Buford's strength had been so burnt out with fever, and so wasted from the suppuration of his wound, that he was but the pale, limp outline of a man when I laid him gently on one of my mother's snowy beds. Had he been more than Tory, more than British officer, my dear mother would have received him kindly in his present state, and laid aside all other duties to care for him. It was good to see her hovering over him with gentle touch and to hear her say: "They were good to you, son, when you were in like condition. I am proud you brought him to me; he shall have every care, every comfort."
"Oh, brother, were you as ill as this, when he took you from the Philadelphia prison?" said Jean, tender commiseration on her face.
"Weaker, I think, only I had passed the stage of delirium into which he slipped only a few days ago. But look at me now! See how robust I am!" and I lifted her by the elbows to the level of my face, kissed her and set her upon her feet again, adding: "Buford will soon be as sound, with yours and mother's nursing."
"His mother and sister nursed you?"
"They had me well-cared for. I was over the worst when they found me."
"We'll nurse him carefully, dear Donald, you may be satisfied of that. Is he, though, really a Tory? He looks like a gentleman," glancing toward him as she spoke, as if she half suspected Buford of possessing hidden tusks and horns like some fabled monster.
"And gentleman he is, only his opinions do not agree with ours"; whereupon I laughed so merrily at Jean's shocked face that mother signed to us to leave the room, lest we disturb her patient. "Aye, little sister," I continued, "prejudice is a most strange thing! 'Tis like a pestilence in the air, poisoning even the most innocent and pure-hearted. Heaven, Jean, I doubt not, is a place where thought is as free as God's smile, and conviction untrammeled, save by love and knowledge of truth. Such state would almost be heaven, methinks, without other concomitants."
Jean, though the sweetest of little women, and well endowed with common sense, and all needful womanly reason, cared not, like Ellen, to follow the twistings and wanderings of thought, so she took me straight back to our subject.
"And if Captain Buford gets well, Donald, will they hang him because he is a Tory?"
"Do you suppose, innocent one, that we but fatten him for the halter? Either he'll be exchanged, paroled, or discharged."
"Then he'll go back to fight more against us? Oh! Donald, I'm afraid I shall hate the poor man when he begins to get stronger, though he looks now so pitiable."
"It would be very hard to hate Buford, Jean. You'll forget he's in a sense our enemy. But, don't bother your little head about all this yet; perhaps Generals Greene and Washington may make peace with the British by the time Buford is strong enough to shoulder arms again. A few more victories like King's Mountain and Cowpens and it's done."
"What would then become of Captain Buford?" persisted Jean.
"He would be released, and could go back to Philadelphia, or to England, as he pleased. Perhaps his estate would be confiscated, and he might suffer other persecutions. There is much bitterness everywhere against the Tories," I responded.
"Poor gentleman!" she sighed; "perhaps we ought not to want him to get well."
"Nonsense, little Jean! Of course we want him to get well, and if he could be consulted he himself would choose to get well, you may be sure. A man worth the name wants to see the end of the play—to finish the game—to keep up life's battle while muscle and wind are left him to fight with. Do all you can to cure him, Jean, and leave his future in his own hands."
"And God's," she added reverently.
All this conversation I repeated to Ellen, during the few brief hours I had to spend with her. Then we went back to the subject of prejudice, and I talked out the convictions which Jean had not encouraged me to express. Ellen was broad-minded, open-souled—one of God's chosen transmitters from generation to generation of ever-widening truth. This talk between us upon the subject of prejudice, as to which we were already agreed, led on to a less general discussion, and gave me opportunity to drive, I hoped, another wedge between superstition and consecration. Presently I made the enquiry I almost dreaded to have her answer:
"Tell me of your daily life with Aunt Martha, Ellen; is each day still a trial to you, exercising all your fortitude and patience?" Her answer gave me my first heart's ease for weeks.
"No, Donald, I wonder, indeed, if it was ever so bad as I thought, or if my stubborn will and set defiance magnified the hardships I underwent, as a child, under Aunt Martha's discipline. However that may have been, I find her, now, disposed to give me full liberty, and to exact few duties. Indeed, it is of my own will that I relieve her of such duties as she will trust me to perform; and since her health fails more and more, she is obliged to let others do many things she once took upon herself."
"And she never asks you to go to church?"
"No, but twice I have offered to go. Father Gibault granted me absolution beforehand—as Elisha did Naaman—should I think it best to attend the Protestant meetings which my relatives frequented. And I have found the quiet church a better place to repeat my litany and aves than even my own room; the preacher's voice I can imagine to be the priest's intoning, and if I shut my eyes, I can see the candles, and smell the incense."
I smiled at this naïve confession. "But you make no signs, I hope," I said in pretended seriousness, which for a moment deceived her.
"I am careful to do so only under my tippet; and see! I wear my beads beneath my gown," and Ellen drew forth a small ebony cross and held it out for my inspection.
Thinking this scene over later, Ellen's religion seemed to me not only harmless—apart from her superstitious vow—but so much a part of her as to be lovable. It would nowise affect my confidence and love were my wife always a devout Catholic. Could I be one with her, though, in her religion; could I yield my own simple and sublime faith for hers?—to that question came a not uncertain negative. My reason and feelings repelled all the dogmas and practices so sacred to Ellen, as hers did those most congenial to my spirit! No! I would make no compromise with the woman I loved—the woman I would win for my wife. She must come to me trusting all, confiding all. There must be no terms of barter between me and my heart's love.
The company of militiamen I was able to take with me to General Greene was warmly welcomed, for many of the men of King's Mountain and Cowpens had refused to enlist for regular service, and General Greene was using all the skillful tactics of which he was master to avoid a drawn battle with Cornwallis' united army, until his own was strong enough to offer some hope of another victory. Defeat could not be risked just now, for that meant a resubjugated South, and then General Washington's dislodgement from Philadelphia and New Jersey, which would be the end of our hopes and our efforts. The battle of Guilford Court House, fought on the fifth of March, was claimed by the British as a defeat for the Americans; but Charles Fox realized, as General Greene did, its true import, when he said on the floor of the British Parliament:
"Another such victory as that of Guilford would destroy the British Army."
General Greene now retreated to Troublesome Creek and there awaited the expected pursuit. We did not know until later that General Cornwallis had lost a third of his force, nor that he was so encumbered with wounded, and so needy of supplies of all kinds, as to make pursuit impossible. Slowly he fell back into the Tory Highland Settlement at Cross Creek. We followed, at first cautiously, but more and more eager to dislodge and rout our enemy as we learned of his crippled condition. Our own lack of ammunition prevented our doing so, and General Cornwallis was perforce allowed to cross Deep River, near Ramsay's Mill. Both armies crouched here—like two angry lions, pausing in prolonged combat, and waiting but for strength enough to make again at each other's throats—for some weeks, the river between, with all its fords vigilantly guarded. We Continentals fared hardly, meanwhile, subsisting on ash cakes, and the black, stringy meat of the half wild cattle, raised on the pine barrens. The damp ground was our bed, and our ragged blankets and our tattered clothes were our only protection from the vagaries of the spring weather.
A bold decision of General Greene's relieved the strained situation. He would leave Cornwallis in his rear, and advance by rapid marches to the relief of South Carolina. If Cornwallis should follow him he would turn and give him battle;—if he should decide to march on northward to coöperate with Arnold in Virginia, the militia and General Lafayette must take care of him. His, General Greene's, task was to relieve the Southern States; he would stick to his work.
We advanced swiftly to Camden, held by a considerable British force, and sat down before it. Cornwallis still remained at Ramsay's Mill. The night before the fall of Fort Watson, which would give us Camden, General Greene sent for me to his tent. "Colonel McElroy," he began—I have found no opportunity to state my gradual rise in rank during my eight months of southern service,—"I wish to send important dispatches to Governor Jefferson, and for obvious reasons prefer to have them conveyed orally. I must have a trusty and well accredited messenger, and one perfectly familiar with the country, therefore I have chosen you. Say to Governor Jefferson that I believe it to be General Cornwallis' intention to advance into Virginia in an attempt to over-run and subjugate that state. Say to him, that I hope, with the assistance of Sumter's and Marion's rangers, without further reënforcements, to relieve the Southern States, and afterwards, if I am needed, I will gladly come to the help of Virginia. I would not have him think that I have deserted that noble commonwealth whose aid, more than that of any of the others, has enabled me to do what so far it has been possible to accomplish in this department. I know the bravery and loyalty of Virginians, and have no fears for the result there, but these over-ridden South Carolinians must have instant succor, if the State is not to be given over finally to the British and the Tories. Have you a fleet mount, Colonel McElroy?"
"The best that can be raised on my father's plantation, and bred from good English hunting stock."
"You will need to ride swiftly, and persistently. Once Cornwallis gives the order to advance—you know his habit—there'll be no delays, no deliberate marches."
"I fully realize that, General; I will lose no time."
"A somewhat circuitous route might be the safer: skirt the Highland neighborhood, though your route be lengthened thereby. It might be well to suggest to Governor Jefferson the extreme importance of guarding any army stores we may have left in Virginia, though doubtless the obvious necessity to do so will occur to him."
"Where shall I rejoin you, General?" I asked.
"I cannot say where one, two or three weeks may find me; it depends both on Cornwallis' movements, and our successes or reverses, as we attempt to relieve South Carolina. I would suggest that you do not try to rejoin me until ordered to do so. Should Cornwallis continue his advance into Virginia, Governor Jefferson will need you to help to raise and command the militia, doubtless. You may say that I but lend you to him, until the tide of invasion has been rolled back from your State."
Thanking General Greene for his confidence implied, I saluted, and went at once to my tent to make preparations for departure early the next morning.
Though General Cornwallis had the advantage of two days' start, I overtook him on the third day, and from that time distanced his encumbered movements every hour. Part of my way was over ground he had just traversed, part lay parallel with it, and more than one distressing scene came under my observation. Smoldering homes, barns, and hay ricks sent up a sodden smoke from all along the route, and several times I saw women and children sheltering, for lack of better place, under the eaves of half-burned ricks. Say the most one can for it, war at its best is but a grim and terrible necessity.
My report but confirmed rumors of the approach of Cornwallis which had already reached Governor Jefferson, and I found him wide awake to Virginia's danger, against which he was taking every precaution his exhausted resources allowed. He received me with flattering remembrance of our former meeting, and an unaffected cordiality. Still more, he pleased me by the letter of introduction he gave me to General Lafayette, together with certain dispatches in which he spoke of me in terms of personal friendship. Among the dispatches was my special commission to raise reënforcements in the valley, with which I was to join Lafayette's command as promptly as possible.
This was my first meeting with the gallant and elegant Frenchman, under whom I was to serve during the remainder of our struggle. Morgan, Clark, Greene, and Lafayette were the four great leaders whom I followed during my eight years of military life. They were as different as four great souled men of war-like genius could well be—though between Morgan and Clark there was the kinship of spirits cast in primitive heroic mold, a like resemblance to Achilles, Priam, Alexander and other heroes of an earlier time—yet each of the four I could honor and love sincerely, serving him with exulting sense of privilege.
For this last emergency, recruiting was not needful. I did not find it necessary, indeed, to cross the mountain, for at its foot I met the grim militiamen of the valley, swarming to meet Tarleton. I had only to form them into a company, and march them to join Lafayette before he began his strategical retreat toward Fredricksburg, with the double object of protecting the manufactory of arms near Falmouth, and effecting a junction with the troops under General Wayne, ordered southward to reënforce us. Cornwallis followed Lafayette, taking a parallel course to the eastward of ours. Often not more than twenty miles separated us, and we dared not slacken our march for heat or storm while the winged Cornwallis gave chase. The junction with Wayne before a battle was forced upon us was General Lafayette's one hope of escape. And now, once more, it was the privilege of the Scotch Irish to render signal service to the cause. To my company, and that of Captain Mercedes, fell the posts of honor and danger. We were the scouts, the pickets, the couriers, and the rear guard on this skillfully conducted retreat.
We had nearly reached the ford on the Pamunkey we had been pushing for, when a force of the enemy overtook us and pressed upon our rear. General Lafayette halted and formed line of battle with the determination to make a desperate stand. I had been sent for to reconnoiter, on the first report of the enemy's advance, and soon discovered that it was only a patrolling force, and that the main body of the British was yet some distance in the rear of us. Hastening with this good news to General Lafayette, I found it more expeditious to travel for several miles along the road recently gone over by Cornwallis' reconnoitering force, and between that force and the British army. As was my rule when on scout service, my squad marched in close column, with detail of two in front, and two in rear, as special lookouts. The front lookout stopped suddenly, and seemed to listen; we approached quickly and heard also the confused sounds, with screaming, and hoarse wrangling, which had arrested their attention. Convinced that the force in front, whatever its uniform and purpose, could be but a small one, I ordered my men to advance at double quick, and, putting spurs to my horse, I came immediately around the bend in the road to the scene of action.
A squad of fifteen or more British soldiers surrounded an overturned post chaise, from the tangled harness of which, four frightened and struggling horses were being extricated by trembling postilions. In the midst of the group were two female figures, one dressed in black, and heavily veiled, the other in the costume of a lady's maid. It was she who continued to utter piercing screams, throwing her hands about in the most tragic manner, and paying no heed to her mistress' low spoken commands. We were within fifty yards of the group before the thud of our horses hoofs upon the sandy soil was loud enough to rise above this confusion of clamors; and before the mounted British could turn, or the dismounted leap upon their horses, we had surrounded them.
"Stack arms: You are my prisoners!" I called, "and what means this cowardly attack upon a lady's traveling carriage?"
"You Americans have a trick of using women as your spies and couriers, and then crying shame upon us if we arrest them, and foil you! This pretended widow or orphan is doubtless stuffed like a pin cushion beneath her black robes with spies' reports, and warnings to Jefferson!" replied the officer in charge of the squad, as he angrily stacked his gun beside the rest, and cast scornful glances upon the veiled figure, who, until then, had stood haughtily erect and silent among them.
"It is a false charge!" she now answered, spiritedly; "I bear no dispatches, convey no messages. I but go to seek my only brother, late a British officer, now a wounded prisoner, yet treated by the courteous enemy who harbor him, I doubt not, with more gentleness than I am receiving from those who should be most prompt to succor and defend me!" Then, turning to me, she continued in tones less scornful: "Will you be so good as to inform me, sir, whose prisoner I have now the honor to be?—The fortune of war may change, it seems, with such magic swiftness, that one finds it difficult to be sure of one's present or one's prospective situation."
"You are no one's prisoner, madam," I replied, stirred suddenly by familiar tones in her voice; "you are under the protection, however, of Virginia troops commanded by Colonel McElroy, and will be conveyed to some place of safety acceptable to you as soon as possible." I had dismounted, meantime, and stood near her.
"Can it be Captain Donald McElroy, of Virginia?" she said in lowered and tremulous voice, at the same moment throwing back her veil, and revealing the face of Nelly Buford—fairer than ever in its setting of rich hair and banded crepe.
Does a man ever quite forget his first love? Has its remembrance always power to thrill him, even though the once lively sentiment be supplanted, or outlived? That the sound of Nelly's voice, and the touch of her hand, could yet thrill me, was, just now, a disturbing revelation. I felt myself disloyal to Ellen and so scorned myself for this fresh evidence of weakness, that I fear my manner to her was almost haughty.
Having dispatched a courier with my comforting news to General Lafayette, and sent my prisoners after him, under sufficient escort, I ordered the postilions, and some of my men, to right the carriage, and make the harness safe. Then I joined Nelly, and relieved her mind of all anxiety about her brother by telling her of his whereabouts, and the news I had had recently that he was convalescent, and would completely recover. Nelly's thanks were fervently expressed after which she proceeded to explain her present situation, and to give me her double reason for leaving the shelter her generous Quaker friends had for some months afforded her—the longing to find her brother, and the wish to relieve her host of the inconvenience and possible danger of harboring one of a family well-known to be strong Tory adherents.
The carriage having been made ready, Nelly and her maid were shut within, and, preceded and followed by mounted escort, Miss Buford was conveyed in state to General Lafayette's late headquarters. We found the army gone, and camp deserted, and I surmised, that, upon receipt of my courier's message, the general, seeing yet a chance to escape, had ordered an immediate advance. We followed, but did not overtake the hastily bivouacked army until past midnight.
No other accommodation than that Nelly's carriage offered was procurable, and so I regretfully informed her, to be cheerfully assured that she asked nothing better, if she might have cessation from jolting, and sense of security. The rest of the hot night I stood guard, watching the languid stars blink one by one to sleep, and waging lively warfare with the swarms of greedy mosquitoes, who constituted themselves surety for my vigilance. As soon as the first flush of morning tinged the eastern sky, I woke one of my men, and left him to guard the carriage while I sought General Lafayette. He was sound asleep under a tree with a gnarled root for pillow, his face and hands covered by his blanket to protect them from the swamp pests. Awakened by my step, he threw off his blanket, looked up at the sky, and muttered sleepily some unintelligible words in his own language.
"General Lafayette?" I said, stepping in front of him, and saluting, "I am Colonel McElroy, at present in command of a company of Virginia militiamen. Will you grant me a few moments of your time while the camp is getting ready to march?"
"Most certainly, Colonel McElroy," then, in the precise English of the cultivated foreigner, and with agreeable accent—"when I have thanked you for this valuable information sent me last evening. Ah, if fortune continues to favor us, we'll yet escape the bold Cornwallis, Colonel McElroy! But we must march unceasingly, till we meet the reinforcements of General Wayne. Then we'll give Cornwallis the fight he seems so much to wish, and show him what may be done by the united gallantry of America and France! But I retard your story, sir; command, now, my attention."
I related briefly the capture of the British stragglers, the rescue of the young lady, and added an account of my previous acquaintance with Miss Buford, and the debt of gratitude I felt myself under to her family. He listened with courteous attention, and responded with true French understanding of such obligation:
"You can do nothing less, Colonel McElroy, than escort the young woman in safety to her brother. Later I shall gladly detail such force to guard you as you may think necessary, but for the present it is safer that she remain with the army."
"Then you have no objection, General Lafayette, to her carriage and its escort traveling between the main army and my company—at present the van guard?"
"None, sir—under the circumstances."
"I have still another favor to ask, General"—somewhat embarrassed by my own boldness—"that you will grant Miss Buford the honor of an introduction. Such attention from you as a brief visit to her carriage would avoid all danger of familiar acts, words, or surmise from any of the troops while she must be with us; she would become your guest, and be under your personal protection."
"A shrewd thought, Colonel, worthy of your Scotch name," General Lafayette gayly replied, "and for gallantry of conception not unworthy one of my own countrymen! I consent, with pleasure, and while awaiting your orderly shall make such toilet as my very limited facilities permit."
Nelly had managed in some mysterious way to remove all traces of her tiresome journey and broken rest, and stood ready to receive the general, under the canopy of a blooming magnolia, meeting him with the ease of a society queen, and responding to his gallant speeches with grace and vivacity. The susceptible young Frenchman at once proclaimed himself her captive, lingering to talk with her until the troops in front were moving, and the rear guard falling into line of march.
Twice during the day he rode back to exchange a few words with her, and to assure himself of her comfort. He was so attentive, indeed, and so solicitous for her, that I think I felt almost a pang of jealousy at being deprived of the full credit of being the fair Nelly's rescuer and protector.
Our junction with Wayne was effected near the ford of the Rapidan a few days later. Already Cornwallis had given over the pursuit, and turned back to rejoin Tarleton. It was now possible for me to accept General Lafayette's offer of a furlough and escort, with fair prospect of safe journey to the valley by circuitous northeastern route. It seemed my fate, by some claim upon my private sentiments or some untoward accident, again and again to be withdrawn from active service at critical periods of our struggle. As willingly as I now rendered this service to one to whom I owed perhaps my life, I sighed inwardly to leave General Lafayette at a time when we might speedily expect some chance to strike a telling blow. To the General I expressed my regret, and was gratified by the warmth with which he assured me he would welcome my return as soon as I should have placed my fair charge in safety.
Not many hours before we reached home, when indeed we were entering the valley, I told Nelly of an amusing conceit that had been running in my head, namely—that I was destined for a rescuer of fair damsels, using this as an introduction to the story, I had been casting about for an excuse to relate, of Ellen O'Neil, and her journey to the west with Clark. But the presence of the maid kept back a full confession, and Nelly's suspicions did not seem to be aroused by my warm championship. Evidently she thought I but framed elaborate apologies for a kinswoman.
Miss Nelly's bearing, in truth, had been a source of disturbance to me for several days. She was so confiding, so almost affectionate in her manner, and seemed to appropriate me with such joyous confidence, that it was difficult not to meet her in like spirit. Not unto this day have I been able to determine the true meaning of her conduct during that journey. Did she believe that I was yet a captive to her charms? or, was it but the natural overflowing of grateful, friendly affection? Or—but even as it came I reproached myself for such thought—did she wish to make me again her slave, that she might have revenge for my single defiance of her power? Such reflections and uncertainties disturbed me more and more as we neared home; and mixed with the gratification of uniting Nelly and her brother, and the happiness I could but feel in the near prospect of seeing Ellen, was a sense of vague uneasiness, of shadowy foreboding.
Seldom have my forebodings gone unverified—possibly because I am not superstitious, and they are usually founded upon some more or less clearly realized cause. I had not been home a quarter of an hour till I felt that something had gone wrong; that the usual sweet and serene home atmosphere was impregnated with an illusive element of discord. Every one capable of the finer shades of feeling has experienced, doubtless, the subtle influence of an atmosphere, surcharged with carefully hidden emotion that yet jars each soul, and sets all nerves a-quiver. Not always, however, is there present a serene, commanding spirit, which can dissipate the threatened storm, by tact and the sunshine of genial graciousness.
So did Ellen, being for a while my mother's guest, during Aunt Martha's absence at a famed medicinal spring. My father, strangely stern and silent, after his first hearty greeting for me, and courteous one for his latest guest, would warm into fitful geniality under Ellen's blandishments, mother's face lose its look of anxious distress, Jean dimple and brighten in the old way, and Buford relax somewhat his air of dignity and reserve.
Yet the cause of the evident gloom hanging over the household was, on the second day after my return, still a mystery; the entire family seemed to have entered into a tacit agreement to withhold it from me, and each one carefully avoided a private interview. For a while it defied guessing even; I could only surmise that Nelly's presence had complicated the situation, and was to some extent the reason for my exclusion from the family confidence. From the first hour I had seen that Ellen was surprised by Nelly's manner to me, though I alone guessed her unconscious resentment, noting the expression of it through an added flush to her cheeks, a slightly more erect attitude of her head, and a firmer tone in her voice. Mother, too, had presently observed Nelly's apparently unconscious appropriation of me, and watched us both anxiously; then Buford seemed to note it, looked annoyed, and exchanged a quick glance of mingled despair and tender assurance with Jean. That intercepted glance gave me my first hint, and I longed more than ever to get Ellen alone, and to ask the score of questions that hung upon my lips.
Through all, Nelly seemed unconscious of the false note in her welcome, and the gloom hanging over the household. After her first regret at finding that her brother, though almost as strong as ever, was yet lame, and likely to be always slightly so, she seemed to be entirely content with her new surroundings, and grew blithe as a child, putting forth all her charms to win over her new friends. I, meanwhile, was driven to despair by Ellen's manner—by disappointment, longing, and hope continually deferred. Once more she was the unapproachable Ellen of Kaskaskia—sweetly dignified, graciously charming, cousinly kind—yet the distance of the poles between us! And, continually, she found excuses to leave me alone with Nelly, constituting me her host and entertainer, while she kept herself occupied with helping mother or with entertaining Buford.
From Thomas, home for his vacation, the explanation came at last.
"Tom," I asked abruptly, "what is the matter? I have not had a moment's satisfaction since I came home. Father is stern, mother unhappy, Jean feverish, and Buford sullen. As for Ellen she avoids me as if I were a dangerous lunatic."
Tom gazed at me, astonished at my petulance, and answered with provoking calmness: "The trouble or at least their knowledge of it, is so recent that they have had no time as yet to adjust themselves to it, and they do not know how you may take it—especially since they are in doubt as to your relations with Miss Buford."
"What trouble? Speak out, lad! I'm sick of mystery."
"Jean's avowed love for Captain Buford. Neither your mother nor your father suspected their interest in each other until four days ago, though Ellen tells me she had guessed it for weeks."
"Well, it is no such grave trouble that the family need sink into despondency because of it. Buford is a Tory, and likely to be always a little lame; nevertheless he's a gentleman by birth and breeding, and lacks none of the qualities necessary to make him a good husband."
"All that may be true, and yet it is not surprising that Uncle William should object to a penniless, lame Tory, and ex-British officer, as husband for his only daughter. Your bringing his sister here just at this time complicates the situation. Buford had decided to go to Staunton, if such move were consistent with the terms of his parole, but Miss Buford's arrival brings him the double embarrassment of providing means for two to live upon, and of seeming to decline for his sister your proffered hospitality—which for himself he has so long accepted."
"I have General Morgan's permission to release Buford as soon as he is well," I said, "so his parole need not interfere with his plans. And he can sell Miss Nelly's carriage and horses if he is too proud to borrow. Perhaps General Morgan can induce Congress to restore Buford's confiscated property, so that his poverty need not influence father, if he can bring himself to forgive his Tory principles. Moreover, I have always intended to divide my western bounty lands with Jean."
"If you are to marry Miss Buford any objection to her brother as husband for your sister would be untenable."
"I have no intention, and no wish to marry Miss Buford," I responded impatiently, "nor she to marry me."
"She seems greatly interested in you, Donald, and lays open claim to you. Well, I despair of ever knowing any woman, and am thankful I have resolved to live a bachelor. Ellen never treated you as familiarly as Miss Buford, after all your months of comradeship."
"Ellen is as rare among women, as the nightingale among song birds," I answered, "but Nelly is lovable and womanly, and I owe her an unpaid debt. Look here, Tom; if you'll do me one great kindness I will consider myself under obligations to you for life. Pay Miss Nelly devoted attention for the next two days; take her for a long ride to-morrow; do anything to give me a chance for some private talk with Ellen before I go back to the army. Think of it, lad," and I laid my hand entreatingly on his shoulder. "My furlough is almost gone, and I haven't had a moment alone with Ellen! I might be killed in the next battle and never see her again! She might take a sudden resolve and immure herself before I can return! Imustsee her before I go!"
"I'll do all I can to help you, Don," said Thomas, with a long drawn sigh, "but you couldn't well ask a harder thing of me. Miss Buford, though pretty and gay enough, is not my style of woman; and moreover, the least I have to say to young women, now-a-days, the better pleased I am!"
I might have smiled to see Thomas, not yet twenty-six, affect to be already so blasé, and a woman scorner. But I was too feverishly engrossed with my own passionate longings, and half angry defiance of circumstances, to be greatly interested in the feelings of others—except Ellen's, upon which I knew now depended all my hopes of a life rounded and completed as God meant a man's to be.
My next confidential talk was with Jean. She poured out all her innocent heart to me, surprising me by the depth of her feelings. My sympathy seemed to comfort her and she promised, without urgence, to heed my counsel for patience and to impose like conduct upon Buford. They must wait, I told her, until the war was over and I came home for good. Then, with time and intercession, there was good hope that she would win the full consent of our parents, which meant a far better prospect of happiness than a union unblessed by their approval. I promised her, too, a last interview with Buford, before he should leave for Staunton, and she assured me that she would make him no promises I would not be likely to sanction.
A second plan had come to me, which offered, I thought, a better chance to both Buford and myself than my first one of sending Thomas and Nelly for a long ride together, which was to make up a horseback party to the big cave, that Tom and I had often explored in our boyhood and which had now become a resort for pleasure parties. It was but natural that I should wish to show our guest the greatest curiosity in the neighborhood, and also that I should desire one day's pleasuring before I should return to the stern duties of war. I boldly proclaimed my plan, therefore, at breakfast table, the next morning; it was warmly seconded by Thomas and Nelly, and met with no spoken opposition from any one.
A negro boy was sent ahead, with cart laden with skins, wraps, lunch baskets and candles, and we followed on horseback an hour later. Tom and Jean, Nelly and I, Ellen and Buford, we started out, and mother viewed the pairing with little less satisfaction than she would have an arrangement more pleasing to most of us. Freed from the suspicious eyes of our elders, we forgot our reserve and self-consciousness, and enjoyed the cool, dim ramble through the crystal studded passage ways, and also our lunch in the cool grove near by, with the light chatter afterward. When we were mounting for the homeward ride, Thomas revived my waning hopes by boldly proposing a change of partners all around, coolly sending Jean off with Buford, and himself appropriating Nelly, leaving Ellen no choice but to ride with me. Even then I was like to be checkmated, for Ellen kept close behind Thomas and Nelly. At last I grew desperate, and riding close laid a restraining hand upon her bridle, stopping her horse just as we were about to enter a beautiful strip of open forest through which the road extended for a mile.
"Ellen," I said, in firm tones, "Imusthave an hour alone with you. Let them ride on; we'll follow when they are out of hearing. Can you not trust yourself with me for one brief ride after all our journeying together?"
Over throat, cheek and brow came a sudden glow of crimson like that which was flaming in the western sky; the thick fringed lids dropped over her eyes, and the harp-like vibration I loved was in her voice, as she said:
"You cannot doubt I trust you, Cousin Donald; you saved me once from claw of wild beast, once from my own folly, and once again from a fate worse than common death, from the Indian's torture stake. I would trust my safety to you under all circumstances."
"But not your happiness, Ellen?"
"My happiness would be but too safe in your hands, dear cousin. One has not always the right to be happy."
"And it is sometimes a sacred duty to make one who loves you with every fiber of his being, one who would die to save you sorrow, miserable for life. Oh, Ellen, I know that you are true and holy beyond my understanding, yet I can see no reason in this fixed purpose of yours to divert your life from its evident destiny."
"My weakness assents to all you say, Cousin Donald," and Ellen lifted eyes to mine that were tenderly aglow with feeling, "but you have missed the true reason on which my final decision must depend. If my vow to God may be honestly broken, if I may be absolved from it, it would be only because that were true beyond question which you have so earnestly claimed—that your single hope of happiness, Donald, depends upon me—that by fulfilling my vow, I should leave you to bear the man's struggle, without hope of the man's God-appointed cheer and solace. But recently I have been convinced that no one woman circumscribes a man's possibility of happiness, that God wisely has ordained a quick healing for heart wounds. Therefore, cousin, since happiness, thank God, would still be possible to you without me, I am bound by my vow. You will find some one to devote her life to you who is not of alien faith, who has not broken sacred vows that she might come to you; and I, meantime, will be adding to your happiness by daily intercessions for you before God's holy altar."
Why it was I do not know, but a sudden anger flamed in my heart. Was I always to be answered in this absurd, illogical way, with platitudes of holy vows, and sacred consecration? Were all my protestations of devotion to be brushed aside, as not worth believing, and my life's happiness to weigh as nothing against Ellen's will, and pride, her sudden whims and conclusions? Making no attempt to conceal my anger and my bitterness, I answered her:
"Let us have no more of this cant of sacred vows, Ellen. Think you God has cared to register a disobedient girl's sick fancy that, by immolating herself, she could render Him special homage, or add one ounce to His power and His influence? You say I do not need your life, that I can find happiness without you—thus casting back my words as too light for belief, and my heart, my very soul, as of small value beside your vaunted vow. I would I could believe, Ellen, that happiness were possible for me without you. But it is too late for that, and if in perversity of stubborn superstition you condemn me to a lonely, loveless life, I can but endure it with such fortitude as I may learn to command. It would seem to me but poor reflection for quiet convent hours—that an honest man's life had been wrecked—that a noble family name had perished from the earth—all that one more nun might count her beads and offer up prayers in needless repetition to an all powerful God who has no need of such mummery to help him rule with eternal wisdom a universe of worlds."
"So far apart are we in mind and heart, Donald McElroy," answered Ellen, with flashing eyes, having reined her horse to a standstill that she might fully face me, "if these be your true sentiments, that never could we hope to be one in spirit; never would I dare to unite my life with yours," and, putting whip to her horse, she joined Thomas and Nelly, nor deigned to show consciousness of my presence again that evening.
The next day she kept her room, "with headache," said Jean. The morning after she came down only at the last moment to say good-by to our guests and me. Vainly I sought the chance to whisper my regret and repentance in her ear; she was careful to give me opportunity only for a formal farewell in the presence of them all.
To Buford and his sister I said good-by, after I had settled them comfortably in Staunton, almost with coolness. They, it seemed to me, had repaid my generous wish to more than return their kindness by a crass indifference to my feelings.
Then I faced to the scene of war, once more, with fierce satisfaction. For the first time I felt a thirst for danger. Since I had thrown away all chance for happiness, I would win a glorious death in the last glorious and successful struggle of my country for liberty!
The battle of Green Spring, fought the third day after I had rejoined General Lafayette—that gallant officer being now in pursuit of Cornwallis, who was slowly retreating to a less hazardous position, near the sea coast—was the one engagement Lafayette allowed himself during the tedious game of march and countermarch at which the opposed armies had been playing for three months. Fighting was much more to the taste of the ardent Lafayette, but he had learned the art of war in the school of Washington, and knew that a timely and skillful retreat is often worth more than a victory. By such "Fabian policy" as the great leader himself had condescended to use, to the open scorn of his enemies, Lafayette had completely aborted the concerted invasion of Virginia, and had gradually turned Cornwallis on to the open mouth of the trap which was later to prove so fatal to him. The fight above mentioned was undecisive, and had no other effect than to hurry Cornwallis' retreat to the seashore—at a dear cost to us of one hundred and fifty men.
At Yorktown, the British awaited their fleet with convoys of needed supplies, and hoped daily for reënforcements from General Clinton; meantime working industriously to entrench themselves. We sat down at Malvern Hill, watching, like a bull-dog before his enemy's gate. The sea protected Cornwallis' position on three sides, and a few days sufficed to erect strongly fortified works on their fourth—there was small chance for the bull-dog, unless the desired prey could somehow be driven from cover. But he crouched and waited on. This stubborn vigilance was rewarded on the last day of August when the flagship of Count de Grasse sailed into the Chesapeake Bay at the head of the French fleet.
Our camp went mad with joy as the three thousand French troops under Marquis de Saint Simon landed to unite with us, and on the next day we took position across the neck of the peninsula at Williamsburg. Cornwallis was in the trap, and Lafayette had sprung shut the last door which offered possible chance of escape. Admiral Graves with the English fleet arrived too late. We watched anxiously the naval battle between him and Count de Grasse, and exulted wildly when the defeated fleet sailed away. Nine days' later, General Washington arrived, his presence the final assurance of coming victory, and close on his heels the whole northern army; by the twenty-sixth of September, the American and French forces confronting Cornwallis were sixteen thousand strong. It was only a question of days now. The brave British, inspired ever by the intrepid Cornwallis, could not hold out long in their cramped condition, without adequate supplies, and decimated daily by the deadly fire we were presently ready to pour into the town. Our first parallel was opened on the sixth of October; the men were so impatient with the prospect of speedy victory after our long struggle against heavy odds, and so reckless with mad enthusiasm, that it took all the authority of the older and more prudent officers to restrain acts of needless risk and exposure.
That night—I had helped to fire the first guns and had witnessed the fearful havoc they made among the enemy's redoubts—my whole being was in such tumult from violent and conflicting emotions that I could not sleep. Patriotic joy uplifted my soul to a fervor of grateful emotion one moment, and in the next, a wave of depression overwhelmed me. Apples of Sodom would be even the success of the cause, which so long and so fervently I had cherished, if the future held for me no hope of Ellen's love, no promise of Ellen's companionship! Ah, if I had not lost my last chance by the rashness of my tongue! had not thrown away my life's happiness by yielding to unreasoning anger!
Had I but explained my true situation and feelings in regard to Nelly Buford before I began to urge my suit so commandingly, I might have had hope, at least, to feed upon, instead of the certainty of disappointment. Yet why admit failure? If General Washington had done so after Long Island, General Greene after Guilford; where would be to-day the cause of American liberty? No, I would not recognize defeat! I would fight on till no ray of hope was left me. This very night I would make a last appeal to Ellen—set before her once again, but more persuasively, all the reasons and arguments that to me seemed so clear. So I lit my last end of candle, took my board upon my knee, found a bottle of poke-berry ink, sharpened a quill and wrote—the ardent words flowing from my quill's end more freely than the thin purplish red fluid in which I transcribed them:
"Dear Heart of my Heart:"Past midnight, and this vast camp lies wrapt in slumber. No sounds disturb the star lighted peace save now and then the faint call of the sentinels, and the distant roaring of an occasional gun, fired from our first parallel which we opened to-day. To my tent, far in the rear of our front line, these sounds come softened into the musical echo of to-day's joyous excitement, and hint of to-morrow's glorious promise. Though the sweet and brooding peace of the night, the benediction of the stars, and the caresses of a gentle breeze, all woo my tired limbs and excited mind to needed repose, my heart is too full of longing thoughts of you, dear Ellen, to admit sleep!"I see your dear face as last I saw it, flushed, hurt, angry, and hear that voice, whose tender tremor is the sweetest music my ears have known, ring sharp and firm in those words which were the death knell of my hopes. In no other mood than that one, in which I have seen you so rarely, can I recall you—the hurt and angry state so foreign to your warm and generous nature. Yet I cannot upbraid you, dearest, or in anywise blame you, that last I saw you in a mood which so ill-becomes you, for I was its just occasion. I was too impetuous, too assertive, dear one. I knew it ere the rashness left me, and would have given my right arm to have been able to blot my foolish words from your memory. I longed to explain, to implore your forgiveness, to humble myself before you, and to recall all I had said that could give you offense—but you gave me no opportunity; was it not, mavourneen, a needlessly cruel punishment to deny me a last chance to beg for mercy, a moment to say farewell? Yet, dear one, though I expressed myself rudely, and went too far, much of what I said was true, as your generous spirit has already admitted when you have, with characteristic nobleness of soul, recalled my words in the hope of finding excuses for me."Perhaps before this letter reaches you—it goes by special courier to Richmond, with General Washington's dispatches to Governor Jefferson—a glorious victory will be ours. General Cornwallis and his army are completely surrounded, and must surrender in a few days. This will end the war, think all the officers, and bring us peace with Great Britain upon liberal terms. The United States of America will be a free republic, and before us stretches a noble future with the grandest possibilities that the mind of statesmen have yet been able to conceive. We shall have a free representative government administered by noble patriots, such as Washington, Jefferson and Adams. We shall abolish all prerogatives of class, party and creed; not only life, liberty, and pursuit of happiness will be free to all, but entire freedom of religious thought and free speech will be the unquestioned right of all the inhabitants of America. And not only freedom, but prosperity will be within reach of all. The wide and fertile plains of the West await but the claim of the settler to constitute a rich heritage. My heart thrills at the realization of the vast territory which Clark and his handful of Virginians added to that country which shall be called the American Republic. And you, Ellen, and I had our share in that glorious enterprise. Can any citizen of America fail to experience the glow of a true patriot's fervor, a thrill of true patriot's pride, upon contemplation of the noble destiny which a glowing future seems to promise our land—with Freedom's crown upon it? A destiny that will be shared with all who come to us."But oh, heart of my heart, my joy and exultation for my country are overcast with the gloom of despair! despair of any hope for my own life, any happiness for my own heart. Even my joy in our victory will be but the dim shadow of what it would be for my spirit is sick from this gnawing regret, and despair, eating daily deeper and deeper into my heart, till all buoyancy has left me, and I have longed for death. That madness is past, dear Ellen, else I would not tell you of it, but in truth I have sought death for days, as a mother seeks a lost child, wooed it as a lover wooes his mistress while yet there is hope. Not even death would come to my relief—and now I see it was a weakness to have sought it, a blasphemy to have prayed for it. I shall live out as even I must, the span allotted to me, and strive at least for the patience of hopeless resignation."Two pictures, Ellen, haunt the sick visions of my idle, waking hours, and glide nightly through my dreams. One is that which might have been, the other that which, alas, likely will be! I see a spacious mansion, crowning a green and gently sloping hill; its wide windows open to the sweet air and gracious sunshine of Virginia; its doors hospitably spread to welcome kinsmen, friends, neighbors, or wayfarers, whether bringing or needing blessing. At the foot of the hill, and seen from the broad verandas, stretch luxuriant meadows, where sleek horses and lazy herds of cattle wade knee deep in blossoming grass, and pink headed clover."Roses, lilies, and pinks bloom in the garden behind the house, and their fragrance floats in through doors and windows. Music too is there, for happy, unmolested birds sing their praises to their Creator, and the sweetest voice in all the world speaks kindly to contented slave, or happy child, or croons tenderly to the rosy infant. And beauty is there, rarer than that of the fair landscape to be glimpsed through doors and windows, for the fairest, loveliest woman in Virginia fills this happy home with her sweet pervading presence, and casts over it a rare and nameless charm—a spell which brings to all its inmates, from master to slave, from visiting friend to chance guest, a sense of assured comfort and cheerful content—Does not your heart tell you, oh, heart of my heart, that such home might be ours! and can you conceive for any woman, even for my own rare Ellen, a nobler destiny than to be the mistress of such home, the priestess of such heart shrine?"But the other picture! A gloomy convent cell in which a spirit-worn one—whose lingering beauty glads no tender heart, charms no eye of love—kneels with face of despair, to pray for grace not to loathe a life of useless sacrifice, of cloistered inaction,—so little suited to an ardent and loving soul, so fruitless in bringing real peace, true heart renunciation,—a life of small service to man or God, and of worth only because it brings to the heavy-hearted nun daily self wrestlings. And ever as she prays there comes between her and the Christ vision for which she yearns, and hourly implores her God, the sad face of a man, old before his time, and hopelessly resigned to sit in listless idleness by another's fireside, because he has no heart for one of his own."His old comrades and friends have built for themselves spacious homes, transformed the wilderness into rich estates, carved out useful and honorable careers, and are counted among those Virginians who are laying broad and deep the foundations of country, state, and family. But he, lacking the dear responsibilities of wife and children, having no descendants to carry the name in honorable memory and emulation to future generations, has dropped out of the struggle, given over the race; and, broken-hearted and despairing, lives only to recall the memories of an active and inspired youth."Can you, Ellen, mavourneen, contemplate this last vision, and not be moved to the thought that such end for God-endowed spirits, destined to complete each other's lives, were indeed a fearful sacrifice? That the tears, regrets and prayers of the nun would be but poor recompense to God—if there can be a reckoning between man and his Maker—for two unfulfilled lives, and lost generation after generation of human souls adequately gifted by noble birth, and honest inheritance, with health, comeliness, happiness, and opportunities, and trained in love of country, love of progress, love of virtue, love of God! My children shall have no other mother, Ellen, should you finally determine to let your superstition stifle your heart; know that in doing so you cut off from the earth the race of McElroy. Last male of the line am I, and vowed to go childless to my grave unless my offspring may call mother the one woman who is the love of my life, heart of my heart, hope and inspiration of my soul!"As soon as General Cornwallis surrenders I shall ask for a furlough, and come home for my final answer. Oh, my Ellen, dearest of dear ones, will you not crown my rejoicing, make of true worth to me our hard-won victory! and fill one patriot's breast with that supreme happiness of love accepted and returned which is the wine of men's souls, the one elixir which can furnish them with courage and inspiration for the constantly repeated struggles and continually renewed efforts of life!"May that God who is your God and mine, the God of your fathers and the God of mine, come to you in dream or vision, through word of saint or prophet, and open your eyes to see, as I see, that destiny which is the noblest and holiest for woman! Yet always, dear one, whether the happiest, or the most sorely bereft of men, I shall be"Your true and loyal friend, your sworn knight, your devoted lover,"Donald McElroy."
"Dear Heart of my Heart:
"Past midnight, and this vast camp lies wrapt in slumber. No sounds disturb the star lighted peace save now and then the faint call of the sentinels, and the distant roaring of an occasional gun, fired from our first parallel which we opened to-day. To my tent, far in the rear of our front line, these sounds come softened into the musical echo of to-day's joyous excitement, and hint of to-morrow's glorious promise. Though the sweet and brooding peace of the night, the benediction of the stars, and the caresses of a gentle breeze, all woo my tired limbs and excited mind to needed repose, my heart is too full of longing thoughts of you, dear Ellen, to admit sleep!
"I see your dear face as last I saw it, flushed, hurt, angry, and hear that voice, whose tender tremor is the sweetest music my ears have known, ring sharp and firm in those words which were the death knell of my hopes. In no other mood than that one, in which I have seen you so rarely, can I recall you—the hurt and angry state so foreign to your warm and generous nature. Yet I cannot upbraid you, dearest, or in anywise blame you, that last I saw you in a mood which so ill-becomes you, for I was its just occasion. I was too impetuous, too assertive, dear one. I knew it ere the rashness left me, and would have given my right arm to have been able to blot my foolish words from your memory. I longed to explain, to implore your forgiveness, to humble myself before you, and to recall all I had said that could give you offense—but you gave me no opportunity; was it not, mavourneen, a needlessly cruel punishment to deny me a last chance to beg for mercy, a moment to say farewell? Yet, dear one, though I expressed myself rudely, and went too far, much of what I said was true, as your generous spirit has already admitted when you have, with characteristic nobleness of soul, recalled my words in the hope of finding excuses for me.
"Perhaps before this letter reaches you—it goes by special courier to Richmond, with General Washington's dispatches to Governor Jefferson—a glorious victory will be ours. General Cornwallis and his army are completely surrounded, and must surrender in a few days. This will end the war, think all the officers, and bring us peace with Great Britain upon liberal terms. The United States of America will be a free republic, and before us stretches a noble future with the grandest possibilities that the mind of statesmen have yet been able to conceive. We shall have a free representative government administered by noble patriots, such as Washington, Jefferson and Adams. We shall abolish all prerogatives of class, party and creed; not only life, liberty, and pursuit of happiness will be free to all, but entire freedom of religious thought and free speech will be the unquestioned right of all the inhabitants of America. And not only freedom, but prosperity will be within reach of all. The wide and fertile plains of the West await but the claim of the settler to constitute a rich heritage. My heart thrills at the realization of the vast territory which Clark and his handful of Virginians added to that country which shall be called the American Republic. And you, Ellen, and I had our share in that glorious enterprise. Can any citizen of America fail to experience the glow of a true patriot's fervor, a thrill of true patriot's pride, upon contemplation of the noble destiny which a glowing future seems to promise our land—with Freedom's crown upon it? A destiny that will be shared with all who come to us.
"But oh, heart of my heart, my joy and exultation for my country are overcast with the gloom of despair! despair of any hope for my own life, any happiness for my own heart. Even my joy in our victory will be but the dim shadow of what it would be for my spirit is sick from this gnawing regret, and despair, eating daily deeper and deeper into my heart, till all buoyancy has left me, and I have longed for death. That madness is past, dear Ellen, else I would not tell you of it, but in truth I have sought death for days, as a mother seeks a lost child, wooed it as a lover wooes his mistress while yet there is hope. Not even death would come to my relief—and now I see it was a weakness to have sought it, a blasphemy to have prayed for it. I shall live out as even I must, the span allotted to me, and strive at least for the patience of hopeless resignation.
"Two pictures, Ellen, haunt the sick visions of my idle, waking hours, and glide nightly through my dreams. One is that which might have been, the other that which, alas, likely will be! I see a spacious mansion, crowning a green and gently sloping hill; its wide windows open to the sweet air and gracious sunshine of Virginia; its doors hospitably spread to welcome kinsmen, friends, neighbors, or wayfarers, whether bringing or needing blessing. At the foot of the hill, and seen from the broad verandas, stretch luxuriant meadows, where sleek horses and lazy herds of cattle wade knee deep in blossoming grass, and pink headed clover.
"Roses, lilies, and pinks bloom in the garden behind the house, and their fragrance floats in through doors and windows. Music too is there, for happy, unmolested birds sing their praises to their Creator, and the sweetest voice in all the world speaks kindly to contented slave, or happy child, or croons tenderly to the rosy infant. And beauty is there, rarer than that of the fair landscape to be glimpsed through doors and windows, for the fairest, loveliest woman in Virginia fills this happy home with her sweet pervading presence, and casts over it a rare and nameless charm—a spell which brings to all its inmates, from master to slave, from visiting friend to chance guest, a sense of assured comfort and cheerful content—Does not your heart tell you, oh, heart of my heart, that such home might be ours! and can you conceive for any woman, even for my own rare Ellen, a nobler destiny than to be the mistress of such home, the priestess of such heart shrine?
"But the other picture! A gloomy convent cell in which a spirit-worn one—whose lingering beauty glads no tender heart, charms no eye of love—kneels with face of despair, to pray for grace not to loathe a life of useless sacrifice, of cloistered inaction,—so little suited to an ardent and loving soul, so fruitless in bringing real peace, true heart renunciation,—a life of small service to man or God, and of worth only because it brings to the heavy-hearted nun daily self wrestlings. And ever as she prays there comes between her and the Christ vision for which she yearns, and hourly implores her God, the sad face of a man, old before his time, and hopelessly resigned to sit in listless idleness by another's fireside, because he has no heart for one of his own.
"His old comrades and friends have built for themselves spacious homes, transformed the wilderness into rich estates, carved out useful and honorable careers, and are counted among those Virginians who are laying broad and deep the foundations of country, state, and family. But he, lacking the dear responsibilities of wife and children, having no descendants to carry the name in honorable memory and emulation to future generations, has dropped out of the struggle, given over the race; and, broken-hearted and despairing, lives only to recall the memories of an active and inspired youth.
"Can you, Ellen, mavourneen, contemplate this last vision, and not be moved to the thought that such end for God-endowed spirits, destined to complete each other's lives, were indeed a fearful sacrifice? That the tears, regrets and prayers of the nun would be but poor recompense to God—if there can be a reckoning between man and his Maker—for two unfulfilled lives, and lost generation after generation of human souls adequately gifted by noble birth, and honest inheritance, with health, comeliness, happiness, and opportunities, and trained in love of country, love of progress, love of virtue, love of God! My children shall have no other mother, Ellen, should you finally determine to let your superstition stifle your heart; know that in doing so you cut off from the earth the race of McElroy. Last male of the line am I, and vowed to go childless to my grave unless my offspring may call mother the one woman who is the love of my life, heart of my heart, hope and inspiration of my soul!
"As soon as General Cornwallis surrenders I shall ask for a furlough, and come home for my final answer. Oh, my Ellen, dearest of dear ones, will you not crown my rejoicing, make of true worth to me our hard-won victory! and fill one patriot's breast with that supreme happiness of love accepted and returned which is the wine of men's souls, the one elixir which can furnish them with courage and inspiration for the constantly repeated struggles and continually renewed efforts of life!
"May that God who is your God and mine, the God of your fathers and the God of mine, come to you in dream or vision, through word of saint or prophet, and open your eyes to see, as I see, that destiny which is the noblest and holiest for woman! Yet always, dear one, whether the happiest, or the most sorely bereft of men, I shall be
"Your true and loyal friend, your sworn knight, your devoted lover,
"Donald McElroy."
My candle sputtered feebly in its last effort to do its duty as I folded and sealed my letter. As I crossed the camp in search of the courier, the formless dull gray of the eastern landscape was suddenly aroused by the yet unrealized promise of the coming sun, and soon appeared a glow of life, under whose influence the bolder features of the landscape began slowly to assume their natural forms. Half an hour later, when I was returning to my tent, the whole east was glowing gorgeously and every smallest detail of the landscape was limned in vivid light. Nature was pulsing with life in every part, beneath the first kiss of the sun. So would a word of kindness from Ellen scatter the heavy, chill mist from my heart, and set my whole nature a-quiver with a new life of hope and joy.
To history belongs the record of those brave days when American and Frenchman vied with one another in deeds of daring gallantry, and when hour by hour our long delayed reward came nearer. General Cornwallis made a brave resistance, and delayed surrender almost to the point of madness. Our final exultation—the day Cornwallis gave up his sword, and the long line of our prisoners marched between our lines to stack arms—was, indeed, much softened by respectful admiration and sympathy for our gallant late foes, and their broken-hearted General.
As we all know family quarrels are usually the bitterest, but somehow this long contest between the American colonies and the mother country did not seem to breed any deep-seated animosity between their respective peoples. It may have been that the people of England—as certainly some of their statesmen did—recognized that we were but leading the vanguard of progress toward a happier order for all nations. England is not fond of experiments, yet none are more freedom loving than her sons. They have but moved on more conservatively, more deliberately to their goal.
Or perhaps the happy absence of any lasting bitterness may have been due to the circumstance that our war—except for its few Indian episodes—was conducted with as little savagery as war may well be. Whatever the explanation, it is true that in two days after Cornwallis' surrender the officers and men of the two armies were fraternizing like brothers, and not a few of our late enemies were already declaring their intention to remain in this new land of promise and to cast in their lot with the American Republic.
At a banquet given by our colonels to those of the British army, toasts were drunk to a firmly cemented and lasting peace between our respective countries and then to a steadfast alliance between England and America. In response to the last of these I ventured the prophecy that the two great English-speaking peoples would not only be bound together presently by ties of blood and language into a close alliance for mutual welfare, but that side by side they would go forward toward higher and higher ideals of free government and universal brotherhood, pointing the way to a nobler civilization than had yet been conceived. Carried away by my own fervor, I even predicted a time when the two nations, England and the United States of America, that was to be, supported by France perhaps, would make the last fight against autocratic power and military rule, to conquer the world for democracy—to the end that war might forever cease, and the world begin to be made ready for the coming of the "Prince of Peace."
It was a perfervid and wild harangue doubtless, and some of my fellow-officers who heard it never ceased to twit me about my one burst of eloquence. Nevertheless, it seemed at the time to chime in with the mood of my hearers, who soundly applauded these sentiments. If events since, and especially more recent ones, have made me appear but a poor prophet, I am still not ready to withdraw my prediction, and I still believe that the destiny of humanity lies in the keeping of the Anglo-Saxon peoples, who will, I yet maintain, go steadily forward through mistakes and errors to a better understanding and a closer friendship.
General Lafayette granted my request for furlough with playful jest about the fair refugee who awaited my coming, and my blush and stammer doubtless confirmed his suspicions. I lost no more time getting home than I could help, you may be sure, but every man I met stopped me to get details of the big news, which had spread like fairy fire, and men, women, and children ran out to question me as I passed each hamlet.
Jean was on the porch enjoying the bracing balminess of a bright October afternoon when I rode up, and ran with glad cry to meet me. Father and mother were gone to Staunton for the day—father to get further news, mother to lay in the fall supplies—and Ellen was back again with Aunt Martha, whose health failed more and more, so that Ellen was her chief dependence. All this Jean told me and more, while she urged upon me the laziest chair, and brought sangaree and spiced cake to refresh me.
"You, dear Jean, are well again and happy if your face is index to your feelings," I said, when my first eager questions had been answered. "Have father and mother already been won over to Buford's cause? I knew they never could stand to see our little maid wear sad face, and lose all her pretty bloom."
"It was not all done by my reproachful looks," she answered, smiling and blushing. "Ellen's influence more than any other has changed them. Oh, Donald, she is the dearest girl, and her tact is wonderful! Neither father nor mother know when it was done, but gradually she has made them like Captain Buford, till now they are willing for his sake as well as for mine. Mother told me yesterday that they but waited for your full approval to withdraw all objection to our marriage."
"Then, little sister, Buford's happiness is assured, and yours too, I believe. He is a brave and an honorable gentleman, and likely to make his wife a happy woman. His poverty, for most of his property will be confiscated, doubtless, is the one drawback, but if I get my western bounty lands, I shall be able to make up for that. A deed to one-half of my share shall be my wedding gift to you."
"Dear Donald, you are the very dearest of brothers," and Jean perched herself upon the arm of my chair, kissed my forehead, and began to thread my somewhat neglected locks with her slender fingers. "Will you think me presumptuous, brother, if I ask you a personal question?" she began presently, with apparent hesitation.
"I can hardly think of a question my little sister would not have the right to ask me," turning my head to smile encouragement upon her.
"Did you ever think Nelly Buford a coquette?" she asked, waiting for my answer with amusing anxiety.
"Can any one who has ever known her exonerate her from the charge?" I replied with a smile—"unless it is Buford, who has never guessed his sister's weakness. Is it high treason in his eyes for his prospective wife to harbor such suspicions?"
"Oh, we never discuss family matters; I was thinking only of your opinion of Nelly."
"Is my judgment upon coquettes so valuable?"
"Then you do not love Nelly, Donald? Oh! I'm so glad!"
"No, I do not love Nelly Buford, though she's a winsome maiden. But why rejoice, little sister? Do you disapprove of too close family entanglements?"
"I could not be happy if it were not so," Jean responded enigmatically.
"And why?" Indifferent to Jean's meaning, my thoughts wandered off to the far greater likelihood of my love for Ellen bringing me unhappiness.
"She has promised to marry Thomas!"
"Thomas?" I almost sprang from my chair with surprise. "Thomas and Nelly Buford to be married?" and then I laughed long and heartily.
Jean laughed too. "It is funny, Don, for at first Thomas barely endured Nelly. I believe his indifference nettled her into a determination to win him. She seems entirely unsuited to a parson's wife, much less a missionary's. Thomas declares he is going to Kentucky as a border missionary, and that Nelly is willing to go with him anywhere."
"And give up her Tory principles, and her Episcopal faith? Wonder of wonders is this love which overleaps all barriers as easily as a hunter takes his ditch. Does Ellen know of this?"
"Yes, and seems to be very happy over it. I think she feels now for the first time easy in conscience, since Thomas' happiness, as well as his calling is assured."
"And what says Aunt Martha?"
"She says very little about it, though we all know that Nelly would not have been her choice for Thomas. She told Ellen, when first she heard it, that she had interfered, already, too much with the lives that other people had to live, and that she no longer felt that confidence in her own judgment she once had; that humility was the latest flower of her Christian experience, and though but a weak and sickly bloom, she wished to cherish it."
"Poor Aunt Martha. She has suffered much, then?"
"Yes, but mother and Ellen say she has grown daily gentler under her sufferings."
"Only natures of true worth are 'refined by the furnace of affliction,' to my observation—Aunt Martha evidently deserved not the youthful scorn I felt for her. But tell me more of Ellen—she is, you think, really happy to be Aunt Martha's nurse?"
"Yes, Ellen is more light-hearted recently than I have ever known her; Aunt Martha called her, talking to mother yesterday, 'a well-spring of happiness,' and said it made her very thankful when she considered how Providence had forced upon her a daughter against her time of need, in spite of her utter undeservingness."
Scarcely could I wait to greet my parents, I was so eager to see Ellen, to fathom the true cause of her unaccustomed gayety of spirits, which even the love-absorbed Jean had noticed. I found her so busy with household duties, and attentions to Aunt Martha, that I was obliged to content myself, after the first greetings—which told me without need of words that I was forgiven—with the vision of her flitting about busily, and the exchange of an occasional meaningless remark. When reluctantly I rose to go, Uncle Thomas asked me to stay to tea, and I accepted so eagerly, that I think Aunt Martha guessed, at last, my secret. Either because of that, or the way my truant gaze followed Ellen's every movement. At any rate she surmised the real reason of my prompt visit to them, and when supper was over, came to my help with something of my own mother's tactfulness.
"Donald," she said, "take Ellen out to the porch, and make her rest while you tell her all about Yorktown—as you told it to me while she was at the dairy; Ellen never takes time to rest unless I make her. Thomas will sit with me."
For a while we talked perfunctorily, and with embarrassed self-consciousness, like children who are bidden to be sociable; and I did describe to her the final scenes at Yorktown, but with such lack of interest in my own story—my mind all the time on other words I wished to speak—that there was no spirit in the narrative. Disgusted with my bungling of such an inspiring subject, I broke off abruptly, then after a silence surcharged with emotion—"Oh, heart of my heart," I asked, "have you ready the answer to my letter?"
"Almost," and there was the dear harp-like tremor in her tones, which bespoke deep feeling.
"Meantime I may feed on hope, may I not, mavourneen?"
"Some men need only their own resolution, Donald, to base assurance upon," and she smiled at me, in such wise that I grew suddenly dizzy, then gliding away from me to the top of the steps—"you are one of those masterful men, cousin, whose will is not to be gainsaid by any weaker vessel."
"So I fail not this time, I can trust my will for all the rest of my life," I answered—"but you know full well, Ellen, that with you I am very coward," following her, and capturing the hands she had clasped about a column of the porch. "Dearest one, I have waited long, and, it seems to me, most patiently and humbly—ask not, I beseech you, much more of my fortitude." Then I kissed softly the blue-veined wrists, where her heart's blood pulsed warmest, and asked once more, "May I hope, mavourneen?" getting for answer a low, but tenderly spoken "Yes, but ask no more, now. Be patient, dear Donald, only a little longer," and once more she lifted her quivering eyelids, and flashed a smile upon me which filled my veins with an all-pervading thrill of fiery joy. Again I kissed the white wrists, looked into her eyes for one instant, spoke a murmured word of joy, then—lest I could no longer resist the mad impulse to clasp her in my arms, and ease all my violent emotion in passionate caresses—turned, and, without daring to grant myself a single backward glance, walked swiftly away in the starlight. No single self-conquest of my life cost me the effort of that one.