University of Virginia Library

35. CHAPTER XXXV.

“It is a mercy that she is delirious; otherwise
her unavoidable excitement and anxiety
would probably prove fatal. She is very ill, of
course; but, with careful nursing, I think you
have little to apprehend. Above all things,
Irene, suffer nobody to bolt into that room
with the news — keep her as quiet as possible.
I have perfect confidence in Whitmore's
skill; he will do all that I could, though
I would not leave her if I did not feel it
my duty to hurry to the battle-field. Queen,
you look weary; but it is not strange, after all
that you have passed through.”

“Doctor, when will you start?”

“In twenty minutes.”

“Has any intelligence been received this
morning?”

“Nothing but confirmation of last night's
news. Hill holds Mechanicsville, and the
enemy have fallen back in the direction of
Powhite Swamp. A general advance all
along our lines will be made to-day, and
I must be off. What is the matter? Surely
you are not getting frightened.”

“Frightened—Dr. Arnold? No. I have
no fears about the safety of Richmond;
defeat is not written in Lee's lexicon; but I
shudder in view of the precious human
hecatombs to be immolated on yonder hills
before McClellan is driven back. No doubt
of victory disquiets me, but the thought of its
awful price.”

She shaded her face, and shuddered.

“Cheer up, child. We may make quicker
work of it than you seem to imagine. But
suppose reverses should overtake us, what
would you do?”

“I shall remain here as long as a man
or woman is left to attend to the wounded;
and if—which God forbid!—our army should
be forced back by overwhelming numbers, I
rejoice to know that the spirit of `Edinburg
After Flodden' will be found in Richmond.
Northern banners shall never flaunt over our
capital, tainting the atmosphere we breathe;
in such dire emergency the people are resolved,
and we will chant the grand words
of Aytoun, as we gather round our magnificent
national pyre:

“I repeat it, Doctor—not the fate of Richmond
troubles me—for I have not a shadow of
doubt that God will give us victory—but the
thought of the lives to be yielded up in its defence.
As a nation, we shall rejoice; but, ah!
the desolation hovering over thousands of happy
home-circles, ready to swoop down, darkening
peaceful hearthstones for all time. What
a burden of wailing woe this day will bear to
the ears of a pitying God.”

“True, it is an awful reflection; but we have
counted the cost, and it will not do to repine.
Extermination, rather than submission to their
infamous tyranny. Hampden's immortal
motto has become our own: `Vestigia nulla
retrorsum!” But I must go, Queen. I wish
you were safely back in W—, away from
these horrors that so sicken your soul. Child,
take care of yourself. Have you anything
more to say? Talk fast.”

“I directed Andrew to give Cyrus a small
box of cordials, which I received yesterday
from home. You may find use for it.”

She paused, and her whole face quivered
as she laid her clasped hands on his arm.

“Well—what is it? Dear child, what moves
you so?”

“Doctor, promise me that if Colonel Aubrey
is mortally wounded you will send instantly
for me. I must see him once more.”

Her head went down on her hands, and she
trembled as white asters do in an early autumn
gale. Compassionately the old man drew one
arm around her.

“After all, then, you do care for him—
despite your life-long reserve and apparent
indifference? I have suspected as much, several
times, but that imperturbable sphinx-face
of yours always baffled me. My child, you
need not droop your head; he is worthy of your
love; he is the only man I know whom I would
gladly see you marry. Irene, look up—tell
me—did Leonard know this? Conscious of
your affection for Aubrey, did he doom you to
your lonely lot?”

“No. My father died in ignorance of what
would have pained and mortified him beyond
measure. Knowing him as well as you do,
can you suppose that I would ever have allowed
him to suspect the truth? I realized my
duty, and fulfilled it; that is the only consolation
I have left. It never caused him one
throb of regret, or furnished food for bitter
reflection; and the debt of respect I owe to
his memory shall be as faithfully discharged.
If Colonel Aubrey lives to enjoy the independence
for which he is fighting — if he
should be spared to become a useful, valued
member of society—one of the pure and able
statesmen whom his country will require when
these dark days of strife are ended—I can
be content; though separated from him, and
watching his brilliant career afar off. But if
he must give his life for that which he holds
dearer still, I ask the privilege of seeing him
again, of being with him in his last moments.
This consolation the brave spirit of my father
would not withhold from me, were communion
allowed between living and dead; this none
can have the right to deny me.”

“If such be your stern and melancholy
resolution, what happiness can the future contain?”

“My future holds the hope of promoting
God's glory, and of contributing, as far as one
feeble woman can, to the happiness and weal
of her fellow-creatures. I cheat myself with
no delusive dreams; I know that my way is,
and ever must be, lonely; but, putting my
trust in Him who never yet withheld strength
and guidance in the hour of need, I say to
myself:

The doctor gathered up her hands in his,
and said, coaxingly:

“May I tell Aubrey all this? it will, at
least, comfort him in some degres.”

“No; you must tell him nothing. I know
what is best for him, and for me.”

“Oh, child! what harm could come of it?”

“Ask me no more; but give me the promise
to send a messenger, if he should be severely,
dangerously wounded.”

“I promise that you shall know all as early
as possible. If you receive no tidings, believe
that he is uninjured. As yet, his regiment
has not moved forward, but I know not
how soon it may. Heaven preserve you! my
precious child.”

He pressed a kiss on the drooped head,
and left her to resume her watch in the darkened
room where Electra had been ill with
typhoid-fever for nearly three weeks. It
was thought that she contracted the disease
in the crowded hospital; and when delirium
ensued, Irene temporarily relinquished her
ward to other nurses, and remained at the
boarding-house, in attendance on her friend.
It was a season of unexampled anxiety, yet
all was singularly quiet in the beleaguered
city. Throughout the Confederacy hushed
expectancy reigned. Gallant Vicksburg's
batteries barred the Mississippi; Beauregard
and Price, lion-hearted idols of the West, held
the Federal army in Corinth at bay; Stonewall
Jackson — synonyme of victory — after
sweeping like a whirlwind through the Valley,
and scattering the columns that stealthily
crept southward, had arrived at-Richmond
at the appointed time. A greater than Serrurier,
at a grander than Castiglione, he gave
the signal to begin; and as a sheet of flame
flashed along the sombre forests of Chickahominy
the nation held its breath, and

watched the death-grapple of bannered armies
around its proud young capital. Thank God!
we had no cravens there to jeopardize our
cause; the historic cycle had revolved, and
heroic ages dawned again. Neither ancient,
mediæval, nor modern lore can furnish a
parallel for the appaling panorama of blood
and fire which stretched from Mechanicsville
to Westover—for the brilliant Seven Days
conflict, which converted twenty-six miles of
swamp and forest into a vast necropolis.

During Friday the wounded came slowly
in, and at four in the afternoon the roar of
artillery told that the Battle of Gaines' Mill
was raging; that the enemy were fighting
desperately, behind entrenchments which none
but Confederate soldiers could successfully
have assaulted. Until eight at night the
houses trembled at every report of cannon,
and then McClellan's grand army, crippled
and bleeding, dragged itself away, under cover
of darkness, to the south bank of the Chickahominy.
Saturday saw a temporary lull in
the iron storm; but the wounded continued to
arrive, and the devoted women of the city rose
from their knees to minister to the needs of
these numerous sufferers. Sunday found our
troops feeling about the swamps for the retreating
foe; and once more, late in the afternoon,
distant thunder resounded from the
severely-contested field of Savage's Station,
whence the enemy again retreated.

On Sabbath morning Irene learned that
Russell's command had joined in the pursuit;
and during that day and night, as the conflict
drifted farther southward, and details became
necessarily more meagre, her anxiety increased.
Continually her lips moved in prayer, as
she glided from Electra's silent room to aid in
dressing the wounds of those who had been
disabled for further participation in the strife;
and, as Monday passed without the receipt of
tidings from Dr. Arnold, she indulged the hope
that this day would end the series of butcheries,
and that Russell would escape uninjured.
During Tuesday morning Electra seemed to
have recovered her consciousness, but in the
afternoon she relapsed into incoherent muttering
of “Cuyp,” “Correggio,” “Titian's
Bella,” and “my best, great picture left in
Florence.”

Irene was sitting at her bedside, rolling
bandages, when the sudden, far-distant, dull
boom of cannon, followed by the quick rattling
of the window-panes, gave intimation
that the long contest was fiercely renewed.
Prophetic dread seized her; the hideous To-Come
scowled at her in the distance; and, as
the roll of cloth dropped from her fingers, she
covered her eyes to shut out the vision of
horror. The long evening hours crept by in
mournful procession—trooping phantom-shadows
filled the room—night fell at last, an unheeded
flag of truce—and people stood in their
doors, at their windows, many clustered on the
pavements, listening in solemn silence to the
fiend-like roar of the fifty pieces of artillery
that, like a fiery crescent, crowned Malvern
Hill. A courier had arrived with intelligence
that here the enemy's forces were very strongly
posted, were making desperate resistance;
and, though no doubt of the result was entertained,
human nature groaned over the carnage.

At ten o'clock, having given a potion, and
renewed the folds of wet linen on Electra's
head, Irene stole back to the window, and,
turning the shutters, looked down the street.
Here and there an anxious group huddled on
the corners, with ears strained to catch every
sound, and, while she watched, a horseman
clattered at hard gallop over the paving-stones,
reined up at the door of the boarding-house,
swung himself to the sidewalk, and an instant
after the sharp clang of the bell rang startlingly
through the still mansion.

“Oh, my God! It has come at last!”

Irene groaned, and leaned heavily against
the window-facing; and quick steps came up
the stairway—Martha entered, and held out
a slip of paper.

“Miss Irene, Cyrus has just brought this.”

Her mistress' icy fingers clutched it, and
she read:

“You are going to faint, Miss Irene! Drink
some of this cordial!”

“No. Tell Andrew to go after the carriage
as quick as possible, and have it brought here
immediately; and ask uncle Eric to come to
my room at once.”

Irene went to her own apartment, which
adjoined Electra's, put on her bonnet and veil,
and, though the night was warm, wrapped a
shawl about her.

Mr. Mitchell entered soon after, and started
at sight of his niece's face.

“Irene, what does this mean? Where are
you going at this hour?”

“To the battle-field! — to Malvern Hill.
Colonel Aubrey is mortally wounded, and I
must see him. Will you go with me? Oh,
uncle Eric! if you have any mercy in your
soul, ask me no questions now! only go with
me.”

“Of course, my dear child, I will go with
you, if it is possible to procure a carriage of
any kind. I will see—.”

“I have had one engaged for three days.
Martha, stay with Electra till I come back;
leave her on no account. If you notice any
change, send for Dr. Whitmore. Here is my
watch; count her pulse carefully, and as long
as it is over one hundred, give her, every two
hours, a spoonful of the medicine in that
square vial on the table. I trust to you, Martha,
to take care of her. If she should be

rational, and ask for me, tell her nothing about
the battles, and say I have gone to see a sick
man, and will be back soon. Come, uncle
Eric.”

They entered the close carriage which she
had ordered reserved for her, and she called
Cyrus to the door.

“Did you see Colonel Aubrey after he was
wounded?”

“I only had a glimpse of him, as they
brought him in. Miss Irene, he was shot in
the breast.”

“You know the way; ride outside; and,
Cyrus, drive as fast as possible.”

The night was gloomy and spectral as Sheol,
and the wind sobbed a miserere through the
sombre forests that bordered the road, which
was now crowded with vehicles of all descriptions
hastening to and returning from the field
of action. Under ordinary circumstances,
with no obstacles intervening, it was a long
ride; and to Irene the way seemed interminable.
During the first hour utter silence reigned
within the carriage, and then, as the driver
paused to allow an ambulance to pass, Eric
put his hand on his niece's arm and said, tenderly:

“Irene, why did you deceive me so long?
Why could you not trust your uncle's love?”

She shrank farther back in one corner, and
answered with a voice which he could scarcely
recognize as hers.

“If you love me, spare me all questions
now.”

By the glimmer of the carriage-lamps she
could see the wagons going to and fro, some
filled with empty coffins, some with mangled
sufferers. Now and then weary, spent soldiers
sat on the roadside, or struggled on toward
the city which they had saved, with their arms
in slings, or hands bound up, or bloody bandages
across their stern faces. After another
hour, when the increasing number of men
showed proximity to the scene of danger,
Cyrus turned away from the beaten track,
and soon the flash of lights and hum of voices
told that they were near the place of destination.
The carriage stopped, and Cyrus came
to the door.

“We are at the lines, and I can't drive any
nearer. If you will wait, I will go and find
Master.”

It was one o'clock; and as they waited, men
passed and repassed with blazing torches, some
bearing wounded men, whose groans rose above
the confusion. The cannonading had long
since ceased, and Eric called to a group of
soldiers belonging to the Infirmary corps.

“What is the last news from the front?
Have the enemy fallen back?”

“Not yet; but they are getting ready to run
again, as usual. By daylight they will be out of
sight, and we shall be all day to-morrow hunting
them up. Their style is to fight about
three hours, and run the balance of the
twenty-four. They take to the swamps like
all other such miserable varments.”

The delay seemed intolerably long, and for
the first time an audible moan escaped Irene
just as Cyrus came back accompanied by a
muffled figure.

“Irene, my child.”

She leaned out till her face nearly touched
Dr. Arnold's.

“Only tell me that he is alive, and I can
bear all else.”

“He is alive, and sleeping just now. Can
you control yourself if I take you to him?”

“Yes; you need not fear that I will disturb
him. Let me go to him.”

He gave her his arm, and led her through the
drizzling rain for some distance—avoiding, as
much as possible, the groups of wounded,
where surgeons were at their sad work. Finally,
before a small tent, he paused, and
whispered:

“Nerve yourself, dear child.”

“Is there no hope?”

She swept aside her long mourning veil, and
gazed imploringly into his face.

Tears filled his eyes, and, hastily averting
his head, he raised the curtain of the tent and
drew her inside.

A candle burned dimly in one corner, and
there, on a pallet of straw, over which a blanket
had been thrown, lay the powerful form of
the dauntless leader, whose deeds of desperate
daring had so electrified his worshipping command
but a few hours before. The noble
head was pillowed on a knapsack; one hand
pressed his heart, while the other drooped
nerveless at his side, and the breast of his
coat was saturated with the blood, which at
intervals oozed through the bandages and
dripped upon the straw. The tent was silent
as a cemetery, and not a sound passed Irene's
white fixed lips as she bent down and looked
upon the loved face, strangely beautiful in its
pallid repose. The shadowy wings of the
bitter By-gone hovered no longer over the
features, darkening their chiselled perfection;
a tranquil half-smile parted the lips, and unbent
the lines between the finely-arched black
brows.

Sinking softly on the floor of the tent, Irene
rested her chin on her folded hands, and
calmly watched the deep sleep. So passed
three-quarters of an hour; then, as Dr. Arnold
cautiously put his fingers on the pulse, the
sufferer opened his eyes.

Irene was partially in the shade, but, as she
leaned forward, a sudden, bewildered smile
lighted his countenance; he started up, and
extended one arm.

“Irene! My darling! Do I dream, or are
you indeed with me?”

“I have come to nurse you, Russell; but if
you do not calm yourself, the doctor will send
me away.”

She took the outstretched hand in both

hers, and pressed her lips repeatedly upon it.

“Come close to me. I am helpless now,
and can not go to you.”

She seated herself on the edge of the straw,
laid her shawl in her lap, and lifting his head,
rested it on the soft woollen folds. Dr. Arnold
removed the warm cloth soaked with blood,
placed a cold, dripping towel on the gaping
wound, and, after tightening the bandages to
check the hemorrhage, passed out of the tent,
leaving the two alone.

“Oh, Irene! this is a joy I never hoped for.
I went at night to the hospital in Richmond,
just to get a glimpse of you — to feast my
eyes with another sight of your dear, dear
face! I watched you ministering like an
angel to sick and wounded soldiers, and I envied
them the touch of your hand—the sound
of your voice. I little expected to die in your
arms. This reconciles me to my fate; this
compensates for all!”

Her fingers tenderly smoothed the black
locks that clung to his temples, and bending
down, she kissed his forehead. His uninjured
arm stole up around her neck, drew her face to
his, and his lips pressed hers again and again.

“Dear Russell, you must be quiet, or you
will exhaust yourself. Try to sleep—it will
refresh, strengthen you.”

“Nothing will strengthen me. I have but
a short time to live; shall I sleep away the opportunity
of my last earthly communion with
you, my life-long idol? Oh, Irene! my
beautiful treasure! this proof of your love
sweetens death itself. There have been hours
(even since we parted a year ago) when I
reproached you for the sorrow and pain you
sternly meted out to me, and to yourself.
When I said bitterly, if she loved me as she
should, she would level all barriers—she would
lay her hands in mine—glorify my name by
taking it as my wife, and thus defy and cancel
the past. I was selfish in my love; I wanted
you in my home; I longed for the soft touch
of your fingers, for your proud, dazzling smile
of welcome when the day's work was ended;
for the privilege of drawing you to my heart,
and listening to your whispered words of encouragement
and fond congratulation on my
successes. I knew that this could never be;
that your veneration for your father's memory
would separate us in future, as in the past;
that my pleadings would not shake your unfortunate
and erroneous resolution; and it was
hard to give up the dearest hope that ever
brightened a lonely man's life. Now I know,
I feel, that your love is strong, deathless as
my own, though long locked deep in your
heart. I know it by the anguish in your face,
by the quiver of your mouth, by your presence
in this place of horrors. God comfort
and bless you, my own darling!—my brave,
patient, faithful Irene!”

He smiled triumphantly, and drew her hand
caressingly across his cheek.

“Russell, it is useless now to dwell upon
our sorrowful past; what suffering our separation
has cost me, none but my God can ever
know. To His hands I commit my destiny,
and `He doeth all things well.' In a little
while you will leave me, and then—oh! then,
I shall be utterly desolate indeed! But I can
bear loneliness—I can walk my dreary earthly
path uncomplainingly, I can give you up
for the sake of my country, if I have the
blessed assurance that you have only hastened
home before me, waiting for me there—that,
saved through Christ, we shall soon meet in
Heaven, and spend Eternity together. Oh,
Russell! can you give me this consolation,
without which my future will be dark indeed?
Have you kept your promise, to live so that
you could at last meet the eyes of your God in
peace?”

“I have. I have struggled against the
faults of my character; I have earnestly endeavored
to crush the vindictive feelings of
my heart; and I have conscientiously tried to
do my duty to my fellow-creatures, to my command,
and my country. I have read the bible
you gave me; and, dearest, in praying for you,
I have learned to pray for myself. Through
Jesus, I have a sure hope of happiness beyond
the grave. There, though separated in life,
you and I shall be united by death. Oh,
Irene! but for your earnest piety this precious
anticipation might never have been mine.
But for you, I would have forgotten my mother's
precepts and my mother's prayers.
Through your influence I shall soon join her,
where the fierce waves of earthly trial can
lash my proud soul no more.”

“Thank God! Oh, Russell! this takes
away the intolerable bitterness of parting;
this will support me in coming years. I can
brave all things in future.”

She saw that a paroxysm of pain had seized
him. His brow wrinkled, and he bit his lips
hard, to suppress a groan. Just at this moment
Dr. Arnold re-entered, and immediately
gave him another potion of morphine.

“Aubrey, you must be quiet, if you would
not shorten your life.”

He silently endured his suffering for some
moments, and, raising his eyes again to Irene's,
said, in a tone of exhaustion:

“It is selfish to make you witness my
torture; but I could not bear to have you
leave me. There is something I want to say
while I have strength left. How is Electra?”

“Partially delirious still, but the doctor
thinks she will recover. What shall I tell her
for you?”

“That I loved and remembered her in my
dying hour. Kiss her for me, and tell her I
fell where the dead lay thickest, in a desperate
charge on the enemy's batteries — that
none can claim a nobler, prouder death than
mine—that the name of Aubrey is once more
glorified—rebaptised with my blood upon the

battle-field. Irene, she is alone in the world;
watch over and love her, for my sake. Doctor,
give me some water.”

As the hemorrhage increased despite their
efforts to staunch it, he became rapidly weaker,
and soon after, with one hand locked in
Irene's, he fell asleep.

She sat motionless, supporting his head,
uttering no sound, keeping her eyes fixed on
his upturned countenance. Dr. Arnold went
noiselessly in and out, on various errands of
mercy; occasionally anxious, weather-beaten
soldiers softly lifted the curtain of the tent,
gazed sadly, fondly, on the prostrate figure of
the beloved commander, and turned away
silently, with tears trickling down their
bronzed faces. Slowly the night waned, and
the shrill tones of reveille told that another
day had risen before the murky sky brightened.
Hundreds, who had sprung up at that
call twenty-four hours ago, now lay stiffening
in their gore, sleeping their last sleep, where
neither the sound of fife and drum, nor the
battle-cry of comrades, would ever rouse them
from their final rest before Malvern Hill—
over which winds wailed a requiem, and trailing,
dripping clouds settled like a pall.

The bustle and stir of camp increased as
preparations were made to follow the foe, who
had again taken up the line of retreat; but
within the tent unbroken silence reigned. It
was apparent that Russell was sinking fast,
and at eight o'clock he awoke, looked uneasily
around him, and said, feebly:

“What is going on in front?”

“McClellan has evacuated Malvern Hill,
and is in full retreat toward his gunboats,”
answered the doctor.

“Then there will be no more fighting. My
shattered regiment will rest for a season.
Poor fellows! they did their duty nobly yesterday.
Tell my men for me that I am inexpressibly
proud of their bravery and their
daring, and that though my heart clings fondly
to my gallant regiment, I glory in the death
I die—knowing that my soldiers will avenge
me. Give my love to one and all, and tell
them, when next they go into battle, to remember
him who led their last charge. I
should like to have seen the end of the struggle—but
Thy will, oh, my God! not mine.”

He lifted his eyes toward Heaven, and
for some moments his lips moved inaudibly in
prayer. Gradually a tranquil expression
settled on his features, and as his eyes closed
again he murmured, faintly:

“Irene—darling—raise me a little.”

They lifted him, and rested his head against
her shoulder.

“Irene!”

“I am here, Russell; my arms are around
you.”

She laid her cheek on his, and listened
to catch the words; but none came. The lips
parted once, and a soft fluttering breath swept
across them. Dr. Arnold put his hand over
the heart — no pulsation greeted him; and
turning away, the old man covered his face
with his handkerchief.

“Russell, speak to me once more.”

There was no sound—no motion. She knew
then that the soldier's spirit had soared to the
shores of Everlasting Peace, and that not until
she joined him there would the loved tones
again make music in her heart. She tightened
her arms around the still form, and nestled
her cheek closer to his, now growing cold.
No burst of grief escaped her, to tell of agony
and despair:

she sat, mute and resigned, at the foot of
the Red Dripping Altar of Patriotism, where
lay, in hallowed Sacrifice, her noble, darling
Dead.

In the morning light her face looked rigid,
pallid as his, and the tearless but indescribably
mournful eyes were riveted on his placid,
handsome features. Eric and Harvey Young
stood in one corner of the tent, wiping away
tears which would not be restrained; and
finally Dr. Arnold stooped and said, falteringly:

“My dear child, come with me now.”

She did not seem to hear him, and he repeated
his words, trying, at the same time,
to unwind her arms.

She yielded, and with her own hands
smoothed out and cut a lock of hair that
waved over his gleaming forehead.

Leaning over him, she kissed the icy lips;
then rose, and, clasping her hands, murmured:

“Farewell, my own brave Russell!”

The minister approached, and stood before
her. She lifted her wan dry face, and, as she
put out her arms to him, a wintry smile flitted
over the mouth that had seemed frozen.

“Harvey! Harvey! he was my all! He
was the idol of my childhood! and girlhood!
and womanhood! Oh! pray for me—that I
may be patient and strong in my great
desolation.”

Electra's speedy convalescence repaid the
care bestowed upon her; and one afternoon,
ten days after quiet had again settled around
the Confederate capital, she insisted on being
allowed to sit up later than usual, protesting
that she would no longer be regarded as an invalid.

“Irene, stand in the light, where I can see
you fully. How worn and weary you look!
I suspect I am regaining my health at the
expense of yours.”

“No; I am as well in body as I could
desire; but, no doubt, my anxiety has left its
traces on my countenance.”

She leaned over Electra's chair, and stroked
back the artist's shining hair.

“I wish you would let me see the papers.
My eyes are strong enough now, and I want
to know exactly what has taken place everywhere
during my sickness. It seems to me
impossible that General Lee's army can face
McClellan's much longer without bringing on
a battle, and I am so anxious about Russell.
If he should be hurt, of course I must go to
him. It is very strange that he has not written.
Are you sure no letters came for me?”

“There are no letters, I am sure; but I
have a message for you. I have seen him
once since you were taken sick.”

“Ah! what is it? He heard that I was ill,
and came to see me, I suppose. When was
he here?”

Irene bent down and kissed her companion
tremulously, saying, slowly:

“He desired me to kiss you for him. Electra,
I have not told you before, because I
feared the effect upon you in your weak state;
but there have been desperate battles around
Richmond during your illness, and the Federals
have been defeated—driven back to James
river.”

“Was Russell wounded? Yes—I understand
it all now! Where is he? Oh! tell
me! that I may go to him.”

She sprang up, but a death-like pallor overspread
her face, and she tottered to the open
window.

Irene followed the thin figure, and, putting
her arms about her, made her lean against
her.

“He was wounded on the last day, and I
went to see him; you were then delirious.”

“Let me go at once! I will not disturb
him; I will control myself! Only let me see
him to-day!”

“Electra, you can not see him. He has
gone to his God; but in his dying hour he
spoke of you fondly, sent love, and—.”

The form reeled, drooped, shivered, and fell
back insensible in Irene's arms.

So heavy was the swoon, that it seemed as
if her spirit had fled to join her cousin's in
endless union; but at length consciousness returned,
and with it came the woful realization
of her loss. A long, low wail rose and fell
upon the air, like the cry from lips of feeble,
suffering, helpless children, and her head sank
upon the shoulder of the sad-faced nurse,
whose grief could find no expression in sobs, or
moans, or tears.

“Dead! dead! and I shall see his dear
face no more! Oh! why did you not let me
die, too? What is my wretched life worth
now? One grave might have held us both!
My noble, peerless Russell! the light of my
solitary life! Oh, God! be merciful! take me
with my idol! Take me now!”

Very tenderly and caressingly Irene endeavored
to soothe her—detailed the circumstances
of her cousin's death, and pointed her
despairing soul to a final reunion.

But no rift appeared in the artist's black
sky of sorrow; she had not yet learned that, in
drawing near the hand that holds the rod, the
blow is lightened; and she bitterly demanded
of her Maker to be released from the burden
of life.

“Electra, hush your passionate cries! crush
back your rebellious words. Your heart
knows no depth of agony which mine has
not sounded; and yet, in this season of
anguish, when Russell is taken from us both,
I look upon his grave, and feel that,