
enthusiastic; not that it would have made much difference, for it was
the fact that killed. His mother had intuition enough, she loved him
enough to divine the truth through any reticence.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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