University of Virginia Library

12. CHAPTER XIII.

`Do you really believe, sister,' said Clara, `really and
truly, that there is no hope?'

She was leaning over the chair of Lucia, about a
week after the last conversation, while I sat, ruminating
upon the awful events of the past. Archibald passed
the window, just as she was going to reply, on
horseback. His motion was very feeble and wayward.

`How unlike himself!' said Lucia—locking her
hands; `when he rode by that window before, he was
younger, by many years, in reality; he appeared, ha,
how much younger! But sorrow will have way—and
where hath she wrought so unsparingly, as upon the
countenance of Archibald? Sister, I will answer you.
Do not believe the physician—do not. He may be an
honest man—a skilful one; but, I know better than
he, what that malady is, whose approach is felt by the
sufferer; and known to be death. I know, Clara, that
there is no help for me. I would have you prepared for
it. I die of a broken heart. I do not complain. I
cannot. Many weeks—many weeks may pass away,
before you are called upon to scatter the white flowers
over my grave—white flowers!—no!—let none be scattered

there. I—see him!—see him!—two years
ago, he would have reined an unbroken colt, as easy as
I could direct the motion of that child's arm, (kissing
the little fat arm of James, while she spoke)—yet now,
the unmanageable creature bears him whither he will
—and how. Poor Archibald!—thy proud heart deserved
a better fate. Oh!—brother!—brother!'

I saw the movement of the animal, but it was too
late; and I was unable to move hand or foot, in my terrour,
till I saw Archibald, by a sudden effort, which
amazed me, rise in the stirrups, and throw himself off,
as the furious horse, ran snorting and plunging toward
that identical tree, where Archibald had been well
nigh dashed to pieces, years before.

A servant passed the window, at full speed—another!
—and another—with Arthur and Copely:—and we
were left, in the terrible suspense, that followed, for
several minutes, till we saw Archibald returning on
foot, supported between Copely and a servant. He
smiled, as he passed her window, and stopped—signifying,
with a motion of his hand, that he had something
to say. Clara threw up the window.

`Do not be alarmed,' said he; `it was a childish
notion. I was willing to try my horse, once more,
before I parted with him; and he threw me—it is a good
lesson to me.'

`Are you hurt? dear Archibald?'

`Not in the least,' he replied, wiping the sweat from
his forehead—`not in the least!—I am, to be sure, a
little mortified—but—I have been on horseback, for
the last time.'

`Shut the window, Clara,' said I—feeling the tears
upon my cheek—`it is very cold and bleak, abroad.'

`It is, indeed,' said Copely, dashing his hand over
his eyes.

`Indeed it is—indeed it is,' said Arthur, and Clara,
at the same moment.

At this time, I was able to move, with tolerable
comfort, about the house—and, after sitting where I
was for about half an hour, musing upon the beautiful

face that lay before me, her large waxen eye lids,
fringed with shadow and silkiness; black as midnight
—her dark, lively eyes gleaming under them, like some
mysterious splendour, about to break upon us, and
blind us:—her round, and wonderfully beautiful arm,
lying under her cheek:—her magnificent hair, all
loose upon the pillow:—and her young bosom just
undulating under the pressure of her other hand, as if
a hushed infant were there—whom it were death to
stir—or waken. She was insensible—or, asleep I
thought—but, all the while, tear after tear gathered
and dripped, like oozing lustre, from her wet lashes—
and her red lips, now and then, vibrated, as if her
slumber were very, very happy.

After sitting and wondering at her power and loveliness,
for half an hour, I should think, without uttering
a word, or scarcely breathing aloud, I heard Archibald's
voice in the next room, and the sound of lamentation.
I went out.

`I have been on horseback for the last time, my
dear mother,' said he, `and why should I tremble to
say so? I know what I say.'

`O my son! my son!' answered my mother, looking
up in his face, while she leaned upon him, with her
old arms about his neck—`do not break my heart, all
at once—do not leave, me again.'

`Leave you, mother! never! never!' he answered,
parting her grey hair with his mouth, and kissing her
forehead. `My mother shall close my eyes—my last
breath, if it please God, shall be breathed out upon
that bosom, where my first tears were shed.'

`I'll tell you what it is, Mr. Oadley,' said Mr.
Arnauld, disengaging my mother's arms, from his
neck, `this is unmanly. There is hope—while there is
life, there is hope.'

`Yes—while there is life, there is hope'—echoed
somebody, afar off.

Archibald shook his head.

`O, bless you, bless you!'—cried my mother—
`bless you for that! Mr. Arnauld.'

He continued. `It is your duty to do all that lies in
your power for your restoration—is it not?'

Archibald bowed.

`And to support the spirits of your desolate and
aged mother, instead of weighing them down?'

`Assuredly,' said Archibald, with serious eyes.

`Then let her hear no more of this. Heaven hath
not told us at what day, nor hour, the angel of death
shall summon us; and, while it is our duty to be prepared
for his coming, at all hours, it is not our duty
to wear our lives away in apprehension, or—'

`Apprehension!' said Archibald mildly. `I have no
apprehension of death—none. But, do with me as you
please—I will obey you, while I have breath: for my
mother's sake, I will live, if God will let me; and
do some good before I die—but, I would have you all
prepared—you, brother—you, Lucia—(looking about
with troubled eyes)—no, she is not here—and you,
mother. Where is Lucia?'

`Would you see her?' said Mr. Arnauld---`go with
me, my son. But, I do pray you, have done with
these melancholy anticipations. Let us hear no more
of them.'

Archibald's countenance changed. `Go with me to
Lucia,' said he---`all of you---but first, Hanson, that
sword is your's---the horse---that I give to Copely---
furniture and all—I—'

`Brother!' I exclaimed, `you behave strangely. I
never knew you so regardless of our feeling.'

`My dear John,' he said, taking my hand, `I am
doing but my duty---no more, believe me. There is no
affectation in all this. No, as I hope to see my Maker!
But you will have me wear another face. Be it so. I
shall obey you. Let us go to Lucia.'

We all went together into the room; and found the
two children sprawling upon the floor---Ellenour intertwining
some wild flowers with the black hair of Lucia
---poor Mary looking, as if she had never known happiness
till then; and Clara romping with the baby; and
Lucia, herself, full of faint, spiritual self possession.

Archibald paused; and lifted his hands in admiration,
as he approached her.

`By heaven!' he exclaimed, smiling, `I have never
seen you so like what you were, that night, when your
tresses were loaded with peach blossoms and — ah!
—forgive me---I did not mean to distress you. You
are a stout hearted girl, Lucia. Give me your hand.'

Lucia gave it to him, with a look of doubtful astonishment.

`Do not be agitated,' said Archibald---`our friends
complain of us. They do not understand our feeling.
It is not too much to say, Lucia, that they cannot---
will not. Have you the heart—but, I need not ask
it— I know that you have —to—to—'

`To what!' said Lucia, firmly—`come nearer, Archibald.
There is a wildness in your eyes, that would
have terrified me once. What do you meditate?'

He said something, in a low whisper—at which a convulsive,
tumultuous, bright emotion passed over her
whole face. A murmur or two escaped her: she kissed
him, mouth to mouth—and the tears sprang sparkling to
her open eyes — and then, livid and purple flashes shot
over her forehead, as he continued, rising from her
embrace, and saying, in a cheerful tone—

`We will be sad no longer, love. What say you?
—shall we make glad the hearts that are about
us?—and, if we must die, die smiling?'

`With all my heart,' she replied. `I hate this cold
philosophy, that would make the coming of death so
dreary, and desolate, and awful. Let us be prepared;
but, let us lose no more time in sorrowing.'

Again they embraced; and we, arguing blissful
things from the rapture that illuminated their faces, as
they stood fronting each other, giving out and absorbing
light and beauty from their eyes, and lips, and
voices, like spiritualites conversing in some unknown
way—we were happy beyond expression.

From that hour, there was a visible change in their
countenances, and deportment. I cannot say that their
tread was stronger, in general, or their voices fuller

of tenderness and strength—but, at times, they walked
as in the morning of their days; and Lucia, for the
first time, during many years, sang to us, night after
night, till the period approached for the departure of
Copely and Arthur—when we all grew melancholy
again—all but Archibald and Lucia, I mean. Over
them, there seemed to be no influence in mortal change
or circumstance.

Several eminent physicians had been sent for, and
their testimony was truly encouraging. `Keep their
spirits up,' said they; `it is a malady of the heart, only
—and they may yet be raised—even yet.'

`God bless you, for it!' we all said together. `God
forever bless you, for the judgment! May you hear one
like to it, if ever, in sorrow and apprehension, your spirits
are bowed to the dust, for some infinitely dear one,
for whom you would lay down your lives!'

`I shall not go with them,' said Archibald, to their
questioning. `I have done my duty—I want repose.
Whatever come of this, I am sick of blood-shed; and,
it is time that I should begin to prepare for some change
—it matters little what. I am sick of battle and strife.
I want peace. Copely and Rodman have not wasted
so much I—and they have more to incite them—they
are married—happy—and—but so am I—happy—
O, merciful heaven! happy beyond all expression—beyond
all hope!—Lucia—little did I ever dream of this,
love, when I thought of our earlier affection—in the
solitude, the awful solitude of the camp:—when, every
sound that broke upon the ear, was the tramp of a
horseman, driven in by the enemy; the enemy, themselves,
thundering over our entrenchments—or the
trumpet breaking upon us. Would that we had met
before, that—ah, brother, I envy you!—Copely, I envy
you. You have that to live after you, in your sweet
babes, which is worth all the pleasure of life. This
boy!—(he took James up in his arms, and pronounced
a benediction upon him.) `I would rather have been
the father of that boy, than the founder of a kingdom—
the deliverer of nations—the conqueror of all the earth.

This is sovereignty—this it is, to be like a god—giving
life and loveliness to creatures, that are compounded of
all that you most love. If their children live, let them,
I pray you, be wedded. Do not betroth them; do not
restrain them, I pray you, do not; let it be remembered;
and if—if I should die before them—'

(I was delighted at his look; there was hope in it—
and the if was a new qualification. It sounded as if he,
himself, began to feel it possible to live.)

`Let my property be theirs—to be equally divided.'

There wanted but one week now, to a separation, that
was anticipated, like death, by our poor wives. Ellen,
with all her natural vivacity, was inconceivably distressed
and agitated, as the time approached; and Mary turned
pale, at the very mention of it, and bowed her head, like
one sick at heart—sick with unutterable love and terrour,
and longing.

`I am determined, dear Nell,' said Copely, chucking
her under the chin, one pleasant morning, just as he
was about to spring into the saddle; and she stood, half
pouting, half crying, to watch his departure—for an
hour's ride; `to put you upon bread and water; little
Luce, (the name of his babe was Lucia,) will learn
nothing of your motherly, sweet qualities, except that of
crying. What am I to do? Nay, Ellen—nay, my dear
Ellen, do I distress you?'

`Indeed you do, Chester,' she replied, putting her
hands upon his shoulder, and lifting her eyes to his,
while they streamed with tears; `I cannot bear this levity
now. I begin to feel serious; it touches me like
unkindness. I cannot bear it. I am a mother—the wife
of a man—who—Chester—we have been childish; let
us be so no longer. I can bear to lose you, if it must
be so; to part from you again—to— no matter what
— for Lucia—O she is the stay of all our womanly
hearts. She has taught me many a lesson of utility. If
our country must have you, I can bear it, as well as
another; but do not think, O do not, Chester, that, because
I laugh more; or, rather, because I have laughed
more, for I have done laughing now, that I feel less.

No—many a woman will laugh, to keep herself from
crying. Many a time, Chester—many a time, have I
rattled away, like a mad girl, before I felt the obligation
of a wife and a mother; merely that I might not
fall a sobbing in the deep rebuke of your seriousness.
Where was your manhood? Where your steadiness?
I have spoilt you; and you have left me to be taught
wisdom by others? You have become a trifler—indeed
you have—and I am getting a solemnity—I—'

`Bless thy little heart! child!' said Chester, catching
her up on his arms, and running into the house
with her, and placing her upon the table, before us all.

`There! stay there! by all the stars above us, Ellen
Copely—wife—mother—woman—I had rather listen
to thy sweet lips moving, seriously, with this plaintive
musick, than to all the parsons, chaplains, and priests
under heaven. Say on, dearest, say on!'

Arthur ran up in the same spirit, as if to give her a
hand, while we stood together, laughing at her embarrassment,
and the oddity of the transformation.

`Hands off! Rodman—hands off!' said Copely; `no
man shall dethrone that woman, till I have done homage
to her.'

`O, Chester—Chester!' cried Ellen, bursting into
tears, and falling upon his neck; `I cannot bear this.'

`By heaven!' cried her husband, inconceivably
shocked, for the first time, at her manner; `there is
something that I cannot understand in this, Ellen—my
own, my beloved Ellen—forgive me—how have I
wounded you?'

She shook her head, and blushed.

`By my gaiety? Ellen— Yes, yes— ah, how little
you know my heart; how liable are we to counterfeit
too strongly. Ellen, I have feigned so long, and so
steadily, that the feigning has become as a nature to me.
I laugh now, without knowing it. When I first laughed,
it made my heart ache. Do not believe that I am
weaker, frailer, or less considerate, than when we married.
No—I feel—thou excellent and high minded
woman! a veneration for thee now—now! so beyond

what I have ever felt before—that my soul stands
more erect and haughty than ever. I will never trifle
again.'

Saying this, he kissed her affectionately—shook hands
with her, vaulted into the saddle; and she left us, immediately,
for her own apartment, where she shut herself
up, till his return.

She was strangely altered—her volatility had all gone,
since the birth of her child; yet, she was not sad, nor
melancholy. She was only more serious and womanly;
more worthy of herself, and of her husband; while he,
it was evident, had been counterfeiting a spirit, that was
not natural to him, merely that she might not be intimidated,
or disheartened by the approaching separation.

But our hope grew stronger and brighter every hour.
Archibald and Lucia were constantly together, and
walking, whenever the weather would permit, for several
hours at a time. Their tones were cheerful—their
manner affectionate; and, we found them ever ready to
enter into our thousand little plans of reform. The past
was spoken of, without any dangerous emotion; the
future, calmly—and there was a look of unaffected piety
and submission, in the countenances of both, that comforted
us exceedingly. I was now able to walk about
the farm, and superintend it; while Mr. Arnauld, for
the first time, since his early wound, had recovered his
health, and was pursuing his plan of reformation, and
benevolence, with a steadiness that delighted me. Clara
was in better health, than she had ever been in her life:
from a pale, sick girl, she had become a noble looking,
dignified woman. Our boy was hearty as a young bear,
and handsome as the dreams of painted children.
There was every thing to give us hope, even in the affairs
of our country; but still, for it is ever thus—there
was a shadow yet, to go over the green, pleasant places of
the future. The war might last, heaven only knew, how
long; and Arthur and Copely were on the eve of bidding
their dear ones adieu, once more—for a period,
perhaps as long as before—perhaps longer—perhaps forever.
What wonder that we were sad? What wonder,

if their wives were forgetful of their blessings, in the
terrour of this anticipation? As the hour came near,
they wept, night and day, and would not be comforted.

But to counterbalance this, there was a mysterious intelligence
growing up, every day, between my brother
and Lucia. Her hand trembled, when he took it. The
blood rushed to her temples—and her look was not that
of one, who believes that a chamber is preparing for
her, beneath the green earth. Oh no—it was rather
that of the young heart, newly awakened, from a long,
dark, troubled dream; half doubtful, nevertheless, if
there may not be reality in it.

I watched them perpetually. My heart yearned
toward them; and, while I saw a gradual and sure
improvement in Lucia's health, I fancied that I could
perceive a like one, in that of Archibald. Was I mistaken?
follow me, my children—and the sequel will
tell you.

`I am thinking,' said Clara—leaning affectionately
upon my shoulder, below her, with my new wooden
limb over a chair; while Archibald and Lucia passed
the window, locked arm in arm—their faces bright with
intelligence—`I am thinking, that they are less obstinately
resolved on death, than they used to be.'

There was an archness in her manner, that made me
smile. `Yes,' I replied—`a substantial improvement
has been made by the timely admonition of your father.
But for that, one or both of them might be in the grave
—soon.'

`But what possesses them, not to marry?' said my wife.

`Have you any particular reason for asking that
question, dear?' said I—observing that she coloured a
little, as she did ask it.

She hesitated.

`Clara,' said I, gravely. `Hear me, love. Your
sister has put into my keeping a secret that materially
concerns her. I am not bound to keep it;—not bound
I say, by any promise. I may tell you whenever I
think it wise. I do not think it so, now—will that
satisfy you?'

`Certainly,' she replied—putting her hand upon my
forehead. That is acting like a man; that is treating
me like a friend. I knew that there was a secret—I
have known it for a long while; nay, it is not certain
that I do not know what it is; but I love to
be dealt plainly with. Do you know this letter?—'
(taking a letter out of her bosom.)

`No,' I said—

`Nor the writing?'

`No—yet stay—I have somewhere seen it before—
is it—it cannot surely be.'

`It is Clinton's.'

`And how came you by it?'

`I made him give it to me,' was the reply.

`Made him!—how?'

I met him—coming out of Lucia's chamber. I
charged him desperately; and would have wakened my
father. On one condition only, did I release him; that
was on his promise to leave the house immediately,
without meeting her again.'

`O, Clara—and did she know it?'

`No—it would have broken her heart. I never
alluded to it, never troubled, or watched her—I knew
her too well, to doubt that some horrible villany had been
practised upon her; but I knew also, whatever it was, that,
if it were discovered by me, it would break her heart.
I have kept the secret. She does not know that I know
aught of it. I love her more than ever; wonder at
her more than ever. She has not her equal among
women. It is that which keeps her bruised heart unhealed;
but for that, she had been well, long and long
ago. Read it. There it is.'

I took the letter. It ran as follows.

`O, spare her—spare her, Clara, whatever become of
me She is not to blame. I alone have done it. Poor
Lucia—my heart bleeds for her. I am a villain. I
obey—I banish myself forever. Keep the thing a secret
—and—I will obey.—No, no, it was not her fault.
No woman, not even Clara herself could have escaped
the snare—could—'

(Clara's brow contracted with haughty contempt)—

`could have escaped me. She was utterly in my power,
without knowing it—'

`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.