A GLANCE AT THE DOVE COTE.--THE COMPANIONSHIP OF BROTHER AND SISTER.
Our story once more brings us back to the Dove Cote. During the first
week that followed her interview with Arthur Butler under the Fawn's
Tower, Mildred was calm and thoughtful, and even melancholy: her usual
custom of exercise was foregone, and her time was passed chiefly in her
chamber. By degrees, however, her firm and resolute temper predominated
over the sadness of her fortunes, and she began to resume that
cheerfulness which circumstances can never long subdue in a strong and
disciplined mind. She had grown more than ever watchful of the public
events, and sought, with an intense avidity, to obtain information in
regard to the state of things in the south. She now felt herself closely
allied to the cause in which Arthur Butler had embarked, and therefore,
caught up the floating rumors of the day, in what regarded the progress
of the American arms in the southern expedition, with the interest of
one who had a large stake depending on the issue.
She had received several letters from Butler, which detailed the
progress of his journey from the Dove Cote to Gates's camp, and from
thence to Horse Shoe's cottage. They were all written in the confident
and even jocular tone of a light-hearted soldier who sought to amuse his
mistress; and they narrated such matters of personal history as were of
a character to still her fears for his safety. Their effect upon Mildred
was to warm up her enthusiasm, as well as to brighten her anticipations
of the future, and thus to increase the returning elasticity of her
spirits. Up to this period, therefore, she grew every day more buoyant
and playful in her temper, and brought herself to entertain a more
sanguine reckoning of the eventual determination of affairs. She was now
frequently on horseback, attended by her brother, with whom she scarcely
ever failed to make a visit to the good Mistress Dimock, where she
either found a letter from Butler, or heard some of the thousand tidings
which report was for ever busy in propagating or exaggerating in regard
to the movements of the army.
"I'll warrant you, Arthur is a man for the pen as well as for the spur
and broadsword, my pretty lady," was one of the landlady's comments, as
she handed to Mildred the eighth or ninth epistle that had fallen into
her hands since Butler's departure; "there scarcely comes trotting by a
soiled traveller with his head set northwards, but it is--'Good woman,
is this Mistress Dimock's?' and when I say, 'aye,' then 'here's a
letter, madam, for you, that comes from the army:' and so, there's
Arthur's own hand-writing to a great pacquet, 'for Mistress Dimock of
the Rockfish inn, of Amherst,' and not even, after all, one poor line
for me, but just a cover, and the inside for Miss Mildred Lindsay of the
Dove Cote. Ha, ha! we old bodies are only stalking-horses in this world.
But God bless him!--he is a fine and noble gentleman." And Mildred would
take the pacquet and impatiently break the seal; and as she perused the
close-written contents the color waxed and waned upon her cheek, and her
eye would one instant sparkle with mirth, and in the next grow dim with
a tear. And when she had finished reading, she would secretly press the
paper to her lips, and then bestow it away in her bosom, evincing the
earnest fondness of a devoted and enthusiastic nature.
Mildred and Henry were inseparable; and, in proportion as his sister's
zeal and attachment to the cause of independence became more active, did
Henry's inclination to become a partisan grow apace. Hers was a
character to kindle the spirit of brave adventure. There was in it a
quiet and unostentatious but unvarying current of resolution, that
shrank before no perils. Her feelings, acute and earnest, had given all
their warmth to her principles; and what she once believed her duty
commanded, was pursued with the devout self-dedication of a religious
obligation. To this temper, which, by some secret of its constitution,
has a spell to sway the minds of mankind, there was added the grace of
an exquisitely feminine address. The union of these two attributes
rendered Mildred Lindsay an object of conspicuous interest in such a
time as that of the revolutionary struggle. Her youth, her ready
genius, her knowledge and her habits of reflection, much in advance of
her years, enhanced the impression her character was adapted to produce,
and brought upon her, even in her secluded position, a considerable
share of public observation. It was not wonderful that a mind so
organized and accomplished should have acquired an unlimited dominion
over the frank, open-hearted, and brave temper of her brother, now just
stepping beyond the confines of mere boyhood. Her influence over Henry
was paramount and unbounded: her affections were his, her faith was his,
her enthusiasm stole into and spread over his whole temper.
With these means of influence she had sedulously applied herself to
infuse into Henry's mind her own sentiment in regard to the war; and
this purpose had led her to interest herself in subjects and pursuits,
which, in general, are very foreign from her sex. Her desire to enlist
his feelings in aid of Butler, and her conviction that a time was at
hand when Henry might be useful, gave rise to an eager solicitude to see
him well prepared for the emergencies of the day, by that necessary mode
of education which, during the period of the revolution, was common
amongst the young gentlemen of the country. He was a most willing and
ready pupil; and she delighted to encourage him in his inclination for
military studies, however fanciful some of his conceptions in regard to
them might be. She, therefore, saw, with great satisfaction, the
assiduous though boyish devotion with which he set himself to gain a
knowledge of matters relating to the duties of a soldier. However little
this may fall within the scope of female perception in ordinary times,
it will not appear so much removed from the capabilities or even the
habits of the sex, when we reflect that in the convulsions of this great
national struggle, when every resource of the country was drained for
service, the events of the day were contemplated with no less interest
by the women than by the men. The fervor with which the American women
participated in the cares and sacrifices of the revolutionary war, has
challenged the frequent notice and warmest praises of its chroniclers.
Mildred but reflected, in this instance, the hues of the society around
the Dove Cote, which consisted of many families, scattered along the
country side, composed of persons of elevated character, easy
circumstances, and of the staunchest Whig politics, with whom she held
an uninterrupted and familiar intercourse.
Another consideration may serve to explain the somewhat masculine
character of Mildred's pursuits. Her most intimate companion, at all
times, and frequently for weeks together her only one, was her brother.
These two had grown up together in all the confidence of childhood; and
this confidence continued still unabated. Their pursuits, sports,
exercises, thoughts, and habits were alike, with less of the
discrimination usual between the sexes, than is to be found between
individuals in larger associations. They approximated each other in
temper and disposition; and Henry might, in this regard, be said to be,
without disparagement to his manly qualities, a girlish boy; and
Mildred, on the other hand, with as little derogation, to be a boyish
girl. This home-bred freedom of nurture produced, in its development,
some grotesque results, which my reader has, doubtless, heretofore
observed with a smile; and it will, likewise, serve to explain some of
the peculiar forms of intercourse which may hereafter be noticed between
the brother and sister.
The news of the battle of Camden had not yet reached the neighborhood of
the Dove Cote; but the time drew nigh when all the country stood on
tiptoe, anxious to receive tidings of that interesting event. A week had
elapsed without bringing letters from Butler; and Mildred was growing
uneasy at this interval of silence. There was a struggle in her mind; an
unpleasant foreboding that she was almost ashamed to acknowledge, and
yet which she could not subdue. The country was full of reports of the
hostile operations, and a thousand surmises were entertained, which
varied according to the more sanguine or desponding tempers of the
persons who made them. Mildred was taught by Butler to expect defeat,
yet still she hoped for victory; but the personal fate of her lover
stole upon her conjectures, and she could not keep down the misgiving
which affection generally exaggerates, and always renders painful. In
this state of doubt, it was observable that her manners occasionally
rose to a higher tone of playfulness than was natural to her; and by
turns they sank to a moody silence, showing that the equipoise of the
mind was disturbed, and that the scales did not hang true: it was the
struggle of mental resolution with a coward heart--a heart intimidated
by its affections.
Such was the state of things when, in the latter fortnight of August,
the morning ushered in a day of unsurpassed beauty. The air was elastic;
the cool breeze played upon the shrubbery, and stole the perfume of a
thousand flowers. The birds sang with unwonted vivacity from the
neighboring trees; and the sun lighted up the mountains with a golden
splendor, the fast drifting clouds flinging their shadows upon the
forest that clothed the hills around, and the eagle and the buzzard
sailing in the highest heavens, or eddying around the beetling cliffs
with a glad flight, as if rejoicing in the luxuries of the cool summer
morning. Breakfast was scarcely over before Henry was seen upon the
terrace, arrayed in his hunting dress. His bugle was daintily suspended
by a green cord across his shoulders; it was a neat and glittering
instrument, whose garniture was bedizened with the coxcombry of silken
tassels, and was displayed as ostentatiously as if worn by the hero of a
melodrame.
Like St. Swithin in the ballad, he had "footed thrice the wold," when he
put the bugle to his mouth and "blew a recheate both loud and long."
"How now, good master Puff," said Mildred, coming up playfully to her
brother, "what means this uproar? Pray you, have mercy on one's ears."
Henry turned towards his sister, without taking the bugle from his lips,
and continued the blast for a full minute; then, ceasing only from want
of breath, he said, with a comic earnestness--
"I'm practising my signals, sister; I can give you 'to Horse,' and
'Reveillee,' and 'Roast Beef,' like a trained trumpeter."
"Truly you are a proper man, master," replied Mildred. "But it is hardly
a time," she continued, half muttering to herself, "for you and me,
Henry, to wear light hearts in our bosoms."
"Why, sister," said Henry, with some astonishment in his looks, "this
seems to me to be the very time to practise my signals. We are at the
very tug of the war, and every man that has a sword, or bugle either,
should be up and doing."
"How come on your studies, brother?" interrupted Mildred, without
heeding Henry's interpretation of his duty.
"Oh, rarely! I know most of the speeches of Coriolanus all by heart:--
"'Like an eagle in a dove cote, I
Fluttered your voices in Corioli:
Alone I did it.--Boy!'"
he spouted, quoting from the play, and accompanying his recitation with
some extravagant gestures.
"This is easy work, Henry," said Mildred laughing, "there is too much of
the holiday play in that. I thought you were studying some graver
things, instead of these bragging heroics. You pretended to be very
earnest, but a short time ago, to make a soldier of yourself."
"Well, and don't you call this soldiership? Suppose I were to pounce
down upon Cornwallis--his lordship, as that fellow Tyrrel calls
him--just in that same fashion. I warrant they would say there was some
soldiership in it! But, sister, haven't I been studying the attack and
defence of fortified places, I wonder? And what call you that? Look now,
here is a regular hexagon," continued Henry, making lines upon the
gravel walk with a stick, "here is the bastion,--these lines are the
flank,--the face,--the gorge: here is the curtain. Now, my first
parallel is around here, six hundred paces from the counterscarp. But I
could have taken Charleston myself in half the time that poking fellow,
Clinton, did it, if I had been there, and one of his side, which--thank
my stars--I am not."
"You are entirely out of my depth, brother," interrupted Mildred.
"I know I am. How should women be expected to understand these matters?
Go to your knitting, sister: you can't teach me."
"Have you studied the Military Catechism, Henry? that, you know, Baron
Steuben requires of all the young officers."
"Most," replied Henry. "Not quite through it. I hate this getting prose
by heart. Shakspeare is more to my mind than Baron Steuben. But I will
tell you what I like, sister: I like the management of the horse. I can
passage, and lunge, and change feet, and throw upon the haunches, with
e'er a man in Amherst or Albemarle either, may be."
"You told me you had practised firing from your saddle."
"To be sure I did: and look here," replied the cadet, taking off his cap
and showing a hole in the cloth. "Do you see that, Mildred? I flung the
cap into the air, and put a ball through it before it fell--at a
gallop."
"Well done, master; you come on bravely!"
"And another thing I have to tell you, which, perhaps, Mildred, you will
laugh to hear:--I have taken to a rough way of sleeping. I want to
harden myself; so, I fling a blanket on the floor and stretch out on
it--and sleep like--"
"Like what, good brother; you are posed for a comparison."
"Like the sleeping beauty, sister."
"Ha! ha! that's a most incongruous and impertinent simile!"
"Well, like a Trojan, or a woodman, or a dragoon, or like Stephen
Foster, and that is as far as sleeping can go. I have a notion of trying
it in the woods one of these nights--if I can get Stephen to go along."
"Why not try it alone?"
"Why it's a sort of an awkward thing to be entirely by one's self in the
woods, the livelong night--it is lonesome, you know, sister; and, to
tell the truth, I almost suspect I am a little afraid of ghosts."
"Indeed! and you a man! That's a strange fear for a young Coriolanus.
Suppose you should get into the wars, and should happen to be posted as
a sentinel at some remote spot--far from your comrades; on picket, I
think you call it? (Henry nodded) on a dark night, would you desert your
duty for fear of a goblin!"
"I would die first, Mildred. I would stick it out, if I made an
earthquake by trembling in my shoes."
Mildred laughed.
"And then if a ghost should rise up out of the ground," she continued,
with a mock solemnity of manner.
"I would whistle some tune," interrupted Henry. "That's an excellent way
to keep down fear."
"Shame on you, to talk of fear, brother."
"Only of ghosts, sister, not of men."
"You must cure yourself of this childish apprehension, master."
"And how shall I do so, Mildred? I have heard people say that the
bravest men have been alarmed by spirits."
"You must accustom yourself to midnight hours and dark places, all
alone. Our poor mother taught you this fear."
"I should think of _her_, Mildred, until my heart would burst, and my
cheek grew pale as ashes," said Henry, with an earnest and solemn
emphasis.
"Her spirit, could it rise, would love you, brother; it would never seek
to do you harm," replied Mildred thoughtfully.
"Sister," said Henry, "you came here in sport, but you have made me very
sad."
Mildred walked off a few paces and remained gazing steadfastly over the
parapet. When she looked back she saw Henry approaching her.
"You stoop, brother, in your gait," she said, "that's a slovenly habit."
"It comes, sister, of my climbing these mountains so much. We
mountaineers naturally get a stoop on the hill-sides. But if you think,"
continued Henry, reverting to the subject which had just been broken
off, "it would make me bolder to watch of nights, I should not care to
try it."
"I would have you," said Mildred, "walk your rounds, like a patrole,
through the woods from twelve until two, every night for a week."
"Agreed, sister--rain or shine."
"And then I shall think you completely cured of this unsoldier-like
infirmity, when you are able to march as far as the church, and serve
one tour of duty in the grave-yard."
"By myself?" inquired Henry, with concern.
"You wouldn't have me go with you, brother?"
"I should feel very brave if you did, Mildred; for you are as brave as a
general. But if Stephen Foster will keep in the neighborhood--near
enough to hear my 'All's well'--I think I could stand it out."
"You must go alone," said Mildred, cheerfully, "before I shall think you
fit to be promoted."
"If you say I must, sister Mildred, why, then I must: and there's an end
of it. But your discipline is forty times more severe than the German
Baron's at Richmond. Father looks pale this morning," continued Henry,
as he turned his eyes towards the porch, where Mr. Lindsay was now seen
walking forward and back, with his arms folded across his breast.
"Something perpetually troubles him, Mildred. I wish that devil, Tyrrel,
had been buried before he ever found his way to the Dove Cote! See he
comes this way."
Both Mildred and Henry ran to meet Lindsay, and encountered him before
he had advanced a dozen paces over the lawn.
"Such a day, father!" said Mildred, as she affectionately took his hand.
"It is a luxury to breathe this air."
"God has given us a beautiful heaven, my children, and a rich and
bountiful earth. He has filled them both with blessings. Man only mars
them with his cursed passions," said Lindsay, with a sober accent.
"You have heard bad news, father?" said Henry, inquiringly; "what has
happened?"
Mildred grew suddenly pale.
"We shall hear glorious news, boy, before many days," replied Lindsay;
"as yet, all is uncertain. Henry, away to your sports, or to your
studies. Mildred, I have something for your ear, and so, my child, walk
with me a while."
Henry took his leave, looking back anxiously at his sister, whose
countenance expressed painful alarm. Mildred accompanied her father
slowly and silently to the small veranda that shaded the door of the
gable next the terrace.