University of Virginia Library

`My excellent Clara,' I cried, embracing her. `How
little have I known you! What can we do for her?
Is there any thing? any thing upon this earth?'

`I believe, that there is,' she replied. `They love
each other. They have been open and plain in their
communication. Archibald knows all;—all!—Perhaps—I
speak it cautiously, perhaps we may bring about
a reconciliation, that will restore her, the haughty and
romantick, noble minded girl, to her own good opinion;
and give to Archibald, that inconceivably lofty and wayward
spirit, something to love all his life long.'

`To promote that plan,' said I—giving her my hand
—`which, I confess, I already begin to believe is possible
I will spend my life blood.'

`Pho—pho—that is too extravagant. It is so like
him. However, (smiling) there will be no need of
spending your life blood. A little delicacy, and patience
will do it, if any thing will.'

Thus was this noble minded woman, your mother,
my children, perpetually unfolding some new attribute
of uncommon loveliness or power, which had been, all
my life long, unknown, undreamt of, by me. To her
last hour, it was ever the same; the same patient endearing
tenderness; the same dispassionate, calm judgment;
the same beautiful transparency of heart; the
same unpretending piety, and lowliness, yet firmness. O,
my children, you know not your loss, nor mine—in the
death of that woman! She was made for dominion over
proud hearts; not for despotism, no, but for that sweet,
quiet supremacy, which the soul delights to acknowledge—like
the sway of a mother over her babe;—
a parent over her helpless sweet child. But let me not
think of her—it makes my heart swell, like a fountain,
newly broken up in the desert; and I feel the tears gushing
out, over the barrenness about it, with a power and
prodigality that sadden me. Would that there were a
garden and turf yet, for them to water and refresh!
would that I might sleep now, as I did once, with the

untiring watchfulness of Clara, leaning over me, like a
hovering seraph, to study every emotion of my face, and
interpret it to her children! You would want no other
admonition. But I must be done with this theme: there
is a bitterness in it, too like the foretaste of death.
Come to me, Clara! come to me! I care not how soon.
Let thy beckoning hand appear to me, this night—this
night, dear Clara, and I will joyfully lay down my grey
head, upon the wet turf, and give up the ghost, at thy
bidding.

But let me return. The hour of parting had arrived.
It was terrible. The horses, stood saddled and caparisoned
at the door; their heavy manes flashing in the
wind and sun, like torn and wet banners, as they struck
their iron hoofs into the green turf, and snorted to the
blue skies, impatient for the sway of their riders.

It is dreadful to stand by, and see, heart after heart,
torn away—bleeding and desolate, at a time like this—
the father from the mother—the husband from the wife
—the parent from the child—yet it must be!

`O, may God forever bless you, both,' said my mother,
pushing back her lawn cap, and raising her wrinkled
hands to the sky, while the wind blew her grey
hair all over her face. `We are parting, I do fear, for
the last time—the last—may God have you in his
holy keeping!'

`Dear Copely—dear, dear Rodman,' said Mrs. Arnauld,
rushing into their arms, `I feel as if I were
parting with two of my own children. The mother
that bore you, boys, cannot love you better. We shall
meet again—again—many times, I believe—but farewell.'

`Farewell!---farewell!' said the two young soldiers,
—while the entry was thronged with servants.

`Remember your God,' young men, said Mr. Arnauld,
impressively. `Now is the time of peril. Never
unsheathe your sword, but with a belief, that you are
doing his will. Farewell!'

`And you, pray—will you not say, God speed, to us?'
said Copely, giving a hand to my wife, and another to
me, while I could scarcely support myself.

`Aye, Rodman!—aye Copely—God speed you both!'
said Clara, lifting her proud person to the stature of a
queen. `Remember your country, first—your wife,
next—and your child last. Whatever happen, we will
be its parents—friends and advisers.'

Their noble hearts were full—full, to bursting—and,
when I fell upon their necks, and wished them—not
with tears, but with a pressure, that a giant might have
felt, through his armour—God speed!—they felt a confirmation
of all that Clara had pronounced.

`Lucia—dear Lucia,' said both of them, taking her
hands, `heaven bless and restore you. Archibald, come
hither—your hand.'

He obyed, and gave them his hand.

`Living or dead,' said Copely, with a solemnity, that
shook me awfully—`living or dead, Archibald Oadley
and Lucia Arnauld, God meant that you should be man
and wife. Do not thwart his will.'

Lucia coloured, and faltered out some inarticulate
words; but, Archibald was firm and unyielding, and his
forehead was serene—very.

Rodman then renewed the benediction, and whispered
something in her ear, glancing at his boy, whose face
was near—which made her blush to the very eyes; and
look, just as she used to, in the pride of her beauty.

`Archibald, farewell—farewell!'—said they, both
together.

`My friends, I'—said Archibald, with a steady countenance,
stepping out to meet them—`I—God knows if
we shall ever meet again—I believe (emphatically repeating
it) I believe that we shall not. Many perils
beset us. I regard this as a death bed separation. No
—I understand you—she is a woman of stout heart—
these things do not pain her—why?—If true, they are
better to be known—if false, they cannot injure us. So,
let me adjure you, to be merciful. We have shed
much blood—I am not at ease under it.'

`Nor I,' said Copely, compressing his lips, but I
would rather have an ocean of blood rolling over me,
than that—that Oadley, which spun out of the brain

of a scoundrel, whom I shot—I—(his voice grew deep
and terrible, as it had been anciently; and his wife
shut her eyes, while he spoke)—I am not easy about
that—why, I know not. There is something wrong
in this warfare—custom, perhaps—opinion reconciles
me to it. But—'

`Think seriously—prayerfully of it, my friend,' said
Archibald—`and now, farewell—farewell!—one embrace,
Copely; one, Rodman—and, remember that
we have bled together. If you survive me, to my
friends, be a friend. To your's—and your little ones —
and all that love you, or are dependant upon you—if I
survive you—(smiling, with a melancholy smile)—I will
be all that you are.'

Rodman and Copely then embraced their wives—in
one long, long embrace, again—and, without turning a
glance toward the rest of us—except the children,
whom both kissed and blessed—leaving their manly tears
upon their sweet faces—set off, at full speed, from the
house. It was a bitter cold morning for the season.