 | CHAPTER VII. Seventy-six |  |
7. CHAPTER VII.
“The life from out young hearts.”
Not one of the household slept that night; but we had
the comfort to know, long before morning, that Mr.
Arnauld, whose leg had been bruised, arm dislocated,
and head cut in two or three places, had little to apprehend;
while our sturdy old father, we were assured,
would be well enough to mount his horse, in a few
days, at furthest, having escaped with a few flesh
wounds, and the loss of about half his blood. I
wanted to see Arthur, for I had not seen him, to speak
with him, since he was the happiest fellow of all the
world; his loud, clear voice, resounding in the cold
air, like a trumpet, as he parted from us the night
of—of—the night of blood and ruin. I found that
he occupied a room, in one of the wings, which, after
some rambling, I found. There was somebody stirring
within---some one breathing, as if his very heart
would break. I knocked.
No answer was returned; but the tread of naked
feet, approached the door.
It opened, and a woman stood before me. She put
out her hands, kindly, and then started back, and
covered her face with them—uttering a cry of horrour.
`Merciful heaven!' I cried. `Lucia, dear Lucia, do
not be alarmed---it is I. Where is Mr. Rodman's
chamber? Forgive me, my dear friend, and compose
yourself. You have not been in bed?' I turned to
go; but she came to me, and put one hand to her
forehead, and stood in the moonlight, like some disembodied
me, as if to ascertain if I had spoken the truth—
`And this was really your object—really?' putting her
hand affectionately, upon my arm.
`Surely, dear Lucia, you cannot doubt it.'
`O, no,' she added, `dropping her hand upon my
shoulder—I cannot.' There was a distant step in the
same gallery—she shook from head to foot—and, I—
terrified to death at the thought of being seen there,
stepped back, gently, and on tiptoe to my room—but
startled, all the way, and particularly at one corner,
by a sound, like the suppressed breathing of some one
concealed. For a moment I stopped, with the resolation
to see if it were a creature of flesh and blood, or
only some delusion of my troubled brain, but recollecting
immediately that, if it should be the former, my
duty to Lucia rendered it a sacred matter that I should
pass away, undetected, even in my innocence—for the
most innocent action is capable of evil interpretation—
I went on at the end of the gallery. I paused again—for
a distant door opened and shut with a slow cautious
motion—and a figure that, at first, from its muffled appearance,
I took for my own shadow, (and only discovered
it not to be so—by standing still for a moment)—passed
athwart the white wall.
Ashamed of my own feelings—for they were all in an
uproar for a moment—with—I dare not utter the
thought—the disordered dreaming of my brain—the
late terrible events—the death like stillness of the
dwelling where I was—the holy and awful moonlight
above me—the figure of the person—I could not be
mistaken,—but whither had it gone?
As I stood, another door opened—and Arthur Rodman
walked past me. I spoke to him—and he turned,
with a slow, reluctant motion towards me—and then
gave me his hand in silence. We went down into the
court, and walked together, in a dead silence, for half
an hour at least---his tread was measured, like that of
men in a funeral march, and his breath labouring, deep,
and drawn at long intervals. Occasionally, when we
shadowed and hidden, I would lift my eyes to
his. O, my children! far be from you and your's that
sorrow and desolation, for which there is no comfort—
that bereavement, that!—O righteous heaven, which
leaves the smitten heart sore, to the centre, and bleeding,
with no sweet memory to balm it!—no tears to fall
upon it!—nothing but the substantial pressure of calamity.
Poor Arthur—but a few days, and his step
was a bound—his voice the filled horn—his heart the
abiding place of gentle and high thought—festivity
and love. A few days, and God had written, in lividness
and shadow, the death of his loved one—the destruction
of all his hope, upon his broad forehead. His
hair blew about it, now—as if that too, had been
touched with death—and his sunken eyes had a
solemnity and blackness in them, that alarmed, and
awed me—their motion was not unsettled—but there
was a strong, rigid lustre in them, as if the fountain
that fed them was nearly dry.—Poor Arthur!' said
I, pressing his hand—`farewell.'
His hand made no reply—.
`O my brother!' I cried, looking him in the face—
`My cousin—dear Arthur—you terrify me—speak to
me---no; do not speak to me—the sound of your voice is
terrible—but show me, by some sign, that you know
me.—He stopped—his lips trembled—he locked my hand
in both of his, and turned to go—but, overpowered by
the deluge within him—which had gathered, till it
would have way—he fell upon my neck—and I believe
wept—for my dress was wet about the breast afterward,
but whether with his tears or Lucia's, I know not—but
I felt his heart heave like a surge under mine.
Once more he shook my hand—long, and with all his
strength, lifted his head in silence, and returned to his
room, while I pursued my way to my own.—I found
Clinton there, in low conversation with Archibald, and
though, from some words that struck my ear, I thought
that they were talking confidentially, and therefore, endeavoured
to apprise them of my approach, by walking
already at my own bed side, before they observed me.
Clinton then gathered up his cloak about him. I
started at the appearance of his muffled shadow—I
felt my blood boil, but I dared not utter a sound.
`Your brother has returned,' said Clinton, to him.
`I am glad of it,' was the reply, `come to the bed,
brother, I have something for your ear.'
I approached, and he sat up in the bed—the collar of
his shirt opened, and the fine fashion of his white shoulder
and chest, all exposed—with a beauty and delicacy
almost feminine, in their whiteness and smoothness.
`Sit down brother; don't interrupt me. You have
known something of my thought and doing, toward
Lucia Arnauld. I have had some pleasant—some
sorrowful dreaming—(his voice trembled)—and there
have been times, when I thought of doing some noble
and uncommon deed, for the love that I bore her.
God only knows, brother, how I have loved her—so
secretly, that I have not dared to tell it to my own
heart—so passionately—so devoutly, that, with an
opportunity for years to—to—to take advantage of her
warm hearted, generous sensibility—I—'
Clinton trembled, and turned away his face. `I
have never dared to touch her hand, unless she put it
into mine, until this night; and that was to bid her
farewell, forever. Brother! it is hard to give her up
—to tell the tale of our own disappointment—to have
loved as I have, from my first breath, with an awful
feeling of tenderness and veneration—it is hard—but
to give her up so suddenly, to one that has known her
so short a time—that is bitter—bitter!—but, young
as I am, and beautiful as she is—it must be done. We
are apart forever! Give me your hand, brother—
your's Clinton. Another, a braver, and older man—a
taller, and handsomer man—loves her—not as I have
loved her—that is impossible. Would I stand in the
way of her prosperity? No—I would rather, had I
ten thousand hearts, throw them down, for her to walk
over, to the arms of him that could make her happier.
make—a blunt, cold manner—and a haughty, and forbidding
countenance. I have never told my love—
never talked about it—I could not—but there is that
within me—that which will not bow nor bend. God
hath put it there, and God only shall put it out. Woman
never shall. How long I may live, I know not, and I
care as little—but while I do live, and when I die, it
shall be worthily—without complaint, or repining.
He loves her, I know. Do not shake your head—I
know it. He has dealt fairly—offered to renounce
her—played the game of a soldier with me. What
should I do? Fight him! No, that would not put
my heart at rest, nor quiet her's: permit him to renounce
her—take advantage of his noble nature? You
are troubled, Clinton—agitated! Do not let me distress
you. Now mark me—and you, brother, bear
witness for me. I am not fond of quarrelling—or
blood—am rather young, to be sure. But I can quarrel,
Clinton—and can fight, as I have lately learnt.
I am a man of few words—you are welcome to Lucia
—take her, and be happy with her. Do that, and I
will love you as a brother—her, as a sister—but—
but—trifle with her—baffle her young heart---and,
boy as I am, Clinton, I will never sleep, till I have put
my sword through your heart. No remonstrance---I
have done with her now. Happen what will, our
hearts will never unite again. We are not fitted for
each other---my nature is too stubborn and haughty---
too selfish, it may be. A wife of mine, shall be my
wife, and mine alone.—There, brother---good
night!---Clinton (shaking his hand) good night.'
Clinton turned to depart, and had reached the
door, when my brother arrested him, by asking when
they should march.
`Tomorrow, if possible,' was the reply, in an agitated
voice, `but next day, at furthest.'
`Why so,' said I.
`Because,' he replied, `Washington is hotly pressed.
Cornwallis, with the elite of the whole British army,
upon the march---the cursed effect of short
enlistment. By the time that the rascals know one
end of a musquet, from the other, they are cut adrift,
and are sure to run off with the publick arms.
`Tomorrow then, be it,' said my brother, `this is
no time for delay.'
`No!---for if Cornwallis follow him as closely
to the Delaware, as he has through New Ark, we shall
lose our baggage, if not our army, as sure as there is a
God in heaven.'
`Good night.'
`Good night! good night!' repeated Clinton, formally,
going back and shaking my brother's hand
again, for nearly a minute, before he departed.
I had half a mind to mention my suspicions---but
a little reflection convinced me of the impolicy of it.
What could I say?---that he was abused?---shame
on my heart, for conceiving such a thought!
Yet, I could not sleep---and, with the first dawn,
I was in my father's room. He was abundantly better
---and when he found that we were set upon moving
off, directly, he appeared doubly impatient to go with
us. But Mr. Arnauld was not so well---the symptoms
began to assume, if not an alarming, at least, a
more serious aspect---and the bungling rascals from the
army, were so wretchedly supplied with the instruments
of their profession, that it was little better than
certain death, to be pulled and hauled about by them,
or lacerated, and sawed into, and cut, as the case
might be. By reference to a report in congress, about
this time, you will find that the medical infirmary,
and surgical, and hospital staff, cannot be exaggerated.
In the whole army, there were not three complete sets
of surgical instruments. I have occasion to remember
it well. It had well nigh cost me my life, at a later
period, instead of the leg that I lost.
`What shall be done?' said I, `some of our men
ought to be left to protect the family. What say you,
Clinton?'
`Certainly,' he replied, `six or eight stout fellows---
and—'
`What!' said Arnauld, raising his bandaged head,
and firing with the passion of his heart, `what! leave
six or eight of such fellows, to idleness, when every
bone and sinew in America, should be in action! No,
Clinton, no!---much as I love my wife and children---
dear as my household and home are to me, by heaven,
I had rather see them given to the flames, than—'
`And to ruffians,' said Clinton.
`No, no, Clinton, a father's heart could not well
bear that; but, away with you, away!—to horse! to
horse! Oadley. You will protect my family best, by
helping to drive back these hell hounds, that are over-running
our blessed country. To horse! There are five
men of us here, two of whom, Oadley and myself, can
do garrison duty---or rather, hospital duty, (smiling)
yet---and I expect a reinforcement every moment.
Sampson, with his crooked boy, will be here this morning—a
tough old blade; and a very devil, the young
one—and if Nell come with them, as I expect, we
shall have enough to keep us all in heart, and laugh,
whatever happen. So, to horse!---to horse! man and
boy! and leave us to take care of ourselves.'
`Right,' said Clinton, `he is right, Mr. Oadley—if
every man stays at home, to defend his own dwelling,
who shall defend his country? We must take our
chance, (with peculiar significance, as if he understood
where my thoughts were, at the moment) our chance,
Oadley, with the rest. To camp, to camp!—and we
shall sooner clear the land of these devils, than if we
huddle about our own hearths. They will always out
number us at home. Ha!—the bugle call!'
He ran to the window. `Fine fellows!—glorious
fellows!' he cried—`the men are all in the saddle.
Farewell, Mr. Arnauld—farewell!—keep a stout
heart.'
`Farewell, Colonel—farewell, Oadley—there, take
my hand—remember—remember!—if any thing happen—you
understand me—my family have few friends
They are proud girls, Clinton: high blood—generous
hearts, Oadley. I don't reproach you. You have
not done entirely right—but you could not deceive
me; and there is a comfort here in—in—al— Young
men, it is no pleasant matter, upon a bed like this;
the sweat and blood starting from every pore of your
skin, to have the thought of—of—rifled innocence
—beauty—broken hearted—spoiled loveliness—and
—O, God! have mercy upon me—but—no
matter, now—it is too late—if I die—(more firmly)—
if I die, I say, and you are the men—that—I believe,
my family will never miss me—my daughters, I mean.
My wife—O, my dear wife—'
He could say no more—all his firmness abandoned
him. The tears ran down his cheeks, drop after drop,
as if wrung from his very heart—and when we embraced
him again, the bed shook under him. The thought
of his wife—the beautiful and pure of heart—that had
left him powerless, and we dared not—no, we dared
not utter a sound, to disturb the sacred stillness that
followed—and we left the room; but his sobs were
distinctly audible upon the landing, where I had stood
the night before. We were passing the very spot,
where I had heard the low suffered breathing—it was
a recess, and still in shadow. I could not forbear
lifting my eyes to Clinton's forehead, as we passed it;
and it might be fancy, but it appeared to me, that there
was a faint paleness, like that of one taken suddenly
sick at the heart, upon his ample forehead, and that
his arm contracted a little, within mine, as he met my
look; yet he walked firmly—steadily—and there was
a haughty, self possession, not very becoming at
such a time of sorrow and tenderness, nor called for by
the occasion—and rather, I hoped that I did not wrong
him, rather like that of preparation, where one dares
not abate one jot of his utmost stateliness, lest it may
invite a freedom of observation, that might disturb it.
We came to the landing. `I shall meet you, in the
yard,' said he, taking out his watch.
I bowed, and hurried to the apartment of my father.
Archibald, I found locked, in my mother's arms—my
father sitting by, with the same unaltered, unalterable
countenance—and she—wretched woman---weeping
like some widowed one—nay, like some dishonoured
widow—I—
They were the first tears that I had seen her shed,
openly; and when she came to me, I felt the inward
lamentation of a mother, the inaudible, deep feeling of
a woman, unable to utter a sound, against my bosom,
like the rush of waters. `My son,' said she, `O my
son!' pressing her cold lips to my forehead and eyes,
which were all wet with her tears, `do not thou abandon
me.'
`Abandon thee, mother!—no, though the heaven
should pass away. Come what will, I never will abandon
thee!'
`God bless thee! my child.'
My father arose, and stood up; and laid one hand
upon the shoulder of my mother, and one upon mine—
they were the hands of a giant, and a prophet. `O,
God! father of all mercies! have compassion upon
us! We are old and sorrowful—and about, it may
be, Oh, our father, to be childless. The parting that
we now take, may be for life. Do thou sustain us.—
Pour into the mother's heart, a ten fold consolation—
stiffen the sinews of the father, and the husband, and
make his children strong and terrible, that they may
avenge their mother, though we perish. Farewell!—
my boys!—farewell! The voice of your country is
wailing for you!—the shriek of a dishonoured people
—the cry of freedom!—the broken heart of your mother,
about to give you up—that of your father, about to
follow you. O, my wife—my wife! (my mother had
fallen into his arms, speechless and death struck, as if
that were all that was left to her—the presence of her
aged husband.) Boys! embrace your mother, once
more—you will probably never see her again. Do it
with a stout heart—bear up against it, like men. Do
if she never open her eyes again—.'
We did as we were commanded---we knelt before her,
and carried her lifeless hand to our eyes, and lips, and
heart---unable to speak---unable to weep---took the
blessing of our father, and were hurrying through the
house, blinded and stunned by the rush of darkness and
emotion---our arteries all distended to aching, with a
strange, awful sorrow, like that of men going, voluntarily,
to martyrdom---and sacrifice—.
There was a carriage in the yard, out of which
leaped in succession, a young boy, a savage looking
distracted creature, as I ever saw in my life, with a
spring like a panther; and stood, licking his hand and
lip, with a tongue like a calf; then a finished romp, for
she bounded, with her hair all flying in the wind, out
of the carriage, without waiting for assistance, and
ran, laughing and skipping, into the house—and then, a
rigid, cholerick looking, little old gentleman, in a claret
coloured coat, lame of one leg—growling at every step
he took, in a low voice. At any other time, I should
have smiled at the strangeness of the association, and
their wild unnatural aspect—but this was no time for
smiling. The men were all ready, and I turned to
look for Archibald—but he was gone—and I, willing
to find some companionship, followed in the direction
that I supposed he had taken. I entered the house with
a hurried step—and saw my father and Arthur parting—
the young man still bearing the same implacable steadiness
and solemnity of aspect—his dress and manner
utterly unlike what it had been—thoughtful, yet careless,
like that of a premature old man, suddenly put into
possession of some fearful secret, the secret of his own
hidden strength.—Voices were near me, and I stopped,
as I was passing the window of the very room
where a few weeks before, Archibald and I had seen
the two sisters.—Lucia was leaning upon the
shoulder of Clinton, pale, pale as death—but with a
vehemence of passionate, bashful endearment that sent
my blood back—with a start to my heart. I thought
seeing her more—by any possibility—I went through
room after room—heedless of every body, till at last,
I found her, with her mother. She arose, as I entered,
came to me, and put her two hands into mine:—her
her mother looked at her with amazement—her lips
moved—and she would have expressed her astonishment,
even in her sorrow—but Clara turned to her, her
bright eyes shedding not only light—but sound, it appeared
to me like the indian gem, that give out beauty
and brightness and low musick forever.
`Mother!' said she, `the secret has been well kept,
thanks to your admonition. I have done rightly. When
you know all, you will approve of my conduct. At
present, I am above all disguise—Mr. Oadley and I are
about to part, perhaps, forever—I cannot bear to
conceal it longer—I love him!'
`Gracious heaven!' cried her mother, `are you distracted
Clara!—at such a time as this!—a proud girl
to—to—' (she covered her face with her hands, and
burst into an hysterical sobbing).
`Leave me, Mr. Oadley—farewell!—heaven bless
you! You know something of my temper. What I do,
I do openly. You must not presume from what has
happened here. My mother may blame me—but my
own heart shall not. Alone, away from my mother, who
is weeping at my indelicacy, I should have parted with
you less tenderly—now farewell!—'
I would have put my lips to her forehead—but she
coloured—`What!' she exclaimed, `have I to tell you
again, Oadley, that there is no mystery in my nature
There is my mother—while her face is covered,
there shall be nothing done that is capable of an evil
interpretation.'
Her mother arose, and her hands fell at her side
powerless—but her beautiful eyes were full of tenderness
and surprise.
`Clara,' said she—`it is my own fault. But I believed
this affair at an end. The secret has been well
kept. I love your noble nature—I respect it—the thing
bless you!'—(putting our hands together, and kissing
us as she did so).
I lifted my eyes to Clara's face—her red lips trembled,
but there was no reproof—no affectation—and
though I would have given the world to touch her sweet
mouth—yet I dared not, and contented myself with
kissing her white forehead—.
The next moment Archibald's tread was heard—he
looked in, and beckoned to me.
`Come in, come in, my dear Archibald!' said the
mother—throwing her arms about his neck.—`O my
poor boy—my heart would break, did I not know—but
bear up, bear up, my brave fellow—there are few women
worthy of such a man—.'
Archibald gently released himself from her arms,
wiped off the tears from his temples—and cheek—tears
which had fallen from her eyes, in the embrace.
`How pale you look! oh Archibald, Archibald, your
own mother cannot love you more than I do—farewell!
farewell!—I feel that I shall never see you
again—remember however, happen what may, that I
am your friend—that—will you not see Clara?' (Clara
was standing at the window).
`Yes,' said Archibald, bowing his head—`with all
my heart—Clara,' (she gave him both her hands—there
was a rush of blood to her temples—and her voice, always
mellow, smooth and rich, like her father's—for a
moment, was touched with the unsteady and passionate
modulation of Lucia's)—`dear Clara—I have said and
done many things, my dear friend, very many, to pain
and distress you. Believe me, dear Clara, they were
never unkindly meant, and I should have told you long
before, that I was sorry and ashamed of them—but you
know my temper (her eyes gushed out with beauty and
brightness—the tears ran down her pale cheeks, as if
her heart were breaking, and yet she stood upright,
without concealment or shame—her red lips pressed together,
with an expression of fervent and deep delight,
homage, pride and admiration, as he continued—)—
this way, but lived all our lives hereafter, as we have
hitherto lived, I never should have told you—in words
—how inestimably dear you are to me. Actions, actions,
Clara—they would have shown it, in time; but
farewell. My actions henceforth are afar off, and not
among women—you may never hear of them—I therefore
tell you, with my lips—what there is no other
mode left of telling you; that there is one—nay two—
come forward, my brother, who know your great value,
your constant nature, and the deep sincerity of—
Why, how is this—?—Do you understand each other?
—you do—heaven be thanked!—Brother take
her—be to her, what she deserves, the best and truest
of men. Clara—that brother—you do not know him
well yet—he does not know himself—he was not born for
a sluggard—it is for you to say, whether he shall die
one. I have studied him—I know him well---better, I
believe, than any other person. He will always rise
with the occasion. You may make of him, just what
you please—.'
I was thunderstruck—abashed—and Clara stood, with
a proud smile upon her mouth. I had no leisure to
hear or see more, for the sweet voiced Lucia was heard
—as in deep conversation, near the door.---Archibald
coloured—and so did Clara—but a mortal paleness followed
in his face.
`Can you not see her?—can you not—for one moment,
Archibald?' said Clara, in a tone of expostulation.
`No—' he replied, and then, as if a new thought had
struck him, he added—`yes—I can—I will—it were a
pity to part unkindly, for the last time.' `How, for
the last time?' said the mother. `You speak as if you
were resolved.'
`I am:—you will hear no more of me, after I leave
the house—except in one event.'
`And what is that dear Archibald?' said Clara. He
shook his head—but would not explain—but I had
reason to believe that he alluded to a change of name---perhaps
the house, he announced his determination of entering
the service by an assumed name.
He continued—(while the bugle rang in the court
yard, the horses neighed, and the voice of preparation
sounded through all the apartments—like an army
broken up in the house of prayer---so awfully hushed
had it been, an hour before). `I am going to battle,
Clara---not for fame---not altogether for vengeance, or
hatred; nor for ambition, except it be the ambition of
my own heart, for the deeds that I do, shall die with
me—whatever they be: no---but I shall go into the thickest
and hottest of it---I am sure, with a composure
very uncommon in one so young and inexperienced.---
I shall do my duty Lucia, wherever I may be put—
weak and boyish as I am—my thought will be steady
—my hand firm, my eye true, in the commotion of battle—for
that Lucia—that—pressing her hands upon his
heart---will be nothing to the commotion here—.'
`O, Archibald, I do pity---' said Clara.—
`Not me, I hope'—(interrupting her.)—
`No—but I pity her—.'
`So do I,' said Archibald, `from my soul I pity
her—the dear enthusiast.'
`My heart misgives me, Archibald—there have been
too much hurry, rashness, precipitation here—a brave
man, an honourable one, I do believe—yet it is not wise
or temperate.—What think you?—'
`Clara—I cannot say that here, which I would not
say to her face and his face.'---(A tear ran down under
his shut eyelids---and he turned away).
`Well Archibald---you, I know; my father knows
you---my mother--Lucia---and whatever you may think,
depend upon it, we shall always love and revere you.
In distress we shall turn to you---in sorrow and in trial
---shall we turn to you, in vain?---ask you in vain?'
`There was a convulsive heaving of his chest, as the
mother came to him, and stood, side by side with Clara,
watching the troubled beauty of his eyes, and the frightful
lividness of his lips.—`You are young, Archibald,
other men fail us----all----all!—we shall turn to
you, youthful as you are, sure of your power and
strength—.'
Why was I not hurt at this?---was it that I felt the
truth of it?---or that the amazing honesty and openness
of Clara---and the certainty that I possessed her whole
heart, reconciled me to all other manifestations of love?
—The mother bowed upon his neck---and he lifted his
deep blue eyes to heaven---locked their hands in his,
while, almost for the first time in all his life, the bright
tears trickled down from his open eyes, with an expression
of heroick joy.
`Archibald,' said the mother, `I am afraid that you
are not blameless in this matter---but it is too late now
---she is a proud girl, a proud impatient spirit---watch
over her---be a brother too her---she may want a brother---Look
to her.'
`Wretched, mistaken woman!' said Clara---`How
she has trifled with---'
`Hush! hush!' said Archibald with unalterable solemnity.
`I will never hear a movement of her heart
condemned, in her absence. I may have my thoughts
too-----thoughts that I may tell her----or keep here,
here till it kill me---but I have that love for her and all
that she loves, that inward unresistingness to whatever
wears the blessed and pure countenance of love, that I
cannot bear to hear it spoken lightly of.'
`Well then farewell, farewell!' said the mother and
daughter, `you must see her.'
`But keep your eye on Clinton,' said Clara. `I will,
night and day;' he replied, seizing my arm and hurrying
me along, till I found that we were now approaching
the same sound, of voices in earnest broken conversation.
He tapped at a door, which was immediately opened
by Clinton, who had risen from the sofa where Lucia
sat, with a disordered, strange aspect; the apartment
was exactly under that in which we had been, a fact
which accounts for the sound of their voices appearing
appeared a good dealed disturbed---and poor Lucia—
there passed over her white forehead, white as the driven
snow, a hurried emotion, but barely visible in the dim
light of the apartment, every window of which was yet
darkened---and objects could only be seen, after we were
within, for a minute or two, by a pale crimson illumination,
thrown by the blood red curtains, through which
the day poured in, with a beautiful way wardness---a sort
of voluptuous light, rather like that of a summer sunset,
than a bleak wintry morning.
`All ready?' said Clinton, hooking up his long sabre,
that rattled at every motion of his body.
`Yes, Sir,' said Archibald, `in ten minutes—ah! they
are impatient'---(the bugle sounded again) `we are to
be in the saddle. But before I go, I have taken my
brother here, to bear witness for me---your patience.'
He then went up to Lucia, who put her hand timidly,
but haughtily too, into his, and attempted to rise.
`No Lucia,' (standing before her, and holding it,) `do
not rise. I ask for no such evidence of respect. I know
that when I am gone, you will remember me in spite of
yourself---the time may come, when you will find--(come
hither Clinton---come nearer brother)---that you have
been rash---it may come, I say---not that it will. God
knows how fervently I pray for your happiness, and you
will know it too, Lucia, when you are older and wiser.
Not—no, it is impossible that you should ever know the
full value of the heart that—nay Clinton, do not interrupt
me, I deal plainly with her, I deal fairly. Surely,
it is no unreasonable indulgence, for one consummately
blessed, as you are, to permit one—so—I will not say
so wretched or so humbled—but so disappointed—Clinton,
by God!—I will not be interrupted (striking the
hilt of his sword) and if you interfere again, man as you
are—tall as you are, I will bring your forehead to the
dust.'
Clinton retreated a pace or two, tapped the hilt of
his sabre, with his fingers—and smiled—damn him, I
could hardly keep my own sword in its sheath—but
sat like one terrour struck.
`What I say now, is the last that I shall say—what
I do, shall be done openly. I do not come to you, Lucia, lamenting
that I have not been less cold, and cautious and
rational—for I sought a woman for a wife—and no wife
of mine shall ever be made speedily. I do not come to
prejudice you against Clinton secretly—for I will do
nothing that either he or you may misinterpret—or
think unkindly of me, for, when I am gone. My honesty
to both of you, at this moment, will be the best guarantee
that I shall never profit of any advantage that
may hereafter fall in my way, to poison either of your
hearts against the other—No Lucia, no! But I came
to say, with all my heart and soul, God bless you both!
There Clinton, take her hand—and I do say, God bless
you both! If you ever want a brother—a friend—an
avenger Lucia, remember me. If you never do—if you
are happy—blessing and blessed—forget me—you will
be none the happier for remembering me. You have
been imprudent—very imprudent—there is something in
Clinton that I cannot bring myself to like—he is too easy
and confident—has too much of that fascination—seductiveness,
and self possession, with the young and
beautiful—too much of that profligate manner, which has
made your own father the destroyer of—forgive me, Lucia
—I have spoken plainly—too plainly, if it were to be repeated—but
I would say to you, beware; and I would
leave a lesson upon your heart that should sink into it,
deeper and deeper, to the last moment of its heaving.
Be prudent—I anticipate no evil—I predict none—I
pray for none—I appeal to my God, for the truth of what
I say—and however you may both doubt me now, you
shall see that I have spoken the truth, when all our
hearts are uncovered before the judgment seat—
farewell!—'
She arose, parted her black hair with both hands, and
stood looking at him, for a moment, as if struck with
sudden blindness—then—carried his hand passionately
arms of Clinton.
My brother could not stand that, with all his noble
preparation. He staggered like a drunken, man to the
door—rushed into the yard—and, ere twenty minutes
had passed, Clinton and all of us were in full trot for
the camp of Washington.
| CHAPTER VII. Seventy-six | |