John Morgan's Substitute

It had boen the day for drafting in a little towD in the hill country of Oonnecticut. It was nightfall now, and a man walked slowl'y home to the vrife who listened, who watched and waited for him. He was a tal 1, kandsome fellow - thirtyfivc, perhaps; vigoróos .of limb, strong of musole, with kiüdly vet earnest eyes, wejl-cut features, and an expression of fearless intejrrity. You wodld have known him at once for what he was - a good, unselfish, courageous, honest man, worthy of winning, capable of hoidicg a womau's love. She who listencd for his coming hcard the slow step upon the gravel, and sprang from the door to meet him. Youcould see even in that dim light, what a briglit, cherry, pretty woman she was, with her loving eyes - her dark, satin smooth hair; her red tender lipa, and the fresh roses on her cheeks. Sho went up to her husband, and put her hands on his arm lovingly. ' I kuow vou have bad news for me. John ! ' 1 Yes, Mary ; I must go. I was the third one drafted ' The wife feit her limbs shake, and she thought at flrst that she could not stand. All the. forces of her nature seemcd giving way, but she rallied bravely. For hig sake she would be calin and stron ; but, she could not speak just then. he led him into the house, where their children were - five of theru, the eldest only ten in the July just gono. There was something in their father s manner whiofa checked the noisy demonstrations wilh whiofa they were wont to greet him, and they only gave him a few ilent kisses as he sat down in the great chair by the west window. He buried hia face in his hands for awhilo, and then he lifted it ' and looked around on the little group of bis loved onos. Thrce girls and two . boys, and his wife, their mother, looking, in spite of years of care, as fair, alraost as young, as the day he brought her homo bis new-made bride. His chest heavcd I with a long and bitter sigh- a sort of i sob of' despair, rather - and then he said, as if he feared even slie, his other self, might misunderstand him : ' God knows it is not for my own sake, May ! do not think I am afraid to die. I would go with more than willingness - with joy - if I hao not so much to leave. If I fall, whafc will become of you acd the childrcn ? I cannot bear to think of what you might suffer, with no one to stand between you and the cares and sorrows of the world. Mary, this drafting indiscriminatcly does not seem just, Surely the single men ought to go first.' His wife stole her little hand iuto his very gently. 1 Do not think of us,' slio said, with a true woman's self forgetfulnefs. ' It. is not that We should do well enough. - You need not fear that we should come to want. But oh, John - ' And just there she broko down utterly, and eried out, with a buist of passionate tears: 1 No, I cannot bear it ! You will die ! I shall oever, uever sop your face agaio ! If I could know that you would come back, even were it raaimcd and Iielpless, j I would not murmur ; but to think that ' you might die there, and I eould not heip you - that your eyos would scok mice, your hands gropc for mine, and I not bo thero- ol), John, I öhall go uiad with . hpeless horror ! ' It was kis turn to be the oomforter now. He drew her into the shelter of [lis arms ; ho rested her head on his broast; he whispercd, tenderly : ' AU who fight do nöt die, Mary. God watches over us there as well as liere. - Some women's husbauds must go, poor child ! Sometbitig may happen yet that I shall not have to.' He knew, however, no solitai y chance under the wide heavens by which ho could escape. The words with him were but the vaguest utterance of soothing; but slie cauglit at them eagerly. ' You could procure a substitute, perhaps - is that what you mean ? ' ' I would if I could,' he answcred, evasively, remembering in his own tnind the difficulty that ricíier men than he had experienced in procuring them in those quiet, thinly-peopled, agricaltural towns. 'I am very tired, Mary; can you give me some tea ? ' Cbeered a little by her neW hope, and anxious, above all, to cheer him and niake him coinfortable, the wife got up and went into the kitchen. The biscuit for supper were already made, and in a few minutes tea was upon the table. - John Morgan drauk cup after cup of it, with an eager feverish thirst: but eating with him was a mere feint. When the meal was over, the children were put to bed, all but the two oldest girls. They stole out to the open door, and sat down in the September moonlight, Üieir anus around each other - feehng, with a sort of dumb pain, that a shadow which they could not resist had fallen upon the household. ïheir mother, meantime, had lighted her la.rp and taken her work - a child's fiock, which slie was finishing - to the little round stand. She would not let this evomng seem more uulike other evenines than she could help. Soon there carne a footstep up the gravel walk ; this time, a quiek, firm tread. The girls in the door made way for the new corner to enter, and he came in and stood sileutly for a moment in the center of the little sitting-room. He was a slcnder, elegantly-moulded man. You could see at a glance that the fibre of his manhood had never yet been testcd b}7 any tough struggle with fate. Yet one would not have doubted his untried courage. It shovved in his steady blue eycs, sad with unpoken pain ; it betrayed itself in the curl of his lip, the curve of his nostril. They say no sol diers ever fought more bravely than the gentry of England - white of hand, haughty of look, delicate of feature. - Some such blood flowed in the veins of Ast] Thorncroft. He was the only son of ihe rich mili owner whose fbreman John Morgnn was. He was uo stranger at the cottage ; aud even in this sorrowful hour tlicre was no danger of bis being unwelcome. He was the first to speak. ' It is hard on you, Morgan, this draft. My father was saying to-night tb at he did not know how he should contrive to spare you. So well as you're doing now, too - already comfort and competence for you aud yours, aud better things in prospect.' 1 It's useless talking. I think I was not born under a lucky star. You were Mr. Thorncroft's son, to begin witb ; young, ficb, without a tie to (etter you ; aud of course the draft epared you.' ' Without a tie ! Do you cali that happiness ] ' John Morgan 's oyes feil beneath that sad, steadv gaze of reproach. He remembered then one who had ed in Mareh, on wliose gravo the lonesome spring rain had wept tears which sprang up again in roses and violeta - the gentío giri whom Ash Thtrncroft had loved so long and well. ' Forgive me,' he said, in a low, penitent tone. Tlje otlier went on : 'I think you forget yourself a üttle when you repine at this stroke as if it wero the worst tliing which could havo happened. Would you give up your wife, or oue of your ehildren, even to escape from the perils of this war ? ' ' Did you think I was a coward ? ' and the.honest soul looked indignantly out of John Morgan's eyes. ' If I were to feil, what would they do ? I have strui;gled to shield theui, so far as I could, from want, care, or privation. How are they fitted to tread tbe world's rougb paths alone ?' ' No, I did not tuke you for a eoward. If I bad I should uot have thoiight your lifo worth savingt I think I know 1kw I should feel in you place. It is a place in which I shall never stand. I am going to eulist, John. It is my duty, for I have nothing to keep nio at home. I am ready to givo all that I have to my country. If I fall, I sball only go tbe sooner wbere all niy longings tend. - What is to hinder my sparing you to ! your happy fireside ? I carne to propose mysclf as your substitute.' ' It is not - are you suro it is not - to gpare me ? "Would you go in auy case?' John Morgan asked, with a little doubt in bis voice. ' Do 'not fear that I am going for your -sake. I made up my uiind s soon as tbe cali cnme for volunteers. I ouly waitod for thia very thing - tbc cbanoe, if I should uot be drafted niyself, of saving soine man who was duar to tbe woman who loved liim. I am glad it is you, John, my good old frieud to whoni I can rendor this service. John Morgan W9S a man of few words - of feelings wbich lay so deep ihat they seldom rose to tho turface ; but tbero was sometbing wbicb Ash Thorncroft needed no language to interpret in tbe look of bis eyes, and tho grasp of bis band, as he hurried out of the room. Tborncroft vfas one of tbose men with a vein of tendorness in the midst oí their strength which always allios them inore i üearly to women than to men. Lelt j alone with Mrs. Morgan ho said what be nevcr would havo said to her husband. 1 It was whea eho thanked him, with earuest words, and sobs and tears of joy yet more eloquent. 1 Therc was one, Mrs. Morgan, who loved me as well as you love John. You do not need to thauk me. All that I ever oould do for any otber woiuan, I would do for hor sake. You havo seen her ; you know how fair and sweet slie was; but I think no oue save me knovvs all her purity, her saint-liko goodness. I have had only one hope sinco she died ; that I niight be fit to go to her. If I die in the good cause, think of me as happy with au unspeakable happmess. - It will be but the opening oí the golden gate the soouer. ï shall not see you agair, so I will bid you good bye, now.' Her tears foll upon bis hand - her lips touchcd it. She whispered brokenly her blessing, the blessing of one who owed to hiin more than her life; aud so annointi?d for bis work, as it were, by those holy tears and prayers, he went away. The girls at the doorsaw bis face in the moonlight, while yet radiant and tender. ïh-ey ran in to their inother, askuig their childish questions : ' W bat made Mr. Thorncroft look so ? What was he bere for ï ' 'Father is not ,going away; Mr. Thorucioft is going in bis stead. We shall keep father at home.' And tben, woinanlike, she feil to huggiug them and crying over them ; and just then John caine back, and took the three altogether in his stroug arms. It was one of the supreme moments of life, which whether of joy or grief, picture themselves clearly to our miuds aud need no description. Ash Thoinycroft walked away with a íinn tread. Ho turned aaide wbeu he came to the chureb, witb the old burying gr.Mind in the rear, full of grass grown .uo 11e went in there, and knelt '" grave on whoso bead-stone the name of Constance Ireton gleamed white and clearly out in the bright moonlight. ' Oh, iny darling, my darling ! ' he cried, with his lips pressed to the sod. if the dead could hear, tbatstill heart bencath should have tbrobbed again to the acoents of such love. Manya night had he talked to her there, as now, with a stranjje sense of uearness - a full belief in the conmmnion of their souls. ' You are not here, I know, and yot I know you hear me. I am going away to-morrow God's soldier and yours. - Give me your blessing, Coi.stance, and pray for me, you who havo already seen the Patber's face, that I may do my work without falteriug, and the end may come soon.' It was but a dream of bis own overwrought fauey ; but he seemed to see a cloud draw uear, from which a face looked - a white, sweet face, and with waiting, yet glorifiod with inmortal hope. - And he seerned to hear a voioo, which eaid : ' Go forth, rny belovod, and do your work. Soon will tho struggle be over, and the reward is long and sure.' For an instant he seemed to see the smile upon her face, the look of faithf'ul love in tho immortal eycs. ïhen, when he stretched out his arms towards it, the cloud .secmed to melt out into the white moonlight ; not even an echo of the voice thrilled the September air - he waa alone with night. He went away the next day to join his regiment - one which had nlready seen hard service. - Títere was in him the true mettle of a truc soldier. His day migbt be short - he would be busy while it lasted Besides, L thiuk he liked his grim work. He was aïways tobe found ainoog the volunteers for any desperate service. In many a fierce charge he led the van, with his bright, fair hair gliüunug gold enly in the sunlight, and a blue gliut in his eyes. He was never wounded. - Xothing happeued to disable him from his duty. Ho had refuscd well earncd promotion, aud once when a true cotnrade ; who marebed always at his side, had asked him the reason why, he sadly answered : ' Becuuse I shall bo here sueh a little whilo' 1 1 thought you vo'.unteered for three years. I had hiad that you came in place of a nine month's man, but tLat you ohoso to enlist for the longer timo, and ioin the old regiment.' There was no answer to tbe iiiquiriug tono whiob made a question of this re mark, and Stephen Chase, who uuderstood his comrada too well to presa the point, was as rauch puzzled as ever. He compTehended it all better the night bufo re Frederioksburg. They sat togetheT on a stone. a little way from their tont. For a while botli had been thinking sileutlj üf what the dawuing was to bring. ' It was a tough fight,' Chase said, at length, ' You uiay well say go,' Ash Thorncroft answered. ' It is a terriblü respousibility to assume, that of leading men to such ccrtuiu destruction ; and yet, if we can but win the victory ! There is hardly a man but would bo willing to se'l bis lifo for that. It is the only regret I havo in going in, that I sha'll never know whioh side conquors.' ' Nousenso, man, doa't get tbc blues after seeing so muuh blood spilt as you have, and coming out of so many hard bouts scarless ! ! 1 It was not my time, hitherto. It is now. I shall go into tlio figbt more joyfully tban ever tired childreii went home. I have only ouo wisb. If jou pull through alive, take care of my body. I want to be buried at home, besideg a I grave that was luado last March, iu the Westville churchyard. You must send me to my father- David Thornoroft, Weslvillf, ConLccticut. llero it is written down for you. Papers that I left at home, explaiuing my wishes, willbesuffi cient for the rest. Mis manner carriod conviction at least j of his oivn faith in his forewarning, but ! Stephau (jhase tricd to ishake it on. ' I never knew a presenlraoiit to come true in my life,' he said, sturdily. ' You will talk over the battle field twenty-four liours from now. Thorncroft only smiled as ho said : ' Do you promise what I asked, Stephen ? Will " you send my body to ïny father, if it is within your power to pro toet it?' ' Yes; for your satiafíiction I promise. I shall not bid you good-bye, though.' They wcrö toiling up the bili, that fatal afturnoon of the next day, nide by side, wlien suddeuly Thorncroft looked rouud with kiudling eyes to lus couirade. He stretched out his hand with a smile which the othor will never forget if he lives till his hair is white. ' Goud bye, Stephen 1 ' The next instant he feil heavily. A rebel shot had given hiui his mortal wound. With exertions which wOuld seera half incredible if I should relato them. Stephen Chase succeeded in getting him ofl' the field. He wan uot dead, and a hope still lurked in his comrade's heart that he might yet live to teil at homo the story of the war. He did not speak or move, hut faithful Stephen could feel the faint boating of his heart. Ho did not die till tho troops had gone back aeross the Rappahannock. - He belonged to a división that went into thefightsix thousand strong, and went back at night with only fiftecn hundred. He lay there with the wounded around him - the thin ranks out of which so many brave feet had marohed forever. - Just at dawning he looked up, and met his friend's eyes he faltered, foebly : ' A defeat, Stephen ! I lived to know - vietims, not conquerors.' Then his face brightened wilh a strange radiance, and he whispered, so softly that his friend could searcely -oatch the words - whispered as to some invisible auditor: 1 Yes, my darlingf yes ? ' The next instant the faint heart-beat under Stephen Ghase's hand was Still. They have buried him, siuce then, beside the grave where he knelt in tho moonlight the night before he went away. Only a foot of earth between the tu'o who loved each other so dearly. Ifi there so much ? riurely our dreama oi the future are not in vain. Surely somewhere, in the heaveu which is ' anchored ofi this world,' where sickness anc sorrow never come, and whero are neither wars nor rumora of wars, somowhere in the still Land of Peace they are tasting the cup of ioy which earth denied them John Morgan, and John Morgan's wife and children, will speak the name of Ash Thorncroft all their lives with such reverent tenderness as befits the memory of one who is enshrined in their hearts as gaint and as deliverer. We know not yet for what good end he and those wbo feil with him laid down their live - God grant that we may know hereafter - that the seed sown in tears we may rcap with exoeeding great joy.