  Mollie Greydon could not arise on the morning after the interview between her father and Roderick Barclugh. She sank into a low fever and for two months she lingered between life and death while being nursed by her faithful friend, Segwuna. In her delirium she talked about the Assembly at the French Ministers and oft repeated: “The dance is the language of love.” Then she would see the horses galloping down the road beside the Delaware where she outdistanced Roderick Barclugh on her thoroughbred, “Prince.” She would pass her hand over the bed-covering and pat it with such a loving and gentle touch as she said: “Noble Prince, noble Prince, you are such a fine horse, Prince. If he does not love me, you do, don’t you, Prince? “You were naughty, Prince, to run away from him that day. If I had only let him say what was in his heart that day, I would have been so happy. Yes, I would have been so happy! so happy!” And Mollie went to sleep from mere exhaustion. Many times Doctor Greydon and Mrs. Greydon held lengthy consultations when the disease took its insidious hold on the now wasted frame of their beautiful daughter. It was such a delicate thread that held all that was dear to them on earth. The image of little Mollie, their only darling child, as she gladdened their souls with her childish prattle passed through their minds. For hours at a time, they would sit and watch silently at the bedside and in silence pray to the One that knows the hearts of all: “to deliver from our midst the Dread Messenger that hovers over our child.” Mrs. Greydon would sometimes tearfully say: “William, maybe it was all for the best that Mr. Barclugh came to us, for God can send him back as a messenger from our Colonies and tell the truth to our cousins beyond the sea. That is what Segwuna says and she is almost endowed with the intelligence of the supernatural.” “Yes, yes, my dear, if Mr. Barclugh is the gentleman that I think he will tell the truth, and how our child would rejoice in any good The long days and the longer nights of the vigil for the dear one dragged along and along and the father and the mother seemed to age perceptibly under the strain. But Segwuna never lost her hope. She would say in her sweet voice: “The Great Spirit of Segwuna’s fathers will watch over our little one and bless her days with happiness.” The malady had its course and one morning Mollie awoke and said in a whisper, for she was very weak: “Mama, where have I been?” “You have been sleeping sweetly, my dear,” replied the mother softly: “Oh, I had such a sweet dream. I saw his face, and he looked at me with such kindly eyes,” came from Mollie as though an angel were speaking, and she closed her eyes and smiled as though she were an infant again. “God be praised,” whispered her mother. “My darling girl may be saved.” In three weeks she was able to drive in the carriage on mild days. But her heart seemed heavy. She watched for the mail. She thought that he could not have given her up without a word. Weeks grew into months and the spring came and the summer passed yet no word from the one she knew was dearer to her than life. But on a bright day in October, nearly a year from the time when Mollie was taken ill, a large, brawny man approached the portico where Mollie was seated, and raising his hat, he asked: “Is this Dorminghurst?” “Yes,” replied Mollie. “I have a letter here for Miss Greydon.” And the hardened hand of the man placed a packet in Mollie’s fingers. “Why, it is from Mr. Barclugh!” exclaimed Mollie. “Where did you get it, sir?” asked Mollie. “I brought it from the inlet on the Jersey coast. It came from New York by sloop,” answered the man, who was one of the fishermen Barclugh had employed when he fled. “None whatever. I was charged to deliver it into the hands of Miss Mollie Greydon. I have done so and my duty ends. Good day. I must return,” was the short and unceremonious message of the boatman and he left as mysteriously as he came. But here it was, the word from Roderick Barclugh at last: A large package emblazoned with a crest and the motto standing out in strong contrast: “Post Nubes Lux” Mollie opened it with nervous hand and she gazed at the bold handwriting of Roderick Barclugh with an anxious face.
After many family councils in the Doctor’s office, at last Doctor Greydon gave his consent under one condition, which was: that Roderick Barclugh would come to America and take the ups and downs of a common American and rear his family as free American citizens. Mollie wrote her lover after she had time to consider the meaning of it all, as follows:
In the course of two months, Sir Roderick Barclugh received the answer that Mollie penned, He did not forget to do justice to Mrs. Arnold and her children before he left England or resigned his title. He secured a pension for Mrs. Arnold of three hundred pounds sterling yearly and one hundred pounds yearly for each of Arnold’s children. He felt the responsibility for Arnold’s rash deed to a very great degree. In the balmy days of June following, the old mansion of Dorminghurst was gay with the prospects of the wedding of its jewel. The old hemlocks seemed greener than ever and the lover’s walk and the old mill had its attractions for Mollie and Roderick in the prenuptial days. The wedding was celebrated in high pomp (for the Greydons had practically gone back to the established church) by the Reverend Mr. White, the Chaplain of Congress. The war was over and the people were united. The drama of the strife was past. Peace and its pursuits held sway. Their love for fine horses brought the line of thoroughbreds that distinguishes the soil of the State of “the dark and bloody ground.” The descendants of the Barclughs have spread throughout the valleys of the Ohio and the Mississippi, and they have ever shone in the councils of our nation, being noted for their integrity, loyalty and patriotism. TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES: Obvious typographical errors have been corrected. Inconsistencies in hyphenation have been standardized. |
|
