30. CHAPTER XXX.
THE EVE OF BATTLE.
It was the night preceding the battle. General Blount,
attended only by Wiry Willy, had left the camp as soon as
the troops were steeped in slumber, and embarked on a
small steamer of great swiftness. They had landed opposite
the mansion occupied by Mr. Langdon and the ladies under
his charge, where horses awaited them. Arrived in front
of the mansion, they found the vigilant Blue Caps faithfully
guarding the premises. Upon dismounting, Willy, familiar
with all the entrances, abandoned the General to the
guidance of Alice, who received him on the vine-clad porch
at the southern extremity of the house. Again she was
arrayed in great magnificence, and the star of diamonds
sparkled brilliantly on her smooth, pale forehead.
“It is before the hour,” said Alice, “and Edith is not
here.”
“And you, alone, looked for my coming?”
“I heard the hoofs of your horse, as I sat alone in the
parlor. Edith will come soon. She is with her father,
striving to alleviate his distress, and prognosticating victory
to-morrow. And alas! who can tell whether victory or
defeat would be the greater misfortune for the country!”
“Which, Alice, would be the greater misfortune for you
and Edith?”
“Our sympathies—our prayers—are for you; and my
father. Oh! that he too had come! and if I should never
see him again!”
“Fear it not. The fearless are never in danger. Such a
contingency as defeat or death never seems to cross his
mind.”
“Still, it may be his destiny to fall on this great field.
And you, Henry, by this time to-morrow night, may be
among the slain. Does not the thought sometimes appal
you?”
“Perhaps it should—but it does not. I can only think
of the victory, the plaudits of the world, and the security
of the South.”
“Henry, if it should be the will of heaven for my father
to fall on this bloody field, and you should survive, will you
not recall the sunny days when we were children together
—when we followed the corses of our sainted mothers to
the same peaceful churchyard—and when we addressed
each other as brother and sister?”
“Alice,” said he, taking the maiden's hand, “I never see
you that I do not recall those early days. If God spares
me and not your father, I will be your brother.”
“And I your sister. But promise, in any event, that you
will preserve the Union.”
“Most assuredly I will do all in my power to preserve it;
but these are themes too grave and melancholy. Your
great father bears a charmed life—Providence designs him
to be the preserver of his country. He bade me convey to
you his blessing, and with his accustomed smile, he said at
parting, `Alice must be marble until this battle be fought
and won.”'
“Marble!” said Alice, placing her hand upon her breast.
“Statues have not aching hearts. Go, Henry—I have
detained you too long.”
“No, Alice,” said he, “I will await her coming. I supposed
she would be the first to greet me.”
“Beware, Henry. Do not accuse her. Remember the
injustice you have done her. Where, now, are the images
of the rivals your fruitful imagination once conjured into
existence?”
“How can I know,” said he, smiling, “that some one,
more favored than myself, does not at this moment withhold
her from me?”
“By believing me. Her father is ill, and requires her
constant attendance.”
“That has escaped my memory—and I fear he would not
be disposed to second the request I had in contemplation.
On you I am sure I can rely.”
“What is it?”
“I did purpose imploring your aid in obtaining his consent
to the performance of the marriage ceremony this
night, for, Alice, it may be my fate to fall to-morrow.”
“Oh, do not urge it! If you should fall, indeed, what
avail would it be? A mourning widow! Think you she
would not mourn as well without the mockery of an empty
ceremonial? Or is man so selfish, that, dying, he would
have certain survivors under obligations, signed and sealed,
to lament him? Without a solemn pledge, would no one
be inclined to mourn your loss? You turn aside, Harry—
be not offended. Believe me, there are those who would
shed bitter tears over your corse.”
“Yes, Alice, you, for one, I am sure, would mourn the
death of a brother.” He kissed her hand, and started.
“Why, Alice!” he continued, “you are ill. Your hand is
cold, your face is pale. I will call some one.”
“No, Harry, I beseech you. I am not ill—it was a mere
passing cloud—a spectre, now vanished—it was a mere
fancy—and now it's gone. I will, if you desire it, speak to
Mr. Langdon. I will not advise you or Edith. I shall not,
will not, be responsible for any omission or commission.
Edith and I are sisters in all but blood. I would not have
her reproach me—nor incur your censure for opposing your
will.”
“You will not. Ah, Alice, if I might have aspired to
this hand—”
“Did you not hear some one?”
“No.”
“I thought it was the step of Edith, and the rustle of satin.”
“No; but still she does not come, and the minutes fly.
Alice, there can be but few remaining for me. The Commodore,
whom I saw in coming hither, warned me against
what he called a protracted dalliance here, and said that when
the time arrived for my departure, he would make a signal.
I fear her father is worse.”
“I will go to him, and send Edith hither.”
Alice sped through the dimly lighted apartments, and
Blount promenaded the veranda, where he was joined by
Wiry Willy.
“Are you ready to return, Willy?” he asked, with a sad
tone.
“Quite ready, sir.”
“There is the signal,” said Blount.
“It was a blue rocket from the Commodore's ship, sir.”
“And the signal for our departure. Mount, Willy—I
will overtake you.”
Willy had hardly passed out of view when Alice returned,
agitated and almost breathless.
“She is not there. Mr. Langdon sleeps. The maid says
Edith descended some few minutes after your arrival. I
am alarmed at her absence. Where can she be?”
“Certainly no evil could have befallen her. Ah, Alice,
can it be mere caprice?”
“No, no.”
“Farewell!” He kissed her hand, and her fair forehead.
“Oh, do not go until you have seen her,” said Alice.
“Did you not see the signal? It illuminated the heavens.
I cannot delay. Tell her all, and utter my adieus. Farewell,
and may heaven bless you both.”
Alice gazed after him, and never turned her straining
eyes away until the last echoes of the hoofs of his steed died
upon the ear. Then she felt the breath of Edith on her
cheek, and the next moment her friend was sobbing in her
arms.
