University of Virginia Library

15. CHAPTER XV.
OUR HERO AND HEROINE.

An hour or two after nightfall, Captain

Milford called at the mansion of Graham
Percy, and expressed a desire to see Rosalie
Du Pont.

“She's been thronged with visitors all the
afternoon, sir, and she's very much fatigued,”
answered the domestic, in a hesitating manner.

“Nevertheless, I must see her, if only for
a few moments,” rejoined Milford.

He was accordingly shown into a private
parlor; and presently Rosalie made her appearance,
looking very pale, but, if any thing,
more beautiful and interesting than ever.

“O, Edgar,” she said, throwing herself
upon a seat, “I am nearly worn out. So
many fashionable visitors, who said so many
meaningless nothings, and asked so many
questions, and required so many repetitions of
the horrible events through which I have
passed, that, considering the excitement, too,
under which I labored, I do think it little
short of a miracle if I retain my senses.”

“Well, I will not detain you long, dear
Rosalie,” said Milford, in reply; “and of
course the history you were about to give me
of yourself, must be dispensed with for the
present.”

“You seem serious, Edgar,” returned Rosalie,
with some anxiety; “has any thing new
of importance occurred?”

“Yes,” answered the other, in a low
guarded tone; “we have resolved to seize
the traitor to-night, if possible.”

“To-night!” exclaimed Rosalie; “you alarm
me! Why to-night? I thought the attempt
was not to be made for some days.”

“So thought I, when I saw you last; but
our original intentions are changed; we fear
delay.”

“But to-night—it is so sudden—my heart
too misgives me! Oh! Edgar, I would you
had not come on this perilous business! Oh!
if any thing should happen to you;” and the
bare thought conjured up such strong emotions
in the heart of the fair maiden, that, impulsively,
she started up from her seat, threw her
arms around the other's neck, and wept.

“Nay, dearest Rosalie,” said Milford, tenderly,
fondly straining her to his beating heart.
`Nay, dearest, give yourself no uneasiness,
I will be very, prudent; and I think we
are guarded against any serious danger.”

“All danger is serious, is alarming, is terrible,
if it menaces you, Edgar,” was the tremulous
answer of the lovely Rosalie. “To-night,
too!—oh, to-night!—can you not put it
off another day?”

“No, dearest, our plans are settled; but why
do you object to this night, more than to another?”

“I do not know; it is so sudden, Edgar—
so unexpected; and then, I seem to have a
strong foreboding that all will not go well—
that something terrible will happen. I want
delay—I know not why—but I want delay.
Oh! dear, dearest Edgar, if you love me do
not make the attempt to night! Promise me,
dear Edgar—will you?”

“If it merely rested with myself, my own
dear Rosalie, I would promise, I would grant
you any favor; for oh! I love you dearly, devotedly,
almost to madness. But, dearest,
you would not counsel me to dishonor, I am
sure; you would not have me desert my companions
at the last moment; you would not
have me now shrink, like a coward, from the
task I have undertaken, and have my name
a by-word of reproach among my comrades!”

“Oh! no, no; but could you not persuade
your companions to delay the attempt a day
or two longer?” said Rosalie, in a sort of
pleading tone.

“And that very delay we fear will increase,
rather than diminish, the danger of our undertaking.
Beside, having consented to the
arrangement for to-night, what reason should
I give for putting it off to a later period? I
could not tell them the truth—that your request
alone had influenced me to this step.”

“No, Edgar, no, that would not do, certainly,”
said Rosalie, hurriedly, a modest blush
suffusing her lovely countenance. “Ah me!”
she sighed, “what is to be done?”

“Really, dearest,” returned Milford, in a
tender, soothing tone, “I think you are needlessly
alarmed.”

“I hope so—I pray I may be!” she replied,
with energy. “But I should be more heroic
—I, who have been through so much, with a
stout heart: I should not shrink now, like a
timid school-girl, from the mere anticipation

of danger; but we can not always master our
feelings, dear Edgar, and act as reason dictates;
we can not always be nerved beyond a
quivering fear: for every human being has a
vulnerable point; and apprehension, if not
for ourselves, at least for those we love, will,
at certain times, as the great bard says of conscience,
`make cowards of us all.' The excitement
and fatigue I have so recently undergone,
have relaxed my nerves, and rendered
me unfit for your communication.”

“I regret, then, to have made it,” returned
the Captain; “but you know you made me
promise—”

“Ay, and if you had not kept it,” interrupted
Rosalie, “I should have had my faith
in your honor shaken. No Edgar, you did
right; and I hope this weakness—for weakness
l know it to be—will soon pass away, so
that I can show myself worthy of a brave
soldier's regard.”

“Ah! Rosalie, dearest,” rejoined Milford,
imprinting a kiss upon her tempting lips, “you
are worthy the regard of the bravest of the
brave; and as I ponder upon the blissful
thought, that you are pledged to me, that you
may one day be mine, I feel that I am blessed
far beyond my deserts.”

“And I have precisely the same feelings,”
returned Rosalie, looking up affectionately
into the other's face;” and my happiness is
only counterbalanced by the fear of losing
you. For myself, danger rather has a charm
than otherwise; but for you, I tremble.”

“And you have been through other peril
than those with which I am acquainted, I understand,”
said Milford, the words of the fortune-teller
now recurring to him. “What
adventure have you lately had in the country?”

“Who says I have been in the country
lately?” asked Rosalie, coloring.

“Ha! it is true, then, I see, by that tell-tale
blush,” rejoined Milford. “Ah! Rosalie, you
have been unkind—O, very unkind—to keep
this a secret from me. I thought I possessed
your entire confidence.”

“But who says I have been in the country
of late?” repeated the other.

“Dame Hagold.”

“Indeed! did she then tell you—”

“What?” inquired the Captain, as Rosalie
suddenly pasued. “Did she tell me what?”

“Ay, what did she tell you?” returned Rosalie.

“Well, she told me nothing. She seemed
about to do so, but, recollecting herself, ended
by declaring it a secret.”

“Well, I would rather not be more explicit
at present, dear Edgar; sometime, if we both
get safely over our present perils, I will tell
you all.”

“Then I will not question you, dearest,
any further,” replied the Captain; “it is enough
for me to know you have reasons for wishing
to remain silent”

“Ah! thanks, dearest Edgar, thanks; for
by this I see your confidence in me is not impaired,
although I am obliged to mystify you
a little.”

“Dear Rosalie,” returned Milford, gazing
fondly upon the countenance upturned to his,
“I would sooner doubt myself than you.
Were all the world to accuse you of a wrong,
and make the accusation strong in truth by
reason of their oaths; and were you, with
your dark, bright eyes, all calmly looking into
mine, to declare, with your sweet lips, the accusation
false; I would behave your unassisted
word, before all other evidence in opposition.”

“Ah! this is love,” cried Rosalie, with
glowing animation; “this is love—the pure,
the true, the lasting, holy, ever-faithful love—
which, living, gives us bliss, and, dying, makes
us happy; for love like this is not of the
`earth earthy,' but of that glorious region we
hope to gain when we have run our race below,
and death hath set on us the seal of immortality.
To feel ourself so loved, by one
we love in turn, creates within the mind the
purest, most delicious, happiness that mortal
is destined to know—though it may be as
dross to gold, compared to what the good may
know hereafter.”

“Yes, that hereafter is a blessed prospect,
to such as live aright while here,” returned
Milford, musingly. “Were it not for that,
what melancholy, gloom, and misery would
surround us!—and oh! how awful would be
the contemplation, that when grim death

should come to sever those who love, the separation
would be made eternal! Thank God!
we have a hope, that rises o'er such shades of
gloom, even as God's bow of promise arches
o'er the storm.”

“And you have hope that we shall meet
again, when time has run its course?” said
Rosalie, looking fondly upon her lover's noble
countenance.

“I have that hope,” replied Milford, “else
should I be most miserable.”

“Then to that hope I'll cling, even should
the worst befall thee, dearest Edgar,” returned
the fair girl, while two bright, pearly tears
stood in her lustrous eyes.

“Ay, sweet Rosalie, that hope shall be the
star upon life's path, to guide and cheer us
both, although portentous clouds at times rise
in our horizon, and threaten us with dire destruction.
But, dearest, however painful it
may be to both, I must remind you now, that
it is time for us to part.”

“So soon, dear Edgar?”

“Ay, Rosalie, for I must not keep my comrades
waiting.”

“And perhaps we are now to part for the
last time!”

“God only knows—but I will hope not.”

“Oh! if it should be, Edgar!”

“Then you must mourn me as one that
died a martyr to liberty.”

“Well, well—I will try to bear up. Be
still, heart! be still!”

“Should I chance to fall, dearest,” said Milford,
in a tremulous tone, “you will see that
justice is done my memory?”

“Yes—yes—dear—Edgar,” sobbed
the fair girl; for in spite of her efforts to be
stoical, to appear calm and composed, her feelings
almost choked her utterance.

“And now farewell, Rosalie!” rejoined the
Captain, fondly embracing the gentle, true-hearted
maiden.

“But ere you go,” said the other, “tell me
where you meet, and what is your plan of
operation?”

Milford, in a low tone, hurriedly informed
her of the whole arrangement, and said, in
conclusion,

“But an idea has just struck me, which
causes me fresh anxiety.”

“Speak! what is it?”

“That, should I be detected, or be successful,
suspicion may fall on you as an accomplice.”

“Indeed! Edgar—how so?”

“From the fact, that our intimacy is known
to Sir Henry Clinton. It is all well enough
so long as he believes me a deserter; but the
moment it is discovered I am a spy, he will
naturally become suspicious of you. A thousand
reeallections will then flash upon his
mind, tending to strengthen this impression;
and oh! I tremble at what may be the consequences
to yourself!”

“And if you are taken, Edger, I scarcely
care what those consequences may be,” returned
Rosalie, sadly and gloomily; “and if
you are successful, I shall too much rejoice to
let them trouble me. But that you may not
be uneasy on my account, let me assure you
that nothing more serious will happen than a
fashionable disgrace—loss of caste in society-the
which, you may rest assured, will not
trouble me beyond a passing inconvenience.
I might perhaps find it to my advantage to
leave the city; but even that would be pleasant
than otherwise; for I could then openly
mingle with those noble patriots, whose success
and welfare I have so much at heart, and
whose society to me is far dearer than that of
their would-be oppressors.”

“And you stand high, dear Rosalie, with
the best and noblest of these noble men; for
almost the last words of Washington to me,
were words of caution, respecting the endangering
of your safety.”

“Ah, Edgar, believe me, I feel more pride
in knowing I am, or have been, a momentary
object of solicitude on the part of tha
great and good man, than I should at learning
I had become a favorite at the court of the
mightiest sovereign of Europe; so much superior
to accidental royalty, in my humble
opinion, is this nobleman of nature. But I am
delaying you; I will do so no longer. Go,
Edgar, go! and may the good God protect
you! Be cautious, Edgar! be prudent! and
if you are tempted to do any thing rash, think
of me, pause, and reflect. There, adieu!
adieu! but Heaven grant it is not forever.'

“Farewell,” returned Milford—“farewell,
dear Rosalie—farewell! If our plan succeeds,
it may be long ere we shall meet again; if it
fail, it may be longer still; therefore, a last, a
fond farewell—perchance the very last that
we shall ever exchange on earth—and should
our next meeting be in heaven, there is no
parting there.”

As Milford said this, he strained the weeping
Rosalie to his heart, in a long, fervent, and
silent embrace—pressed his lips for a moment
to hers—and then, seeming to tear himself
away, rushed from the room; while she, half
fainting, sank upon a seat, and burying her
face in her hands, gave full vent to her overcharged
feelings. Suddenly she sprang to
her feet, and hurrying up to her little boudoir,
closed the door, and said to Munee, who sat
by the table, reading,

“Quick! girl—my disguise!”

The mute looked astonished, and picking
up a pen, wrote,

“What new adventure now, my dear mistress?”

“I can not explain now: quick! my disguise!”

“Unless you let me go with you, I will not
assist you,” wrote the other.

“Well, go—yes, you shall go—but hasten!
hasten! my disguise! quick! every moment
is an age;” and Rosalie became almost wild
with excitement.

Ten minutes later, two figures glided through
the shrubbery and garden, in the rear of Percy's
mansion, and out of the gate that opened
upon the bank of the river.

A stranger, to have seen them, would have
pronounced them two mullatto youths.