War was declared. The President, James Madison, proclaimed it June 18, 1812. Hostilities opened promptly. True, England's navy was largely engaged with France in the tremendous effort to keep Napoleon confined within the boundaries that he had at one time assented to by treaty, but at that period she had over a thousand vessels afloat, while America had only seventeen warships in her navy to brave them.
There was a call for men and money. The Indian troubles had been fomented largely by England. There had been fighting on the borders, but the battle of Tippecanoe had broken the power of Tecumseh—for the time, at least. But now the hopes of the Indian chieftain revived, and the country was beset by both land and naval warfare.
The town had been all along opposed to war. It had been said of Boston a few years before that she was like Tyre of old, and that her ships whitened every sea. Still, now that the fiat had gone forth, the latent enthusiasm came to the surface, and men were eager to enlist. A company had been studying naval tactics at Charlestown, and most of them offered their services, filled with the enthusiasm of youth and brimming with indignation at the treatment our sailors were continually receiving.
Still, the little navy had proudly distinguished itself in the Mediterranean, and theConstitutionhad gained for herself the sobriquet of "Old Ironsides"—a Boston-built vessel, though the live oak, the red cedar, and the pitch pine had come from South Carolina. But Paul Revere had furnished the copper bolts and spikes, and when the ship was recoppered, later on, that came from the same place. Ephraim Thayer, at the South End, had made her gun carriages, and her sails were manufactured in the Old Granary building.
"A bunch of pine boards with a bit of striped bunting" had been the enemy's disdainful description of our youthful navy. And now they were to try their prowess with the Mistress of the Seas, who had defeated the combined navies of Europe. No wonder the country stood astounded over its own daring.
Everything afloat was hurriedly equipped as a war vessel. The solid, far-sighted men of New York and New England shook their heads over the great mistake Congress and the President had made.
Warren Leverett began to talk about enlisting. Business had been running behind. True, he could appeal to his brother-in-law King. He had sounded Hollis, who declared he had all he could do to keep afloat himself.
Mrs. Leverett besought him to take no hasty step. What could they do without him? They might break up the home. Electa would be glad to have Betty—there were some things she could do, but Aunt Priscilla—whose health was really poor——
Aunt Priscilla understood the drift presently, and the perplexity. Warren admitted that if he had some money to tide him over he would fight through. The war couldn't last forever.
"And you never thought of me!" declared Aunt Priscilla, pretending to be quite indignant. "See here, Warren Leverett, when I made my will I looked out for you and Betty. Mary Manning shan't hoard up any of my money, and 'Lecty King, thank the Lord, doesn't want it. So if you're to have it in the end you may as well take some of it now, fursisee. I shall have enough to last my time out. And I'm settled and comfortable here and don't want to be routed out and set down elsewhere."
Warren and his mother were surprised and overcome by the offer. He would take it only on condition that he should pay Aunt Priscilla the interest.
But his business stirred up wonderfully. Still, they all felt it was very generous in Aunt Priscilla, whose money had really been her idol.
Doris had gone over from her music lesson one afternoon. They were always so glad to see her. Aunt Priscilla thought a piano in such times as these was almost defying Providence. But even the promise of that did not spoil Doris, and they were always glad to see her drop in and hear her dainty bits of news.
They wanted very much to keep her to supper.
"Why, they"—which meant the family at home—"will be sure you have stayed here or at the Royalls'. Mr. Winslow has given ever so much money toward the fitting out of a vessel. They are all very patriotic. And Cary's uncle, Mr. March, has gone in heart and hand. I don't know which is right," said Betty with a sigh, "but now that we are in it I hope we will win."
But Doris was afraid Miss Recompense would feel anxious, and she promised to come in a few days and stay to supper.
It was very odd that just as she reached the corner Cousin Cary should cross the street and join her.
"I have been down having a talk with Warren," he said as if in explanation. "I wish I had a good, plodding business head like that, and Warren isn't lacking in the higher qualities, either. If there was money enough to keep the house going, he would enlist. He had almost resolved to when this stir in business came."
"Oh, I don't know what his mother would have done! If Uncle Leverett was alive——"
"He would have consented in a minute. Someone's sons must go," Cary said decisively. "No, don't go straight home—come over to the Common. Doris, you are only a little girl, but I want to talk to you. There is no one else——"
Doris glanced at him in amazement. He was quite generally grave, though he sometimes teased her, and occasionally read with her and explained any difficult point. But she always felt so like a very little girl with him.
They went on in silence, however, until they crossed Common Street and passed on under the magnificent elms. Clumps of shrubbery were blooming. Vines ran riotously over supports, and roses and honeysuckle made the air sweet.
"Doris,"—his voice had a little huskiness in it,—"you are very fond of father, and he loves you quite as if you were his own child. Oh, I wish you were! I wish he had half a dozen sons and daughters. If mother had lived——"
"Yes," Doris said at length, in the long silence broken only by the song and whistle of myriad birds.
"I don't know how to tell you. I can't soften things, incidents, or explanations. I am so apt to go straight to the point, and though it may be honorable, it is not always wisest or best. But I can't help it now. I have enlisted in the navy. We start for Annapolis this evening."
"Oh, Cary! And Uncle Win——"
"That is it. That gives me a heartache, I must confess. For, you see, I can't go and tell him in a manly way, as I would like. We have had some talks over it. I asked him before I was of age, and he refused in the most decisive manner to consider it. He said if I went I would have to choose between the country and him, which meant—a separation for years, maybe. It is strange, too, for he is noble and just and patriotic on certain lines. I do think he would spend any money on me, give me everything I could possibly want, but he feels in some way that I am his and it is my duty to do with my life what he desires, not what I like. I am talking over your head, you are such a little girl, and so simple-hearted. And I have really come to love you a great deal, Doris."
She looked up with a soft smile, but there were tears in her eyes.
"You see, a big boy who has no sisters doesn't get used to little girls. And when he really begins to admire them they are generally older. Then, I have always been with boys and young men. I was glad when you came, because father was so interested in you. And I thought he had begun to love you so much that he wouldn't really mind if I went away. But, you see, his heart would be big enough for a houseful of children."
"Oh, why do you go? He will be—broken-hearted."
"Little Doris, I shall be broken-hearted if I stay. I shall begin to hate law—maybe I shall take to drink—young fellows do at times. I know I shall be just good for nothing. I should like best to talk it over dispassionately with him, but that can't be done. We should both say things that would hurt each other and that we should regret all our lives. I have written him a long letter, but I wanted to tell someone. I thought of Betty first, and Madam Royall, but no one can comfort him like you. Then I wanted you to feel, Doris, that I was not an ungrateful, disobedient son. I wish we could think alike about the war, but it seems that we cannot. And because you are here,—and, Doris, you are a very sweet little girl, and you will love him always, I know,—I give him in your charge. I hope to come back, but the chances of war are of a fearful sort, and if I should not, will you keep to him always, Doris? Will you be son and daughter to him as you grow up—oh, Doris, don't cry! People die every day, you know, staying at home. I have often thought how sad it was that my mother and both your parents should die so young——"
His voice broke then. They came to a rustic seat and sat down. He took her hand and pressed it to his lips.
"If I shouldn't ever come back"—tremulously—"I should like to feel at the last moment there was someone who would tell him that my very latest thought was of him and his tender love all my twenty-one years. I want you to make him feel that it was no disrespect to him, but love for my country, that impelled me to the step. You will understand it better when you grow older, and I can trust you to do me full justice and to be tender to him. And at first, Doris, when I can, I shall write to you. If he doesn't forbid you, I want you to answer if I can get letters. This is a sad, sad talk for a little girl——"
Doris tried very hard not to sob. She seemed to understand intuitively how it was, and that to make any appeal could only pain him without persuading. If she were as wise and bright as Betty!
"That is all—or if I said any more it would be a repetition, and it is awfully hard on you. But you will love him and comfort him."
"I shall love him and stay with him all my life," said Doris with tender solemnity.
They were both too young to understand all that such a promise implied.
"My dear little sister!" He rose and stooping over kissed her on the fair forehead. "I will walk back to the house with you," he added as she rose.
Neither of them said a word until they reached the corner. Then he took both hands and, kissing her again, turned away, feeling that he could not even utter a good-by.
Doris stood quite still, as if she was stunned. She was not crying in any positive fashion, but the tears dropped silently. She could not go indoors, so she went down to the big apple tree that had a seat all around the trunk. Was Uncle Win at home? Then she heard voices. Miss Recompense had a visitor, and she was very glad.
The lady, an old friend, stayed to supper. Uncle Win did not make his appearance. Doris took a book afterward and sat out on the stoop, but reading was only a pretense. She was frightened now at having a secret, and it seemed such a solemn thing as she recalled what she had promised. She would like to spend all her life with Uncle Win; but could she care for him and make him happy, when the one great love of his life was gone?
Miss Recompense walked out to the gate with her visitor, and they had a great many last bits to say, and then she watched her going down the street.
"Child, you can't see to read," she said to Doris. "I think it is damp. You had better come in. Mr. Adams will not be home before ten."
Doris entered the lighted hall and stood a moment uncertain.
"How pale and heavy-eyed you look!" exclaimed Miss Recompense. "Does your head ache? Have they some new trouble in Sudbury Street?"
"Oh, no. But I am tired. I think I will go to bed. Good-night, dear Miss Recompense," and she gave her a gentle hug.
She cried a little softly to her pillow. Had Cary gone? When Uncle Win came home he would find the letter. She dreaded to-morrow.
Cary had one more errand before he started. He had said good-by to them at Madam Royall's and announced his enlistment, but he had asked Alice to meet him at the foot of the garden. They were not lovers, though he was perhaps quite in love. And he knew that he had only to speak to gain his father's consent and have his way to matrimony made easy, since it was Alice Royall. But he had never been quite sure that she cared for him with her whole soul, as Isabel had cared for Morris Winslow. And if he won her—would he, could he go away?
He used to wonder later on how much was pure patriotism and how much a desire to stand well with Alice Royall. She was proudly patriotic and had stirred his blood many a time with her wishes and desires for the country. Grandmamma Royall had laughed a little at her vehemence, and said it was fortunate she was not a boy.
"I should enlist at once. Or what would be better yet, I would beg brother Morris to fit out a war ship, and look up the men to command it, and go inanycapacity. I should not wait for a high-up appointment."
When Cary confessed his step first to her, she caught his hands in hers so soft and delicate.
"I knew you were the stuff out of which heroes were made!" she cried exultantly. "Oh, Cary, I shall pray for you day and night, and you will come back crowned with honors."
"If I come back——"
"You will. Take my word for your guerdon. I can't tell youhowI know it, but I am sure you will return. I can see you and the future——"
She paused, flushed with excitement, her eyes intense, her rosy lips tremulous, and looked, indeed, as if she might be inspired.
So she met him again at the garden gate for a last good-by. Young people who had been well brought up did not play at love-making in those days, though they might be warm friends. A girl seldom gave or received caresses until the elders had signified assent. An engagement was quite a solemn thing, not lightly to be entered into. And even to himself Cary seemed very young. All his instincts were those of a gentleman, and in his father he had had an example of the most punctilious honor.
They walked up and down a few moments. He pressed tender kisses on her fair hand, about which there always seemed to cling the odor of roses. And then he tore himself away with a passionate sorrow that his father, the nearest in human ties of love, could not bid him Godspeed.
The next morning Doris wondered what had happened. There was a loneliness in the very air, as there had been when Uncle Leverett died. The sky was overcast, not exactly promising a storm, but soft and penetrative, as if presaging sorrow.
Oh, yes, she remembered now. She dressed herself and went quietly downstairs.
"You may as well come and have your breakfast," exclaimed Miss Recompense. "Your uncle sent down word that he had a headache and begged not to be disturbed. He was up a long while after he came home last night; it must have been past midnight when he went to bed. I wish he did not get so deeply interested in improvements and everything. And if we are to be bombarded and destroyed I don't see any sense in laying out new streets and filling up ponds and wasting the money of the town."
It seemed to Doris as if she could not swallow a mouthful. She tried heroically. Then she went out and gathered a bunch of roses for Uncle Win's study. She generally read French and Latin a while with him in the morning. Then she made her bed, dusted her room, put her books in her satchel and went to school in an unwilling sort of fashion. How long the morning seemed! Then there was a half-hour in deportment—we should call it physical culture at present. All the girls were gay and chatty. Eudora told her about a new lace stitch. Grandmamma had been out yesterday where there was such an elegant Spanish woman with coal-black eyes and hair. Her family had fled to this country to escape the horrors of war. They had been rich, but were now quite poor, and she was thinking of having a needlework class.
Did Eudora know Cary had gone away?
Uncle Win came out to dinner. She was a little late. He glanced up and gave a faint half-smile, but, oh, how deadly pale he was!
"Dear Uncle Winthrop—is your headache better?" she asked with gentle solicitude.
"A little," he said gravely.
It was a very quiet meal. Although Mr. Winthrop Adams had a delicate appearance, he was rarely ill. Now there were deep rings under his eyes, and the utter depression was sad indeed to behold.
Doris nearly always ran in the study and gossiped girlishly about the morning's employments. Now she sauntered out on the porch. There was neither music nor writing class. She wondered if she had better sew. She was learning to do that quite nicely, but the stocking still remained a puzzle.
"Doris," said a gentle voice through the open window; and the sadness pierced her heart.
She rose and went in. Solomon lay on his cushion in the corner, and even he, she thought, had a troubled look in his eyes. Uncle Win sat by the table, and there lay Cary's letter.
She put her arms about his neck and pressed her soft warm cheek against his, so cool that it startled her.
"My clear little Doris," he began. "I am childless. I have no son. Cary has gone away, against my wishes, in the face of my prohibition. I do not suppose he will ever return alive. And so I have given him up, Doris"—his voice failed him. He had meant to say, "You are all I have."
"Uncle Win—may I tell you—I saw him yesterday in the afternoon. And he told me he had enlisted——"
"Oh, then, you know!" The tone somehow grew harder.
"Dear Uncle Win, I think he could not help going. He was very brave. And he was sorry, too. His eyes were full of tears while he was talking. And he asked me——"
"To intercede for him?"
"No—to stay here with you always. He said I was like a little sister. And I promised. Uncle Win, if you will keep me I will be your little girl all my life long. I will never leave you. I love you very dearly. For since Uncle Leverett went away I have given you both loves."
She stood there in silence many minutes. Oh, how comforting was the clasp of the soft arms about his neck, how consoling the dear, assuring voice!
"Will you tell me about it?" he said at length.
She was a wise little thing, though I think her chief wisdom lay in her desire not to give anyone pain. Some few sentences she left out, others she softened.
"Oh," she said beseechingly, "you will not be angry with him, Uncle Winthrop? I think it is very brave and heroic in him. It is like some of the old soldiers in the Latin stories. I shall study hard now, so I can read about them all. And I shall pray all the time that the war will come to an end. We shall be so proud and glad when he returns. And then you will have two children again."
"Yes—we will hope for the war to end speedily. It ought never to have begun. What can we do against an enemy that has a hundred arms ready to destroy us? Little Doris, I am glad to have you."
Winthrop Adams was not a man to talk over his sorrows. He had been wounded to the quick. He had not dreamed that his son would disregard his wishes. His fatherly pride was up in arms. But he did not turn his wounded side to the world. He quietly admitted that his son had gone to Annapolis, and received the congratulations of friends who sincerely believed it was time to strike.
Salem was busy at her wharves, where peaceable merchantmen were being transformed into war vessels. Charlestown was all astir, and sailors donned the uniform proudly. New York and Baltimore joined in the general activity. TheConstellationwas fitting out at Norfolk. TheChesapeake, theUnited States, and thePresidentwere to be made famous on history's page. Privateers without number were hurried to the fore.
TheConstitutionhad quite a reception in New York, and she started out with high endeavors. She had not gone far, however, before she found herself followed by three British frigates, and among them theGuerriere, whose captain Commodore Hull had met in New York. To be captured in this manner—for fighting against such odds would be of no avail—was not to be thought of, so there was nothing but a race before him. If he could reach Boston he would save his ship and his men, and somewhere perhaps gain a victory.
Ah, what a race it was! The men put forth all their strength, all their ingenuity. At times it seemed as if capture was imminent. By night and by day, trying every experiment, working until they dropped from sheer fatigue, and after an hour or two of rest going at it again—Captain Hull kept her well to the windward, and with various maneuverings puzzled the pursuers. Then Providence favored them with a fine, driving rain, and she flew along in the darkness of the night, hardly daring to hope, but at dawn, after a three days' race, Boston was in sight, and her enemies were left behind.
But that was not in any sense a complete victory, and she started out again to face her enemy and conquer if she could, for her captain knew the British shipGuerrierewas lying somewhere in wait for her. Everybody prayed and hoped. Firing was heard, but at such a distance from the harbor nothing could be decided.
The frontier losses had been depressing in the extreme. Boston had hung her flags at half-mast for the brave dead. But suddenly a report came that theConstitutionhad been victorious, and that theGuerriereafter having been disabled beyond any power of restoration, had been sent to a watery grave.
In a moment it seemed as if the whole town was in a transport of joy. Flags were waving everywhere, and a gayly decorated flotilla went out in the harbor to greet the brave battle-scarred veteran. And when the tale of the great victory ran from lip to lip the rejoicing was unbounded. A national salute was fired, which was returned from the ship. The streets were in festive array and crowded with people who could not restrain their wild rejoicing. TheGuerriere, which was to drive the insolent striped bunting from the face of the seas, had been swept away in a brief hour and a half, and the bunting waved above her grave. That night the story was told over in many a home. The loss of theConstitutionhad been very small compared to that of theGuerriere, which had twenty-three dead and fifty-six wounded; and Captain Dacres headed the list of prisoners.
There was a grand banquet at the Exchange Coffee House. The freedom of the city was presented to Captain Hull, and New York sent him a handsome sword. Congress voted him a gold medal, and Philadelphia a service of plate.
At one blow the prestige of invincibility claimed for the British navy was shattered. And now theConstitution'searlier escape from the hot chase of the three British frigates was understood to be a great race for the nation's honor and welfare, as well as for their own lives, and at last the baffled pursuers, out-sailed, out-maneuvered, dropped behind with no story of success to tell, and were to gnaw their hearts in bitterness when they heard of this glorious achievement.
Uncle Winthrop took Doris and Betty out in the carriage that they might see the great rejoicing from all points. Everywhere one heard bits of the splendid action and the intrepidity of Captain Hull and his men.
"I only wish Cary had been in it," said Betty with sparkling eyes.
Warren told them that when Lieutenant Read came on deck with Captain Hull's "compliments, and wished to know if they had struck their flag," Captain Dacres replied:
"Well—I don't know. Our mizzenmast is gone, our mainmast is gone, and I think you may say on the whole that we have struck our flag."
One of the points that pleased Mr. Adams very much was the official report of Captain Dacres, who "wished to acknowledge, as a matter of courtesy, that the conduct of Captain Hull and his officers to our men had been that of a brave enemy; the greatest care being taken to prevent our losing the smallest trifle, and the kindest attention being paid to the wounded."
More than one officer was to admit the same fact before the war ended, even if we did not receive the like consideration from our enemies.
"I only wish Cary had been on theConstitution," said Betty eagerly. "I should be proud of the fact to my dying day, and tell it over to my grandchildren."
A tint of color wavered over Uncle Winthrop's pale face. No one mentioned Cary, out of a sincere regard for his father, except people outside who did not know the truth of his sudden departure; though many of his young personal friends were aware of his interest and his study on the subject.
Old Boston had a gala time surely. The flags floated for days, and everyone wore a kind of triumphant aspect. That her own ship, built with so much native work and equipments, should be the first to which a British frigate should strike her colors was indeed a triumph. Though there were not wanting voices across the sea to say theGuerriereshould have gone down with flying colors, but even that would have been impossible.
Miss Recompense and Uncle Winthrop began to discuss Revolutionary times, and Doris listened with a great deal of interest. She delighted to identify herself strongly with her adopted country, and in her secret heart she was proud of Cary, though she could not be quite sure he was right in the step he had taken. They missed him so much. She tried in many ways to make up the loss, and her devotion went to her uncle's heart.
If they could only hear! Not to know where he was seemed so hard to bear.
Doris was in the little still-room, as it was called—a large sort of pantry shelved on one side, and with numerous drawers and a kind of dresser with glass doors on another. By the window there were a table and the dainty little still where Miss Recompense made perfumes and extracts. There were boxes of sweet herbs, useful ones, bottles of medicinal cordials and salves. Miss Recompense was a "master hand" at such things, and the neighbors around thought her as good as a doctor.
It was so fragrant in this little room that Doris always had a vague impression of a beautiful country. She had a kind of poetical temperament, and she hoped some day to be able to write verses. Helen Chapman had written a pretty song for a friend's birthday and had it set to music. The quartette sang it so well that the leading paper had praised it. There was no one she could confess her secret ambition to, but if she everdidachieve anything she would confide in Uncle Winthrop. So she sat here with all manner of vague, delightful ideas floating through her brain, steeped with the fragrance of balms and odors.
"Please, 'm," and Dinah stood in the door in all the glory of her gay afternoon turban, which seemed to make her face more black and shining—"Please, 'm, dere's a young sojer man jus' come. He got a bundle an' he say he got strict d'rections to gib it to missy. An' here's de ticket."
"Oh, for me!" Doris took it eagerly and read aloud, "Lieutenant E. D. Hawthorne." "Oh, Miss Recompense, it's from Cary, I know," and for a moment she looked undecided.
Miss Recompense had on her morning gown, rather faded, though she had changed it for dinner. Her sleeves were pushed above the elbow, her hands were a little stained, and just now she could not leave her concoction without great injury to it, though it was evidently improper for a child like Doris, or indeed a young lady, to see a strange gentleman alone. And Mr. Adams was out.
Doris cut the Gordian knot by flashing through the kitchen and entering the lower end of the hall. The young man stood viewing "The Destruction of the Spanish Armada." But he turned at the sort of bird-like flutter and glanced at the vision that all his life long he thought the prettiest sight he had ever beheld.
She had on a simple white frock, though it was one of her best, with a narrow embroidered ruffle around the bottom that Madam Royall had given her. When it was a little crumpled she put it on for afternoon wear. The neck was cut a small square with a bit of edging around it, gathered with a pink ribbon tied in a bow in front. She still wore her hair in ringlets; it did not seem to grow very fast, but she had been promoted to a pompadour, the front hair being brushed up over a cushion. That left innumerable short ends to curl in tiny tendrils about her forehead. Oddly enough, too, she had on a pink apron Betty had made out of the best breadth of a pink India lawn frock she had worn out. It had pretty pockets with a bow of the same.
"Miss Doris Adams," exclaimed the young lieutenant. "I should have known you in a minute, although you are——" He paused and flushed, for Cary had said, "She isn't exactly handsome, but very sweet-looking with pretty, eager eyes and fair hair." He checked himself suddenly, understanding the impropriety of paying her the compliment on the end of his tongue, but he thought her an enchanting picture. "You are larger than I supposed. Adams always said 'My little cousin.'"
"I was little when I first came. And I have grown ever so much this summer—since Cary went away. Oh, have you seen him? How is he? Where is he?"
Doris had a soft and curiously musical voice, the sound that lingered with a sort of cadence. Her eyes shone in eager expectation, her curved red lips were dewy sweet.
"He is well. He has sailed on theUnited Statesas midshipman. I saw him at Annapolis—indeed, we came quite near being on the same vessel. He is a fine young fellow, but he doesn't look a day over eighteen. And thereisa family resemblance," but he thought Doris would make a much handsomer young woman than Cary would a young man. "And I have a small packet for you that I was to deliver to no one else."
He held it out to her with a smile. It was sealed, and was also secured with a bit of cord, which, of course, should have been a thread of silk, but we saved our refinements of chivalry for other purposes.
"He is going to make a fine, earnest, patriotic sailor. You will never hear anything about him that you need be ashamed of. He told me his father wasn't quite reconciled to the step, but after this splendid victory in Boston harbor—to strain a little point," laughingly, "the town may well be proud of the courageous navy. And I hope you will hear good news of him. One thing you may be sure of—he will never show the white feather."
Oh, how her eyes glistened! There were tears in them as well.
"He described the house to me, and the town. I have never been in Boston before, and have come from Washington on important business. I return this evening. I don't know when I shall see him again, and letters to vessels are so uncertain. That seems the hardest part of it all. But he may happen in this very port before a great while. One never knows. Believe that I am very glad to have the opportunity of coming myself, and if in the future I should run across him on the high seas or the shore even,"—smiling again,—"I shall feel better acquainted and more than ever interested in him. There is one great favor I should like to ask—could you show me the study? Adams talked so much about that and his father."
"It is here." Doris made a pretty gesture with her hand, and he walked to the door, glancing around. There was the high backed chair by the table with its covering of Cordovan leather, and he could imagine the father sitting there.
"One would want a year to journey around these four walls," he said with a soft sigh. "A library like this is an uncommon sight. And you study here? Adams said you had been such a comfort and pleasure to his father. Oh, what a magnificent cat!"
"Kitty is mine," said Doris. She crossed over to the window, and Solomon rose to his fullest extent, gave a comfortable stretch, and rubbed the cheek of his young mistress, then arched his back, studied the visitor out of sleepy green eyes and began to turn around him three times in cat fashion.
They both laughed at that. Did Doris know what a pretty picture she made of herself in her girlish grace?
"Thank you. What a splendid old hall! I should like to spend a day looking round. But I had only the briefest while, and I was afraid I should not get here. So I must be satisfied with my glimpse. I shall hope that fate will send me this way again when I have more leisure. May I pay a visit here?"
"Oh, yes," returned Doris impulsively. "And I can never tell you how glad I am for this," touching the little packet caressingly to her cheek. "There isn't any word with enough thanks and gratitude in it."
"I am glad to have earned your gratitude. And now I must say farewell, for I know you are impatient to read your letter."
He stepped out on the porch and bowed with a kind of courtly grace. Doris realized then that he was a very handsome young man.
"Miss Doris,"—he paused halfway down the steps,—"I wonder if I might be so bold as to ask for yonder rose—the last on its parent stem?"
Thomas Moore had not yet immortalized "The Last Rose of Summer" and given it such pathetic possibilities.
"Oh, yes," she said. "That is a late-blooming rose—indeed, it blooms twice in the season." Only this morning she had gathered a bowl of rose leaves for Miss Recompense, and this one had opened since. She broke the stem and handed it to him. "It is a very little gift for all you have brought me," she added in a soft, heart-felt tone.
"Thank you. I shall cherish it sacredly."
Miss Recompense had hurried and donned a gingham gown and a fresh cap. She had come just in time to see the gift, and the manner in which the young man received it alarmed her. And when he had walked down to the street he turned and bowed and made a farewell gesture with his hand.
Doris had nothing to cut the cord around the packet, so she bit it with her pretty teeth and tore off the wrapper, coming up the steps. Then raising her eyes she sprang forward.
"Oh, dear Miss Recompense, letters, see! A letter from Cary all to myself, and one for Uncle Win! I'll just put that on his table to be a joyful surprise. And may I come and read mine to you? He was in such a hurry, though really I did not ask him to stay. Was that impolite?"
"No—under the circumstances." She cleared her throat a little, but the lecture on propriety would not materialize.
"'Dear little Doris.' Think of that—wouldn't Cary be surprised to see how much I have grown! May I sit here?"
Miss Recompense was about to decant some of her preparations. Doris took the high stool and read eagerly, though now and then a little break came in her voice. The journey to Annapolis with half a dozen college chums bent on the same errand, the being mustered into the country's service and assigned to positions, meeting famous people and hearing some thrilling news, and at last the order for sailing, were vivid as a picture. She was to let Madam Royall and the household read all this, and he sent respectful regard to them all, and real love to all the Leveretts. There had been moments when he was wild to see them again, but after all he was prouder than ever to be of service to his country, who needed her bravest sons as much now as in her seven years' struggle.
There was a loose page beginning "For your eyes alone, Doris," and she laid it by, for she felt even now that she wanted to cry over her brave cousin. Then he spoke of Lieutenant Hawthorne, who had been instrumental in getting him his appointment, and who had undertaken to see that this would reach her safely. And so many farewells, as if he could hardly say the very last one.
Miss Recompense wiped her eyes and stepped about softly, as if her whole body was pervaded with a new tenderness. She made little comments to restore the equilibrium, so that neither would give way to undue emotion.
"Miss Recompense, do you think I might run up to Aunt Elizabeth's with my letter? They will all want to hear."
"Why—I see no objections, child. And then if you wanted to go to Madam Royall's—but I think they will keep you to tea at Sudbury Street. Let Betty or Warren walk home with you. Take off your apron."
Doris read half a dozen lines of her own personal letter and laid it in the bottom of her workbox, that had come from India, and had a subtle fragrance. She did not want to cry in real earnest, as she felt she should, with all these references to Uncle Win. She tied on her hat and said "Good-afternoon," and really did run part of the way.
They were just overflowing with joy to hear, only Betty said, "What a shame Cary had to go before the glorious news of theConstitution! There was a chance of two days after he had written his letter, so he might have heard." Postage was high at that time and mails uncertain, so letters and important matters were often trusted to private hands. Then Lieutenant Hawthorne had not gone to Boston as soon as he expected.
Betty had some news too. Mr. and Mrs. King were going to Washington, perhaps for the greater part of the winter.
As they walked home Betty rehearsed her perplexities to Doris. It was odd how many matters were confided to this girl of thirteen, but she seemed so wise and sensible and sympathetic.
"If it wasn't quite such hard times, and if Warren could marry and bring Mercy home! She's an excellent housekeeper, just the wife for a struggling young man, mother admits. But whethershewould like it, and whether Aunt Priscilla would feel comfortable, are the great questions. She's been so good to Warren. Mary badgered him dreadfully about her part. If Mary was a little more like Electa!"
Warren had been keeping company with Mercy Gilman for the last year. She was a bright, cheerful, industrious girl, well brought up, and the engagement was acceptable to both families. Young people paid more deference to their elders then. Warren felt that he could not go away from home, and surely there was room enough if they could all agree.
"It's odd how many splendid things come to Electa, though it may be because she is always willing to take advantage of them. They have rented their house in New York and are to take some rooms in Washington. Bessy and Leverett are to be put in school, and she takes the two little ones. Their meals are to be sent in from a cook shop. Of course she can't be very gay, being in mourning. Everybody says Mrs. Madison is so charming."
"Oh, I wish you could go," sighed Doris.
"And Mary is always wondering why I do not come and stay with her, and sew and help along. Oh, Doris, what if I should be the old maid aunt and go visiting round! For there hasn't a soul asked me to keep company yet," and Betty laughed. But she was not very anxious on the subject.
They reached the corner and kissed each other good-night. Miss Recompense sat on the stoop with a little shawl about her shoulders. She drew Doris down beside her and inquired about her visit.
While there was much that was stern and hard and reticent in the Puritan character, there was also an innate delicacy concerning the inward life. They made few appeals to each other's sympathies. Perhaps this very reserve gave them strength to endure trials heroically and not burden others.
Miss Recompense had judged wisely that Mr. Adams would prefer to receive his missive alone. His first remark had been the usual question:
"Where is Doris?"
"Oh, we have had quite an adventure—a call from a young naval officer. Here is his card. He brought letters to you and Doris, and she was eager to take hers over to Betty. She will stay to supper."
He scrutinized the card while his breath came in strangling gasps, but he preserved his composure outwardly.
"Did you—did he——" pausing confusedly.
"I did not see him," returned Miss Recompense quietly. "I was not in company trim, and he asked for Doris. I dare say he thought her a young lady."
"Is he staying in Boston?" fingering the card irresolutely.
"He was to return to Washington at once. He had come on some urgent business."
Mr. Adams went through to his study. He looked at the address some moments before he broke the seal, but he found the first lines reassuring.
"Will you have supper now?" asked Miss Recompense from the doorway.
"If convenient, yes." He laid down his letter and came out in the hall. "Doris told you all her news, I suppose?"
"She read me her letter. Cary seems to be in good spirits and position. He spoke very highly of Lieutenant Hawthorne."
"The accounts seem very satisfactory."
Then they went out to the quiet supper. A meal was not the same without Doris.
All the evening he had remained in his room, reading his son's letter more than once and lapsing into deep thought over it. He heard the greetings now, and came out, inquiring after the folks in Sudbury Street, sitting down on the step and listening with evident pleasure to Doris' eager chat. It was bedtime when they dispersed.
"Uncle Win," Doris said the next morning, "there is a page in my letter I would like you to read. And do you think I might go home with Eudora and take dinner at Madam Royall's? Cary sent them some messages."
"Yes, child," he made answer.
They were indeed very glad, but like Betty they could not help wishing he had been on the famousConstitution. Alice was particularly interested, and said she should watch the career of theUnited States.
After that the ice seemed broken and no one hesitated to mention Cary. But Mr. Winthrop said to Doris:
"My dear child, will you give me this leaf of your letter. I know Cary did not mean it for my eyes, but it is very precious to me. Doris, how comes it that you find the way to everybody's heart?"
"And you will forgive him, Uncle Win? He was so brave——" Her voice trembled.
"I have forgiven him, Doris. If I should never see him again,—you are young and most likely will,—assure him there never was a moment that I ceased to love him. Perhaps I have not taken as much pains to understand him as I might have. I suppose different influences act upon the new generation. If we should both live to welcome him back——"
"Oh, we must, Uncle Win."
"If he has you——" Oh, what was he saying?
"You will both have me. I shall stay here always."
He stooped and kissed her.
The other alternative, that Cary might not return, they banished resolutely. But it drew them nearer together in unspoken sympathy.
Everybody noted how thin and frail-looking Mr. Adams had grown. Doris became his constant companion. She had a well-trained horse now, and they rode a good deal. Or they walked down Washington street, where there were some pretty shops, and met promenaders. They sauntered about Cornhill, where Uncle Win picked up now and then an odd book, and they discovered strange things that had belonged to the Old Boston of a hundred years agone. There was quite an art gallery in Cornhill kept by Dogget & Williams—the nucleus of great things to come. It was quite the fashion for young ladies to drop in and exercise their powers of budding criticism or love of art. Now and then someone lent a portrait of Smibert's or Copley's, or you found some fine German or English engravings. An elder person generally accompanied the younger people. The law students, released from their labors, or the young society men, would walk home beside the chaperone, but talk to the maidens.
Then Uncle Winthrop committed a piece of great extravagance, everybody said—especially in such times as these, when the British might take and destroy Boston. This was buying a pianoforte. Madam Royall approved, for Doris was learning to play very nicely. An old German musician, Gottlieb Graupner, who was quite a visitor at the Royall house, had imported it for a friend who had been nearly ruined by war troubles and was compelled to part with it. Mr. Graupner and a knot of musical friends used to meet Saturday evenings in old Pond Street, and with a few instruments made a sort of orchestra. As a very great favor, friends were occasionally invited in.
There was a new organist at Trinity Church, a Mr. Jackson, who was trying to bring in the higher class cathedral music. The choir of Park Street Church, some fifty in number, was considered one of the great successes of the day, and people flocked to hear it. Puritan music had been rather doleful and depressing.
There was quite a discussion as to where the piano should stand. They had very little call to use the parlor in winter. Uncle Winthrop's friends generally visited him in the study. The spacious hall was the ordinary living-room, and Doris begged that it might be kept here—for the winter, at least.
Oh, what a cheerful sound the music made in the old house! Uncle Win would bring out a book of poems, often Milton's "L'Allegro" and half read, half listen, to the entrancing combination. Dinah declared "It was like de w'ice ob de Angel Gabriel hisself." Miss Recompense enjoyed the grand old hymns that brought back her childhood.
Solomon at first made a vigorous protest. He seemed jealous of the pretty fingers gliding over the keys, and would spring up to cover them or rest on her arms. But when he found he was banished to the kitchen every evening, he began to consider and presently gave in. He would sit beside Uncle Win in dignified protest, looking very "dour," as a Scotchman would say.
And then the country was electrified with the news of another great victory. Off the Canary Islands, Captain Decatur, with the frigateUnited States, met theMacedonian, one of the finest of the British fleet. The fight had been at close quarters with terrific broadsides. After an hour and a half, with her fighting force disabled, theMacedonianstruck her colors. Her loss in men killed and wounded was over one hundred, and theUnited Stateslost five killed and seven wounded.
The American vessel brought her prize and prisoners into port amid general acclaim. TheMacedonianwas repaired and added to the fast-increasing navy, that was rapidly winning a world-wide reputation. And when she came up to New York early in January with "The compliments of the season," there was great rejoicing. Samuel Woodworth, printer and poet, wrote the song of the occasion, and Calvert, another poet, celebrated the event in an ode.
Captain Carden was severely censured by his own government, as Captain Dacres had been, for not going down with flying colors instead of allowing his flag to be captured and his ship turned to the enemy's advantage. Instead of jeering at the navy of "pine boards and striped bunting," it was claimed the American vessels were of superior size and armament and met the British at unfair advantage, and that they were largely manned by English sailors.
There was an enthusiastic note from Cary. He was well, and it had been a glorious action. Captain Carden had been a brave gentleman, and he said regretfully, "Oh, why do we have to fight these heroic men!"
But Betty had the letter of triumph this time. Mrs. King was a delightful correspondent, though she was always imploring Betty to join her.
There had been a ball and reception given to several naval officers who were soon to go away. The President, engaged with some weighty affairs, had not come in yet, but the Secretary of the Navy, Mr. Hamilton, and no end of military and naval men, in gold lace and epaulettes and gleaming swords, were present, and beautiful, enthusiastic women in shimmering silks and laces. One did not have to get a new gown for every occasion in those days.
There was a little lull in the dancing. Mrs. Madison, who was charmingly affable, was seated with a group of men about her, when there was a stir in the hall, and a sudden thrill of expectancy quivered through the apartment. Ensign Hamilton, son of the Secretary, and several midshipmen entered, and the young man went straight to his father with the captured flag of theMacedonian. Such a cheer as rent the air! Ladies wiped their eyes and then waved their handkerchiefs in the wild burst of joy. They held the flag over the heads of the chief officer while the band played "Hail, Columbia!" Then it was laid at the feet of Mrs. Madison, who accepted it in the name of the country with a charming and graceful speech. Afterward it was festooned on the wall with the flag of theGuerriere.
"So, you see, Cary has been the hero of a great victory," said Betty enthusiastically; "but we all wish it had been 'off Boston Light' instead of on the distant ocean. And it is a shame not to be in Washington. Electa seems to be going everywhere and seeing everything, 'in spite of her being the mother of four children,' as Aunt Priscilla says. And the ladies dress so beautifully. We shall come to be known as 'plain Boston' presently."
There was no Worth or Pingat to charge enormous prices. Patterns were passed around. Ladies went visiting and took their sleeves along to make, or their ruffles to plait, and altered over their brocades and paduasoys and crapes, and some darned Brussels "footing" until it was transformed into really handsome lace. They could clean their feathers and ribbons, and one wonders how they found time for so many things. They were very good letter writers too. Dolly Madison and Mrs. Adams are fresh and interesting to-day.
But Boston could rejoice, nevertheless. To the little girl Cary was invested with the attributes of a hero. He even looked different to her enchanted eyes.
Uncle Win used to smile with grave softness when she chattered about him. At first it had given him a heartache to hear Cary's name mentioned, but now it was like a strain of comforting music. Only he wondered how he ever would have lived without the little girl from Old Boston.
She used to play and sing "Hail, Columbia!"—for people were patriotic then. But the sweetest of all were the old-fashioned ones that his wife had sung as a young girl, daintily tender love songs. Sometimes he tried them with her, but his voice sounded to himself like a pale ghost out of the past, yet it still had a mournful sweetness.
But with the rejoicing we had many sorrows. Our northern frontier warfare had been full of defeats; 1813 opened with various misfortunes. Ports were blockaded, business dropped lower and lower. Still social life went on, and in a tentative way intellectual life was making some progress.
The drama was not neglected either. The old Boston Theater gave several stirring representations that to-day would be called quite realistic. One was the capture of theGuerrierewith officers, sailors and marines, and songs that aroused drooping patriotism. Perhaps the young people of that time enjoyed it as much as their grandchildren did "H. M. S. Pinafore."
Doris liked the rare musical entertainments. People grew quite used to seeing Mr. Winthrop Adams with the pretty, bright, growing girl, who might have been his daughter. It was a delight to her when anyone made the mistake. Occasionally an old gentleman remembered her grandfather, and the little boy Charles who went to England.
Then in the early summer Mrs. King came on for a visit, and brought her eldest child Bessy, a bright, well-trained little girl.
There had been a good deal of trouble at the Mannings', and grandmother had gone back and forth, making it very confining for Betty. Crops had proved poor in the autumn; the children had the measles and Mrs. Manning a run of fever. Elizabeth had taken a cold in the early fall and had a troublesome cough all winter. Mrs. Leverett wanted to bring her home for a rest, but Mrs. Manning could not spare her, with all the summer work, and the warm weather would set her up, she was quite sure.
The country was drawing a brief breath of relief. There had been the magnificent victories on the Lakes and some on the land, and now and then came cheering news of naval successes. Everybody was in better spirits. Mrs. King seemed to bring a waft of hope from the Capital itself, and the Leverett house was quite enlivened with callers. Invitations came in for dinners and suppers and evening parties. Madam Royall quite claimed her on the strength of the Adams relation, and also Doris, who was such a favorite. Doris and little Bessy fraternized at once, and practiced a duet for the entertainment of Uncle Winthrop, who praised them warmly.
She planned to take Betty back to New York with her.
"But I can't go," declared Betty. "Warren must not be taxed any more heavily, so there would be no hope of having help, and mother cannot be left alone."
"Is there any objection to Mercy coming? Why doesn't Warren marry? That would relieve you all. I suppose itisbest for young people to have a home by themselves, but if it isn't possible—and I'd like to know how we are going to get along in heaven if we can't agree with each other here on earth!" Mrs. King inquired.
"That sounds like father," said Betty laughingly, yet the tears came to her eyes. "Poor father! He did not suppose we would have such hard times. If the war would only end. You see,"—after a pause,—"we are not quite sure of Aunt Priscilla. She's changed and softened wonderfully, and she and mother get along so well. She insisted upon paying a generous board, and she was good to Warren."
"I must talk it over with mother. There is no need of having your life spoiled, Betty."
For Betty was a very well-looking girl, arch and vivacious, and her harvest time of youth must not be wasted. Mrs. King was really glad she had no entanglement.
Mrs. Leverett had no objections to a speedy marriage If Mercy could be content. Warren had thought if he could be prosperous he would like to buy out Betty's share if she married. "And my share will be mine as long as I live," added the mother. "But Warren is fond of the old house, and Hollis has a home of his own. You girls will never want it."
Warren was delighted with what he called "Lecty's spunk." For Aunt Priscilla agreed quite readily. It was dull for Betty with two old people. Mercy would have her husband.
So the wedding day was appointed. Mercy had been a year getting ready. Girls began soon after they were engaged. Mrs. Gilman was rather afraid the thing wouldn't work, but she was sure Mercy was good tempered, and she had been a good daughter.
They made quite a "turning round." Mrs. Leverett went upstairs to Betty's room, which adjoined Aunt Priscilla's, and she gave some of her furniture for the adornment of the bridal chamber.
It was a very quiet wedding with a few friends and a supper. At nine o'clock the new wife went to Sudbury Street. Mrs. Gilman had some rather strict ideas, and declared it was no time for frolicking when war was at our very door, and no one knew what might happen, and hundreds of families were in pinching want.
Mercy was up the next morning betimes and assisted her new mother with the breakfast. Warren went down to his shop. But they had quite an elaborate tea drinking at the Leveretts', and some songs and games in the evening. Mercydidenjoy the wider life.
Mrs. Manning had come in for the wedding and a few days' stay, though she didn't see how she could be spared just now, and things would get dreadfully behindhand. Mrs. King was to go home with her and make a little visit. Bessy thought she would rather stay with Doris, and she was captivated with the Royall House and Eudora. The children never seemed in the way of the grown people there, and if elderly men talked politics and city improvements,—quite visionary, some thought them,—the young people with Alice and Helen had the garden walks and the wide porch, and discussed the enjoyments of the time with the zest of enthusiastic inexperience but keen delight.
Mrs. King brought back Elizabeth Manning, a pale, slim ghost of a girl, tall for her age—indeed, really grown up, her mother said. Of the three girls Bessy King had the most indications of the traditional country girl. A fine clear skin, pink cheeks and a plump figure, and an inexhausible flow of spirits, ready for any fun or frolic.
Doris was always well, but she had the Adams complexion, which was rather pale, with color when she was warm, or enthusiastic or indignant. The pink came and went like a swift summer cloud.
"I do declare," exclaimed Aunt Priscilla, "if 'Lecty King doesn't beat all about getting what she wants, and making other people believe they want it, too! Warren might as well have been married in the winter, and Mercy would have been company for Betty. She never liked to run out and leave me alone. Mercy seems a nice, promising body, and Warren might as well be happy and settled as not. And 'Lecty's been to Washington and dined with the President and Mrs. Madison, and I'll venture to say there was something the President's wife consulted her about. And all the big captains and generals, and what not! And here's the quality of Boston running after her and asking her out just as if we had nothing to feed her on at home. She don't do anything, fursisee, but just look smiling and talk. But my opinion is that Elizabeth Manning hasn't a very long journey to the graveyard. I don't see what Mary's been thinking about."
Mrs. King took her niece to Dr. Jackson, one of the best medical authorities of that day, and he looked the young girl over with his keen eyes.
"If you want the real truth," said the doctor, "she has had too much east wind and too much hard work. The children of this generation are not going to stand what their mothers did. A bad cold or two next winter will finish her, but with care and no undue exposure she may live several years. But she will never reach the three score and ten that every human being has a right to."
Uncle Winthrop sent the carriage around every day to the Leveretts'. They had given up theirs before Mr. Leverett's death. He and Doris took their morning horseback rides and scoured the beautiful country places for miles around, until Doris knew every magnificent tree or unusual shrub or queer old house and its history. These hours were a great delight to him.
Elizabeth had often gone down to Salem town, but her time was so brief and there was so much to do that she "couldn't bother." And she wondered how Doris knew about the shops in Essex Street and Federal Street and Miss Rust's pretty millinery show, and Mr. John Innes' delicate French rolls and braided bread, and Molly Saunders' gingerbread that the school children devoured, and the old Forrester House with its legends and fine old pictures and the lovely gardens, the wharves with their idle fleets that dared not put out to sea for fear of being swallowed up by the enemy.
Uncle Winthrop had taken her several times when some business had called him thither. But, truth to tell, she had never cared to repeat her visit to Mrs. Manning's.
The piano was like a bit of heaven, Elizabeth thought, the first time she came over to visit Doris.
"Oh," she said, with a long sigh, pressing her hand on her heart, for the deep breaths always hurt her, "if I was only prepared to go to heaven I shouldn't want to stay here a day longer. When they sing about 'eternal rest' it seems such a lovely thing, and to 'lay your burdens down.' But then there's 'the terrors of the law,' and the 'judgments to come,' and the great searching of the hearts and reins—do you know just what the reins are?"
No, Doris didn't. Heaven had always seemed a lovely place to her and God like a father, only grander and tenderer than any human father could be.
Then they talked about praying, and it came out that Doris said her mother's prayers still in French and her father's in English.
"Oh," exclaimed Elizabeth, horrified, "I shouldn't dare to pray to God in French—it would seem like a mockery. And 'Now I lay me down to sleep' is just a baby prayer, and really isn't pouring out your own soul to God."
Doris asked Uncle Winthrop about it.
"My child," he said with grave sweetness, "you can never say any better prayers of your own. The Saviour himself gave us the comprehensive Lord's Prayer. And are all the nations of the earth who cannot pray in English offering God vain petitions? You will find as you grow older that no earnest soul ever worships God in vain, and that religion is a life-long work. I am learning something new about it every day. And I think God means us to be happy here on earth. He doesn't save all the joys for heaven. He has given me one," and he stooped and kissed Doris on the forehead. "Poor Elizabeth," he added—"make her as happy as you can!"
When Mrs. King proposed to take Betty to New York for the whole of the coming winter there was consternation, but no one could find a valid objection. It was a somewhat expensive journey, and winter was a very enjoyable season in the city. Then another year something new might happen to prevent—there was no time like the present.
No one had the courage to object, though they did not know how to spare her. Aunt Priscilla sighed and brought out some beautiful long-laid-away articles that Electa declared would make over admirably.
"Where do you suppose Aunt Priscilla picked up all these elegant things?" asked Electa. "I never remember seeing her wear them, though she always dressed well, but severely plain. And Uncle Perkins was quite strict about the pomps and vanities of the world."
And so Aunt Priscilla put away the last of her idols and the life she had coveted and never had. But perhaps the best of all was her consideration for others, the certainty that it was quite as well to begin some of the virtues of the heavenly world here on earth that they might not seem strange to one.
Mrs. Manning sent in for Elizabeth.
"Well—you do seem like a different girl," her father declared, looking her over from head to foot. "You've had a good rest now, and you'll have to turn in strong and hearty, for Sarah's gone, and Ruth isn't big enough to take hold of everything. So hunt up your things while I'm doing some trading."
Elizabeth only had time for the very briefest farewells. Mrs. King sent a little note containing the doctor's verdict, but Mrs. Manning was indignant rather than alarmed.
It was lonesome when they were all gone. Eudora Chapman went to a "finishing school" this autumn, and Doris accompanied her—poor Doris, who had not mastered fractions, and whose written arithmetic could not compare with Betty's. She had achieved a pair of stockings after infinite labor and trouble. Theydidlook rowy, being knit tighter and looser. But Aunt Priscilla gave her a pair of fine merino that she had kept from the ravages of the moths. Miss Recompense declared that she had no one else to knit for.
There were expert knitters who made beautiful silk stockings, and Uncle Winthrop said buying helped along trade, so why should Doris worry when there were so many more important matters?
The little girl and her uncle kept track of what was going on in the great world. Napoleon the invincible had been driven back from Russia by cold and famine, forced to yield by the great coalition and losing step by step until he was compelled to accept banishment. Then England redoubled her efforts, prepared to carry on the war with us vigorously. Towns on the Chesapeake were plundered and burned, and General Ross entered Washington, from which Congress and the President's family had fled for their lives. America was again horror stricken, but gathering all her energies she made such a vigorous defense as to convince her antagonist that though cast down she could never be wholly defeated.
But this attack gave us the inspiration of one of our finest deathless songs. A Mr. Francis S. Key, a resident of Georgetown, had gone down from Baltimore with a flag of truce to procure the release of a friend held as prisoner of war, when the bombardment of Fort McHenry began. All day long he watched the flag as it floated above the ramparts. Night came on and it was still there. And at midnight he could see it only by "the rockets' red glare," while he and his friends tremulously inquired if the "flag still waved o'er the Land of the Free." Oh, what joy must have been his when it "caught the gleam of the morning's first beam." He had put the night watch and the dawn in a song that is still an inspiration.
And now convinced, the enemy withdrew. There were talks of peace, though we did not abate our energies. And the indications of a settlement brought about another wedding at the Royall house.
Miss Alice had been a great favorite with the young men, and her ardent patriotism had inspired more than one, as it had Cary Adams, with a desire to rush to his country's defense. There were admirers too, but most of them had been kept at an intangible distance. At last she had yielded to the eloquence of young Oliver Sargent, who was in every way acceptable. Grandmother Royall expected to give her an elegant wedding along in the winter.
The Government was to send out another commissioner to consult with those already at Ghent, and Mr. Sargent had been offered the post of private secretary. He was to sail from New York, but he obtained leave to spend a few days in Boston to attend to some affairs. He went at once to Madam Royall and laid his plans before her. He wanted to marry Alice and take her with him, as he might be gone a long while. Alice was nothing loath, for the journey abroad was extremely tempting.
But what could one do in such a few days? And wedding clothes——
"Save the wedding gear until we come back," said the impatient young lover. "Alice can get clothes enough abroad."
It was quite a new departure in a wedding. Invitations were always sent out by hand, even for small evening parties, and often verbally given. A private marriage would not have suited old Madam Royall. So the house was crowded at eleven in the morning, and the bride came through the wide hall in a mulberry-colored satin gown and pelisse that had been made two weeks before for ordinary autumn wear. But her bonnet was white with long streamers, and her gloves were white, and she made a very attractive bride, while young Sargent was manly and looked proud enough for a king. At twelve they went away with no end of good wishes, and an old slipper was thrown after the carriage.
Mrs. Morris Winslow had two babies, and was already growing stout. But the departure of Alice made a great break.
"But it is the way of the world and the way of God that young people should marry," said Madam Royall. "I was very happy myself."
"Oh," exclaimed Doris eagerly that evening, her eyes aglow and her cheeks pink with excitement—"oh, Uncle Win, do you think there will be peace?"
"My little girl, it is my prayer day and night."
"And then Cary will come home."
It had been a long while since they had heard. Cary had been transferred from theUnited States, that had lain blockaded in a harbor many weary weeks. But where he was now no one could tell.
People began to take heart though the fighting had not ceased. And it was odd that a dozen years before everybody had looked askance at dancing, and now no one hesitated to give a dancing party. The contra-dance and cotillions were all the rage. Sometimes there was great amusement when it was a draw dance, for then you had to accept your partner whether or no.
Whole families went, grandmothers and grandchildren. There were cards and conversation circles for those who did not care to join the mazy whirls. And the suppers were quite elegant, with brilliant lamps and flowers, plate and glass that had come through generations. Fruits and melons were preserved as long as possible, and a Turkish band in fine Oriental costume was often a feature of the entertainment.
Doris had charming letters from Betty, a little stilted we should call them now, but very interesting. Mr. King was confident of peace. Doris used to read them to Aunt Priscilla, who said Betty was very frivolous, but that she always had a good time, and perhaps good times were not as wicked as people used to think.
Mrs. Leverett went to Salem in November. Her namesake had taken a cold and had some fever, and she asked for grandmother continually. Mercy did finely at housekeeping, and so the weeks ran along, the invalid being better, then worse, and just before Christmas the frail little life floated out to the Land of Rest.
"Oh, poor little Elizabeth!" cried Doris. "If she could have been real happy! But there never seemed any time. Uncle Win, they are not so poor that they have to work so hard, are they?"
"No, dear. Mr. Manning has money out at interest, besides his handsome farm. But a great many people think there is solid virtue in working and saving. I suppose it makes them happy."
Doris was puzzled. She said the same thing to Aunt Priscilla, who took off her glasses, rubbed them with a bit of old silk and wiped the tears out of her eyes.
"I think we haven't had quite the right end of it," she began after a pause. "I was brought up that way. But then people had to spin and weave for themselves, and help the men with the out-of-doors work. The children dropped corn, and potatoes, and there was always weeding. There was so much spring work and fall work, and folks couldn't be comfortable if they saw a child playing 'cat's cradle.' They did think Satan was going about continually to catch up idle hands. Well maybe if I'd had children I'd 'a' done the same way."
"Oh, you wouldn't, Aunt Priscilla, I know," said Doris with the sweetest faith shining in her eyes. "Elizabeth thought you such a comfortable old lady. She said you never worried at anyone."
"That is because I have come to believe the worrying wrong. The Lord didn't worry at people. He told them what to do and then he let them alone. And Foster Leverett was about the best man I ever knew. He didn't even worry when times were so bad. Everybody said his children would be spoiled. They were out sledding and sliding and skating, and playing tag in summer. They've made nice men and women."