Town and Country; Or, Life at Home and Abroad Part 25

"Death would be glorious with you,--life insupportable without you!"

In such conversation the night pa.s.sed, and when the early light of morning came slowly up the eastern sky, the sound of a trumpet called him away.

The waving of a white flag was the last signal, and the general, all unused to tears as he was, mingled his with those of his family as the parting kiss was given, and Rubineau started on a warfare the result of which was known only to Him who governs the destinies of nations and of individuals.

And now, in the heat of the conflict, the war raged furiously.

Rubineau threw himself in the front rank, and none was more brave than he. It seemed to his fellow-officers that he was urged on by some unseen agency, and guarded from injury by some spirit of good.

To himself but one thought was in his mind; and, regardless of danger, he pressed forward for a glorious victory, and honor to himself and friends.

Those whose leader he was were inspirited by his courageous action, and followed like true men where he led the way.

They had achieved several victories, and were making an onset upon numbers four-fold as large as their own, when their leader received a severe wound, and, falling from his n.o.ble horse, would have been trampled to death by his followers, had not those who had seen him fall formed a circle around as a protection for him.

This serious disaster did not dampen the ardor of the soldiers; they pressed on, carried the point, and saw the foe make a rapid retreat.

The shouts of victory that reached the ears of Rubineau came with a blessing. He raised himself, and shouted, "On, brave men!" But the effort was too much for him to sustain for any length of time, and he fell back completely exhausted.

He was removed to a tent, and had every attention bestowed upon him.

As night approached, and the cool air of evening fanned his brow, he began to revive, but not in any great degree.

The surgeon looked sad. There was evidently reason to fear the worst; and, accustomed as he was to such scenes, he was now but poorly prepared to meet it.

"Rubineau is expiring," whispered a lad, as he proceeded quietly among the ranks of soldiers surrounding the tent of the wounded.

And it was so. His friends had gathered around his couch, and, conscious of the approach of his dissolution, he bade them all farewell, and kissed them.

"Tell her I love, I die an honorable death; tell her that her Rubineau fell where the arms of the warriors clashed the closest, and that victory hovered above him as his arm grew powerless; and, O, tell her that it was all for her sake,--love for her nerved his arm, and love for her is borne upward on his last, his dying prayer.

Tell her to love as I--"

"He is gone, sir," said the surgeon.

"Gone!" exclaimed a dozen voices.

"A brave man has fallen," remarked another, as he raised his arm, and wiped the flowing tears from his cheek.

CHAPTER III.

At the mansion of the old general every arrival of news from the war sent a thrill of joy through the hearts of its inmates. Hitherto, every despatch told of victory and honor; but now a sad chapter was to be added to the history of the conflict.

Alett trembled as she beheld the slow approach of the messenger, who, at all previous times, had come with a quick step. In her soul she felt the keen edge of the arrow that was just entering it, and longed to know all, dreadful though it might be.

Need we describe the scene of fearful disclosure? If the reader has followed the mind of Alett, as from the first it has presumed, conjectured, and fancied,--followed all its hopes of future bliss, and seen it revel in the suns.h.i.+ne of honor and earthly fame,--he can form some idea, very faint though it must be, of the effect which followed the recital of all the facts in regard to the fallen.

In her wild frenzy of grief, she gave utterance to the deep feelings of her soul with words that told how deep was her sorrow, and how unavailing every endeavor which friends exerted to allay its pangs.

She would not believe him dead. She would imagine him at her side, and would talk to him of peace, "sweet peace," and laugh in clear and joyous tones as she pictured its blessings, and herself enjoying with him its comforts.

Thus, with enthroned reason, she would give vent to grief; and, with her reason dethroned, be glad and rejoice.

And so pa.s.sed her lifetime.

Often, all day long, attired in bridal raiment, the same in which she had hoped to be united indissolubly to Rubineau, she remained seated in a large oaken chair, while at her side stood the helmet and spear he had carried forth on the morning when they parted. At such times, she was as calm as an infant's slumberings, saying that she was waiting for the sound of the marriage-bells; asked why they did not ring, and sat for hours in all the beauty of loveliness-the Warrior's Bride.

THE ADVENT OF HOPE.

ONCE on a time, from scenes of light An angel winged his airy flight; Down to this earth in haste he came, And wrote, in lines of living flame, These words on everything he met,-- "Cheer up, be not discouraged yet!"

Then back to heaven with speed he flew, Attuned his golden harp anew; Whilst the angelic throng came round To catch the soul-inspiring sound; And heaven was filled with new delight, For HOPE had been to earth that night.

CHILD AND SIRE.

"KNOW you what intemperance is?"

I asked a little child, Who seemed too young to sorrow know, So beautiful and mild.

It raised its tiny, blue-veined hand, And to a church-yard near It pointed, whilst from glistening eye Came forth the silent tear.

"Yes, for yonder, in that grave, Is my father lying; And these words he spake to me While he yet was dying: "'Mary, when the sod lies o'er me And an orphan child thou art,-- When companions ask thy story, Say intemperance aimed the dart.

When the gay the wine-cup circle, Praise the nectar that doth s.h.i.+ne, When they'd taste, then tell thy story, And to earth they'll dash the wine.'

"And there my dear-loved mother lies,-- What bitter tears I've shed Over her grave!-I cannot think That she is really dead.

And when the spring in beauty blooms, At morning's earliest hour I hasten there, and o'er her grave I plant the little flower.

"And patiently I watch to see It rise from out the earth, To see it from its little grave Spring to a fairer birth.

For mother said that thus would she, And father, too, and I, Arise from out our graves to meet In mansions in the sky.

"O, what intemperance is, there's none On earth can better tell.

Intemperance me an orphan made, In this wide world to dwell; Intemperance broke my mother's heart, It took my father's life, And makes the days of man below With countless sorrows rife."

"Know you what intemperance is?"