For some time she remained just as Russell had left her; then the white arms and dry eyes were raised to the midnight sky.

"My G.o.d! my G.o.d! strengthen me in my desolation!"

She put back the folds of hair that, damp with dew, clung to her gleaming temples, and recrossing the wide road or street, approached the chamber of death.

Irene met at the door Dr. Arnold's buggy.

"Irene, are you ready to go home?"

"Yes. Mrs. Davis is dead."

"As I was leaving Mrs. Churchill's, your father told me where you were, and I thought I would come after you. Put on your shawl and jump in. You are in a pretty plight, truly, to stand over a deathbed! 'Vanity of vanities! all is vanity!' Here, let me wrap that gauze cloud around your head. Now then!"

The top of the buggy had been lowered, and as they rode homeward she leaned her head back, turning her face to the sickly moonlight.

They went into the house, and as he filled and lighted his pipe, his cavernous eyes ran curiously over her.

"How you have blazed to-night! Your diamonds are superb."

"Yes, sir."

"Go to sleep at once, child. You look as if you had seen a ghost. What has knotted up your forehead in that style?"

"I have looked upon a melancholy death to-night, and have seen two helpless children orphaned. Come and see me soon; I want to consult you about an orphan asylum for which father has given me a lot. Good night, sir; I am very much obliged to you for your kindness in bringing me home. n.o.body else is half so considerate and thoughtful."

In her own room she took off the jewels, withered violets and moist _tulle_--and drawing on her dressing-gown, went up to the observatory, and sat down on the threshold of one of the gla.s.s doors looking eastward.

"Think of a man who laughs at his own idiocy, and strives to forget that he ever believed there lived one woman who would be true to her own heart, though the heavens fell and the world pa.s.sed away!"

These words of scorn were the burning shares over which her bare feet trod, and his bitter accents wailed up and down her lonely heart. Through the remainder of that cloudless night she wrestled silently. At last, when the sky flushed rosily, like an opal smitten with light, and holy Resignation--the blessing born only of great trial like hers--shed its heavenly chrism over the worn and weary, bruised and bleeding spirit, she gathered up the mangled hopes that might have gladdened, and gilded, and glorified her earthly career, and pressing the ruins to her heart, laid herself meekly down, offering all upon the G.o.d-built altar of Filial Obedience.

In the

" ... early morning, when the air Was delicate with some last starry touch,"

she opened the door of her father's room and approached the bed. The noise wakened him, and raising himself on his elbow, he looked wonderingly at her.

"What is the matter, Irene? You look as if you had not closed your eyes."

"Father, you took me in your arms last night, and kissed me as you have not done before for years. Oh, father! my father! do not cast me off again!

Whom have I in the world but you? By the memory of my sainted mother I ask--I claim your love!"

"You are a strange girl, Irene; I never did understand you. But I don't want to drive you from me, if you prefer to live here single. There shall be peace between us, my dear daughter."

He leaned forward, and laid his hand caressingly on her head, as she knelt at his bedside, pleading with uplifted arms.

CHAPTER XXVI

CIVIL WAR

The treacherous four year's lull was broken at last by the mutter of the storm which was so soon to sweep over the nation, prostrating all interests, and bearing desolation to almost every hearthstone in our once happy, smiling land of const.i.tutional freedom. Aubrey was deeply impressed with the vital consequences of the impending election; and as the conviction forced itself upon his mind that, through the demoralization of the Northern wing of Democracy, Lincoln would be elected, he endeavoured to prepare the ma.s.ses for that final separation which he foresaw was inevitable. Lincoln was elected. Abolitionism, so long adroitly cloaked, was triumphantly clad in robes of state--shameless now, and hideous, and while the North looked upon the loathsome face of its political Mokanna, the South prepared for resistance.

No surer indication of the purpose of the Southern people could have been furnished, than the temper in which the news was received. No noisy outbursts, expending resolve in empty words--no surface excitement--but a stern calm gloom, set lips, heavy bent brows, appropriate in men who realized that they had a revolution on their hands; not indignation meetings, with fruitless resolutions--that they stood as body-guard for the liberty of the Republic, and would preserve the trust at all hazards. It would seem that, for a time at least, party animosities would have been crushed; but bitter differences sprang up at the very threshold on the _modus operandi_ of Southern release from Yankee-Egyptic bondage. Separate "State action" or "co-operation" divided the people, many of whom were earnestly impressed by the necessity and expediency of deliberate, concerted, simultaneous action on the part of all the Southern States, while others vehemently advocated this latter course solely because the former plan was advanced and supported by their old opponents. In this new issue, as if fate persistently fanned the flame of hate between Mr.

Huntingdon and Russell Aubrey, they were again opposed as candidates for the State Convention.

W---- was once more convulsed, and strenuous efforts were made by both sides. Russell was indefatigable in his labours for prompt, immediate State action, proclaiming his belief that co-operation was impracticable before secession; and it was now that his researches in the dusty regions of statistics came admirably into play, as he built up his arguments on solid foundations of indisputable calculation.

The contest was close and heated, and resulted somewhat singularly in the election of a mixed ticket--two Secessionists being returned, and one Co-operationist, Mr. Huntingdon, owing to personal popularity.

While the entire South was girding for the contest, South Carolina, ever the _avant courier_ in the march of freedom, seceded; and if doubt had existed before, it vanished now from every mind--for all felt that the gallant State must be sustained. Soon after, Russell and Mr. Huntingdon stood face to face on the floor of their own State convention, and wrestled desperately. The latter headed the opposition, and so contumacious did it prove, that for some days the fate of the State lay in dangerous equilibrium. Finally, the vigilance of the Secessionists prevailed, and, late in the afternoon of a winter day, the ordinance was signed.

Electricity flashed the decree to every portion of the State, and the thunder of artillery and blaze of countless illuminations told that the people gratefully and joyfully accepted the verdict. W---- was vociferous; and as Irene gazed from the colonnade on the distant but brilliant rows of lights flaming along the streets, she regretted that respect for her father's feelings kept the windows of her own home dark and cheerless.

The 12th and 13th of April were days of unexampled excitement throughout the Southern States. The discharge of the first gun from Fort Moultrie crushed the last lingering vestiges of "Unionism," and welded the entire Confederacy in one huge h.o.m.ogeneous ma.s.s of stubborn resistance to despotism. With the explosion of the first sh.e.l.l aimed by General Beauregard against Fort Sumter burst the frail painted bubble of "Reconstruction," which had danced alluringly upon the dark, surging billows of revolution. W---- was almost wild with anxiety; and in the afternoon of the second day of the bombardment, as Irene watched the avenue, she saw her father driving rapidly homeward. Descending the steps, she met him at the buggy.

"Beauregard has taken Sumter. Anderson surrendered unconditionally. No lives lost."

"Thank G.o.d!"

They sat down on the steps, and a moment after the roar of guns shook the atmosphere, and cheer after cheer went up the evening sky.

"Act I, of a long and b.l.o.o.d.y civil war," said Mr. Huntingdon gravely.

"To-day I have come to a determination which will doubtless surprise you."

He paused, and eyed her a moment.

"No, father; I am not surprised that you have determined to do your duty."

"How, Irene? What do you suppose that it is?"

"To use Nelson's words, the Confederacy 'expects that every man will do his duty'; and you are going into the army."

"Who told you that?"

"My own heart, father; which tells me what I should do were I in your place."

"Well, I have written to Montgomery, to Clapham, to tender my services. We were at West Point together; I served under him at Contreras and Chapultepec, and he will no doubt press matters through promptly. The fact is, I could not possibly stay at home now. My blood has been at boiling heat since yesterday morning, when I read Beauregard's first dispatch."

"Did you specify any branch of the service?"

"Yes; told him I preferred artillery. What is the matter? Your lips are as white as cotton. By the way what shall I do with you? It won't do to leave you here all alone."

"Why not, father? Home is certainly the proper place for me, if you cannot take me with you."