BOOK V
THE DEAD ALIVE AGAIN
CHAPTER XL
_A Final Appeal_
It was springtime again in Virginia. The sky, its blue depthsaccentuated by the shifting clouds, was never more clear, wherever itappeared in the intervals of sunshine, nor the air more fresh and pure,even in that land famed for its bright skies and its mild climate, thanit was this April day; which, with its sunshine and showers inunregulated alternation, seemed symbolical of life,--that life of whichevery tender blade of grass, every venturesome flower thrusting itshead above the sod, seemed to speak. There was health and strength inthe gentle breeze which wantonly played with the budding leaves of thegreat trees, already putting forth little evangels of that splendidfoliage with which they decked themselves in the full glory of summer.That merry wind which swept through the open boat-house at the end ofthe wharf laid a bold hand upon the curls which fell about the neck ofthe young girl sitting there by the door near the water on one of thebenches, gazing out over the broad reaches of the quiet, ever beautifulPotomac, rippled gently by the wind under the late afternoon sun. Thegallant little breeze, fragrant with balm and perfume of the trees andflowers, kissed a faint color into her pale cheek, and seemed towhisper to her despondent heart in murmuring sounds that framedthemselves into the immortal words "hope, hope."
The young girl had but yesterday entered upon her twentieth spring.Four months ago there had not been a merrier, lighter-hearted, gayer,more coquettish young maiden in tidewater Virginia; and to-day, shethought, as she looked down at her thin hand outlined so clearly uponthe vivid cardinal cloak she wore, which had dropped unheeded on theseat by her side, to-day she was like that man in the play of whom herfather read,--a grave man. No, not a man at all. Once, in herenthusiasm, she had fondly imagined that she had possessed all thosedaring qualities of energy and action, those manly virtues, which mighthave been hers by inheritance could the accident of sex have beenreversed. But now she knew she was but a woman, after all,--so weak,so feeble, so listless. What had she left to live for? Once it washer father, then it was her country, then it was her lover; now?Nothing! Her father at the request of Congress would soon resume hisinterrupted duties in France, now become more important than ever. Hewas a man of the world and a soldier, a diplomat. The hard experiencesof the past few months were for him episodes, exciting truly, but onlypart of a lifetime spent in large adventure, soon forgotten in someother strenuous part demanded by some other strenuous exigency. Butshe,--no, she was not a man at all, but a woman,--unused to such scenesand happenings as fate had lately made her a participant in. Herfather might have his country,--he had not lost his love, his heart wasnot buried out in the depths of the cruel sea. What had become of thatRoman patriotism upon which she prided herself in times past? Hercountry! What had changed her so? There were many answers.
There was Blodgett's grave at the foot of the hill. She had played inchildhood with that faithful old soldier. Many a tale had he told herof her gallant father when, as a young man, he gayly rode away to thewars, leaving her lady mother in tears behind. She could sympathizewith waiting women now, and understand. Those were such deeds ofdaring that the rude recital of the old man once stirred her very heartwith joy and terror; now she was sick at the thought of them. AndBlodgett was gone; he had died defending them, where he had beenstationed. That was an answer.
There, too, far away in another State, lay the lover of her girlhood'shappy day,--the bright-eyed, eager, gallant, joyous lad. What goodcomrades they had been! How they had laughed, and played, and ridden,and rowed, and hunted, and danced, and flirted, through the morning oflife,--how pleasant had been that life indeed! He was quiet now; shecould no longer join in his ringing laugh, the sound of his voice wasstilled, they might never play together again,--was there any play atall in life? That was another answer.
There was the white-haired mother, the stately little royalist, MadamTalbot, who slept in peace on the hill at Fairview Hall, her ambitions,her hopes, and her loyalty buried with her, leaving the placeuntenanted save by wistful memories; she too had gone.
Answers?--they crowded thick upon her! There were the officers of theYarmouth, Captain Vincent, Beauchamp, Hollins, and the little boy, theHonorable Giles, and all the other officers and men with whom she hadcome in contact on that frightful cruise. There were the heroic menwho had stayed by their ship, who had seen the favored few go away inthe only boat that was left seaworthy, without a murmur at being leftbehind, who had faced death unheeding, unrepining, sinking down in thedark water with a cheer upon their lips. There was the old sailor,too, with his unquenchable patriotism, her friend because the friend ofher lover; and Philip, her brother; and there was Seymour himself. Ah,what were all the rest to him! Gone, and how she loved him!
She leaned her head upon her hand and thought of him. Here in thisboat-house he had first spoken to her of his love. Here she had firstfelt his lips touch her cheek. There, rocked gently by the lightbreeze, upon the water at her feet was the familiar littlepleasure-boat; she had not allowed any one to row her about in it sinceher return, in spite of much entreaty. It was this very cloak she worethat day, nearly the very hour. The place was redolent with sweetmemories of happy days, though to think on them now broke her heart.It all came back to her as it had come again and again. She brieflyreviewed that acquaintance, short though it was, which had changed thewhole course of her life. She saw him again, as he struck prompt todefend her honor in the hall, resenting a ruffian's soiling handstretched out to her; she saw him lying wounded and senseless there ather feet. She saw him stretched prone on that shattered deck, on thatruined ship, pale, blood-stained, senseless again, again unheeding herbitter cry. She would have called once more upon him, save that sheknew humanity has no voice which reaches out into the darkness by whichit may call back those who are once gone to live beyond. She did notweep,--that were a small thing, a trifle; she sat and brooded. Whathad she lost in the service of her country? What sacrifices had beenexacted from her by that insatiable country! Alas, alas, she thought,men may have a country, a woman has only a heart.
Four short months had changed it all. How young she had been! Wouldshe ever be young again? How full of the joy of life! Its currentsswept by her unheeded now. Why had not God been merciful to her, thatshe could have died there upon the sea, she thought. Ah, poor humanitynever learns His mercy; perhaps it is because we have no measure bywhich to fathom its mighty depths. She saw herself old and lonely,forgotten but not forgetting. But even then lacked she notopportunity; woman-like, in spite of her constancy, she took amelancholy pleasure in the thought that there was one still whohungered for the shattered remnants of her broken heart, who lived forthe sound of her voice and the glance other eyes and the light of herface. One there was, handsome, brave, distinguished, gentle, ofancient name, assured station, ample fortune, who longed to lay all hewas or had at her feet.
But what were these things? Nothing to her, nothing. There was butone, as she had said on the ship to Desborough: "I love a sailor; youare not he." And yet her soul was filled with pity for the gallantgentleman, and she thought of him tenderly with deep affection.
Presently she heard quick footsteps on the floor of the boat-house, andturning her head she saw him. He held a letter, an official packet,with the seal broken, open in his hand.
"Oh, Miss Wilton, you here?" he said. "I have looked everywhere foryou. Do you not think the evening air grows chill? Is it not too coldfor you out here in the boat-house? Allow me;" and then, with thatgentle solicitude which women prize, he lifted the neglected cloak andtenderly wrapped it about her shoulders.
"Thank you," she said gratefully, faintly smiling up at him, "but Ihardly need it. I do not feel at all cold. The air is so pleasant andthe sun is not yet set, you see. Did you wish to see me about anythingspecial, Lord Desborough?"
"No--yes--that is-- Oh, Mistress Katharine, the one special want of mylife is to see you alwa
ys and everywhere. You know that,--nay, neverlift your hand,--I remember. I will try not to trespass upon yourorders again. I came to tell you that--I am going away."
"Going away," she repeated sadly. "Has your exchange been made?"
"Yes; a courier came to the Hall a short time since, and here it is.My orders, you see; I must leave at once."
"I am sorry, indeed sorry that you must go."
He started suddenly as if to speak, a little flash of hope flickeringin his despondent face; but she continued quickly,--
"It has been very pleasant for us to have you here, except that youhave been a prisoner; but now you will be free, and for that, ofcourse, I rejoice. But I have so few friends left," she went onmournfully, "I am loath to see one depart, even though he be an enemy."
"Oh, do not call me an enemy, I entreat you, Katharine. Oh, let mespeak just once again," he interrupted with his usual impetuosity; "andtalk not to me of freedom! While the earth holds you I am not free:ay, even should Heaven claim you, I still am bound. All the days of mycaptivity here I have been a most willing and happy prisoner,--yourprisoner. I have looked forward with dread and anguish to the day whenI might be exchanged and have to go away. Here would I have beencontent to pass my life, by your side. Oh, once again let me plead!My duty, my honor, call me now to the service of my king. I no longerhave excuse for delay, but you have almost made me forget there was aking. Now that I must go, why should I go alone?" he went on eagerly."I know, I know you love the--the other,--but he is gone. You do nothate me, you even like me; you regret my going; perhaps as days go by,you will regret it more. We are at least friends; let me take care ofyou in future. Oh, it kills me to see you so white, and indifferent tolife and all that it has or should have for you. You are only a girlyet,--I cannot bear to see all the color gone out of your sweet face,the light out of your eyes; the sight of that thin hand breaks myheart. Won't you live for me to love,--live, and let me love you?Your father goes to-morrow, so he says, and you will be left alonehere; why should it be? Go with me. Give me a right to do what myheart aches to do for you,--to coax the roses back into your cheek, towoo the laugh to your lips, to win happiness back to your heart; todevote my life to you, darling. Have pity on me, have pity on mylove,--have pity!"
His voice dropped into a passionate whisper; as he pleaded with her, hesank down upon one knee by her side, beseeching by word and gesture andlook that she should show him that pity he could see in her eyes, thathe knew was in her heart, and to which he made his last appeal; andthen, lifting the hem of her dress to his lips with an unconsciousmovement of passionate reverence, he waited.
She looked at him in silence a moment. So young, so handsome, soappealing, her heart filled with sorrow and sympathy for him. Therewas hope in his eyes which she had not seen for many days; how couldshe drive it away and crush his heart! It might be cruel, but she hadno answer, no other answer, no new word, to tell him. Her eyes filledwith tears; she could not trust herself to speak, she only shook herhead.
"Ah," he said, rising to his feet and throwing up his hands with agesture of despair, "I knew it. Well, the dream is over at last. Thisis the end. I sought life, and found death; that, at least, if itshall come I shall welcome. Would God I had gone down with the ship!You have no pity; you let a dead image--an idea--stand between you anda living love. Will you never forget?"
"Never," she said softly. "Love knows no death. He is alive--here.But do not grieve so for me; I am not worth it. You will go away andforget, and--"
"No; you have said it, 'Love knows no death.' I, too, cannot forget.As long as I live I shall love--and remember. How if I waited andwaited? Katharine, I would wait forever for you," he said, suddenlycatching at the trifle.
"No, it would be no use. My friend, we both must suffer; it cannot beotherwise. I esteem you, respect you, admire you. You have protectedme, honored me; my gratitude--" She went on brokenly, "You might askanything of me but my heart, and that is given away."
"Let me take you without it, then. I want but you."
"No, Lord Desborough, it cannot be. Do not ask me again. No, I cannotsay I wish it otherwise."
His flickering hope died away in silence. "Katharine, will you promiseme, if there ever comes a time--"
"I promise," she said; "but the time will never come."
He looked at her as dying men look to the light, there was a longsilence, and then he said,--
"I must go now, Katharine. I suppose I must bid you good-by now?"
"Yes, I think it would be best."
"I shall pass this way again on my journey to Alexandria in half anhour; may I not speak once more to you then?"
"No," she said finally, after a long pause. "I think it best that weshould end it now. It can do no good at all. Good-by, and may Godbless you."
He bent and kissed her hand, and then stopped a moment and looked ather, saying never a word.
"Good-by, again," she said.
On the instant he turned and left her.
For Love of Country: A Story of Land and Sea in the Days of the Revolution Page 41