University of Virginia Library

28. CHAPTER XXVIII.

To those who reside at the convulsed throbbing
heart of a great revolution, a lifetime
seems compressed into the compass of days
and weeks, and men and women are conscious
of growing prematurely old while watching
the rushing, thundering tramp of events, portentous
with the fate of nations. W—
presented the appearance of a military camp,
rather than the peaceful manufacturing town
of yore. Every vacant lot was converted into
a parade-ground—and the dash of cavalry,
the low, sullen rumbling of artillery, and the
slow, steady tread of infantry, echoed through
its wide, handsome streets. Flag-staffs were
erected from public buildings, private residences,
and at the most frequented corners,
and from these floated banners of all sizes,
tossing proudly to the balmy breeze the new-born
ensign of freedom—around which clustered
the hopes of a people who felt that upon
them, and them only, now devolved the sacred
duty of proving to the world the capacity of a
nation for self-government. In view of the
iniquitous and impossible task which it had

insanely set itself to accomplish, the government
at Washington had swept aside all constitutional
forms, in order to free its hands for
the work of blood—had ultimated in complete
despotism. The press was thoroughly muzzled—freedom
of speech was erased from the
list of American privileges; the crowded cells
of Bastile Lafayette, McHenry, and Warren
wailed out to the civilized world that habeas
corpus was no more; and, terror-stricken at
the hideous figure of Absolutism carved by the
cunning fingers of Lincoln and Seward, and
set up for worship at Washington, Liberty fled
from her polluted fane, and sought shelter and
shrine on the banner of the Confederacy, in
the dauntless, devoted hearts of its unconquerable
patriots. Fondly and proudly was
the divinity guarded. Smiling flowery valleys
rang with pæans that rose high above the
din of deadly strife—and rugged, lonely hills
and purple mountains lifted themselves to the
God of battle, like huge smoking altars red with
the noble blood of slaughtered heroes. Loathing
and detestation succeeded the old affection
for the Federal government, and “Union”
became everywhere the synonyme of political
duplicity, despotism, and the utter abrogation
of all that had once constituted American
freedom, and rendered the republic, in earlier
years, the civil Pharos of Christendom. The
Confederacy realized that the hour had arrived
when the historic Sphinx must find an Œdipus,
or Democratic Republican Liberty would be
devoured, swept away, with the debris of
other dead systems. Lifting their eyes to God
for blessing, the men of the South girded on
their swords and resolved, calmly and solemnly,
to prove that Œdipus—to read, and for ever set
at rest the haunting, vexing riddle. Another
adjective than “Spartan” must fleck with
glory the pages of future historians, for all the
stern resolution and self-abnegation of Rome
and Lacedæmon had entered the souls of
Southern women. Mothers closed their lips
firmly to repress a wail of sorrow as they
buckled on the swords of their first-born, and
sent them forth with a “God-speed!” to
battle for the right; fond wives silently packed
their husbands knapsacks, with hands that
knew no faltering; and sisters, with tearless
eyes, bent by the light of midnight lamps over
canteens which their thoughtful care covered
for brothers who were to start to the scene of
action on the morrow. A nation of laboring,
nimble-fingered, prayerful-hearted, brave-spirited
women, and chivalric, high-souled,
heroic men, who had never learned that
Americans could live and not be free. Grant
us our reward, oh God! the independence
of the land we hold so dear.

W— gave her young men liberally;
company after company was equipped, furnished
with ample funds by the munificence of
citizens who remained, and sent forward to
Virginia, to make their breasts a shield for
the proud old “Mother of Presidents.” The
battle of Bethel was regarded as part of an
overture to the opera of Blood, yclept “Subjugation,”
and people watched in silence for
the crimson curtain to rise upon the banks of
the Potomac. Russell Aubrey had succeeded
in raising a fine full company for the war, as
contra-distinguished from twelve months volunteers;
and to properly drill and discipline
it, he bent all the energy of his character. It
was made the nucleus of a new regiment, recruits
gathered rapidly, and when the regiment
organized, preparatory to starting for
Virginia, he was elected colonel, with
Herbert Blackwell for lieutenant-colonel,
and Charles Harris was appointed adjutant.
They were temporarily encamped on the common
between the railroad depot and Mr.
Huntingdon's residence, and from the observatory
or colonnade Irene could look down on
the gleaming tents and the flag-staff that
stood before the officers quarters. Reveille
startled her at dawn, and tattoo regularly
warned her of the shortness of summer nights.
As the fiery carriage-horses would not brook
the sight of the encampment, she discarded
them for a time, and when compelled to leave
home rode Erebus, at no slight risk of her
life—for he evinced the greatest repugnance
to the sound of drum or fife.

One afternoon she went over to the Row,
and thence to the factory. A new company
had been named in honor of her father; uniforms
and haversacks were to be furnished,
and Mr. Huntingdon had intrusted her with
the commission. Selecting the cloth and accomplishing
her errand, she returned by way
of the orphan-asylum, whose brick walls
were rapidly rising under her supervision.
One of the workmen took her horse, and she
went over the building, talking to the principal
mechanic about some additional closets
which she desired to have inserted. Dr.
Arnold chanced to be passing, but saw
Erebus at the gate, stopped, and came in.

“I was just going up to the Hill to see you,
Queen—glad I am saved the trouble. Here,
sit down a minute; I will clear these shavings
away. When did you hear from Leonard?”

“I had a letter yesterday. He was well,
and on outpost duty near Manassas.”

“Well, I shall join him very soon.”

“Sir?”

“I say I shall join him very soon; don't you
believe it? Why should n't I serve my country
as well as younger men? The fact is, I
am going as surgeon of Aubrey's regiment.
It would never do to have the handsome
colonel maimed for life, through the awkwardness
of a new-fledged M. D. Miss Salome
would spoil her superb eyes with crying—
which catastrophe would, doubtless, distress
him more than the loss of a limb—eh, Irene?”

She looked, at him, betraying neither surprise
nor regret.

“When will you leave W—?”

“Day after to-morrow morning; can't get
transportation any sooner. Aubrey has received
orders to report at once to General
Beauregard. Child, have you been sick?”

“No, sir. I am glad you are going with the
regiment; very glad. Every good surgeon in
the Confederacy should hasten to the front
line of our armies. Since you leave home, I
am particularly glad that you are going to
Manassas, where you can be near father.”

“Humph! Do you suppose that I am a
patent life-preserver against minie balls and
grape-shot?”

“I know you will do all that skill and affection
can suggest, and I shall feel much better
satisfied.”

He mused a moment, watching her furtively.

“I suppose you have heard of the performance
for to-morrow?”

“No, sir. To what do you allude?”

“The daughter of Herodias is preparing to
dance.”

“I don't understand you, Doctor.”

“Oh, don't you, indeed? Well, then, she
intends to present a splendid regimental flag
with her own brown hands; and as Aubrey is
to receive it, the regiment will march to Mrs.
Churchhill's, where the speeches will be delivered.
Will you attend?”

“Scarcely, I presume, as I am not invited.
I knew that Salome was having an elegant
flag made, but was not aware that to-morrow
was appointed for the ceremony of presentation.”

“Who will look after you when I am gone?
You are the only tie I have here. I can't
bear to leave you.”

“I dare say I shall get on very well; and,
beside, you, of course, must go and do your
duty, no matter what happens.”

“But you will be so lonely and isolated till
Eric comes.”

She smiled suddenly, strangely, yet with no
tinge of bitterness.

“That is nothing new. I have been solitary
all my life.”

“And it is your own fault. You might have
married like other people, and been happier.”

“You are mistaken in assuming that I am
not happy in my home.”

“Hush, Irene! hush! I know the signs of
true happiness, if I don't possess it myself.
You never murmur; oh, no!—you are too
proud! You don't droop like some poor,
weak, sickly souls; oh, no!—you are too stately
and regal. You will live and die a model of
reticent chill propriety; and when you are
in your shroud your placid, treacherous face
will bear no witness that you were cheated out
of your rights in this world.”

Again she smiled, and laid her hand on his.

“What a pity you mistook your forte in
early life; with such a fertile imagination, not
physic, but fiction, was your calling. When
will you come to see me? I want you to take
a parcel to father for me; and then I want to
have a long talk.”

“I know what the long talk amounts to.
You need not hold out any such rosy-cheeked
apples of Sodom as a bait. I am coming, of
course, after the flag ceremonies, where I am
expected. At one o'clock I will be at the
Hill—perhaps earlier. Where now?”

“I must go by Mrs. Baker's, to see about
giving out some sewing for the `Huntingdon
Rifles.' I can't do it all at home, and several
families here require work. I shall expect
you at one o'clock—shall have lunch ready for
you. By the way, Doctor, is there anything I
can do for you in the sewing line? It would
give me genuine pleasure to make something
for you, if you will only tell me what you need.
Think over your wants.”

She had caught up her reins, but paused,
looking at him. He averted his head quickly.

“I will tell you to-morrow. Good-evening.”

Turning from the town, she took a narrow
sandy road leading among low, irregular hills,
and after passing a thicket of sweet-gum, bay,
and poplar, that bordered a clear, brawling,
rocky-bosomed stream which ran across the
road, she rode up to a three-roomed log-house.
Two small children, with anomalous bluish-white
hair, were playing marbles in the passage,
and a boy, apparently ten years of age,
was seated on the ground, whistling “Dixie”
and making split baskets, such as are generally
used on plantations for picking cotton.
He threw down his work and ran to open the
gate, which was tied with a piece of rope.

“How do you do, Hanson? Is your mother
at home?”

“Yes, ma'm.”

She gave him her bridle and entered the
house, in one of the rooms of which she found
a tall, muscular, powerful-looking woman
kneeling on the floor, and engaged in cutting
out work from a roll of striped cloth. Putting
her grayish hair behind her ears, she paused,
looked up, and, with scissors in hand, said,
bluntly:

“Be seated, Miss Irene. I have n't time, or
I would get up. Lucinda, bring some water
fresh from the spring, and if your grandmother
is awake, tell her Miss Irene is here,”

“I see you have not finished your contract,
Mrs. Baker.”

“Very nearly, ma'm. I will finish off and
send in the last lot of these haversacks by
twelve o'clock to-morrow. The captain was
out to-day to hurry me up; said the regiment
had orders to leave day after to-morrow. I
gave him my word he should have them by
noon, and that is something I never break.”

“Have you heard from your husband since
I saw you?”

Again the busy scissors paused.

“Not a word. But my boy, Robert, has

had a terrible spell of fever in Lynchburg. I
received a few lines from the doctor of the
hospital yesterday. Thank God! he was better
when the letter was written. His father
knows nothing of it. I can't find out exactly
where Mr. Baker's company is. They are doing
good service, I hope, somewhere—making
their mark on the Union wretches in the Virginia
valley. I want to hear that my husband
had a hand in burning Wheeling.”

“I believe you told me that you were from
Virginia.”

“Yes, ma'm; but not from that part of it, I
want you to understand. I was born in
Amelia, thank my stars! and that is as true as
steel.”

“It must be a great trial to you to have
your husband and son so far off, and yet separated.”

“Of course I hate to have them away, and
times are hard for such a family as mine, with
little means of support; but I don't grieve.
Every man has to do his duty now, and every
woman, too. I told Stephen I thought I could
take care of the children and myself—that I
would rather live on acorns, than that he
should not serve his country when it needed
him; and I told Robert, when I fixed him off,
that I never would die contented if he and his
father did not both do something to distinguish
themselves in this war. I am a poor woman,
Miss Irene, but no soul loves the Confederacy
better than I do, or will work harder for it.
I have no money to lend our government, but
I give my husband and my child—and two
better soldiers no state can show.”

“You have done your part nobly, and I
trust both your dear ones will be spared, and
brought safely back to you. How is your
mother to-day?”

“Very feeble. I was up nearly all night
with her. She had one of her bad spells.
Have some water; it is sweet and cold.”

“Do you want any more work this week?”

“Yes, ma'm; I should like some after to-morrow.
Do you know where I can get any?”

“I can give you seventy-five flannel over-shirts,
and the same number of haversacks;
but you could scarcely finish them all in time,
and I thought I would send you the shirts,
and let Mrs. Pritchard take the haversacks.”

“I shall be very glad to get them. You
are not raising a company yourself, Miss
Irene?”

“Oh, no! but there is a new company
named `Huntingdon Rifles' for my father, and
he wishes to give them everything they need.
When can you come in to see me about cutting
out the shirts?”

“Day after to-morrow morning, quite early,
if it will suit you.”

“That will suit me very well. Here is that
remedy for asthma, which I mentioned to
you once before. If you will try it faithfully,
I have no doubt it will at least relieve your
mother of much suffering. If you can't find
the ingredients here, let me know, and I can
get them from the plantation.”

As the kneeling figure received the slip of
paper she rose, and tears gathered in the large
clear gray eyes.

“Thank you, Miss Irene; it is very good of
you to remember my poor old mother so constantly.
I am afraid nothing will ever do her
much good; but I am grateful to you, and will
try your remedy faithfully. I want to thank
you, too, for the good you have done Hanson;
I never saw a boy so changed. He is up by
daylight Sunday mornings, getting all things
in trim, so that he can be off to Sabbath-school.
I have always tried to teach my children
to be honest and upright, but I am afraid
I did not do my duty fully; I am afraid they
were neglected in some respects, till you began
with them in Sabbath-school.”

“Your children all learn very readily, but
Hanson is particularly bright. I am very
glad to have him in my class; he is one of my
best pupils.”

As she went homeward a shadow fell upon
her face—a shadow darker than that cast by
the black plume in her riding-hat—and once
or twice her lips writhed from their ordinary
curves of beauty. Nearing the encampment
she lowered her veil, but saw that dress-parade
had been dismissed, and as she shook the
reins and Erebus quickened his gallop, she
found herself face to face with the colonel,
who had just mounted his horse and was
riding toward town. She looked at him, and
bowed; but, in passing, he kept his eyes fixed
on the road before him, and in the duskiness
his face seemed colder and more inflexible than
ever. Such had been the manner of their
occasional meetings since the interview at the
factory, and she was not surprised that this,
her first greeting, was disregarded. The
public believed that an engagement existed
between him and Salome, and the attentions
heaped upon him by the family of the latter
certainly gave color to the report. But Irene
was not deceived; she had learned to understand
his nature, and knew that his bitterness
of feeling and studied avoidance of herself betokened
that the old affection had not been
crushed. Struggling with the dictates of her
heart, and a sense of the respect due to her
father's feelings, she passed a sleepless night
in pacing the gallery of the observatory. It
was a vigil of almost intolerable perplexity
and anguish. Under all its painful aspects
she patiently weighed the matter, and at sunrise
next morning, throwing open the blinds of
her room, she drew her rose-wood desk to the
window, and wrote these words:

As the regiment prepared to march to Mrs.
Churchhill's residence, the note was received
from Andrew's hands. Returning his sword to
its scabbard, the colonel read the paper twice,
three times—a heavy frown gathered on his
forehead, his swarthy cheek fired, and, thrusting
the note into his pocket, he turned toward
his regiment, saying hastily to the servant:

“You need not wait. No answer is expected.”

At the breakfast-table Irene opened a hasty
missive from Salome, inviting her to be present
at the presentation of the flag, and begging
a few choice flowers for the occasion.
Smiling quietly, she filled the accompanying
basket with some of the rarest treasures of the
green-house, added a bowl of raspberries
which the gardener had just brought in, and
sent all, with a brief line excusing herself from
attending.

The morning was spent in writing to her
father, preparing a parcel for him, and in superintending
the making of a large quantity
of blackberry jelly and cordial for the use of
the hospitals.

About noon Dr. Arnold came, and found her
engaged in sealing up a number of the jars,
all neatly labelled. The day was warm; she
had pushed back her hair from her brow, as
she bent over her work; the full sleeves were
pinned up above the elbow, and she wore a
white check-muslin apron to protect her dress
from the resin and beeswax.

“In the name of Medea and her Colchian
caldron! what are you about, Irene?”

“Fixing a box of hospital stores for you to
take with you.”

“Fixing! you Yankee! crucify that word!
I detest it. Say arranging, getting up, putting
in order, aggregating, conglomerating, or what
you will, but save my ears from `fixing!'
How do I know that all that trash was n't
boiled in a brass kettle, and is not rank poison?”

“Because I always use a porcelain kettle,
sir. Here is a glass; try some of my `trash.'
I am determined to receive you `cordially.'”

“Take my advice, Queen, and never attempt
another pun so long as life and reason
are spared to you. It is an execrable, heathenish,
uncivil practice, which should be tabooed
in all well-regulated respectable families.
As a class, your punsters are a desperate,
vinegar-souled set. Old Samuel Johnson
treated the world to a remarkably correct estimate
of the whole sorry tribe. Just a half-glass
more. You have spilled a drop on your
immaculate apron. Well, your pun and your
cordial are about on a par; not exactly either—
for one has too much spice, and the other none
at all.”

“Well, then, Fadladeen, I will reconsider,
and send the box to a Richmond hospital.”

“No; give it to me. The poor fellows who
are to use it may not be so fastidious. How
much longer do you intend to sit here? I did
not come to make my visit to the pantry.”

“I have finished, sir. Let me wash my
hands, and I will give you some lunch in the
dining-room.”

“No; I lunched with the Israelites. Salome
was brilliant as a Brazilian fire-fly, and presented
her banner quite gracefully. Aubrey
looked splendidly in his uniform; was superbly
happy in his speech—always is. Madam did
the honors inimitably, and, in fine—give me
that fan on the table—everything was decidedly
comme il faut. You were expected, and
you ought to have gone; it looked spiteful to
stay away. I should absolutely like to see you
subjected to 212° Fahrenheit, in order to
mark the result. Here I am almost suffocating
with the heat, which would be respectable in
Soudan, and you sit there bolt upright, looking
as cool as a west wind in March. Beauty,
you should get yourself patented as a social
refrigerator, “Warranted proof against the
dog-days.” What rigmarole do you want me
to repeat to Leonard?”

“I have sent a parcel and a letter to your
buggy. Please hand them to father, and tell
him that I am well.”

“And what is to become of my conscience
in the meantime?”

“Doctor, I might answer in the words of
Raphael to the Prefect of Alexandria: `What
will become of it in any case, my most excellent
lord?'”

“Humph, child! I am not such a reprobate,
after all. But I am thankful I am not
as some pharisees I know.”

She looked up in his harsh face to read its
meaning. He leaned forward, seized her
hands, and said hurriedly:

“Don't look so much like one of your own
pigeons, might, if you had coaxed it to come
to you, and then slapped it off. When I say
bitter things, you may be sure you are the last
person in my thoughts. Straighten that bent
lip; I did not allude to you, my starry priestess.
I meant all that noisy crew down town,
who—.”

“Let them rest; neither you nor I have any
interest in them. I wish, if you please, when
you get to Manassa, that you would persuade
father to allow me to come, at least, as far as
Richmond. You have some influence with
him; will you use it in my favor?”

“You are better off at home; you could
possibly do no good.”

“Still I want to go. Remember, my father
is all I have in this world.”

“And what have you elsewhere, Irene?”

“My mother, my Saviour, and my God.”

“Are you, then, so very anxious to go to
Virginia?” he repeated, after a pause.

“I am. I want to be near father.”

“Well, I will see what I can do with him.
If I fail, recollect that he is not proverbial for
pliability. Look here — are you nervous?
Your fingers twitch, and so do your eyelids
occasionally, and your pulse is twenty beats too
quick.”

“I believe I am rather nervous to-day.”

“Why so?”

“I did not sleep last night; that is one
cause, I suppose.”

“And the reason why you did not sleep?
Be honest with me.”

“My thoughts, sir, were very painful. Do
you wonder at it, in the present state of the
country?”

“Irene, answer me one question, dear child:
what does the future contain for you? What
hope have you?—what do you live for?”

“I have much to be grateful for—much that
makes me happy; and I hope to do some good
in the world while I live. I want to be useful—to
feel that I have gladdened some hearts,
strengthened some desponding spirits, carried
balm to some hearth-stones, shed some happiness
on the paths of those who walk near me
through life. There are seasons when I regret
my incapacity to accomplish more; but at such
times, when disposed to lament the limited
sphere of woman's influence, I am reminded
of Pascal's grand definition: `A sphere of
which the centre is everywhere, the circumference
nowhere;' and I feel encouraged to
hope that, after all, woman's circle of action
will prove as sublime and extended. Doctor,
remember:

“But who pointed your aims, and taught
you these theories?”

“The emptiness of my former life—the insatiable
yearning for solid, unalloyed happiness.
I enjoy society, and cling to many social ties;
but these alone could not content me. I love
the world better, for striving to be of some little
use to it, and I should be pained to have anybody
believe that I have grown misanthropic
or cynical, simply because I sometimes tire of a
round of gayety, and endeavor to employ my
time usefully, and for the benefit of my race.
I felt the pressure of the iron signet which the
Creator set to his high commissions for life-long
human labor, and, breaking the spell of inertia
that bound me, I have, in part, my reward.

God knows we do little enough for each other
in this whirl of selfishness and grasping after
gain.”

“Have you, then, fully resolved to remain
single?”

“Why do you ask me that, Dr. Arnold?”

“Because you are dear to me, Queen; and
I should like to see you happily married before
I am laid away in my grave.”

“You will never see it. Be sure I shall live
and die Irene Huntingdon.”

“What has induced you to doom yourself
to a —.”

“Ask me no more, Doctor. If I am content
with my lot, who else has the right to
question?”

He looked into that fair chiselled face, and
wondered whether she could be truly “content;”
and the purity and peace in her deep
calm eyes baffled him sorely. She rose, and
laid her hand on his shoulder.

“Dr. Arnold, promise me that, if there is a
battle, and father should be hurt, you will telegraph
me at once. Do not hesitate—let me
know the truth immediately. Will you?”

“I promise.”

“And now, sir, what can I make or have
made for you, which will conduce to your
comfort?”

“Have you any old linen left about the
house, that could be useful among the
wounded?”

“I have sent-off a good deal, but have some
left. In what form do you want it? As lint,
or bandages?”

“Neither; pack it just as it is, and send it
on by express. I can't carry the world on my
shoulders.”

“Anything else?”

“Write to the overseer's wife to sow all the
mustard-seed see can lay her hands on, and
save all the sage she can. And, Irene, be sure
to send me every drop of honey you can spare.
That is all, I believe. If I think of anything
else, I will write you.”

“Will you take Cyrus with you?”

“Of course. What guarantee have I that
some villainous stray shell or shot may not
ricochet, and shave my head off? I shall take
him along to drag me off the field, in any such
emergency; for if I am not a Christian myself,
I want to be buried by Christian people—not
by those puritanical golden-calf worshippers,
of `higher-law' notoriety.”

“I trust that, in the exercise of your professional
duties, you will be in no danger.
Surgeons are rarely hurt, I believe.”

“Not so sure of that. Spherical-case or
grape-shot have very little respect for scientific
proficiency or venerable old age. One thing
is certain, however—if anything happens to
me, Cyrus will bring me home; and I want a

quiet place near your lot in the cemetery,
where your hands, Queen, will sometimes be
about my grave. Ah, child! I have lived a
lonely, savage sort of life, and spent little love
on the world, or the people about me. I have
had neither wife, nor children, nor sister in my
home, to humanize me; but you have always
had a large share of my heart, and even Leonard
can hardly love you better than I do.
Think of me sometimes, Queen, and write to
me freely. No eyes but mine will ever see
your letters.”

He stood with his hands on her shoulders,
speaking falteringly; and, unable to reply
immediately, she turned her lips to the large
brawny hand which had caressed her for
twenty-five years.

Making a great effort, she said, pleadingly:

“Dr. Arnold, when I pray for father, I
always include you in my petitions. Do you
never intend to pray for yourself?”

“I should not know how to begin now, my
child.”

“Words always come with will. Postpone
it no longer. Oh, Doctor! I beg of you to
begin at once.”

Her lashes were heavy with unshed tears, as
she looked up in his face.

“I have faith in your prayers, Queen, but
not in my own. Pray for me always, dear
child. God bless you! my comfort, my light;
in a dark, troubled world of sin.”

He stooped, kissed her forehead, and hurried
out to his buggy.

She could not realize that he would be exposed
to such imminent danger as many others
—and, having concluded her packing and despatched
the box to the depot, she wrote a few
lines to a well known book-seller, and sent
Andrew to the store. An hour after he
returned, bringing a package of small, but
elegantly bound bibles. From among the
number she selected one of beautiful, clear
type, and taking it to her room, locked herself
in to escape all intrusion.