There was a dignity in the manners of M. de Lambert to me formidable and oppressive. It showed in his tall, erect figure, his deep tone, his silvered hair and mustache. There was a merry word between the kisses of one daughter; between those of the other only tears and a broken murmur.
"Oh, papa," said Louison, as she greeted him, "I do love you—but I dread that—tickly old mustache. Mon Dieu! what a lover—you must have been!"
Then she presented me, and put her hand upon my arm, looking proudly at her father.
"My captain!" said she. "Did you ever see a handsomer Frenchman?"
"There are many, and here is one," said he, turning to the young count, who stood behind him—a fine youth, tall, strong-built, well-spoken, with blond hair and dark, keen eyes. I admit frankly I had not seen a better figure of a man. I assure you, he had the form of Hercules, the eye of Mars. It was an eye to command—women; for I had small reason to admire his courage when I knew him better. He took a hand of each young lady, and kissed it with admirable gallantry.
"Dieu! it is not so easy always to agree with one's father," saidLouison.
We went riding that afternoon—Therese and her marquis and Louison and I. The first two went on ahead of us; we rode slowly, and for a time no word was spoken. Winds had stripped the timber, and swept its harvest to the walls and hollows, where it lay bleaching in the sun. Birch and oak and maple were holding bared arms to the wind, as if to toughen them for storm and stress. I felt a mighty sadness, wondering if my own arms were quite seasoned for all that was to come. The merry-hearted girl beside me was ever like a day of June—the color of the rose in her cheek, its odor always in her hair and lace. There was never an hour of autumn in her life.
"Alas, you are a very silent man!" said she, presently, with a little sigh.
"Only thinking," I said.
"Of what?"
"Dieu! of the dead summer," I continued.
"Believe me, it does not pay to think," she interrupted. "I tried it once, and made a sad discovery."
"Of what?"
"A fool!" said she, laughing.
"I should think it—it might have been a coquette," said I, lightly.
"Why, upon my word," said she, "I believe you misjudge me. Do you think me heartless?"
For the first time I saw a shadow in her face.
"No; but you are young and—and beautiful, and—"
"What?" she broke in impatiently, as I hesitated. "I long to know."
"Men will love you in spite of all you can do," I added.
"Captain!" said she, turning her face away.
"Many will love you, and—and you can choose only one—a very hard thing to do—possibly."
"Not hard," said she, "if I see the right one—and—and—he loves me also."
I had kept myself well in hand, for I was full of doubts that day; but the clever girl came near taking me, horse, foot, and guns, that moment. She spoke so charmingly, she looked so winning, and then, was it not easy to ask if I were the lucky one? She knew I loved her, I knew that she had loved me, and I might as well confess. But no; I was not ready.
"You must be stern with the others; you must not let them tell you," I went on.
"Ciel!" said she, laughing, "one might as well go to a nunnery.May not a girl enjoy her beauty? It is sweet to her."
"But do not make it bitter for the poor men. Dieu! I am one of them, and know their sorrows."
"And you—you have been in love?"
"Desperately," I answered, clinging by the finger-tips. Somehow we kept drifting into fateful moments when a word even might have changed all that has been—our life way, the skies above us, the friends we have known, our loves, our very souls.
She turned, smiling, her beauty flashing up at me with a power quite irresistible. I shut my eyes a moment, summoning all my forces. There was only a step between me and—God knows what!
"Captain, you are a foolish fellow," said she, with a little shudder. "And I—well, I am cold. Parbleu! feel my hand."
She had drawn her glove quickly, and held out her hand, white and beautiful, a dainty finger in a gorget of gems. That little cold, trembling hand seemed to lay hold of my heart and pull me to her. As my lips touched the palm I felt its mighty magic. Dear girl! I wonder if she planned that trial for me.
"We must—ride—faster. You—you—are cold," I stammered.
She held her hand so that the sunlight flashed in the jewels, and looked down upon it proudly.
"Do you think it beautiful?" she asked.
"Yes, and wonderful," I said. "But, mark me, it is all a sacred trust—the beauty you have."
"Sacred?"
"More sacred than the power of kings," I said.
"Preacher!" said she, with a smile. "You should give yourself to the church."
"I can do better with the sword of steel," I said.
"But do not be sad. Cheer up, dear fellow!" she went on, patting my elbow with a pretty mockery. "We women are not—not so bad. When I find the man I love—"
Her voice faltered as she began fussing with her stirrup.
I turned with a look of inquiry, changing quickly to one of admiration.
"I shall make him love me, if I can," she went on soberly.
"And if he does?" I queried, my blood quickening as our eyes met.
"Dieu! I would do anything for him," said she.
I turned away, looking off at the brown fields. Ah, then, for a breath, my heart begged my will for utterance. The first word passed my lips when there came a sound of galloping hoofs and Theresa and the marquis.
"Come, dreamers," said the former, as they pulled up beside us. "A cold dinner is the worst enemy of happiness."
"And he is the worst robber that shortens the hour of love," said the marquis, smiling.
We turned, following them at a swift gallop. They had helped me out of that mire of ecstasy, and now I was glad, for, on my soul, I believed the fair girl had found one more to her liking, and was only playing for my scalp. And at last I had begun to know my own heart, or thought I had.
D'ri came over that evening with a letter from General Brown. He desired me to report for duty next day at two.
"War—it is forever war," said Therese, when I told her at dinner. "There is to be a coaching-party to-morrow, and we shall miss you, captain."
"Can you not soon return?" said the baroness.
"I fear not," was my answer. "It is to be a long campaign."
"Oh, the war! When will it ever end?" said Louise, sighing.
"When we are all dead," said Louison.
"Of loneliness?" said the old count, with a smile.
"No; of old age," said Louison, quickly.
"When the army goes into Canada it will go into trouble," said the Comte de Chaumont, speaking in French. "We shall have to get you out of captivity, captain."
"Louise would rescue him," said her sister. "She has influence there."
"Would you pay my ransom?" I inquired, turning to her.
"With my life," said she, solemnly.
"Greater love hath no man than this," said the good Pere Joulin, smiling as the others laughed.
"And none has greater obligation," said Louise, blushing with embarrassment. "Has he not brought us three out of captivity?"
"Well, if I am taken," I said, "nothing can bring me back unless it be—"
"A miracle?" the baroness prompted as I paused.
"Yes; even a resurrection," was my answer. "I know what it means for a man to be captured there these days."
Louise sat beside me, and I saw what others failed to notice—her napkin stop quickly on its way to her lips, her hand tighten as it held the white linen. It made me regretful of my thoughtless answer, but oddly happy for a moment. Then they all besought me for some adventure of those old days in the army. I told them the story of the wasps, and, when I had finished, our baroness told of the trouble it led to—their capture and imprisonment.
"It was very strange," said she, in conclusion. "That Englishman grew kinder every day we were there, until we began to feel at home."
They were all mystified, but I thought I could understand it. We had a long evening of music, and I bade them all good-by before going to bed, for they were to be off early.
Well, the morning came clear, and before I was out of bed I heard the coach-horn, the merry laughter of ladies under my window, the prancing hoofs, and the crack of the whip as they all went away. It surprised me greatly to find Louise at the breakfast table when I came below-stairs; I shall not try to say how much it pleased me. She was gowned in pink, a red rose at her bosom. I remember, as if it were yesterday, the brightness of her big eyes, the glow in her cheeks, the sweet dignity of her tall, fine figure when she rose and gave me her hand.
"I did feel sorry, ma'm'selle, that I could not go; but now—now I am happy," was my remark.
"Oh, captain, you are very gallant," said she, as we took seats. "I was not in the mood for merrymaking, and then, I am reading a book."
"A book! May its covers be the gates of happiness," I answered.
"Eh bien! it is a tale of love," said she.
"Of a man for a woman?" I inquired.
"Of a lady that loved two knights, and knew not which the better."
"Is it possible and—and reasonable?" I inquired. "In a tale things should go as—well, as God plans them."
"Quite possible," said she, "for in such a thing as love who knows what—what may happen?"
"Except he have a wide experience," I answered.
"And have God's eyes," said she. "Let me tell you. They were both handsome, brave, splendid, of course, but there was a difference: the one had a more perfect beauty of form and face, the other a nobler soul."
"And which will she favor?"
"Alas! I have not read, and do not know her enough to judge," was her answer; "but I shall hate her if she does not take him with the better soul."
"And why?" I could hear my heart beating.
"Love is not love unless it be—" She paused, thinking. "Dieu! from soul to soul," she added feelingly.
She was looking down, a white, tapered finger stirring the red petals of the rose. Then she spoke in a low, sweet tone that trembled with holy feeling and cut me like a sword of the spirit going to its very hilt in my soul.
"Love looks to what is noble," said she, "or it is vain—it is wicked; it fails; it dies in a day, like the rose. True love, that is forever."
"What if it be hopeless?" I whispered.
"Ah! then it is very bitter," said she, her voice diminishing. "It may kill the body, but—but love does not die. When it comes—" There was a breath of silence that had in it a strange harmony not of this world.
"'When it comes'?" I whispered.
"You see the coming of a great king," said she, looking down thoughtfully, her chin, upon her hand.
"And all people bow their heads," I said.
"Yes," she added, with a sigh, "and give their bodies to be burned, if he ask it. The king is cruel—sometimes."
"Dieu!" said I. "He has many captives."
She broke a sprig of fern, twirling it in her fingers; her big eyes looked up at me, and saw, I know, to the bottom of my soul.
"But long live the king!" said she, her lips trembling, her cheeks as red as the rose upon her bosom.
"Long live the king!" I murmured.
We dared go no farther. Sweet philosopher, inspired of Heaven, I could not bear the look of her, and rose quickly with dim eyes and went out of the open door. A revelation had come to me. Mere de Dieu! how I loved that woman so fashioned in thy image! She followed me, and laid her hand upon my arm tenderly, while I shook with emotion.
"Captain," said she, in that sweet voice, "captain, what have I done?"
It was the first day of the Indian summer, a memorable season that year, when, according to an old legend, the Great Father sits idly on the mountain-tops and blows the smoke of his long pipe into the valleys. In a moment I was quite calm, and stood looking off to the hazy hollows of the far field. I gave her my arm without speaking, and we walked slowly down a garden path. For a time neither broke the silence.
"I did not know—I did not know," she whispered presently.
"And I—must—tell you," I said brokenly, "that I—that I—"
"Hush-sh-sh!" she whispered, her hand over my lips. "Say no more! say no more! If it is true, go—go quickly, I beg of you!"
There was such a note of pleading in her voice, I hear it, after all this long time, in the hushed moments of my life, night or day. "Go—go quickly, I beg of you!" We were both near breaking down.
[Illustration: "We were both near breaking down."]
"Vive le roi!" I whispered, taking her hand.
"Vive le roi!" she whispered, turning away.
How empty and weak are my words that try to tell of that day! I doubt if there is in them anywhere what may suggest, even feebly, the height and depth of that experience or one ray of the light in her face. There are the words nearly as we said them; there are the sighs, the glances, the tears: but everywhere there is much missing—that fair young face and a thousand things irresistible that drift in with every tide of high feeling. Of my history there is not much more to write, albeit some say the best is untold.
I had never such a heart of lead as went with me to my work that afternoon. What became of me I cared not a straw then, for I knew my love was hopeless. D'ri met me as I got off my horse at the Harbor. His keen eye saw my trouble quickly—saw near to the bottom of it.
"Be'n hit?" said he, his great hand on my shoulder.
"With trouble," I answered. "Torn me up a little inside."
"Thought so," he remarked soberly. "Judas Priest! ye luk es ef a shell 'ad bu'st 'n yer cockpit. Ain' nuthin' 'll spile a man quicker. Sheer off a leetle an' git out o' range. An' 'member, Ray, don't never give up the ship. Thet air 's whut Perry tol' us."
I said nothing and walked away, but have always remembered his counsel, there was so much of his big heart in it. The army was to move immediately, in that foolish campaign of Wilkinson that ended with disaster at Chrysler's Farm. They were making the boats, small craft with oars, of which three hundred or more would be needed to carry us. We were to go eastward on the river and join Hampden, whose corps was to march overland to Plattsburg, at some point on the north shore. Word came, while I was away, that down among the islands our enemy had been mounting cannon. It looked as if our plan had leaked, as if, indeed, there were good chance of our being blown out of water the first day of our journey. So, before the army started, I was to take D'ri and eleven others, with four boats, and go down to reconnoitre.
We got away before sundown that day, and, as dark came, were passing the southwest corner of Wolf Island. I was leading the little fleet, and got ashore, intending to creep along the edge and rejoin them at the foot of the island. I had a cow-bell, muted with cork, and was to clang it for a signal in case of need. Well, I was a bit more reckless that night than ever I had been. Before I had gone twenty rods I warned them to flee and leave me. I heard a move in the brush, and was backing off, when a light flashed on me, and I felt the touch of a bayonet. Then quickly I saw there was no help for me, and gave the signal, for I was walled in. Well, I am not going to tell the story of my capture. My sabre could serve me well, but, heavens! it was no magic wand such as one may read of in the story-books. I knew then it would serve me best in the scabbard. There were few words and no fighting in the ceremony. I gave up, and let them bind my arms. In two hours they had me in jail, I knew not where. In the morning they let me send a note to Lord Ronley, who was now barely two days out of his own trouble. A week passed; I was to be tried for a spy, and saw clearly the end of it all. Suddenly, a morning when my hopes were gone, I heard the voice of his Lordship in the little corridor. A keeper came with him to the door of my cell, and opened it.
"The doctor," said he.
"Well, well, old fellow," said Ronley, clapping me on the shoulder, "you are ill, I hear."
"Really, I do not wish to alarm you," I said, smiling, "but—but it does look serious."
He asked me to show my tongue, and I did so.
"Cheer up," said he, presently; "I have brought you this pill. It is an excellent remedy."
He had taken from his pocket a brown pill of the size of a large pea, and sat rolling it in his palm. Had he brought me poison?
"I suppose it is better than—"
He shot a glance at me as if to command silence, then he put the pill in my palm. I saw it was of brown tissue rolled tightly.
"Don't take it now," said he; "too soon after breakfast. Wait half an hour. A cup of water," he added, turning to the guard, who left us for a moment.
He leaned to my ear and whispered:—
"Remember," said he, "2 isa, and 3 isb, and so on. Be careful until the guard changes."
He handed me a small watch as he was leaving.
"It may be good company," he remarked.
I unrolled the tissue as soon as I was alone. It was covered with these figures:—
21-24-6-13-23-6
21-16-15-10-8-9-21 4-6-13-13 5-16-16-19 22-15-13-16-4-12-6-5 13-10-7-21 20-14-2-13-13 24-10-15-5-16-24 10-15 4-16-19-19-10-5-16-19 3-2-4-12 21-16 24-2-13-13 8-16 19-10-8-9-21 21-16 19-16-2-5 13-6-7-21 200 17-2-4-6-20 21-16 17-2-21-9 13-6-7-21 21-16 19-10-23-6-19 19-10-8-9-21 21-24-6-15-21-26 21-16 21-9-10-4-12-6-21.
I made out the reading, shortly, as follows:—
"Twelve to-night cell door unlocked. Lift small window in corridor. Back to wall go right to road. Left two hundred paces to path. Left to river. Right twenty to thicket."
Having read the figures, I rolled the tissue firmly, and hid it in my ear. It was a day of some excitement, I remember, for that very afternoon I was condemned to death. A priest, having heard of my plight, came in that evening, and offered me the good ministry of the church. The words, the face, of that simple man, filled me with a deep tenderness for all who seek in the shadows of this world with the lantern of God's mercy. Never, so long as I live, shall an ill word of them go unrebuked in my hearing. He left me at 10.30, and as he went away, my jailer banged the iron door without locking it. Then I lay down there in the dark, and began to tell off the time by my heartbeats, allowing forty-five hundred to the hour, and was not far wrong. I thought much of his Lordship as I waited. To him I had been of some service, but, surely, not enough to explain this tender regard, involving, as it must have done, bribery and no small degree of peril to himself. My counting over, I tried the door, which swung easily as I put my hand upon it, The little corridor was dark and I could hear no sound save the snoring of a drunken soldier, committed that day for fighting, as the turnkey had told me. I found the small window, and slid the sash, and let my boots fall to the ground, then climbing through and dropping on them. It was a dark night, but I was not long in reaching the road and pacing my way to the path and river. His Lordship and a boatman lay in the thicket waiting for me.
"This way," the former whispered, taking my arm and leading me to the mouth of a little brook, where a boat was tied, the bottom muffled with blankets. I took the stern seat, his Lordship the bow, and we pushed off. The boatman, a big, husky fellow, had been rowing a long hour when we put into a cove under the high shore of an island. I could see a moving glow back in the bushes. It swung slowly, like a pendulum of light, with a mighty flit and tumble of shadows. We tied our boat, climbed the shore, and made slowly for the light. Nearing it, his Lordship whistled twice, and got answer. The lantern was now still; it lighted the side of a soldier in high boots; and suddenly I saw it was D'ri. I caught his hand, raising it to my lips. We could not speak, either of us. He stepped aside, lifting the lantern. God! there stood Louise. She was all in black, her head bent forward.
"Dear love!" I cried, grasping her hands, "why—why have you come here?"
She turned her face away, and spoke slowly, her voice trembling with emotion.
"To give my body to be burned," said she.
I turned, lifting my arm to smite the man who had brought me there; but lo! some stronger hand had struck him, some wonder-working power of a kind that removes mountains. Lord Ronley was wiping his eyes.
"I cannot do this thing," said he, in a broken voice. "I cannot do this thing. Take her and go."
D'ri had turned away to hide his feelings.
"Take them to your boat," said his Lordship.
"Wait a minute," said D'ri, fixing his lantern. "Judas Priest! I ain't got no stren'th. I 'm all tore t' shoe-strings."
I took her arm, and we followed D'ri to the landing. Lord Ronley coming with us.
"Good-by," said he, leaning to push us off. "I am a better man for knowing you. Dear girl, you have put all the evil out of me."
He held a moment to the boat, taking my hand as I came by him.
"Bell," said he, "henceforward may there be peace between you and me."
"And between your country and mine," I answered.
And, thank God! the war was soon over, and ever since there has been peace between the two great peoples. I rejoice that even we old men have washed our hearts of bitterness, and that the young have now more sense of brotherhood.
Above all price are the words of a wise man, but silence, that is the great counsellor. In silence wisdom enters the heart and understanding puts forth her voice. In the hush of that night ride I grew to manhood; I put away childish things. I saw, or thought I saw, the two great powers of good and evil. One was love, with the power of God in it to lift up, to ennoble; the other, love's counterfeit, a cunning device of the devil, with all his power to wreck and destroy, deceiving him that has taken it until he finds at last he has neither gold nor silver, but only base metal hanging as a millstone to his neck.
At dawn we got ashore on Battle Point. We waited there, Louise and I, while D'ri went away to bring horses. The sun rose clear and warm; it was like a summer morning, but stiller, for the woods had lost their songful tenantry. We took the forest road, walking slowly. Some bugler near us had begun to play the song of Yankee-land. Its phrases travelled like waves in the sea, some high-crested, moving with a mighty rush, filling the valleys, mounting the hills, tossing their spray aloft, flooding all the shores of silence. Far and near, the trees were singing in praise of my native land.
"Ramon," said Louise, looking up at me, a sweet and queenly dignity in her face, "I have come to love this country."
"And you could not have done so much for me unless you had loved—"
She looked up at me quickly, and put her finger to her lips. My tongue faltered, obeying the command. How sweet and beautiful she was then, her splendid form erect, the light of her eyes softened by long lashes! She looked down thoughtfully as she gave the bottom of her gown a shake.
"Once upon a time," said she, slowly, as our eyes met again, "there was a little country that had a cruel king. And he commanded that none of all his people should speak until—until—"
She hesitated, stirring the dead leaves with her dainty foot.
"Until a great mountain had been removed and buried in the sea," she added in a low tone.
"Ah, that was hard."
"Especially for the ladies," she went on, sighing. "Dieu! they could only sit and hold their tongues and weep and feel very foolish. And the longer they were silent the more they had to say."
"And those who broke the law?" I inquired.
"Were condemned to silence for their lives," she answered. "Come, we are both in danger; let us go."
A bit farther on we came to a log house where a veteran of the old war sat playing his bugle, and a motherly woman bade us sit awhile at the door-step.
D'ri came soon with horses, one the black thoroughbred of Louise which had brought her on this errand. We gave them free rein, heading for the chateau. Not far up the woods-pike we met M. de Lambert and the old count. The former was angry, albeit he held himself in hand as became a gentleman, save that he was a bit too cool with me.
"My girl, you have upset us terribly," said the learned doctor. "I should like to be honored with your confidence."
"And I with your kindness, dear father," said she, as her tears began falling. "I am much in need of it."
"She has saved my life, m'sieur," I said.
"Then go to your work," said he, coolly, "and make the most of it."
"Ah, sir, I had rather—"
"Good-by," said Louise, giving me her hand.
"Au revoir," I said quickly, and wheeled my horse and rode away.
The boats were ready. The army was waiting for the order, now expected any moment, to move. General Brown had not been at his quarters for a day.
"Judas Priest!" said D'ri, when we were alone together, "thet air gal 'd go through fire an' water fer you."
"You 're mistaken," I said.
"No, I hain't nuther," said he. "Ef I be, I 'm a reg'lar out-an'-out fool, hand over fist."
He whittled a moment thoughtfully.
"Ain' no use talkin'," he added, "I can tell a hoss from a jack-rabbit any day."
"Her father does not like me," I suggested.
"Don't hev to," said D'ri, calmly.
He cut a deep slash in the stick he held, then added: "Don't make no odds ner no diff'rence one way er t' other. I did n't like th' measles, but I hed t' hev 'em."
"He'll never permit a marriage with me," I said.
"'T ain't nec'sary," he declared soberly. "In this 'ere country don' tek only tew t' mek a bargain. One o' the blessin's o' liberty."
He squinted up at the sky, delivering his confidence in slowly measured phrases, to wit; "Wouldn't give ten cents fer no man 'at 'll give up a gal 'less he 'd orter—not fer nuthin' ner nobody."
I was called out of bed at cockcrow in the morning. The baroness and a footman were at the door.
"Ah, my captain, there is trouble," she whispered. "M. de Lambert has taken his daughters. They are going back to Paris, bag and baggage. Left in the evening."
"By what road?"
"The turnpike militaire."
"Thanks, and good morning," I said. "I shall overhaul them."
I called D'ri, and bade him feed the horses quickly. I went to see General Brown, but he and Wilkinson were on the latter's gig, half a mile out in the harbor. I scribbled a note to the farmer-general, and, leaving it, ran to the stables. Our horses were soon ready, and D'ri and I were off a bit after daylight, urging up hill and down at a swift gallop, and making the forest ring with hoof-beats. Far beyond the chateau we slackened pace and went along leisurely. Soon we passed the town where they had put up overnight, and could see the tracks of horse and coach-wheel. D'ri got off and examined them presently.
"Purty fresh," he remarked. "Can't be more 'n five mild er so further on."
We rode awhile in silence.
"How ye goin' t' tackle 'em?" he inquired presently.
"Going to stop them somehow," said I, "and get a little information."
"An' mebbe a gal?" he suggested.
"Maybe a gal."
"Don' care s' long as ye dew th' talkin'. I can rassle er fight, but my talk in a rumpus ain' fit fer no woman t' hear, thet 's sart'in."
We overtook the coach at a village, near ten o'clock.
D'ri rushed on ahead of them, wheeling with drawn sabre. The driver pulled rein, stopping quickly. M. de Lambert was on the seat beside him. I came alongside.
"Robbers!" said M. de Lambert, "What do you mean?"
The young ladies and Brovel were looking out of the door, Louise pale and troubled.
"No harm to any, m'sieur," I answered. "Put up your pistol."
I opened the coach door. M. de Lambert, hissing with anger, leaped to the road. I knew he would shoot me, and was making ready to close with him, when I heard a rustle of silk, and saw Louise between us, her tall form erect, her eyes forceful and commanding. She stepped quickly to her father.
"Let me have it!" said she, taking the pistol from his hand. She flung it above the heads of some village folk who had gathered near us.
"Why do you stop us?" she whispered, turning to me.
"So you may choose between him and me," I answered.
"Then I leave all for you," said she, coming quickly to my side.
[Illustration: "Then I leave all for you."]
The villagers began to cheer, and old D'ri flung his hat in the air, shouting, "Hurrah fer love an' freedom!"
"An' the United States of Ameriky," some one added.
"She is my daughter," said M. de Lambert, with anger, as he came up to me. "I may command her, and I shall seek the aid of the law as soon as I find a magistrate."
"But see that you find him before we find a minister," I said.
"The dominie! Here he is," said some one near us.
"Marry them," said another. "It is Captain Bell of the army, a brave and honorable man."
Does not true love, wherever seen, spread its own quality and prosper by the sympathy it commands? Louise turned to the good man, taking his hand.
"Come," said she, "there is no time to lose."
The minister came to our help. He could not resist her appeal, so sweetly spoken. There, under an elm by the wayside, with some score of witnesses, including Louison and the young Comte de Brovel, who came out of the coach and stood near, he made us man and wife. We were never so happy as when we stood there hand in hand, that sunny morning, and heard the prayer for God's blessing, and felt a mighty uplift in our hearts. As to my sweetheart, there was never such a glow in her cheeks, such a light in her large eyes, such a grace in her figure.
"Dear sister," said Louison, kissing her, "I wish I were as happy."
"And you shall be as soon as you get to Paris," said the young count.
"Oh, dear, I can hardly wait!" said the merry-hearted girl, looking proudly at her new lover.
"I admire your pluck, my young man," said M. de Lambert, as we shook hands. "You Americans are a great people. I surrender; I am not going to be foolish. Turn your horses," said he, motioning to the driver. "We shall go back at once."
I helped Louise into the coach with her sister and the Comte de Brovel. D'ri and I rode on behind them, the village folk cheering and waving their hats,
"Ye done it skilful," said D'ri, smiling. "Whut'd I tell ye?"
I made no answer, being too full of happiness at the moment.
"Tell ye one thing, Ray," he went on soberly: "ef a boy an' a gal loves one 'nother, an' he has any grit in 'im, can't nuthin' keep 'em apart long."
He straightened the mane of his horse, and then added:—
"Ner they can't nuthin' conquer 'em."
Soon after two o'clock we turned in at the chateau.
We were a merry company at luncheon, the doctor drinking our health and happiness with sublime resignation. But I had to hurry back—that was the worst of it all. Louise walked with me to the big gate, where were D'ri and the horses. We stopped a moment on the way.
"Again?" she whispered, her sweet face on my shoulder. "Yes, and as often as you like. No more now—there is D'ri. Remember, sweetheart, I shall look and pray for you day and night."
Sooner or later all things come to an end, including wars and histories,—a God's mercy!—and even the lives of such lucky men as I. All things, did I say? Well, what wonder, for am I not writing of youth and far delights with a hand trembling of infirmity? All things save one, I meant to say, and that is love, the immortal vine, with its root in the green earth, that weathers every storm, and "groweth not old," and climbs to paradise; and who eats of its fruit has in him ever a thought of heaven—a hope immortal as itself.
This book of my life ends on a bright morning in the summer of '17, at the new home of James Donatianus Le Ray, Comte de Chaumont, the chateau having burned the year before.
President Monroe is coming on the woods-pike, and veterans are drawn up in line to meet him. Here are men who fought at Chippewa and Lundy's Lane and Lake Erie and Chrysler's Farm, and here are some old chaps who fought long before at Plattsburg and Ticonderoga. Joseph Bonaparte, the ex-king of Spain, so like his mighty brother at St. Helena, is passing the line. He steps proudly, in ruffles and green velvet. Gondolas with liveried gondoliers, and filled with fair women, are floating on the still lake, now rich with shadow-pictures of wood and sky and rocky shore.
A burst of melody rings in the great harp of the woodland. In that trumpet peal, it seems, a million voices sing:—
Hail, Columbia, happy land!
Slowly the line begins to limp along. There are wooden legs and crutches and empty sleeves in that column. D'ri goes limping in front, his right leg gone at the knee since our last charge. Draped around him is that old battle-flag of theLawrence. I march beside him, with only this long seam across my check to show that I had been with him that bloody day at Chrysler's. We move slowly over a green field to the edge of the forest. There, in the cool shadow, are ladies in white, and long tables set for a feast. My dear wife, loved of all and more beautiful than ever, comes to meet us.
"Sweetheart," she whispers, "I was never so proud to be your wife."
"And an American," I suggest, kissing her.
"And an American," she answers.
A bugle sounds; the cavalcade is coming.
"The President!" they cry, and we all begin cheering.
He leads the escort on a black horse, a fine figure in military coat and white trousers, his cocked hat in hand, a smile lighting his face. The count receives him and speaks our welcome. President Monroe looks down the war-scarred line a moment. His eyes fill with tears, and then he speaks to us.
"Sons of the woodsmen," says he, concluding his remarks, "you shall live in the history of a greater land than that we now behold or dream of, and in the gratitude of generations yet unborn, long, long after we are turned to dust."
And then we all sing loudly with full hearts:
O land I love!—thy acres sownWith sweat and blood and shattered bone—God's grain, that ever doth increaseThe goodly harvest of his peace.
[Transcriber's note - the following material is the Lilypond (www.lilypond.org) source for the song found earlier in this e-book. Search for the word "roundelay". Thanks to Dave Maddock for its preparation.]
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melody = \notes \relative c' { \key e \major \time 4/4
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text = \lyrics {Oh, hap — py is th' mil — ler wholives by him — self! As th' wheel goes round, hegath — ers in 'is wealth, One hand on thehop — per and the oth — er on the bag; As thewheel goes round, he cries out, "Grab!" Oh,ain't you a lit — tle bit a — shamed o' this, Oh,ain't you a lit — tle bit a — sham'd o' this, Oh,ain't you a lit — tle bit a — sham'd o' this — Tostay all night for one sweet kiss "Oh, etc."}
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