MARY MUSGROVE'S PERPLEXITIES.
As a mariner who watches the heavens from the deck, and notes the first
uprising of the small cloud, "no bigger than a man's hand," that to his
practised eye shows the sign of tempest; and anon, as the speck quickly
changes into a lurid mass, whence volume after volume of dun vapor is
driven in curled billows forward, covering the broad welkin with a
gloomy pall, he looks more frequently and more intently upwards, anxious
to lay his vessel safe, and assure himself of his proper course to
steer: so--not with the same doubt of safety, but with the same restless
inspection of the heavens--did Mary watch the slow approach of night.
First, she looked wistfully at the declining sun, and observed with
pleasure the night-hawk begin to soar: then, through the long twilight,
she noted the thickening darkness, and saw the bat take wing, and heard
the frog croaking from his pool. And as the stars, one by one, broke
forth upon the night, it gladdened her to think the hour of her mission
was approaching, for she was troubled in her spirit and anxious to
acquit herself of her charitable office; and perhaps, too, it may be
told of her, without prejudice to her modest, maidenly emotions, a spur
was given to her wishes by the hope of meeting John Ramsay.
For an hour after supper she paced the porch, and still looked out upon
the stars, to mark the slow waxing of the night; and, now and then she
walked forth as far as the mill, and lingered by the bank of the river,
and again returned to ask the sentinel the hour.
"You seem disturbed, Mary," said Macdonald, playfully. "Now, I'll
venture to say I can guess your thoughts: this star-gazing is a great
tell-tale. You were just now thinking that, as the tug of the war is
over, some lad who has borne a musket lately, will be very naturally
tripping this way to-night, instead of going home to see his mother.
Come--isn't that a good guess?"
"Do you know him, sir?" asked Mary, with composure.
"Aye, to be sure I do: a good, brave fellow, who eats well, drinks well,
and fights well."
"All men do that now," replied the maiden, "but I am sure you are wrong,
sir, if you think any such considers it worth his while to come here."
"He must come quickly, or we cannot let him in without a countersign,"
said the officer: "sergeant, order the tattoo to beat, it is nine
o'clock. Mary, stay, I must cross-question you a little about this same
gallant."
"Indeed, sir, I did but jest, and so I thought you did. My father says
it is not proper I should loiter to talk with the men; good night, sir:
it is our time for prayers." And with these words the young girl
withdrew into the house.
In some half hour afterwards Mary escaped by another door and, taking a
circuitous path through the garden, she passed behind the sentinel and
sped towards the mill, intent upon keeping her appointment with the
friends of Butler. As soon as she reached the river bank, she quickened
her pace, and hurried with a nimble step towards the distant thicket.
"What ho! who goes there?" shouted the voice of a man from the
neighborhood of the mill: "who flies so fast?"
"Faith, Tom, it must be a ghost," said a second voice, loud enough to be
heard by the damsel, who now increased the speed with which she fled
towards the cover.
In an instant two of the soldiers of the guard rushed upon the track of
the frightened girl.
"Spare me, good sir--for pity's sake, spare me!" exclaimed the maiden,
suddenly turning round upon her pursuers.
"Where away so fast?" said one of the men. "This is a strange time of
night for girls to be flying into the woods. What matter have you in
hand that brings you here--and what is your name?"
"I am the daughter of Allen Musgrove," replied Mary indignantly.
"Is it so?" said the first speaker; "then it is the Miller's own
daughter, and we ask your pardon. We only saw you flying along the bank
of the river, and not knowing what it was, why we thought it right to
follow. But as it is all explained now, we will see you back to the
house."
"I can find my way without help," replied the maiden.
"Now, that's not good-natured for so kind a girl as the miller's
daughter ought to be," said the second soldier.
"I will see if my father can protect me," said Mary, hastening back
towards the house so rapidly as almost to run. "I will know if
Lieutenant Macdonald will allow me to be insulted."
With a hurried step she entered upon the porch, and, without stopping to
parley with those who occupied this part of the dwelling, retired to her
chamber and threw herself into a chair, where she sat for some time
panting with affright. As she gradually recovered her strength, she
began to turn her thoughts upon her recent discomfiture; and it was with
a deep sense of chagrin and disappointment, that she reflected upon her
not being able successfully to renew her enterprise on the same night.
The hour of meeting had arrived; the officers of the guard were still
frequenting the porch; her conduct had already excited notice, and if
she wished to be in a condition to render future service, her most
obvious duty was to postpone any further attempt to deliver the papers
until another time. On the other hand, she had reason to fear that John
Ramsay would be hovering near to ascertain the cause of her failure to
meet him, and might rashly resort to the same mode of conveying a signal
which he had successfully practised heretofore. This would infallibly,
she believed, provoke an investigation that might entirely frustrate all
their views. "But then John is a good soldier," she said, in the way of
self-consolation, "and will know that the enemy is awake; because if it
was not so, he would be sure I would keep my word. And if he only takes
that notion into his head, he is too careful to run the chance of
spoiling all by coming here."
Still, with some little mistrust as to John's soldiership when it
crossed the path of his love, which naturally, she reflected, makes a
man rash, she thought it best to provide against accident, by throwing
herself into the company of the officers who loitered about the door in
idle discourse with her father. She accordingly left her room, and, with
an anxious and troubled heart, went out and seated herself quietly on
the steps of the porch, where she remained for some time a silent but
inattentive listener to the conversation of those around her.
As a part of that system of things by which it is contrived that the
current of true love shall never run smooth, I have ever found that when
it was peculiarly fitting that some grandam, uncle, cousin, father, or
guest, should retire early to bed, in order that some scheme of interest
to young lovers might be successfully achieved; precisely on such nights
is the perversity of fate most conspicuous, in inclining the minds of
such grandam, uncle, cousin, and so forth, to sit up much longer than
they are wont; thus showing that the grooves and dovetails of things in
this world are not nicely fitted to the occasions of those who deal in
the tender passion. And so it befel for poor Mary Musgrove this night.
The hour was now fast verging upon eleven, and she anxiously noted every
sentence that was spoken, hoping it was to be the last; and then she
trembled to think that John, regardless of the danger, might be lurking
near, and indiscreetly expose himself. And still the talkers discoursed
as if they meant to sit up all night. It was a delicious, cool hour,
after a sultry day, and there was luxury in the breeze; but as the
minutes were counted over by the maiden, in their slow passage, her
fears increased. At length, far off, as if it were a mile away, the
clear notes of one whistling an old tune were heard. Mary involuntarily
started from her seat, and moved along the little pathway towards the
gate, her heart beating against her bosom as if it would have
"overbourne its continents." The signal notes freshened upon the air,
and the tune came forth blithely and boldly, showing that the wayfarer
was trudging, with a light heart, down the main road towards the mill.
The party in the porch, however, were too much engrossed in their
colloquy to notice the incident. The whistling came still nearer, until,
at last, it seemed to be scarce a gunshot from the house. Beyond this
point it did not advance; but here indicated that the person from whom
it proceeded had halted. If Mary's cheek could have been brought to the
light, it would have shown how the blood had deserted it from very fear:
her whole frame shook with this emotion. To exhibit her unconcern,
which, in truth, was most sadly affected, she mingled amongst the
company in the porch, and leant against the door-post. Still the
whistling continued, with no symptom of retreat, and Mary impatiently
walked towards the further end of the house. "John Ramsay makes a fool
of himself," she muttered peevishly. "Hasn't he the sense to see I
cannot get out? What keeps the simple man dallying shilly-shally at the
fence, as if he actually wanted them to take him? I don't believe in the
mighty sense and wisdom of these men! If John had half an eye he would
see that I couldn't get away to-night."
As the maiden grew fretful, her fears had less mastery over her; and
now, taking heart of grace, she returned to the porch.
"Sergeant," said Macdonald, calling to one of his men, "take two files
and patrole the road until you ascertain who that fellow is who makes
himself so merry to-night. I thought it some fool," he continued,
addressing himself to Allen Musgrove, "who, as the poet says, 'whistled
as he went for want of thought,' but he seems to have a hankering after
these premises that is not exactly to my mind. Perhaps, after all,
Mary," he added privately in the maiden's ear; "it is the lad I was
telling you of; and as he is a bashful youth, we will bring him in by
force. You know, he can't help that; and old dad here can never blame
you if I should make the fellow come to see you against your will.
Sergeant, treat the man civilly, you understand."
"It is not worth your while to be sending after Adam Gordon," said Mary,
with some slight confusion in her accent; "he is only half-witted; and
almost the only thing he does for a living, is to come down of nights
here to the mill-dam, to bob for eels. If it wasn't for that, his mother
would go many a day without a meal."
"No matter, we will bring Adam in," replied the lieutenant, "and if he
is good at his sport, why we will go and join him."
"He is shy of company," said Mary, still faltering in her speech, "and
will not come amongst strangers."
Partly from a spirit of resignation, partly to avoid further exposure of
her feelings, and in part too, perhaps, from some slight feeling of
remorse, such as is natural to a virtuous and youthful mind at being
obliged to practise a deceit however lawful (as I contend it was in
this case), the maiden withdrew into the parlor, where, unseen by any,
she offered up a short and earnest prayer for direction and forgiveness.
Meantime the patrole had set out, and, after the lapse of a short time,
returned, when the officer reported that before his arrival, the person
they had gone in quest of had left the place, and, in the darkness of
the night, they had no clue to follow him. This was scarcely announced
before the same whistle was heard, at the same remote point where it had
first attracted Mary's notice.
"It is as our young mistress has said," muttered Macdonald, "some
bumpkin, too shy to be caught, and not worth the catching. We have sat
it out to-night long enough, friend Musgrove, so let's to bed."
In a few moments the party betook themselves to their several places of
rest.
As Mary prepared herself for her couch, the anxious events of the night
busied her thoughts, and the image of John Ramsay was summoned up
alternately to be reproved and applauded. "If he is foolhardy," she
said, as she laid her head on the pillow, "no one will say he isn't wise
besides. And if he will be thrusting his head into danger, he knows
right well how to get it out again. So God bless him, for a proper man
as he is!" And thus, in a better temper with her lover, the maiden fell
asleep.
In order to avert all suspicion of disloyalty from the miller's family,
Christopher Shaw had offered his services to Macdonald, to do duty as
one of the detachment, during the period of Butler's detention in the
house. The offer had been accepted, and Christopher was appointed to
serve in the character of a quarter-master, or purveyor for the little
garrison,--a post, whose duties did not materially interfere with his
daily occupation at the mill.
Mary was in the habit of communicating to Christopher all her secrets,
and of enlisting his aid in her plans whenever it was necessary. And
now, soon after the morning broke, the maiden arose and went to the
mill, where she communicated to Christopher all the perplexities of the
preceding night.
"The thing must be managed to-day," said the young man, after he had
heard the whole story. "I have provisions to collect from the
neighborhood; and what is to hinder you, Mary, from riding out with
me,--if it should only be to buy some eggs?--and then, what is to hinder
us from popping in upon David Ramsay, and there fixing the whole
matter?"
"Will not the lieutenant be sending some of his own men with you?"
inquired the maid.
"He doesn't suspect us," answered Christopher, as cautiously as if the
walls of his mill had ears. "At any rate we can try it, you know, and if
the thing should take a wrong turn, you can only stay at home; and we
may, at the worst, make another venture at night."
"I have the letter in my bosom," said Mary, "and will be ready
immediately after breakfast."
When the appointed time arrived, things went as favorably as Mary could
have wished. Her good spirits had returned; and she plied her household
duties with a happy cheerfulness in her looks that completely disarmed
all suspicion. She received the banter of Macdonald, as to the cause of
her restlessness on the preceding night, with perfect good nature; and
when Christopher announced to the commanding officer his purpose of
going out upon a purveying ride, and invited his cousin to accompany
him, she accepted the proposal with such a tone of laughing pleasure, as
put it on the footing of a pastime.
The horses were brought to the door, and the maiden and her escort rode
cheerily forth. They were not long in accomplishing the five or six
miles that brought them to David Ramsay's cabin. I need not tell the
affectionate concern with which Mary Musgrove met her lover, John
Ramsay; nor how she upbraided him as a silly fellow, for tramping and
trudging about the mill, and whistling his signals, when he ought to
have known, by her not coming to meet him, that there was good reason
for it. Nor is it important to detail the circumstances of Horse Shoe's
and John's fruitless expedition, and their disappointment at not seeing
Mary; and how shrewdly, last night, Robinson guessed the true cause of
it; and how entirely he agreed with the maiden, beforehand, in thinking
John a venturesome, harebrained fool, to put himself in danger, when he
might have been certain it would have ended as it did, in a run from
"the rascally red coats," as John had to run to get out of the clutches
of the patrole. My story requires that I should pass these things by,
and go to the business in hand.
Horse Shoe and Ramsay had grown exceedingly impatient, both because they
were in hourly danger of being surprised by casual parties of the enemy,
and because the time for useful action was fast gliding away. They had
used every precaution to keep their visit to David Ramsay's a profound
secret to the neighborhood; and had, with that object, lain perdue in
one of the small cabins, from which they might watch the approach of
visitors, and, if need required, secure an immediate retreat. During the
day, they seldom left their concealment, confining all their out-door
operations to the night.
A consultation was held in David Ramsay's cabin,--the letters were
produced and delivered to Horse Shoe, and the instructions intended for
him by Butler were carefully read. It was resolved that Horse Shoe
should set out for the Dove Cote without delay, taking the route through
the mountain country of North Carolina, as that least likely to be
interrupted by the British troops. John Ramsay, for the present, was to
return to the Fair Forest camp, to inform Williams of the state of
affairs; and he was hereafter to act as occasion might suggest.
Christopher Shaw and Mary were to attend upon Butler, and communicate
whatever might transpire of interest to David Ramsay, who promised to
find means of intercourse with Williams or Sumpter, as circumstances
should allow.
These matters being arranged, Mary and Christopher Shaw took their
leaves of Ramsay's family, and went about the ostensible object of their
expedition.
Horse Shoe's plan of travel during the first and most perilous stages of
his journey towards Virginia, was to avail himself of the darkness of
the night; and he accordingly resolved to set out as soon as this day
should draw to a close. His immediate cares were, therefore, directed to
making all the necessary preparations for his departure. Captain Peter
was carefully tended, and supplied with a double allowance of provender;
provisions were stowed away, both for himself and his trusty beast: his
pistols were put in order: his rifle cleaned out, and a supply of
ammunition provided; and, finally, the letters were sewed up in a
leather pouch, and buckled around his body by a strap, inside of his
clothes. It was no inconsiderable item in the sergeant's preparation for
his expedition, to sit down and eat a meal, which, from the quantity
bestowed, and the vigor with which the assault upon it was made, might
have betokened a full week's starvation.
The day waned, and the night came a welcome visitor to the sergeant;
and, at that hour which old chroniclers designate as "inter canem et
lupum," Captain Peter was brought to the door, ready dight for travel.
Ramsay's family stood around,--and whilst Andy, with boyish affection,
held Horse Shoe's rifle in his hand, the sergeant feelingly spoke the
words of parting to his friends;--then, with a jaunty air of careless
mirth, springing into his saddle, and receiving his trusty weapon from
the young comrade of his late gallant adventure, he rode forth with as
stout a heart as ever went with knight of chivalry to the field of
romantic renown.