University of Virginia Library

30. CHAPTER XXX.

Strange heroic parallelisms startle the grave,
reflecting student of history, and propound the
inquiry: Is the Buckle theory of immutable
cycles correct? Is the throbbing, surging
world of human emotions and passions but a
mere arithmetical problem, to be solved through
the erudition and astuteness of a Quetelet or
Hassel, by an infallible statistical rule-of-three?
Has the relentless Necessity of Comte
erected its huge mill on this continent, to
grimly grind out the annual quantity of patriotism,
tyranny, noble self-abnegation, or Machiavelism,
in the prescribed, invariable ratio of
“Sociology?” Is it that times make men and
women, through dire necessity of individual
or national salvation, or will it be urged that
sublime records of the past fire the soul to
emulation and duplication of ancient heroism?
Davus sum non Œdipus. In 1781, when compelled
to raise the siege of Ninety-Six, it
became very important that General Greene
should communicate with Sumter. The intervening
country was, however, so filled with
British and Tories, and such dangers attended
the mission, that no one could be found willing
to undertake it. In this emergency, when even
our patriots of the first Revolution shrank back,
Emily Geiger, only eighteen years of age, volunteered
to make the hazardous attempt, and
received from General Greene a letter, and
verbal messages, which he was extremely desirous
should reach their destination. Mounting
a swift horse, she performed a portion of
the journey in safety; but was ultimately
arrested by two Tories, who suspected that she
might be rendering important, though clandestine,
service to “the rebels.” Swiftly and
unobserved she swallowed the written despatch,
and, baffled in their expectation of finding suspicious
documents, they allowed her to proceed.
Sumter's camp was safely reached, the messages
were delivered, Gen. Greene's army was
reinforced, and soon became strong enough to
assume the offensive. Rawdon was forced to
retreat, and Greene subsequently met and
vanquished the British army at Eutaw Springs.
Was not Emily Geiger's slender womanly hand
instrumental in preparing for that battle, the
results of which freed the Carolinas?

In July, 1861, when the North, blinded by
avarice and hate, rang with the cry of “On to
Richmond,” our Confederate Army of the
Potomac was divided between Manassa and
Winchester, watching at both points the glittering
coils of the Union boa-constrictor, which
writhed in its efforts to crush the last sanctuary
of freedom. The stringency evinced along
the Federal lines prevented the transmission
of despatches by the Secessionists of Maryland,
and for a time Generals Beauregard and Johnston
were kept in ignorance of the movements
of the enemy. Patterson hung dark and lowering
around Winchester, threatening daily
descent; while the main column of the grand
army under McDowell proceeded from Washington,
confident in the expectation of overwhelming
the small army stationed at Manassa.
The friends of liberty who were compelled to
remain in the desecrated old capital appreciated
the urgent necessity of acquainting
General Beauregard with the designs of McDowell,
and the arch-apostate, Scott; but all
channels of egress seemed sealed; all roads
leading across the Potomac were vigilantly
guarded, to keep the great secret safely; and
painful apprehensions were indulged for the
fate of the Confederate army. But the Premethean
spark of patriotic devotion burned in
the bearts of Secession women; and, resolved
to dare all things in a cause so holy, a young
lady of Washington, strong in heroic faith,
offered to encounter any perils, and pledged
her life to give Gen. Beauregard the necessary
intormation. Carefully concealing a letter in
the twist of her luxuriant hair, which would
escape detection even should she be searched,
she disguised herself effectually, and, under the
mask of a market-woman, drove a cart through
Washington, across the Potomac, and deceived
the guard by selling vegetables and milk as she
proceeded. Once beyond Federal lines, and
in friendly neighborhood, it was but a few
minutes work to “off ye lendings,” and secure
a horse and riding-habit. With a courage
and rapidity which must ever command the
admiration of a brave people, she rode at hard
gallop that burning July afternoon to Fairfax
Court-house, and telegraphed to Gen. Beauregard,
then at Manassa's Junction, the intelligence
she had risked so much to convey.
Availing himself promptly of the facts, he
flashed them along electric wires to Richmond,
and to General Johnston; and thus, through
womanly devotion, a timely junction of the
two armies was effected, ere McDowell's banners
flouted the skies of Bull Run.

Carthagenian women gave their black locks
to string their country's bows and furnish cordage
for its shipping; and the glossy tresses of
an American woman veiled a few mystic
ciphers more potent in General Beauregard's
hands than Talmudish Shemhamphorash.

Her mission accomplished, the dauntless
courier turned her horse's head, and, doubtless,

with an exulting, thankful heart returned in
triumph to Washington. When our national
jewels are made up, will not a grateful and
admiring country set her name between those
of Beauregard and Johnston in the revolutionary
diadem, and let the three blaze through
coming ages, baffling the mists of time—the
Constellation of Manassa? The artillery duel
of the 18th of July ended disastrously for the
advance guard of the Federals—a temporary
check was given.

All things seemed in abeyance; dun, sulphurous
clouds of smoke lifted themselves from
the dewy copse that fringed Bull Run, floating
slowly to the distant purple crests of the Blue
Ridge, which gazed solemnly down on the
wooded Coliseum, where gladiatorial hosts were
soon to pour out their blood in the hideous
orgies held by loathsome Fanaticism—guarded
by Federal bayonets, and canopied by the Stars
and Stripes. During the silent watches of
Saturday night—

A pure Sabbath morning kindled on the
distant hill-tops, wearing heavenly credentials
of rest and sanctity on its pearly forehead—
credentials which the passions of mankind
could not pause to recognize; and with the
golden glow of summer sunshine came the
tramp of infantry, the clatter of cavalry, the
sullen growl of artillery. Major Huntingdon
had been temporarily assigned to a regiment
of infantry after leaving Richmond, and was
posted on the right of General Beauregard's
lines, commanding one of the lower fords.
Two miles higher up the stream, in a different
brigade, Colonel Aubrey's regiment guarded
another of the numerous crossings. As the
day advanced, and the continual roar of cannon
toward Stone-Bridge and Sudley's Ford
indicated that the demonstrations on McLean's,
Blackford's, and Mitchell's fords were mere
feints to hold our right and centre, the truth
flashed on General Beauregard that the main
column was hurled against Evans' little band
on the extreme left. Hour after hour passed,
and the thunder deepened on the Warrenton
road; then the General learned, with unutterable
chagrin, that his order for an advance on
Centreville had miscarried, that a brilliant
plan had been frustrated, and that new combinations
and dispositions must now be resorted
to. The regiment to which Major Huntingdon
was attached was ordered to the support
of the left wing, and reached the distant position
in an almost incredibly short time, while
two regiments of the brigade to which Colonel
Aubrey belonged were sent forward to the
same point as a reserve.

Like incarnations of victory, Beauregard
and Johnston swept to the front, where the
conflict was most deadly; everywhere, at sight
of them, our thin ranks dashed forward, and
were moved down by the fire of Rickett's and
Griffin's batteries, which crowned the position
they were so eager to regain. At half-past
two o'clock the awful contest was at its height;
the rattle of musketry, the ceaseless whistle of
rifle-balls, the deafening boom of artillery, the
hurtling hail of shot, and explosion of shell,
dense volumes of smoke shrouding the combatants,
and clouds of dust boiling up on all
sides, lent unutterable horror to a scene which,
to cold, dispassionate observers, might have
seemed sublime. As the vastly superior numbers
of the Federals forced our stubborn bands
to give back slowly, an order came from General
Beauregard for the right of his line, except
the reserves, to advance, and recover the long
and desperately-disputed plateau. With a
shout, the shattered lines sprang upon the foe
and forced them temporarily back. Major
Huntingdon's horse was shot under him; he
disengaged himself and marched on foot, waving
his sword and uttering words of encouragement.
He had proceeded but a few yards
when a grape-shot entered his side, tearing its
way through his body, and he fell where the
dead lay thickest. For a time the enemy retired,
but heavy reinforcements pressed in, and
they returned, reoccupying the old ground.
Not a moment was to be lost; General Beauregard
ordered forward his reserves for a second
effort, and, with magnificent effect, led the
charge in person. Then Russell Aubrey first
came actively upon the field. At the word of
command he dashed forward with his splendid
regiment, and, high above all, towered his
powerful form, with the long black plume of
his hat drifting upon the wind, as he led his
admiring men.

As he pressed on, with thin nostril dilated,
and eyes that burned like those of a tiger seizing
his prey, he saw, just in his path, leaning
on his elbow, covered with blood and smeared
with dust, the crushed, writhing form of his
bitterest enemy. His horse's hoofs were almost
upon him; he reined him back an instant,
and glared down at his old foe. It was only
for an instant; and as Major Huntingdon looked
on the stalwart figure and at the advancing
regiment, life-long hatred and jealousy were
forgotten—patriotism throttled all the past in
her grasp—he feebly threw up his hand, cheered
faintly, and, with his eyes on Russell's,
smiled grimly, saying, with evident difficulty:

“Beat them back, Aubrey! Give them the
bayonet!”

The shock was awful—beggaring language.
On, on, they swept, while ceaseless cheers
mingled with the cannonade; the ground was
recovered, to be captured no more. The Federals
were driven back across the turnpike,
and now dark masses of reinforcements debouched
on the plain, and marched toward our
left. Was it Grouchy or Blucher? Some
moments of painful suspense ensued, while
General Beauregard strained his eyes to decipher

the advancing banner. Red and white
and blue, certainly; but was it the ensign of
Despotism or of Liberty? Nearer and nearer
came the rushing column, and lo! upon the
breeze streamed, triumphant as the Labarum
of Constantine, the Stars and Bars. Kirby
Smith and Elzey—God be praised! The day
was won, and Victory nestled proudly among
the folds of our new-born banner. One more
charge along our whole line, and the hireling
hordes of oppression fled, panic-stricken. Russell
had received a painful wound from a
minie ball, which entered his shoulder and
ranged down toward the elbow, but he maintained
his position, and led his regiment a mile
in the pursuit. When it became evident that
the retreat was a complete rout, he resigned
the command to Lieutenant-Colonel Blackwell,
and rode back to the battle-field. Hideous
was the spectacle presented—dead and
dying, friend and foe, huddled in indiscriminate
ruin, weltering in blood, and shivering in
the agonies of dissolution; blackened headless
trunks and fragments of limbs—ghastly sights
and sounds of woe, filling the scene of combat.
Such were the first fruits of the bigotry and
fanatical hate of New England, aided by the
unprincipled demagogism of the West; such
were the wages of Abolitionism, guided by
Lincoln and Seward—the latter-day Sejanus;
such the results of “higher-law,” canting, puritanical
hypocrisy.

Picking his way to avoid trampling the
dead, Russell saw Major Huntingdon at a
little distance, trying to drag himself toward a
neighboring tree. The memory of his injuries
crowded up—the memory of all that he had
endured and lost through that man's prejudice—the
sorrow that might have been averted
from his blind mother — and his vindictive
spirit rebelled at the thought of rendering him
aid. But as he paused and struggled against
his better nature, Irene's holy face, as he saw
it last, lifted in prayer for him, rose, angel-like,
above all that mass of death and horrors.
The sufferer was Irene's father; she was
hundreds of miles away; Russell set his lips
firmly, and, riding up to the prostrate figure,
dismounted. Exhausted by his efforts, Major
Huntingdon had fallen back in the dust, and
an expression of intolerable agony distorted
his features as Russell stooped over him, and
asked, in a voice meant to be gentle:

“Can I do anything for you? Could you
sit up, if I placed you on my horse?”

The wounded man scowled as he recognized
the voice and face, and turned his head partially
away, muttering:

“What brought you here?”

“There has never been any love between
us, Major Huntingdon; but we are fighting in
the same cause for the first time in our lives.
You are badly wounded, and, as a fellow-soldier,
I should be glad to relieve your sufferings,
if possible. Once more, for humanity's
sake, I ask, can you ride my horse to the rear,
if I assist you to mount?”

“No. But, for God's sake, give me some
water!”

Russell knelt, raised the head, and unbuckling
his canteen, put it to his lips, using his
own wounded arm with some difficulty. Half
of the contents was eagerly swallowed, and
the remainder Russell poured slowly on the
gaping ghastly wound in his side. The proud
man eyed him steadily till the last cool drop
was exhausted, and said, sullenly:

“You owe me no kindness, Aubrey. I hate
you, and you know it. But you have heaped
coals of fire on my head. You are more generous
than I thought you. Thank you, Aubrey;
lay me under that tree yonder, and let me
die.”

“I will try to find a surgeon. Who belongs
to your regiment?”

“Somebody whom I never saw till last
week. I won't have him hacking about me.
Leave me in peace.”

“Do you know anything of your servant?
I saw him as I came on the field.”

“Poor William! he followed me so closely
that he was shot through the head. He is
lying three hundred yards to the left, yonder.
Poor fellow! he was faithful to the last.”

A tear dimmed the master's eagle eye as he
muttered, rather than spoke, these words.

“Then I will find Dr. Arnold at once, and
send him to you.”

It was no easy matter, on that crowded, confused
Aceldama, and the afternoon was well
nigh spent before Russell, faint and weary,
descried Dr. Arnold busily using his instruments
in a group of wounded. He rode up,
and, having procured a drink of water and
refilled his canteen, approached the surgeon.

“Doctor, where is your horse? I want
you.”

“Ho, Cyrus! bring him up. What is the
matter, Aubrey? You are hurt.”

“Nothing serious, I think. But Major
Huntingdon is desperately wounded — mortally,
I am afraid. See what you can do for
him.”

“You must be mistaken! I have asked repeatedly
for Leonard, and they told me he
was in hot pursuit, and unhurt. I hope to
heaven you are mistaken!”

“Impossible; I tell you I lifted him out of a
pool of his own blood. Come; I will show you
the way.”

At a hard gallop they crossed the intervening
woods, and without difficulty Russell
found the spot where the mangled form lay
still. He had swooned, with his face turned
up to the sky, and the ghastliness of death
had settled on his strongly-marked, handsome
features.

“God pity Irene!” said the doctor, as he
bent down and examined the horrid wound,
striving to press the red lips together.

The pain caused from handling him roused
the brave spirit to consciousness, and opening
his eyes, he looked around wonderingly.

“Well, Hiram! it is all over with me, old
fellow.”

“I hope not, Leonard; can't you turn a little,
and let me feel for the ball?”

“It is of no use; I am torn all to pieces.
Take me out of this dirt, on the fresh grass
somewhere.”

“I must first extract the ball. Aubrey, can
you help me raise him a little?”

Administering some chloroform, he soon
succeeded in taking out the ball, and, with
Russell's assistance, passed a bandage round
the body.

“There is no chance for me, Hiram; I know
that. I have few minutes to live. Some
water.”

Russell put a cup to his white lips, and calling
in the assistance of Cyrus, who had followed
his master, they carried him several yards
farther, and made him comfortable, while orders
were despatched for an ambulance.

“It will come after my corpse. Hiram, see
that I am sent home at once. I don't want
my bones mixed here with other people's;
and it will be some comfort to Irene to know
that I am buried in sight of home. I could
not rest in a ditch here. I want to be laid in
my own vault. Will you see to it?”

“Yes.”

“Hiram, come nearer, where I can see you
better. Break the news gently to Irene. Tell
her I did my duty; that will be her only comfort,
and best. Tell her I fell in the thickest
of the battle, with my face to Washington;
that I died gloriously, as a Huntingdon and a
soldier should. Tell her I sent her my blessing,
my love, and a last kiss.”

He paused, and tears glided over his wan
cheeks as the picture of his far-off home rose
temptingly before him.

“She is a brave child; she will bear it, for
the sake of the cause I died in. Take care of
her, Arnold; tell Eric I leave her to his guardianship.
Harris has my will. My poor lonely
child! it is bitter to leave her. My Queen!
my golden-haired, beautiful Irene!”

He raised his hand feebly, and covered his
face.

“Don't let it trouble you, Leonard. You
know how I love her; I promise you I will
watch over her as long as I live.”

“I believe you. But if I could see her once
more, to ask her not to remember my harshness—long
ago. You must tell her for me; she
will understand. Oh! I—.”

A horrible convulsion seized him at this
moment, and so intense was the agony that a
groan burst through his set teeth, and he struggled
to rise. Russell knelt down and rested
the haughty head against his shoulder, wiping
off the cold drops that beaded the pallid brow.
After a little while, lifting his eyes to the face
bending over him, Major Huntingdon gazed
into the melancholy black eyes, and said, almost
in a whisper:

“I little thought I should ever owe you
thanks. Aubrey, forgive me all my hate; you
can afford to do so now. I am not a brute; I
know magnanimity when I see it. Perhaps I
was wrong to visit Amy's sins on you; but
I could not forgive her. Aubrey, it was natural
that I should hate Amy's son.”

Again the spasm shook his lacerated frame,
and twenty minutes after his fierce, relentless
spirit was released from torture; the proud,
ambitious, dauntless man was with his God.

Dr. Arnold closed the eyes with trembling
fingers, and covered his face with his hands to
hide the tears that he could not repress.

“A braver man never died for freedom. He
cheered me on, as my regiment charged over
the spot where he lay,” said Russell, looking
down at the stiffening form.

“He had his faults, like the rest of us, and
his were stern ones; but, for all that, I was
attached to him. He had some princely traits.
I would rather take my place there beside him,
than have to break this to Irene. Poor desolate
child! what an awful shock for her! She
loves him with a devotion which I have rarely
seen equalled. God only knows how she will
bear it. If I were not so needed here, I would
go to her to-morrow.”

“Perhaps you can be spared.”

“No; it would not be right to leave so much
suffering behind.”

He turned to Cyrus, and gave directions
about bringing the body into camp, to his own
tent; and the two mounted and rode slowly
back.

For some moments silence reigned; then
Dr. Arnold said, suddenly:

“I am glad you were kind to him, Aubrey.
It will be some consolation to that pure soul in
W—, who has mourned over and suffered
for his violent animosity. It was very generous,
Russell.”

“Save your commendation for a better occasion;
I do not merit it now. I had, and have,
as little magnanimity as my old enemy, and
what I did was through no generous oblivion
of the past.”

Glancing at him as these words were uttered
gloomily, the doctor noticed his faint, wearied
appearance, and led the way to his temporary
hospital.

“Come in, and let me see your arm. Your
sleeve is full of blood.”

An examination discovered a painful flesh-wound—the
minie ball having glanced from
the shoulder and passed out through the upper
part of the arm. In removing the coat to dress
the wound, the doctor exclaimed:

“Here is a bullet-hole in the breast, which
must have just missed your heart! Was it a
spent-ball?”

A peculiar smile disclosed Russell's faultless

teeth an instant, but he merely took the coat,
laid it over his uninjured arm, and answered:

“Don't trouble yourself about spent-balls—
finish your job. I must look after my wounded.”

As soon as the bandages were adjusted he
walked away, and took from the inside pocket
of the coat a heavy square morocco case containing
Irene's ambrotype. When the coat
was buttoned, as on that day, it rested over his
heart; and during the second desperate charge
of General Beauregard's lines Russell felt a
sudden thump, and, above all the roar of that
scene of carnage, heard the shivering of the
glass which covered the likeness. The morocco
was torn and indented, but the ball was turned
aside harmless, and now, as he touched the
spring, the fragments of glass fell at his feet.
It was evident that his towering form had rendered
him a conspicuous target; some accurate
marksman had aimed at his heart, and the
ambrotype-case had preserved his life. He
looked at the uninjured, radiant face till a
mist dimmed his eyes; nobler aspirations, purer
aims possessed him, and, bending his knees, he
bowed his forehead on the case and reverently
thanked God for his deliverance. With a
countenance pale from physical suffering, but
beaming with triumphant joy for the Nation's
first great victory, he went out among the dead
and dying, striving to relieve the wounded and
to find the members of his own command.
Passing from group to group, he heard a feeble,
fluttering voice pronounce his name, and saw
one of his men sitting against a tree, mortally
wounded by a fragment of shell.

“Well, Colonel, I followed that black feather
of yours as long as I could. I am glad I had
one good chance at the cowardly villains
before I got hurt. We 've thrashed them
awfully, and I am willing to die now.”

“I hope you are not so badly hurt. Cheer
up, Martin; I will bring a doctor to dress your
leg, and we will soon have you on crutches.”

“No, Colonel; the doctor has seen it, and
says there is nothing to be done for me. I
knew it before; everybody feels when death
strikes them. Dr. Arnold gave me something
that has eased me of my pain, but he can't save
me. Colonel, they say my captain is killed; and,
as I may not see any of our company boys, I
wish you would write to my poor wife, and tell
her all about it. I have n't treated her as well
as I ought; but a wife forgives everything, and
she will grieve for me, though I did act like a
brute when I was drinking. She will be proud
to know that I fought well for my country, and
died a faithful Confederate soldier; and so will
my boy, my Philip, who wanted to come with
me. Tell Margaret to send him to take my
place just as soon as he is old enough. The
boy will revenge me; he has a noble spirit.
And, Colonel, be sure to tell her to tell Miss
Irene that I kept my promise to her—that I
have not touched a drop of liquor since the day
she talked to me before I went out to build
Mr. Huntingdon's gin-house. God bless her
sweet, pure soul! I believe she saved me from
a drunkard's grave, to fill that of a brave
soldier. I know she will never let my Margaret
suffer, as long as she lives.”

“Is there anything else I can do for you,
Martin?”

“Nothing else, unless I could get a blanket,
or something, to put under my head. I am
getting very weak.”

“Leavens, pick up one of those knapsacks
scattered about, and bring a blanket. I promise
you, Martin, I will write to your wife; and
when I go home, if I outlive this war. I will see
that she is taken care of. I am sorry to lose
you, my brave fellow. You were one of the
best sergeants in the regiment. But remember
that you have helped to win a great
battle, and your country will not forget her
faithful sons who fell at Manassa.”

“Good-by, Colonel; I should like to follow
you to Washington. You have been kind to
us all, and I hope you will be spared to our
regiment. God bless you, Colonel Aubrey,
wherever you go.”

Russell changed him from his constrained
posture to a more comfortable one, rested his
head on a knapsack and blanket, placed his
own canteen beside him, and, with a long, hard
gripe of hands, and faltering “God bless you!”
the soldiers parted. The day of horrors was
shuddering to its close; glazing eyes were
turned for the last time to the sun which set in
the fiery West; the din and roar of the pursuit
died away in the distance; lowering clouds
draped the sky; the groans and wails of the
wounded rose mournfully on the reeking air;
and night and a drizzling rain came down on
the blanched corpses on the torn, trampled,
crimson plain of Manassa.

But all of intolerable torture centred not there,
awful as was the scene. Throughout the
length and breadth of the Confederacy telegraphic
despatches told that the battle was
raging; and an army of women spent that 21st
upon their knees, in agonizing prayer for
husbands and sons who wrestled for their
birthright on the far-off field of blood. Gray-haired
pastors and curly-headed children
alike besought the God of Justice to bless the
Right, to deliver our gallant band of patriots
from the insolent hordes sent to destroy us;
and to that vast trembling volume of prayer
which ascended from early morning from the
altars of the South, God lent his ear, and
answered.

The people of W— were subjected to
painful suspense as hour after hour crept by,
and a dense crowd collected in front of the
telegraph office, whence floated an ominous

red flag. Andrew waited on horseback to
carry to Irene the latest intelligence, and
during the entire afternoon she paced the
colonnade, with her eyes fixed on the winding
road. At half-past five o'clock the solemn
stillness of the sultry day was suddenly broken
by a wild, prolonged shout from the town;
cheer after cheer was caught up by the hills,
echoed among the purple valleys, and finally
lost in the roar of the river. Andrew galloped
up the avenue with an extra, yet damp from
the printing-press, containing the joyful tidings
that McDowell's army had been completely
routed, and was being pursued toward Alexandria.
Meagre was the account—our heroes,
Bee and Bartow, had fallen. No other details
were given, but the premonition, “Heavy loss
on our side,” sent a thrill of horror to every
womanly heart, dreading to learn the price of
victory. Irene's white face flashed as she read
the despatch, and raising her hands, exclaimed:

“Oh, thank God! thank God!”

“Shall I go back to the office?”

“Yes; I shall certainly get a despatch from
father sometime to-night. Go back, and wait
for it. Tell Mr. Rogers, the operator, what you
came for, and ask him I say please to let you have
it as soon as it arrives. And, Andrew, bring
me any other news that may come before my
despatch.”

Tediously time wore on; the shadows on the
lawn and terrace grew longer and thinner;
the birds deserted the hedges; the pigeons
forsook the colonnade and steps; Paragon,
tired of walking after Irene, fell asleep on the
rug; and the slow, drowsy tinkle of cow-bells
died away among the hills.

Far off to the east the blue was hidden by
gray thunderous masses of rain-cloud, now
and then veined by lightning; and as Irene
watched their jagged, grotesque outlines, they
took the form of battling hosts. Cavalry
swept down on the flanks, huge forms heaved
along the centre, and the lurid furrows ploughing
the whole from time to time, seemed indeed
death-dealing flashes of artillery. She recalled
the phantom cloud-battle in the Netherlandish
vision, and shuddered involuntarily as, in imagination,
she

Gradually the distant storm drifted southward,
the retreat passed the horizon, a red sunset
faded in the west; rose and amber and orange
were quenched, and sober blue, with starry
lights, was over all. How the serene regal
beauty of that summer night mocked the
tumultuous throbbing, the wild joy, and
great exultation of the national heart! Mother
Earth industriously weaves and hangs about
the world her radiant lovely tapestries, pitiless
of man's wails and requiems, deaf to his pæans.
Irene had earnestly endeavored to commit her
father and Russell to the merciful care and
protection of God, and to rest in faith, banishing
apprehension; but a horrible presentiment,
which would not “down” at her bidding,
kept her nerves strung to their utmost tension.
As the night advanced, her face grew haggard
and the wan lips fluttered ceaselessly. Russell
she regarded as already dead to her in this
world, but for her father she wrestled desperately
in spirit. Mrs. Campbell joined her,
uttering hopeful, encouraging words, and
Nellie came out, with a cup of tea on a waiter.

“Please drink your tea, just to please me,
Queen. I can't bear to look at you. In all
your life I never saw you worry so. Do sit
down and rest; you have walked fifty miles
since morning.”

“Take it away, Nellie. I don't want it.”

“But, child, it will be time enough to fret
when you know Mas' Leonard is hurt. Don't
run to meet trouble; it will face you soon
enough. If you won't take the tea, for pity's
sake let me get you a glass of wine.”

“No; I tell you I can't swallow anything.
If you want to help me, pray for father.”

She resumed her walk, with her eyes strained
in the direction of the town.

Thus passed three more miserable hours;
then the clang of the iron gate at the foot of
the avenue fell on her aching ear; the tramp
of horses hoofs and roll of wheels came up
the gravelled walk.

“Bad news! they are coming to break it
to me!” said she hoarsely, and, pressing her
hands together, she leaned heavily against
one of the guardian statues which had stood
so long before the door, like ancient Hermæ
at Athens. Was the image indeed prescient?
It tilted from its pedestal, and fell with a crash,
breaking into fragments. The omen chilled
her, and she stood still, with the light from
the hall-lamp streaming over her. The carriage
stopped; Judge Harris and his wife came
up the steps, followed slowly by Andrew,
whose hat was slouched over his eyes. As
they approached, Irene put out her hands
wistfully.

“We have won a glorious victory, Irene,
but many of our noble soldiers are wounded.
I knew you would be anxious, and we
came—.”

“Is my father killed?”

“Your father was wounded. He led a
splendid charge.”

“Wounded! No! he is killed! Andrew,
tell me the truth—is father dead?”

The faithful negro could no longer repress
his grief, and sobbed convulsively, unable to
reply.

“Oh, my God! I knew it! I knew it!” she
gasped.

The gleaming arms were thrown up despairingly,
and a low, dreary cry wailed
through the stately old mansion as the orphan
turned her eyes upon Nellie and Andrew—the

devoted two who had petted her
from childhood.

Judge Harris led her into the library, and
his weeping wife endeavored to offer consolation,
but she stood rigid and tearless, holding
out her hand for the despatch. Finally they
gave it to her, and she read:

The paper fell from her fingers; with a dry
sob she turned from them, and threw herself
on the sofa, with her face of woe to the wall.
So passed the night.

Four days after, a number of Major Huntingdon's
friends waited at the depot to receive
the body. The train had been detained; it
was nine o'clock at night when the cars arrived,
and the coffin was placed in a hearse and
escorted to the Hill. By Judge Harris' direction
it was carried into the parlor, and placed
on the table draped for the purpose; and when
arrangements had been made for the funeral
on the morrow, he dismissed all but a few who
were to remain during the night.

Irene sat at her window up-stairs, looking
out upon the sombre soughing pines that rose
like a cloud against the starry sky, while Grace
and Salome walked about the room, crying
spasmodically, and trying to utter something
comforting to the still figure, which might
have been of ivory or granite, for any visible
sign of animation. After a time, when the
bustle had ceased, when the carriages had
withdrawn, and the hurried tread of many
feet had subsided, Irene rose, and said:

“Grace, tell your father I wish to see him.”

Judge Harris came promptly.

“I am greatly obliged to you for all your
kindness. Please take the gentlemen into the
dining-room or library, if you will stay, and do
not allow any of them to return to the parlor;
I shall sit there to-night, and need no one.”

“Oh, my child! impossible. It would not
be proper. You are not able.”

“I know what I am able to do, and what I
have resolved to do. Be good enough to remove
those gentlemen at once.”

Something in her face startled him; perhaps
its frightful, tearless immobility, and he silently
complied.

When all was quiet, she crossed the passage,
entered the draped room, and, locking the
door, was alone with her dead. The coffin
stood in the centre of the floor, and upon it
lay the sword and plumed hat. She looked
down on the lid where the name was inscribed,
and kissed the characters; and, as all her isolation
and orphanage rushed upon her, she
laid her head on the table, calling mournfully
upon the manly sleeper for comfort and forgiveness.

When morning broke fully, Judge Harris
knocked softly at the door. No answer. He
rapped loudly, trying the bolt. All within was
silent as the grave. He hurried round to the
green-house, threw up the sash, pushed open
the door, and entered, full of undefinable alarm.
The wax candles on the table and mantle
had just expired; the smoke from one was still
creeping, thread-like, to the ceiling. A white
form knelt on the floor, with clasped hands
and bowed head, resting against the coffin.

“Irene! Irene!”

She did not stir.

He looped back the curtains to admit the
light, and bending down, lifted the head.
The face was chill and colorless as death, the
eyes were closed, and a slender stream of
blood oozed slowly over the lips, and dripped
upon the linen shroudings of the table. She
had fainted from the hemorrhage, and, taking
her in his arms, he carried her up to her own
room.