“Dangerous.”
Stuart remained silent for some moments, and then I heard him sigh.
“Do you know, my dear Surry,” he said, “that if people heard us talk in this way, they would call us libertines—immoral—any thing? There are two things that people will not disbelieve about me—that I am impure, and a drunkard! Do you know what a good man was heard to say of me the other day? ‘Stuart would be one of the greatest soldiers in the army, if he did not drink so hard!’ {1} And others add: ‘if he were not a libertine.’ Well, need I defend myself to you, from these charges? I promised my mother in my childhood, never to touch ardent spirits, and a drop has never passed my lips, except the wine of the communion.{2} I know I need not tell you that I am equally guiltless of the other imputation. That person does not live who can say that I ever did any thing improper of that description. And yet I am a drunkard—a libertine—I, who never touched drink, and love but one person in this world!”
{Footnote 1: This was actually said of Stuart.}
{Footnote 2: His words}
Stuart’s head sank, and he uttered a weary sigh.
“They will not let me alone,” he muttered, “and yet I am here fighting for my country. But I defy them to take my good name away from me, Surry!”
And he rose to his feet.
“General Lee knows me! Jackson knew me! I have the regard of the one, and I had the love of the other. What do I care? If my children only will not hear these ignoble charges! One can never hear them, Surry—my beloved little Flora! She died while I was fighting near Middleburg in the fall of ‘62—that nearly broke me down—”
And Stuart paused and covered his eyes with his hand. Between the fingers I saw a tear.
For a moment his breast heaved—something like a sob issued from the brave lip, whereon the heavy mustache trembled.
“I think of her often—I shall never get over her death, Surry!”{1} he murmured. “They think me hard and cold, and bad perhaps—it is nothing. Since she died I care less for men’s opinion, and only try to do my duty, till
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