That night Ellen took out the letter which Hercules O’Brien had thrust into her hand. It was a beautiful hand, which had written it. Delicate, not too flowered but perfectly formed.
Dear Mr O’Brien,
We had lost all hope since not hearing from you for such an interim. I was forlorn with grief. Mother comforting me at every moment. What a blessed relief, nay a joy, it was to then learn that you were alive and well, if not wholly whole, and in the care of the good Sisters.
The weight of the world seemed lifted from our shoulders but I had been so wounded with worry and with grief that all previous feeling has been dulled. Would that it would surface and shine again, as prior to your going it had shone like a glittering prize. Despite all entreaties to myself it is to no avail. I must therefore resign myself with calm regret that I can never be yours.
Do not think ill of me though I suffer grievously this new state, fearing also that the gallant injuries you have sustained may adversely affect your prospects in life upon your discharge. This, I pray, the All-Provident in His mercy, will not decree.
Now that the safety of your person is assured and I no longer fear the worst, any future correspondence would be superfluous. Mother sends her solicitations and prays that you and our glorious Union Army, will be victorious over the Rebels.
Respectfully yours,
Arabella
It was such a cruel letter, such an unwomanly letter. But it was not the first such letter Ellen had seen. Some she had read to poor boys on the very cusp of death. Watched them then give up the fight and refuse all ministrations, the life-wish gone. Others about to go on a furlough after injury would, following such a letter, cancel the much anticipated trip home, strap on their gun and go out again, hungering for the enemy bullet that would take them. How war shattered everything … flesh and bone … and hope. Hercules O’Brien had no hope left. She had seen it in him. Seen that great big man in a little man’s body made small again. Be robbed of all hope, except perhaps that a Rebel shell would speedily discharge him of this life.
That the science of war would finally kill him.
She wondered about Lavelle. Where he lay. If he had hope?