University of Virginia Library

28. CHAPTER XXVIII.
“LAST SCENE OF ALL.”

Soon after my return to Point Isabel, not wishing to
remain among the wounded, I rented a shanty of one of
the sutlers, and had myself removed into more quiet, if
not more comfortable quarters. I also procured the services
of a black fellow, who, though by no means a second
Tom, attended upon me faithfully, and did all that lay in
his power to render himself useful to me. I experienced
much pain from my broken limb, and was at times very

despondent; but when I reflected how much worse it might
have been, and recalled the awful sufferings I had seen
others undergo, I truly felt I had more cause for rejoicing
than repining.

But what had become of my friends? what was their
present fate? I had seen nothing of Walter, nor heard a
word from him, nor of him, since our parting on the battle-field
of Palo Alto. Had he been wounded or killed? I
had looked anxiously over a list of names reported, but
his was not among them, and I knew not what to think
regarding him. And Clara—dear Clara—how fared it
with her? and with her father and Harley? Were they
still prisoners in Matamoras? and would our victories give
them freedom? or serve to render their situation more disagreeable,
not to say desperate?

Days passed—weary days—days of deep, heart-felt
anxiety: nights passed—lonely nights—nights of feverish
restlessness, in which I often awoke from wild, horrible
dreams. During this period I suffered much, bodily and
mentally; and it was only, as I have said, when I considered
how much I had to be thankful for, that I could feel
resigned to my situation, and bear the attendant ills without
a murmur.

One day, one bright and beautiful day, toward the latter
part of May, as I was half reclining on my rude pallet,
gazing out through the open doorway upon the sandy
beach, and the blue, calm waters of the Gulf, and envying
those who could walk abroad and enjoy the fresh air and
glorious sunshine, my servant entered hastily, and said:

“Sir—Mr. Walton—dar's two gen'lemen and a lady,
sir, 'quiring for you just back here, and dey're coming dis
way, sir.”

My heart seemed to leap into my throat, and I replied,
with great agitation:

“Show them in, Peter! show them in!”

“Yes, sir! I thought mebby you'd just like to fix up
a little, sir—they're quite 'spectable looking, sir!”

“Never mind—never mind—there is no time, and they
must take things as they find them.”

Peter hastened out; and immediately after, Harley
burst into the room, and was quickly followed by Colonel
Moreland and his daughter. The moment my eyes fell
upon them, I gave vent to my feelings in a loud cry of joy.
Harley was the first to reach my side; and seizing my
hand, while his eyes filled with tears that he seemed struggling
to repress, he said, in a voice half choked with
emotion:

“Ah! Harry, Harry, was it kind, was it like yourself,
to leave an old friend thus?”

“Perhaps I did wrong, Morton—but—”

“There, there, Mr. Walton—that will do,” interrupted
the Colonel, seizing my other hand, and speaking in a
warm, frank, off-hand manner: “let Palo Alto say the
rest. In brief, sir, I see you are a young man of true
spirit, and I like you the better for it—at your age I
would have done the same. Come, Clara, what say you?”

Clara had approached timidly, and stood behind her
father while he was speaking; and it was not till he
stepped aside, as he appealed to her, that I caught a fair
view of her features. Her lovely face was now crimson
with blushes, and she seemed greatly confused and embarrassed.
For a moment her soft blue eyes rested anxiously
and tenderly upon mine; and then a tear of sympathy
dimmed her vision, and her gaze fell to the ground.

“I trust I see you well, Clara? and that I shall find
you willing to forgive me for deserting my best friends in
the manner I did?”

I said this in a voice tremulous with powerful emotions;

and as I ceased, Clara raised her eyes; and though still
seeming embarrassed, replied, in low, sweet accents, that
fell upon my ear like music:

“I have nothing to forgive to one who more than once
perilled his life to save mine.” And then, after a slight
pause, added: “If you really did wrong in leaving your
friends, your awful sufferings would atone for far greater
errors. I hope we find you better—a—Mr. Walton?”

I took her hand, and holding it in mine, with a gentle
pressure, looked meaningly into her sweet face, and, with
pointed emphasis, replied:

“I am better now, Clara.” Then perceiving she was
uncommonly agitated, I turned quickly to the Colonel, and
exclaimed: “But Walter—where is he? I hope no harm
has befallen him!”

“Safe and well in Matamoras with the army. They
say he fought gallantly through both actions—at least
Captain Walker so reported him to General Taylor; and
as a further proof that he did something worthy, he has
been offered, and has accepted, a commission, and will
remain with the army. He sends kind greetings to you,
and regrets that he will not be able to see you again for the
present—for I suppose it is not your intention to enlist?”

“No,” said I, “I have seen adventure enough; and as
soon as I am able, shall set out for home—there probably
to remain for the rest of my life. But I am glad to hear
of Walter's success, and can sincerely say I believe he
deserves it. But now tell me of yourselves! How were
you treated after we left? and how did you procure your
liberty?”

“No further notice was taken of us,” replied the
Colonel; “and when Taylor entered the city as victor, we
of course found ourselves free. I must admit we had suffered
much anxiety on Walter's account, and yours; and great

was our delight to meet him safe and unharmed; and,
need I add, we were not a little grieved to learn of your
misfortune. So it seems our old foes are dead at last?”

“Whom do you mean?”

“D'Estang and Warncliff.”

“Ha! D'Estang dead also?”

“Yes, he was slain on the battle-field of Resaca de la
Palma—shot by Walker himself, as he was bearing down
upon the Rangers at the head of a body of lancers: Walter
saw him fall.”

“Well, let God judge him!” said I.

“You speak of going home,” pursued the Colonel. “May
I be permitted to say that you will go home with us first?”

“I may do myself the honor to call upon you before I
start for Virginia—but go home with you I cannot.”

“And why not, sir?”

“Because I shall not be able to attempt the journey for
days—perhaps weeks.”

“Well, we can wait till you are able.”

“No, no—I could not think of detaining you from your
family.”

“Now hold!” cried the Colonel: “not another word!
I am a man, sir, whose purpose is not easily changed; and
I tell you I have decided to remain in Point Isabel till you
can leave it with us. Why, you look surprised! Good
heavens! is gratitude then so scarce an article that you
must necessarily be astonished because we have resolved
not to desert the noble friend who perilled his all to save
us from a fate worse than death? Heaven forbid!”

Tears filled my eyes as the Colonel pronounced these
words, for I perceived they came from his heart. I had
felt lonely, dejected, desolate—but I felt so no longer. I
had found a warm-hearted, true friend in him, whom, of all
men, I most desired to call friend, the father of the only

being I truly loved. And Clara would remain also, and be
unto me as a ministering angel! Need I say that in the
present, with a thought of the future, I experienced a
happiness that amply compensated for all the perils,
privations, and sufferings I had undergone?

But Harley—my companion—my more than brother—
there was no necessity that he should remain through the
tedium of my confinement; and I urged him to go whither
love and duty called him. He had done for me, I told
him, all that a noble friend could do; and were there even
more to do, he had a young, tender, and lovely wife, whose
claims on him were paramount to all others.

He grasped my hand, and in a voice of deep emotion,
replied:

“Perhaps what you say is right, Harry. That I love
my dear Viola, you know; and you know how well I love
her; and you know, too, if she deserves my love. And
you can imagine the lonely hours of agonizing suspense
she must pass in my absence, under the soul-harrowing uncertainty
whether I am among the living or the dead! I
need not tell you how I long to see her—to relieve her of
her mental torture—to clasp her once more to this heart
that beats truly for her. But notwithstanding all this, I
could not face her and say I had left you in distress, in the
hands of strangers; no, no, I could not do that; and were
it not that I know my place will more than be supplied by
the kind friends who will remain with you, dear Harry, no
persuasion should induce me to leave you. But since my
presence here is not needed, I will take your advice, and
set out for Mexico the first opportunity—for part we must,
sooner or later.”

The day passed off happily in the companionship of my
friends; but it was the last I was destined to spend with
Harley—at least for many long years—and it may be we

shall never meet again. The next day, unexpectedly, a
vessel touched at Point Isabel, which he learned would
touch at Vera Cruz; and with a hurried, but tearful farewell,
he took leave of us, and embarked.

While on this subject, I may add, that though I have
never seen him since, I have frequently heard from him by
letter. He reached the city of Mexico safe and well, and
rejoined his lovely wife, who had begun to despair of ever
seeing him again. In his last communication to me, of a
recent date, he speaks of returning to the land of his nativity,
with his family, to lay his bones with those of his
fathers. Should he return, we may meet once more to go
over, by the quiet hearth-side, the perilous scenes of the
past. But that meeting belongeth to the Future, and of
the Future God alone knoweth.

And here let me drop the veil for a time, to lift it once
more, and then let it fall forever.

* * * * * *

It was on a scorching mid-summer's day that we reached
the quiet home of the Morelands. I pass over the scene
that ensued, when a long lost daughter and father were
first restored to a weeping mother and sister. We came
not unexpectedly upon them, however. The Colonel
had many times written home, apprising his wife and
daughter of his and Clara's safety, and had acquainted
them also with the thrilling events already known to the
reader; but there was much still to be told, and a thousand
questions to be asked and answered on both sides.
Then the news having spread of the Colonel's safe return
with his daughter, crowds of anxious friends, eager questioners,
and wondering listeners thronged the mansion; and
for a time we were literally besieged—till, in fact, I began
to think the horrors of battle a pleasant pastime compared
to this inquisitive torture. Among all my follies, I never

had any desire to be made a lion; but I was now, in spite
of myself, elevated to that disagreeable position; and in
my private journal I have recorded the fact under the head
of “Awful Sufferings.” I should perhaps remark here,
en passant, that I had at this time so far recovered the use
of my broken limb as to be able to walk without crutches
—but there was a slight limp in my gait, which remained
for weeks afterward.

Mrs. Moreland and Mary, I perceived, showed marked
traces of the anxiety they had undergone, and the latter
continued for some days quite serious; but her natural
gaiety and vivaciousness at length returned; and her
clear, merry laugh once more rung through the recent
abode of sorrow and gloom. There seemed but one thing
wanting now to complete the happiness of all parties—the
presence of Walter. But though he was missed by all
from the social circle, none took his absence so deeply to
heart as his doating mother. He had recently passed
through great perils—and, as a soldier, would continually
be exposed to new dangers—and she longed, with maternal
fondness, to see him once more—for she had withal a
presentiment that he would never return.

Alas! it is with deep, heartfelt sorrow I now record the
mournful fact, that her presentiment was verified. He
fell on the glorious battle-field of Buena Vista, and now
sleeps in a soldier's grave. Poor Walter! these eyes have
paid many a sad tribute to his memory.

Although the Colonel and I had been much alone
together, during my confinement at Point Isabel, and also
on our journey homeward; and though I had often been
on the point of asking of him the dearest boon in his power
to grant, the hand of his lovely daughter; yet, somehow,
when the most favorable moment had come, my heart had
always failed me—the words I struggled to utter had died

upon my lips—and the important question still remained
unpropounded. More than once, I think, he must have
been aware of my intention; but it was not, for him to
introduce the subject, and I did not for the reasons named.
But now the time had come for me to “speak, or for ever
hold my peace;” and summoning all my resolution, I
prepared myself, as well as I could, for the trying event.
Seeing him enter the library one morning, with a paper in
his hand, I soon followed him, and closed the door. He
looked up from his reading, and seeing that I was unusually
agitated, kindly requested me to be seated. I half
staggered to a chair, but did not sit down.

“Colonel Moreland,” began I—and methought my voice
sounded strangely, my heart fairly fluttered, and I was
half startled at my own boldness—“I—I have come—to
—to ask a boon,” I stammered.

“It must be a great one that I will not grant to one to
whom I owe so much,” he replied, with a bland, encouraging
smile.

“It is, Colonel—it is.”

“Say on!”

“I seek the hand of your daughter.”

Good heavens! the words were out before I knew it.

“Ah!” he said, with a peculiar smile, at the same time
rising from his seat: “I will send you an answer directly;”
and he went out, leaving me standing half bewildered, and
not knowing what to think of his singular proceeding.

I was not long kept in suspense, however. Presently
the door, which was partly ajar, swung quickly open, and
Clara entered in haste, her features pale, and wearing an
expression of alarm.

“Are you ill, Henry?” she cried, anxiously.

“Not that I am aware of—why do you ask?'

“Why, I just now met father, who said I should find

you here, and that there was something very serious the
matter with you.”

“Only an affection of the heart, I believe,” replied I,
smiling at the Colonel's joke.

Instantly Clara's recently pale features were suffused
with the deepest crimson, and her eyes fell to the ground
in confusion. I advanced to her, took her trembling hand,
and continued, gravely, in a low tone:

“This hand, dear Clara, I just now ventured to ask of
your worthy father. He immediately left me, saying he
would send me an answer. He has sent me you, and I am
answered to my wish. With his consent to our union, dear
Clara, I need but one other's to make me the happiest of
mortals: Will you be mine?”

She did not reply in words; but she trembled violently,
her head drooped gently, and methought the crimson of
her cheeks took a deeper hue.

“Thus am I a second time answered,” I whispered; and
gently throwing an arm around her, I drew her fondly to
me, and was about to imprint the seal of love upon her
lips, when I chanced to espy a pair of sparkling black
eyes peering at us from around the half open door.

“Good faith! is that the way you lovers settle the
mooted point?” cried the mischievous Mary, the moment
she saw she was detected, at the same time bursting into
the apartment, with her merry, ringing laugh.

Clara sprung from my side, and disappeared in an
instant.

“Heigh-ho!” said Mary, looking after her, with an
affected sigh: “how much she has lost by my interruption!”
and again her laugh rung out, merry and clear.
“Well, well, Mr. Walton, (looking up demurely into my
blushing face) you needn't get the scarlet fever on account
of it. So, sir, you did sing, `Come share My Cottage,' to

some purpose it seems. Ah! well, it only proves that Clara
was easily caught—you should have tried me.”

“And you will be caught some fine day, my little torment,”
returned I, laughing.

“It may be,” she answered, slowly, and with a mischievous
twinkle of her black eyes—“but not with sentimental
chaff;” and without giving me time to reply, she
bounded away, in high glee; and soon after I heard her
gayly singing:

A week later, and with a joyous heart I was speeding
over the briny waters of the Gulf, bound for my native
land. But I was not alone. There was beside me a gentle
being, whom I had sworn, before High Heaven, to love,
cherish and protect; and in her soft, blue eyes, as ever and
anon they turned upon me, beaming with tenderness, I
could read that my happiness was now shared by one who
had been a sharer in my perils and sufferings. Clara
Moreland was mine forever.

In due course of time we reached Virginia, and found
warm friends ready to give us a reception worthy of the
Old Dominion,—need I say more?

* * * * *

Years have passed since the date of the foregoing events,
and to me they have been years of unalloyed happiness.
The holy tie which first bound Clara and me together, waxes
stronger with time, and our love daily grows even deeper

and purer. The parents of Clara are still living, and in the
enjoyment of health and prosperity. The light-hearted
Mary is still with them; but I understand they are about
to lose her. She is about to enter into that bondage
against which she once so merrily declaimed; but he who
will cast around her the “Hymenial chain,” is worthy of
his prize.

* * * * *

Reader! my adventures, I trust, are ended—my tale is
told—my task is done. What more belongeth to me and
mine, lieth in the great Future; but ere I enter that
untrodden realm, I close the scene, and pass forever from
your ken. Adieu!