We were within three days of the New Year. Mr. Arlington, who was quite learned on the subject, had been amusing us with an account of its various modes of celebration in various countries. He was perfectly brilliant in a description of New-York as seen under the sun of a clear, frosty New-Year's morning, with snow enough to make the sleighing good. The gay, fantastic sleighs, dashing hither and thither, and their exhilarated occupants bowing now on this side and now on that, to acquaintances rushing by almost too rapidly to be distinguished, while the silvery bells ring out their merry peals on the still air. Then the festive array which greets the caller at every house within which he enters. Beauty adorned with smiles and dress, gayly decorated tables, brightly burning fires, and every thing seeming to speak the welcome not of mere form, but of hearty hospitality. There is one aspect in which he presents this day to us, that is peculiarly pleasing. He says, that many a slight estrangement, springing from some one of those "trifles" which "make the sum of human life," has been prevented, by the influence of this day, from becoming a life-long enmity. Thus the New-Year's day becomes a Peace-maker, and has on it the blessing of Heaven. Long live the custom which has made it such!
"And how shall we celebrate our New-Year?" asked Col. Donaldson."Let us introduce the New-York custom," suggested one.
"That would not do without some previous agreement with your neighbors," replied Mr. Arlington, "as their ladies would not probably be prepared for your visits, and while you were making them, the ladies of your own family would be left to entertain themselves as they could."
"That will never do," said Col. Donaldson; "better invite all our neighbors to visit us on that day. Suppose we give them a dinner?"
"Oh, papa!" cried Miss Donaldson in dismay. And "My dear husband!" ejaculated the smiling Mrs. Donaldson, "where would you find room to accommodate them all?"
"True—true—we could not dine them in the open air at this season."
"But there would be no such objection to an evening party," said one of the young Donaldsons. "We have fine sleighing now, and the moon rises only a little after eight on New-Year's evening; why not invite them for the evening."
"What, another such stiff affair as Annie insisted on entertaining her friends the Misses Morrison with the last winter, when I saw one of the poor girls actually clap her hands with delight at the announcement of her carriage?"
"Oh, no! Leave it to me, and it shall not be a stiff affair at all. We will appear in fancy dresses—"
"My dear Philip!" remonstrated Mrs. Donaldson.
"Oh! not you, my dear mother, nor my father, unless he should like it—indeed, it shall be optional with all—but enough, I am sure, will like to make it an entertaining variety."
"But where shall we get fancy dresses, distant as we are from the city?" asked Annie.
"Leave yours to me, Annie, I have it ready for you," said Philip Donaldson, with so significant an air, that I at once suspected this suggestion to have been the result of the arrival on that very day of a box, addressed to him by a ship from Constantinople, of which he had hitherto made a great mystery.
"Thank you, Philip; but you cannot, I suppose, supply all the company, and I had rather not be the only one in fancy costume, if you please."
"If mamma will surrender to me the key of that great wardrobe, up stairs, which contains the brocade dresses, shoe-buckles, knee-buckles, etc., of our great-grandfathers and grandmothers, I will promise to supply dresses for our own party, at least, with a little aid from the needles and scissors."
"I bar scissors," cried Col. Donaldson. "Those venerable heir-looms—"
"Shall not lose a shred, sir," said Philip; "the scissors shall only be used to cut the threads, with which the ladies take in a reef here and there, when it is necessary."
"But you have provided only for our party. Are our guests not to be in costume?"
"That may be as they please. We will express the wish, and if they have any ingenuity, they can have no difficulty in getting up some of the staple characters of such a scene, flower-girls and shepherdesses, sailors, sultans, and beggars."
The scheme seemed feasible enough, when thus presented, and had sufficient novelty to please the young people. It was accordingly adopted, and the evening was passed in writing invitations, which were dispatched at an early hour the next morning. The three succeeding days were days of pleasurable excitement, in preparation for the fÊte. Needles and scissors were both in active use, and the brocade dresses lost, I am afraid, more than one shred in the process of adjusting them to the figures for which they were now designed. Mrs. Dudley and Mrs. Seagrove were thus arranged as rival beauties of the court of Queen Anne. Philip Donaldson, with the aid of a bag-wig, for which Mr. Arlington has written at his request to a friend, in what city I may not say, and with some of his father's youthful finery, and the shoe and knee-buckles aforesaid, will make an excellent beau for these belles. Col. Donaldson, always ready for any harmless mirth, says they must accept him in his father's continental uniform for another. Mr. Arlington makes quite a mystery of his costume, but it is a mystery already revealed, both to Col. Donaldson and Philip, as I can plainly perceive by the significant glances they exchange whenever an allusion is made to it. Robert Dudley is to be a page, Charles Seagrove, a beautiful boy of six years old, an Oberon, and our little Eva a Titania. Mrs. Donaldson and I were permitted to appear in our usual dress, and Miss Donaldson strenuously claimed the same privilege, but it was not allowed. She resisted all entreaties, even from her favorite brother Arthur; but when her father gravely regretted her inability to sympathize with the enjoyments of others, she was overcome. Having yielded, she yielded entirely, and was willing to wear anything her sisters wished. As she is considered by them all, even in her thirty-third year, as the beauty of the family, her dress has been more carefully studied by them than any other. Every book of costumes within their reach was searched for it again and again, without success; one was rich, but unbecoming, another pretty, but it did not suit her style, and a third all they desired, but unattainable at so short a notice. As a last resource, my engravings were resorted to, and there, to my own surprise, they found what satisfied all their demands. One of the historical prints showed the dress worn in her bridal days by Hotspur's Kate. Miss Donaldson accepted it thankfully, as being less bizarre than any yet proposed to her, requiring nothing more than a full skirt of white satin, a jacket not very unlike the modern Polka, and a bridal veil. One condition she insisted on, however, namely, that Arthur should be her Hotspur. To this he consented without difficulty, not without an eye, I suspect, to the appearance of his tall, erect, graceful form and bearing in such a dress as Hotspur's.
The last evening of the Old Year had arrived, our preparations were completed, and our little party were experiencing something of that ennui which results from having nothing to do, when, in putting away the materials lately in use, Annie took up my engraving of Hotspur and Kate. Handing it to me, she said. "I know these engravings are precious, Aunt Nancy, though what can be the association with this one, I am, I acknowledge, at a loss to conceive."
"And yet it is a very simple one. I treasure it in memory of my friend Harry Percy and his bride."
"What! Hotspur?" questioned Annie with dilating eyes.
"Not quite, though he was a lineal descendant of the old Percys, and hot enough on occasion, too."
"You mean Colonel Percy of the British army, who married Miss Sinclair, of Havre de Grace, during our last war with England, or immediately after it, I never quite understood which. There seemed some mystery about the marriage, and I did not like to inquire too closely, but I dare say now, Aunt Nancy, you can tell us all about it."
"I believe I can. See Annie, if among these packages you can find one labelled 'The Test of Love.'"
"What! another story of a proud beauty winning her glove and losing her lover?" asked Mr. Arlington.
"No; my test, or rather my hero's test, was somewhat different," I replied, as I received the package from Annie, and read,
A STORY OF THE LAST WAR.
When Mr. Sinclair, the rector of St John's, in Havre de Grace took possession of his pretty parsonage, and persuaded the fair and gentle Lucy Hillman to preside over his unpretending mÉnage, and to share the comforts that lay within the compass of his stipend of one thousand dollars per annum, he felt that his largest earthly desires were fulfilled. A daughter was given to him, and with a grateful heart he exclaimed—"Surely Thou hast made my cup to overflow."
But he too was a man "born to trouble." He too must be initiated into those "sacred mysteries of sorrow," through which the High-priest of his profession had passed. In the succeeding ten years, three other children opened their soft, loving eyes in his home, made its air musical with their glad voices and ringing laughter, and just as he had learned to listen for the pattering of their dimpled foot, and his heart had throbbed joyously to their call, they were borne from his arms to the grave, and the echoes which they had awakened in his soul were hushed for ever. Still his Lucy and their first-born were spared, and as he drew them closer to his heart he could "lift his trusting eyes" to Him from whom his faith taught him no real evil could come to the loving spirit. The shadow of earth had fallen on his heart, but the light of heaven still beamed brightly there. Years passed with Mr. Sinclair in that deep quiet of the soul which is "the sober certainty of waking bliss." His labors were labors of love, and he was welcomed to repose by all those charms which woman's taste and woman's tenderness can bring clustering around the home of him to whom her heart is devoted. But a darker trial than any he had yet known awaited him.
War is in our borders, and that quiet town in which Mr. Sinclair's life has passed is destined to feel its heaviest curse. Its streets are filled with soldiery. The dark canopy of smoke from which now and then a lurid flame shoots upward, shows that their work is destruction, and that they will do it well. Terrified women flit hither and thither, mingling their shrieks in a wild and fiend-like concert with the crack of musketry, the falling of houses, and the loud huzzas and fierce outcries of excited men. At a distance from that quarter in which the strife commenced, stands a simple village church, within whose shadow many of those who had worshipped in its walls during the last half century, have lain down to rest from the toils of life. No proud mausoleum shuts the sunshine from those lowly graves. Drooping elms and willows bend over them, and the whispering of their long pendent branches, as the summer breeze sweeps them hither and thither, is the only sound that breaks the stillness of that hallowed air. Near the church, on the opposite side from this home of the dead, lies a garden, whose roses and honey-suckles perfume the air, while its bowers of lilac and laburnum, of myrtle and jessamine, almost shut from the view the pretty cottage to which it belongs. All around, all within that cottage, is silent. Have its inmates fled?
The neighboring houses have been long deserted, and those who left them would gladly have persuaded their pastor to accompany them; but when they called to urge his doing so, he could only point to the bed on which, already bereft of sense, and evidently fast passing from life, lay one "all lovely to the last." Mrs. Sinclair's health, delicate for years, had rapidly failed in the last few months, till her anxious husband and child, aware that a moment's acceleration of the pulse, a moment's quickening of the breath from whatever cause, might snatch her from their arms, learned to modulate every tone, to guard every look and movement in her presence. But they could not shut from her ears the boom of the cannon which heralded the approach of the foe—they could not hush the startling cries with which others met the announcement of their arrival, and the first evidences of that savage fury which desolated their homes, and left a dark stain on the escutcheon of Britain. Mrs. Sinclair uttered no cry when her terrors were thus excited, she even strove to smile upon her loved ones, to raise their drooping hearts; and in this, woman's holiest task, the springs of her life gave way—not with a sudden snap, but slowly, gently—so that for hours her husband and daughter stood watching the shadow of death steal over her, hoping yet to catch one glance of love, one whispered farewell ere she should pass for ever from them.
"Fear not, my child," said Mr. Sinclair, when their sad vigils were first interrupted by those who urged their flight—"they are enemies, it is true, but they are Englishmen, a peaceful clergyman, a defenceless woman, are safe in their hands—they will not harm us."
"I have no fear, no thought of them, father!" said Mary Sinclair, as she turned weeping to the only object of fear, or hope, or thought, at that moment.
But soon others of Mr. Sinclair's parishioners came to warn him that his confidence had been misplaced, that no character, no age, no sex, had proved a protection from the ruthless fury of their assailants. He would now have persuaded his daughter to accompany her friends to a place of safety, and when persuasions proved vain he would have commanded her, but, lifting her calm eyes to his, she said, "Father have you not taught me that, in all God's universe, the only safe place for us is that to which our duty calls us—and is not my duty here?"
A colder heart would have argued with her, and might, perhaps, have proved to her that her duty was not there—that her father could watch the dying, and that it was her duty to preserve herself for him; but Mr. Sinclair folded her in his arms while his lips moved for an instant in earnest prayer, and then, turning to his waiting friends, he said, "Go, go, my friends—I thank you—but God has called us to this, and he will care for us."When the work of desolation had been completed in the quarter first attacked, parties of soldiers straggled off from the main body in search of further prey. Fearful was it to meet these men—their faces blackened with smoke, their hands stained with blood, fierce frowns upon their brows, and curses on their lips. The parsonage presented little attraction in its external aspect to men whose object was plunder, and they turned first to larger and more showy buildings. These were soon rifled; the noise of their ribald songs, their blasphemous oaths and drunken revelry penetrating often the chamber of death, yet scarcely awakening an emotion in the presence of the great Destroyer. At length the little gate is flung rudely open, and unsteady but heavy steps ascend from the court-yard to the house. They cross the piazza, they enter the parlor where life's gentlest courtesies and holiest affections have hitherto dwelt, the door of the room beyond is thrown open, and two men stand upon its threshold, sobered for an instant by the scene before them. There, pale, emaciated, the dim eyes closed, and the face wearing that unearthly beauty which seems the token of an adieu too fond, too tender, too sacred for human language, from the parting spirit to its loved ones, the wife and mother, speechless, senseless, yet not quite lifeless, lay propped by pillows. At her side knelt Mr. Sinclair; the pallor of deep, overpowering emotion was on his cheek, yet in his lifted eyes there was an expression of holy faith, and you might almost have fancied that a smile lay upon the lips which were breathing forth the hallowed strains of prayer—"Save and deliver us, we humbly beseech Thee, from the hands of our enemies, that we, being armed with thy defence, may be preserved evermore from all perils, to glorify Thee, who art the only giver of all victory, through the merits of thy Son, Jesus Christ our Lord—Amen."
Dark, sinful men as they were, fresh from brutal crime, those strains touched a long silent chord in their hearts—a chord linked with the memory of a smiling village in their own distant land—with a mother's love and the innocence of childhood. Faint—faint, alas! were those memories, and Mr. Sinclair's "amen" had scarcely issued from his lips, when the eyes of the leader rested on the beautiful face of Mary Sinclair, as, pressed to the side of her father, she stretched her arms out over her dying mother, and turned her eyes imploringly on their dreaded visitors. The ruffians sprang forward with words whose meaning was happily lost to the failing sense of the terror-stricken girl. Mr. Sinclair started to his feet, and with one arm still clasped around his daughter, stood between her and the worse than murderers before him, prepared to defend her with his life. For the first time he thirsted for blood, and looked around for some weapon of destruction—but his was the abode of peace—no weapon was there. Unarmed, with that loved burden—loved at this moment even to agony, resting upon him—he stood opposed to two fierce men armed to the teeth. A father's strength in such a cause, who shall estimate?—yet, alas! his adversaries were demons, relentless in purpose, and possessed of that superhuman force which passion gives. Weary of killing, or influenced by that superstition which sometimes rules the soul from which religion is wholly banished, they did not avail themselves of their swords. With fierce threats they unclasped his arm from that senseless form, which sank instantly to the floor at his feet, and drew him across the room. They would have forced him into the parlor, but his resistance was desperate, and ere they could accomplish this, the sound of a drum beating the recall was borne faintly to their ears. Leaving his comrade to hold the wildly struggling father, the bolder ruffian turned back toward the still prostrate Mary. At that moment, before she had been polluted by a touch, the door was thrown violently back, and a tall, manly form strode through it. The gilded epaulettes and drooping feather told his rank, before the step of pride and countenance of stern command had conveyed to the mind the conviction that you stood in the presence of one accustomed to be obeyed. The man who grasped Mr. Sinclair loosened his hold and shrank cowering away. He went unnoticed, for the eye of the officer had fallen upon him who was in the act of stooping to lift Mary Sinclair from the floor. With a single spring he was at his side, and catching him by the collar of his coat, he hurled him from him with such force that he fell stunned against the farther wall. Mr. Sinclair was already bending over his daughter. As he raised her on his arm her head fell back, exposing her face, around which her dark hair swept in dense masses. Her features were of chiselled beauty, and had they been indeed of marble they could not have been more bloodless in their hue, while her jetty lashes lay as still upon her cheek as though the hand of death had sealed her eyes for ever. Mr. Sinclair had no such fear. He knew that she had only fainted, and rejoiced that God in his mercy had spared her the worst horrors of the scene; but as Captain Percy's eyes rested on her, a deeper scowl settled on his brow, and in a hoarse whisper he asked:—
"Have they harmed her, sir?"
"Not by a touch, thank God! not by a touch!" exclaimed the father, as he pressed her with passionate joy to his heart—ay, joy, even in the presence of her so long the light of his life now passing for ever from earth. For a few minutes the dying had been forgotten, for what was death—a death of peace—to the long misery into which man's base, brutal passion would have converted the life of that pure and lovely girl? Now, however, she was safe, and still supporting her on his arm, Mr. Sinclair turned to his wife and tenderly moistened her parched lips. What a mockery of all human cares seemed that pale, peaceful brow—peaceful, while he whose lightest sorrow had thrown a shadow on her life was suffering anguish inexpressible, and the child who had lain in her bosom, to the lightest throb of whose heart her own had answered, lay senseless from terror in his arms. It was a scene to touch the hardest heart, and Captain Percy's heart was not hard. He looked around for the men whom he had interrupted in their hellish designs—they were not there.
"Is this their work?" he asked of Mr. Sinclair, pointing to his scarcely breathing wife.
"No—no—this is the gentle hand of our Father," said Mr. Sinclair, as he bent his head and touched with his lips the sunken cheek dearer to him now than it had been in all its girlish roundness. The blood had begun to cast a slight tinge of red into the lips of Mary Sinclair before Captain Percy had left the room in search of the men whom he was unwilling to leave behind him, and when he returned, the tremor of her form and the close clasp with which she clung to her father, proved that her consciousness and her memory were awake. His step had startled her, and as he entered he heard Mr. Sinclair say, "Fear not, my daughter, that is the step of your deliverer, and though he is an English soldier——"
"I pray you, sir, judge not Englishmen by ruffians like these—a disgrace to the name of man. Believe me, every country has within it wretches, who, at moments such as this, when all social restraints are withdrawn, become demons. But I must leave you, in safety, I trust, as I have sent to the ships all the soldiers whom I could discover in your neighborhood."
"Farewell, sir," said Mr. Sinclair, extending his hand—"God reward you for the timely aid you have this day brought to the defenceless. Look up, my child, and join your thanks with mine."
Mary Sinclair raised her head from her father's bosom, and lifting her eyes for an instant to the face of Captain Percy, unclosed her lips to speak, but voice and words were denied her.
"God bless you, lady!" he exclaimed, as taking her hand he raised it to his lips, and relinquishing it with one glance of sympathy at the dying, turned away and passed from the room. He returned once more, but it was only to leave his pistols with Mr. Sinclair.
"They are loaded, sir, and in such a cause as you needed them just now, even a Christian minister may use them."
Captain Percy spoke rapidly, only glancing at Mary, who was already bending with self-forgetful devotion above her mother's pillow, and before Mr. Sinclair could answer he was gone.
All was again silent in that deserted suburb, and for long hours nothing disturbed the solemn stillness of the chamber of death, save the low sob or earnest prayer of parting love, though sounds of tumult had not ceased wholly in the village. The invaders had been interrupted in their work of destruction by an alarm from some of their own party of an approaching foe. They hurried to their ships with mad impetuosity, conscious that their acts deserved only war to the knife, and that they were not prepared to cope with any regular force. Only they, who, like Captain Percy, had held themselves aloof from the brutal barbarities which they had striven vainly to prevent, were now composed enough to take any steps for the safety of others. To collect those who had straggled off was the first business, and while the recall was hastily beaten, Captain Percy, selecting a small party of men on whom he could depend, went to patrol the more distant quarters of the town. Having seen no trace of an enemy on his way to the parsonage, he had somewhat hastily concluded the alarm to be false, and therefore did not hesitate, before returning with his pistols to Mr. Sinclair, to send forward his men in charge of those whom he had found, promising to join them before they reached the point of embarcation. Without a thought of danger he traversed the silent and deserted streets on his return, and had arrived where a single turn would bring him within view of the rallying point of his companions in arms, when the sound that met his practised ears told of something more than the hurrying tread and mingling voices of soldiers rapidly embarking. Had his men been opposed? If so, they should not be without a leader—and with that thought he sprang forward. He was too late. Already they had fought their way through the band of villagers, who, maddened by the desolation of their homes, had gathered together such weapons as they could, and led on by one gallant and experienced soldier, whom their burning houses had lighted to their aid, were seeking to cut off the retreat of some amongst their invaders, and thus to revenge those whom they had been unable to protect. Captain Percy's men had, as we have said, fought their way through this band—not without loss. He now stood alone—one against many—with only his good sword to aid, for his pistols he had given to Mr. Sinclair. To retreat unobserved was impossible, for his own cry of "Forward—forward, my men!" uttered as he rushed to the scene of the just decided contest, had betrayed him—to fight against such odds with the faintest hope of success was equally impossible, and to yield was an alternative which there seemed to be no intention of offering him. In an instant twenty swords flashed before his eyes—twenty muskets were pointed at his breast. That instant had been his last had not Major Scott, the leader of whom we have spoken, sprang forward and placed himself before him. Himself a brave and generous soldier, he could not tamely witness such butchery; and pale with the terror for another which he had never felt for himself, he exclaimed, "Yield yourself, sir, quickly—a moment's delay, and I cannot protect you."Captain Percy's sword was in the hand of his noble foe, who, linking his arm in his, turned to face his own band, shouting as he did so, "Back—back on your lives—he is my prisoner, and who touches him makes me his enemy."
The day had passed with all its exciting incidents. The glow of sunset had faded into twilight's soberer hues, and these had deepened into the darkness of night. With the darkness silence had settled upon the streets of Havre de Grace. They who had trodden, for hours, with burning hearts around the sites of their desecrated homes, retired to the house of some charitable and more fortunate neighbor, to seek such rest as misery may hope. They went with sullen as well as sad brows, and as they passed one house in the village they muttered "curses not loud, but deep." This was the house in which Major Scott had found a refuge for himself and the prisoner, whom all his influence had scarcely been able to protect. To remove him from Havre de Grace in the light of day, and under the eyes of his infuriated enemies, was too hazardous a project to be attempted; and by the advice of some who seemed disposed to second his efforts for his safety, he had delayed his departure till night should veil the obnoxious features of the British officer.
At the parsonage, death had accomplished his work, and the room in which we have already seen Mr. Sinclair, bears the solemn impress of his presence. Beside the bed on which the lifeless limbs have been composed with tender care, the pastor kneels. His prayer is no longer, "Let this cup pass from me"—he is struggling for power to say, "Father, not my will, but Thine be done!" In an upper room lies Mary Sinclair. Tears are falling fast as summer rain-drops from her closed eyes; but she utters neither sob nor moan, and by the dim light of the shaded lamp she seems to the two women, who, with well-meant but officious kindness, have insisted on watching with her through the night, to sleep. A slight noise in the street causes one of these women to start, and she whispers to the other, "I am 'feard of every thing to-night—the least noise puts me all of a trimble, for I'm thinking of my Jack. He's gone to guard that British soger, and I shouldn't wonder if he had a skrimmage about him before morning."
"And I must say, Miss Dunham, if he did, it would be nothin' more than them deserves us would go for to guard them cruel British."
"But they do say, Miss Caxton, that this Capin—for Jack says he is a Capin—was better than the rest—that he took the part of our people every where when he found there wasn't any fair fight, and that he was drivin' his men to the ships when we caught him."
"Them may believe that that will, but for my part I think that it must be a poor, mean speritted American that will hold guard over one of them British——"
"Not so mean speritted as you think perhaps," said Jack's mother with a flushed face.
"Well, I must say, Miss Dunham, I never thought Jack would do such a thing—if I had——"
Miss Caxton stopped abruptly, but her companion would hear the whole—"Well ma'am, if you had—what if you had?"
"Why, then, Miss Dunham, I shouldn't have been so well pleased to see him keepin' company with my Sarah—but after this, of course, that's at an end."
"May be, Miss Caxton, you may think to-morrow mornin' that it would have been just as well to wait till the night was gone before you said that—when you see the British Capin hanging by the neck in his fine regimentals, and hear that his guard were the men that did it—as I know they've sworn to do—you may think after all they an't so mean speritted."
"Miss Dunham! if they'll do that, I'll unsay every word I've said, and proud enough I would be to call one of 'em my son-in-law—but now do tell me all about it—she's asleep you see," glancing at Mary Sinclair, "and there an't nobody to hear."
"Why, there an't much to tell. You see the Major wouldn't give way any how at all about this here man—so, as they didn't want to fight him, they agreed that some of the real true blues who an't afeard of nothin', should seem to help the Major and persuade him to keep the man here till late in the night, and that they would guard him—but they were to take care to have the key of his room, and when the Major goes there he'll find it empty, or at best only a bloody corpse there. They'll hang him if they can get him out of the window without too much noise, but if there's any danger of his waking the Major with his screeching, they'll stop his voice quick enough."
Any further conversation between these discreet watchers was prevented by a sudden movement on the part of Mary Sinclair. Springing from her bed she was hastening to the door when her steps were arrested.
"Dear me, Miss Mary! where are you going? Now do lie down again, my dear young lady!—be patient—it's the Lord's will, you know." Such were the remonstrances of her officious attendants, while, one on either side, they strove to lead her back again, but Mary persisted.
"I must go to my father, Mrs. Dunham, pray let me go, Mrs. Caxton, I must speak to my father."
"Well, then, my good young lady, just put your wrapping gown around you first, and put your feet in these slippers."
Mary complied silently, and then was suffered to proceed. Rapidly she flew to her father's room—it was unoccupied, and a glance at his bed showed her that it had not been disturbed. Mary was at no loss to conjecture where she should find her father—but as she approached that room her steps grew slower, lighter—she was treading on holy ground. With difficulty she nerved herself to turn the latch of the door, and in an awed whisper she entreated her father to come to her. Mr. Sinclair rose from his knees, but he lingered a moment to cast one look on that still lovely face, to press his lips to that cold brow, and then, reverently veiling it, he approached his daughter.
"Come quickly, papa!—not a moment is to be lost if you would save him from death, and such a death—oh, papa, papa!—it may be even now too late."
Her tale was rapidly told, and before it was concluded Mr. Sinclair was ready for action.
"But the house, Mary, what house is he in?"
This Mary could not tell, but rapidly ascending the stairs to her room, Mr. Sinclair obtained from the two gossips the information he sought. Startled as they were by his appearance, they reverenced the rector too much to question his designs. Leaving his daughter to forget even her own heavy sorrow in the imminent danger of another—of one whom, without any very satisfactory reason, she as well as Mr. Sinclair had at once concluded to be her deliverer of the morning—let us follow his steps.
The church clock tolled eleven as Mr. Sinclair passed, and the sound made his fleet movements fleeter still. Street after street was traversed without a voice or tread, save his own, breaking the stillness of the night. At length he reached the point of the day's devastations. Dismantled and roofless houses, from which a dull glimmer showed that the fire was not yet wholly extinguished, were seen rising here and there, while in intervening spaces a charred and smouldering heap alone gave evidence that man had had his dwelling there. A rapid glance as he passed without a pause over this ground told its desolation. But see—what object meets his eye, and causes every nerve to thrill with apprehension! From the midst of one of those blackened heaps a single post shoots up—wildly Mr. Sinclair casts his eyes upward to its summit—gracious heaven! is he too late? To that post, about twenty feet from the ground, a cross-piece is attached, to which a rope has been secured, and from that rope a dark object hangs motionless. Sick with horror he stops—he gazes—no! it is no illusion—dimly defined against the star-lit sky, his eye, dilated by terror, traces the form of man, and fancy supplies the traits of him who stood before him but a few hours since in all the flush of manhood—every moment replete with energy, every look full of proud resolve and generous feeling. With a searching glance Mr. Sinclair looks around for the murderers—but they are gone—again, his strangely fascinated eye turns to that object of horror. Is it the agitation of a death struggle which causes it now to swing to and fro in the dusky air? The thought that life may not yet be extinct gives him new strength—he runs—he flies to Major Scott's lodgings, for from him alone is he secure of aid in his present purpose.
As Mr. Sinclair approached the house in which Major Scott had found accommodations for himself and his prisoner, he found himself no longer in darkness. More than one burning torch threw a lurid light upon the scene, while the men who held them, and perhaps as many as twenty more stood clustered together, near the house, against which some of them were engaged in elevating a ladder. In what service that ladder might have been last used Mr. Sinclair shuddered to think. Perfect stillness reigned in this party. Their few orders were given in whispers.
Keeping cautiously in shadow, and moving with stealthy steps, Mr. Sinclair passed them and reached the house. Even when there, he had little hope of making Major Scott hear him without alarming them, and he could not doubt that they would do every thing in their power to frustrate his object. But Heaven favored his merciful design—he touched the door and found it ajar. All was dark as midnight within it, and he had scarcely taken a step when he stumbled against a man whose voice sounded fiercely even in the low whisper in which he ejaculated, "D—n you. Do you want to wake the Major? Don't you see you're at his room door?"
"I see now, but it was so dark at first," whispered Mr. Sinclair in reply—adding with that quickness of perception and readiness of invention which danger supplies to some minds—"I have come to watch him—you are wanted."
The man obeyed the intimation, and he had no sooner turned away than Mr. Sinclair laid his hand upon the latch of the door which had been indicated as Major Scott's. It yielded to his touch, and with a quick but cautious movement he entered the room, and closed the door behind him. Cautious as he was, the soldier's light sleep was broken, and he exclaimed hurriedly, "Who's there?"
Mr. Sinclair's communication was made in a hasty whisper, and Major Scott only heard enough to know that his prisoner was in danger. Of Mr. Sinclair's worst suspicions he did not even dream when, starting to his feet, half dressed, as he had thrown himself on the bed, he snatched his pistols from under his pillow, and exclaiming to Mr. Sinclair, "Follow me, sir," hurried to the scene of action, the room of Captain Percy. Mr. Sinclair followed with rapid steps.
In one respect the conspirators had been disappointed—they had not obtained the key of Captain Percy's room, for being now a prisoner on parole, he was subject to no confinement. He had, however, locked the door of his room himself, to guard against the incursion of curiosity rather than of hostility; but the lock was none of the strongest—a single vigorous application of Major Scott's foot to the door started the screws which held it, and a second burst it off and threw the entrance open before him. As Mr. Sinclair glanced forward, "Thank God!" burst from his lips, to the no small surprise of Major Scott, who saw little cause for gratitude in finding the object of his solicitude retreating, sword in hand, towards the door, while several athletic men, their faces dark with hate, were already pressing dangerously upon him, and others were crowding in at the opened window. The impetuous rush of his friends freed Captain Percy for a moment from his assailants, but they returned fiercely to the charge, too furious now to postpone their revenge even to their deference for Major Scott. Vain were Mr. Sinclair's entreaties to be heard, till their advance was stayed by the sight of Major Scott's firearms—weapons with which they had not furnished themselves, considering them useless in an enterprise to whose complete success silence was essential. Then first they listened to him as he exclaimed, "This man is innocent, and if you shed his blood it will call to Heaven for vengeance. I saw him myself this day oppose himself to two of his own countrymen to save a defenceless woman from injury. That woman was my daughter—some of you know her well—ah, Thompson! you may well hang your head—would you slay the deliverer of her whose good nursing saved the life of your motherless child?—Wilson, it was but last week that she sat beside your dying mother, and soothed and comforted her—but for this good and brave man she would now have been with her in heaven."
It was only necessary to gain a hearing for such words to produce an influence on the rash, but not cruel men whom Mr. Sinclair addressed, and scarcely half an hour had passed since their entrance into the room, when they offered their hands in pledge of amity to him whose life they had come to seek. As a proof of their sincerity, they advised Major Scott no longer to delay his departure from the town, and some of them volunteered to accompany him as a guard to his country-seat."You have saved my life," said Captain Percy, as he shook hands with Mr. Sinclair at parting.
"And you have preserved for me all, except my duties, for which I can now desire to live," answered Mr. Sinclair with emotion: then turning to Major Scott, he added, "as soon as you consider it safe, you will, I hope, bring Captain Percy to visit us. In the mean time, Captain Percy, remember that the stranger and the prisoner are a clergyman's especial care, and suffer yourself to want nothing which I can do for you. By-the by," and he took Major Scott aside and whispered him.
"Give yourself no concern about that, my dear sir," said Major Scott in reply, "I will attend to it."
He did attend to it, and Captain Percy's drafts on his captor were promptly met, till he was able to open a communication with the British commander.
In as quiet a manner as possible Major Scott and Captain Percy moved off from the hotel, and were met in the suburbs by their volunteer guard, while another party of the men whom he had thus saved from a great crime, attended Mr. Sinclair to his home. As he entered the area of the smouldering ruins his eye sought the object lately viewed with so much horror. He had scarcely glanced at it, when one of his companions stepped up and disengaged a dark cloak from the noose already prepared for its expected victim—"I knew no one would steal it from the gallows," said the man, as he threw it over his shoulders. Mr. Sinclair smiled to think how easily imagination had transformed that harmless object into the fair proportions of a man.
Nothing more was heard of Captain Percy for weeks—dreary weeks to many in Havre de Grace—melancholy weeks to the inmates of the parsonage, who missed at every turn the familiar step and voice which had been life's sweetest music to their hearts. At length Mr. Sinclair received a note from Major Scott, announcing his own approaching departure to the army on our northern frontier, and requesting permission for Captain Percy and himself to call on Mr. and Miss Sinclair. Permission was given—the call was made, and they who had met only in scenes of terror and dismay, amidst flushing looks and fierce words, now greeted each other with gentlest courtesy among sounds and sights of peace. The call was succeeded by a visit of some days, and this by one of weeks, till at last it seemed to be understood that the parsonage was to be the home of Captain Percy while awaiting the exchange which Major Scott had promised to do all in his power to expedite. His society was at the present time peculiarly pleasing to Mr. Sinclair, who was diverted from his own sad thoughts by the varied intelligence of the soldier and traveller in many lands. Mary Sinclair had been unable to meet her deliverer without a thrill of emotion which communicated an air of timidity to her manner, whose usual characteristic was modest self-possession. Captain Percy, at thirty-five, had outlived the age of sudden and violent passion, but he had not outlived that of deep feeling. A soldier from boyhood, he had visited almost every clime, and been familiar with the beauties of almost every land, yet in this lovely and gentle girl, whom he had guarded from ill, and whom he now saw in all the pure and tender associations of her home, blessing and blessed, there was something which touched his heart more deeply than he liked to acknowledge even to himself. Again and again when he saw the soft, varying color that arose to her cheek at his sudden entrance, or heard the voice in which she was addressing another, sink into a more subdued tone as she spoke to him, did he take his hat and wander forth, that he might still in solitude his bosom's triumphant throb, and reason with himself on the folly of suffering his affections to be enthralled by one from whom, ere another day passed, he might be separated by orders which would send him thousands of miles away, and detain him, perhaps, for years.
"If I thought her feelings were really interested," he would say to himself at other times—"but nonsense—how can I be such a coxcomb—all she can feel for me is gratitude."
This last sentiment was echoed by Mary Sinclair, who, when self-convicted of unusual emotion in Captain Percy's presence, ever repeated, "It is only gratitude."
One evening Mr. Sinclair retired after tea to his study, leaving his daughter and his guest together. He had not been gone long when a servant entered with the letters and papers just brought by the semi-weekly mail, which conveyed to the inhabitants of Havre de Grace news of the important events then daily transpiring in distant parts of the country. The only letter was a somewhat bulky one for Captain Percy. Mary received the papers and commenced reading them, that she might leave her companion at liberty. Had she been looking at him she would have seen some surprise, and even a little annoyance in his countenance as his eyes rested on the seals of his dispatch. He opened it, and the annoyance deepened. He read it more than once. Minutes passed in perfect silence, and Mary began to wonder what correspondent could so deeply interest him. A heavy sigh made her look up. His letter lay open on the table before him, but he had evidently long ceased to read, for his arm rested upon it, while his eyes were fixed with an expression at once intent and mournful on her. Mary thought only of him as she said, "I hope you have no painful intelligence there, Captain Percy."
"I suppose I ought to consider it very joyful intelligence—I am no longer a prisoner—I have been exchanged, and"—he hesitated, looked away, then added rapidly—"I am ordered immediately to join my regiment in Canada."
A quick drawing of the breath, as though from sudden pain, met his ear—his heart beat quickly, but he would not embarrass her by a glance. There was a slight rustling of her dress, and turning he saw that she had risen, and with one hand pressed upon the table for support, was advancing to the door. Falteringly, one—two—three steps were taken, and completely overcome, pale and ready to faint, she sank upon a sofa near her. He sprang forward, but she motioned him away, and covering her face with her hands, burst into tears—tears of shame as well as of sorrow. For an instant he stood irresolute—but only for an instant, when bending over her, he whispered, "Dare I hope that you sympathize with me, Mary—that the feeling which made even liberty painful to me since it separates me from you, is not confined to my own bosom?"
Mary's sobs ceased—but she spoke not—moved not.
"Answer me, dear Mary—remember I have little time to woo, for my orders admit of no delay in their execution—I must leave you to-morrow. Rise then above the petty formalities of your sex, and if I may indeed hope ever to call you mine, let me do so this night—this hour—your father will not, I think, fear to commit you to my tenderness."
Mary uncovered her face, and raised her eyes for an instant to his, with an expression so confiding that he thought his suit was won, and pressing her hand to his lips, he said, "That glance tells me that you are my own, Mary. My life shall prove my gratitude—but now I must seek your father—our father—will you await us here?"
"I have something to say to you—sit down and hear me," said Mary, in a voice which she strove in vain to raise above a whisper.
He placed himself beside her on the sofa, still clasping the hand he had taken, and with a voice faltering and low at first, but gathering strength as she proceeded, Mary resumed:—"I will not attempt—I do not wish to deny that you have read my heart aright—that—that you who saved me are—are—" a lover's ear alone could detect the next words—"very dear to me—but I cannot—I think I ought not——"
She paused, and Captain Percy said, "You are not willing to intrust your happiness to one so lately known."
"Oh, no! you mistake my meaning—I can have no doubt of you—no fear for my own happiness—but my father—who will care for him if I, his daughter, his only child, thus give myself to another at the very time that he needs me most?"
"I will not take you from him—at least not now, Mary—give me but the right to call you mine, and I will leave you here in your own sweet home—not again, I trust, to be visited by war—till peace shall leave me at liberty to return to England with my bride—my wife."
He would have clasped her to him as he named her thus, but Mary struggled almost wildly to free herself, exclaiming, "Oh! plead not thus lest I forget my father in myself—my duty in love—the forgetfulness would be but short—I should be unhappy even at your side, when I thought of the loneliness of heart and life to which I had condemned him."
"But he should go with us—he should have our home. It will be a simple home, Mary—for though I come of a lordly race, I inherit not their wealth—but it will be large enough for our father."
"Kind and generous!" exclaimed Mary, as she suffered her fingers to clasp the hand in which they had hitherto only rested, "would that it might be so—but that were to ask of my father a sacrifice greater even than the surrender of his daughter—the sacrifice of his sense of duty to the people who have chosen him as their spiritual father—and to whom he considers himself bound for life."
Captain Percy remained silent long after she had ceased to speak, with his eyes resting on her downcast face. At length in low, sad tones, he questioned, "And must we part thus?"
Mary's lips moved, but she could not speak.
"I will not ask you to remember me, Mary," he resumed, "for if forgetfulness be possible to you, it will perhaps be for your happiness to forget—yet—pardon me if I am selfish—I would have some little light amidst the darkness gathering around my heart—may I hope that had no duty forbidden you would have been mine?"
She yielded to his clasping arm, and sinking on his bosom, murmured there, "Yours—yours ever and only—yours wholly if I could be yours holily."
From this interview Mary retired to her chamber, and Captain Percy sought his host in his study. After communicating to Mr. Sinclair the contents of the dispatch he had just received, he continued, "I must in consequence of these orders leave you immediately—but before I go I have a confession to make to you. You will not wonder that your lovely daughter should have won my heart; but one hour since, I could have said that I had never yielded for an instant to that heart's suggestions—had never consciously revealed my love, or endeavored to excite in her feelings which, in my position and the present relations of our respective countries, could scarcely fail to be productive of pain. I can say so no longer. The moment of parting has torn the veil from the hearts of both—she loves me,"—there was a joyous intonation in Captain Percy's voice as he pronounced these last words. He was silent a moment while Mr. Sinclair continued to look gravely down—then suddenly he resumed—"Pardon my selfishness—I forget all else in the sweet thought that I am loved by one so pure, so gentle, so lovely. But though I have dared without your permission to acknowledge my own tenderness, and to draw from her the dear confession of her regard, there my wrong has ended—she has assured me that she could never be happy separated from you, and that you are wedded to your people." Mr. Sinclair shaded with his hand features quivering with emotion. "At present," continued Captain Percy, "these feelings, which are both of them too sacred for me to contest, place a barrier between us, and I have sought from her no promise for the future—if she can forget me—" Captain Percy paused a moment, then added abruptly—"may a happier destiny be hers than I could have commanded—but, sir, the time may come when England shall no longer need all her soldiers—an orphan and an only child, I have nothing to bind me to her soil—should I seek you then, and find your Mary with an unchanged heart, will you give her to me?—will you receive me as a son?"
"Under such circumstances I would do so joyfully," Mr. Sinclair replied, "yet I cannot conceal from you now that I grieve to know that my daughter must wear out her youth in a hope long deferred at best, perhaps never to be realized."
Both gentlemen were for a few minutes plunged in silent thought. Captain Percy arose from his seat—walked several times across the room, and then stopping before the table at which Mr. Sinclair was seated, resumed the conversation.
"Had I designedly sought the interest with which your daughter has honored me," he said, "your words would inflict on me intolerable self-reproach, but I cannot blame myself for not being silent when silence would have been a reproach to her delicacy and a libel on my own affection. Now, however, sir, I yield myself wholly to your cooler judgment and better knowledge of her nature, and I will do whatever may in your opinion conduce to her happiness, without respect to my own feelings. If you think that she can forget the past, and you desire that she should"—his voice lost its firmness and he grasped with violence the chair on which he leaned—"I will do nothing to recall it to her memory. It is the only amende I can make for the shadow I have thrown upon her life—dark indeed will such a resolve leave my own."
"It would cast no ray of light on hers. Be assured her love is not a thing to be forgotten—it is a part of her life."
"And it shall be repaid with all of mine which my duties as a soldier and subject leave at my disposal. Do not think me altogether selfish when I say that your words have left no place in my heart for any thing but happiness—I have but one thing more to ask you—it is a great favor—inexpressibly great—but——"
"Nay—nay," Mr. Sinclair exclaimed, gathering his meaning more from his looks and manner than from the words which fell slowly from his lips—"ask me not so soon to put the irrevocable seal upon a bond which may be one of misery."
"If your words be true—if her love be a part of her life, the irrevocable seal has been already affixed by Heaven, and I only ask you to give your sanction to it, that by uniting her duty and her love, you may save her gentle spirit all contest with itself, and give her the fairest hope of future joy."
It was now Mr. Sinclair's turn to rise and pace the floor in agitated silence—"I know not how to decide so suddenly on so momentous a question," he at length exclaimed.
"Suppose you leave its decision to her whom it most concerns. It is for her happiness we are most anxious—so entirely is that my object that I would not influence her determination even by a look. I will not even ask to be present when you place my proposal before her; but I must repeat, sir, if you design to do it, there is no time to be lost, for I must be on my way to Canada to-morrow."
"So be it then—she shall choose for herself, and Heaven direct her choice!""Amen!" responded Captain Percy, as Mr. Sinclair turned from the door. He heard him ascend the stairs, and ask and receive admission to his daughter's room. Then he counted the seconds as they grew into minutes—the minutes as they extended to a quarter of an hour—a half-hour—and rolled slowly on towards the hour which lacked but little to its completion, when his straining ear caught the sound of an opening door, and then Mr. Sinclair's sedate step was heard slowly descending the stairs and approaching the study. Captain Percy met him at the door, and looked the inquiry which he could not speak. Mr. Sinclair replied to the look, "She is yours!"
"May I not see her and receive such a confirmation of my hopes from her own lips!"
"Not to-night—I have persuaded her to retire at once—she needs repose, and we must be early astir. Your marriage must for many reasons be kept secret at present, and as I could not, I fear, find witnesses here on whose silence I could rely, we will accompany you in the morning to Major Scott's, and there, in the presence of his wife and sister, your vows shall receive the sanction of the church. You must have some preparation to make, and I will bid you good night, for there are certain legal preliminaries necessary to the validity of a marriage here, to which I must attend this evening—unusual as the hour is."
There was a strange mingling of emotion in the hearts of the lovers as they stood side by side within that room in the gray dawn of the next morning. In a few hours they were to part, they knew not for what distance of space or duration of time. It might be that they should never after this morning look upon each other's faces in life; yet, ere they parted, there was to be a bond upon their souls which should make them ever present to each other, should give them the same interests, should, as it were, mould their beings into one. Sacred bond of God's own forming, which thus offers the support of a spiritual and indissoluble union amidst the separations and changes of this ever-varying life! No such strength and peace are to be found in the frail and casual ties for which man in his folly would exchange this bond of Heaven.
Few words were spoken during the burned breakfast at the parsonage, or the drive to Major Scott's, for deep emotion is ever silent. Yet not for them were the coy reserves often evinced by hearts on the verge of a life-union—the faltering timidity which hesitates to lift the veil from feelings in whose light existence is thenceforth to pass. They could not forget that they were to part, and even Mary hesitated not to let her lover read in her eyes' shadowy depths the tenderness which might soothe the parting pang, and whose memory might brighten the hours of separation.
Why should we linger on a scene which each heart can depict for itself? With solemn tenderness the father pronounced the words which transferred to another the right to his own earthly sanctuary—the heart of his daughter—and committed to another's keeping—his last and brightest earthly treasure. That treasure was soon, however, returned, for a time, to his care. The vows of the marriage rite had scarcely been uttered, when with one long clasp—one whispered word—one lingering look—the disciplined soldier turned from his newly-found joy to his duties. Never had Mary seemed more lovely in his eyes or her father's than in that moment, when with quivering lips, eyes "heavy with unshed tears," and cheeks white with anguish, she yet smiled upon him to the last. Nor did her heroic self-control cease when he was gone. Her father was still there, and for him she endured and was silent. Only by her languid movements and fading color did he learn the bitterness of her soul through the weary months of her sorrow. Weary months were they indeed!
One letter she received from Captain Percy, written before he had passed beyond the limits of the United States. It breathed the very soul of tenderness. "My wife!" he wrote, "what joy is summed in that little word—what faith in the present—what promise for the future! I find myself often repeating it again and again with a lingering cadence, while your gentle eyes seem smiling at my folly." Long, long did Mary wear this letter next her heart, and still no other came to take its place.
They had parted in 1813, just as the falling leaves came to herald the approach of winter. That winter passed with Mary in vain longing and vainer hopes. Spring again clothed her home with beauty, but there came no spring to her heart. Summer brought joy and gladness to the earth, but not to her, and another autumn closed over her in anxious suspense. There were moments when she could almost have prayed to have that dread silence broken even by a voice from the tomb—other times in which she threw herself on her knees in thankfulness that she could yet hope. From Major Scott she had heard that Captain Percy's regiment had been sent to the South, but of him individually even Major Scott knew nothing. At length came the eighth of January, that day of vain triumph on which thousands fell in the contest for rights already lost and won—the treaty of peace having been signed at Ghent on the twenty-fourth of the preceding month. Forgetful of this useless hecatomb at war's relentless shrine, America echoed the gratulations of the victors which fell with scathing power on the heart of the trembling Mary. How could she hope that he, the fearless soldier, had escaped this scene of slaughter! If he had, surely he would now find some way to inform her of his safety, but weeks passed on, and passed still in silence.
During this long period of suspense, no doubt of the tenderness and truth of him she loved had ever sullied Mary's faith. Mr. Sinclair was not always thus confiding, and once, on seeing the deadly pallor that overspread her face on hearing the announcement of "no letters"—he uttered words of keen reproach on him who could so wrong her gentle heart.
"Oh, father!" Mary exclaimed, "speak not thus—be assured it is not his fault—remember that no license could tempt him to wrong the defenceless—think how honorable he was in suppressing his own feelings lest their avowal should bring sorrow on us—and when my self-betrayal unsealed his lips, how delicate to me, how generous to you was his conduct—and who but he could have been so rigid in his observance of a soldier's duty, yet so inexpressibly tender as a man! I loved him because I saw him thus true and noble—and having seen him thus how can I doubt him? He may be no longer on earth, but wherever he is, he is my true and noble husband, and you will not again distress me, dear father, by speaking as though you doubted him."
"Never," said Mr. Sinclair emphatically, and he never did, though he saw her form grow thinner, and her cheek paler every day, and before the winter was gone heard that deep, hollow cough from her, which has so often sounded the knell of hope to the anxious heart. With the coming on of summer this cough passed away, but Mary was oppressed by great feebleness and languor—scarcely less fatal symptoms. Still she omitted none of those cares essential to her father's comfort—while to the poor, the sick, the sorrowing, she was more than ever an angel of mercy. With feeble steps and slow she still walked her accustomed round of charity, and thus living for duty she lived for God, and had His peace shed abroad in her heart, even while sorrow was wearing away the springs of her life. She loved to sit alone and send her thoughts forward to the future—not of this life, but of that higher life in which there shall be no shadow on the brightness of our joy—where love shall be without fear—no war shall desolate—no opposing duty shall separate—no death shall place its stony barrier between loving hearts. With a mind thus occupied, she wandered one day, in the latter part of August, through the garden of the parsonage and the yard immediately surrounding the church into the little inclosure beyond, within which was the green and flowery knoll that marked her mother's last resting-place. As she turned again towards her home the sound of a carriage driven rapidly by caused her to look towards the road which lay about a hundred yards distant. The carriage rushed by, and she caught but a glimpse of a gentleman leaning from its window. In another moment a grove of trees had hidden both the carriage and its occupant from her sight—yet that glimpse had sent a thrill through her whole frame—a mist passed over her eyes, and with eager, trembling steps, she proceeded on her way. As she reached the garden, she thought she saw her father approaching it from the house, but her path led through a summer-house, and when she had passed through it he was no longer visible. Every thing in the house wore its usual air of quietness on her entrance, and with a feeling of disappointment, for which she could not rationally account, she turned her steps towards her father's study. As she drew near the door she heard his voice—the words, "I dread to tell her," met her ear and made her heart stand still. One step more and she was at the door—she looked eagerly forward, and with a glad cry sprang into the extended arms of her husband.
It was long before any of the party were sufficiently composed for conversation. When that time came, Captain or rather Colonel Percy heard with surprise that no letters had been received from him since his joining the army in Canada. He had written often, but had been obliged to send his letters to some distant post-town by his own servant. As he had declined accompanying Colonel Percy to America, there was reason to suppose that he had suspected the character of the correspondence, perhaps had acquainted himself fully with the contents of the letters, and had taken effectual means to prevent their reaching their destination, with the hope of thus completely removing from Colonel Percy's mind every inducement to return to this country. Having received a disabling though not dangerous wound at the battle of New Orleans, Colonel then Major Percy was sent home with despatches, and was immediately ordered to join the army under Lord Wellington, then rapidly hastening to repel the attempt of the prisoner of Elba to re-establish himself on the throne of France. From this period till the battle of Waterloo all private concerns were merged in the interest and the hurry of great public events. In that battle Major Percy was again slightly wounded. His distinguished bravery was rewarded by his being made again the bearer of despatches to England. As it was evident to all that the struggle which had called the whole force of Britain into the field was now at an end, he had no hesitation in asking and no difficulty in obtaining leave of absence from the commander-in-chief, and had lost no time in embarking for America.
"As a consequence of peace," said Colonel Percy in conclusion, "a large part of our force will be disbanded, and many officers put on half-pay. A friend who is very influential at head quarters has undertaken to secure me a place on the list of the latter—and henceforth, dear Mary, your home is mine!"
"And did you never doubt me during all this long silence?" he asked of his happy wife a few days after his return.
"Never," said Mary firmly, and then added in a more playful manner—"if I should step into the confessor's chair, could you answer as boldly?""I can, Mary—though I never received a line from you, it never occurred to me to fear any change in your affection. Our marriage had placed on it the seal of duty, and your conduct in relation to your father had shown me that that seal you could not easily break."
"Then you did not love me less for not yielding every other consideration to the gratification of your wishes?" said Mary, endeavoring to speak lightly, but betraying deeper feeling by the slight tremor in her voice, and the quick blush mantling in her cheek.
"Love you less!" exclaimed Colonel Percy warmly—"my love had been little worthy of your acceptance, dearest, had it been lessened by seeing that your principles were paramount even to your affections. Happy would it be for all your sex, Mary, did they recognize as the only test of a true and noble love, that it increases with the increase of esteem, and finds more pleasure in the excellence of its object than in its own selfish triumphs."
Ere the winter of 1815 had set in, Mary's rounded form and blooming cheek relieved all Mr. Sinclair's apprehension of her consumptive tendencies, and proved that her love was indeed, as he had said, "a part of her life."
