University of Virginia Library

Such was the letter that Lucia gave to me, on the very
day that it was received! I wondered at her. There
was a meaning in it, that I dreaded to fathom---nor had
I an opportunity, for nearly three weeks; during
which time, James was born. Yes, James, you were
the first fruit of our union---our pride and beauty:---
and Ellen had a little girl; a very feeble, sickly thing,
who, heaven bless the sweet creature, I saw afterward
dying in your brother's arms.

As soon after these events had happened, and the
tumult, of a father's and a husband's heart, had been
permitted to subside, as it could be, I opened the subject
anew to Lucia.

She was holding my boy in her arms; her red lips
looking, as if they had been moistened with the kisses
of her own babe.

`Lucia,' said I; `have you answered Archibald's
letter?'

I had no idea that she had. I asked the question only
by way of introducing the subject, for I have observed
that women are less scrupulous about entrusting
their sacredest and fearfullest thought and confession,
to men, than to women; even if these women be their
mothers, sisters, or daughters; and that, when they do
this, they choose neither father, brother nor child, nor
husband nor lover. And they are safer in it. Men
feel a pride in such confidence; a pride too, in protecting
and advising, their helplessness. There cannot be
any collision of interest or passion—nor envy, nor uncharitableness

hope.—I look back upon my past life, with a
strange, melancholy wonder---much that I have done,
appears to have been done by some other Archibald
Oadley; and not by me. So young; so tender hearted,
as I was---a boy, but the other day, and now dying,
with grey hairs in my head, (it is a fact, brother)---of
old age---premature old age, and a shattered frame;
substance and being, body and spirit shaken to the
dust. For one thing only, do I reproach myself—
nay, for two—two, above all others---the blood of
Clinton, is one---my stubbornness to Lucia, is another.
But for them, I could sleep quietly; and, mayhap, die
very quietly---but they haunt me, with a continually
encreasing darkness and threatening.—I cannot sleep
now, at all. I walk all the day long, to and fro, in the
camp, when we are encamped; and ride, all the day
long, when not encamped---but, without knowing or
caring, where I am, or what I have done. I walk in
my sleep, too---that distresses me. I know not what
may happen---the sentinels are trusty, and I am ashamed
to communicate the truth. You would not believe
me, I suppose, should I tell you, what is very true---
that, after the battle, yesterday, I fell asleep upon my
horse, while my men were returning from the pursuit;
and might very easily have been taken prisoner. At
times, there is a lethargy, pleasanter than sleep---a
drowsiness, like that of sorrow and love---as if I were
sleeping upon the bosom of some dear one, that besets
me---and my heart overflows and—but no,
—shame on these emotions. I have written to Lucia.
Bid her bear up---bid her be comforted. We
shall soon meet again---again! where our hearts may
beat renewedly, forever and ever; purified and blessed.'

`Purified!' echoed the sweet martyr, faintly dropping
her arm, over the bed; and falling upon her face
—`purified!—I—' a long and continued shuddering
followed, in which the bed, itself, vibrated, and
the whole room trembled.

`But the other,' said Clara, wiping her eyes and
reaching me Copely's letter.

It was very brief, and to the following effect; but,
just as I opened it, in came the two brides; one, flushed
with a beautiful confusion, the other laughing and
crying, all in a breath; and rallying Mary, with a significance
that I dared not understand; till the sweet
girl burst into tears—partly of shame, partly of sorrow;
and Ellen threw herself upon her neck, crying, `hush!
hush, love—forgive me. I was cruel—childish—indelicate
and—hush—all in good time. We shall
be a houseful, nevertheless, (in a low voice) by the
time that he comes.'

She did not mean that I should hear this; but it
touched Clara, who coloured, and withdrew her hand
from the pillow, against which I was leaning, to give a
reproof to Ellen, that nobody should understand but
the women folks.

Copely's note. `Rodman would have written you;
but, he has just finished a letter to his wife; and he
cannot manage the pen for another line. The broad
sword has cramped his hand. He deputises me to give
his love to you all; and to say to you, Oadley—and to
our's and your's—heaven have mercy on all of them,
and particularly, on mine and reform her—if it be not
too late.'

`He be hanged!' cried Ellen, pettishly.

`Prepare yourself—be a man. Your brother encountered
and slew two officers, with his own hand, yesterday
—and took, with Jasper, of whom more by and by,
and five more of the troop, twelve of the enemy prisoners;
and then went to sleep in the saddle. Be a man,
I say, again. Your brother cannot live long. His
hours are numbered.

`Gracious God!' cried Ellen, `if Chester Copely
be trifling now, I shall hate him forever.'

`O, I hope that he is!' said Mary, in a voice like a
lone instrument, breathing to the wind.

`His hours are numbered. A consultation has been
held, since my last, for we are unwilling to lose him—
but, there is no hope. Am I abrupt? I fear so. But
—you are a man—your brother is a man. He has no

wife—no children—no beloved one—no, I am wrong,
he has an angel to leave behind him.'

`Not long,' said Clara, kissing her sister's forehead
—`no, no, not long, I am sure.'

`Would that you could see him! (said the letter.)
He never looked so well in his life. His temples are
transparent. Every movement of his heart is visible
in his eyes.' We all turned to Lucia, at these words;
it was a description of her appearance. `Poor fellow!
he has just left me, treading firmly the road that leads
to the chambers of death. Why delay it? why conceal
it? It fell upon me, like a thunderclap. It might
fall upon you so. We have done our best to prepare
you; at least, I have, for, while there was any hope,
he kept his situation a secret. But my course has
been different. I have told you the worst. You must
not blame me, however, that my last letter was not
alarming. When that was written, I began to have
hope—I have none, now.'

`The last! O! we are illy prepared yet,' said Clara.
`Would that it had arrived before this. Such
blows are terrible—I—'

`Jasper is dead—dead, poor fellow. I saw him fall;
but Archibald has just given me a particular account
of the transaction, with an air of pleasantry, that made
me scold him.

`I saw him,' said he, when the bullet struck his
heart; he was at full speed. Yet he kept on, for a
whole minute, and went completely through two divisions
of the broadsword, as I am a living man, before
he fell: the saddle turned, and the horse broke away
from under him—the saddle-cloth shot to ribbons, and
dripping with blood. I found the poor fellow, cut all
to pieces; his helmet shaved away; his uniform shot to
tatters—and the blood gushing out at his shoulders.
He died desperately. `But I expected it,' said Archibald,
`for, in his jocular way, I heard him, the morning
before the attack, while newly arranging a part of the
troop, in consequence of sickness and continual battle,
I heard him order all the ladies in the front rank.'

`The ladies!' said Ellen—`what the deuse does the
fellow mean?'

`The mares,' I replied. `Jasper always called them
the ladies of the troop—most of them were blooded.'

`But why put them in the front rank?'

`For many reasons.' I said, smiling at the question,
so innocently asked, and wishing, from my soul, that
I had not read the passage aloud; for Copely was
full of such jokes, `the fire and quickness of females,
are proverbial; the competition that would be produced;
the gallantry that it would provoke—the—'

`Read on,' said Ellen, impatiently—dropping her
eyes; `read on; what does the creature say next?'

`Nothing—except that I am to stand—here, read it
yourself—godfather to—'

`I won't!' she cried, jumping up, in a pet, and running
out of the room.

`Why, what possesses the poor woman?' said Mary,
her sweet, innocent lips parting so quietly.

Clara smiled; and handed her the letter—which sent
her out of the room, just as fast.

`Pray, what is the meaning of all this nonsense?'
said Lucia, with that calm, beautiful propriety, which
grew upon her every hour, till her death. `I cannot
pretend to misunderstand it. The feelings of the man
—the father! are natura: and why? Sister Clara, I
am ashamed of you; yes dear, of you. Young as I am,
I have that within me, that cannot play tricks, even
where they are looked for. I do not like Copely's levity.
The thought should solemnize him; the peril of
his wife—so delicate and frail, as her tenement is, that
should make him speak seriously. But perhaps he
would give it, the least insupportable air that he could;
and affect a pleasantry, while his heart is breaking, to
amuse others. Nay, sister—am I not right? What is
there to redden at? What to be ashamed of? I know
not what a mother's feelings are, it is true. I know
not what it is, to feel the stirring of life within me; a
life that is to make me altogether my husband's, here
and hereafter: but I do know this, that I should neither

toil at concealment, nor deplay, in such a situation,
where it was not a reproach. Still less would I affect
such tremours; or, if they were not affected, would I
indulge them before my husband, or before any body
that had eyes.'

`Lucia!' said Clara, blushing all over; `you astonish
me. I shall be offended, if this conversation continue.'

`Shame on you, then—shame on you! the woman,
in your situation, whose nerves will not permit such a
conversation; whose temper will not permit it, had
better die barren. I am serious. This is no sudden
thought. I know what I say. I have meditated upon
it. I love delicacy, I trust that, whatever be my
faults, I have not that of indelicacy at my door; but I
detest prudery and affectation. You are already a
mother, Clara—and must think and act like one. Your
own health, and that of your babe demand it.'

`By heavens, Lucia, you are a noble creature,' said
I, kissing her; `I am glad of this conversation. It
will be the better for poor Clara. Hitherto, the theme
has been a forbidden one between us two; yes,—between
the father and mother! at a moment so critical
too, when she is most in want of all sympathy and encouragement.
No Clara; give me your hand—there,
thank you! I love you unspeakably, as you know. I
love modesty. I revere this delicate timidity; this
bashful sensibility; but, it has gone too far—to an extent,
dear, unworthy of one so thoughtful and firm as
you. Your sweet sister has said wisely. These agitations
and tremours may have a worse tendency than we
dream of. Let us learn to think of the event without
stammering; to be prepared for it. One kiss! there—
there! Now go to Lucia, and let me see you kiss her.'

Clara did, while the tears danced in her full eyelids,
and thanked her.

Our arms entwined altogether, in one dear, thrilling
embrace; and the tears of the two sisters fell upon my
face, like a warm, summer shower, in a pleasant wind
—just at the shutting in of day light.

Woman!—the companion of our bed side—from our
cradle to our grave!—our ministering angel!—our
nurse!—our consolation, in all sorrow and trial —from
the first beating of life within us—to the last, the very
last, upon the bed of death—thou art the sweet fountain,
and nourishment of all our holiest being—and of
all our most immortal nature and quality!