LITERATURE.

Globe, Volume V, Issue 537, 8 March 1876, Page 3

LITERATURE.

MISS WILLARD'S TWO RINGS. [From Lippincott's Magazine.'] ( Concluded) ' What are you going to do ?' she asked. ' Get out of this country,' said Jack Hardin, with a short laugh; ' it's too hot to hold me, I reckon.' ' And what then ? Surely you will not go back to your old life?' ' Why not ? The world owes me a livin.' There's nobody as'd trust me to work fur 'em; and, besides, I likes the very danger of it.' ' Why don't you join the army?' said Miss Willard, quickly; ' you would find excitement fighting your country's battles !' ' Es to that,' he replied, ' I've heard folks say that a man es didn't love his country wasn't wuth the powder it'd take to blow him up. But, on the other hand, what's my country ever done for me? I might ha' starved, an' irozen, an' who'd ha' cared?' ' Your country will care if you do your duty for her like a man. Think of it!' she urged—' what happiness to be honestly employed, to hold up your head in God's sunlight, to look your comrades boldly in the face ! You could make your way to Memphis, and join the army there. No questions would be asked of your past, and you could nobly redeem its wrongdoing.' ' That's all very well,' said he sullenly, ' but I'd like to know if my looks don't tell what I've been. Honest men don't go about the country in dirt and rags ; an' I've got no money for barbers an' store clothes,' he added, with a grim laugh. Miss Willard thought of her little hardwon treasure. She had it with her, as in these troubled times it was not safe any where but on her person There was a short struggle in her mind. To give up any part of this was to condemn herself to just so many months of miserable bondage. A moment more, with a burning blush that she had hesitated, she drew forth her little purse. ' I have not much money,' she said, ' but I will divide it with you gladly.' Alas ! the test was too severe.

A light leaped into Jack Hardin's eyes ; his fingers twitched nervously; his whole body trembled. He sprang toward her. Like a flash comprehending her imprudence, she drew back, closing her fingers tightly over the gold. He seized he hands roughly ; then opening his r clasp-knife with his teeth, he drew it across the delicate fingers. As they unclosed and the red blood flowed over her hand and his, he clutched the gold, and rushed into the forest. * * * * One spring day, more than two years from the time of the events just related, there was a sharp tingle at the front bell of Miss Willard's Northern home. The door was opened by an old black woman. Her face was deeply scarred by small-pox marks, but her ebony features were shining with contentment. At the door stood a tall, handsome man, with a soldierly bearing, who handed her a card upon which was inscribed 'Harvey Kent.' Miss Willard had heard of this laurelcrowned hero, about whom as many sirens as ever bewildered Ulysses were weaving their spells ; and she knew well enough of his brilliant war-record to honour him from her heart. Yet his world and hers were far apart, and it was with no slight surprise that she received his card.

' I axed him in de librery, Miss Nelly,' said the trusty old housekeeper. ' I will go down at once, said Miss Willard.

No wonder Harvey Kent's eyes fell upon her with delight as she entered the quaint, old-fashioned room, where the shadows and the firelight danced together in silent glee. A slight, upright figure, clothed in some soft gray stuff that draped itself about her in harmonious folds; gray eyes of singular clearness and depth; bright brown hair, cut short, and curhng in little rings over her broad white forehead—such was Cornelia Willard. Not a beauty, but a face and form, in movement and voice, her fair soul expressed itself, and she needed no added grace. Harvey Kent advanced to meet her, and spoke, in a low, grave voice, ' I trust you will pardon the unconventional manner of my introduction, Miss Willard, when you learn the cause of my seeking you. Many months ago a trust was placed in my hands, and I am here to fulfil its obligation.' As he spoke he laid a small but heavy ?acket, wrapped in army-blue cloth, in Mis 3 Millard's hand. She opened it wonderingly. A score of gold pieces tumbled out, together with a large black ring stamped with the figure of a shining anchor. ' May I tell you the story ?' said he, and she gave a mute assent. ' In the Gettysburg campaign,' began Harvey Kent, 'my attention was directed toward a man in my regiment who bore himself in battle with a singular courage, and who preserved in camp a rude, unsocial silence that repelled any advances from his comrades. There was a settled gloom about him—a quiet hopelessness very painful to see, mingled as it was with the dogged resolution he brought to bear upon any duty that might be assigned him. I singled him out for such special kindness as I could consistently show, although he manifested no appreciation by word or sign of my efforts to befriend him. But he was only waiting his time, • Flushed by our triumph at Gettysburg, we pressed the army of General Lee, and when his rear-guard at last abandoned Fairfield Pass and opened the way to Williamsport, we were over-confident, and fell into an ambush prepared for us by our wily foes near Funkstown. We were surrounded by superior numbers, and our brigade was nearly destroyed. My own men became utterly demoralised. The Southerners pressed upon us like tigers that had tasted blood. I was unhorsed and separated from my comrades, when I saw two rebel soldiers advancing toward me ; I am always frightened in a battle, Miss Willard; and they looked colossal. I had no time to reload, but, drawing my sword, prepared to defend myself as best I might. I engaged in a hand-to-hand struggle with one of the men. We were evenly matched, and my chance was fair enough until the second soldier came to his comrade's assistance. I was faint from exhaustion, and as the drawn sword flashed before my eyes I resigned myself to die. But suddenly a heavy body was thrown before me, receiving the thrust intended for mine; and looking down upon the figure as it fell to the ground, I saw the face of Jack Hardin, wearing the first smile I had ever seen upon it.

' The Southerner threw down his sword. 'By G— !' he cried, ' you are a noble fellow !' And he knelt with me by Jack Hardin's side.

'Of course we gave ourselves up, and through the kindness of the Southern officer a physician was at once procured to examine Jack Hardin's wound. He pronounced it serious but not fatal, and we were sent to prison together. ' God knows, I nursed him as tenderly as I could, but his wound healed slowly, and he grew weaker every day. The days were maddening in their dreary monotony. We could get no books or papers, of course we had no visitors, and there was nothing to do but to pray for strength to endure. ' Through all this time Jack Hardin's reserve was never broken. He rejected my gratitude, and only when delirious would he accept my services. 'Many of the prisoners occupied themselves in making rings, chains and curious ornaments out of pieces of bone, old ; ack knife, metal buttons—anything, in fact, that they could use for such a purpose. Jack Hardin, when he was able, employed himself in carving a large ring out of the handle of an old black claspknife. He showed more interest in this than in anything I had ever known him to attempt, and he worked at it persistently, though his strength failed him at last.

' Long after everyone else had given him up, I clung desperately to the hope that he might live ; but there came a time when I could no longer blind myself to the fact that poor Jack Hardin was slipping from me. His wound had healed, and there seemed to be nothing the matter with him except the lack of a wish to live.

* At last he finished the ring, and that day he spoke. He called me to him between sunset and dusk, looking strangely white in the fading light. His face had Deen a rough and rather brutal one, but as death approached his features had sharpened and spiritualised, and a yearning faith looked out through his eyes. ' " I'm going fast," said he, as I approached his bedside.

' I held out my hand, while hot tears rushed to my eyes. ' " No," said he, feebly,' " wait till I tell you. I've been a bad man; I don't deserve no honest man's hand."

' "My poor fellow," said I, " I have never known you to do an unworthy act. Do not pain me by refusing my hand." '"Wait," he spoke again, with sbort gasps between his words; " let me tell you the wust metnness of my life. I was captured once—down South. They was goin' to hang me. I broke gaol. I was hidin' in a log cabin in the woods where there was a sick woman. I was found there by an angel. She was sorry for me; she wanted me to turn about. She had some money—all her savin's—and I was—by nature —a devil. I cut her little hands—an' I took her money." ' His voice had grown sharp, and its every vibration was of agony. ' " I got away to Memphis," he continued, in the same sharp, uneven tones, "where I was goin' to spend the money—like a good fellow. But—l don't know why—l couldn't spend it. Somethin' seemed to pull me back. I called myself a fool, but twas no use. I couldn't forget that wild sorry look in her eyes. One night I was tryin' to sleep ; on a sudden I was cold and tremblin'. __ I opened my eyes, and the moon was shinin' in, all white an' still. Then quick as a shot it 'came over me— what I was. I didn't know before. I called back every word she had said to me. I would do all she had told me. So I went into the army. I've tried to fight a good fight; I have put a hold on my lips. But it's hard for a man to pull himself up out of hell. There didn't seem to be anything I could do. An' then came that chance to help you. You was a man wuth savin'. An' I thought maybe it would count for somethin'. You can tell me, sir—you are a scholar- will it count for anything ? "

' O, my friend,' cried I, 'Jesus Christ did no more ;' and I lifted the dying head to my breast.

' Thank you, sir,' said he faintly; * you've been veiy good to me. An' there's one more thing; I want to leave you her money. It's all in a belt round my waist. There was a card in the purse ; I reckon her name is on it. An' if you could find her some day —and tell her I was sorry. An' here is this ring, sir. I made it from the knife that cut her hands. I want you to ask her, if she can bring herself to forgive, to wear it as a sign.' I promised to do all that he asked. • I don't know much about spirits,' said he, lingering dreamily over the words, 'but it seems to me my spirit will know if she wears that ring, an' be very glad.' He closed his eyes wearily, and that night he died. ' That is the story of the ring, Miss Willard. Will you wear it ? ' The tears were shining in Miss Willard's eyes, and she held up her hand with the black ring upon it. Epilogue. The story is told. It scarcely needs to add that when Harvey Kent, months afterwards, slipped the diamond cirlet of betrothal on Miss Willard's finger he felt it sanctified by the touch of Jack Hardin's ring. To each of the lovers it is a sacred thing. It suggests the divine possibilities of humanity; it inspires faith and hope. It will never leave Miss Willard's finger while she lives, and together both rings will be handed down to children's children, a hallowed heritage for ever.