“What d’ye spy, Tom?” called out another officer on the deck, to the one whose attitude most interested Harry. “I thought I made out some kind of craft steering through the bushes yonder,” was the answer. “I see nothing.” “Neither do I, now. ’Twasn’t human craft, anyhow, so it doesn’t signify,” and the officers looked elsewhere. Harry lay low in the thicket, awaiting the departure of the vessel or the arrival of darkness. On the deck there was no sign of weighing anchor. As night came, the vessel’s lights were slung. The sky was partly clear in the west, and stars appeared in that direction, but the east was overcast, so that the rising moon was hid. The atmosphere grew colder. When Harry could make out nothing of the vessel on the dark water, save the lights that glowed like low-placed stars, he crawled from the bushes and up As he was about to approach the house, he was checked by a sight so vaguely outlined that it might be rather of his imagination than of reality, and which added a momentary shiver of a keener sort than he already underwent from the weather. A dark cloaked and hooded figure stood by the balustrade that ran along the roof-top. As Peyton looked, his hand involuntarily clasping his sword-hilt, and the stories of the ghosts that haunted this old mansion shot through his mind, the figure seemed to descend “All is safe,” whispered a low voice. “The officers went hours ago. I knew you must have escaped from the house, and were hiding somewhere. I saw you a minute ago from the roof gallery.” Peyton having entered, Elizabeth swiftly closed and locked the door behind him, handed him the candle with a low “Good night,” and fled silently, ghostlike, up the stairs, disappearing quickly in the darkness. Harry made his way to his own room, as in a kind of dream. She herself had waited and watched for He lay a long time awake, disturbed by thoughts of the task before him. When he did sleep, it was to dream that the task was in progress, then that it was finished but had to be begun anew, then that countless obstacles arose in succession to hinder him in it. Dawn found him little refreshed in mind, but none the worse in body. He found, on arising, that he could walk without aid from the stick, and he required no help in dressing himself. Looking towards the river, he saw the British vessel heading for New York. But that sight gave him little comfort, thanks to the ordeal before him, in contemplating which he neglected to put on his sword That meal offered no opportunity for the disclosure, the aunt being present throughout. Immediately after breakfast, the two ladies went for their customary walk. While they were breasting the wind, between two rows of box in the garden, Miss Sally spoke of Major Colden’s intention to return for Elizabeth at the end of a week, and said, “’Twill be a week this evening since you arrived. Is he to come for you to-day or to-morrow?” “I don’t know,” said Elizabeth, shortly. “But, my dear, you haven’t prepared—” “I sha’n’t go back to-day, that is certain. If Colden comes before to-morrow, he can wait for me,—or I may send him back without me, and stay as long as I wish.” “But he will meet Captain Peyton—” “It can be easily arranged to keep him from knowing Captain Peyton is here. I shall look to that.” Miss Sally sighed at the futility of her inquisitorial fishing. Not knowing Elizabeth’s reason for saving the rebel captain, she had once or twice thought that the girl, in some inscrutable whim, intended to deliver him up, after all. She had tried frequently to fathom her niece’s purposes, but had never got any satisfaction. “I suppose,” she went on, desperately, “if you go back to town, you will leave the captain in Williams’s charge.” “If I go back before the captain leaves,” said Elizabeth, thereby dashing her amiable aunt’s secretly cherished hope of affording the wounded officer the pleasure of her own unalloyed society. Elizabeth really did not know what she would do. Her actions, on Colden’s return, would depend on the prior actions of the captain. No one had spoken to Peyton of her intention to leave after a week’s stay. She had thought such an announcement to him from her might seem to imply a hint that it was time he should resume his wooing. That he would resume it, in due course, she took for granted. Measuring his supposed feelings by her own real ones, she assumed that her loveless betrothal to another would not deter Peyton’s further courtship. She believed he had divined the nature of that betrothal. Nor would he be hindered by the prospect of their being parted some while by the war. Engagements were broken, wars did not last forever, those who loved each other found ways to meet. So he would surely speak, before their parting, of what, since it filled her heart, must of course fill his. But she would show no forwardness in the matter. She therefore avoided him till dinner-time. At the table he abruptly announced that, as duty Miss Sally hid her startled emotions behind a glass of madeira, into which she coughed, chokingly. Molly, the maid, stopped short in her passage from the kitchen door to the table, and nearly dropped the pudding she was carrying. Elizabeth concealed her feelings, and told herself that his declaration must soon be forthcoming. She left it to him to contrive the necessary private interview. After dinner, he sat with the ladies before the fire in the east parlor, awaiting his opportunity with much hidden perturbation. Elizabeth feigned to read. At last, habit prevailing, her aunt fell asleep. Peyton hummed and hemmed, looked into the fire, made two or three strenuous swallows of nothing, and opened his mouth to speak. At that instant old Mr. Valentine came in, newly arrived from the Hill, and “whew”-ing at the cold. Peyton felt like one for whom a brief reprieve had been sent by heaven. All afternoon Mr. Valentine chattered of weather and news and old times. Peyton’s feeling of relief was short-lasting; it was supplanted by a mighty regret that he had not been permitted to get the thing over. No second opportunity came of itself, nor could Peyton, who found his ingenuity for once Almost as soon as the ladies had gone from the dining-room, Peyton rose and left the octogenarian in sole possession. In the parlor Harry found no one but Molly, who was lighting the candles. “What, Molly?” said he, feeling more and more nervous, and thinking to retain, by constant use of his voice, a good command of it for the dreaded interview. “The ladies not here? They left Mr. Valentine and me at the supper-table.” “They are walking in the garden, sir. Miss Elizabeth likes to take the air every evening.” “’Tis a chill air she takes this evening, I’m thinking,” he said, standing before the fire and holding out his hands over the crackling logs. “A chill night for your journey,” replied Molly. “I should think you’d wait for day, to travel.” Peyton, unobservant of the wistful sigh by which the maid’s speech was accompanied, replied, “Nay, for me, ’tis safest travelling at night. I must go through dangerous country to reach our lines.” “It mayn’t be as cold to-morrow night,” persisted Molly. “My wound is well enough for me to go now.” “’Twill be better still to-morrow.” But Peyton, deep in his own preoccupation, neither deduced aught from the drift of her remarks nor saw the tender glances which attended them. While he was making some insignificant answer, the maid, in moving the candelabrum on the spinet, accidentally brushed therefrom his hat, which had been lying on it. She picked it up, in great confusion, and asked his pardon. “’Twas my fault in laying it there,” said he, receiving it from her. “I’m careless with my things. I make no doubt, since I’ve been here, I’ve more than once given your mistress cause to wish me elsewhere.” “La, sir,” said Molly, “I don’t think—any one would wish you elsewhere!” Whereupon she left the room, abashed at her own audacity. “The devil!” thought Peyton. “I should feel better if some one did wish me elsewhere.” As he continued gazing into the fire, and his task loomed more and more disagreeably before him, he suddenly bethought him that Elizabeth, in taking her evening walk, showed no disposition for a private meeting. Dwelling on that one circumstance, he thought for awhile he might have been wrong in Like an inspiration, rose the idea of consulting the octogenarian. A man who cannot make up his own mind is justified in seeking counsel. Elizabeth could suffer no harm through Peyton’s confiding in this sage old man, who was devoted to her and to her family. Mr. Valentine’s very words on entering, which alluded to Peyton’s pleasant visit as Elizabeth’s guest, gave an opening for the subject concerned. A very few speeches led up to the matter, which Harry broached, after announcing that he took the old man for one experienced in matters of the heart, and receiving the admission that the old man had enjoyed a share of the smiles of the sex. But if the captain had thought, in seeking advice, to find reason for avoiding his ugly task, he was disappointed. Old Valentine, though he had for some The idea came to Peyton of making the confession by letter, but this he promptly rejected as a coward’s dodge. “It’s a damned unpleasant duty, but that’s the more reason I should face it myself.” At that moment the front door of the east hall was heard to open. “It’s Miss Elizabeth and her aunt,” said Valentine, listening at the door. “Then I’ll have the thing over at once, and be gone! Mr. Valentine, a last kindness,—keep the aunt out of the room.” Before Valentine could answer, the ladies entered, “Well, I’m glad to come in out of the cold!” burst out Miss Sally, with a retrospective shudder. “Mr. Peyton, you’ve a bitter night for your going.” She stood before the fire and smiled sympathetically at the captain. But Peyton was heedful of none but Elizabeth, who had laid her flowers on the spinet and was taking off her cloak. Peyton quickly, with an “Allow me, Miss Philipse,” relieved her of the wrap, which in his abstraction he retained over his left arm while he continued to hold his hat in his other hand. After receiving a word of thanks, he added, “You’ve been gathering flowers,” and stood before her in much embarrassment. “The last of the year, I think,” said she. “The wind would have torn them off, if aunt Sally and I had not.” And she took them up from the spinet to breath their odor. Meanwhile Mr. Valentine had been whispering to Miss Sally at the fireplace. As a result of his communications, whatever they were, the aunt first looked doubtful, then cast a wistful glance at Peyton, and then quietly left the room, followed by the old man, who carefully closed the door after him. While Elizabeth held the flowers to her nostrils, Peyton continued to stand looking at her, during an Still laden with the cloak and hat, he desperately began: “Miss Philipse, I—ahem—before I start on my walk to-night—” “Your walk?” she said, in slight surprise. “Yes,—back to our lines, above.” “But you are not going to walk back,” she said, in a low tone. “You are to have the horse, Cato.” Peyton stood startled. In a few moments he gulped down his feelings, and stammered: “Oh—indeed—Miss Philipse—I cannot think of depriving you—especially after the circumstances.” She replied, with a gentle smile: “You took the horse when I refused him to you. Now will you not have him when I offer him to you? You must, captain! I’ll not have so fine a horse go begging for a master. I’ll not hear of your walking. On such a night, such a distance, through such a country!” “The devil!” thought Harry. “This makes it ten times harder!” Elizabeth now turned to face him directly. “Does not my cloak incommode you?” she said, amusedly. “You may put it down.” “Oh, thank you, yes!” he said, feeling very red, and went to lay the cloak on the table, but in his confusion put down his own hat there, and kept the cloak over his arm. He then met her look recklessly, and blurted out: “The truth is, Miss Philipse, now that I am soon to leave, I have something to—to say to you.” His boldness here forsook him, and he paused. “I know it,” said Elizabeth, serenely, repressing all outward sign of her heart’s blissful agitation. “You do?” quoth he, astonished. “Certainly,” she answered, simply. “How could you leave without saying it?” Peyton had a moment’s puzzlement. Then, “Without saying what?” he asked. “What you have to say,” she replied, blushing, and lowering her eyes. “But what have I to say?” he persisted. She was silent a moment, then saw that she must help him out. “Don’t you know? You were not at all tongue-tied when you said it the evening you came here.” Peyton felt a gulf opening before him. “Good heaven,” thought he, “she actually believes I am about to propose!” Now, or never, was the time for the plunge. He drew a full breath, and braced himself to make it. “But—ah—you see,” said he, “the trouble is,—what “What do you mean?” She spoke quietly, yet was the picture of open-eyed astonishment. “Cannot you see?” he faltered. “You mean”—her tone acquired resentment as her words came—“that I, too, am bound on my side,—to Mr. Colden?” “I did not say so,” he replied, abashed, cursing his heedless tongue. He would not, for much, have reminded her of any duty on her part. She regarded him for a moment in silence, while the clouds of indignation gathered. Then the storm broke. “You poltroon, I do see! You wish to take back your declaration, because you are afraid of Colden’s vengeance!” “Afraid? I afraid?” he echoed, mildly, surprised almost out of his voice at this unexpected inference. “Yes, you craven!” she cried, and seemed to tower above her common height, as she stood erect, tearless, fiery-eyed, and clarion-voiced. “Your cowardice outweighs your love! Go from my sight and from my father’s house, you cautious lover, with “‘GO, I SAY!’” Silenced and confounded by the force of her denunciation, he stupidly dropped the cloak to the floor where he stood, and stumbled from the room, as if swept away by the torrent of her wrath and scorn. |