University of Virginia Library

5. CHAPTER V.
THE LOVERS.

Two days after the events recorded in the
last chapter, and some five or six since the
opening of this “second series,” Rosalie Du
Pont—now so far convalescent as to be able
to quit her bed, for the most part, during the
day, though she had not yet ventured to leave
her room—was seated in a large, stuffed rocking-chair,
poring over a volume of that truly
great and immortal poem of the heaven-inspired
blind bard, Milton, called Paradise
Lost—a poem which, in strength of thought,
powerful and graphic description, true originality,
and depth of imagination, has, in our
humble opinion, no equal in the English language.

The face of our beautiful herome was yet
pale, and exhibited traces of her recentillness;
but still it was extremely lovely, and in its
serene, languid, half melancholly expression,
was a fascination equal in power upon the be-holder
to any thing ever displayed there in
the palmiest moments of rosy health. A loose,
white linen wrapper, richly embroidered with
lace, enveloped her airy, symmetrical figure,
allowing just the outlines of her person to be
visible along its snowy folds, as we sometimes
see a figure represented by the painter
shrouded in a gossamer-like mist. From underneath
this wrapper, a small, delicate shaped
foot, encased in a white satin slipper, was
barely perceptible, the toe resting on the floor,
and giving a slight rocking motion to the chair.
One hand, with the loose sleeve pushed back,
so as to display a large portion of an exquisitely
moulded arm, held the back, and, for
snpport, was gracefully resting on the cushioned
arm of the chair; while the elbow of
the other arm rested on the opposite side, and
the hand pressed lightly against the head,
which was inclined to the right. The raven
tresses had been preserved to the head much
against the will of the physician, who had ordered
them to be cut close—and now fell in
wanton dalliance around her lovely face, alabaster
neck, and over the broad collar of the
snowy wrapper. The dark eyes, languid and
melting, from underneath the long, drooping,
brown lashes, looked steadily upon the inspired
page of the great poet, and the soul of
the beautiful maiden was reveling in the
sweet fancies, which the great bard's description
of the Garden of Eden, and its then sinless
pair, never fails to excite. Altogether,
the picture was complete; and he must have
been fastidious indeed, who, having seen it,
could have wished any thing changed for the
better.

A bright fire in the chimney sent out a genial
warmth, and the air of the room was perfumed
just enough to please the olfactory
sense, without tending to satiety. Some minutes
passed, during which Rosalie remained
in the position just described, with her eyes
fixed upon the book, when a light tap was
heard on the door.

“Come in,” said the fair occupant; and she
raised her eyes, and glanced to the door,
which opened and admitted a servant of the
mansion.

“A stranger desires to know if he can see
you for a few minutes alone, mamselle?” said
the female, dropping a curtsey, as was the
custom of the day when a dependant addressed
her mistress.

“A stranger!” repeated Rosalie, in surprise;
“would he not give his name?”

“No, mamselle—when I asked him to do

so, that I might tell you, he said it made no
difference, but just say a stranger wanted a
few minutes' conversation with you.”

“This is singular!—did he ask for me in
particular?”

“Yes, he inquired for Miss Rosalie Du
Pont; and when I mentioned that you did
not receive visitors now, and probably would
not till you got so you could leave your room,
he started, turned pale, and asked hurriedly
if you were ill. I replied you had been very
sick, but were now getting well fast. Upon
that, he begged me, as a great favor, that I
would take his message to you, and if you refused
to see him on the first representation, to
say it would be to your advantage to grant
him a private interview. I should judge by
his looks, that he has lately come into the city
from the country.”

“Is he old or young, Helen?” inquired
Rosalie, with a fresh de ree of interest.

“Young, mamselle, and very handsome.”

“Where is my aunt?”

“She has just gone out in her carriage.”

“Show him up then.”

The servant retired, and, a minute or two
later, ushered the stranger into the room, the
latter holding his hat in such a manner as to
shade his face.

“I could wish this interview strictly private,”
said the unknown, in a feigned voice.

Rosalie motioned Helen to retire and close
the door. The moment this was done, the
unknown revealed his face to the wondering
Rosalie, who uttered a suppressed shriek, and
in a low, tremulous tone, said,

“Is it possible, Edgar Milford, that we thus
meet again?”

“We do, dear Rosalie,” returned the other,
coming forward and taking her hand, which,
with reverent affection, he pressed to his lips;
and then, emboldened by the passiveness of
the other, and apparently acting from impulse
only, he quickly pressed his lips to hers; and
as her beautiful features became suffused with
blushes, he added: “Pardon me, fair one—
it is the first time I ever ventured so far—but
the temptation, and my feelings, made the action
irresistible.”

“Captain Milford, you are bold,” said Ro
salie, her dark eyes flashing, and her face still
retaining its crimson hue, which now seemed
the flush of virtuous indignation. “You have
dared to do what no man ever did before; and
yet you say, `pardon me,' as if it were the most
trivial thing in the world.”

“Oh! Rosalie, I have offended you!” and
the gallant captain, still retaining the other's
hand, sank on one knee by her side. “I have
offended you, which I would not have done
for the world. I was rash, I admit; and if you
will forgive me, I promise, on my honor, as a
soldier and a gentleman, never to attempt the
like again—that is,” he added, a moment after,
“unless I have your permission.”

“On that condition, and that only, will I
forgive you,” replied Rosalie. “Rise, Captain
Milford, and please be seated.”

“Ah! you have not forgiven me,” said the
Captain, humbly, as he arose, and threw himself
into a chair which stood near.

“Why do you think I have not forgiven
you?” inquired Rosalie, in a softened tone,
touched by the other's manner.

“Because you addressed me so formally.
When I entered, you called me by my christian
name—now you address me by my military
title.”

“Well, then, I will call you Edgar once
more, to show you I hold no malice.”

“O, thanks, fair Rosalie—thanks!”

“But how is it I see you here, Edgar?”

“First let me ask after your health. I was
told by the servant you have been sick, and I
know it true by your pale and somewhat
wasted features.”

“Yes, I have been very ill, but am now fast
regaining health and strength.”

“O, this must account for your long silence.
I knew something was the matter, but I
dreamed not it was this.”

“And did this bring you to the city?”

“Not this alone—no, not this alone, dear
Rosalie. I will not be hypocrite enough to
say your silence was a leading cause even;
though I can conscientiously say it had a certain
influence upon my mind. No, I came
(and the Captain looked cautiously around the
apartment, and drawing his chair close to that
of Rosalie, added, in a low, solemn tone)—I
came here to serve my country.”

Rosalie grew deadly pale, and grasping the
other's arm, almost gasped,

“I understand you—a spy!”

The Captain nodded, and replied,

“It is a hateful word.”

“And terrible,” added Rosalie. “The penalty
attached to detection is awful. The gibbet!
the gibbet! Oh, Heaven! you must not
die thus!”

“Fear not, dearest, if I may be allowed to
term you so. My plans are well laid.”

“And so were Andre's—God be merciful
to him!”

“Amen to that—for he was brave and noble,
and did not deserve his death.”

“You knew him then?”

`I saw him die.”

Rosalie covered her face with her hands,
and a cold shudder passed over her delicate
frame.

“Alas!” she murmured, at length—“poor
Andre! what an awful fate was thine! And
you saw him die? How did he bear himself?”

“As a brave and noble-minded soldier
should.”

“How was he looked upon by those who
witnessed his execution?”

“As a man unfortunate, not criminal—as
a man more sinned against than sinning—as
the innocent expiator of the offenses and
crimes of a villain.”

“Then his enemies pitied him?”

“Ay, as never was enemy pitied before.
The coldest-hearted stoic among them shed
tears like a child. It was the most solemn,
imposing, and heart-rending sight I ever witnessed.
No one seemed calm and collected
but the unfortunate prisoner.”

“Describe the scene, Edgar, for I would
have it from an eye witness.”

“I fear it will shock you too much, dear
Rosalie—your nerves must still be weak.”

“Go on! go on! I am prepared to listen;”
and Rosalie threw herself back in her chair,
and placed her hands before her eyes.

“I will endeavor to be brief then,” rejoined
Milton, “for I like not to dwell upon so sad a
scene. It was first decided, by General Washington,
that Andre should suffer on the evening
of the 1st of October; but Sir Henry Clin
ton having the same day sent some commissioners
to treat with the American commander
concerning Andre's release, and the negociation
not being concluded in time, the execution
was deferred till the following day at
twelve o'clock. When, on the morning of the
fatal day, the guard officer announced to Andre
the time fixed for the closing of his mortal
career, he received the intelligence with a true
soldier's firmness, and exhibited no emotion.
His servant, who chanced to be in the room,
was so affected, that he burst into tears; upon
which the prisoner turned to him, and in a
severe tone, said,

“ `Leave me, till you can show yourself more
manly!'

“At an early hour in the day, the people
from the surrounding country began to gather
about the fatal spot where the rude gallows
had been erected, upon which they gazed with
feelings of solemn awe. There appeared to
be none of that levity of feeling which usually
attends an execution. Each face had a solemn,
mournful appearance, as if each individual
felt he was about to witness the final departure
of a friend. About ten o'clock, the muffled
drum was heard giving out its funereal
sound, while the rest of the musicians played
a solemn accompaniament. The military now
began to march upon the ground, and take
up positions in two long lines, reaching from
the stone house, where Andre was confined,
to the hill just back of the village, where he
was to suffer. A little after eleven, the escort-guards
proceeded to the prison, to attend the
prisoner on his last journey. The outer guard
formed a hollow square, and consisted of some
five hundred men, under the direction of a
colosel and major—the inner guard was
merely a captain's command. It was my fortune
to be deputed one of the two officers to
take an arm of the noble prisoner, and walk
with him to the gibbet, and I therefore had a
good opportunity to observe him narrowly in
his last moments. When we entered the room
where he was confined, and announced to him
our business, he arose from his seat, and, with
cheerful composure, as if he were merely going
on a pleasure excursion, bowed gracefully,
and said, with a bland smile.

“ `Gentlemen, I am ready to wait upon you.'

“As I gazed upon him—so young, so handsome,
so accomplished, so worthy to live, with
such a brilliant and distinguished future so
recently apparently opening before him—and
reflected on the awfulness of our mission—
that we were about to conduct him to an ignominious
death—tears involuntarily started
to my eyes, and I was obliged to turn away my
head to conceal my emotion; observing which,
he approached me, and in a tone of deep feeling,
said:

“ `I must thank you, Captain Milford, for
this tribute of respect; it shows your goodness
of heart, and I can answer for your
fidelity to your country. My case is merely
one instance of the fate of war, and I yield
to my destiny.' ”

“He knew you, then?” said Rosalie, in surprise.

“Yes, we had met before, under very difforent
circumstances; and it was, perhaps, in
some degree owing to myself that he was then
a prisoner.”

“How so?”

“You recollect you sent your servant into
the country, and that we met at the Burnsides?”

“Yes, yes, I remember it well,” answered
Rosalie, with an arch smile, that Milford did
not comprehend. “Well?”

“Well, this lad, whom I found very shrewd
and knowing—remarkably so for one in his
situation—threw out some strange hints about
there being treason in high places; and said
he had seen a letter-dropped on the floor by
a British officer, who called to see you, the
superscription of which was John Anderson,
and that in that letter he had read a few lines,
which showed a plan to have the person to
whom it was addressed come within the
American lines. Now taking every thing
into consideration, and knowing that Arnold
was expecting to meet a person from New-York
by the name of Anderson, I at once
concluded that he had written the letter, and
that this Anderson was an American spy in
the British camp, who had been detected by
his correspondence, which had accidentally
fallen into the poscession of the officer who
called on you. From this reasoning, I natur
ally concluded that Anderson had been arrested,
and would be severely dealt with by
the British. From some expression of this
nature I let fall, the lad instantly inquired if
I knew this Anderson; to which I replied,
evasively, that I knew him only by name.
He then, to my surprise, suggested that he
was a British spy, but had no proof to offer
in substantiation of the charge, save his own
suspicions, which of course went for nothing.
He then asked me if I suspected the writer
of the letter, and I answered in the affirmative;
and he then inquired if he was a man
above suspicion, which I answered in the affirmative
also. He then muttered something
about being mistaken, but suggested that there
would be no harm in watching the movements
of all parties, to which I readily assented.
Subsequently I communicated the information
he gave me to General Washington, but purposely
avoided saying any thing about Arnold,
as I then believed him a pure and high-minded
man, and thought that his character had been
too much traduced by his enemies already.
In this reserve, as events have since turned
out, I fear I was wrong—but we can not tell
beforehand always what is best for us to do.

“The interview with the boy, however,
made a stronger impression upon my mind
than I had thought at the time; and after I
had returned to my own quarters, I often
caught myself seriously pondering upon his
words, but as often dismissed them, with a
hasty `pshaw,' as being suggestions not entitled
to much consideration. However, on the
whole, I resolved, if any thing strange or peculiar
should come under my notice, to take
due note of it, and it possible, manage so as
to unravel the mystery—for that there was
mystery somewhere, had become a fixed idea,
of which I could not divest myself.

“Well, it so chanced, that on the day Andre
had an interview with Arnold at Smith's
house—but I am presupposing you have seen
the whole account in the Royal Gazette.”

“I have,” replied Rosalie—“go on!”

“On that day, I say,” continued Milford,
“it so chanced that I was sent out with a patrolling
party on the very road over which Andre
and his guide Smith had resolved to pass, in

order that the former, not being able to get
back to the Vulture, should reach New York
by land. Well, on their approaching my party
in the evening, one of my men stopped the
travelers, and demanded the password; which
Smith, the spokesman of the too, was not able
to give. I presented myself, entered into
conversation with Smith, and inquired whither
he was going; and on his replying that his
object was to reach a place some distance below
during the night, I tried to discourage
him from proceeding, as I knew the country
to be infested with lawless bands of desperadoes,
who would not scruple to take his life.
But he seemed bent on continuing his journey,
at all hazards, and this awakened my
suspicion that all was not right. On examining
his passport, however, I found it to be
genuine, in Arnold's own handwriting, and
I therefore knew I had no right to detain him.
In the course of conversation, I learned that
the name of his fellow traveler was John Anderson,
and my surprise, considering what
had gone before, may be readily imagined.

“I could not now divest myself of a certain
amount of suspicion, that this Anderson was
a British spy; and I rather magnified the
danger of the journey, in order to induce the
parties to lay over till morning. Smith, I
fancied, saw that I was doubtful of his honest
intentions; and being somewhat alarmed by
my discouraging representations of the country
below, and fearful, if he persisted in going
forward, that he would thus attract more attention
to his movements than would be agreeable,
finally resolved to take my advice and
lay over, and persuaded his companion to do
the same. In consequence of this, the parties
turned back to a farmer's house near by, where
they spent the night.

“I now resolved to profit by their delay,
so as to have the mystery concerning Anderson,
if mystery there were, unraveled; and I
accordingly dispatched a note to one John
Paulding, who was at the head of a scouting
party below, to the effect, that, if a traveler,
giving his name as Anderson, should attempt
to pass him, to make some excuse for stopping
and searching him—giving at the same time,
as a reason for this, that I feared he was a
British spy, playing a double-game—for even
then I did not suspect Arnold of being concerned
in a plot with him, but thought it more
probable he had deceived Arnold. I also added
a personal description of the man, and a
hint, that if he were a British spy, he would be
likely, from what he had heard me say concerning
the Cow-Boys being out on the Tarrytown
road, to take that route in prefereace
to the other, as being for him the safer of the
two.

“Well, to conclude this long digression, my
messenger found and delivered to Paulding
the note that night. He acted upon my suggestion,
and the result you know.”

“Then Andre's capture was in some degree
attributed to yourself?” said Rosalie.

“Yes, I may be said to be an indirect cause
of his apprehension.”

“This is something new to me, and I presume
is not generally known.”

“No, it is known only to some three or four
persons besides yourself—nor would I, for
reasons of my own, have it go any further.
Neither Smith nor Andre knew any thing of
it, as neither do Paulding's assistants, for I
cautioned Paulding to reveal the secret to no
one.”

“I perceive, now, that Andre had good
cause for knowing you, when you again appeared
to him on the day of his execution.”

“Yes, but when I first saw him, as John
Anderson, I had no idea of his being so important
a personage. But a question, while
I think of it. Who was the officer with you
on the day that Anderson's letter was dropped
in the drawing-room?”

“Why, who should it be, but poor Major
Andre himself?”

“Ha! I see it all now; but your servant refused
to tell me his name.” After a moment's
reflection, another idea seemed to strike the
gallant Captain with great force; for his features
quickly flushed, and as suddenly turned
pale, and, in a tone of assumed indifference,
he inquiredrd: “Was Major Andre in the habit
of visiting you, Rosalie?”

“O, yes,” answered our fair heroine, with
what seemed intended for natural frankness;
and there was a roguish twinkle in her dark

eyes, as she fixed them upon the half-averted
face of the other, for she had divined his
thoughts, and was delighted at the opportunity
of testing his feelings. “Yes,” she continued,
with something like a sigh, “poor Andre!
he used to call often to see me, and we
spent many a delightful hour in each other's
company.”

“Indeed!” returned Milford, in a cutting
tone, his features again becoming crimson
with jealous vexation. “I suppose, then, your
servant had orders not to tell me what British
officer was with you on that day?”

“O, no—why should I give such orders?”
asked Rosalie, in a well-affected tone of simple
surprise. “Why should I have given such
orders, when it was well-known that Major
Andre called almost daily to see me! I am
sure I had no reason to be ashamed of his
company.”

“O, of course not,” replied Milford, rather
bitterly, and affecting to laugh. “Major Andre
was a distinguished, high-minded, honorable
young man, and there is no reason why
any one should have been ashamed to have
been seen in his company. On the contrary,
his attentions were an honor to any young
lady; and had he been less unfortunate,
doubtless Miss Rosalie Du Pont would soon
have been still further honored with an offer
of his hand, even if such offer had not been
already made.”

“O, no, I do not think it would have gone
so far as that,” answered Rosalie, with an abstracted
air, as if she were considering the
matter seriously, and apparently taking no
notice of the Captain's coldness and uneasiness.
“I do not think it would have gone so
far as that; for Major Andre had met with
one great disappointment in love, and he was
not the person to easily forget the past—to
give up an old friend for a new one.”

“A young maiden's sympathy with a young
man, for the loss of his first love, has a wonderful
effect, sometimes, in transferring his affection
from a past to a present object.”

“Does it?” said Rosalie, with well-affected
simplicity. “Well, I must own, I did sympathize
with him from my very heart.”

“Of course—I could have sworn as much,”
replied the Captain, biting his lips with vexa
tion. “It is a great pity poor Andre was
hung;” and the last word was uttered with
bitter, almost malignant emphasis; for what
will not jealousy do, when once it takes a
firm hold of the mind, and gets the upper
hand of calm reflection. Though kind-harted
and humane, and one who deeply regretted
Major Andre's untimely fate, yet at the moment
the Captain felt something akin to
fiendish joy for his supposed rival's misfortune—so
much does the “green-eyed monster”
change our very natures, turning our milk of
human kindness into gall.

“Poor Andre!” sighed Rosalie. “But you
were going to describe to me his last moment.”

“True—but I think I will defer it till some
other time. I fear this interview has been too
long already.”

“Indeed, Captain Milford!” said Rosalie,
coloring.

“Ay, indeed, Miss or Ma'm'selle Du Pont,
whichever prefix you please.”

“You are oflended, Edgar,” said Rosalie,
with some uneasiness.

“I feel I have been mistaken, ma'm'selle.
I was not aware you and Major Andre were
on such intimate terms.”

“Surely, you are not jealous of one who is
no more?”

“Jealousy, in this case, is not perhaps the
proper word,” returned Milford, coldly. “I
am still under obligations to you, fair lady,
and any thing I can do to serve you in return,
I will do with all my heart; but, otherwise, I
think it best we do not meet again.”

Rosalie was now alarmed in earnest, and
her color came and went rapidly, like the
fitful playings of the aurora borealis. She
felt that, in trying the Captain's feelings, she
had gone one step too far; and yet she was
loth to acknowledge her design, though she
saw no other way of regaining his confidence.
After a few moments of serious reflection,
she said, with a foreed laugh:

“I perceive you are not partial to a joke,
Edgar.”

“There are some subjects of too serious a
nature to be joked upon,” was the reply. “If
you have attempted to make a jest of my

feelings, you have done wrong, and the consequences
may not in the end be as pleasant
as you anticipate.”

“What do you mean?”

“That my nature is not one to be trifled
with. Listen! I have ever believed you a
pure-minded, noble-hearted maiden, above
the coquettish follies of your sex in general.
As such, I have loved you, with a pure affection,
constant as the needle to the pole. But
my love, Miss Rosalie, is not a heated passion,
beyond the control of reason. Only convince
me that your nature is trifling, or that I am
second in your esteem, and I withdraw myself
from you forever. I will not deny, that
since our acquaintance began, yourself and
my country have occupied my thoughts, and
that I have looked forward, with glowing anticipations,
to the time when I would call you
mine. But it was because I believed you
reciprocated my attachment, although the
word love has never before passed my lips
to you. If I have been mistaken, as our late
conversation tends to convince me I have,
then farewell to one portion of my dreams of
future, and henceforth let my country have
my undivided attention. I am not one to sue
for your love, or your hand. I am as proud
as yourself—though, for aught I know, there
may be a great disparity in our births, as the
world goes. You, for aught I know, for you
have never revealed your history to me, may
be noble born; but that has little weight with
me, who am engaged in a cause that proclaims
equality to be one of its fundamentals;
and whatever you may be by the accident
of birth, I shall judge of you alone by your
character and principles. You are young,
beautiful, accomplished, and wealthy; and if
ambitious, can aspire to any distination; and,
seriously believe, can aspire with success.
As I said before, I for one shall never sue for
either your love or your hand. Love comes
spontaneously from the heart, and differs materially
from either respect, admiration, or
steem. Love is something we can not control;
we love, without knowing why; nor can
we fix it upon an object where it has not
fixed itself. Our will has nothing to do with
it; and therefore the individual who sues for
love, mistakes the nature of the thing he asks
for; for it is beyond the power of any being
to grant, or withold, merely on the whim of
the moment. If, then, there is aught in my
person or character, or in both combined,
that causes this emotion, I need not sue for it,
as it is already mine; if not, then you have
no power to grant it. The bestowal of your
hand, of course, is at your own disposal; bu
without love on your part, however much I
may love you, I would not accept of it; and
if with love, pride, ambition, or any other
passion should tempt you to withold it, I
would not ask it as a favor. Such, Miss Rosalie,
are my sentiments, frankly avowed, and
you must act upon them as you think proper.”

“Can you forgive me, Edgar, for trifling
with your feelings?” asked Rosalie, as the
other concluded, hiding her face in her hands.

“Yes, I can both forgive and forget, for my
nature is not one to bear malice. True,
while speaking of Andre, I must admit that I
was vexed—ay, even jealous, if you will—
and that my feelings toward that unfortunate
officer experienced a momentary revulsion;
but a little reflection has convinced me I was
wrong, and I feel I could now pity him all
the same, even should you declare to me that
you sincerely loved him. I do not pretend to
say, that such an avowal would not cause me
deep regret; but, as God is my judge, I
would no longer hold malice in my heart.”

“And should I avow that I loved him, but
that, since all hope of him is over, I could now
love you, what would be the result?” asked
Rosalie, in a timid tone.

“The result would be,” replied Milford,
with a sigh, “that there would be an impassable
barrier between us—that you could never
be mine. I must be first and only, in your
heart, or nothing.”

“Noble Edgar!” cried Rosalie, with animation,
while a warm blush made her lovely features
radient, and her pure soul shone in her
eyes: “noble Edgar! your manly candor, and
true feeling, demand a fitting return; and I
frankly acknowledge I love you, and you only,
and that I never loved another.”

“Bless you, sweet Rosalie!” returned the
Captain, seizing her fair hand, and covering
it with kisses. “Bless you, dearest, for these

welcome words! You have made me the
happiest of mortals.”

“You may now presume more—I release
you from your promise,” said the fair girl,
averting her crimson face.

Edgar was not slow to understand; and
reverently, but with ardent affection, he
pressed the seal of love upon her sweet lips.

“I have long loved you, dear Edgar,” pursued
Rosalie, giving full sway to her feelings;
“but I did not intend to tell you so yet. Circumstances
have brought the avowal to my
lips, which has long been known to my heart.
You must pardon me for my silly mode of
testing your affection.”

“I can pardon any thing,” cried the other,
“since I now know I am loved by the only
being whose love I desire;” and again his lips
sought hers, and both were happy.

At this moment there came a gentle knock
on the door; and springing back to his seat,
the Captain assumed a look of respect, blended
with indifference; but a crimson hue remained
on the lovely features of the other, in spite of
her efforts to imitate his example.