THE SOLDIER’S DEATH.
It was the voice of a child that had struck the life from that young
heart; a voice so changed and lost in anguish that it seemed to cleave
its way through her whole being.
“Anna—sister Anna—come down! Our father is killed! He is dead—he is
dead!”
As the last syllable trembled on the boy’s lips, his sister fell upon
the floor at his feet, white, cold, and insensible. He thought the news
had killed her. Down he went upon his two knees, and strove to lift up
her head, around which the turban gathered like a mockery.
“Oh! lift her up! Take off these things,” pleaded the poor boy, lifting
his agonized face to those who crowded around him. “She is dead, too! I
killed her—it was me! Take them off—take them off; they look so hot and
bright—she so cold. Won’t she move? Try and make her look up. See how
limp her hand is. Anna, Anna! Oh, sister Anna! must you go, too?”
Robert fell down by the side of his sister, shaking in all his limbs,
and moaning in piteous sorrow. It did seem as if his cry had killed that
fair young creature, who lay there under those rich vestments like a
pure white lily in the glow of a warm sunset.
The boy lay with his arms on the floor, and his face buried on them,
sobbing piteously.
The noise of his grief reached that benumbed heart. Anna moved, and
lifting her arm feebly, laid it over her trembling brother. He started
up with a cry, and rained tears and kisses on her face till she, too,
rose up, clinging to him.
“Was it you—was it you, Robert, that said it?”
“Yes, Anna! Don’t cry; don’t break down again. I could not help telling
you; my heart was breaking. Oh! Anna, Anna! my heart is all broken up!”
Anna sat upright on the floor. Her hands wandered upward and took the
hot turban from her head.
“Oh! if these things were put away—if I had my old dress on! How shall
we get home, Robert, I—I am so weak?”
“Come with me,” said a sweet voice, “come with me. Your dress is all
ready; I will help you put it on.”
It was Georgiana Halstead, whose pretty face, all anxiety and tender
compassion, bent over her.
“Come with me, Anna, for I am so sorry for you.”
Anna looked up piteously. “My father is dead!” she answered.
“I know—I know. There, lean on me; the dressing-room is close by.”
Georgiana was crying softly as she spoke; and she wound her arm around
that poor girl, supporting her tenderly as Robert followed them to the
dressing-room door. Patiently, and with tears stealing down his face,
the boy waited for his sister. She came out directly in her brown dress
and modest bonnet.
“They want me to wait for a carriage, Robert; but I cannot—I cannot. You
and I will go alone.”
“No,” said a voice at her elbow. “Come, both of you, I have a carriage
ready.”
Anna looked up, and Savage caught a glimpse of her face. It was white
and quivering, like a white rose wet with rain.
“My poor child, this is terrible!” he said, folding the thin shawl
around her; “but you shall not bear it alone, you have friends.”
Anna gave him a grateful look through her tears, and fresh sobs broke to
her lips.
“It may be possible that there is a mistake in the record,” said Savage,
making a desperate effort to comfort her.
Anna looked up suddenly with a gleam of light in her eyes; but her head
drooped on the moment, and she answered sadly.
“I feel that he is dead! If he were alive, there would be some warmth
_here_.”
A carriage waited near the entrance of the fair, and young Savage lifted
her in. Then he made way for Robert, and when the lad hesitated, took
him up bodily and landed him on the front seat. It was a gloomy ride;
few words were spoken, and those were lost in sobs.
“How can I tell her? Oh! it will kill my grandmother. He was her only
son—all she had in the wide, wide world.”
Savage took the two hands which Anna clasped in her lap, and pressed
them between his.
“Shall I tell her for you?” he said, gently.
“No; that would be cruel.”
“I—I will do it,” sobbed Robert, who was huddled up in a corner of the
carriage. “It is my place, for I am all the man left to take care of
her. When there is any thing hard to do, I must do it; and I will.”
“That is a brave boy,” said Savage.
“No, sir, I’m not brave. I tremble all over at the thought of telling
her; but I’ll do it,” sobbed the boy.
“Poor little Joseph, too; how he will feel when he knows how it is. Oh,
sir! you’d be sorry for little Joseph, if you knew how miserable this
will make him. He won’t eat a morsel for days and days. He’s so
delicate—Joseph is—like a girl.”
“Yes, Robert, I can understand that,” said Savage.
“It is all very pitiful; but, remember, your father died for his
country!”
“Oh! I wish it had been me—I wish it had been me,” cried the boy, with a
fresh outburst of grief.
They were at the door now, close by the gloomy entrance of that
tenement-house, which was darker than ever to those unhappy young
creatures. Savage went with them to the door. There he hesitated,
reluctant to leave them. He feared to intrude on their grief.
“Shall I bid you good-night?” he said, addressing Robert rather than
Anna.
“Let us go up alone,” said the boy, shivering. “Good-night, sir; Anna
and I had better go up alone. We thank you all the same.”
Young Savage watched them sadly as they went up the dark staircase,
hand-in-hand, slowly and mournfully, like criminals mounting a gallows.
The young man’s heart went with them every step; and he returned home
with strange tenderness brooding in all his thoughts.
Up one flight of stairs after another those two young creatures crept,
pausing more than once to cling together and comfort each other. At last
they reached the door of the room, and stood there breathless, without
daring to turn the latch. A glow of light came through the crevices, and
they could hear the childish voice of little Joseph chatting to his
grandmother with unusual glee.
“Hark! I think I hear ’em; something stirred outside,” they heard him
saying. “I’ll open the door—I’ll open the door.”
They heard the quick patter of his feet coming that way, and turned the
latch.
“There, didn’t I say so? Here they are! Look, Anna! look at grandma in
her new shawl. I made her put it on; and the cap, too. Isn’t she grand?
Isn’t she just the handsomest, darlingest old grandma——”
“Joseph, dear,” said the old lady, “hush! hush! or we’ll never let you
go out again.”
“But isn’t she splendid?” cried the boy; “and just look at me. A pocket
here, and here, in the trousers, too; bright buttons everywhere. Oh! how
I love that old man! Why, we’ve got a pint of peanuts left! Don’t she
look like a lady?”
It was, indeed, a bright contrast from the dark staircase, and from the
usual gloom of the apartment. Joseph had lighted two tallow-candles, and
kindled a good fire, by which he had been a full hour admiring his
grandmother, who had the soft worsted shawl over her shoulders, and a
cap of delicate lace on her head. She did, in truth, look like a lady,
every inch of her.
Joseph, also, was resplendent in his new clothes; the very buttons
seemed to illuminate the poverty of the room with gleams of gold.
“I tell you what we’ll do,” said the happy child, pointing to his old
garments piled on a chair, with the frontless cap lying on the top.
“We’ll give those things to some poor boy that hasn’t got friends to
take him to fairs and put him in pictures, like us. We mustn’t be mean,
if we are rich.”
Robert went away to a corner of the room, and pretended to be very busy
untying the bundle which held his own old clothes; but his hand shook so
violently that he gave it up, and stood looking mournfully at his
grandmother, with no heart to speak.
Anna was a long time in taking off her shawl and bonnet. She was afraid
of revealing the sorrow that seemed to have turned her face into marble.
Robert saw how she shrank away and shivered when those kind old eyes
were turned upon her. He was, in truth, a brave boy, even with that
terrible sense of desolation upon him. Lifting up his young head, and
choking back the sobs that swelled in his throat, he went up to that
dear old woman.
“Grandmother,” he said, laying one hand on her shoulder, and bending his
face to meet her startled glance, for his voice troubled her,
“grandmother, let me put my arms around you and lay your head on my
shoulder. It reaches high enough. I am almost a man now. Let me kiss
you, grandmother.”
She lifted up her sweet, old face, and the boy kissed it, his lips
quivering all the time.
“Grandmother!”
“Well, darling!”
“Grandmother!”
“What is the matter, Robert? This has been such a pleasant night; but
you seem troubled—what is it?”
The boy fell down upon his knees, and cried out in a wild burst of
grief. “Oh, Anna, Anna! tell her that our father is killed! I cannot do
it. Oh, I cannot!”
Anna came forward and fell on her knees by his side; but she said
nothing, the mournful truth had struck home in the passionate words
which Robert had uttered. The old woman clasped her withered hands
quickly, and held them a moment locked and still. Then her head fell
back, her meek eyes closed, and two great tears broke from under the
lashes, and quivered away among the wrinkles on her cheeks. Her lips
moved faintly; and the children, who knelt with their awe-stricken faces
lifted piteously to hers, knew that she was praying.
Little Joseph crept close to his grandmother, and stole his arm around
her neck. She bent down her head and rested it against his, praying
still.
Never, in this world, was grief so intense, and yet so noiseless. At
last the old woman unlocked her hands, and laid them on the young heads
bowed before her.
“Children,” she said, in her meek, low voice, “God knows best what is
good for us.”
“Oh, grandmother!” cried Robert, “shall we ever see him again?”
“All—all; and I very soon,” answered the old lady.
“Oh, grandma! don’t talk so; we could not live without you,” said Anna,
in a burst of tender grief.
“Remember, my darlings, when death divides a family, it is not forever.
How lonely it would be if no one we love were on the other side of the
grave to meet us when we go there.”
“All the brave soldiers that died on that battle-field will bear him
company,” said Robert.
“And mother—will she be there to meet him?” said little Joseph, in a low
voice. “I remember her so well!”
Anna lifted her face from her grandmother’s lap, and, reaching up her
lips, kissed the child.
“Yes, Joseph, dear, they are together now. It is only their poor
children who are lonely.”
“And grandmother!” said Joseph.
“Grandmother can live or die, as God wills,” answered that meek, old
woman. “Here, she has three dear, dear grandchildren. There, she has
them.”
The children had almost stopped weeping. There was something almost holy
in the calm of that gentle woman’s grief that subdued theirs into
sadness.
“He died for his country!” said Robert, with a gleam of pride. “Died
bravely, I know.”
“How glad mother must have been when he came,” whispered Joseph. “I
wonder if they thought of us.”
“They will never cease thinking of us, darlings,” said Anna. “God help
us! we are not alone. Thousands of helpless children are made orphans
with us, all mourning as we do.”
“Oh! how sorry I am for them!” cried Robert. “Some may be little babies,
with no brother that can do things to take care of them. You are better
off than that, grandmother.”
“I dare say a great many are in a worse condition than we are, child.
Some have no friends. Let us be thankful and patient.”
“Yes, grandmother, we will.”
“Now go to bed, boys, and try to sleep.”
“May we say our prayers here—the closet is so dark?”
“Yes, dear!”
“Will he know it? Will he hear us?” whispered Joseph.
“Yes, darling, I think so; I am sure of it.”
“That is almost like having him here,” was the gentle answer.
“He is here,” said Anna, smiling through her tears, “my heart is so
still and quiet. It seems as if a dove were brooding over it.”