University of Virginia Library

6. CHAPTER VI.

`Brother,' said I, as I entered our lodging room, the
night after our arrival at Philadelphia, and found him
rising from his devotions, `what is the meaning of
this? what disturbs you?'

It was some minutes before he was able to reply;
and, when he did, it was in a manner unusually
solemn.

`There are many things, my brother, to weigh down
the pride of my heart. I am ashamed of many things;
afraid of many, that I have been proud of, too long,
and set too frequently at naught. The blood of
Clinton is upon me. It is in vain to deny it. I am
wretched. I never shall be otherwise. Though I
were to wash my heart away in my own tears, the
blood would be there yet, mingled with the minutest
atom. It is in vain to reason. Even Copely, the
stern, unyielding, dispassionate and inscrutable Copely---he
has never slept soundly, since he slew a man.
Why this is, it would be hard to tell. We have slain
many a brave fellow in the field; many better men than
Clinton; or the major. Yet, for all that they, or their
troubled spirits may do, we are happy. This is one
thing; another is---that I, and you too, brother, have not
been, to a desolate and bereaved parent---a widowed
mother, what we should have been. It is in vain to deny
it, John. We have left our mother, in the house of a
stranger, at the mercy of a stranger. This, I cannot believe,

is required of us. Heaven never will demand a sacrifice
so unnatural. I have thought much of it. One of
us must go to her, and dwell with her. You, from the
patience of your temper—and being lame, you are the
one. However, let us think more of it. I am willing
to take my chance. It is too much for her poor heart,
to be left, husbandless, childless, houseless—in her
old age.'

`Not houseless—brother, another dwelling has been
erected.'

`Upon the embers of the old! Think you that our
mother can even sleep in it?—As well might she
slumber in the churchyard, where death and dishonor,
had gone their rounds; and all that she most loved lay
interred.'

`Brother,' said I—`let us never speak of this.—
We have understood each other well enough hitherto.—
That scene must never be thought of.'

`True—let us forget it. That has led to this alienation.
Gracious God!—father and son—husband and
children!—turning upon her, the broken hearted woman,
when she is most in need of consolation—oh,
my brother.'

We embraced—and I determined, from that moment,
to return to my dear mother, and be dutiful to her,
whatever became of my country.

`And Copely,' said I hesitating—`I—.'

`I understand you,' replied Archibald, with a look
of deep distress. `The thing is all explained; a bitter
and terrible misunderstanding it has been. He loved
Lucia, because I loved her; because she was like himself,
and chiefly because Ellen appeared to have forgotten
him, and attached herself, heart and soul, to
you. And she—the rash, thoughtless girl, glorying in
her own disinterestedness and magnanimity—went,
bound with flowers, to martyrdom, in the hope of promoting
his happiness. It would be idle to detail the
series of wild, extravagant inventions, by which
she brought Copely to declare himself to—to—(he
coughed, with great emphasis—and I knew well what

it was for—he could not pronounce her name, and
was willing to make me believe that a sudden fit of
coughing was the reason—but no, the impediment
was in his heart,) `to Miss Arnauld.'

`Not Miss Arnauld,' said I, smiling.

`Well, then,' he replied, a little impatiently, and colouring,
`Miss Lucia.'

`Not Miss Lucia,' said I.

`Damn it, brother!—why will you make me swear?
Lucia then, Lucia Arnauld!—will that do?'

`Why—a—yes,' I replied, imitating the frigid manner
of Copely.

`This declaration was by a letter—and, just after
his own nature, abrupt, frank, and peremptory. The
answer came—giving him reason enough, I confess,
for I saw it, to believe that he would be a bridegroom.
It was a childish affair; but with all its childness, has
been wonderfully well arranged; and we have reason
to believe that—that—Lucia—ahem!—does not
know, to this hour, aught of Copely's design in visiting
her, in his new uniform, at the time that he did!
I could smile at his disappointment and mortification,
were he not such a noble creature; and, did I not
know that he sought her, less for his own sake, than
for her's, and mine.'

`For your's!—how?'

`Yes, for mine. I knew her excellence. I knew
that she was capable of making such a man as Chester
Copely happy, beyond all other men—proud and happy.
Our tempers were alike, his and mine, I mean—
unostentatious, deeply, inwardly devout and affectionate,
but seeking concealment rather than display. If
she could love me, therefore, she might love him. Beside,
he was the greater man, the stouter heart, the
steadier —. And, if he could love Ellen Sampson,
despite of all her waywardness and caprice, for her
high, heroick nature, ardent temper, enthusiasm, and
sensibility, how much more would he love a creature,
that, with all these great qualities, had none of her
girlish, quick frivolity—I do not speak of her caprice.

Both are capricious; but both, I do believe, now, less
from a natural inconstancy of temper, than from pride
and pique—willing to sacrifice themselves, and impatient
for it too, that they may rend and tear a heart,
that, to their thought, has been too insensible of its
approximation to theirs—ah!'

`Dress! dress! there's not a moment to lose!' said
Copely, striking the door open, with his arm, and
standing before us, with an expression that I never saw
in his face before. `Go with me! they are carrying
all before them.'

`Who? what do you mean?' said we, both at once.

`Lucia and Clara—and—Arthur arrived last night;
and I set off directly. The house was, as that romping
Ellen says, getting too hot to hold us all.'

`Can I believe my ears,' said I. `Has Chester
Copely caught the versatility, and —'

`I know what you would say,' recovering himself;
`Yes, I have caught it! I have no disposition to deny
it. There is a strange affinity between us, growing
out of contradictory materials.'

`What a result might be expected,' said Archibald,
half smiling, `from a chymical combination of two such
hearts. But, soberly, dear Chester, what are you driving
at?'

`Soberly then—dress yourselves in your handsomeest.
I will call for you, within an hour.'

`Within an hour!' said Archibald; `wait ten minutes,
and I will go with you.'

`And you! can you equip yourself as quickly,' said
he, to me.

`Yes,' said Archibald, even for the battle—ten minutes
are enough for John, devotions and all.'

`I dare say so,' said Copely, gravely. `So with Frederick
of Prussia: he made his men pray, by beat of
drum. At the first tap, they knelt; at the second,
prayed; at the third, rose. And if any man presumed
to be devout, one second beyond the time; or, if he did
not keep time in his devotion, he was lashed to the halberds.'

In a very few minutes, we were on our way. He
led us to a large mansion—blazing with lights. My
heart beat deliriously, and I could hardly hold myself
up, as we approached it.

`I am very faint,' said Archibald; `is this Mr.
Arnauld's?'

`No!' said Copely, `this is Mr. Patten's.'

We were soon upon the landing.

`Stop!' said Copely; `remember where you are.
All eyes are upon you. You go under my introduction.
Trust to me; and remember that you will meet
some women who could shake the stoutest heart in our
camp; some men—some officers of the enemy, out on
parole; and not a few, who know a good deal of our
history. Heads up!'

Ere I could get my breath, I found myself, standing
in the middle of a large room, with Archibald,
leaning on my arm, and every seat occupied; the walls
studded with eyes and lips; and all about me, a mortal
silence. I thought that I should fall to the earth, particularly
when I heard a voice that I knew, even in a
whisper. A dark mist went over my eyes, and I was
fain to catch at Copely's arm.

`For shame!' said he, in a low voice; `shall we deserve
their upbraiding? Remember that you are an
American officer.'

We threw out our chests on the spot; and trod outward
like princes.

Lucia Arnauld was the first person that I saw! She
gave me her hand, instantly, without the least appearance
of embarrassment, though I scarcely dared to lift
my eyes to her face; and was afraid, at every rustle
near me, that the apparition of another would
start up. The silence was insupportable—cruel. How
could human beings so sport with the sensibilities of
a soldier? Where was their humanity?

`Talk,' said Lucia, in a whisper, taking my arm,
`say something—any thing, and let us walk.'

I did so, and our example was soon followed. I
heard a step—I lifted my eyes. It was she! She was

pale as death; but her beauty was awful. Her movement
was full of self possession:—and—yes, it was
sorrow! that sorrow, which none might presume to
comfort.

We continued our walking, with an occasional broken,
incoherent question, until I had sufficiently
recovered to look about me.

I was not a little struck, at the arrangement that we
had fallen into, whether by design or accident. There
stood Archibald, leaning upon the mantel piece, fronting
the capricious, wild Ellen, about whom, a score of
fellows had gathered, their eyes dancing an accompaniment
to her voice. There was a dazzling air about
her—a blinding atmosphere; the transparent changeableness
of her complexion; the vivid brightness of her
singularly faint eyes; her glittering hair—and, altogether
she was, to my view, something spiritual. Archibald
appeared very absent; and she, I could perceive, was
malicious enough to observe it.

In another part of the room, went Copely and Clara,
in deep conversation; was she listening to him? I
believed not, for, as she passed along, at the further
extremity of the room, he relinquished her arm, for a
moment, to join Ellen, beckoning Archibald to go up to
Clara; but Clara did not seem to perceive the absence
of one, nor the approach of the other; and I—while I
was looking at her, and wondering if the tall, queenly
creature, whose very step was full of dominion, could
possibly be the same that had once leaned, overpowered,
upon my shoulder, and sobbed there, as if she were
dying. She stood, as in a revery; but, raising her
eyes a moment, they encountered mine, and she turned
them away, with a quickness that went, like electricity,
through my heart. Yes! she was thinking of me;
and she started, when she lifted up her eyes, and saw
mine fixed upon her, as if my apparition had stood
suddenly before her. And then, for I could not take
my eyes from her, she blushed all over; why? with
shame and vexation, that she had betrayed herself—so

like a child—by musing, absence; and, quickness when
caught. She awoke, therefore, all at once, and entered
into conversation, headlong, as if—poor Clara! to
retrieve what she had lost.

`That man!' said Copely—coming up to us. `Do
you know him?'

`There was no embarrassment in his manner; and,
when he bowed to Lucia, it was with an expression of
deep reverence, and, I hardly knew what else to call
it—it was not pity, nor compassion, but something of
sorrow and sympathy. Her lips trembled, and she
gave him her hand; but, would have withdrawn it, I
am sure, had she seen Archibald's face at the moment.'

`No,' said, Lucia—`I do not know him, and have
no desire to know him. Do you, Ellen?' (addressing
the sprightly creature, who came forward, half on tip
toe, at that moment, while Copely fell back, to enjoy
the luxury of contemplation; and I saw his fine eyes
roving over her round beautiful waist, delicate feet,
and voluptuous bosom, with the feeling of a husband,
sanctified, and delighted.)

`Whom?' said Ellen, tapping her gently on the
arm, `that elegant fellow?'

`Yes, that elegant fellow,' said Copely, dwelling on
her words, with some emphasis. `He is a scoundrel;
and—'

`Hush, Hotspur,' said Ellen, quickly—`Hush! I
see powder burning in your eyes; and forty thousand
small swords in the blaze. Don't quarrel; there,
there, stand back, I will send him about his business
directly?'

Copely smiled; bit his lip, at the beautiful tyrant,
and stepped back.

The stranger was, certainly, one of the most elegant
men that I ever saw. In his manner, voice, step,
action, every thing, there was an air of high fashion,
that I had never seen before; and a dash of pleasant
profligate ease, that had been new to me, till I saw Mr.
Arnauld.

I listened to him a moment, until I found him engaged
in a playful repartee with Ellen, who manifested
an astonishing readiness. But still, her's was not the
manner to check his impudent, graceful familiarity;
but, that of Lucia was. Hide it as he would, he dared
no further encroachment upon that quarter. Ellen saw
it, and urged him to repeat his invitation.

He had just offered his hand to Lucia for a walk;
but she put it back, with a manner that left him no
hope—and yet, left him nothing to complain of.

`O, no,' he replied, to Ellen, `no—the law of gallantry,
as well as modesty, will prevent a renewal of
the solicitation.'

`Modesty,' said Ellen, smiling, `whose modesty?'

He put his hand, gently—it was a beautiful hand—
upon his own heart, and bowed.

The eye of Lucia said—`puppy,' as plainly as ever
eye spoke in this world.

`Upon my word, Mr. Bosworth (the name of the
stranger) you have disordered some of the definitions
in my mind, exceedingly, by that gesture; I had
always taken modesty to be—'

`Not exactly synonymous with—ahem!' laying his
hand again on his heart.

`Not exactly,' she replied, pleasantly.

`O,' he continued, with a careless swinging of the
arm, `I was always reckoned remarkable for my timidity
and bashfulness—quite a wonder—from a boy.'

`You are so, yet, Mr. Bosworth,' was the reply.

`I dare say so—my own mother used to say that I
was the most retiring and bashful of her boys.'

`You were an only son,' I presume.

`Upon my word, Miss Sampson I, I—would stake
my reputation on—'

`On what?' said she, pressing him, with a little bitterness.

`On any thing that you please'—said the libertine,
endeavouring to get released from a strife, which was
becoming altogether too keen for his play.

`I dare say so,' said Ellen, promptly—`and be glad
to lose the stake.'

He coloured, and would have replied, sharply, I
believe, had he not caught the look of Copely, at that
moment, and turned dark in the face.

The eyes of all the company followed his.

Copely advanced, leisurely, up to him; and, touching
his arm, walked toward the door; poor Ellen looking
as if she would fall to the earth. There they stopped, a
moment; the look of Copely was menacing. He pointed
to the door. The other hesitated. Copely waited
a moment, stamped with his foot; and, I believe, would
have seized him by the collar, if the other had not
dodged it, and passed through the door.

Copely then returned, liesurely, to the same spot;
and, all the company crowded about us—asking, with
eager eyes and pale lips, `Who is he? what is he?'

`The servant of an English lord,' said Copely.
There was a general exclamation of astonishment and
disbelief. `It is true,' said he—`and there goes
another; see what company (raising his voice) we
are brought into, by our unthinking hospitality. I saw
that fellow once, in Quebec. I was sure of it. He
robbed his master soon after; and, the moment that
I met his eyes fairly, he betrayed the symptoms of
guilt. Then, mistaking my forbearance for doubt, or
timidity, he began to deny it, and to resist; and, when
we had arrived at the door, he recovered his self
possession, all at once, and attempted to face it out.
But, he is gone. Our hospitality is dishonoured, our
daughters—'

`Alas! poor Henrietta! poor Henrietta! What
will become of her!' exclaimed a dozen voices, at the
same moment, while a beautiful girl, whom I had seen
upon the arm of Bosworth an hour before, fainted
away.

`Who is she?' said I, to Lucia.

`Infatuated girl!' she uttered, in a low voice. `She
never loved him; but, the wretch told such magnificent

lies about his family, rents, and equipage, that her
brain was turned.

`Yes,' said Ellen, colouring with shame, at the self
inflicted lesson of her own heart—but endeavouring to
carry it off, `it was the carriage and four that conquered
her. And now that the carriage and four have
gone—Lord! this accounts for what he said—that he
drove a coach and four. I dare say that he told the
truth, after all—he walked so like a coachman.' A
general laugh followed this observation—and she
continued, conscious that Copely's eyes were upon her,
`I would send her a tin carriage and four, to trundle
about in her dressing room; that would be a consolation—I—'

Copely's eyes were upon her; and her's filled instantly.
Her head fell, abashed, at her own upbraiding;
and, her voice died away; and, as soon as she could,
she crept up to him, where he stood, with a serious
face, meditating, as it seemed, upon what had passed.

`It was very childish,' said she, slipping her hand
into his, so that nobody could see it, except Lucia and
I—`I—I—forgive me Chester.'

I saw him press her hand—and turn toward her,
with his heart in his face. But he said nothing—yet
he looked, plainer than any language could speak—`Say
what you will; do what you will; rally servants, or
lacerate the broken hearted, I cannot be angry with you.'

`You are very absent,' said Lucia, to me with a
mournful smile.

`Am I?'

`Have you spoken to Clara?'

`To—to Clara?' said I—not knowing what was to
become of me.

`You have not, I believe,' said she—`will you?'
I lifted my eyes to her's; they were beautifully bright,
her's I mean: yet there was a solemn darkness in
their centre, as if—as if death had extinguished a jewel
there. I was silent a moment, and then said—

`You have not seen Archibald' (I felt a convulsive
contraction of her arm—) `will you see him?'

`Yes!' she answered, firmly—`yes, if you will recollect
yourself, and meet Clara. She has not forgtten
you.'

`But when?' said I.

`Leave that to me,' she replied. `We will withdraw
early. You'll go with me; I will take care that
Archibald—your brother—shall attend her. I want
to see you. And my father and mother desire to see
him. But, do not mistake me. I am prouder than
ever. What I do, now, is the extent that I shall ever
do. Let Archibald and Lucia be friends. They can
never be any thing more. Tell him this. If he have
the strength, the forbearance, to be content with that,
we will renew our acquaintance. But if he have any
doubt, any hope, beyond that—let us never meet again.
I am firm.'

`I will speak to him this moment,' said I, strangely
affected at her solemnity, and distressed at her agitation.
I announced the commission. He heard me through—
the sweat started out upon his forehead—`noble, excellent
girl,' he said—`I will; lead me to her.'

I brought him up.

`I accept your conditions, Lucia,' said he—and
she gave him her hand. When they touched—I felt
my blood thrill. They were like too dead creatures,
suddenly galvanised.

`Let us go; I have much to say to you,' said Lucia—
`Colonel Copely, give your arm to sister—Mr. Oadley,
you'll attend to cousin Ellen.'

The order of march thus arranged, we descended to
the carriages; but there, a new difficulty arose; and,
finally, I knew not how it was, I found myself sitting
on the same seat with Clara, her hand in mine—her
head upon my shoulder. I held my lips to her forehead
—I bathed her whole face with my tears—and was endeavouring,
for we were alone in the carriage, to raise
her pale face, so that the lanterns would show me
her features. She was motionless—she had fainted.
I burst open the door—leaped to the ground—took her
into my arms, and was hurrying into the first house,

when I saw a man at a distance, whom I knew to be a
watchman. He ran to me, and, after a few moments,
she recovered; but, when I proposed entering the carriage,
she resisted, faintly, but positively.

`No,' said she, `let us walk. It is a beautiful night,
and I have much to say to you. Let us walk.'

I assented, and we continued our ramble for half an
hour, in one of the most delicious nights that ever
breathed upon the forehead of man. There was a firmament,
full of blue eyes, all over us.

I could not have uttered a word, had it been to obtain
my own salvation.

We had come at length, to a little low railing, and
were walking, steadily and silently, by it, when the
temptation to sit gave me courage, and I led her to it.

We sat down, but still I was unable to speak. She
was agitated to her finger's ends. And I—I was running
over all my thought and dreaming again. The
proud creature was again within my power.

`I—Clara!' said I, faintly; `speak to me; you
have not forgotten me; what troubles you?'

Her bosom heaved audibly; and her breath was like
one suffocating.

She arose—she stood up; and when, just as I had
done at our last meeting, I put my arm round her waist,
and beheld her bright eyes waning in her tears—she
did not rebuke me. My heart felt—O, I cannot describe
it—giddy and faint with rapture.

`Clara, dear Clara,' said I, more tenderly, holding
her soft hands to my forehead.

`I knew not,' said she, at last, recovering some degree
of composure, `what my true nature was. I never
shall know, I fear. Two hours ago, no mortal breathing
could have made me believe, that, after many years,
it would be possible for me to stand by a man, with his
arm encircling me, who had so blighted and trodden on
me;—I—I—'

Her tears fell, like rain, upon my hands. I arose,
and pressed her, convulsively to my bosom.

`Nay Clara,' said I, `let there be no reproach or
recrimination between us, now. Our meeting is but
for a few hours. We may never meet again.'

(I felt her dear arms contract, and her bosom heaving
against mine.)

`Else, might I say—why was I trodden on—why
was I blighted, heart and soul?'

`O, Mr. Oadley—we have been much to blame.
Both have been too proud for our own happiness. I
thought that I was able to live and die, proudly, as I
have lived; but I cannot. I doubted you. You could
have quieted me. A word, a look would have done it.'

`We have been mightily abused; my own, my inexpressibly
dear girl. It was pride—I grant it. I
weep for it. I should have told you, as I can now, that,
I never wronged you—never, at least, till after our separation.'

`Ah!' said she, raising her head. `Then all that I
have heard is true. Hear me. I love you, more than
life. I have wept myself nearly blind since our parting.
I have became convinced of your innocence, and exceedingly
penitent.'

`Of my innocence! is it possible!' said I, `then
why not tell me so.'

`What! would you marry a woman that should pursue
you to the camp, with entreaty? No, I would
sooner have died a thousand deaths. But I honoured
you—almost worshipped you; and I trembled at the
same time. I felt that I had wronged you; but how
had you borne it? carelessly—carelessly, Oadley;
leaving me to die, a broken hearted woman. O—
I cannot speak any more. But hear me, no matter
what has happened. I can forgive it all—forget it all
—except that—give me your hand Oadley. Do you
love me yet?'

`Upon my soul, Clara, ten thousand times more than
ever!' I exclaimed.

`Well then—one more question. I put it to your
truth and honour. Are you worthy of me?'

`No—I am not—not altogether worthy of you.'—
Her arms dropped; `but, nothing has happened, since
we met last, that I am ashamed to tell you. I have
been weak, love; vain, very vain, but not criminal.
There is my hand. I dare to offer it to you. Dare
you receive it?'

She took it; and then, were we indeed, with our eyes
lifted to heaven, and all streaming with the flow of the
heart—then, were we, indeed, a betrothed pair, wedded
before God and all his angels, in the warm, beautiful
air.

`Now then,' said Clara, receiving my kiss, like a
bride, her nuptial ben ediction, `now then, I am prepared
to die. Let us go. But O, my friend, let us be
more patient and forbearing hereafter. Think of what
we have suffered—done—endured.'

We finished our walk in silence, with a holy, deep,
passionate tranquillity; such, I do believe, as the married
feel, when all their apprehension and sorrow are
hushed; and no mortal arm can pluck them asunder;
and the murmur of their first embrace; the passionate
heaving of their youthful hearts, hath subsided for the
first time, like a blue summer sea, in the moonlight.

We found Archibald parting with Lucia, as we entered;
a general expression of cordiality in all eyes,
even in hers; and I was welcomed, with a tinge of
shame, and a little pride; but that was soon over, and
I turned to depart.

`Farewell!' said Archibald, `heaven bless you all!
Lucia, farewell!'

`You will see me again, before you leave us,' said
she.

`If I might,' he replied, taking her hand reverentially,
and gazing on her dark, wet lashes, as if he would
have given the world, only to touch them with his own;
`if I might come and go, Lucia, when and where I
pleased, I would spend every leisure hour with you.'

`Will you walk with us to-morrow evening?'

`With all my heart,' he replied; `to-morrow evening?
at what hour?'

`Dine with us, and we will all go!' said Mrs. Arnauld;
`let us go en-bon-point.'

`Embonpoint,' said Mr. Arnauld, peevishly, while
Lucia coloured and smiled.

`Yes' said Archibald; `we will dine with you, to-morrow.'

`Good night.'

`Good night! good night! heaven bless you, Lucia!'
said he, passing out, and resting his fine eyes on her.
She burst into tears, and turned away her face.

I saw that all admired him; and that her heart was
too full for a word. Was it shame and penitence, for
having so lightly estimated his proud spirit?